by Rick R. Reed
Robert should have been thinking about pulling out some bags and packing Ethan’s things, leaving them with the doorman downstairs with instructions that he not be allowed back up. That’s what a strong man would do. Yet Robert tortured himself endlessly with Technicolor visions of why the boy was so busy he couldn’t be bothered to call, visions accompanied by a bump and grind score.
With a trembling hand and no small amount of spilled gin and fizzing-over tonic, Robert managed to pour himself one more drink. “Hey,” he whispered to himself, “maybe I’ll even go a little crazy and pop a few dolls as added insurance.” He pictured the little amber bottle of Ambien in the medicine cabinet. Robert kicked off his shoes, flinging them across the wide expanse of the living room, barely wincing when one of them went high and wide and shattered a framed photo of himself and Ethan in Tuscany last summer. “Fuck yeah,” he slurred.
Shakily, Robert mounted the spiral staircase, spilling his drink as he went, grimly determined to put one foot in front of the other. He had enough sobriety left to know that to fall down the oak and wrought iron staircase could do some serious damage to his person.
In the bedroom, he flung the comforter on the floor and threw himself on the bed, dropping the glass on the rug as he did so. He expected sleep to come, blessedly, in instants. But it didn’t. He tried lying on his side, then on his back, on his stomach, two pillows, then one…none of this offered any relief. He turned on the TV and suffered through a horrible episode of Will and Grace on Lifetime.
Robert knew what was really preventing him from sleeping, and it made him sick, made him hate himself. He was waiting for the phone to ring. He wanted Ethan to call and lie to him, tell him a tale of a flat tire or some other handy, and equally incredible, story. And the sleek cordless on the nightstand had never seemed larger, or more silent. Robert couldn’t stop himself from glancing over at it every few seconds, as if his stare could somehow prompt it to ring.
But it didn’t. It stubbornly would not.
And Robert would not sleep.
Wearily, and feeling a lot less drunk, he finally sat up in bed, still fully clothed. The night sky pressed in, an inky palpable presence against the sliding glass doors leading out to the balcony. Robert thought back to that sad Christmas twenty-four years ago and how he had stood on that balcony, thinking of throwing himself off of it. Would it really have been such a loss? Maybe he and Keith could have been together through all these years now, in some fabulous and care-free heaven, where angels danced to the music of Dizzy Gillespie.
His temples pounded, and his state of inebriation combined with the late night hour to give him inspiration. “A walk,” he said to himself. “I will just get out there and take a nice long walk along the lakefront. It will clear my head.”
* * * *
Bundled into a shearling coat, muffler, hat, mittens, and boots, Robert made his way through the underpass beneath Lake Shore Drive. It was eerily quiet. The underpass was illuminated with bright yellow lights, making everything appear sallow and used—the graffiti on the walls, the leaves and trash swirling on the concrete floor. There was no one in the underpass save for Robert. He thought even the thugs were home with family, celebrating the holiday and taking a day off from mugging silly old queens who had nothing better to do with their time than dote on undeserving boys.
He emerged into the darkness, a sharp wind off the lake making his face tingle, cutting through the heavy coat. He shivered and moved forward, concentrating on walking in a steady line. God forbid someone, law enforcement or just the opposite, should see him staggering around here in the dark at…What time was it, anyway? Robert pulled back his coat sleeve and glanced down at his watch. A quarter ‘til two.
Luckily, there were no footfalls behind him, hurrying when he hurried, stopping when he stopped. The calm was eerie. There wasn’t even any whoosh of traffic on Lake Shore Drive. He ascended a grassy rise and found himself on the lakefront path. Before him, boulders lined the descent into the water, which now seemed angry and forceful, flinging itself in a rage against the rocks, impotent. Tell me about it.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked back at the city, the rising skyline with its twinkling towers, and thought of how Chicago had almost always taken his breath away. Not tonight. Tonight, the city only made him sad. Made him feel like an outcast, wondering what he was doing here. Should he just sell the condo, pack up, and move back to his hometown, Summitville, PA? The town was a small place on the Ohio River, once home to a steel mill, now defunct. The remaining population hung on grimly, doing what they could to get by. But it had been home, once. Maybe it could be, again. His mother was still there, and even though she was nearing eighty, would probably love to see him return. And the town, despite its general air of decrepitude and better times, was really beautiful, running along the curving river, nestled in a valley of tree-covered rises—the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.
