by Rick R. Reed
I nod.
And we go quiet once again. I make a move to stand. I want to go look out the window at the city lights, distract myself from a conversation that’s grown too serious for a casual dinner with friends.
John lightly grabs hold of my wrist. “You’re not getting ready to go, are you?”
“No. I just wanted to partake of the incredible view just over there.”
I move toward the wall of glass. Outside, city lights shimmer like gilded towers, and I think how much I love this city perched at the edge of a vast lake. I press my forehead to the cool glass and close my eyes.
As I stand there, I feel John come up behind me. The feel of his hands on my shoulders awaken something within me—a kind of pulse that synchronizes with the beat of my heart.
He nears and whispers. “I didn’t want you to leave yet because I haven’t had a chance to kiss you.”
A chill runs down my spine. I turn to him.
We’re in each other’s arms, bodies pressed close. I think, for only a moment, how different a man feels in my arms than a woman—bigger, more solid, almost oppressive, and yet protective and warm.
The best word, though?
Right. This feels right.
Gently, he takes my chin in his hand, positioning my face toward his, and he leans in to kiss me. I lose myself in the warmth of him, the taste of his lips, of his tongue. The sweetness of him married to the pizza and wine we had earlier. I begin to shake and hate myself for it. My knees go weak, and I feel like I could pass out.
He must notice because he pulls me tighter to him. We don’t stop kissing. Our passion rises, and I can feel his excitement next to my own as our hips grind together. This is dirty, sweet, and sublime all at once.
Finally, he pulls away to look me in the eye. I let out a quivering breath, grateful that I didn’t come in my pants. I was almost there.
And he says the words I’ve been longing to hear, “Tomorrow night, then? Dinner?”
I can only nod. I feel emptied out and filled up. I feel like jumping for joy and leaping from a ledge. I feel as though I’ve never been this alive before.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”
And I lean in to kiss him.
Chapter Eleven
RANDY
The warmth of John’s lips still clings to my own as I step off the L train at the Jarvis stop. I hurry down the steps, trying not to note how the concrete stairway smells of pee, and hurry outside.
A light rain has begun to fall and the mist reminds me of a poem where the poet compares the lightness of the precipitation to a kiss. In my mood, it seems fitting. The streetlamps wear a caul of gray. I can hear, even from here, the hiss of car tires east of me on busy Sheridan Road.
Jarvis is quiet at just before eleven o’clock. There’s a gay bar on the corner, Charmers, and I can tell it’s doing a lively business at this hour. A couple guys, older men, both wearing baseball caps, T-shirts, and jeans, exit the bar on a wave of disco music courtesy of Donna Summer, laughter, chatter, and a bright flash of light. They don’t notice me under the L tracks, but hurry north on Greenview Avenue.
I wonder if the couple has been together for a long time or if they just met tonight and are hurrying to one of their apartments for an encounter.
John and I had talked, before we parted, of my coming to his place to spend the night. And I was ready, honestly. But he said something that still makes me catch my breath. “I don’t want a one-nighter with you. You’re special. I want our first time to be out of the ordinary, memorable. You know?”
I did know, in spite of the half of a hard-on that stubbornly refused to go away even though we’d stopped kissing. And I was flattered that he wanted to wait. I didn’t think this was the typical modus operandi for gay men.
I walk slowly through the chilling mist, wondering how I’ll tell Violet that I have a date for the next night, my first ever with a man. I don’t want to cause her any pain, and my excitement and anticipation are tempered by how she might react.
But when I open the door to our little apartment, I find that I’ll have to wait to tell Violet my news.
The apartment is dark, save for the small lamp we have on a table behind the couch. It’s soft cone of light projects upward, leaving our living room a place of shadows.
The emptiness is odd, almost unsettling. In the vacuum of Henry not being there, the place is too quiet and feels like someone else’s home. I will need to go downstairs in a minute to Mrs. Roberts and pick him up.
