Sky Full of Mysteries

by Rick R. Reed

  Cole was on his side, on top of the quilt, wearing only a pair of gray plaid boxers. His body didn’t look much different from when they’d first met. A little hairier, perhaps, a little saggier in places for sure, but whose wasn’t? Tommy looked down at his own paunch, thinking once more he needed to start logging more running miles. Five miles every other day no longer kept the weight away. Maybe he’d think about doing that next week….

  But Cole, for the most part, still had the body of a much younger man. Lithe, lean, fit, almost boyish. Tommy was lucky.

  His gaze moved up to Cole’s face, and in repose Cole looked very young, his brow not creased by worry, his lips gently parted as he inhaled and exhaled. Even the little line of drool on his cheek was adorable. Tommy thought you really had to love somebody to find their spittle cute. Here, though, Cole’s forties showed up a bit more readily. His hair, once so thick and dark, was now thinning, especially on his crown. He wore it in a buzz cut for exactly that reason. And the buzz cut also helped hide the gray at his temples. Tommy could see more and more of it every time Cole let a haircut go too long.

  Tommy didn’t mind. The gray was silvery, distinguished. Tommy thought growing old with his man wasn’t something to be cursed, but a gift to be grateful for. He remembered how, when he’d first met Cole, marrying him wasn’t even something he allowed himself to dream of. It simply wasn’t in the cards for gay men back in the 1990s. It didn’t even seem unfair because it was so far out of reach as to be invisible.

  But when the same-sex marriage movement began gathering momentum in the twenty-first century, he and Cole had both fought hard for their right to wed. No longer did something like a “domestic partner” have any appeal. They refused to be second-class citizens. And they’d won. Tommy would never forget the day the Supreme Court ruled in their favor.

  They’d had a small wedding, right here in this very condo, in front of the fireplace, the Christmas tree, and a handful of friends. They’d read poetry to each other and said their vows with tears in their eyes.

  It had been the happiest day of Tommy’s life.

  He hoped the same was true for Cole.

  Quietly, Tommy took off his shorts and T-shirt and then lay down beside Cole. Why did it always seem there was this third presence hovering around their relationship? Would Tommy always doubt that Cole loved him best? Could he compete with a memory, a memory Tommy was sure had had its rough edges eroded over the years into a kind of magical perfection?

  He snuggled close to Cole’s warm body. He was like a little furnace. Did any of this matter? Once upon a time, a teacher in college, a wise and white-haired old man named Milton White who taught creative writing, had told him there were always two parties in any relationship—the lover and the loved.

  If Tommy was the lover, that was okay by him, as long as Cole was around to be loved. There was such joy in the giving of his love.

  He flung his arms around Cole, spooning, and Cole stirred, mumbling and smacking his lips. “You home?”

  “No, it’s Ryan Gosling. I couldn’t keep away,” Tommy whispered in Cole’s ear. He bit the lobe, and Cole squirmed, laughing.

  He flipped over so they were facing each other and peered into Tommy’s eyes. “What do I need him for when I have you?” He bumped against him, letting Tommy feel he was erect. “Gosling’s got nothing on you.”

  Tommy reached down and squeezed the head of Cole’s cock through the fabric of his shorts. The simple action produced a similar effect in his own boxer briefs. “My, my,” Tommy said, his voice gone a little hoarse. “Sweet dreams?”

  “Not as sweet as what’s about to happen.” Cole growled and forced Tommy onto his back.

  Above, Cole smiled down at him. There was such warmth—and fire—in those eyes, that gaze. Tommy felt like he could see Cole’s soul.

  “And what’s about to happen?” Tommy asked.

  “Close your eyes and find out.”

  And Tommy did. The first thing he felt was Cole’s mouth on his own, his tongue prying his lips apart. How could it be that, after twenty years together, this moment was still so filled with excitement and promise?

  Tommy knew better than to question it.

  As he lost himself in the feel of Cole’s hot embrace, his tongue, his lips, his limbs entwining themselves around Tommy’s body, he could hear Blanche, the slutty Golden Girl, saying something about how she loved a tight man.