He shook his head. Putting himself back there would probably be an even worse mistake than what he was doing with his life right now, which wasn’t much (funny how inheriting a lot of money takes away all of one’s ambitions). In Summitville, he could buy a grand old house along the river, and become some reclusive old queen, something straight out of James Purdy, drinking and quoting from Tennessee Williams. The vision was almost as pathetic, he thought, as strolling along a bitterly cold lakefront, alone, late Christmas night (or early the morning after, if you wanted to get technical).
He stopped and took in a deep breath. As he let it out, he thought he heard something. At first, the sound coming to his ears was muffled by the wool of his cap and he thought little of it. An insomniac squirrel, out foraging.
But when he heard it again, he was sure of the sound, even if he had yet to locate from where it was coming. He paused, not wanting his footfalls to interrupt. Yes, there was a sound other than the wind shrieking across the water and the crashing surf. Born up on the wind, he could hear someone crying. Someone was sobbing, keening as if their very soul was being ripped out. Robert wondered for a moment if the sobbing was some sort of psychic projection of his own state of mind, an auditory hallucination reflecting all the tears he needed to let go and had been unable to, clouded by alcohol and despair.
He knew this crying was real, even if the hallucination idea was a pretty logical jump. Taking care to tread lightly, he neared the mounded boulders that led to the water and peered down into the gloom.
There she was. A tiny thing, really. A young woman, pixie-ish, perched on the edge of a rock closest to the water’s edge. She was dressed all wrong for the weather, wearing some sort of flowing, summery-looking dress with just a light jacket. She had on no mittens or gloves, no muffler or hat. Her hair, which looked dark in the dim light, might have been red. Cut short, it stuck up in all different directions. The water splashed up on her and shivers marked her blubbering. Good God, what was she doing? She’d kill herself—
And Robert halted. His mind returned to the fateful Christmas over two decades ago, and he remembered standing on his balcony, remembered wondering how soon a person would die should they fling themselves into the icy water.
The girl scooted closer to the water, her arms behind her, and cried harder. She had positioned her arms perfectly to give herself a good shove. And Robert knew all at once, he was bearing silent witness to a suicide. He pressed his hands over his face and for one horrible, guilty moment, thought of turning and tiptoeing away. But that was not Robert; he didn’t have such a callous heart, even though plenty had happened to put calluses on it.
What do I do now? If I approach her too suddenly, I might startle her and send her straight into the water. If I try to climb down the rocks toward her, she might be frightened and again, head straight for the black waves.
Robert knew there was only one thing to do: try his best and hope.
He crept toward the rocks, not sure what he was about to do or say. He took a deep breath and with it, the sobbing quieted
for a moment and he watched as the young woman turned her head toward him, looking north to south, trying to locate the sound of the indrawn breath. And then she saw him. Their eyes connected.
“I don’t think you want to go for a swim right now. Not without any lifeguards on duty.” Robert hoped the young woman could see his smile from where she was sitting. “I don’t think you want to do that, not really.”
She said nothing.
“I know you probably don’t want any company, but would you let me come down there and sit next to you? I’m kind of lonely too, and Christmas makes it worse for me. Does it for you? I wouldn’t mind a little chat.”
She stared but moved her arms up to hold herself.
“You’re shivering. Why don’t you come up here? I have a coat I could share. We could get a cab back to wherever you want to go.”
