Love's Illusions: A Novel (22 page)

My father had picked up the folder, and was thumbing through the papers, pausing now and then to take a closer look at certain ones. My mother was the one who answered saying that they had only heard from her the one time. She was also trying to explain that it was only my happiness she was concerned with, not what the family thought. I sat drinking my tea, trying to keep myself under control until my father put down the folder. As soon as he did I asked, “Do you want me to try calling Joe so you can ask him about my eye?”

“No,” he replied, “I believe you. That won’t be necessary.” Turning to look at my mother he said in an emotionless voice, “Betty, if he isn’t a ‘real man’, you can’t expect her to stay married to him.” He handed the folder to my mother. Then looking back at me said, “You need to make sure your lawyer takes care of this.”

“I know.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell us about,” he asked.

I was on a roll, a winning streak, so I plowed ahead, “Yes, the mechanic you wanted to meet because he was taking such good care of the car… Well I invited him to have dinner with us tomorrow night – we’ve been dating since last summer.”

“What the hell is wrong with you Jackie? Getting involved with someone else. For Christ’s sake!” my father bellowed his eyes growing larger as he straightened his back. “And you just said you weren’t having an affair…”

“I’m NOT! Stephen had been gone for over four months when I met him!”

“Your father’s right, you shouldn’t be dating anyone right now. You’re a married woman,” my mother piped up, “and I hope you’re not…” she hesitated, “not playing house with this one too. What if you got pregnant? You’d just end up having to get married again.”

“Mom, what fuckin’ century are you living in? I’m
not
going to get pregnant, and I’m
never
marrying anyone again. The only people that thought I had to get married before, because we were living together, are the two of you, and look how that turned out!” I was on my feet pacing back and forth. It was useless to try to control myself – I could feel my head splitting open and the anger pouring out. “You’re the ones who wanted the truth. So I’m telling you – and what do you do? You condemn me. I know I’m a huge disappointment to you, and I’m sorry about that, but I’m not a fuckin’ virgin anymore,
Mother
, so get used to it!”

“Don’t talk to your mother that way and use that kind of language,” my father snapped.

“I’ll use any kind of language I want,” I yelled turning on my father. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I don’t care if I am still legally married. Stephen’s been gone for over a year, and you think I should be sitting here alone watching TV or whatever. Michael is the only reason I haven’t slit my wrists!”

I exhaled growing more and more agitated each second. “Sometimes I feel like I… like I just can’t deal with anything and he keeps me sane. He’s a good person… I like him… and nothing you can say is going to stop that so you might as well not even try! And oh, I almost forgot, Mom, he’s a Catholic!”

She slammed her empty tea cup down, and went into the kitchen. I stared at my father, ready for round two or three, or whatever we were in in this prize fight. I could hear the tea kettle being filled, and placed on the stove. My mother stuck her head around the corner, and asked my father if he wanted a cup of coffee.

“Your mother and I are just worried about you. You’re so far away from home,” he said.

“Yeah, well I’m far away from home on purpose. You think it was fun living with the two of you, always arguing? I can’t live like that, so don’t even think about telling me to move back because I won’t go.”

“That’s not what I said. We just wish you were closer so you could come home more often, and we could help you more.”

“Bullshit, you don’t want to help me, you want to control me! And she wants to drag me to church!”

My mother came around the corner of the kitchen shouting that I needed to calm down; she was not trying to get me to church, although it wouldn’t hurt; that I was only 20 years old, and didn’t know everything; that she and my father weren’t arguing as much anymore; and I could do a lot worse than being close to them.

“Well that’s not going to happen!” I snapped. “I’m staying in Chicago. I’m finishing school right here.”

“You won’t be able to finish school here if we stop paying your tuition. You could always transfer to a school on the east coast you know,” my father said.

I glanced back and forth between them – livid. “You’re right,” I hollered. “You two are such hypocrites. I’ve been busting my ass to keep up with school through all this. You tell me you want the truth, then when I tell you, and when you don’t like what I said, you threaten me with money thinking I’ll cave in… Well it won’t work.” I yelled stomping around the room. “Fine, don’t pay the tuition, don’t help with the rent! I’ll figure it out on my own, but I’m
not
moving back to Weymouth with you!”

