Blake was silent, not wanting to interrupt his father.
“Love is a gift, and when it’s offered to you, you’d better take it. Your mother and I had a huge hurdle to jump when we first met, namely an unexpected baby, but we loved each other and made it work. It wasn’t always easy, but we shared a wonderful life and I’m eternally grateful for that.”
Blake grasped his father’s hand.
“Anyway, I’ll be fine. At least I have Dexter and my garden…what’s left of it…to keep me company. And I promise to come up to San Francisco for a visit.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Blake sent his father into the living room to watch television and began gathering the dirty dishes from the table. As he washed them, he thought about what his father had said about accepting love when it’s offered. Suddenly, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed Joe’s number.
“Hi,” Joe said, “how are you holding up?”
“Fine, just doing some dishes.”
“I can’t wait for you to be back in San Francisco.”
“Me either. In fact, I’m calling because I want to ask you to move in with me…for good.”
Chapter Twenty
The next morning Blake hugged his father good-bye at the airline gate. “You promise you’ll come up to visit,” he said, “and that you’ll call me whenever you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine. And, yes, I promise I’ll plan a trip to San Francisco.”
“I’ll pay for your ticket. You just say when.”
“Go, before you miss your flight.” Ben hugged him again.
The cab ride from the airport to Nob Hill was a quick one, and Blake paid the fare and hurried up to his condo, eager to see Joe. When he entered his apartment he placed his bag on the floor and discovered Joe on the small balcony, enjoying a cup of coffee. He was freshly showered and wearing nothing but a pair of red athletic shorts.
Joe smiled as Blake stepped out onto the balcony. “Welcome home.” He rose and kissed Blake passionately on the mouth, apparently hungry for his man after three days apart.
“Is it your home, too?” Blake asked as he gazed into Joe’s eyes.
Joe lowered his head for a moment, then looked back into Blake’s eyes. “I hope so,” he said. “I’m just not sure that right now is the best time.”
Blake held on to Joe, afraid of what was coming next.
“Blake,” Joe gripped Blake tight, “I’m not saying no. I just think we need to take things slowly. We haven’t known each other that long and there are practical considerations to take into account.”
“Like what?” Blake felt like a balloon that had just been deflated. “Don’t you love me?”
“You know I love you. I would have to break the lease on my apartment to move in here, and I’m not sure I should do that.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Blake said. “I own this condo—”
“And what if, for some reason, things don’t work out between us? Then I’m stuck looking for another apartment with a history of having broken a lease.”
Blake nodded, feeling defeated. He hated to admit it, but Joe’s reasoning was sound and he could offer no further argument. “You sure gave it a lot of thought,” he said, finally.
“Because I love the idea. And I hope you’ll keep the offer on the table while we get to know one another a little better. Besides,” he added with an extra squeeze, “my lease is up in two months.”
Blake’s mood lightened. Two months wasn’t that long to wait.
“Come on,” Joe said, leading Blake into the living room and toward the bedroom, “let me show you how much I missed you.”
*
The next day, Blake called Marty with the welcome news that he had decided not to quit the show after all. The producer sounded relieved, his tone conciliatory.
“That’s good news, kid,” he said. “I knew you’d make the right decision.”
“When’s our next taping?” Blake asked, flipping through his appointment book.
“Next Wednesday. Unless that’s too soon for you. We can reschedule if you want.”
Blake had to laugh at Marty’s willingness to be so accommodating. Obviously Blake’s threat to leave the show had put the fear of God into him.
“No, that’s fine.” Blake marked the date in his appointment book. “Where are we filming?”
“Alcatraz, right out your back door. A piece of cake.”
“Marty, a lot of other ghost shows have already covered Alcatraz. Is it really important that we do it, too?”
“That’s the point, Blake. Everybody’s done it but us. We have to do it, too.”
“You’re right,” Blake said. “Alcatraz it is, then.”
