by Dorien Grey
*
You’re not ashamed of me, are you, Elliott?
Elliott’s body jerked, almost waking him up. Despite the countless times he’d had these sleep visits from the spirit he’d first encountered sitting beside him in the hospital following a traumatic head injury, every now and then he was caught by surprise.
John! You scared me.
Isn’t that what ghosts do? Scare people?
Elliott knew John was teasing. He never referred to himself as a ghost, and Elliott certainly didn’t think of him as one.
Yeah, well don’t quit your day job. Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in…how long?
I’m not sure. I’ve told you, my time is different from your time. But it can’t have been that long, can it?
Well over a month.
You’re kidding! Time sure does fly when you’re having fun…and being dead helps, I suppose.
So, where have you been?
I kind of hesitate to say.
Why?
I don’t want you to think I’m bragging, or for you to ever think that where I am is better than where you are. Let’s just say that when you don’t have to worry about breathing or feeling any pain or discomfort, you can do a lot.
Like?
Well, I went back to Africa, to the lake where the ferry I was on capsized and I walked around underwater among the crocodiles and the hippos, just to see what it would be like. I didn’t stay long. The hippos were kind of interesting, but incredibly messy, and I found the crocodiles every bit as nasty now as when I…before. Not everything’s fun, even for me.
You’re serious?
Would I lie?
So, are you going to be around for a while?
I’m not sure. There are a couple of things I’d like to do around town, so maybe. Now, you really should get back to sleep. You have to work tomorrow.
Yeah, you’re right.
Oh, and don’t worry about Steve. He’s not stupid.
*
Elliott always considered himself lucky in being able to throw himself so completely into his work he seldom noticed the time, with the result that every day passed quickly. It seemed as though he had hardly gotten to work Friday morning when it was time to go home.
As he approached the door to the inner lobby after picking up his mail, he couldn’t help but notice a nice-looking kid around twenty standing at the window beside the entry door, asking Marco to tell Mr. Caesar that Perry was there. Buzzing Elliott in with one hand, Marco picked up the phone with the other. As Elliott stood waiting for the elevator, the young man—Perry—joined him. They exchanged nods, and Elliott, curious but not wanting to appear too much so, fixed his eyes on the digital display indicating the ascent of the cars. He could feel the kid’s eyes on him.
Turning to him, he smiled and said, “So, you’re a friend of Bruno’s,” making it a statement rather than a question.
The kid gave him a small smile. “You could say that.”
On closer observation, Elliott decided Perry was probably older than he’d first thought, and his good looks had that indefinable hardness Elliott associated with hustlers. The young man with Bruno the first night Elliott had seen him had borne the same look. It wasn’t the hardness of a street hustler but rather a certain self-confident awareness and defensiveness. Elliott pegged him as being a mid-level escort and wondered how Bruno had come across him—on the Internet, or through a newspaper classified.
While Elliott had no idea what Bruno’s predilections had been before winning the lottery, it was clear he was indulging them freely now. He wondered again about the effect of sudden wealth on those who had never had it before, and hoped Bruno would not follow the path of so many others in his same situation. He’d heard that seventy-five percent of all lottery winners went through every penny of the money they won within five years.
Still, aside from his parties and his indulgence in hustlers, Bruno didn’t seem to be throwing his money away.
The elevator’s stopping at 4 to let on a woman with a wheeled cart of laundry precluded any further conversation, and they rode to 33, where the woman got off, in silence. As Elliott got off on 35, he and Perry exchanged nods, and Perry said, “See ya.” Elliott rather doubted it.
*
Sleeping in was a luxury Elliott rarely allowed himself, so he was surprised to awaken to see his bedside clock indicating it was 7:20. He threw on his robe and went into the kitchen to make coffee, then wandered into the living room for his ritual checking of the city, which swept out before him to the towers of the Loop and beyond to the horizon somewhere off to the left.
He could see the scoop of the lake where Illinois became Indiana. The sun was shining brightly, and to the east over the grey-green, whitecap-flecked lake, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. However, to the west, a line of dark and quickly moving cumulus clouds advanced on the city like a phalanx of Hannibal’s elephants.
By the time he’d had a glass of V-8, poured his coffee, cut and toasted a bagel, and slathered it with cream cheese, the light level in the living room had been reduced by half. A few minutes after that, a grey veil of rain and low clouds obscured his view of the loop.
He went into the den to catch the news while he ate, but he’d missed the headlines so turned the TV back off. On a whim, he went to the bookcase and pulled out a dog-eared copy of his favorite book—Chess-piece, by Morgan Butler—whose work he’d discovered while still in high school. He’d read all of Butler’s books and two biographies of the closeted writer, who had killed himself in 1953 at the age of thirty-one.
Though Elliott didn’t think of himself as a romantic, Butler’s life story—his inability to break the bonds of a domineering father and an unforgiving society had doomed his relationship with the man he loved—had for some reason resonated deeply, though he could never understand why.
He was still reading at noon when Cessy called to invite him—“and Steve”—to Brad, Jr.’s, regional high school swim meet the following Saturday afternoon.
