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42 If I Could Only Fly N owIwastheoneleadingadoublelife.Immersedalldayintherhythms of James and his parents, I was riveted to them by my affection—and by my appetite for my ongoing feminist education. By early ’77, the women’s movement was in full cry; I had no idea how thirsty I was for stories of heroines claiming their own lives. Every day I drank in women’s literature and history, imagining myself a learned lady like the professor, or a warrior maiden of Sas’ ilk. Then at night, I’d take the train home, smoke a joint, and head out to the bars with Dep. He’d already introduced himself to a country rock band at Kiley’s. Sometimes they backed a raven-haired fiddler named Betsey, the daughter of Bill Redhed, proprietor of Somebody Else’s Troubles. Betsey and her green-eyed sister, Cassie, set out to befriend Dep and me. He began to play the occasional set at Kiley’s. For the first time I was watching Blaze Foley onstage. It was thrilling to hear the response his songs received, unsettling to realize he was usually drunk by the time he got up to sing. I knew performing was hard on him; he was so emotionally naked under the lights. One night, as he launched into the “Fat Boy” song, the bartender began talking loudly across the counter. I watched Blaze’s performance deteriorate. Distracted and agitated, he finally stopped singing altogether. “Excuse me?” he snarled in the direction of the bar. “Is my music interrupting your conversation?” “Shut up and sing,” the man yelled back. “Or better yet, get off the stage.” His insult was followed by light applause. Blaze bowed and left the building and the song unfinished. “Maybe you shouldn’t insult the management,” I suggested meekly, out on the street with him. 162 If I Could Only Fly | 163 “I don’t care,” he scowled. “It’s rude to talk when somebody’s singing.” “I agree, but you know what? You’re not in church any more.” He glared at me. “And you’re turning into a snob.” We stared at each other. I took a breath. “You’re only hurting yourself.” His indifferent shrug stung; this was a betrayal deeper than any infidelity. “I guess I just don’t get it,” I conceded. “What have we been doing all these months? This is your music, Dep, your beautiful music.You got to take care of it.” “You’re right,” he snapped. “You don’t get it. We’re not in the tree house any more.” I turned and walked away; I didn’t want to be reminded of Udo. Those faraway days seemed like child’s play, and I was trying so desperately to grow up. I needed to believe that freedom and responsibility were not necessarily opposed, that there could be freedom in taking responsibility, especially if it allowed love and creativity to flourish. That’s what I wanted for us, and I didn’t want to see my efforts squandered. Espousing like a petticoat feminist in a honky-tonk novel, I couldn’t quite keep up with the plot. So naturally I was caught off-guard when, at the end of January, Depty quietly announced that he was going back to Texas. “What?” I was stunned. “I thought we came here to be together.” “We did,” he sighed. “I just don’t see much chance for me in this town.” Chicago was urban and midwestern. Depty Dawg was a country boy with a Mardi Gras soul. Besides, it was too cold here. I sank on the bed next to him. “We just arrived.” “I know.” He put an arm around me. “And you found something you love.” “You mean my job?” “I mean James.” I burst into tears. “I love you,” I insisted. “Only I’ve got to put down roots, Dep, if I’m going to grow wings.” “I wish I could,” he cried. “When will you be back?” I whispered. He took me in his arms. “I can’t say.” And so we said See you later once again, this time in a jumble of confusion and relief. I was living in a flat I was afraid to come home to; I couldn’t understand how he could leave me here with no big-city experience. Yet I didn’t feel I could ask anything of him. He was an artist: he would do what he had to do to make...

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