Free Love's Illusions: A Novel by Jolene Cazzola Page B

passionate kiss on my lips to another round of hoots, cat calls and applause.
    “Whooo! I like your old lady Mike – you need to keep this one around,” Jeff whooped slapping Michael on the back as he made his way out of the room to get another beer. “Want another one Mike?”
    “Absolutely, and bring the bottle of Southern Comfort for ‘ my old lady ’ and Mary Beth while you’re at it,” he laughed, winking at the two of us while he strummed his guitar.
    “‘Old lady,’ I’m not sure I like being called that. Does it have a meaning I don’t know about?” I asked, catching something different in his tone at the use of this term.
    “Hmph, you have no idea, babe, no idea at all.” he said kissing me again, still laughing.
    ~~~~~~~~
    I was intrigued by the fact that these people seemed content to live out their lives just as they currently were. They had grown up in this neighborhood, and it sounded like they intended to die in this neighborhood; these families had a sense of comradery. Although that was a foreign concept to me, I found it strangely comforting. They liked each other. Hell, I had been best friends with Mary Beth for years but our parents never even spoke, let alone celebrated a holiday together, and here these people were all interacting as if they belonged together. I soon relaxed… really chilled out – not just the kind of relaxation that comes from a mild high –and I smiled freely for the first time in weeks, no, months. Stephen barely entered my mind. It was a good day followed by a great weekend lazily doing nothing of significance except making love and bumming around the city shopping, going to see ‘The French Connection’, eating out and talking… as if magically, all my worries, self-doubts and anger had disappeared.

Chapter Nine
Room 312
    The Monday after Thanksgiving, the phone rang. Michael had returned to his place to meet some guy who needed help finding an oil leak on his Shovelhead. I laughed when he said ‘shovelhead’ telling him that was a silly name for a motorcycle, and him informing me that Harley also made Panheads, Knuckleheads and Flatheads. I only had one class that day, and enjoyed working on an assignment to design a pantsuit using a double-knit polyester fabric. The uncomfortable haze I had been living under had lifted; I felt good.
    When the phone rang in the late afternoon, I answered without dread, thinking it might be Mary Beth or Michael. It wasn’t – this time it was Stephen. All the feelings, all the sensations, the questions that were buried by the weekend broke back through to the surface in a flash as I felt yet another railroad car speed down the tracks and go crashing over the cliff.
    I froze; my mind congealed, my breath stopped. “Are you there, Jack?” he asked, “Can you hear me?”
    “Yes,” I managed to reply.
    His voice sounded friendly, but it was his turn to hesitate… “I… I came back to Chicago… ahhh… a few weeks ago. I ran into Bernie, did he tell you?” Again silence on my end of the line.
    “Are you sure you can hear me… Do we have a bad connection?” he asked. More silence. “Jackie? Could you answer me please?”
    Clearing my throat, I answered, “Yes, Bernie told me.” I could feel the absolute terror rising in my gut; my hands were shaking and my mind, now in full gear, was racing out of control.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t call before this… I just thought… well, since we haven’t talked for a while, I thought you might still be mad, and I didn’t want to upset you.” His voice sounded sincere, but my anger flared – I was having none of it.
    “You thought I might be upset?” I broke in. “That’s why you haven’t called since you got back or… or since last spring when you left for that matter. What kind of horse shit reason is that?” I bellowed, my voice becoming louder and stronger with every word. “You did say ‘might’ – right? I mean what the fuck do I have to be upset about?