Love's Illusions: A Novel (15 page)

One night I more or less confronted Michael with my conclusion that I was right, I had changed his sexuality, that he didn’t want me any longer. For an instant, he just stood and stared at me with an incredulous look on his face, but then… well, I didn’t get any of the reactions I had been imagining during the day as I prepared myself for this conversation. Never did I think he would laugh!

I stood there, my jaw hanging open, part of me engulfed by the laughter, the other part growing angrier, until he gained control of himself and said, “Well that proves it, you are officially crazy! Being here, staying straight, and not touching you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done!” His head shaking, with just a slightest hint of mischief in his voice he said, “I’m going to bed. You’ve never been shy; if you want
me
… well then…” He trailed off and went into the bedroom.

I sat on the couch for a few minutes, my mind spinning, unable to decipher what had just happened. I couldn’t go into that room. Somehow going to him at this moment, letting him know that I wanted him, seemed like an impossible task – how could I let him know that? It would give him too much power over me. How could I ever find any strength around him again, if I did? I seemed paralyzed with fear, with total insecurity. Then somehow, without consciously realizing it, I stood up and entered the darkened bedroom where Michael, very passionately, gently, showed me that our physical connection was very much alive and well.

The following day I went back to school, met with my instructors, made plans to makeup missed projects, and then, that evening, wiggled my way back into Charlie’s good graces at The Canteen.

The one thing I could not push myself into doing was dealing with Stephen, telling myself I would do it after the holiday. I went over and over things in my mind. I knew the people around me were telling me the truth, but I did not want to accept it.
It’s strange how a person can understand something, but not truly know it deep in their inner being – the only place that makes any difference, at least when it came to matters of the heart
.
Love really is an illusion,
I thought
.

Maybe Michael was right; maybe I was a runner. I had always thought of myself as someone who handled problems head on, took the bull by the horns, pushed my way through whatever it was, impervious to fear – but maybe not. Maybe I was a coward. He had accused me of trying to run from him, so if I was running from Michael, then shit, of course I was running from Stephen. Running meant I never had to officially lose him. But Stephen was running even faster and further, and if I was lying about it, then he was lying about not only me, but everything in his life. Shit, he made me look like the friggin’ Rock of Gibraltar!

Michael and I celebrated the holiday early. I would be in Massachusetts with my parents on December 25th, but back in Chicago before New Year’s Eve. The past couple months had been rough on both of us; so I was determined to make ‘our Christmas’ as nice as possible.

I bought a small, potted Norfolk Pine, decorating it with strings of cranberries and popcorn, then rolled some joints and arranged them into a star for the top. I pulled one of the end tables in front of the living room window, placing the tree on it to soak up the sunlight. I liked the idea of having a tiny living tree that would continue to grow after the cranberry and popcorn decorations were long gone – something for the future, something to take care of. Then I painted our names on Christmas stockings, and hung them from the edge of the end table. I stuffed Michael’s stocking full of little things: a Swiss Army pocket knife that had all kinds of useful gadgets like a tiny corkscrew, a magnifying glass, and tweezers that could be used as a roach clip, his favorite Charleston Chew and Butterfinger candy bars, spearmint flavored gum, a pair of heavy winter socks, and an onion – my mother always put an onion in the bottom my stocking so I decided to carry on the tradition. I think the onion was supposed to represent all the crappy stuff I’d done during the last year that fell into the naughty, not nice, category for Santa – all I knew for sure was that I always got onions as a kid. I also got him a new set of saddlebags for his Harley that Rick helped me pick out so I’d get the right thing, and a blue denim cowboy shirt with mother-of-pearl covered snaps instead of buttons that he’d been admiring whenever we walked by this little boutique on Broadway.

“Christmas stockings? You made us stockings… my mother hasn’t stuffed stockings for us for years!” Michael exclaimed when he spotted them hanging from the edge of the table.

“Me? I didn’t stuff the stockings, Santa did – don’t you believe in Santa Claus? All I did was to write him a special delivery letter asking him to come here early since I had to go to Weymouth.”

Giving me a sidelong glance he said, “Cool, a woman with connections, I love it.”

