Unraveling

by Rick R. Reed

  I glance down again at the obit. Look closely at the date when he passed away at St. Joseph’s Hospital. I shake my head.

  It can’t be.

  But it is.

  He passed away on exactly the same night that I saw him. I close my eyes to ward off the dizziness.

  It couldn’t have been him. It’s that simple. It must have been someone who looked like him.

  But it was…

  No, no. It’s just not possible.

  It may not be possible, but you know what you saw. It wasn’t a mistake.

  Whatever. What does it mean?

  I place my head down on the plastic table.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. I suck in a trembling breath and force myself to look up. A young black woman in the Dunkin’ Donuts uniform stands over me, concern plain in her dark-brown eyes.

  “Sir? You okay?”

  I nod because I don’t feel composed enough yet to put thought, tongue, and lips together to form words.

  “Can I bring you some water or something?”

  Finally, “No. It’s okay. I just found out a friend of mine passed away. I didn’t know. It was a shock.”

  She glances down at the paper, open on the table.

  “AIDS?” she asks.

  I nod again. “I think so.” I wonder how she knows. She didn’t have time to read the obituary. And even if she had, all she would have seen was short illness, not the twentieth century plague.

  She wanders away. She whispers something I barely hear that sounds like “He’s okay.” I close the Gay Chicago and stand. I take my uneaten food to the garbage can and throw it away. Right now, it feels as though I’ll never want to eat again.

  As I near the exit, I turn to thank the young woman for her concern, but the only one behind the counter is an older man with a bald pate and wire-rim round glasses. He’s lazily wiping the counter with a rag. He doesn’t look up.

  I feel a chill that’s not dissipated as I head out into the hot and humid night.

  WHEN I GET home, I try to sleep. I succeed, surprisingly, right away, but the dream wakes me. And when my eyes fly open, with my heart hammering out a tribal beat, I recoil at how my sweat has soaked my sheets and pillowcase.

  Night sweats?

  I’d dreamed of Dean. It was that same night I’d seen him—or thought I’d seen him—at Roscoe’s. In the dream, though, I did manage to catch up to him just outside the bar’s front door.

  “Hey Dean!” I call. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t give me any indication he’s heard me even though I’m right behind him. I call out a couple more times, but all I see is the back of him as he strides quickly away. His broad shoulders defined by the leather-studded harness and the way the chaps highlight his ass in tight, faded denim draw my eye, making me a little breathless with desire.

  I follow him east, down shaded streets alive with dancing night shadows. Silhouetted leaves on the pavement move with the wind. It’s eerily quiet—even the sound of my footfalls is muffled, barely there. It’s like one of those nights when I’ve stayed out until a bar with a four a.m. license closes, and I’m looking for a taxi.

  All at once, we’re at the lakefront. The sound of the waves rushes in, and I look out to see a full moon reflected on the water. Its silver glow rises and falls as the lake moves to its own rhythms. I watch Dean cross a broad expanse of grass, heading toward the rocks.

  “Dean! Please wait up. I’d heard you died. But that was a mistake, huh?”

  He mounts the boulders at the edge of the black water and stands for a moment, looking out. He raises his arms to something—the night? The moon? God?

  When he turns, I gasp. It’s not Dean’s face, but Randy’s. His gaze, even in this silvery light, connects with my own.

  I rush toward him.

  He falls backward, disappearing from my view.

  There’s no splash, but I know.

  I know.

  What I see when I get to the top of the rocks is empty water, restless, throwing itself with fury against the boulders.

  I get up from bed. The sweaty sheets are clammy against my skin. Gross. I pad out to my kitchen and draw a glass of water from the tap and then gulp it down. I refill it and glance up at the clock mounted on the soffit above the sink. It’s just past two a.m.

  I know what I need to do.

  I take my glass to the living room and sit on the couch. Very deliberately, and ignoring the logical protests my mind is shouting at me, I dial Randy’s number. I know it’s too late.