*
The following Wednesday, accompanied by Marty, Melody, and a cameraman, Blake took a ferry from Fisherman’s Wharf destined for Alcatraz. The ferry, chartered solely for the Haunted California crew, was devoid of the groups of tourists it would usually carry to the island. As they stood on the deck, seagulls hovered just above them, riding the strong sea winds. As the massive ferry churned slowly across the bay, Blake took in the surroundings. To the east he could see the Bay Bridge, already congested with traffic headed into and out of the city. To the west was the Golden Gate, its topmost parts shrouded in patches of early fog, like bits of down, slowly creeping into the inner bay. Just past Alcatraz lay Angel Island and, past that, Sausalito.
As the ferry neared the sandstone island, Melody pointed to movement on the rocky shores. “Pelicans!” she exclaimed, snapping a photo of the ridiculous-looking birds.
“They’re where Alcatraz got its name,” Blake said. “La Isla de los Alcatraces…the island of pelicans.”
“Somebody did his homework,” Melody said.
Blake ignored her and watched as the pelicans suddenly took to the air. He was slightly jealous of her and her news that she and Hope had decided to move in together. He was happy for her, of course. Melody deserved to be happy and things seemed to be going well for her and her new girlfriend. Blake only wished that things would go as well for him and Joe.
The ferry circled to the east of Alcatraz and pulled up to a jetty on the north of the island, its propellers churning up the gray waters of the bay as it slowed to position itself at the point of debarkation. Blake looked up at the decaying structures looming on the horizon, their concrete walls crumbling from years of exposure to the sea air. Some of the buildings were mere shells, having been destroyed by mysterious fires in the late seventies, after the island had been closed as a prison. The main building, a massive structure at the center of the island, seemed dark and foreboding, despite the clear, sunny day. Not surprisingly, Blake became suddenly aware of voices—possibly hundreds of them—echoing from within the walls of the structure. Blake shared this information with his companions.
“I’ll bet the place is full of ghosts,” Melody said.
“Well, let’s just remember,” Blake said, recalling the ghost at the Bayside Bar, “most of these men weren’t exactly law-abiding citizens when they were alive. They might not welcome us very graciously.”
As they stepped off the ferry a ranger from the National Park Service, a tall, handsome young man with dark sideburns that extended down his face from under his ranger hat, greeted them. He stuck out his hand in greeting and Blake admired his tan, muscular forearms. Back in the old days, the days before Joe, the handsome ranger was the type of guy Blake would have been all over. Before the end of shooting the old Blake would have had the cute ranger bent over a bathroom sink, his pants around his ankles, getting fucked up the ass.
Get a grip, Blake told himself, you’re in a relationship now.
Introductions were made and as the ranger, who identified himself as Craig, led them up a paved driveway and into the main prison building, Blake stole another glance at Craig’s shapely ass. As Blake entered the building, the voices he had heard from outside suddenly stopped.
“That’s weird,” he whispered to M
elody. “The voices stopped the minute I walked in.”
Melody closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “They know you have the power to see them,” she said. “You’re like a paranormal parole board.”
“That should make for a fun evening,” Blake deadpanned.
In an area that the park ranger identified as the Block C utility corridor, Blake spotted numerous spirits. He mentioned this to the ranger.
“There was a prison riot here back in the mid nineteen forties,” he replied. “Prisoners were killed here. Some guards were murdered, too.”
Similar scenes accosted Blake in the hospital ward, the therapy room, and Cell Blocks A and B. When they reached the area known as “the hole,” however, the energy was almost oppressive.
“This is where rebellious prisoners were placed for punishment,” the ranger explained. “There wouldn’t be a lot of happy memories attached to this area.”
