by Rick R. Reed
And he’d agreed. And their pizza and horror movie night were born.
It was a weird way to fall in love with a guy. But that’s what happened, Tyler thought, God help me.
He started down the rows of cubicles, pausing only to check to see if Emory was at his desk. He was, with his headset on.
Tyler would wait to talk to him.
Before sitting at his workstation, Tyler paused to take a final look out the window. He could see the gothic spires of the Tribune tower, and beyond that, the dull gray waters of Lake Michigan. Under today’s cloudy, windswept skies, the lake looked lethal, arctic. Tyler could imagine an iceberg floating in toward the city from the horizon.
He sat and put on his headset, but he couldn’t begin work just yet. He was still thinking of Emory, of how tonight, Tuesday, would be their horror movie and pizza night.
Of all the guys Tyler had been with, and there’d been a few since he’d lost his virginity in the basement men’s room of the campus library when he was a freshman, he’d never been so cautious, so circumspect, so, really, shy around another man.
It was the signals Emory gave off. Conflicting. On the one hand, his loneliness and need for human connection emerged out of him like some sort of aroma, like liquor seeping out of a drinker’s pores. And yet, he managed to keep Tyler at arm’s length, even now, months after they’d met and months after his mom had passed away.
It was like he was both attracted to and repelled by Tyler’s interest.
And Tyler himself was confused by why he bothered. Was it because he was attracted to Emory? That much was certainly true. Although, at first glance, Emory was eminently forgettable. His ashy complexion, mouse-brown hair, and hooded eyes would never make him stand out in a crowd, let alone a gay bar. But look closer and you’d find something deeply sexual about him—in a nerdy sort of way. Tyler fought conflicting desires to hold him, kiss him, rip his clothes off, criticize those same tired LL Bean wannabes from Kmart, walk away from him, and to finally make him look in a mirror, just so Emory could see the appeal he had—the broad shoulders, the trim physique, the little gap in his front teeth that made Tyler want to stare at that mouth for hours. His lips were thick, and Tyler could imagine losing himself in them, their salty sweetness.
He’d never felt like this about a man in all of his young life. He’d experienced lust, of course, but Emory brought out something more. A kind of moth-to-the-flame charge that was all the sexier and more alluring because Emory had no idea he possessed it.
A part of Tyler, the part he sometimes thought of as the sane part, knew he should move away from Emory. He should be choosing to head out with people his own age, cruise the gay bars, enjoy life and playing the wide-open field as a young man in his twenties should…and could. He should be fighting off hangovers, fielding phone calls from suitors, making the most of his youth and beauty. Gather ye rosebuds… Tyler had been good in his survey of English lit class.
But no. Like a mule, he was stubborn in his attraction and now was merely, or so he told himself, waiting for it to bear fruit.
He pulled out the top sheet from the list of calls he would need to make that day—a million-dollar request for life insurance from an attorney who lived in Kenilworth.
Chapter Nine
Emory stopped in his tracks when he heard Tyler calling him.
“Hey, hey! Are we still getting together tonight?”
Emory turned, already bundled into his down coat, muffler, knit cap, and mittens for the L ride home. He squinted at Tyler, his blond, bland innocence.
“I’m sorry. Did we have plans?” Emory simply wanted to make the journey to Edgewater, shedding the day and the crowds of smelly commuters behind.
He wanted to see if there was another missive from Jeffrey Dahmer waiting in his mailbox, wanted the time to open the envelope slowly and to relish how special he felt being a sort of confidante for Dahmer.
Tyler laughed. Emory watched as a blush rose to his cheeks. “Yeah, we did,” Tyler said. “Come on, Emory. It’s a thing now—our Tuesday nights. Pizza, stuffed spinach pie, and a horror movie from Blockbuster on Broadway. We’ve done it for a couple of weeks.”
There was such hope in his face that Emory could hardly bear to extinguish it with a no. Still, he liked being alone. He had too many secrets these days to risk spilling them to someone else.
Anyway, while he was most certainly alone, he wasn’t lonely. He visualized the stack of letters, now numbering in the dozens, arranged neatly on his desk, from the very first one back in July to the most recent one, only two days ago.
