by Rick R. Reed
His mind was elsewhere, conjuring up horrific mind movies of Rufus out at night along the lakefront, walking through the darkness, when a shadow emerged from behind a tree or sprung up from the boulders lining certain sections of the water, moving with lightning speed to plunge a knife into his back. Or that same faceless dark wraith would grab Rufus from behind by his hair, yank his head back, and draw the knife across his exposed throat, painting a line of hot crimson pain there, deadly. Sometimes his imaginings would make him feel so sick, he wondered how he could continue standing, go on putting fruits and vegetables into one bag, toiletries into another, frozen food into yet another…. But he did, his body on automatic pilot.
On each of his breaks, Wren would rush out the door by the loading dock, where he would quickly smoke two or three cigarettes and scan and scan his record of recent calls, praying Rufus would show up in the list. It pained him that he was not allowed to have his cell phone on him while he worked.
He tried Rufus many more times. He even broke down once or twice and called Chillingsworth, but the result was the same—voice mail and no call back.
Later in the day, he went to the corner of Clark and Howard and bought a copy of the Tribune from a machine, hoping to find more news about the killing. But there was nothing, save for an edited-down version of the same story he had read on the bus that morning.
All this merely affirmed the dread, deepening inside him like an infection, that told him Rufus was dead.
He could feel the loss in his bones, in his heart.
It was real.
And he never had a chance to say good-bye.
He hoped whatever had happened, if it was indeed Rufus or even some other young man, that death had come quickly and without pain or terror.
Oh, stop thinking like that. You don’t know anything. Rufus has never called you back—not once. Why should that change? He’s fine. Believe that. Believe that until you know differently.
Somehow Wren managed to make it through an entire shift at the grocery store without collapsing into hysterics, getting sick, or losing the strength in his legs. In fact, he was so adept and focused on making his body do the work, no one noticed his worry.
When he was finishing up his day and hanging the green apron they made him wear in his locker, Wren came to a decision. He couldn’t go home. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear an evening spent with his mother, with more worry, with sick dread and anxiety. While his coworkers may have not noticed his nervousness, Linda certainly would. And she was not the kind of mother who just let things pass. She wouldn’t rest until she needled the truth out of him.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready to share the truth or the burden of his worry. The thought of simply voicing them aloud made his fears somehow more real and more likely to be true.
Plus, he needed to know. That desire hadn’t lessened throughout his interminable day at the store. In fact, it had intensified, until now as he exited the store through its automatic doors, he knew he had no other course than to hop on the “L” and take it to the Bryn Mawr stop, where he could camp out on Rufus’s doorstep if necessary until he was reassured that the man was all right.
WREN HAD been there for close to three hours. It had been easy to find Rufus’s building, since he had practically given him coordinates when they first talked. Now Rufus’s front stoop on Catalpa Avenue was littered with cigarette butts and a smashed can of Red Bull. Many of what Wren supposed were Rufus’s neighbors had eyed him suspiciously as they stepped around him to enter the redbrick six-flat apartment building. One, an older gentleman with a bald pate and a ring of silver hair above his ears, even stopped to ask if he could help him, what business he had here. Wren waved him off, telling him he was waiting for his friend Rufus. After the old man had gone inside, Wren wondered if even the term friend was too grandiose for what he and Rufus shared.
They hardly knew each other, and yet Wren persisted in this fantastic love for him, worrying himself nearly to death—no pun intended—about Rufus’s whereabouts and well-being.
So Wren sat and smoked, watching passersby and studying Rufus’s neighbors’ faces for any signs of recent trauma in their little community. But even when Wren mentioned Rufus’s name to the old man who spoke to him, the gentleman registered nothing upon hearing the name, which Wren, in his desperation for good news, took as a positive sign.
He felt the air take on a tiny bit of chill as the sun, to the west, set, leaving deepening shadows and a sky that went from orange to a shade of lavender, foretelling dusk.