The next thing I knew I was hurling my tea cup across the room, listening to it shatter against the wall, listening to my parents both screaming at me at the same time… I made a mad dash for the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the pictures on the wall rattled on their hooks. I sank down onto the closed toilet seat crying uncontrollably, holding my head in my hands trying to quell the shaking, and absolute rage I felt inside.

I have no idea how long I sat there. I could hear my parents talking in the other room, but did not know what they were saying. I heard the sound of a broom as my mother cleaned up the broken tea cup. I heard the emotions racing around in my own head, felt helpless… felt like none of this shit was worth it. Without warning my tears dried up – there was nothing left, just a hollow, useless, futile feeling. I flung the bathroom door open, and announced I was going out – they shouldn’t wait up, as I scrambled in the hall closet for my coat.

My father stood up, putting himself between me and the door. “Go sit down, Jacqueline.”

I stood there glaring at both of them, then, dragging my jacket along the floor behind me, made my way to the couch, and sat down without saying a word.

“We don’t want you to move home. We want you to finish school, here, in Chicago,” my mother said; her face was as tear-stained as mine.

“If you want us to meet this young man, then we will,” my father stated, “but you have to understand why springing him on us causes us so much concern.”

I didn’t respond, I just sat there, numb, my head spinning, pounding. Everything seemed unreal to me – I was watching this whole scene from somewhere outside my own body… somehow detached, impersonal, but without benefit of my pixie friend. These weren’t my parents, they were people who had something they could use against me to gain control, force me to do what they wanted. I hated them at that moment and I hated myself. I felt betrayed… I felt something in my soul shift to a dispassionate place – a place where I wouldn’t hurt anymore.

I still hadn’t spoken. I was lost in thought staring off into the blankness of the room beyond both of them when I heard my father saying, “Jackie, can you hear me? I asked you what this young man’s name was.”

“It’s Michael… Michael Nowak,” I answered.

“And he’s a mechanic, right?

“Right.”

“Does he do anything else? Where did he go to school?”

“Nowhere, just high school,” my voice was cold, detached almost mechanical in nature. I still wasn’t looking at either of them.

“You said at Christmas you were taking the car to a mechanic with a garage, I assume you meant whatever garage he operates, right?”

“Yes, he does have a garage – it’s in back of his mother’s house. I never said it was like a commercial garage, but it is a business – it’s how he supports himself, and helps his mother,” I replied, my voice sounded empty even to my own ears. Looking up at them I said, “I’ll cancel dinner.” I was defeated and I knew it.

They shot each other another look of some kind. They were communicating as a team again, like they did at Christmas. They had never done that when I lived with them. I remembered them being at odds with each other, arguing, but now, well maybe they were doing better. The only thing I knew of that had changed was me leaving: maybe I had been the cause of their problems? My mind started to dart in different directions again when I heard my mother say, “Please don’t cancel, we’d like to meet him.”

After taking a moment to make up my mind, I acknowledged her, “Fine, but he’s a good person, and I swear to God I’ll …” I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but decided against it. “He’s the only thing that’s kept me half way sane this year, so you damn well better be nice to him!”

They nodded in agreement. I stood up, and announced I was going out for a while, but would be back soon. Before they could finish their objections, I was out the door.

I made a beeline for the nearest pay phone. I called Mary Beth and I called Michael – neither of them answered. I hadn’t wanted to go to The Canteen, but figured I’d check and see if, by chance, Michael was there already. I wiped my eyes with my hands trying to ensure my earlier tears weren’t too visible, even though I knew Michael would be able to tell something was wrong.
It was still early, he might not be there yet,
I thought as I walked down the block, head bent down against the wind.

“Jackie! Jackie!” I looked up to see Michael calling me, dashing across the street dodging cars as he did. “What are you doing out here? I thought you’d be home with your parents,” he said leaning down to give me a quick kiss. His jacket was unzipped, and I slid my arms under it, hugging him, refusing to let go. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you alright?” he asked managing to loosen my grip on him, and turning my face toward the street light.

