The Boy from the Band

Epilog

It has been a year since Rick died, and it's hard. Who can I talk to? Kat, Gina, Bob, Robbie, and Levon sometimes. These are the only people who knew what was really going on. Before we were betrayed, he kept Elizabeth in the dark about me as best he could, she may have known a little but never what truly was going on. After she found out about it, I moved back to California to escape the gossip, but Rick stayed in my life until he died.

It happened late one night shortly after I'd gotten home. When I get off work, I can't go to sleep no matter how tired I am, so I pour a glass of wine and fill up my pipe and smoke a little weed to relax. I'll put an album on the turntable—that night it was "The Band" -- and begin to sing along with "Across the Great Divide" when I hear a knock at my door.

It's late, who the hell is this? I go to the door and unlock it, but I don't undo the chain.

I open the door cautiously, "Hello?" I say in a tone that I hope is neither hostile nor friendly.

"Ms. Lee?" a male voice with a British accent asks, and through the gap in the door, I can see a slightly built, bald-headed man.

"Who are you?" I have no reason to trust anyone who's knocking on my door at this hour.

"I'm Milos Landry, I'm a friend of Levon's. He told me about you and said I might want to talk to you. May I come in?"

"No." I'm not about to let a stranger in my house and why would Levon have told him about me? I remember the British tabloid reporter harassing me at the after-concert party in Texas so many years ago. "I have nothing to tell you, I'm no one."

"I was a friend of Rick's." His words shock me into silence. Rick wouldn't have talked about me, would he? But Rick was ADHD and sometimes he just liked to talk—and talk.

If he was a friend of Rick's would Rick have told me about him? We were both so cautious, we never wanted to be discovered. When someone female called his home pretending to be me and asked to speak to him almost broke us up for good.

"Here." He reaches through the gap in the door and hands me a large manila envelope, "You might be interested in this. I shut the door in his face, then go sit on my sofa and open the envelope. Inside are pictures taken of us by the paparazzi. I look at each picture, some have Rick with his facial hair, and I am amazed at how young we both look.

I have no pictures of Rick. I never took any when we were together and we avoided photographers. I kept all my memories of him private, they live only in my memory palace, and here are intrusions on that place I keep sacred.

How had the paparazzi found us out? All these times we thought we were safe, and we weren't.

There's a picture of me meeting Rick at the airport in Texas, the first tour I went on with him. I've got my legs wrapped around his waist and we're kissing. There's a picture of me standing at the Last Waltz with Eric Clapton, his arm protectively around my shoulders—and Rick glaring at us.

There's one of me wearing the dress he bought me in Japan, it must have been taken at the dinner they held for The Band. We're sitting at a low table and I've picked up a bit of food with my chopsticks and am feeding him.

And there's a pic from New Year's Eve 1983. I'm standing with Bob Weir and he has his arms around my waist. I never noticed Rick staring at us, a look of pain on his face. How could I not notice it?

But the worst is one of me sitting on Rick's lap at Shangri La. We have our arms around each other and we've just pulled back after a long kiss. The look of intimacy between us is almost intrusive. How in the world did someone capture that? I don't remember anyone ever taking pictures of Rick and me together. There was an unspoken rule at the studio—Rick and Dacy were to be left alone. It was understood that Shangri La was our refuge away from the world.

I gather up the photos and shove them in the envelope. I wonder if Milos Landry is waiting for me or if he's gone away. I hope he's gone.

No such luck. He's standing on my porch, waiting. "Here, take your photos, they never should have been taken. Rick and I had an expectation of privacy, except for the paps in Japan. What would Elizabeth think if she saw these? We tried so hard to keep things just between us and trusted friends." I try to hand the envelope back but he pushes my hand away.

"Keep them," he says, "Rick bought the pics and the negatives to keep them hidden. He wanted to protect you."

"So how did you get them?" I asked. I'm angry, how dare someone do this to us and how did this stranger know how to get hold of them.

"I have a source," he said, "And I'm sworn to secrecy. Rick wanted you to have them if he died and I'm delivering them to you. I just hoped you'd be willing to tell me a little about you two."

Bingo, I remember this dude. There are always journalists and photographers at the after-parties. Rick had an ironclad rule—leave Dacy alone. Elizabeth had her picture taken—a lot—but I was to be left strictly alone. I never thought of how Rick arranged it, I just thought I was safe.

I never dreamed that maybe Rick had to pay to protect my privacy. That's how much he loved me, he wanted to make sure that no one could hurt me. Sure, it was protecting both of us, and there was Elizabeth to consider but our privacy was important to me. I never dreamed that he had to pay for it.

"I knew he loved me," I said, "but I never knew it went this far. He should have told me, I would have helped him pay." I held the envelope close to me and my tears began to trickle onto it. "Be at the Café Espresso tomorrow night at eight. If I decide to talk to you, I'll be there; if not, stay away from me. And thank you for the pictures." I close the door so he can't ask me any more questions.

Am I going to show up? I don't know, I really don't. Though I don't like Elizabeth I don't think it would be very kind on my part to spill all to a reporter and have our story come out. I would love to know who called his house and asked for me, no one in our circle of friends would have done that. Whoever it was knew how to get his home number and place the call. If he ever found out who it was he never told me.

But—a part of me wants to purge this, get it out. It's hard to keep secrets and I kept this one for 25 years and it wants to come out. I loved him, he loved me and that part never seemed wrong. But I can't tell, can I? I made a promise a long time ago and I intend to keep it.