Snowman

by Abramson, Mark

  "Bartholomew! Where have you been? I thought you were hiding under the bed this morning. How did you get all the way over here? You bad boy." Ruth held the cat and petted him for a moment until he jumped down and scampered through a hole in a corner of the room. "I can’t believe it. That’s my cat I dragged all the way out here from Minnesota. He’s become more and more scarce ever since my daughter arrived. He can’t stand her!"

  Amanda pulled a small flashlight out of her purse and pointed it in the direction where the cat had disappeared. The wall there was old wainscoting with chipped yellow paint. "The smell is even stronger over here." She ran her black-gloved hand along the dirty trim of the boards. "Hold this flashlight, Ruth.

  Aim it right along here while I try pushing on these boards."

  The panel popped open to reveal another room where the cat had gone, but there was no sign of Bartholomew now.

  Ruth sprayed the flashlight’s dim beam around the dark room. It wasn’t strong enough to reach the far corners, but the women could see that the floor was littered with antifreeze containers and empty Drano cans. A trash barrel overflowed with used coffee filters stained red. Along the nearest wall stood an assortment of camping fuel cans and a dozen half-gallons of paint thinner.

  "Paint!" Ruth said. "That was the other thing Captain O’Sullivan asked us about that I forgot. He wanted to know if anyone had been painting in the restaurant because they found a bunch of paint cans in the dumpster.

  "Are you sure you heard him say that they found paint cans?" Amanda asked.

  "No, come to think of it… they might have said paint thinner."

  "Meow!"

  "Bartholomew? Where are you, boy?" Ruth turned the flashlight toward the back of the room where they discovered that it opened in an L-shape to reveal an even larger space. Ruth froze in her tracks. The stench was even worse here.

  Amanda took the flashlight from Ruth and stepped further inside. One large wooden table held a hot plate and enough vials and beakers to be the envy of any junior high school science wiz. "Ruth, come here and take a look at this."

  Ruth didn’t want to go any further. She wished she had a flashlight of her own and she sensed that she had seen enough for one day. "I can’t see anything and this place gives me the creeps." Ruth wanted to run back out into the sunlight, but she heard her cat again.

  "It’s a regular laboratory," Amanda said. "And there’s another table too. It has some knives on it and it looks like…"

  Ruth screamed, "Bartholomew! What are you doing?"

  The cat was perched high on an old wooden chopping block. He was licking something shiny and wet off a meat cleaver. "My God, Amanda… that looks like blood. I’m sure it’s blood! Let’s get out of here."

  "I think I could use that Manhattan about now. Let’s go back to the restaurant and call the police."

  Chapter 13

  im woke up early on Saturday morning. He was naked and sweaty, his legs tangled in a knot of damp sheets T that he tried to kick off as he came out of his dream. He opened his eyes and noticed the dim light of dawn on the misty bedroom windows. He’d been having one of his important dreams—he just knew it—but as soon as he opened his eyes it slipped away. He squeezed his eyes shut tight again, tried not to move, tried not to breathe, tried to hold onto it, but it scurried away like roaches in the light.

  He’d been having psychic dreams for years, just like his late grandmother did, or so they told him. He could barely remember her, but still kept her picture on his nightstand, a framed photograph of Tim as a small boy beside her on a blue and green plaid blanket by the lake in Powderhorn Park in Minneapolis on the Fourth of July. He looked at the picture again as he rolled over to the dry side of the bed. He wished his grandmother could answer all his questions and help him now.

  What good are these dreams? They’re only a nuisance if I can’t figure out what they mean. And now I’m having night sweats again? Do I need to see my doctor again and have him change my meds? Why am I burning up tonight? Why did you leave me with this stupid, so-called gift when I don’t know what to do with it?

  All that Tim could remember about the dream had to do with a fire, a huge hot conflagration, with flames shooting high into the sky above the treetops. Maybe the fire had already happened. Sometimes Tim’s dreams worked that way. He was in the hospital in Sebastopol last winter when Nick’s nursery and greenhouses exploded, sent showers of glass through the redwood trees, collapsed in upon themselves and burned to the ground. No… this fire hasn’t happened yet… and it will be right here in San Francisco… right here in the neighborhood… and it will be close enough that I can smell it.

  Tim woke up again an hour later. He put on the coffee and ran down the front steps for the morning paper. The Saturday Chronicle was as thin as a supermarket flyer these days, now that the Internet had killed the want-ads and there was apparently no real news this week. He checked his email and discovered a note that Nick had sent late last night: Hey, Snowman. I won’t call you because it’s pretty late and I’d hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, but I’m coming down to the city tomorrow afternoon and I hope you’ll want to see me. This separation has gone on long enough, as far as I’m concerned. Can I take you to dinner? Let me know what you think.

  Otherwise I’ll drive straight to Alameda to my folks’

  house. I want to see you bad, man!

  Tim hit REPLY and sent a one-word response: Cum!

  He’d thought all week that he needed more time alone or that Nick needed more time alone, but now that he’d made up his mind about it, Tim couldn’t wait to see Nick again. He knew he should stay out of the sun, but he decided to head to Dolores Park this morning anyway. He needed the walk and the fresh air would do him good. He lathered on a thick coating of sun block as soon as he got out of the shower.