Hope rose within Wren each time he heard a footfall or the voice of someone coming down Catalpa Avenue. He would look up, almost seeing Rufus in whatever person or group of people came sauntering down the street, but none of them was ever Rufus.
Of course not. Rufus is dead. You should just go home. Put on the news. Maybe they’ll release his name.
It didn’t matter. The hope renewed itself each time a new person appeared within his range of vision. Wren was unshakable in his optimism, in his hope that, if he just waited long enough, did the time, he would be rewarded.
Rufus would appear.
As the lilac light turned slowly into dark and the dull yellow light of sodium vapor streetlights illuminated the shadows, Wren finally was weary. His throat was raw from having smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes, and he felt weak from having worked all day and not having eaten much of anything during all that time. He was finally ready to accept that Rufus was not going to show up. He could only hope his absence was due to any number of factors besides being murdered.
Just thinking that word, murder, made Wren shiver in spite of the heat.
He stood, brushing ash from his jeans and wondering which would be better transport home—the “L” or the bus. It didn’t really matter much, because he was suddenly so exhausted from worry and waiting that he knew he would fall asleep as soon as his head connected with the window glass of either mode of transport.
He took a few steps forward and was stunned by a blast of cold air hitting him from the east. He could smell the lake in the wind. The blast was followed by a low rumble of thunder and a flash of blue-white light in the sky.
A storm was on its way. Perfect. Wren decided on the “L,” because it would get him closer to his front door should there be a torrential downpour.
The wind blew again, surprisingly cold, lifting Wren’s hair from his forehead. It felt good. Refreshing.
But the sharp flash of light and the peal of thunder that followed the gust this time were obviously much closer. Wren could smell ozone and the hint of coming rain now on the air, which was flipping over the catalpa leaves above his head.
A heavy droplet of water, icy, hit the top of his head.
Another flash of lightning, and in it Wren saw Rufus hurrying down the street. At first he told himself it was wishful thinking once more conjuring up what was right before his eyes. This had to be another young man, one lucky enough to possess Rufus’s lanky good looks and grace.
Wren stood stock-still in the wind, the droplets coming faster now, and stared. He brushed water from his eyes.
It was Rufus. Wren knew it in his heart the moment he laid eyes on him, knowing him first from his cocky, hurried gait and then by the features that were distinctly his as he sped toward him, presumably to beat the rain.
Wren, in spite of the chill in the air and the threat of an imminent storm, quivered a bit as joy surged through him. It’s him! It’s him! And he’s alive. Wren wanted to act out some romantic movie fantasy and run to Rufus, arms outstretched. But he had enough restraint to know how absurd that would look and how Rufus would most likely view it.
Wren could tell that Rufus had not yet seen him, and it was hard to wait patiently for him to make his way close enough so Wren could speak to him and be heard over the wind and rumbles of thunder, which were now coming with increasing frequency.
Then, about half a block away, Rufus stopped, eyeing him. Their gazes connecte
d, and Wren was afraid for a moment Rufus would turn away, walk or run quickly in the other direction, pretending he hadn’t seen Wren.
But he didn’t.
Rufus smiled, and his face lit up with what Wren would describe as a small fraction of the delight and relief coursing through him, energizing him. The smile made Wren want to cry.
Wren lifted a hand in greeting, and Rufus returned it, quickening his pace. Finally Rufus stood before him, and Wren couldn’t help it—he launched himself into his arms, pulling Rufus tightly to him and hanging on, reveling in the feel of his lean, muscular body pressed up against his own. He listened to the rhythm of Rufus’s heart beating, grateful. Wren surrendered completely to his more basic, primitive senses, delighting in the clean, unique smell of Rufus, the slight undercurrent of sweat that was both tantalizing and manly. He lifted his hand and then ran his fingers through Rufus’s sheaf of wheat-colored hair, luxuriating in its silky texture.
Rufus pushed him away, but Wren was relieved to see a grin still playing about his lips.