  I also know it’s never too late.

  He picks up after a couple of rings.

  The sound of his voice causes a little catch in my breath, maybe even a skipped heartbeat.

  “Randy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s John.”

  All I get is silence, and I’m afraid he’ll hang up, so I simply say, “I was wrong. I miss you. And I need to see you.” I think my statement will be met with scorn, laughter, or indifference.

  But Randy merely says, “There’s a solution for that, you know.”

  Can it be? Could it be?

  “What’s that?”

  “Come over.”

  Normal folks would complain it’s far too late. But that lateness, that stillness that makes it seem like the whole world’s asleep is what makes it so natural for me to say, “I’ll be right over.”

  We disconnect and I hurry to get ready.

  As I head out the door, I think that I’m not headed for the Rogers Park neighborhood, but for the rest of my life.

  Chapter Twenty

  RANDY

  I wait alone in the conference room. It’s hard not to be nervous, even though I requested this meeting. I feel like so much rides on the next hour or so. My life, my family, and my love are all on the line.

  I try to distract myself by taking in the plush furnishings of my attorney’s Michigan Avenue office—all that cherrywood and brass, the sedate oil paintings on the eggshell-colored walls. The windows look out on the lake and Navy Pier. The Tribune Tower’s gothic conceits.

  It’s the tail end of summer, and the sun causes the water to sparkle. Someone has cast diamonds on its surface. Cumulus clouds add a little drama to the neon blue of the sky.

  The door creaks open, startling me.

  Violet stands poised in the open doorway as though debating whether to come inside or not. I haven’t seen her since she slipped out of our apartment several weeks ago, and she seems changed. She might be a little thinner. Her makeup has been applied carefully, and there’s more of it than she usually wears. Despite this, she looks tired, and her eyes project weariness as well as wariness.

  I smile and hope it calms her. “Come on in. I won’t bite.”

  She enters and closes the door behind her. Her footfalls are muted on the plush beige carpet. She sits in one of the leather chairs across the big table from me. Finally, she meets my gaze and gives me a little smile.

  “I’m here,” she says.

  I remind myself to try not to be disappointed that she’s not friendlier, that her attitude toward me is chilly. Maybe this is a great concession on her part. I don’t know.

  “And I appreciate it, Violet.” I try to gather my thoughts, my wits, my words. I attempt to stem the anxiety that’s making my stomach hurt and my palms sweat. “I asked that we have this meeting so we could just talk—you and me, alone. No lawyers, no parents, no psychologists trying to tell us who we are. Just us. The way we once were. Do you think we can talk?”

  Violet crosses her arms and looks out the window. “It’s beautiful out there.”

  I nod. “How’s Henry?”

  “He’s good. He’s really getting into his little Nintendo gadget.” She smiles and, for a moment, her face lights up.

  “I miss him.” I hope she’ll come back with “He misses you,” but if she has anything to report on that score, she’s keeping it to herself.

  I hold it back—asking her if he ever asks about me. If he doesn’t,
I don’t want to know.

  I haven’t been allowed to see my son in far too long. I wonder if this would be a problem if I were a straight man, but not too much. I know. It’s my shame. My heartache. My little boy could be kept from me, and the world would condone it.

  I’ve always been a loving dad.

  But this meeting that I asked my lawyer to set up is not for the airing of grievances. No, this meeting is for the purpose of getting Violet and me alone together for a little while, simply to talk and to see if the two of us can make our way out of this mess without having to resort to more depositions, psychological evaluations, and eventually, a hearing.

  I reach down to the floor and slide a Toys“R”Us bag across the table. “Those are some games for Henry’s Game Boy. The receipt’s in there so he can exchange them if he already has them. Or if he wants something I didn’t know about.”

  The room grows quiet. The air-conditioning hums. I wonder if the chill from it is making me shiver—or is it from something simpler and more complicated—my terror.

  “What do you want from me?” Violet asks. She uncrosses her arms and leans forward.

