Support your favorite NBA team in one-of-a-kind style with this durable, jersey-style backpack, featuring removable name tag, side pen holder, side pocket and team name on front. 100% polyester mesh. Size: 14" x 12" x 4".Snow and sleet pummeled my pickup truck as I inched westward on the Eisenhower Expressway. In the rear view mirror of my Mazda truck, I could the shining towers of the Loop. My friends laughed at me when I bought my truck, but no one ever laughed when I kicked it into four-wheel drive on an icy road.
Only a call from Jennifer could bring me out on a night like this. She sounded cold. Said she was standing on West Madison Street in front of United Center. There was no reason for her to be there at ten-o'clock at night. Hell, neither the Bulls nor the Blackhawks were in town. Not that she cared about either one; she cared about the Cubs and the Bears period. Everything else was filler she said. The others were like going to the circus.
Pulling off the expressway, I headed north on Damen. Turning the corner onto Madison I was startled by the flashing lights of a dozen police cars. A cop stood in the middle of the street. I could either swing left around the cruisers or pull up to the curb. Choosing the later, I got out of my truck and spotted Jennifer half-a-block up. She was stamping her feet to stay warm swaddled in her winter coat. Even though her dark hair covered her ears, I could imagine they were red and stinging from the cold. Her back was to me, as she watched the cops.
Coming up from behind, I wrapped my arms around her. "You call for a cab lady?" I asked.
She turned and faced me, her nose red from the cold. "Thank goodness you're here." She turned and pointed back toward the cops. "You won't believe what . . ."
"Happened?" I finished her sentence. Following her finger, I watched the cops. They seemed to be wandering up and down the street. No flashlights out, no sense of urgency in their movements. I rested my head on Jennifer's head. I'm about six-feet tall and Jen's is easily six-inches shorter. Despite the sub-freezing temperature, she felt warm and soft.
"I was in a cab, headed back downtown," she said. Glancing around, she said, "Well, I guess the cabby left."
"Let's sit in my truck and get warm," I suggested. Taking her hand, I led her to the passenger door and held it open for her.
As she climbed into the cab, she smiled with her blue eyes. "Okay, here's what happened. I saw a light!"
"A light?" I asked.
"Yes, a light. Not very bright, but it was there right in the middle of West Madison."
"And . . ." I studied her face. "That was it?"
"No silly, that is not just it," she replied. "It's what the light meant."
As much as I loved Jennifer, I began wondering what I was doing on the West Side on a cold winter night. "Have you been watching those X Files DVDs again?"
"No, Richard, no," she replied. "It's not some spooky Area 51 thing or a religious experience. Give me a little credit here. It's all about the light."
"Okay, if it's not Dreamland or St. Kevin behind the light, then what's going on? Why are the cops here? Why are we here?"
Jennifer began digging around in her huge Coach purse for a cigarette. She found one and I gave her a hit off the truck's lighter. "Richard," she began, "here's what happened. I was in a cab heading west along here. When we got to United Center, there was a light in the eastbound lane. Not a bright one, but enough to get our attention." She paused.
"Go ahead," I encouraged her.
"For some reason the cabbie swung over to the curb and stopped. I'm pretty tired so I thought maybe he saw some kind of emergency vehicle. But it was just this, this . . ."
"Light?"
Jennifer took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew out the smoke. "Yes, the light. So he pulls the cab over, gets out and goes over to where we saw the light. I got out of the cab and followed him."
"What did you see?" I asked.
Jen took another hit off her cigarette. "I could sure use a Cosmo. Is there a bar around here?" she asked.
"There's hundreds of them," I replied. "Let's here the story first."
Jennifer stubbed out her cigarette and fiddled with the radio. "Where's NewsRadio 78? Maybe there's something on the air about it."
I reached over and snapped off the radio. "Jennifer, c'mon, I've got work tomorrow."
Jen began to fidget with her bag again, and then stared out the window for several moments. "Remember the time we road you motorcycle out west? It was like that Bob Seger song, what's it called, Roll Me Away? Anyhow when I got in the middle of the street that was how I felt, like I had been rolled away."
"Away from?" I asked.
"Everything I knew about myself," she answered.