At the very least, Emory needed to get home to hide the letters. There were certain things he could share with Tyler, including letting him know he corresponded with Dahmer in prison, but he could never reveal the depths of their closeness and how much Dahmer relied on Emory to, at last, be the one man who “stayed.”
Emory attempted what he hoped would pass for a grin. “Oh yeah, yup. You are right again, Mr. Kay.” Emory tossed Tyler a bone. “We were going to see if they had The Exorcist III, right?”
“Right! The Gemini killer. They were out of it last week.”
Emory moved closer to Tyler. “I’m on board, my friend. But you need to give me an hour or two to run some errands and clean up the place before you come by. Is that okay?” Emory knew it wasn’t. Why should it be? Tyler lived in the suburbs. It would make no sense for him to go home and then return to the city when he could just accompany Emory back to his apartment on Kenmore Avenue.
Tyler’s face fell. He shrugged. “I guess I could go have a drink somewhere.”
“Good idea! Tell you what—I’ll pick up the pizza. My treat. If you could swing by the video store and grab the movie, we’ll be all set. Come over around seven?”
Tyler nodded, unsmiling. “Sure.”
Emory, rare for him, reached out and squeezed Tyler’s shoulder. “Good man.” He turned and hurried toward the elevator, knowing Tyler wouldn’t be able to follow because he hadn’t yet suited up for the frigid temperatures outside.
*
At home, Emory paused in the vestibule of his building with a sense of anticipation that nearly stole his breath away. His hands were trembling as he opened the mailbox.
There it is.
The only missive in the mailbox—a letter from Dahmer. No return address, but Emory had grown accustomed to the handwriting, the slight backward slant, the mix of cursive and lettering. The black ink. He held it for just a moment, weighing it to see if he could determine, before opening, how many pages might be inside. He felt like a kid on Christmas morning, shaking a brightly wrapped mystery box.
Just behind him, one of his neighbors came in, sighing with relief at the meager warmth in the vestibule and stomping the snow off her boots. It was Nancy Chefalo, an older woman who lived on the seventh floor. She was always friendly, despite him never offering her any encouragement. He found her red lipstick too lurid and her dyed-black bob just a pathetic attempt to look younger when in fact all it did was make her wizened face appear paler and older. Maybe someday he could tell her, under the guise of being a well-intentioned friend, why she should simply let her hair go natural and to wear less makeup. She may think she looks thirty, but she looks every bit of sixty…or even older.
“Hello, Emory!” she cried breezily, as though they were old friends. “Cold enough for you?”
“Good afternoon,” Emory replied, separating the key to the front door from the others on his ring. He turned his back to her, but it didn’t stop her from leaning in to peer over his shoulder. Emory clutched his letter close to his chest, feeling affronted.
She was too fast for him. “A handwritten letter from someone, huh? You must be pretty special. Those damn things are rarer than hen’s teeth these days, aren’t they? I mean, all I get is junk and bills!” Emory unlocked the door to the sound of Nancy emptying her own mailbox and sputtering, “Yup. Yup. Same old. Same old. They should put a trash can out so we can just dump
this crap right here.”
“Good idea,” Emory said.
She followed him inside the open door, gesturing at the envelope he still held close to his chest, as though protecting it. “From an admirer? A pen pal?”
“You could say that.” Emory hurried away from the woman, but she matched him, step for step, on his way to the twin elevators at the opposite end of the lobby.
“Must be nice. Is it from a girl? Or a boy?” She giggled. “I don’t judge.”
Heat rose to Emory’s cheeks. What does she know? “It’s from—” Emory’s voice trailed off. Wouldn’t she be stunned if I told her? Maybe she’d finally keep herself to herself. “It’s from, um, none of your business.”
She actually made a little yip sound, as though he’d pinched her, that coincided with the chime of the elevator doors sliding open.
She didn’t utter another word on the way up, for which Emory was grateful.
In his apartment (and it still felt weird thinking of this space as his, when it had once belonged to his family), Emory shed his outer garments and threw his backpack on the couch. The radiators under the windows began to clang and hiss, and Emory took the comforting noise and promise of heat as a welcome.