  “I just want to see if we can work something out, see if we can maybe come to some terms on joint custody.”

  “Joint custody?” Violet shakes her head. “It’s not gonna happen. My parents would never allow it.”

  Your parents? Your parents? What about you?

  Be calm. Don’t shout. Don’t cry. Just talk. “Why? Because I’m gay? Vi, you know I’m a good dad, a good person. You know I’d never harm Henry. I want only the best for him.”

  “I do too,” she says, her voice trembling a little.

  “Then why are you keeping him from me?” I don’t want to bring it up, the night I went up to Evanston with a police escort, so I could see my son. I’ll never forget the flashing lights of the police car, the way the crew-cut blond officer seemed unwilling to help me, seemed almost amused by my existence. He was relieved when my mother-in-law told them that Henry was not in the house.

  The officer wouldn’t listen to me when I argued that Fran was lying.

  The worst horror was when he finally drove away, his flashing blue lights extinguished. Fran had already gone back inside, incensed that I would have the nerve to bring the cops to their suburban home.

  As I got back in my car, the tears now coming, I looked to an upper-story window. Henry appeared there, in his pj’s, his cowlick sticking up. He pressed a hand to the glass. I raised my own hand to wave, but I’m not sure he saw because Fran pulled him away from the window and drew the curtains.

  “I’m just keeping him away until we can get things worked out. Terms, you know?” Violet’s eyes are glassy with tears, and I know this is hurting her too.

  So why is she toeing the line?

  I shrug. “I don’t really. I don’t know, Vi. We were a family. We loved one another. I still love both of you. That’s why I asked if we could meet today, to see if we could go back to being Vi and Randy and just settle things. All I want is to be able to see Henry. I don’t care about stuff—material things. You can have it all.” I know my lawyer would be clapping a hand over my mouth if he were in the room with me. “I’m happy to do whatever we need to about money and child support. I’m not gonna fight you on any of that stuff.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” I get up and move to the other side of the table so I can sit next to her. I try to take one of her hands in my own and quickly learn what a mistake that is when she snatches it away, drawing it back close to her body.

  “Don’t,” she says softly.

  “Violet. Why? Can’t we just make some decisions on Henry?” I’d love joint custody, but I know that, at this point, I’m asking for too much. My own sense of shame and self-loathing, I realize, logically prevents me from pressing for more. So, I offer what I think is pathetic, but hope is acceptable enough. “How about this? One night a week for dinner and a sleepover. And then one day out of the weekend? That’s not too much, is it?”

  She stares at me for a long time. I watch as a couple of tears rise up and dribble down her cheek. She wipes them away with the palm of her hand, seemingly angry at the betrayal of her very own eyes.

  “My parents have bought Henry and me a condo in Evanston up near the Northwestern campus. It’s nice. Henry’ll have his own room that looks out on the courtyard. It even has an en suite bath.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “My parents are paying for him to go to St. Simon’s in the fall.”

  “A Catholic school? Really, Vi? I thought we agreed we wanted him to go to public school, so he could meet different kinds of people.”

  “It’s a good school,” she says. “We don’t have to pay a dime.”

  She crosses her arms and swivels the chair to look out the window again. “I know you hate them, but they’ve been a real help to Henry and me.”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I get what’s between the lines here. My soon-to-be-ex-wife has caved, has been bought. She will sell our son in exchange for security.

  I feel like I’m going to be sick. “Please, Violet, I’m begging you. Don’t let them do this. We don’t have to go to court and bankrupt ourselves.” I doubt Violet has any worries about bankruptcy, even though I do, given her parents’ deep pockets. “Just let me see Henry. One day a week,” I plead.

  She’s on shaky legs as she stands. “We close on the condo next week.”

  “What? How’s that relevant?”

  She grabs the Toys“R”Us bag and then moves toward the closed door. With her hand on the knob, she says, “I’m sorry, Randy. I really am. I just need to do what’s best for our son.” She sniffs. “And for me.”