“Who the fuck are you?” The words came out a quivery soprano, broken by tears and shivers. “Just leave me alone.” Her words were caught by the wind and carried above Robert’s head. They were almost indistinguishable.
Robert moved a little closer, cautiously. Another step, then another. He stood at the edge of the boulders, uncertain if he should step up on them. He could slip and easily fall; the crashing surf had coated the stones with a sheen of ice. And then maybe it would be he plunging into the icy water and not her. But worse was the fear that had already occurred to him—sudden movement might be just the impetus she needed to propel herself off the stone and into the freezing black embrace of the water. He cleared his throat, stalling for time and trying to think of something to say.
“You know, I’ve heard that death by drowning and hypothermia are miserable ways to go. Painful. Suffocating. At least scoot yourself back up here and come home with me. I’ve got a medicine cabinet full of sleeping pills. You could take the whole bottle. Picture yourself lying on clean sheets in a toasty warm room, maybe with some of your favorite music playing. Open a bottle of good wine. Then you could just drift off in comfort. Why inflict any more pain on yourself? I know I wouldn’t.”
The girl stared at him. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes and took the opportunity to carefully ascend the boulders so he was standing above her, not three feet away.
The girl barked out a brief laugh, mirthless. “Who are you? The suicide fairy?”
Robert sat on the boulders and let his legs stretch out close to her. “Fairy…yes. But I really have a dislike for suicide. It’s for quitters. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that we never know what’s going to happen next. And that applies to the good as well as the bad. You’re young. Why cut yourself off from the possibilities that are out there, waiting for you?”
“So much for your medicine cabinet full of pills.”
“Well, I’ve seen too much death and too much pain. I know what you’re thinking of isn’t an answer. An escape, maybe, but not an answer.”
The girl scooted up next to him. In the dim light, Robert could make out a pug nose and freckles, bow-shaped lips. This was a pretty one. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or so. He cocked his head. “Would you mind if I slid my arm around you? It’s so cold.”
She smiled and shook her head. “You’re not gonna give up, are you?”
Robert took her question as a yes and slid his arm around her, pulling her in close to him, sheltering her as best as he could from the wind and freezing spray. “If you mean am I going to walk away from here and leave you alone, the answer is no. I couldn’t do that. I don’t have it in me. I’m all for personal freedom, but this is one I’d have to block.”
She leaned into him, turning her head into his chest. She let out a muffled sob, and Robert reached up to touch her spiky hair. She sniffed and blew out a big breath, pulling back from him. “Fuck. I can’t even kill myself.” She used his coat to pull herself up to a standing position. She looked down at Robert. “You know. This is just a stopgap. You can’t stay with me forever. Once you get me out of here, I can just do it again. And yes, I’m gonna let you get me out of here.”
“Promise me you’ll do it with a little more elegance…a little more style.” Robert looked up at her and smiled. “Those things are all we have to separate us from the beasts. Might I suggest a warm bath, a sharp razor, and the strains of Con onor muore from Madama Butterfly?”
She shook her head. “I do believe you’re more nuts than I am.”
“That could well be, that could very well be. Now, look over at those tall buildings?” He waited for her gaze to land on his own building. “See the wraparound balcony with all the white lights?”
“Which one?”
Robert sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Just pick one. They’re all the same—luxury boxes in the sky…with views. Whatever one you pick, let’s say it’s mine.”
“Okay.”
“We’re going to go there, now. I’m going to get you into a warm bath, then some dry clothes. And then you’re going to put your feet up and watch the sun rise over the lake. I will be making you some wonderful hot chocolate. Then, when you’re nice and warm and hopefully seeing the world isn’t as bleak as all that, we can call you a cab to take you home.”
“What if you’re some kind of pervert or a serial killer?”
Robert took her arm and began leading her down from the boulders. “Then, my dear, I shouldn’t think you’d be too concerned. You were out to kill yourself, anyway. Why not let me do it for you? That way, you can still be buried in hallowed ground, or something like that. And…you’ll still be able to get into heaven.”