But where is Violet? I consult my watch and see that’s it’s now a quarter after eleven. I tell myself that a church social shouldn’t go this late. Is she okay? Nausea, unwarranted and illogical, rises up to irritate me, like a buzzing gnat in my ear. Am I really worried about her welfare? Or am I more worried that she’s met a man at this social and is right now with him somewhere, perhaps engaged in the same kind of kissing I just experienced.
The shock of the thought makes my mouth dry. I sit for a moment on the couch. I tell myself she’s probably still at the church hall, or she met another young woman and the two went out somewhere for a nightcap and to compare stories about why they find themselves at a church singles mixer.
I get up, shaking my head, telling myself I have no right to worry that Violet has met a man. After all, so have I.
Still, I think I pushed the thought away that she might have her own needs, that she might need the comfort of a straight guy as balm to her wounds, wounds that I’ve inflicted.
As I turn on a few more lights in the apartment, I try to stem the tide of guilt I feel rising up within me. This guilt is something I’ve worked hard to banish over the past few months, with quiet moments alone, trying to understand myself better, and with my therapist, who leads me to the indisputable truth that guilt is a worthless emotion, one that can only retard my growth.
I go in Henry’s room and turn down the quilt his grandmother back in Ohio made for him when he was born—all stars and planets on a navy blue field—to reveal his beloved pale blue flannel sheets that he can’t bear to part with even though it’s getting warmer.
I put on the little lamp on his nightstand with its multicolored, translucent shade.
The L rumbles by outside.
MRS. ROBERTS ANSWERS the door even before I knock. She must have heard my footfall on the stairs.
Her smile warms me. “He’s out like a light,” she says.
In direct contradiction, Henry sits up on the couch and rubs his eyes. “No, I ain’t!” he says cheerfully.
Mrs. Roberts turns to him, “No, I’m not,” she corrects.
Henry swings his legs off the couch, looking abashed. “Sorry, Ms. Roberts.”
She goes over to him and pulls the throw that was covering him off.
My little boy is revealed. Striped T-shirt, jeans with the cuffs rolled, bare feet. If he isn’t the cutest little boy in the world, I don’t know who is.
Henry hops down from the couch. Mrs. Roberts brings him his red Chuck Taylors and squats to put them on.
He shoos her away. “I can do it,” he says with my lack of patience.
“Of course you can, little guy.” She stands again and looks over her shoulder to grin at me.
“Where’s Mama?” Henry stands once he has his shoes on and tied (a new skill for him and one he’s proud of).
Mrs. Roberts eyes me, too, waiting for an answer. I often come down alone to pick up Henry when she babysits, but I think she, at least, can discern that something’s a little off tonight.
I’m not sure what to tell him, so I just say, “She’ll be home soon.” I pull out my wallet and take out a couple of bills to pay Mrs. Roberts. Her menagerie of dogs and cats have now come fully awake. A cat makes a figure eight against my calves, purring. One of the dogs rushes to the door.
I tug on Henry’s hand. “Come on, we need you to get back to slumberland. They’ll wonder where you’ve gotten to.”
We’ve always referred to Henry’s sleep as a
special place, populated by all different sorts of people and creatures. He believes, and maybe he’s right, that there’s little difference between the real world and what we call the dream one. Wise kid, right?
We march up the stairs, quiet.
Inside the apartment, Henry dashes through the living room and dining room to the kitchen. He checks the bathroom and the room his mother now sleeps in, as though he didn’t believe me downstairs when I told him she’d be home soon.
“She’s not here, buddy. But I expect she’ll walk through that door just about any minute.”
I lead him to the bathroom and supervise the brushing of teeth and the drinking of water. In his room, I undress Henry and put on his blue pj’s with their penguin design. Finally, I tuck him into bed and lean down to kiss his forehead.
“No story?” he asks, a hopeful glint in his eye. He rolls on his side to stare pointedly at Where the Wild Things Are, which is on his nightstand. Violet or I have read him the book, gosh, at least a million times.
I shake my head and attempt a stern, fatherly look. I’m sure I fail. But I back it up with the simple pronouncement, “It’s late. Get to sleep.”