“I’m so glad you’re okay!” Wren blurted out.
“Dude, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see if you were all right. I heard about the second murder, and I didn’t know….” Wren’s voice trailed off, and he had to stop for a moment, breathing hard, trying to hold his emotions in check. He didn’t want to cry, standing here in front of Rufus. After a moment where he couldn’t speak, Wren started up again, talking slowly. “I didn’t know if that second person was you. Somehow I was sure it was. I tried calling—and calling!—but you never called me back. You prick!” Wren punched Rufus and then smiled. “But you’re here. And you’re okay.” Wren went silent again as he took in the full measure of Rufus, who somehow seemed more solid, more real, bigger than he had recalled. Wren put a hand gently on his shoulder.
“Sorry I didn’t get back, but what with you leaving, another dude dead, things are crazy right now. I’ve been working pretty much all the time. Barely have time to sleep.” Rufus shook his head. “I can’t believe another guy was killed. It still doesn’t seem real to me.”
Just then there was a blinding flash of light, a crack, and a deafening peal of thunder. A bolt hurtled down just across the street from them, slicing a big branch from a tree. The branch landed in the middle of the street, narrowly missing a parked Kia Soul.
The light and sound show was the signal for the storm to begin in earnest. It was as though the skies had opened. The rain poured down not in drops but in sheets, heavy and drenching.
“We gotta get out of this.” Rufus turned toward his door, fumbling in his jeans for his keys.
He said “we,” right? That’s an invitation. Wren dashed through the rain and gasped as the cold water poured down on him, soaking him thoroughly in the seconds it took for Rufus to get his key into the lock.
They both practically tumbled into the cool tile-and-wood vestibule. The glass of the front door was blurred by the heavy downpour, which pounded all around them, punctuated by the grumble and roar of thunder.
Wren looked up at Rufus. “Can I come up?”
Rufus smirked. “What do you think?”
He turned and started up the stairs. Wren followed.
Rufus’s apartment was on the second floor. Wren waited while Rufus went through the ritual of unlocking three locks. Finally he opened the door and stepped aside to allow Wren to precede him.
Rufus crossed the living room and turned on a lamp, banishing the gloom. Wren felt like they were sheltered, in some kind of sanctuary, the two of them now safe, warm while the storm continued to rage on outside. Wren could hear the slick sound of car tires on pavement.
Rufus hurried around the apartment, closing the windows he must have left open that morning.
This gave Wren time to take in Rufus’s domain, and he was surprised by what he saw. He had expected Rufus to live in some kind of bachelor pad, messy, tasteless, with high-end toys like a big-screen plasma, a game system, and stereo equipment that would take an engineering degree to operate. Whenever he imagined Rufus, he saw him in a place littered with wadded-up and cast-off clothes on the floor, pizza boxes on the table, half-drunk bottles of beer nearby.
But Rufus’s home was none of that. With the view he had—and it was a good view, since it was an open floor plan revealing kitchen, dining area, and living room all in one glance—he could see Rufus didn’t live the way Wren expected, not at all. First, there was no television, but the walls in both the living room and dining room were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Wren would have to examine the titles later. And the place was extremely clean—dark cherry hardwood floors gleamed, and the kitchen, all granite and stainless steel, was pristine. The kitchen’s back door window gave a view onto a backyard with mature green-leaved trees. Even Rufus’s furniture, a combination of chrome, dark brushed suede, and animal-hide prints, all fit together and resembled a spread from some home interior design magazine or the after video of one of those shows Linda was always watching on HGTV. The prints on the wall were bold, colorful, abstract—and very large. Wren wondered if Rufus had painted them himself.
In spite of being so neat, the place had an air of being lived in, a home, and Wren wondered, for the first time, if he really knew Rufus at all.
He noticed Rufus’s laptop across the room, open on the breakfast bar, and felt a wave of shame. Heat rose to his damp face.
“What are you staring at?”