As they moved past the darkened, windowless cells Blake stopped in front of Cell 14-D, aware of sobbing inside. He hesitated and shared a startled expression with Melody, who also appeared to have sensed something inside. Slowly, he grasped the cold metal handle in his hand. It was rusty, its paint cracked and peeling, and was difficult to turn. With a great heave, Blake tugged and the heavy door creaked open on its rusted hinges. Inside, crouching in a far corner, was the ghost of a young man, probably only in his thirties. He was completely naked, and his pallid skin was dirty and bruised. He looked at Blake with real fear and covered his head with his hands. “Don’t hurt me, sir,” he whispered. “I promise not to fight anymore.”
Blake took a deep breath and stepped into the cold cell. Immediately, he was overcome with great sadness and, despite the fairly warm day, he shivered. “What’s your name?” he asked softly. His breath fogged the air in front of his face as he spoke.
“Sam,” the ghost replied. “Sam Willis.”
“Sam,” Blake said, stepping aside, “you’re free to go now.”
“B-back to my cell?” the spirit asked.
“No. From this prison.”
The spirit looked momentarily perplexed. Then, seeing that Blake was serious, he rose from the corner and slowly stepped out into the corridor, light from the high windows illuminating his pale body.
The cameraman, who was filming everything, recorded a bright orb exiting the cell. “This is good footage,” he whispered to Marty, who was standing beside him.
Finally realizing his freedom was no joke, the spirit began to slowly fade and floated to the high windows. Without looking back, he disappeared through the mesh-filled glass.
The symbolism of having freed an erstwhile prisoner’s ghost from a prison—both literally and figuratively—wasn’t lost on Blake and, for the second time since regaining his powers, he was thankful for the opportunity to be useful. In fact, the painful realization that he had nearly locked away his own spiritual energy in a prison of his own making suddenly hit him, and Blake knew what he had to do. It was the right thing, the honorable thing, and it was his destiny.
“Come on,” he said to those gathered around him. He strode purposefully out of the hole and into the main cell block. Standing at the end of the cells, he called out in a loud voice. “This prison is officially closed.” His voice echoed off the cold walls and down the empty corridors. “If any of you wish to leave, you are free to do so now!”
Craig, the park ranger, touched Blake’s arm. “Wait,” he whispered, “I have an idea.” He walked to the wall and pressed a button on an old but still functioning control panel. Suddenly, the grating sound of cell doors sliding open reverberated throughout the chamber. The group stood silent, awaiting any sign of activity. Then, slowly, spirits began to emerge from their cells.
“Wow,” whispered the cameraman, whose camera recorded a mixture of orbs, mists, and shadowy figures emerging from cells, walls, and even the concrete floor.
Blake spoke once again, in a loud voice. “You’re free to leave this island. Go in peace.”
The spirits seemed to date back to the very beginning of the island’s use as a fort and prison. Blake watched as the ghosts, a mixture of Native Americans, Civil War soldiers, and 1930s gangsters, all stepped out into the open. Even ghosts dressed in the uniforms of the former prison guards were present, and they all took Blake’s cue and began to vanish, floating out the massive windows and disappearing into the night. They had been murdered, committed suicide, and died of illness and insanity. Some, Blake knew, had murdered other people during their lifetimes, but none of that mattered to him. He was no judge, was not there to damn anyone, merely there to set the spirits free of their earthly bonds.
Once the spirit activity seemed to have ceased, Marty looked at Blake. “Is that it?” he whispered. “We’ve filmed a lot of creepy shit over the years, but this was the most impressive display I’ve ever seen.”
“There are still spirits here,” Melody said. “I can sense them.”
Blake nodded. “I can, too. They’re the ones who either don’t trust us or don’t want to leave.” He turned to Craig, the park ranger. “They may never leave.”
*
The return voyage to Fisherman’s Wharf was mostly uneventful, except for a couple of enterprising spirits recently freed from Alcatraz, who took advantage of the ferry by stowing away for the short ride to the city. Apparently, it was the only way they knew to get off the island, but Blake avoided the urge to correct them. Who knew? Maybe this was how they felt they were supposed to have left Alcatraz.