“Here, sit down – let’s see what he gave you,” I said detaching his from its hanging place and handing it to him. I loved watching him turn into a little boy again as he pulled all the goodies out one by one… until he got to the onion. “For all the times you were bad during the past year,” I piped up seeing the quizzical look on his face.

“Ha! I’m surprised I didn’t get all onions then,” he chuckled. “Pass this on to Santa next time you see him for me,” he said giving me a big hug and kiss.

“Mmm… well I hope I did as well picking things for you as Santa did,” I said handling him the boxes with the saddle bags and shirt. “These are from me.” I held my breath as he opened the packages savoring each moment.

“Fantastic! Did Rick help you pick these out?”

“Yeah, how did you know? I asked him not to tell you.”

“He didn’t, but he was with me the other day at the Harley place, and he talked me out of buying these. Now I know why.”

Relaxing, I exhaled, “Oh good, I was hoping they were the right ones.”

“They’re perfect, and I love the shirt – it’s all perfect, babe. Your turn,” he said. “Time to earn my onion.”

Michael had showed up that night with some surprises of his own. He packed a Styrofoam cooler full of Coke, ginger ale, root beer, penny candy, chips, Cheetos, trail mix and nuts, as snacks for my drive home. And, he gave me a wonderful cobalt blue water pipe, with red and yellow glass flames at the bottom, a spiral of clear glass up the stem that sparkled as it reflected the blue it encased, that was then topped with an intricately detailed green tree frog. It was hand blown – one of the most beautiful pipes I’d ever seen. Functional art.

But the biggest surprise was a lacy, rather sheer, flowing black negligée. “Will you wear it?” he asked as I opened the box with a gleam in his eye, and one corner of his mouth curled in anticipation.

“Ahhh… well, I… it is gorgeous and so soft…” I started to respond.

“I know you like flannel, but you’ve been in those damn flannel things so much lately, they’re almost worn out… Go try it on – see if I got the size right?”

I just sat holding it for a moment – it was floor length with a full gathered skirt that was slightly longer in the back than front, the bodice was fitted, made of sheer lace in a rose bud pattern, and triple spaghetti straps crossed in the back. Even though part of me thought of myself as a traitor to the feminist cause (I could just picture Gloria Steinem jumping off the pages of her latest
Cosmo
article, yelling “no, you are not a sex object!”) I had to admit it was beautiful, so with a quirky smile of my own, I whispered, “Be right back.”

As I entered the living room again I announced, “It fits – I love it!”

He stood up and walked across the room, eyeing me up and down as he advanced. As he got close, he reached out, took my hand, and spun me around causing the skirt to flare as I moved, then he took a step back and without any further elaboration said, “Oh my God,” pulling me close, giving me a long, deep kiss, his hands moving down my body and squeezing my butt. Letting go of my bottom, he reached up, pulled my arms down from around his neck and stood back again, looking at me in a way that was starting to make me very self-conscious.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Absolutely nothing.” He continued to watch me standing there starting to show my nervousness. He stepped closer again, and ran his fingertips over my breast where the edge of the black lace was touching my pale white skin. I closed my eyes; his touch was exhilarating sending tiny shivers up and down my spine – my breathing began to change, as my arms reached out to touch him in response. I could feel his eyes on me, even though mine were closed… His fingers wiggled under the spaghetti straps on one shoulder, then the other, lowering the bodice of the negligee until it fell by my waist.

“You’re smiling, babe – what are you thinking?” he murmured in my ear, his breath feeling warm and cool at the same time.

“Mmm… just how good that feels… how much I want you and…” I stopped, opening my eyes enough to see his face next to mine.

“And… and what?”

“Nothing it’s silly, I don’t even know why I thought of it.”

“Tell me – I want to know.”

I focused my eyes on his, swallowed and blurted out, “I guess I just don’t understand men – you said you liked the way it looked on me. I mean I can tell you do, but as soon as you start to touch me, well… you take it off. How does that make any sense?”

He was trying to repress a laugh – I could see it in his eyes. “When are you going to stop reading those trashy magazines?” he replied, precisely interpreting my transparent face once again.

