Past Sins

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  I glare at Sheridan. “Move.”

  He shifts, slowly, making a narrow space for me to answer the door.

  Miles looks like a scarecrow silhouetted against the hall’s pale light when I open the door, and he stares over my shoulder into my apartment at Sheridan, looking frightened, his eyes big and wild. He pulls the top of his pajamas closed, as if shaking from a cold draft, and says to me, “I heard voices. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  I nod. “I’m fine. Thanks, Miles.”

  His gaze locks with Sheridan. “That’s him,” he says in an audible breath.

  I follow his gaze to Sheridan. I turn back to Miles. “You know Sheridan?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s the man I saw k-knocking on your door earlier tonight.”

  I turn to Sheridan, but his face is vacant. He is glaring at Miles.

  I look at Miles. “I appreciate it, Miles. Goodnight.”

  “Right. Goodbye.” He looks to me then Sheridan, and shuffles off to his apartment, mumbling to himself.

  Across the hall, he looks back at me, and then retreats into his apartment.

  He closes his door, but I hold mine open, waiting for Sheridan to leave.

  “You’ve got good security around here,” he says, stepping out into the hall.

  “Eyes and ears everywhere,” I say.

  After a pause, Sheridan says, “I didn’t come here to fight, Jack.”

  I start to close my door, but Sheridan slips his foot inside. “I find that hard to believe,” I say, staring down at his jerky movements.

  “I’m serious, Jack. I just wanted to say that I miss you.”

  “Please don’t come around here anymore.” I kick his foot out from between the doorway and slam it in his face.

  I fumble with all three locks but eventually secure them in place. I run around the apartment turning off all the lights, submerging myself in complete darkness.

  My heart is beating so hard as I stare out the balcony window onto the patch of front lawn trying to see Sheridan slinking away from the apartment. I squint through the silvery curtain of rain but I don’t see him.

  The right side of my brain feels wooly, as if it is packed with gauze, and a dull hammering pounds behind my eyes. Nausea stabs me in the gut.

  I let out a weighty sigh, as my chest expands and releases. I tuck my hands in my pocket, standing in the near dark apartment, and turn to the unmade bed where Steve and I slept side-by-side last night.

  The indentations where our bodies had lain, the outline of his body spooned up against mine on the left side of the bed, are deep grooves in the sheets. The outline of our heads is molded into the tops of the pillows, as if we are still tucked in for the night.

  I head to the bathroom to shower, but my fingers brush a piece of paper in my pocket.

  I pull it out and stand under a pocket of light.

  The note!

  I forgot about it, unfolding it and shaking by the words rolling around in the cracked fissures of my brain: I miss you.

  I hear the echo of Sheridan whispering in my ear before I shut the door in his face: I miss you.

  I think about Steve, seeing him in my room, prancing like a delicate ballerina, offering to make me dinner after a long day at the job—my place or his.

  I wonder if he wrote the note, but now it doesn’t remind me of his handwriting.

  The loop in the S’s is too fanciful, the ends of them swirling like a coil of snakes. But again, Steve’s whimsical, larger-than-life personality may be behind all of it. I reach for the message he scribbled on the back of last month’s electric bill on the nightstand in hopes I’d read it this morning.

  I dig you. Call me.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and yank the landline phone from the base, but struggle to remember his number.

  I recall something he said to me last night at the all-men’s club—an underground bar for gay men.

  I am transported back to that evening where I navigate the congested dance floor through a mob of horny college and middle-aged men to the bar. I find a seat at the counter and place my beer order with Rue, the bushy bearded bartender with a sick sense of humor.

  That is when I meet Steve, and we knock into each other—literally—when ordering our drinks. His back is to me, but my left shoulder slams into the side of him by accident, hard enough for him to turn around and notice me.

  Our watery gazes meet.

  If eyes are the windows to the soul, then Steve’s smile might be the front door to my world. I do not share this bit of poetry with him, but we do hit it off and start up a conversation.

  His dense eyebrows are outlined with bright yellow theater makeup, and I am startled but convinced that I am in the right place at the right time.

  It is after I talk to him that he tells me he is a dancer at the club every weekend. “You should come more often,” he says, flashing me a corner-of-the-mouth smile.

  Later that night, after his second nearly nude number, he programs his contact information into my iPhone when we’re saying goodbye to each other in an alley outside the club.

  “Call me,” he writes in a message.

  Hugs and smooches.

  He hugs me. He smells of sweat and a faint flowery perfume.

  Neither of us wants to say goodbye, so I take Steve back to my apartment.

  But something changes between us before the chief of police wakes me and calls me out on a case.

  Maybe it is the five bottles of beer and a shot of Jagermeister I drank last night. Maybe it is the urge to fulfill a fantasy with another man since Sheridan.

  Maybe it is fear.

  Now, I look over my shoulder to where Steve told me he really liked me, which took me by surprise. “Will I see you again?” he asks.

  That’s all I know. That’s all I remember.

  My headache drills me back to reality, rain drumming the roof of the building and thrashing against the balcony door.

  I feel ashamed, but I shouldn’t.