  Tommy thought he couldn’t agree more.

  Chapter 17

  IT WAS the end of October, and Cole peered out at the day from the floor-to-ceiling windows in their condo’s living room. He could almost feel the warmth of the sunshine and the crispness of the breeze through the glass. Only autumn, Cole thought, had such blue skies, such brilliant sun. The breezes rustling the trees seemed alive with morning promise. The scene, one for a postcard, filled him with a kind of peaceful bliss.

  He barely heard Tommy come in behind him. But then, all of a sudden, he was there behind him, a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “Ah, I wish I didn’t have those edits due back this afternoon. I’d love to get outside today, but unfortunately all I’m going to be seeing is my computer screen. I’m way late on the deadline for this one.”

  Cole said over his shoulder, “Ah, poor you. I wish I could help. But you’re so secretive with those books!”

  Tommy chuckled; they’d had this conversation dozens of times over the years. Besides his trusted editor in New York, Tommy couldn’t let anyone see his work until it was in print. Not even Cole, who, bless his heart, bought e-book and paperback copies the moment a new book came out, just to show his support. “Oh, you know, the mystery of the creative process.” He let his hand slide down Cole’s back before he took it away. “But you don’t have to be stuck in here today. Weather app says it’s gonna hit the upper sixties with clear sunshine all day. It’s almost Halloween, and we both know what that means in Chicago.”

  “It could be snowing next week,” Cole said.

  “Right. So you should get out there and enjoy it. Take a walk along the beach. A bike ride? You haven’t gotten the old Cannondale out in ages.”

  “Its tires are probably flat, and it’s covered with cobwebs.”

  “And you can fix those things in a matter of minutes.” Tommy sighed. “Do what you want—but enjoy yourself and know that I’m just a tiny bit jealous of your freedom.” He turned toward the hallway leading to his office. “I got to get to work. That book’s not gonna edit itself.” And just as quickly as he’d come into the room, Tommy left it. Cole listened for the sound of his office door closing.

  It did look nice out there, inviting. The fall colors were in their full glory, and Tommy was right—the onset of winter could be capricious, and late October or early November were not unknown for demonstrating that. Even as early as tomorrow, the skies could turn dark, temperatures could plummet, and what felt like end-of-summer bliss could morph into early winter misery.

  Cole had seen it happen more times than he could count.

  Tommy was also right about the Cannondale commuter bike mounted on the wall by their car in the garage downstairs. With a couple of cloths, a can of WD-40, and his handy-dandy bicycle pump, he could have that thing roadworthy in twenty minutes or less, barring any serious setbacks like a punctured tire.

  And really, what else did he have to do today? He thought he might go to Whole Foods. Maybe clear out his closet, looking for stuff to donate to Goodwill. Look for part-time work on Craigslist—that never worked out. Binge-watch the latest hot series on Netflix?

  In the end he listened to his heart and knew what he wanted most was to be outside. Tommy wouldn’t emerge from his office fully until dinnertime anyway. He’d sneak out to grab something easy from the fridge around lunchtime—a sandwich or the leftover shells with pesto and ham from last night—and then duck back into his office with it. Cole shook his head as he went back to the bedroom to change. Tommy, who’d once been an earnest yet miserable and uninspired law st
udent, could have never been an attorney. Cole had yet to meet even one person more suited for a career that included so much solitude than Tommy. In spite of his friendliness, he was a true, 100 percent introvert, so holing up in an office by himself and creating people, places, and situations out of his imagination was perfectly suited to his temperament. If he didn’t get his alone time, through work or some other means, he was wrung out and definitely not a pleasure to live with.

  Unbidden, a thought popped into Cole’s head—Just like Rory used to be.

  In the bedroom Cole tried to drown out the thought quickly by putting his Bluetooth earbuds in and bringing up his “Move” playlist on his phone. It included songs by Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Janet Jackson, Madonna, and even oldies like Tone-Loc, Donna Summer, the Average White Band, and Anita Bell.