He plopped down at his desk and, taking up the silver-plated dagger opener his mother once used, slit the envelope down the side and pulled the single sheet of lined notebook paper from it with all the care of a forensics specialist.
This one was short, much to Emory’s disappointment. But in its sparse array of words jumbled on the page, it managed to say a lot.
Emory,
Thanks for the update. I’m glad you’re moving on from your mom’s death. She’ll always be with you.
Emory drew in a quivering breath and felt an immediate and hot sting of tears at the corners of his eyes. For the briefest of moments, he imagined Mother’s touch on his shoulder. It seemed so real, he glanced up from the letter, almost expecting to see her standing next to him.
Thanks for letting me know about this guy in your life. Tyler, is it? Congrats that he likes you. I hope you’ll make the most of this one and won’t let it end up like that body in the alley from last summer.
You were lucky to get away with that one.
This one, be more careful. Keep your business private. It’s what I did. And I know it failed me in the end, but look at how many years I was able to do what I did, and no one knew, Emory. People are stupid! Even when the smell of decomposition was stinking up the hallway of my apartment building, folks complained to the landlord about rotting hamburger! Jesus Christ.
No. Enjoy your time with Tyler. And if that time is enjoyable enough, he’ll stay.
Jeff
Emory set the letter with all the others he’d gotten from Dahmer over the past few months. There was now an impressive stack of them on his desk, and once more, he counted them. With this one, there were now an even twenty letters from him.
Emory believed there was no one else in this entire country who could claim to have the relationship he did with Dahmer. He should write a book! He shook his head at the mere idea of it though. That would be a betrayal. Here, Dahmer had chosen him out of what Emory was sure were many admirers and sickos, to be the person he advised, to whom he turned to for support when the going got rough—as it certainly must in prison.
That he cared about Emory and his life felt like some kind of achievement. And achievements, in Emory’s bland and boring life, were few and far between.
He wished he had time to write back, but it would have to wait. He only had an hour or so before Tyler would show up on his doorstep, ringing the annoying buzzer to be let in. And, in that hour, he needed to shower and to call Giordano’s to order a pizza for delivery, even though he could scarcely afford the splurge.
He’d write after Tyler left. Sometimes, when he wrote just before falling asleep, he would dream of Dahmer. The dreams were never frightening or aggressive, but usually romantic, with Dahmer holding him close, running fingers through Emory’s hair and teasing him with butterfly kisses on his cheek. Sometimes, they got a bit more graphic than that, and Emory would awaken with the inside of his Jockey briefs sticky.
For now, he simply took the stack of letters and slid them into his desk’s top drawer. They were the only things in there. And it was the only drawer in the desk that he kept locked.
He undressed quickly in his bedroom and stood for a moment before the full-length mirror he’d helped himself to from Mary Helen’s nearly empty bedroom after she was gone. He had a full-on erection and knew it was because Dahmer had showed him attention. As he always did, he reassured himself there was nothing sick about this response. It was natural, right?
He watched himself as he stroked, watched until his seed shot out of him, arcing out to land on the gritty hardwood floor at his feet.
And then he lowered himself down on all fours and licked his semen up, eyes shut and imagining it was Dahmer’s.
*
When he opened the door to Tyler, Emory was more relaxed and in control. He wore a pair of faded Levi’s with a red Wisconsin Badgers hoodie he’d picked up at the thrift store on Halsted, the Brown Elephant.
He smiled, actually glad to see Tyler because he now knew Dahmer approved of their relationship, maybe even encouraged it. Opening the door wider, he stepped aside so Tyler could enter. “Pizza should be here any minute now.”
“Great. Let me give you a few bucks toward it, okay?”
Emory shook his head and closed the door behind Tyler. “Don’t insult me.” He pointed to the black plastic bag in Tyler’s hand. “Did they have it?” he asked hopefully.
“Oh yeah, they did.” Tyler brought out two blue-and-white Blockbuster boxes. “Exorcist III and a surprise.” He grinned.