  I slam down the phone and search my apartment for my cell phone. I find it under a stack of bills and junk mail on the kitchen counter and search my directory for Steve’s number.

  Scrolling through work numbers, the dry cleaner, co-workers, I notice Steve’s number at the bottom, and I press call.

  I am pacing, running a hand through my hair.

  It rings three times.

  Four.

  “Jesus, Steve. Pick up.”

  On the sixth ring, there is a click, and then, “Hello?”

  “Steve. Thank God. It’s me.”

  “Who is this?” He sounds different, strangely calm. Drowsy. Buzzed.

  “Jack.”

  “Oh. Um, I didn’t think I was going to hear from you again.”

  “I’m sorry. Look. Can we meet?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Now? I, uh—”

  I hear him moving around, and another male voice in the background. “Steve?” I say.

  “I’m here.” A pause. “It’s not a good time.” He is whispering, moving to a different part of his apartment.

  I sigh. “All right. Well, I, um, I’m calling to see if you wanted to grab breakfast some time. Maybe a coffee.”

  He is fumbling, moving things. “It’s four in the morning.”

  “Yeah. I know. I can’t sleep.”

  I hear him coughing. “Jack,” he says, sighing. “I don’t know what this means, but if you want, I can meet you somewhere in, say, half an hour?”

  “Yeah. Perfect. Great. How about Lou’s Diner on the corner of—”

  “I know where it is.”

  I smile in between pauses. “Of course. I’ll see you soon.”

  He clears his throat. “I’ll throw some clothes on.”

  “I can’t wait to see you,” I say, but I hear a click, and the line is already disconnected.

  Chapter 5

  I walk instead of drive, leaving my vehicle on the street outside the apa
rtment and set off through a light mist. I am inconspicuous in the early dusk hour.

  Twenty minutes later and a mile from Lou’s Diner, I stop at a quiet four-way intersection in a residential area lined with two- and three-story houses next to St. Francis Church and a small public park for neighborhood kids.

  I look over my shoulder at what I think are footsteps, somebody walking slowly then stopping, but when I look there is nobody on the street but me.

  I’m still reeling from the vodka, my head swimming, but moving keeps me alert, and hearing Steve’s voice in my thoughts puts a bounce in my step.

  I smile into the night, but the euphoria of seeing Steve again is fleeting. Picking up speed, I walk with purpose another three blocks to the downtown waterfront to Lou’s Diner.

  * * * *

  Steve is not there when I arrive, and I am the only one in the diner at this early hour. I check my watch: 4:20. The red neon sign flashes OPEN in the front window, and when I enter the stifling warm diner, Lou is watching TV. He turns and flashes me his gold-grill grin.

  “Pretty early for breakfast, Officer Ballinger,” he says, wiping the counter and rearranging condiment containers. “You on duty?”

  I shake his strong hand, and slide into a booth by the window. “No. I’m waiting for someone.”

  As he comes around to the table with a carafe of hot coffee, I flip over the white cup already set at the table right side up and he fills it with a fresh Arabica blend.

  “Much appreciated, Lou.”

  Being a regular customer, friend, and cop has its perks: free coffee and glazed crullers.

  I look up at him. He is as tall and big as an oak tree and one of the best guys around. His apron is a mosaic splatter of condiment colors.

  “Too bad about that young girl found dead in her apartment,” Lou says. “It’s all over the TV.”

  “Already?” I say. “Boy, it doesn’t take long for the bloodhounds in this town to ferret out a story.”

  “It surprises you?” he asks.

  I shrug. “After five years on the police beat, it shouldn’t. But yeah, it still does.”

  “Any leads?”

  “None.”

  I crawl out of my raincoat and toss it on the seat next to me, wiping rain and the gluey moisture of summer off my face with a knuckle.

  “What can I get you to start?” he asks.

  “Are those almond croissants I see on the counter?” I ask, pointing at a cake stand by the register, half-dozen donuts stacked on top of one another.

  “Fresh baked this morning.”

  “Plate me up.”

  “How did I know you’d want that?” Lou smiles and starts to walk away with the pot of coffee, but I tell him to leave it with me.

  “I’m going to need more caffeine,” I say.

  I shift in the booth, the cracked leather vinyl squeaking beneath me.

  As I’m watching the sensationalized details of the young victim’s untimely death on the TV, I start to wonder what the young girl’s story is. Why her? Why was she killed so violently?

  I turn away from the TV to check my watch for the third time.

  It’s 4:25.

  “Your company stood you up?” Lou asks picking up my plate littered with flaky crumbs from the buttery croissant.

  I heave a sigh and stare out into the gloomy streets to the top of the monument bridge down at the water’s edge. I remember hearing about other beat cops patrolling the area in the 1980s and ‘90s when gay men would meet secretly for blowjobs and one-night hookups along the rocky embankment under the bridge.

  Gazing down at my watch, I answer, “Hopefully not,” but I don’t sound convincing.

  “Do you want me to put on another pot of coffee?” he asks.

  I nod.

  And then, as if on cue, the front door to the diner flings open and Steve walks in, his head wrapped in a white, silk scarf.

  I stand.

