Chapter Twenty Three
Unprompted, and to explain her jubilant mood, Helen spoke to Rico who followed close behind her. “That’s the best I’ve slept in months. I had the most realistic dream. I dreamt of owls, snow white arctic owls. It’s so strange, since I’ve only seen them in National Geographic or on the Discovery Channel. In my dream, I followed them down a long, empty gravel road framed on either side by tall trees. It was at day’s end. The sun was about to set, and as it disappeared behind the earth I flew silently alongside the owls. I’m not sure where we were going.”
Rico listened without comment and followed Helen through the living room. As he passed, he noticed the coffee table in front of the couch had been cleared of last night’s food and drink, and the blanket that he’d covered Helen with had been neatly folded and nested into the corner of an armchair. From the little speakers that sat in the built-in book shelves on either side of the large stone fireplace, alternative music played from a local college radio station. Rico didn’t recognize the artist. A large candle burned on the fireplace’s mantle, and the room smelled of cedar.
They walked on and into the kitchen. The kitchen’s southern exposure filled the room with sunlight. Outside the window sat the leafless tree that had been struck and killed by lightning. In the center of the kitchen was an older dinette set, circa 1960. The refrigerator and range looked to be new but made in a retro style, both in light pastels. The refrigerator was covered in pictures of Helen and her friends and family. Small magnets held an array of pre-school finger paintings to the fridge door.
Inside the kitchen, Helen turned to face Rico, and made him an offer, “I’m cooking breakfast. What would you say to bacon, eggs and potatoes?
“I’d say that sounds great.”
“You can regale me with tales of your childhood as I cook. Coffee?”
“Coffee would be great. Black please. I need to call work and let them know I won’t be in.” Rico dialed the cell phone cradled in his hand, and a couple seconds later mumbled a lame excuse about car troubles and that he’d likely miss work, again. The call didn’t take long, and with his phone stowed in his pocket Rico told the story of his youth. He began with the talent show story and then shared random tales of growing up in Chicago, the most notable of which was his breaking into the Lincoln Park Zoo late at night to feed the animals. With Helen’s back to him, as she cooked, he told the story of Alan jumping to his death.
Other than to clarify the details on Alan’s jump, Helen didn’t say much. She listened intently as he talked, and occasionally encouraged him to elaborate with a nod of her head or an open ended question. After a while, she turned around and set two plates on the table. As she set them down, she continued her reputation of starting conversations in which the other person might, or might not, be required to participate.
“You know what I need?”
“Other than the obvious?”
“Yes, other than the obvious. I’m going to need a bitchin’ grave stone like Old Joe Clark’s.” Helen spoke in a deep cowboy like voice, “’Here lies a shiftless and rough mountaineer whose enemies were legion. He was murdered.’ That’s not right for me, but I definitely need something that makes people remember me.”
”I’m sure people will remember you.” Looking intently at Helen, and anxious to move to a more positive topic, Rico commented on the Italian motorcycle logo on her shirt, “Ducati?”
“Yeah. I was learning to ride at the time I got sick. I had even gotten my license, but I never really had a chance to ride. It’s kind of funny what little say we have in how our lives turn out. I thought it would be fun to zip around town on a motorcycle. For running errands and meeting friends, I thought it would be the perfect solution. No hassles parking, none of the risk of highways or suburban soccer moms. I keep thinking I’ll go for a quick ride, even though I’m not supposed to drive. What am I going to do, kill myself? Ha!”
“I rode for a few years right after high school, but eventually sold my bike. I really miss it, but I couldn’t afford a bike and a car, and it’s tough to rely solely on a bike. It’s not very practical with guitars and amplifiers, hence the chi-mo van.”
“Chi-mo?”
“Child molester,” Rico clarified. “Are you finished?”
“Yes. My appetite isn’t what it used to be.” While Rico had wolfed through his plate, savoring the salty, buttery flavor of eggs cooked in bacon grease, Mary had eaten about a quarter of hers, then set her knife and fork parallel on her plate signaling she was done.