“I’ll have to check with Steve to see if he can make it, but you can tell BJ I’ll be there in either case.”
“I hope you both can make it,” she said. “It’s really important to BJ for the men of the family to be there, and with Brad’s job being what it is, there’s never a guarantee he won’t be called out on some case or other. He hates to miss any of BJ’s activities, but he doesn’t have a choice.”
“I understand.” Her implication she considered Steve one of the “men of the family” was not lost on him.
“So, is Steve there now?”
“No, I’m picking him up around four. We’re going to a party later here in the building.”
“It’s too bad you have to go out in this weather.”
“Hey, it’s Chicago. By the time I’m ready to leave, the sun will probably be out again. Either that, or we’ll have four feet of snow.”
Cessy filled him in on everything that had happened with the family since last they’d talked—an awful lot of activity, Elliott decided, in the space of two days. They hung up with his repeating his promise to check with Steve about the swim meet and let her know.
Chapter 2
The rain had all but ended when Elliott left the building on his way to Steve’s. He’d called just before he left, and Steve was waiting in the entrance to his building when Elliott pulled up.
They drove first to the art supply store on North Avenue, where Steve spent twenty minutes shopping. Elliott used the time to admire the very helpful clerk, who seemed to take a particular interest in assisting Steve to find exactly what he wanted.
They then swung over to Armitage to check out Bruno’s old building. Elliott didn’t have the exact address but knew he wouldn’t have any trouble spotting it based on the photograph. He’d always admired the classic old turreted and domed buildings located along Armitage within a few blocks of the el station. He particularly loved the one immediately to the east of the tracks, but had felt it was too
close to them to be practical. However, he was pleased when someone else purchased it and restored it very much as he would have.
They’d gone about a block past the el when he spotted Bruno’s building ahead on the right—three stories, with the turreted corner siding an alley paralleling the structure. The turret was painted a uniform rust-brown, and the ground floor false front was inexplicably painted purple.
“Purple?” Steve said, echoing Elliott’s thought.
But as they neared the building, Elliott could see the rust-brown of the turret covered ornate fretwork typical of Queen Anne “Painted Ladies” of the period, and he could immediately envision the ground floor as some sort of commercial space once the facade was restored to how it must have looked when it was built.
On closer inspection, the turret’s top, base, and window framing also revealed an abundance of detail work all but hidden by the uniform rust-brown coating. His mind’s eye easily envisioned it stripped of the drab paint and the detail work redone in the bright, contrasting, and complementary colors it probably had when it was first built.
The ground floor’s false front gave little indication of what it had originally looked like, though again the lintels above and around the entrance hinted of details covered over. The bas-relief writing he’d noted in the photograph read “Brisson Block 1896.”
Pulling just far enough into the alley to get the rear of the car out of the street while enabling a closer look at the front and side, Elliott turned to Steve for his reaction.
“I like it,” Steve said. “The false front is a disaster, but put back the way it must have been originally, and with some creative repainting, it has real potential. But you’re the guy who does all the work. What do you think?”
Elliott pursed his lips, thinking, then said, “Same as you.”
It had begun to rain again, which dissuaded them from parking and doing a more close-up inspection. Instead, Elliott drove slowly down the alley, trying to take in as much of the building as he could. He was pleased to see typical Chicago-style bay windows on the second and third floors over the alley. He looked for cracks and missing bricks and didn’t see any, though it would definitely have to be tuck-pointed. A one-story extension he assumed to be a garage had been added to the back.
As they turned down the intersecting alley, he saw he was correct. Three individual single-car doors, one of them in bad shape, faced the back alley, with an inset not visible from the side for a narrow metal fire escape.
“Can we go around again?” Steve asked.
“Sure,” Elliott said, turning left toward Armitage at the next street, then left again to pass by from the other direction.
“Did you notice the park?” Steve asked, giving a head-tilt to the right.
“Yeah. Oz Park. I forgot it was that close. A park is a definite plus. And no one will be building there to block the view.”
The rain was much heavier as Elliott turned again into the side alley, once more stopping with the rear of the car just off the street. He had to lean forward to see the top of the building, checking again for cracks or missing decorations. It was hard to tell with all the paint, but he was able to discern even more covered-over detail than before. Again, he had a mental picture of what it could look like when restored.
He continued down the alley and headed back toward home.
“So, you think you might be interested?” Steve asked.
Elliott shrugged. “Hard to say. I’ve never done a building with commercial space. That’s not to say I wouldn’t, it’s just that they’re sort of a different animal.”
“I understand,” Steve said. “But I liked it—if you squint and ignore the first floor, which is ugly as sin, I can imagine what it looked like originally.”
“Me, too,” Elliott agreed. “Bruno said it had once been the local grocery, so I could probably make a good guess. The problem with converting it back to commercial space is what might go in there. Mom-and-pop grocery stores went out with the dinosaurs. The same with butcher shops and drugstores, hardware stores, paint stores, appliance stores. They’ve all been sucked into the black hole of Walmart and K-Mart and Costco and Target and the other chains. A coffee shop, maybe, or a bar, or a cafe, but…”
“It would make a great place for an art gallery,” Steve said casually, looking out the window at the rain.