Suddenly, she began to cry. I reached over to hold her and she began shaking. "What is it? What's wrong, baby?" I asked.
Through her sobs, she told me she felt like an abandoned child. Like the time as a child, she was lost for two hours at Lincoln Park Zoo. Like no one would ever come and hold her again. Finally, the sobs subsided and the tears stopped. "Let's get back to what you saw," I gently asked. "If it wasn't some sci-fi thing, or a religious experience, what was it? What was the light?"
"Oh the light," she waived her hand dismissively. She had changed now into the logical attorney that was climbing the ranks of one of Chicago's largest firms. She looked at me, and shook her head, "It was only a bicycle light."
"A bicycle light, you're kidding? This is what this is all about?"
Taking off her glasses, she polished them on the hem of her skirt and smiled. "I wish it was that simple. Oh look, the cops are leaving."
I glanced at the street. One by one, the cruisers turned off their flashing lights and disappeared down the street. In a few minutes, we sat alone as a gentle snow fell around us.
Jennifer looked out at United Center. "Why do you suppose people like basketball and hockey?"
"You mean, why do I like basketball and hockey?"
"Yeah."
"Well," I sighed. "The competition."
Jen's eyes lit up, "Exactly!" she said. "That's what we saw, me and the cabby, pure competition."
"For what?"
Jennifer shrugged her shoulders. "It's hard to put my finger on it. Life, death, good, evil," she shook her head. "I know you're an engineer, Mr. Practical, and all. Some things," she shrugged her shoulders, "can't be defined by logic though. What would you say if I said I saw . . .?"
I nodded my head, "Go on."
"If I said I saw my father."
"Jennifer, you're father's been dead for ten years. Besides, why would he be riding a bike on the West Side on a night like this? What would make the cabby stop?"
"Oh, the cabby stopped because he was waving his hand. My father that is." Now she dug out another cigarette and lit it with her lighter. Cracking the window, she blew out a stream of smoke. "How long have we known each other Richard?"
"Since our freshman year in college," I replied.
"Right and you were at Dad's wake and funeral. So how do you explain him out here on West Madison in the middle of the night?"
"He died in a construction accident, there was a closed casket. Remember?" I asked.
"Like I could forget," she replied. "So what if he isn't dead."
"Well, where's the body. Did the cops take it away?"
"No, he fell off the bike and just . . . walked away. I sat in the street and cried. I guess the cab driver figured I was whacked and he took off." She blew a steam of smoke, "Can't say that I blame him. Anyhow, I called the cops."
"There was a heck of a lot of them."
"Oh, you know how excited they get," Jennifer replied. "So they get here, and no body, no bike. They wanted to take me to the loony bin for a while 'till I told them I was a lawyer. So?"
"So what?"
Jen stared at me, "Have you been drowsing during this story?"
"No, but what can I say. Your dad is dead for ten years, and now he's riding a bike in the middle of winter. What is there to say?"
"I say, turn around and let's find him. C'mon Richard, now."
"Okay Jen, which way?" Jennifer pointed west down Madison. I put the truck in gear and made a U-Turn. By now, the snow was falling as if a blizzard was brewing out on the prairie. We were the only vehicle in sight. Slowly I made my way westward. The cross-streets slid by: Damen, Western, Sacramento. As we approached Garfield Park, I turned to speak to Jennifer and saw a light out of the corner of my eye. When I looked back the light was in the center of the road bearing down on us.
Yanking the wheel hard to the right, I lost control and the truck skidded into a lampost. The passenger door and Jennifer took the brunt of the accident. When I came to minutes later, I heard the wail of sirens in the distance. My left eye was swollen shut and my nose felt broken.
Reaching to my right, I felt Jennifer's hand. It was cold. Blood coiled from the corner of her mouth. Gently I touched her shoulder and said her name. For a second her eyelids fluttered and her mouth twisted into a smile. "Daddy," she said.
Edward Fadden is a native of Chicago. He has worked for over 20 years in a variety of industries including pharmaceuticals and banking. In addition to professional writing, he is working on his first novel.
Edward and his wife Deborah reside in Chicagoland. He holds a Master's degree from Shorter College in Rome, Georgia.
Please visit my web site: FaddenWriter.com
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