  He hoped he’d made the right decision. He hoped that Nick wasn’t coming to see him out of pity. Tim could always find something to be paranoid about, but now his physical craving to be with Nick outweighed any other factors.

  There was barely a breeze in the park and the only clouds in sight were fleecy cotton balls nudging the towers of the Bay Bridge. It was already getting crowded, even for a Saturday, but Tim had noticed lately that weekdays could be just as busy if the weather was good. San Franciscans weren’t apt to let little things like going to work get in the way of a perfect day.

  Tomorrow might be foggy or "the big one" might hit tonight.

  "The big one" meant the next big earthquake to most people, but the first time Tim heard that expression was on Castro Street, so he just assumed someone was bragging about his new boyfriend or his latest trick. Tim crossed the footbridge over the MUNI tracks and the sound of bongo drums floated up.

  He looked down over the railing and spotted the source, a sexy brown-skinned boy with hair past his shoulders. It was strung with feathers and beads and Tim thought at first that the boy was naked. It was hard to tell, considering the strategically placed drums and the way his hair fell. He was a photograph from another time.

  Tim spread a towel on the "gay beach" below 20th and Church Streets. It was too early for the ice cream vendors’ carts.

  Their bells reminded Tim of his first tricycle, but the only sounds now were from a helicopter over the freeway and distant sirens.

  This morning’s dream tried to creep back into his memory…

  something about guns and the police. The fire came later on. If only Tim’s grandmother had lived long enough to teach him what these dreams were for… if only she’d explained to him the specialness, the "gift"—as they called it—that rare talent that belonged to him now.

  Police and guns were nothing extraordinary. Cops carried guns. So what? Tim’s frustration made him disgusted with himself and his useless dreams. It was still before noon, but he fished the Altoids box out of his backpack and took two hits off a fresh joint. Then he pulled out the Thermos of coffee and the newspaper.

  Tim hadn’t believed his downsta
irs neighbor Jane when she said they might close Dolores Park for two years, but here was an article about it. How could they? This was like Tim’s back yard. Sure, the toilets needed repairs and the playground could stand to be modernized, but two years? The whole park? It had something to do with Obama’s stimulus package for shovel-ready projects. What could be more shovel-ready than a former cemetery? Tim thought about writing a letter to the White House threatening not to vote for Obama in 2012 if they closed Dolores Park for two full years!

  He was supposed to be looking for something else in the paper. What was it his Aunt Ruth had told him? Oh, yeah… she got in to see Rene to have her hair done yesterday because some movie star had cancelled. Tim flipped through the Chronicle, but he didn’t see mention of any movie stars. Leah Garchik might have had something about it in her column, but she only ran Mondays through Fridays. No matter. What did Tim care about movie stars? Nick was coming down tonight.

  It might be more practical to send an email to his local supervisor, or was Bevan Dufty too busy running for mayor these days to worry about Dolores Park? A J-Church streetcar stopped on the corner and a gaggle of 20-something gay boys got out, mincing and giggling toward where Tim was sitting.

  They plopped down blankets a few yards away and started blasting their music, if you could call it that. Hip-hop wasn’t what Tim had in mind today. It was common knowledge that Bevan Dufty was Billie Holliday’s god-son. At least Billie sang songs with understandable lyrics. What would she think about a generation of young gay white boys playing black music that wasn’t really music and wasn’t really poetry? Now Tim was in one of his indignant moods and even more convinced that he should write to Bevan Dufty. Something had to be done!

  Tim took another hit off the joint and turned to the crossword puzzle, but it was a tricky one today. The New York Times Sunday puzzle was always in the Chronicle the following Saturday. Tim got a few of the smaller words before he got stuck on six down… six letters… "place." Sometimes it helped to put it aside for a while. Maybe it was a verb, not a noun. He was tempted to call Aunt Ruth to see if she’d finished this one yet.

  She was so good at crosswords and his cell phone was somewhere in his backpack. Then he remembered she was with Sam. They would be waking up in their suite at the Claremont this morning.

  "Tim Snow!" Someone shouted. "Over here! Hey… Tim!"

  A blonde guy on a bicycle stopped on the sidewalk, climbed off and came toward him. The noise of a J-Church streetcar heading south blocked out any other sound for the moment.

  "Hiya Patrick," Tim recognized his co-worker—his former co-worker. Tim hadn’t seen Patrick in months, since long before Tim’s accident. He tried to remember when. It must have been back when he and Patrick were both still working at the restaurant before Patrick went off to the Betty Ford Clinic. Was that the first or the second time?

  "Looking good," Tim said. Patrick had put on a few pounds in the right places and lost that hollow-cheeked look he was showing toward the end. "What’s new?"

  "Haven’t you heard?"

  Tim didn’t know what Patrick meant, but he tried to be subtle about hiding the Altoids box under his Chronicle. "Heard what?"

  "Well, for starters, I’ve been clean and sober over six months this time," Patrick announced.

  Whenever Tim heard the words "clean and sober," he craved a cold beer or a salty Margarita more than a joint.