“I’m fine, I’ll be fine,” I replied, “Let’s go to the diner for a minute, okay?”

“Sure, were you crying?” he asked as we started to walk over to Broadway. Over a cup of coffee I explained the events of the day as best I could. “Do you want to cancel tomorrow?” he asked, “I’ll be cool with it whichever way you want.”

“No, but if I can get a hold of Mary Beth, I’m going to invite her too – that should help keep them in line.”

Michael chuckled. “You don’t have to protect me; I’m a big boy.”

“Hmph, well
you
may have to protect me,” I smiled in reply hoping to ease the mood. “I’ve got to get back – I told them I wouldn’t be too long. Walk with me?”

“But of course,” he said.

Wednesday passed without incident; the three of us were on our best behavior. I showed them the fancy private school, Francis W. Parker, where I would be doing my student teaching next year, we took a short lunch cruise down the Chicago River, and finished with an extended tour of the School of the Art Institute giving them a chance to meet Lana Christakos, one of my instructors from the education department.

When we arrived that evening at Green Things, one of the trendy new restaurants on Division Street, Mary Beth and Michael were already waiting inside. I almost didn’t recognize Michael – instead of his usual jeans, tee shirt, leather vest and boots; he was wearing khaki pants, a light blue long sleeved shirt and penny loafers. He looked absolutely preppy with his hair slicked back behind his ears – its length barely noticeable. Catching my eye, he smiled with an ever so faint mischievous tinge. He stepped forward giving me a hug, a quick kiss on the lips and whispered, “Like the new me?”

I flinched a little – displays of affection were not prevalent in my family, so I thought his kiss might bother them –but before I could react or reply, he turned, putting his hand out towards my father, “Mr. Moretti, I’m Michael Nowak, it’s very nice to meet you sir, your daughter has told me a lot about you.” Nodding to my mother he said, “Mrs. Moretti, it’s especially nice to meet you ma’am. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of bringing these for you.” Then out of nowhere he produced a small bouquet of yellow and white carnations mixed with daisies, sprigs of baby’s breath and ferns.

I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing – this was a side of Michael I had never seen before. I could feel myself grinning inside; the tension in my gut gave way, and my mother, who I figured had made up her mind to dislike him because he was Catholic, was melting. Mary Beth had turned so her back was to my parents and was choking back a laugh.

Green Things was set in an old brownstone store front. I had reserved a table by the front window so we could watch all the beautiful people walk by on the street. They had a varied menu, and a new thing called a salad bar where you could help yourself to an endless variety of vegetables, lettuce and salad toppings – my mother said her prime rib was so tender she could cut it with a butter knife, and my father’s porterhouse steak was cooked to perfection.

Much to my surprise, the conversation with Michael flowed in a natural way. My father thanked him for taking care of the car then sprinkled the evening with statements like, “with your knowledge you’d make a good engineer – have you ever thought about going back to school for a degree?”

To which Michael replied, “As a matter of fact, I have. I’ve been saving up some money so when my brother gets back from Vietnam this summer, he can take over the garage, and I could go back to school after that.”

“Your brother is in the service is he? What branch?”

“Army. He was drafted in 1970 – had a low number.”

“Where do you stand with the draft board?” my father asked, giving him a quick, sidelong glance.

“I was born on October 9th. I’m #342, so I won’t be called up.” Michael replied.

Mary Beth jumped into the conversation at that point steering it away from the war. She knew Michael was as anti-war as the rest of our friends, and didn’t want to risk spoiling the evening by getting into the subject. Michael scored another win with my father when he refused a second beer with dinner saying he was driving, and had to get up early in the morning to start rebuilding a transmission.
Who is this person sitting next to me anyhow?

On the drive back to the apartment after dinner, both of them told me what a nice young man Michael was. “Very different than I had expected,” per my father, “I’m glad to hear he wants to continue his education.”