Rico stood, stacked the plates on top of each other and carried them to the sink where he quickly rinsed them before setting them in the dishwasher. He grabbed the coffee pot and offered Helen a refill. She declined, and he refilled his cup. As he sat back down he thanked Helen profusely and looked at his watch. “I should probably be on my way.”
“You’re not heading downtown by chance?”
“I am. Do you need a ride?”
“Oh my God, I would love a ride. I hate calling for a cab. The cabbies always assume I’ve lost my license for DUI. A very suburban thing to do, and no I’ve not lost my license, and I don’t live in the freaking suburbs.”
“I don’t think this is Chicago.”
“This is Chicago. You don’t believe me? I’ll show you my tax bill.” Helen poked him in the shoulder to emphasize her point.
“No worries. Where can I drop you?”
“I need to go to Northwestern Hospital, or you can drop me by your place and I’ll catch a cab closer to downtown.”
“It’s no problem. I’ll drop you at the hospital. Are you ready now?”
“Two minutes.”
Rico walked into the living room and waited by the front door. A couple minutes later, as promised, Helen walked up and asked, “Ready?”
Rico nodded he was ready, and they both left the house. As they walked down the short sidewalk, and passed the garage, Helen took a quick detour and walked up to the keypad on side of the garage’s door. “I need to set the trash out, the garbage gets picked up today.”
The garage door opened noisily, and Helen walked in to pick up a small bag of trash, which looked as if it had been hastily pitched from the door that opened off the kitchen. Inside, near the garbage bag, sat an early 1970s Honda CB750 motorcycle. The vintage bike had a slabby metal tank and spoke wheels. It was from a time in motorcycle design that favored straight lines and simple, geometric shapes. The bike looked to be in great condition with no obvious scratches or dents, and the vinyl covering the seat was shiny and without cuts.
“I thought you had a Ducati?”
“Sadly, no. This is my Dad’s old bike. He gave it to me if I promised never to go above 35 miles per hour, ride during daylight hours, and always wear a helmet. I agreed and had it tuned up, got plates, and insurance. Then, wham! It’s been sitting here for a while.”
“Does it run?”
“It should. It hasn’t been started in a while, but I had it hooked to a charger to keep the battery from going to zero. I unhooked it a couple of weeks ago, when I realized I wasn’t ever going to ride it.”
“I say we take it.”
“What? No, that’s a bad idea. That is a really bad idea.” Helen waved her hands dismissively.
“Let’s take the bike. You drive and if something gets squirrely I can take over from the back. I’ve no interest in going to my apartment. I might have mentioned my unemployed roommate.”
“You are serious. You’d do that? How are you going to get home?”
“It’ll be a blast. I haven’t been on a bike in years. Plus, it’s a bluebird day, and I’ve already called in sick. This has to be a record breaker.” Rico leaned back and let the sun shine fully on his face. “It’s got to be headed well into the 70s. What am I going to do, hide in my bedroom all day? Or, sleep in my van? We’ll ride back together, and then I’ll take off.”
 
; “I’ve only got one helmet.”
“Screw the helmets. I say the odds of dying on a bike while driving with a terminal illness and a delinquent musician are zero. It’s a no-helmet day.”
“Okay, then. Are you riding in the track suit?” she asked, hopeful he’d say no.
“Hell yes. I need my flip flops to complete the look.”
“Which is?”
“Southside Boston. The look conveys myriad meanings. I’m gainfully employed in illegal activities, ready to mall walk at a moment’s notice, however, if pressed to meet at a casino, my resort wear would be welcome, appropriate, and without pretense.”
“In an Adidas track suit. Really?”
“I favor Adidas over Nike, which I find too corporate, and well ahead of Puma which I find lacks vision. Regarding flip flops, I opt for flat black, no ornamentation, and find myself brand neutral.”