  Seeing him walking toward me brings a smile to my face. “You do realize it’s the middle of August?” I say, attracting Lou’s interest with my hasty comment.

  “The wind’s picked up,” Steve says, unwrapping the scarf from around his head. “I didn’t want it to ruin my hair.”

  I notice Lou is struggling not to laugh, as he comforts the light-brown bald spot on the top of his head.

  “Can I get a lemonade, please?” Steve asks Lou.

  “Coming right up,” he says before disappearing through a side door to the kitchen.

  “Have a seat,” I say, gesturing across from me.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Steve says, hanging his scarf on the pegs next to the booth.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  He shifts in the scarred red leather booth and lifts his hand from the tabletop, examining it as if his finger touches something sticky.

  I tilt my head to the side, watching him with amusement and feeling giddy at his theatrics. “What is it?” I ask, trying hard not to laugh.

  He leans across the table, trying not to press his sequined red and gold tight T-shirt that shows off his pierced naval into the edge of the tabletop. Even though Lou is in the back room, Steve whispers, “The table could use a good cleaning. I got something all over my hand.”

  “Pretend we’re back at the club where everything is crawling with sticky things,” I say.

  He laughs and reaches for a napkin in the dispenser, a mischievous wink in his eye.

  “Lou’s is the only place open at this hour,” I say.

  Steve looks like he is thinking too hard, concentrating on cleaning his fingers and getting out of this place. Then he says, “We could’ve gone to your place.”

  I lean forward, cross my arms on the table, and watch him ball the napkin up and set it to the side. “We still can,” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt you and your company.”

  “I sent Garrett home.”

  “Garrett? From the club?”

  Steve is quiet as he shreds paper napkin off his fingers. “DJ.”

  “DJ Garrett. Nice ring to it.”

  “His taste in music isn’t what interested me,” Steve says.

  “He got rainbow hair too?”

  Steve smiles. “More color than me.”

  “Is his rainbow brighter than yours?” I ask staring at his cotton candy pink lip gloss. “That’s difficult to swallow.”

  “Those were his exact words.”

  I burst out laughing.

  Lou delivers Steve’s lemonade, places the glass in front of him. “Freshly made an hour ago.”

  “Thank you.” Steve stares up at Lou with his long, distractedly dark eye lashes, mascara cakey and thick.

  Lou offers us both a menu. Steve refuses to eat, announcing it is too early, but I give Lou my order. “Scrambled eggs,” I tell him. “Lots of butter.”

  “Coming right up,” he says, walking away, whistling.

  “Why are you drinking hot coffee?” Steve asks, pulling his lips off the straw and leaving a smudge of pink lipstick on the tip. “It’s the hottest month of the year.”

  “Because I don’t like cold coffee.”

  We stare at each other for a long time, the passing silence stretching into a comfortable moment between two friends.

  I ask, “Did you get all dolled up for me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “I didn’t realize I needed to explain my looks.”

  “You don’t. But I’m curious.”

  He turns to the image of himself in the window, then looks at me. “It makes me feel pretty.”

  After a long pause, I say, “Your individuality is refreshing. But as far as I’m concerned you don’t need to dress up to be pretty.”

  He shifts his head at an angle. “Are you uncomfortable seeing me this way?”

  “What way?”

  “All dolled up?�
� A placating smile, he winks.

  “Not at all.”

  “Even in front of him?” he nods at Lou scrambling my eggs behind the counter, the sound of butter popping and sizzling as it touches the hot grill.

  “I told you, I’m not embarrassed.”

  Steve flushes, his face puckering as he slurps his drink.

  “Too sour?” I ask.

  He dabs his lips with a napkin. “Let me ask you something,” he says.

  “Shoot.”

  “Don’t take it personally, but what do you see in me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we’re two completely different people. I’m flashy, and you’re…”

  “Dull?” I say, smiling.

  “No.” He curls his fuchsia red nails around the moist edge of his glass. “Well…”

  I nod, amused. “I’m boring, I know.”

  “I’m not sure what attracted you to me. I just find it strange that a police officer would be interested in a punk rock twenty-something with a life of problems.”

  “I didn’t realize we had to fall into a specific category in order to be attracted to each other. And secondly, if you haven’t noticed, we’ve all got problems.”

  “I’m trying to put myself in your shoes. From your experience, I’m sure you’re harassed and belittled by your peers for being gay. Homosexuality isn’t exactly water cooler conversation in your line of work.”

  “No, you’re right. But I’m also not going to lie about who I am.”

  “Even if it means verbal or physical assault? Or the loss of your job?”

  “I’ve been in several scary situations when police officers who no longer work at the station have called me out for being gay. But I’m not worried about getting fired, or losing my job. However, if that does happen, there’s more to life than just work.”

  “I wish I had your confidence.” He fingers the straw to his mouth and sips slowly, so as not to smudge his glossy lips.

  “I’m a police officer. I can take care of myself.”

  Leaning his elbows on the tabletop, he says, “I admire your bravery.”

  “There’s nothing gallant about who I am.”

  “This morning I thought I was just a one-night stand to you,” he says, switching the conversation.

  I take a drink of my coffee. “You’re not a one-night stand. And you’re definitely not a mistake.”