Rufus appeared next to him silently, startling Wren. He held out a towel, thick and white. Wren took it, drawing his eyes away from the computer that, just a few weeks ago, had revealed to him so much about Rufus.
“Nothing,” he mumbled, applying the towel to his wet hair and body.
“Those clothes are going to have to go. You’re dripping all over my nice hardwood.”
Rufus was grinning, and Wren suddenly felt on surer footing. Immediately he began pulling his shirt over his head, unzipping, kicking off his shoes.
Maybe finally he could show Rufus how much he cared for him in one of the only ways he knew how.
But Rufus disappeared into what Wren assumed was a bedroom. In a minute he was back with a black T-shirt, boxers, and a pair of gray sweatpants. He handed them to Wren.
“I’m gonna go do the same. Get out of these wet clothes, and then we can talk, if you want.”
Rufus went back into his bedroom, and Wren changed out of his clothes and then took them, dripping, into the bathroom, where he dumped them in the tub. He returned to the living room and sat down on the couch.
He noticed, on an end table, a portable music dock for an iPhone. Rufus’s phone was docked, and Wren wanted to bring it to life, see what kind of playlists the man had. Would he be surprised again? Bach instead of Black Eyed Peas?
Another surprise emerged from behind the couch—a jet-black cat with eyes that were almost yellow hopped up on the couch next to Wren and began sniffing him and rubbing its forehead against him, marking him as its own.
“Who are you?” Wren whispered to the cat, stroking its silken fur. He thought he might well ask the same question of Rufus.
The cat eyed him with those amazing irises, almost as if he or she understood the question.
Rufus returned, clad in a pair of loose-fitting workout shorts and an oversized T-shirt with the image of a phoenix emblazoned across the chest. He was barefoot, and Wren couldn’t help but admire his strong, hairy legs, the calves of which appeared to be secreting grapefruit within the taut skin.
“That’s Lucifer. Or just Lucy, if she’s behaving. You’re not allergic, are you?”
“I don’t think so.” One thing Linda had never allowed was a pet. They moved around too much, or maybe she simply didn’t need yet another mouth to feed on what was always a meager paycheck.
“You’d know. She seems to like you.”
Lucy had settled into Wren’s lap, a place he wished her owner was instead. Wren could feel the vibration of her purring against
his crotch.
Rufus sat down next to him. He reached over and mussed Wren’s hair.
“So you were worried about me?”
Wren thrilled at just the simple touch. “Yeah. Worried sick. And I mean that literally. You should have called me back. Why didn’t you?” In spite of his happiness at being here, Wren couldn’t suppress the tiny flame of anger growing in his belly due to Rufus’s lack of consideration.
Rufus looked away, staring at the opposite wall for so long Wren looked too, wondering what captured his attention. But all that hung there was a large canvas, bright white, with a big red ball in the center.
“It’s hard to explain,” Rufus said softly. “I don’t wanna cop out like some would and plead being busy or some shit like that. I wanted to call you. I did. But I just, I don’t know….” His voice trailed off, and he turned to Wren, his expression looking somewhat helpless.
“You don’t know what?”
“Maybe I thought it was better we have no contact.”
Wren swallowed hard. The sting of the statement hurt as much as if Rufus had slapped his face.
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” Rufus let out a long breath, almost like a sigh. “About me.”
Wren thought of all he knew. Again, he cautioned himself about letting on that he was aware of what he had read while Rufus was missing. So he said, “You can talk to me, you know. I realize we’re not best friends or that we haven’t known each other long at all, but you know something? I’m pretty good at picking up right away whether or not I click with someone, and I know we clicked.”
“Boy, did we ever,” Rufus said, so softly that Wren questioned if he had actually voiced the words or if his own wishful thinking had supplied them.
Wren smiled and resisted the impulse to fill the silence with words. He knew if Rufus wanted to share something with him it would have to be Rufus’s own decision and not something Wren could pry out of him.