“I see. You put a lot of thought into that look of yours.” It was the second time Rico had seen Helen truly laugh. “Can you drive in flip flops if you have to?”
“Probably. I’ve never tried, but I’m sure it’s been done before. On a planet with six billion people hasn’t everything been done once?”
Having agreed on the course of action, Helen walked over to the bike and turned the key. She pressed the ignition button and the bike hesitated, but then fired up. The garage filled with blue smoke. Both Helen and Rico waved their hands in front of their faces to clear the air.
Laughing as she went, Helen mounted the bike, raised the kickstand, and scooted the bike out of the garage. Astride the motorcycle she shouted the code to close the garage to Rico. Helen pulled in the clutch and put the bike in gear. The bike jumped a few inches forward when the gears engaged. She then slowly drove down the driveway where she stopped, facing the opposite direction of Rico’s van.
Rico closed the door, and then slowly jogged to the van to get his flip flops. He walked to the bike, unfolded the passenger’s foot pegs, and hopped aboard.
“We’re off, like honeymooner’s pajamas!” cried out Helen.
‘No, like a prom dress!” answered Rico. Rico wasn’t sure what he’d do when Helen got to the hospital, and it wasn’t clear how long she’d be there, but he figured they’d work it out when they got there.
As they drove, pedestrians and fellow drivers paused and took notice. A petite redhead in cowboy boots with a backwards baseball cap and mirrored aviators commanded an old motorcycle, upon which the tall, lanky, blonde passenger wore a track suit, flip flops, and wayfarers. Her driving, which was far from flawless, added to the spectacle; she missed shifts, throttled a disengaged engine, and nearly tipped over from turning too slowly. Even with those mishaps, the bike never stalled and her most egregious act was probably shifting before the revolutions warranted; the bike bucking in protest until Rico reached around and hurried the throttle.
Mid-morning found the secondary streets without much traffic, and Helen honored the promise to her father as she rolled along closer to thirty miles per hour than the permitted thirty five. Rico sat on the back digging the sunshine, exhilaration of motorcycle travel, and simple joy of play hooky. Working their way east, they eventually ran out of land and merged onto Lake Shore Drive. Helen drove in the middle lane at the pace she was comfortable. Cars flew by them on either side. With the downtown immediately ahead she worked her way onto Inner Lake Shore Drive and from there to the northernmost end of Michigan Avenue. Even with their circuitous route Helen found herself a half hour early. At the Saks Fifth Avenue, her waypoint to turn left to the parking garage, she continued past the hospital. Rico thought she was about to miss the turn and nudged her, but Helen wanted to drive the whole magnificent mile.
Rico sat back and watched the world go by. He’d never ridden down Michigan Avenue in the middle of a workday on the back of a motorcycle. Helen drove to Millenium Park and finagled a u-turn. As the bike started to stall, Rico screamed for her to gun it, and both of them laughed as car horns blared and brakes squealed. As she passed the park a second time, she told Rico she wanted to have a picnic.
“Are you sure?” He thought it was a good idea, too. The weather was unbelievable.
“Yeah. It’s probably the last picnic I’ll have with winter on its way.”
Headed north now, back the direction from which they’d just driven, Helen turned right, and a couple hundred feet up pulled into the parking garage. A sign sat at the garage’s entrance indicating no motorcycles. Helen ignored the sign. The garage had long ago fired the attendants, so no one tried to stop her. She parked the bike, and Rico gave her his cell phone number and told her to call him when she was done. In the interim, he planned to walk over to the bakery and read a newspaper. He’d also pick up something for the picnic.
About ninety minutes later Rico’s phone rang, and Rico asked Helen what she wanted for lunch. He bought boxed lunches and met her back at the motorcycle. They then drove to Millennium park and found an unoccupied bench. Sitting with their lunches in their laps, they looked out onto the lake. The mooring balls were void of boats this late in the season, but several powerboats could be seen plying the water, likely men fishing for salmon and lake trout.