  Cole danced around the bedroom as he donned a pair of jogging pants, a Cubs long-sleeved T-shirt, a pair of black Cons, and a black baseball cap. He appraised himself in the full-length mirror. With the cap hiding his balding head, he thought he could even pass for his early thirties, hell, maybe even his late twenties.

  What did that matter, anyway?

  He grabbed his phone off the dresser and texted Tommy that he was going to take advantage and use his idea about the bike ride, indicating he’d head north on the Green Bay Trail to better see the color changes of the trees. He texted because he’d learned, long ago, one did not interrupt Tommy when his office door was closed, at least if you wanted to keep your head.

  Tommy texted back a hands-clapping emoji and a kiss-blowing one.

  Cole set off.

  COLE WAS so glad Tommy had urged him to get out and ride his bike. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the thing out, and it felt good—the pull of his leg muscles working, the steady in and out of air. Cole could imagine his lungs as bellows. The breeze against his skin felt warm when he was in the sun and almost cold in the shade.

  It felt good.

  The air was crisp and clean and, before noon, was only in the low sixties. As he coursed through Northwestern University’s campus and its lakefront setting, he savored the teal blue waters of the lake against the sky’s brilliant backdrop to the east. To the west the gray buildings on campus looked stalwart, imposing, and a little Gothic. Students hurried between them, to and from classes.

  Before long he was off the campus and on the Green Bay Trail, pedaling alongside the railroad tracks on a paved path, beneath a canopy of trees sporting red, orange, and yellow leaves. Sunlight dappled the asphalt before him, and he felt the heat of it on his shoulders.

  He figured on the way back, he’d stop at one of his favorite North Shore restaurants, the Pantry in downtown Wilmette. It was a little place, not far from the train tracks, that had been there for years. Three older women, sisters, Cole had heard, ran the place. And for years, their simple formula had worked well—you walked in, ordered a sandwich—always the same three choices: chicken salad, rare roast beef, or turkey breast, Havarti cheese optional on the latter two—ordered soup if you wanted it—usually homemade chicken noodle and something more exotic, like borscht—and a drink, and paid one of the sisters sitting at a folding table with a cashbox. You picked out a table, sat down, and one of the other sisters—who all looked like the Polish grandmas you wished you had—would bring out your sandwich on homemade sourdough bread, and you’d be in hog heaven.

  Cole was getting close to Ravinia Park and had it in his head to go farther when the pull of the Pantry—and the growls in his stomach—became too strong. He turned around and began heading south again.

  He was nearing the Pantry when he saw him, on a side residential street near downtown Wilmette.

  Cole slowed his bike so he didn’t crash, blinking and peering at the young man walking down the street, a couple of books under his right arm. He allowed the bike to coast to a stop and then put his feet on the ground so the bike didn’t tip over—or maybe so he didn’t tip over.

  Cole’s heart, ahead of his head by a minute or two, pounded in his chest so hard he thought that, if he looked down, he’d see it cartoonishly pressing the red cotton of his T-shirt up and down as it contracted and released. A line of sweat beads popped up on his forehead, and another group of them formed rapidly in his underarms, to crawl in a tickling way down his side. His mouth was dry. He blinked several times to assure himself his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

  He laid the bike down on the grass at the edge of the sidewalk and turned to peer again at the young man, who was now farther away as he headed east and toward the lakefront. He didn’t want to think about it, but the recognition was unavoidable.

  He looks just like Rory. Not just similar—exactly.

  Cole squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to clear his head of insane, hopeful, and irrational thoughts, and looked again.

  It can’t be Rory. He’s too young. And besides, if Rory came back, don’t you think he’d at least get in touch? Where would he have been all these years?

  No. That can’t be him. That guy’s just a kid.

  Still, Cole couldn’t help himself. His appetite had vanished. He became consumed with a singular purpose. Quickly he found a street sign to lock his bike to. It wasn’t the most secure way to prevent having his bike stolen, but it was quick, and it would have to do—for now. Besides, this fool’s errand he had in mind shouldn’t take long.