  "Congratulations… but what do you mean ‘this’ time?"

  "Well, it didn’t happen overnight. Arturo and Artie sent me to the Betty Ford Clinic the first two times, you know…"

  "No, I didn’t," Tim said. "I thought…"

  "But that didn’t take," Patrick shook his head, paused and looked away for a moment, staring off across the Dolores Park before he continued. "I met a really sweet guy at Betty Ford, though – Darryl. We hit it off, sorta became boyfriends, and when we both got out I spent a few weeks with him in Santa Monica. It was the first time either one of us had ever had sex without being high on something."

  "Ever?" Tim liked to smoke pot before sex, but he couldn’t imagine that he’d never had sex when he was "clean and sober".

  "First time in years, anyway. We only tried it once though – straight, I mean. Then we both got so turned on—after all that dry time—we just had to get high so we could keep on going."

  Tim thought Patrick might be clean and sober now, but he still talked like a speed freak. Tim could barely manage to get a word in when Patrick stopped to breathe. "Oh Patrick…" Tim said. He was frowning now, but at least he’d managed to get two words in together this time – "Oh" and "Patrick."

  "Haven’t you ever fucked on crystal, man?" Patrick asked.

  "No I haven’t and I’m not into partying… just pot."

  "Well, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it! You can do amazing things and you can go for days and days." Patrick stopped and said, "Sorry. That’s the old tape playing. That was the ‘old’ Patrick. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t need to. I’m better than that."

  "It sounds like…" Tim tried again.

  "Now I work with E.T. That stands for ‘Ex-Tweakers.’ A lot of the guys from Tweaker.org moved over to this group.

  They took all they’d learned there and put a new spin on it and now we’re really helping people get clean. It’s given my life a whole new meaning. Last night I was out South of Marketall night long. Lots of partiers down there. We handed out flyers until they closed the dance floor and we talked to people who wanted help coming down, let them know about us. Tonight I’m working Collingwood Park."

  "What about Darryl?" Tim asked. "What happened to…"

  "He moved back up here with me. I haven’t seen him in a couple of weeks, though. He went to Santa Barbara for his grandmother’s funeral and then he was gonna look up some old friends."

  "I hope he’s…"

  "Tim, how are you doing, anyway?" Patrick asked. "I heard all about your Aunt Ruth discovering the big meth lab in the Castro yesterday afternoon."

  "What?" Tim sat bolt upright on his beach towel.

  "Haven’t you heard?" Patrick asked while Tim reached into his backpack again, bypassing the Altoids box and groping for his cell phone. He still wasn’t sure how to work all its gadgetry, but between Nick and his Aunt Ruth, they had taught him the basics, like how to call either of them whenever he needed to. If he’d known he could use dudesurfer.com from his cell phone, he would have learned all its features a long time ago.

  " Hi! You have reached Ruth Taylor’s voice mail. Please leave me a message at the…"

  "Damn," Tim said to Patrick, as well as to the phone in his hand. "She must be…"

  "I’m surprised she didn’t tell you, of all people," Patrick said. "It was in that apartment building on Hartford that just got sold. You know the one right behind the restaurant."

  "Behind Arts?" Tim asked.

  "Yeah, she was with some other older lady. She was the one who actually called the cops because your Aunt Ruth had to be someplace. Maybe that’s why she didn’t call you." Patrick glanced at his watch. "The news was all over South of Market last night, though. Man, look at the time. I’ve gotta go. It was good talking to you. Take care, okay?"

  Patrick was up and away on his bicycle, pedaling down the sidewalk in the direction of Mission High School before Tim could even find his lighter. He took a long toke off the joint and tried the phone again . "Hi! You have reached Ruth Taylor’s…" It was Saturday. Arts would be open for lunch. He could walk over there and find out what was going on. Artie would know or Arturo would be able to tell him.

  Tim dropped the phone into his bag and leaned back on his beach towel. There was no big rush. It wasn’t even noon yet.

  There was a slight breeze and this was the first time he had smoked grass since last weekend at Sam’s pool when he met Adam. He’d gotten out of the habit this winter while he was wrapped in a cast and bandages, afraid it would make his claustrophobia worse.

  He wriggled hi
s toes and stretched out his arms and legs and took another hit. Nick was coming to town this afternoon and Tim would get to spend the evening and the whole night with him and all day Sunday. It would be just like old times when they first met. Tim realized he felt better than he had in a long time.

  Distant laughter floated on the breeze over the crest of the grassy ledge where Tim had spread his things. He sat up and listened, poured another cup of coffee from the Thermos and picked up the crossword puzzle. Maybe being stoned would help him see the clues in a new light. Tim heard one laugh that curled up into a tiny squeal at the end. He knew that laugh; it was Sarah, the downstairs neighbors’ daughter, the magic child.

  Tim shielded the sun from his eyes with his hand.

  Sarah was on a swing moving in tall arcs through the air. She was being pushed by a handsome black man… it had to be Adam, of course, but Tim didn’t recognize him right away with all his clothes on. They had spent more time together in swimsuits beside Sam’s pool in Hillsborough or riding bare-chested in the Thunderbird convertible with the top down than they had with their clothes on.