“Let me ask you,” Rico began in a manner more typical of Helen. “If you were going to a desert island what five albums would you take with you?” Rico asked because it had always proven to be a good conversation starter, and he really wanted to tell Helen what he’d take with him. ‘Desert island picks’ was a difficult topic to introduce into most conversations.
Helen turned and looked at Rico. He hadn’t realized she was crying. “I’m not going to a desert island. I’m dying. At least I am if the drugs don’t work.”
Hours later, with the sun beginning to nest on the western horizon and a chill growing in the air, Rico and Helen pulled back into the driveway of Helen’s house. After the picnic, Helen’s spirits rallied and they spent the day cruising around the city. They visited Printer’s Row, River North, Bucktown, Logan Square, Old Town, and Lincoln Park, stopping as they saw fit and browsing boutique clothing and music stores, and dining, indiscriminately, on coffee, French fries (or freedom fries as Helen declared), and milk shakes.
Back where the day began, Rico waited as Helen fumbled to open the garage. It took a few tries, but eventually the door opened and Rico returned the bike to where the adventure had started, albeit facing the opposite direction.
As Rico stepped from the bike Helen spoke, “I’ve got a proposition I want you to consider. You can stay here in the guest room rent free. In return, I need you to drive me to my appointments, at least those when you’re not at work, and bring me my medication. There is an extra bedroom and a separate bathroom with shower and tub.” Helen worked to sell him on the idea, “You save money and can safely butter your toast.”
“Men take baths? Rico joked, then addressed Helen’s question, “Are you sure you want that imposition? You’ve got a lot going on.”
“I’m serious. It’ll be a big help, and it will give my parents piece of mind to know I’m not alone. Honestly, it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to, and be here in case. And, yes, men take baths.”
“Okay. Do you care if I stay tonight?”
“No. That would be wonderful. Do you need to run home and get anything?”
“I’ve got everything I need in the van. I’ll stop by tomorrow and clear out my stuff. I’m still a little traumatized by Batman and Robin. Let’s give it another twenty four hours before I revisit the crime scene.”
Rico moved the van into the driveway and brought in a couple boxes of clothes, his toiletries, and an acoustic guitar. He set everything into the extra bedroom, within which Helen had stacked a handful of towels and washcloths. The room was spacious and nicely decorated. Rico liked that it wasn’t a repurposed kids room or part time office.
For all the women Rico had slept with, he had, for the most part, judiciously avoid
ed the ‘L’ word, and had never used it as a key to open a girl’s legs. Among the many ironies in Rico’s life, his being a musician that had never fallen in love was the most incongruous. When he started to fall in love with Helen, and first told her that he loved her, it was a lot like swallowing a fishing hook. At first it felt a little strange on his tongue, metallic, awkward, and dangerous. But, as the hook worked its way to the back of his throat, then down his gullet, it was easier to swallow than to try and pull out. Now the hook was set so deep that the thought of being without her drew the monofilament tight, and readied the hook to tear through his insides and rip out his heart.
Deeply in love, Rico and Helen settled into an easy rhythm and found comfort in each other’s company. The seriousness of their relationship measured by the calm they found in the quiet spaces between their conversations. As promised, Rico shuttled Helen to her appointments, dropped her at the bus she took to work, and brought her drugs home with him. At day’s end, he regaled her with stories from work. Helen laughed in stitches as she followed the war between Cuddy and Mary, and the collateral damage suffered by Shap. Most nights they cooked and ate together. When Rico came home late after a show, Helen was up, waiting to talk about what went well and what didn’t, and to push him to play the music he wrote. On weekends, and as the weather warmed, they took the motorcycle and drove to the farmers market and the used record shops. On their journeys, they stopped and breakfasted at the hole in the wall diners Rico seemed to know all over the city.
Life was good, time passed quickly, and they worked to ignore the elephant in the room.