Unraveling

by Rick R. Reed

  They could make life very hard for me. I swig some more whiskey out of the bottle and then stare at it. This won’t solve anything. All this is doing is making me even more sick to my stomach.

  I get up and go back to the kitchen to replace the bottle where it was on the pantry shelf.

  I walk to the back door window which overlooks the communal backyard. I imagine Henry out there with me, him chasing the big red ball he adores, him putting his hands over his ears as the L goes by just above. It’s almost as if I can see him.

  I have to call her. I need to know where we stand, where I stand. Her letter opened a door a bit, but not enough to reveal anything real, anything significant.

  I certainly never expected her to move out while I was at work. I can’t help but think it seems cowardly, even as I grope deep down within myself to be understanding and compassionate.

  At her parents’ house, the phone rings on and on even though I know they have an answering machine. After letting it ring at least twenty times, I hang up and call again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Finally, the phone gets picked up after a single ring. It’s my mother-in-law, and she sounds annoyed. Well, sorry, honey, but my family and my kid are at stake here. I’m not just going to take the removal of both lying down.

  I try to rein in my anger and my terror. “Hey Fran, it’s Randy. I hope you’re doing okay.”

  Silence.

  “Listen, can you put Violet on the phone? We need to talk.”

  More silence that stretches on for so long I wonder if she’s hung up. At last, Fran says, “She’s not here.”

  I nod, and then realize she can’t see that. “But she and Henry are staying with you, right?” I don’t want to give her a chance to lie, an opportunity to up the ante on my fear, so I add, “She told me so in the note she left.”

  Fran tsks, but I don’t know if she’s irritated with me or her daughter.

  “Can I speak to my wife?”

  “Now’s not a good time,” she replies quickly. “She’s in the shower.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay. I’ll call back. In the meantime, could you please put Henry on?” I need to know how he’s doing, what he’s been told. He needs to know his daddy loves him and that this separation is not my idea.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Already?” I look at the wall clock. “It’s only seven o’clock. I know my son. He raises holy hell if we try to put him in bed any earlier than eight.” I chuckle, but the phone’s slippery in my hands from sweat.

  “Look, Randy, Violet’s told me, us, everything. I think it’s a good idea for her to have a little time to herself, to process things, to understand what she needs to do next.”

  She doesn’t sound reasonable, merely cold.

  She goes on, “Give it a few days, okay?”

  “What about my son?” I see my little dark-haired boy in my mind’s eye, and I am suddenly desperate to see him.

  “Henry’s fine,” Fran says. “Don’t worry, we’re spoiling him.”

  “When can I see him?”

  “Let’s talk in a few days, okay?” she says cheerily, as though she’s suggesting a picnic at Lighthouse Beach.

  I’m about to respond, to argue, but she’s hung up.

  My stomach drops. What’s this going to cost me?

  I sit in the living room for a long time, not drinking, not eating, not picking up the day’s Tribune, not turning on the TV. I wait and watch as darkness overtakes what was once the home of my little family.

  At last, I rouse myself and force myself to go in the bathroom, take a long, hot shower. After I dry off, I head into the bedroom, which I can use again, and lie down. But my thoughts won’t let me rest, let alone sleep.

  After a while, I get up and make another phone call. To John. I don’t want to burden him with this, not yet. For one thing, it could very well send him screaming off into the night and away from me.

  But I need some comfort. I need some support.

  But when I call, it goes to his answering machine.

  “Hey John, it’s Randy,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, trying to hide my despair. “Thanks again for last night.” My mind goes blank, then comes up with, “Call me back when you get this, no matter what time it is. I’d love to hear your voice.”

  I hang up, wishing I could take back the “no matter what time it is” part, which sounds too needy.

  But what’s done is done.

  I lay in bed the whole night through, not sleeping, waiting for the phone to ring.

  It never does.

  Chapter Seventeen

  JOHN

  I need this. This time out. This time alone. This chance to be the man I once was—carefree and unattached.