“Can I keep my night-light on?”
“Sure.”
I head out from his room, closing the door behind me. I expect Henry to call out to leave the door open, but he doesn’t.
I plop down on the couch, think about getting out the sheets, pillow, and blanket I keep in the hallway linen closet. When Henry asked why I’d been sleeping on the couch, we told him Daddy snores too much, and it keeps Mama awake and he buys it.
When will we need to tell him something more truthful? When I finally get up the courage and resources to leave? Or when Violet gives up and throws me out…as she has every right to.
I stay on the couch for a while, remembering my evening with the boys…and John. It should make me happy, but I can’t help wondering where Violet is.
It’s now after midnight.
I know I won’t sleep until she comes home. It’s irrational, yes, but I can’t help it. I also can’t quell the nausea in my gut, which is putting a damper on the thrill and optimism I ended the evening with earlier.
At last, I get up and walk to Henry’s door. I crack it open. He’s asleep, burrowed under the covers so that only his forehead and his mop of dark curls show. He’s snoring lightly. The colors in the room shift from blue to red to yellow. I envy him the innocence of his world and wonder what harm I’ll do to him eventually.
I shake my head, telling myself not to think like that. I close the door to his room, holding the knob so there’s no telltale click to wake him. The doorway to our balcony is only a few steps, and I quickly head outside, leaving the balcony door open in case Henry should wake and call out for me.
Outside, the air has gotten even cooler, and the mist I walked home in has turned to rain. I sit on the ledge and overlook our street. The leaves rustle in the breeze. The rain makes a soft hissing noise. It should be pleasant, soothing, but I’m worried.
Where is she? Is she okay? What’s she doing right now?
I vacillate between worrying that she’s hurt, in a car accident or something, and fearing that she’s just the opposite and her absence and the late hour indicate not that’s she’s in trouble, but that she’s having a very good time.
Even though I know it shouldn’t, the latter notion wounds me. And the later the hour goes, the sicker I feel.
You have no right!
Every car that approaches makes my hope rise, especially if the car is a taxi. But the hope slumps back down as the cars pass our building, not stopping or even slowing. Once one does, a beat-up pickup with a noisy muffler. I watch silently as our neighbor from upstairs, a young man just out of Northwestern, gets out, stumbling. I watch him trip and fall on the verge of grass in front of our apartment building, thinking I should do something, call down a helpful word, but then think better of it as he laughs at himself and gets up to come inside.
I get cold. I notice my chill only because I’m shivering. I shouldn’t be shivering—it’s summer for crying out loud! Welcome to Chicago.
I go back in, put the TV on, and turn the volume to low. I just happen to land on a movie halfway through, Mildred Pierce, with Joan Crawford. I try to interest myself in the story, but my mind keeps wandering back outdoors, thinking I’ve heard a car stopping out front. Every passage of an L train makes me think I should get up and return to the balcony, where I will see my wayward wife in the orangish glow of a street light, coming up Ashland Avenue.
But at last, all I do is fall asleep, just as things are getting really melodramatic in the movie.
I AWAKE SUDDENLY as images from my dream disperse—something about walking down a long tunnel, with hooded figures either waiting for me or chasing me; I can’t recall which. I look around the living room, feeling disoriented and groggy, as though I just spent the previous night heavily drinking. The TV is still on, but now it’s some infomercial and they’re roasting a chicken in half the time it would take in the oven. I snag the remote off the coffee table and turn the TV off.
Silence rushes in. The clock on our cable box tells me it’s just after four a.m. Switching the television off not only took away any noise, but also the light. The room is blanketed in a kind of murky darkness, augmented by the streetlight outside. The furniture morphs into menacing shadows, beasts that could come alive.
I force myself to sit up, the throw I’d pulled over myself at some unremembered point slithering off me to puddle on the hardwood floor. There’s a crick in my neck, and at this weird hour when the world seems to have gone silent, the atmosphere in our apartment just seems off somehow, impossible to describe.
I feel alone.