  “In what world is keeping a boy from his father what’s best?” I cry out, losing my control. “I love him, Vi!”

  She starts out of the room, and I push back the chair to get up and follow.

  She must hear me because she pauses in the doorway and turns back. Her eyes are wounded. It’s almost as though I can sense a desire on her part to reach out to me. She swallows. “Randy. Do you regret any of this? What you’ve done? The lies? The pain you’ve caused?”

  I’m so shocked, I plop back down in my chair. Part of me wants to take on the pain she’s sending my way. That part, still not dead despite therapy and my own self-actualization, hasn’t flatlined yet. “Regrets?” I shake my head. “No, Vi. How can I have regrets when I didn’t choose who I am? I could die, smothered under a mask, or I could lay down my sword and my shield and stop fighting—with myself. I can choose to live an honest life as my authentic self.”

  Vi stands frozen, her lower lip trembling. “An honest life?” she scoffs.

  I ignore her and go on. “And I don’t regret our marriage…and not just because Henry came out of it. That’s a wonderful plus. But we had good years together, didn’t we? We were happy. It wasn’t just me. I’m sorry if it took me so long to accept who I am, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. I did. I do. And I believe I’ll continue to, no matter what.

  “Regrets. Huh-uh, no. Do you?”

  She closes her eyes for a minute, and I wonder what she’ll say.

  But she says nothing. She simply turns and walks away.

  I jump up and follow her down the long hallway toward the lobby with its chrome and leather. I watch her pace quicken, the sway of her hips beneath the long floral patterned skirt she’s wearing.

  We get to the lobby.

  And Henry’s there with his grandma. My heart rises and I can’t help myself. “Henry!” I cry, joy coursing through me like a drug. I drop to my knees right there in front of the half dozen or so strangers seated in the lobby.

  Fran wouldn’t dare hold him back in front of these people, would she? And I know Violet wouldn’t, couldn’t. Despite everything, I still cling to the knowledge that Violet has a heart.

  My boy runs to me. My boy is in my arms. I squeeze him to me ti
ghtly, my breath gone, feeling only a huge swell of love that surrounds the two of us in a cocoon of warmth. I can’t believe how small he feels and, paradoxically, how big he feels in my arms. Solid. Real.

  I hold him for a time, and then we pull back and look into each other’s eyes. Henry’s smiling.

  “I’ve missed you so much, son.”

  “Did you, Daddy?” Henry sniffs and I can tell he’s trying not to cry. “Grandma and Grandpa said you didn’t want to see me. They said you had a new life.”

  I shake my head. “Henry. That’s not true. I miss you every day.” I think about telling him about all the calls I’ve made to the house, my trip in the night with the cops, the letters I’ve written—all the futile efforts I’ve made to try to see him, if only for a moment. All thwarted by people whom I hope believe they’re doing the right thing, that they’re doing what’s best for the child. But I don’t tell him any of that stuff. He’s just a little guy, and he loves his mom and his grandparents. They’re his family, too, however much they want to thwart my relationship with him.

  Bottom line, I know Henry can use as much love in his life as possible, so I’ll just try to focus on the positive.

  “Listen, I always want to see you. I always want you to be in my life. Every day. You’re my little boy. I love you. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. Grandma and Grandpa love you, but they’re mixed up—they got it wrong.”

  I look up to see Fran and Violet standing above us. Fran’s lips are compressed into a thin line, and I can see she’s holding back her anger. I try to believe that, just like I am, she’s looking out for her baby. Right or wrong, she views me as a bringer of pain, a threat. Still, it’s hard not to throw that hate and rage right back in her face.

  I stand up, but continue to hold Henry’s hand. “Hi, Fran.”

  “Randy,” she says, the chill in her voice well below the temperature of this air-conditioned office. “We need to get Henry home now. He has day camp to go to.”

  “We’re making Popsicle-stick airplanes!” Henry tells me.