“Never,” was the answer, my hand inching up to tickle him in the ribs.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” he said picking me up, and tossing me onto the black leather couch. I squealed. A split second later his shirt was off and he was standing over me grinning like a Cheshire cat saying, “Where should I start? I know, how about here…” his hand hiking up the negligee, grabbing my ass, both of us laughing as we tussled around, finally rolling and landing on the floor.

We ate dinner – late – and lounged around making love and talking; talking and loving again until the wee hours of the morning. “I like the effect black lace has on you,” I quipped, as sleep started to overtake my mind and body. “I wonder if anyone has ever done any scientific studies on the subject… You know, I can see the title now ‘Black Lace and Penises’.”

“Smart ass,” he replied, “I just want to make sure you don’t forget me while you’re gone.”

“Hmph, I could never forget you,” I said, rolling over to give him another kiss, nestling my head into my favorite spot on his shoulder as we both dozed off.

It was surprising to me how good it was to actually see my parents again. It was now December 1971 – I hadn’t been here since my wedding, and memories flooded back about that much happier time almost a year and a half ago. And I had missed Satchamo, my German shepherd, that I’d had since junior high. I just sat down on the floor rubbing him all over while he danced around wagging his tail and licking my face.

Although I was dreading the ‘talk’ I knew I must have with my parents, I knew I loved them and they loved me. Somehow I did know that. I never questioned their love even through all the arguments, even though I was a complete disappointment to them… I knew they loved me, and I hoped, they would be there for me now. I was never particularly close to them, at least when it came to talking. I talked to my friends about things that were upsetting me, not them. I had had no good reason for staying away this long unless you counted my failed marriage. Fuck, it only lasted six months before it unraveled. I knew my mother hadn’t said anything to any of the relatives – no one in my family had ever gotten a divorce so this was going to be a scandal that would serve as food for fodder with all those phony, prim and proper aunts, uncles, and assorted cousins for years to come. But now the mere thought of talking, telling my parents the truth, scared the shit out of me. How could I do this to them?

I spent my time in high school deceiving them about my actions, especially after meeting Stephen. Big purses were all the fashion rage then, and I had the biggest purse I could find; it was actually more like small luggage. I would leave the house for a date with him looking like an All American girl next door carrying the purse. I’d get no more than a couple blocks down the street, and then open it up, yanking tattered jeans with an American flag patch sewn upside down on the ass, T-shirts with peace symbols, and a ragged army jacket out of it – and changing in the car, before heading off to whatever place I wasn’t supposed to be, and then repeating the whole process in reverse before coming home. Now it was time to be honest, tell them as much as I could, and hope for the best.

Mary Beth and I had gone over and over what I should, and should not say, as we navigated the snow and ice on the highways on our 18 hour drive east. But now that I was actually home, my brain was revolting, I could feel the pressure cooker inside starting to bubble up, and I filled with apprehension. Michael had slipped enough pot for a couple of ‘emergency joints’ into my Christmas stocking, and I had the ones from the tree top, but shit, shit, shit – it would never last if I started smoking it right away.

One of the first things my father did after I pulled into the driveway was to go out and inspect the car. Now, I was watching from the dining room window as he circled the rear of the car, and bent down to look at something in the trunk area – would he be able to tell that the bumper had been dented and fixed? I couldn’t. Michael and Jeff had done an excellent, professional job in my opinion, but when it came to cars, my father had an uncanny ability to find even the smallest scratch, so until it passed his inspection, I was on edge.

“Jacqueline, come sit down, I made your favorite pot roast for dinner – your father will be in soon,” my mother called out to me from the kitchen.

“Okay Mom, I think I’ll go call him to come in – it’s cold out there, he’s going to freeze to death,” I replied wanting to get his attention away from the bumper as soon as possible. By the time I made my way to the door though, he was heading up the driveway, kicking the slush off his boots on the edge of the step, and brushing a few snowflakes from his shoulders as he came through the door, announcing that the car looked like it was holding up well. “Yeah, I found a good mechanic at this little hole-in-the-wall place. Mom says dinner’s ready.”