  When he turned back around, the young man was gone. At first he thought the passing of a black pickup truck simply blocked his view, but when the vehicle roared away, Rory was nowhere to be seen.

  But he had to find out where he’d gone! Everything about the guy, even from the short glance Cole had, was just like his Rory, right down to the slight pigeon-toed way he walked. Cole broke into a trot, heading east on the street, looking down side streets on which he might have turned, heading north or south.

  As he got to within a couple of blocks of the lake, he spotted him to the north, a good block ahead. Was this the right one? Cole questioned himself. But the camo cargo shorts he wore and the red in his hair, glinting in the sunlight, helped Cole know for sure he was looking at the same guy.

  Wait a minute. Another coincidence. Isn’t this the street where Rory grew up? Where his parents lived?

  Cole paused briefly at the corner to look up at the street sign. Fourth Street. Yup, even through the passage of all those years, Cole still remembered that the Schneidmillers lived on Fourth Street. He remembered coming over with Rory for family dinners and backyard barbeques. His mother made the best German potato salad Cole had ever tasted. He remembered walking from the house over to nearby Gilson Park with Rory.

  Their house, a large brick bungalow, was just a few blocks up from where he was standing, if Cole remembered right. He stopped for a moment, watching the figure in the shorts and the faded, dirty-white T-shirt head away.

  Stop it. Go back. Pick up your bike and get yourself some lunch. You’re just hungry, and it’s bringing on hallucinations. Cole took a few more steps toward the retreating figure on the sidewalk ahead. Yeah, right. Hunger never caused me to have hallucinations before! Just let me catch up and have a quick glance at the kid. I’m sure once I see his face, all doubt will be erased. I’ll know, unequivocally, that it’s not him. Of course it’s not him. It can’t be.

  Even as his logical mind was feeding him these very credible and reasonable thoughts, his intuition was telling him no one had a walk like that. It was unique. No one had hair like that, with the cowlick that stuck up out of the crown on his head.

  Cole stepped up his pace. As he got closer and closer, his mind sort of went numb, because each step revealed to him that this guy was a carbon copy of Rory. He could tell himself, over and over again, that it couldn’t possibly be Rory, but the resemblance was simply too astonishing. And too on target.

  Cole broke into a run, hoping the slap, slap, slap of his Cons didn’t alert the guy that someone was pursuing him. Cole imagined him turning around, looking perhaps a little ann
oyed, with a face that was nothing like Rory’s.

  He slowed as he got really close. He had to stop himself from crying out “Hey, Rory!” just to test and see if he’d look.

  Cole almost stopped or he’d run right by the guy. He slowed not because he didn’t want to catch a glimpse of the young man, but because they were now on the block on which Rory had grown up and on which his parents lived, just at the corner of Washington Avenue.

  He spied the house. It was essentially the same. The trim had been painted a dark red instead of the cream color Cole recalled. The grass needed cutting. The front blinds were drawn.

  Could Rory’s parents still live there? Were they even still alive?

  And then the young man did something that sucked all the air out of Cole. He turned at the house and made his way up the front walk. Now Cole’s heart was beating so hard and fast he feared an attack was imminent. He watched breathlessly as the young man mounted the steps and then groped in his pocket, presumably for his keys.

  Distantly, he heard the jingle of a set of keys as he brought them out.

  And then he turned and looked. Perhaps he felt Cole’s gaze on him.

  Oh, my God. That face. It’s him. It’s really him. Their gazes connected for what seemed like a long time but had to have been only a couple of seconds. Cole knew he was the only one on the street.

  Cole didn’t see recognition in Rory’s face—only a mild curiosity. He cocked his head, as though to ask “What are you staring at?” And then he turned, unlocked the front door, and went inside.

  Cole stared at the closed door for a long time. He wondered where his ability to speak had gone. In his head he’d wanted to call out to him, saying something stupid, like “Rory? Is it really you?” But the ability to combine voice box, tongue, and mouth together to form words seemed a skill Cole no longer had.