“Thinking of giving up your day job?” Elliott asked with a grin.
Steve turned to him, returning the grin.
“I wish! Still, no harm in fantasizing. Maybe someday.”
*
After a quick stop at the supermarket for a couple of steaks, they returned to Elliott’s. The rain, which had dropped off to an intermittent drizzle while they were in the store, had picked up again, and Elliott was glad he had indoor parking at his condo.
“So, what time is the party?” Steve asked as he helped unpack the groceries, leaving the steaks on the counter.
“He said any time after seven thirty, so I guess whenever we get there will be fine,” Elliott replied. “No rush.”
“I wonder if the rain will keep people away?”
“From free booze? Are you serious?”
“Any idea how many are coming?”
“Not a clue, but I’d suspect quite a few.”
Elliott fixed drinks then followed Steve into the living room, where he turned on the radio. The overture to Tannhaüser—one of his and Steve’s favorites—was playing, and they sat side-by-side on the couch, sipping their drinks and watching in silence as a rain-hushed dusk closed over the city.
When the piece ended, Elliott asked, “Were you serious about having a gallery?”
Steve gave him a small smile. “I’ve thought about it, sure, for some time in the future. I don’t have enough of my own work to fill a whole gallery, of course, and I’ve really been doing well with Devereux’s.”
Elliott remembered Steve’s show at the tony Devereux Gallery in the River North art district not long after they’d first met, and how happy he had been for him. The gallery regularly displayed and had sold several of Steve’s paintings.
They had another drink then went back into the kitchen to fix dinner. Steve set the dining room table—the small breakfast bar between the kitchen and living room was too small to be practical for two people and a full meal—and made a salad while Elliott got the steaks ready and fixed instant mashed potatoes.
They took their time over dinner, the conversation as always touching on a wide range of subjects from Steve’s HIV-positive brother Manny, whom Steve was trying to convince to come to Chicago for a visit, to Cessy’s invitation to Brad, Jr.’s, swim meet, to Steve’s current paintings-in-progress—he was working on two at once.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Steve said as he poured them each another glass of wine, “if it would be okay if I did some sketches from your balcony.”
Elliott’s face reflected his surprise.
“You have to ask?” he said. “Of course you can. Any time you want.”
“Well, I didn’t want to impose, and I feel a little awkward saying it, but when I’m sketching, I sort of go off into my own world. I wouldn’t want you to think I was ignoring you.”
Elliott knew Steve was diplomatically saying he didn’t want any distractions when he was working.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll stay completely out of your way. You can have the whole place to yourself for as long as you want it, and any time you want it. Tomorrow, if you’d like.”
Smiling, Steve said, “Thanks, but I don’t have my sketch pad with me. I’ll bring one when I come over next time.”
Elliott was tempted to say he was welcome to keep a sketch pad and anything else he might need at the condo, but didn’t. They never left things at the other’s place. The fact they wore the same size clothes helped—if a change of clothes was necessary, they would just borrow something.
Cessy couldn’t understand why he and Steve never discussed where their relationship was g
oing. While he increasingly, if secretly, agreed with her, neither he nor Steve had suggested such a discussion was immediately necessary, and he assumed that when it became necessary, they would have it. There was no doubt in his mind as to how he felt, and he instinctively sensed Steve felt the same. It was as though they had mutually agreed to take their time enjoying the journey rather than rushing to the destination.
After dinner, Steve cleared the table while Elliott rinsed the dishes and put them in the washer. At around nine, they headed up to Bruno’s unit, sharing the elevator with a fifty-something man and two nice-looking younger guys Elliott suspected were not partners. They exchanged cursory greetings then rode the rest of the way in silence.
When the elevator stopped at 40, the three men got off first and turned left to 40J, which told Elliott they—or at least the older man—had been there before. The kitchen door was open and the front door slightly ajar, and the fifty-something went right in without knocking, trailed by the younger two.
Elliott and Steve hesitated only a moment, then followed them in. Elliott was pleased that the music wasn’t set to a window-shaking volume.
As they entered the living room, the fifty-something and his companions turned immediately toward the kitchen, where a bartender was mixing and serving drinks. There were at least a dozen guys in the living room, standing around in pairs and small groups. Elliott saw Bruno in front of the partially open sliding glass door to the balcony, talking with a very handsome young man. Spotting them, Bruno laid a hand on the young man’s arm, apparently excusing himself, and came over.
“Hi, guys! Glad you could come,” he said with enthusiasm. “Grab yourselves a drink and help yourself to something to eat.” He indicated both the bar and a long credenza against the wall nearest the kitchen, on which a stack of plates, napkins, and several trays of cheese, vegetables, dips, cold cuts, iced shrimp, and small sandwiches were laid out.
“You really went all out,” Elliott said, acknowledging the people, the bar, and the food.
