Fallen Idols by J. F. Freedman Page B

strong as it had been before her accident.
    After months of grueling exercise, pain, and mental effort, the knee recovered nicely, but not like it had been. There had been too much damage. Callie could do anything on the reconstructed joint she had done before— ski, play volleyball, basketball, run, ride a bike—but she couldn't perform at the rarefied level that's required of a pro athlete. Her operation and rehabilitation, by any regular standards, was a success. But in this case, the patient—her career—unfortunately died.
    When Callie finally accepted that she could never again compete professionally, she went through a period of heavy denial. She had never been drunk in her life, but there were occasions those first few months when she woke up puke-stained from having gotten shit-faced the night before. Drugs, too—when she was rehabbing she was taking cortisone and other muscle enhancers, under her doctor's supervision; after she was finished, she kept taking them, under the table. She felt like she was making up for the time she'd lost when she had denied herself the forbidden pleasures that her nonathletic friends had taken for granted while at college.
    She was lost, and she was angry.
    But she was lucky. Early on, her relationship with Clancy had gone beyond one of therapist and patient to deep friendship. But not romantic, because if her rehab was successful enough for her to return to the high-powered world of pro volleyball there would be no place for him, unless he was willing to be a passive supporter, accompanying her from tournament to tournament, hanging in the background, giving up a life of his own. Which he wasn't going to do—he had a life, he liked it, it was productive.
    If Callie had been able to go back to her sport, that would have been the end of them. But she wasn't, and he was there for her. Steady, supportive, caring. Gradually, she came to honor and appreciate that, and as she accepted the changes in her life the bitterness faded away; and as it did, they stopped denying the obvious—they had fallen in love.
    About the time Callie was coming out of her funk, they took a weekend trip to Chicago. Clancy had gone to Northwestern as an undergrad, and had close friends living in the area. One Saturday night, after a hearty Italian meal, they repaired to Finnegan's Bar on the Chicago-Evanston divide, a bustling place that was popular with the college crowd—Loyola, Northwestern, DePaul. Clancy and his friends had been regulars there, and he had fond memories of it.
    “This is a cool place,” Callie observed, as the group worked on their second pitcher of Pete's Wicked Ale.
    “No kidding.” Clancy looked around the bar, which was jammed beyond legal capacity. “I used to want to own a bar, like this one. Not a restaurant—they're a hassle. Just a nice, simple bar with a cash register that goes ka-ching, ka-ching, all night long. No one loses money owning a bar, not in Chicago, anyway.”
    “I guess everybody's had that fantasy,” she'd said.
    “My father's generation's was a nymphomaniac who owned a liquor store.”
    “Nymphomaniac? God, that dates him. Anyway, I don't think your father ever had to worry about getting women.”
    “I doubt it, yeah. His wild-oat days were behind him by the time I came along, though.”
    “With a woman like your mother, I would think so.”
    Callie liked Clancy's mom and dad. They were the neatest parents she knew. There was nothing old about them, except chronologically—they were younger in spirit than the parents of her other friends. Much younger that way than her own parents.
    Jimmy Finnegan, the owner, a retired Chicago fireman who had been a fixture in the neighborhood for years, came over and joined their table.
    “Hey, big guy, where you been hiding?” he joshed Clancy, punching him hard in the biceps.
    Clancy punched him back, and explained that he didn't live around here anymore. He ran down his recent history for Jimmy, and introduced