“What is it?”
“Oh, it’s one I’m pretty sure you’ve already seen, but it holds up under repeated viewings.” Tyler stuffed the videotapes back into the bag. “It’s a surprise.” Tyler set the bag down on one of the shelves of the pale-oak entertainment unit that dominated the living room.
Tyler eyed him. “You look great. Two things I find very sexy on a man—bare feet and damp just-out-of-the-shower hair.”
Emory let the comment hang in the air for a second, debating whether to acknowledge it. In the end, he said, “Get out of your coat and stuff.” Emory attempted to keep the irritation out of his voice. Tyler’s coat and boots were dripping on the floor, which was dirty enough without mud stains.
Tyler began taking off his outer garments. When he was down to the khakis and pale-blue button-down he’d worn to work, he crossed the living room and moved into the dining room, where he could hang his winter stuff over a dining room chair.
“They’re still dripping,” Emory whispered. He went to the kitchen to get a tea towel to clean up the mess.
“Sorry about that.” Tyler squatted down and pulled the towel from Emory’s hand. “Let me do that. I brought the mess in.” And he quickly sopped up the puddle. The coat and muffler had at last stopped dripping.
And Emory was on the floor, on his knees, face-to-face with Tyler. It was a simple moment, but a heart-stopping one. Something hung in the air. Was it anticipation? Fear? Lust? All of the above? Emory placed a hand over his gut. Something fluttered inside.
“The pizza will be here in a jiffy,” Emory mumbled. “Should we queue up the movie?”
Tyler cocked his head and his face lit up with a sly grin. Emory noticed, maybe for the first time, how intensely blue Tyler’s eyes were, but a deep blue unlike run-of-the-mill irises. “Your eyes are freaky.”
“I get the dark blue from my grandma. Hers were almost a cobalt.”
Emory was on the verge of telling him his eyes were beautiful, but quickly censored himself, holding the compliment in check. Men didn’t tell other men they had beautiful eyes.
“You like them?” Tyler finally asked, his voice a little hoarse.
Emory wanted to get up from the floor but was rooted h
ere. He thought of Dahmer’s words—Enjoy your time with Tyler. And if that time is enjoyable enough, he’ll stay. Would it be so awful if he reached over, right now, and touched his cheek, still rosy from the cold? Would it be sinful to simply lean forward and kiss those full lips, silently begging for a touch?
Emory licked his own lips, finding them as dry as his throat and his mouth’s interior. He didn’t have to wonder anymore what to do because Tyler decided for him. He leaned in and very gently brushed his lips across Emory’s. He went back on his haunches and looked at him, the mischief on his face making him even more attractive. And then he leaned in again, pressing his lips with even more force into Emory’s own. When he slipped his tongue into Emory’s mouth, Emory surprised himself. He didn’t resist. And even though he’d just gotten himself off less than an hour ago, he was ready to go again.
Everything came crashing to a halt, though, when the buzzer sounded. The loud mechanical bark, an intrusion, caused Emory to gasp and pull away from Tyler as though he were on fire. He leapt to his feet.
From his position on the floor, Tyler peered up at him.
Flustered, Emory said, “Pizza must be here. Hungry?”
Tyler nodded. And Emory didn’t know how to respond to the playful look in those deep-blue eyes. He turned quickly and headed to the intercom to quiet the buzzer, which was now sounding again. He pressed a button to admit whomever was downstairs without bothering to ask.
In a minute, there was a knock on the door.
Emory hurried to it, imagining Mary Helen and her girlfriend standing out there. The minute he opened the door and saw what Emory knew was his flushed face and Tyler kneeling on the hardwood floor, they’d know what was going on. Know and be delighted. And Emory couldn’t abide the idea.
But it was only the pizza delivery guy. He was dark-skinned, with wavy black hair spilling out of a Cubs baseball cap and sparse facial hair.
He looked down at the ticket stapled to the top of the box and then back up at Emory. “Stuffed spinach?”
“That’s me.” He groped in his back pocket for his wallet and felt a pang of alarm when there was nothing there. He turned, mouth open, to find Tyler standing next to him.