  I’m at Cornelia’s. It’s probably the best dance bar along the Halsted strip. There’s a big bar up front with the requisite giant mirror behind the bar for discreet checking guys out.

  The back is where I am, clutching a bottle of Budweiser in one fist, watching the sparsely populated (it’s a Wednesday night) floor, where men, some shirtless, writhe, shimmy, and shake to Grace Jones’s “Slave to the Rhythm.” These men are all slaves to the rhythm, and once I’ve had a bit more to drink, I will be too.

  I need to dance, to step away from my mind for a while, to be a physical being, driven by a techno pulse that makes my hips happy, my feet irresistibly move.

  I return to the front bar, ask for a shot of Jack and another beer. Both are delivered by a tattooed, buzz-cut blond who reminds me of Dolph Lundgren. He smiles and winks as he sets both down before me. “There you go, handsome.”

  I tip him, um, handsomely, because he makes me feel less alone.

  I down the shot, fiery, and follow it quickly with the icy cold beer. I close my eyes for a second, imagining the alcohol coursing through me, loosening me up.

  I didn’t have to come out by myself tonight. I could have asked Vince, although his love affair is still burning bright, which is unusual for him. I’m both happy for him and jealous. I didn’t bother calling him because lately the answer’s always the same—he’s busy “nesting.” Am I going to lose him completely?

  I could have seen if Stephen and Rory were feeling up to a night out. But I don’t want a couple tonight, much as I’ve come to adore them. I love their easy camaraderie, their closeness, but I don’t want to bear witness to it tonight.

  I don’t really know what I want at all, in terms of people. For once, I’m out but without a clear objective like bringing someone home or going home with someone.

  I move back to watch the dancers, now gyrating to Prince and “Raspberry Beret.”

  I needed to escape. My answering machine is full up with messages from Randy, ranging from funny and coy to, at last, pleading.

  I don’t know that I can help him. I’m not sure I know how. There’s a reason I never fell into the trap of conforming and marrying a woman.

  Over the course of a dozen voice messages, he’s poured out his whole hopeless story about how he came home to find wife and son both gone. His fears about his wife’s family and how they may well make a power play to “get back” at him for deceiving their daughter and to ensure his little boy isn’t “corrupted” by his new and deviant lifestyle. At one point, he says, tearfully, “I just know they’re gonna try to take him away from me.”

  I feel sorry for the guy, I really do. But this is not my mess. And I can see this is a mess that will grow and will most likely have some staying power. Is this what I want to get in bed with?

  I think not.

  I just don’t know if, at the moment, I want to get in bed with anyone or anything. And that’s a first for me.

  Which is why I find myself here, at a dance club on Wednesday night, trying hard to forget my troubles. I want to relegate to oblivion how my heart and my head are at war with each other, and I can’t hear myself think because of th
e incoming missiles.

  When an extended remix of “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys comes on over the speakers, I’m compelled to move even though I’ll be dancing alone. I clutch my beer and move to the center of the crowd where it won’t be so noticeable that I’m shaking my booty by my lonesome.

  It feels good, though, to move, to simply listen to the inner rhythm of my body, to give in to that musically fueled impulse. I let my eyes go a bit unfocused, so the other dancers become a blur of color and movement, but no one man stands out.

  I feel the music, its bass line, deep down. My movements are primal and free of thought. My body simply responds.

  This is where I need to be, free from thoughts, free from worry, free from concerns about my future and whether I will end up alone.

  Here, deep within these movements, I find my joy.

  I continue to dance until the sweat glues my shirt to my back. “No Frills Love” by Jennifer Holliday, “I Can’t Wait” by Nu Shooz, “Love’s Gonna Get You” by Jocelyn Brown.

  Whoever’s deejaying tonight knows what’s in my beat-hungry heart.

  I twirl, shimmy, gyrate until I’m nearly dripping with sweat, breathless, my heart pounding out its own tribal beat.

  I move off the dance floor as a slower-tempo song comes on.