Blake glanced to his right and admired the Golden Gate Bridge, now illuminated with artificial lights. Since moving to San Francisco he had been unable to cross the span without seeing numerous ghosts milling around on its deck. That had always made sense to Blake, who assumed they were the ghosts of suicides, jumpers from the bridge. It had never occurred to him, though, that the bridge might be a great setting for one of their shows. Blake realized that obtaining the necessary permits to close the bridge to traffic, however, might prove prohibitive, but he made a mental note to ask Marty as soon as they were back on shore. As Blake stood on the deck of the ferry admiring first the bridge and then the lights of the city against the dark sky, Marty approached him.
“Still sorry we did the Alcatraz thing?” he asked, grinning.
Marty was gloating but had been right, so he deserved to gloat a little.
“No,” Blake admitted good-naturedly. “You were right and I feel like I helped a lot of sad spirits move on today.”
Marty slapped Blake on the shoulder, a comradely gesture obviously meant to instill in Blake a sense of “no hard feelings.”
“The network big shots are going to love the footage we got tonight,” Marty said. “I have a feeling they’ll want to sign you on for another season.”
Marty studied Blake’s face, seemingly for any sort of reaction, but Blake kept his eyes on the approaching skyline. “I’m on board for that,” he finally said. “Honestly, Marty, I’m fine, and ready to get back to work. What we did today only made me realize that more.”
“Glad to hear it, kid,” he said.
“Listen, Marty,” Blake said, happy to change topics, “I was wondering what it would be like to film a segment on the Golden Gate. I mean, it’s filled with ghosts.”
Marty turned and looked at the bridge, which was slowly receding into the distance, his expression all business.
“Hell,” he said, the wheels obviously slowly turning in his head. “Permits alone will cost us a pretty fucking penny…and that’s if city hall will even grant us permission to close the bridge to film.”
“I thought of that.”
“A lot of commuters will be pissed too. But it’s not like the bridge has never been closed for filming before. And think of the publicity.”
He faced Blake with a large smile. “Now that’s the kind of shit I’m talking about!” He slapped Blake on the back again. “I’ll talk to a buddy of mine down at city hall tomorrow and see if we can’t get the bal
l rolling.”
He abruptly turned and walked toward Melody, who was standing nearby. Probably to give her the same spiel about another season, Blake guessed.
Once back at the wharf, they went their separate ways, all but Blake and Melody, who hailed a cab.
“First stop, Mason and Sacramento,” Blake instructed the driver, “then to the Mission.”
As the cab pulled away from the curb, Blake turned to Melody. “So I guess you got the same talk from Marty?”
“About another season? Yeah. I told him I was in if you were. He said you were.”
Blake nodded. “It felt good…what we did today. I suppose that’s what I was meant to do with my life.”
“I’m in for it as long as you are.” Melody took his hand. “I really am glad we met.”
Blake looked at her, filled with what could only be described as love. “Mel, I…”
“I love you, too,” she said softly.
The cab slowed at the top of Sacramento Street. “Where do you want to get out?” the driver asked, looking in the mirror.
“Right here’s fine.” Blake fished enough money from his pocket to cover Melody’s fare, too, and thanked the driver. “Tell the wife I said hello,” he said to Melody as he exited the cab.
As the cab drove away toward the Mission, Blake walked the remaining few steps to his building and got on the elevator. As he stepped into his apartment, pleasant smells emanating from the kitchen greeted him. Joe stepped out of the kitchen wearing nothing but an apron, and Blake grinned.
They might not officially be living together yet, but playing house was going to be fun.
Chapter Twenty-one
Two weeks later, the ringing telephone beside the bed woke Blake from a sound sleep. Still naked from their earlier lovemaking, Joe rolled over and grimaced at Blake. “Who the hell could that be?” he grumbled before quickly dozing off again.
Blake looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was five in the morning and Joe hadn’t gotten off work from his shift at the Bayside Bar until after two. Although he was perturbed at the ridiculous hour, Blake answered, not recognizing the number and aware that somebody could be in trouble. He hoped it wasn’t his father.
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