I get to my feet as the hope rises that Violet has come home while I was sleeping. Sure, she has. She just didn’t want to wake you and went into bed as quietly as possible.
I head toward what used to be our bedroom at the rear of the apartment. I pause at the closed door and whisper a little prayer to myself that she’s in there, tangled up in the bed clothes, sleeping.
I turn the doorknob and open the door very slowly, so it doesn’t creak.
The room doesn’t face the street and the blinds are shut, so the room is filled with a darkness so thick it feels palpable.
I don’t hear movement. I don’t hear her breathing. Holding my hands out in front of me, I move into the room until my knees bump our bed. Um, her bed. I feel around on the smooth surface of the comforter, and even in the dark, I can tell the bed is made.
Sighing, I switch on the small lamp on the nightstand. No surprises here. The bed is pristine, the room mockingly empty.
I take in all the familiar stuff—her makeup and jewelry scattered haphazardly across the dresser, the tubes, bottles, and pots that are a mystery to me as a man. One drawer hangs open and in it, I can see a pile of panties, in all different colors, some lacy and sexy, others more utilitarian.
I wonder what she chose to wear tonight.
I rifle through the drawer, wondering if something’s hidden there, but I find nothing. I know I shouldn’t do it, but I open the other drawers in the dresser. Half of these drawers, before my revelation last winter, used to be mine. Violet’s filled them with her own things—bras, shorts for summer, T-shirts and tank tops, scarves, gloves, and mittens. One drawer is what my mom used to call a “junk drawer.” In it, there’s a tangled mess of CDs, a small spiral-bound notebook, receipts from grocery stores and restaurants. Old keys. Matchbooks. Photographs in a little pile in one corner.
I pull these out and move to the bed to sit down with them. I smile as I look through the bittersweet memories these represent—there’s Henry, age two, and me at Lincoln Park Zoo. He’s on my shoulders so he can get a better view of the giraffes. Here’s Violet and me one New Year’s Eve two or three years ago, having dinner at a French restaurant downtown, Le Perroquet, that we both thought was overpriced and pretentious. A family shot at Six F
lags Great America in front of a carousel. Henry’s three in this one, and he holds aloft a cloud of pink cotton candy. More snapshots, more memories, bringing both smiles and tears.
And then I come across one I don’t recognize. It sends a jolt through me.
For one, it’s black and white, but not old, just more artsy than anything we would have taken. A man stands on the trail heading into downtown, near Fullerton Avenue, where it really opens up to display Chicago’s incredible skyline. I can see a bit of the lake, throwing spray up as it crashes against the shoreline.
The man is handsome. Salt-and-pepper hair and a big mustache. He reminds me of the actor Sam Elliot. I pause as another thought occurs to me, and it makes me gasp—he also reminds me of an older version of myself. I stare at him, the grin on his face, the pale gray of his eyes. He’s dressed in a black sweater and black jeans, combat boots. His thick hair is messed up—fetchingly—by the wind off the lake. He’s looking right into the lens of the camera, and it makes it hard to look away, his gaze is so intense.
Who the hell is he?
Again, that totally irrational swell of jealousy flares. I tell myself this could be someone from Violet’s past before she even knew me. It could even be a relative, someone I never met at the family reunions in the summertime up at Lake Geneva in Wisconsin. Hell, she might not even know this guy, but might have found the photograph lost or discarded somewhere, topping the trash in a public can or on the floor of a L train car. He could be a coworker.
All of these rational answers don’t convince me. What my heart tells me is that this is someone Violet has met, probably recently, and is involved with.
Something tells me this is who she’s with tonight.
I put the pictures back where I found them and slam the drawer they were in too hard.
I switch off the light and leave the room. I head back through the living room and outside once more, to stand and overlook the street from our balcony.
Violet, oh Violet, where are you?
The sky is at last beginning to lighten, almost imperceptibly. It’s just slightly less dark and grayer than it was, signaling that dawn is on its way, not far behind. The air is warmer now that the rain has stopped. There’s a damp smell—earth and vegetation.