  I need to pee.

  I need another drink.

  As I’m heading toward the men’s room in the back, I think I see Dean out of the corner of my eye. I shake my head because he’s wearing his leather harness and chaps, and this is the wrong place for that leatherman shit. But Dean certainly moves to the beat of his own drummer.

  Still, I’m glad to see he’s okay and still around. We haven’t spoken since that night at the Belmont Rocks. I’m glad he didn’t do himself any harm and glad, too, that he looks burly, fit, and healthy. The HIV in his system’s apparently holding off, at least for now. Poor guy, though. He must be scared.

  I pause to watch him exit through the door, figuring he’ll head to one of the leather bars. I hope he won’t be on his knees or bent over in the back room of one of them, carelessly and callously spreading the virus around. It makes me think of a conversation I overheard one night in one of those backroom bars. “Hey, nobody bothered to tell me they had this fucking bug, why should I? You go in a backroom and fool around, you accept that you might bring something home longer-lasting than drained nuts.”

  I follow Dean, forgetting for the moment my need to visit the men’s room. I lose sight of him as a couple, older than the usual crowd for this place, passes between us. When my view is again clear, I look for Dean to no avail.

  I move to the old oak-framed glass door and peer out into the night. Cars and pedestrians move along the avenue, but there’s no sign of Dean.

  I move back inside, thinking I’m probably better off for not having encountered him. The last thing I need tonight is his drama.

  The door guy, seated on a high stool, grins at me. “Lose your husband?”

  I laugh. “Never found him,” I reply.

  He laughs. He’s cute, a little older, maybe late forties, with a salt-and-pepper flattop, the skinny body of a punk rocker in a, fittingly, Ramones T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, jeans, and black Chuck Taylors. He has dark eyes and a slight overbite. Freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose and cheeks.

  “You looking for one?”

  I shake my head, eyeing him. “You want to apply for the job?”

  He narrows his eyes. “Maybe for tonight.”

  I pat his shoulder. “What time do you get off?”

  “Twenty minutes or so, I would imagine, after we get to my place.”

  “Stranger things have happened. I’ll check back with you before I leave.”

  I doubt I’ll do that, but it seems to be the polite thing to say.

  “I’ll be here.” He extends a hand. “Terry.”

  “John.” I start to move away, the urge to pee reasserting itself, when I pause and turn back. “Did you see a guy in harness and chaps just go out the door?”

  Terry shakes his head. “Nah, I wish. That I’d remember.”

  “Okay.” A chill runs down my spine as I head toward the back of the bar.

  Was it just my imagination? I could have sworn I saw him, but maybe I’m slowly going crazy. I couldn’t blame myself.

  After using the bathroom, I splash some water on my face and peer in the mirror. I look a hell of a lot better than I feel. I guess being on the tail end of my twenties is more of a blessing than I give it credit for.

  I’m ready to dance some more.

  I head back out to the dance floor. As the evening has gotten later, it’s brought more and more people out, even for midweek. Cameo’s “Word Up” is playing, and it’s the extended remix. (I have the big twelve-inch at home, perhaps even on the turntable as we speak.) If ever a song was crafted to get people moving, it’s this one. I sidle through the crowd, brushing against sweaty men on my right and on my left. It’s not a bad gig!

  I throw back my head and close my eyes, allowing myself to get lost in the thumping, driving beat.

  When I open them, I discover I’m not alone.

  A beefy blond is dancing with me, mirroring my movements a bit, and grinning as though to ask, “Is this okay?”

  I move close enough to bump my hip against his to let him know it definitely is okay.

  He’s adorable. His hair is that dirty shade of blond that, when you look closely, is actually many different colors, ranging from mousy brown, to golden-like wheat, to an almost platinum shade. In his broad face, his big blue eyes are wide spaced and engaging. When he smiles, I notice, gratefully, his teeth are a little crooked, which gives him character and makes him sexier. Perfection is such a bore. He’s wearing a heather-gray tank top, army-camouflage cargo shorts, and combat boots.