“Catholic?”
“Hopelessly. Now come on, we need to get you back to my little chamber of horrors before you freeze to death and all this would be for nothing.”
Wordlessly, she followed along beside Robert as he headed for the underpass that would take them under the drive and to the front of his high-rise. What would the doorman think?
What did Robert think? Had he completely lost his mind? But there was something about this girl, something that went beyond his desire to escape his own miserable circumstances. One thing Robert had learned in his forty-some- odd years on this planet was to trust intuition…and he felt good about this little person, shivering beside him and clinging to his arm despite herself.
He felt as though he already knew her.
Chapter 3
Ethan was waiting. Robert knew it as soon as he put the key in the lock because he could hear the thumping bass of some “trance” music the kid liked to listen to and that he could barely tolerate. Robert was certain that, whenever he was away, the music would start up: blaring, endless repeating rhythms. Unbearable. Robert was glad they lived in a well-insulated building. He didn’t need neighbor complaints added to the list of grievances in his relationship.
Robert paused before he opened the door, unsure how he would explain their new house guest but not too concerned, since Ethan owed him a lot of explaining. Besides, what he was doing was a good thing, a kindness to a stranger in trouble. Briefly, Robert wondered what Ethan would have done when confronted with the same situation. He liked to think Ethan would have helped the girl, but deep down was afraid he might have acted on the first impulse Robert had: to just walk away. Did it really matter? Well, yes, it did. It spoke to the character of the man he was sharing his life with. But such ponderings would have to be put aside for other times, other walks along the lake. Right now, he had to deal with reality.
He swung open the door, and the music volume went down immediately. The stale odors of the dinner he had prepared hit him, cut with cigarette smoke. Trying not to feel annoyed, he couldn’t help thinking of how often he had asked Ethan not to smoke inside, but it never seemed to matter, even when Ethan promised not to, rather than just shrugging and saying, “Whatever.”
“Hello?” Robert called out. Ethan was not in the living room. From the sound of the music, Robert figured he must be in the den.
The girl clutched at his elbow. “You’ve done enough,”
she whispered frantically. “We don’t need to take this any further. I’ll just go back down and head home.” She gave him a smile so pathetic Robert wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, but he held the impulse in check.
“Look at you. You’re still wet. You’re still shivering. At least come in and warm up.”
“But there’s someone else here.”
Robert sighed. “It’s my…” He stumbled over the right terminology, and finally settled on, “Partner. He won’t mind.” Now that they were inside, Robert got a good look at the girl. Short, fiery red hair stood up in spikes. A pixie face framed the most emerald green eyes he had ever seen. “Hey, I’ll go and announce you first. Is that okay? You could just have a seat here.” Robert gestured toward the curving leather couch. “And I’ll go tell Ethan a little bit about you. Not much, because I don’t know much.” He leaned his head close to her. “And I won’t let him in on anything about how we met.”
“What will you say?”
“I’ll think of something. It doesn’t really matter. He won’t mind.” He almost said, “He won’t care” but realized how callous that would sound. Robert started toward the den and stopped himself, turning back to the girl. “I never even told you my name. It’s Robert.” He smiled, uncertain if he should extend his hand. After what they’d just been through, the gesture seemed absurdly formal.
“I’m Jessica. But people call me Jess.” She moved toward him. “Really. You don’t have to do this. I’m fine now. I just need to sit down and give myself a good talking to.” She smiled…but Robert wasn’t convinced. The smile was all teeth, too eager to please.
“I’m not letting you go until we at least dig up some dry clothes for you to wear.” He gently took her arm and led her to the sofa. “Now, sit down, get comfortable. I know this is a little weird, and I promise I won’t force you to stay or anything, but I would feel awful if I sent you back out into the cold in those damp clothes.” He laughed. “It’s the mother hen in me.”