  We continue to dance through Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” and Juice’s “The Rain.” He’s a good dancer. It’s not just his moves, which are fine, but the ease he seems to have in his big body—at least six feet two and I’d guess around two hundred pounds—is obvious and points to some real confidence. He’s not fat, but like a Wisconsin farm boy—strapping, my Gram would have called him.

  At the end of “The Rain,” he leans close and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Buy you a drink, handsome?”

  Second time tonight I’ve been called handsome—and I don’t think this one expects a tip. Score!

  “I’d love that. Need a break, anyway.”

  A Janet Jackson song, “What Have You Done for Me Lately?” comes blaring out of the sound system, and it almost makes me want to turn around and head back out onto the dance floor, but my new friend is already making his way to the bar up front.

  I arrive just behind him, and he turns to ask what I want.

  “That’s a loaded question,” I say, thinking myself clever.

  He raises his eyebrows. “Well, I was thinking to drink, but hey, try me. Maybe I have whatever it is you want.”

  Our eyes meet for a second longer than a casual glance. His are the darkest blue I think I’ve ever seen, and the smile on his face reaches right up to them.

  “Just a Bud is fine.”

  He turns and orders two beers, pays, and then turns back to me. “Here you go.”

  I take the bottle, clink it against his, and say, “Thanks.” I take a sip and then introduce myself.

  “Allan,” he tells me. “What brings you out on a Wednesday night?”

  Before I answer, I lead him over to the side of the bar where there’s a padded bench against the wall that’s just been vacated. We sit.

  I mull over his question. One thing I don’t want to do is draw him into the drama I’m experiencing right now. Tonight was supposed to be for me—carefree, unattached me. So I tell him, “I was a little bored, honestly. And I love to dance.”

  He clicks his bottle against mine again. “Me too. I don’t care if there’s anyone dancing with me or not.” He gives me a look that se
nds a little electric shiver down my spine. “Although I’m glad you were there—and willing.”

  “I get it. I don’t mind being on a dance floor by myself. And it’s not the same as dancing around my apartment at home, even though I do that a lot, I don’t mind admitting. But even if I don’t have a dance partner, per se, there’s something about being part of a mass of people all moving to the same beat.” I take a sip of beer. “It’s almost spiritual if that doesn’t sound too corny.”

  “It doesn’t, and I’m with you, brother. There’s a connection there.”

  I nod.

  He asks, “You got a boyfriend? Husband?”

  “You’re very direct,” I answer/don’t answer.

  “Hey, I find it saves me time. I know lots of dudes have open relationships or just need a little strange once in a while. That’s their choice. It’ll never be mine. But I always ask up front of fellas I’m interested in if they’re attached or not, just in case things go somewhere.”

  I like this guy. His simple honesty moves me. My own lack of it, though, makes me a little ashamed. But Randy and I’ve made no commitment to each other. We’re just exploring things. So, I’m not really lying, not really, when I say, “I’m single.” I grin at him. “And looking.”

  He throws an arm over my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “That’s a relief. Do you know how hard it is these days to find a guy who isn’t lugging along a whole dolly full of baggage?”

  “Tell me about it.” There’s a part of me that does want to confide in this Allan to get his take on my infatuation with a married man, but I think if I did that, I might get some good advice back, but nothing more.

  And I want something more, I suddenly realize, even if it’s only a single night of oblivion.

  We lean back against the wall, our thighs touching, and talk. He tells me he works for the post office and delivers mail in Ravenswood Manor, which is just across the Chicago River from my own neighborhood. He’s taken a few courses at community college, but is otherwise “a plain old high school graduate” as he puts it. He loves animals and currently has two dogs and three cats in his one bedroom in Albany Park (also close to me). He reads a lot, but never fiction, and confesses to a passion for true crime and biographies. “I can tell you everything you ever want to know about John Wayne Gacy and Larry Eyler,” he confesses with a wink and a grin.