by Rick R. Reed
He ended up at the beach at the end of Thorndale Avenue. The traffic on Sheridan Road had picked up as the morning commute began. Behind him, the flow of cars sounded like the rush of water. He sat on a bench, shivering. The waters raged, the waves flinging themselves restlessly on the beach. He could imagine he was at the ocean.
In the east, the sky was beginning to lighten. The illumination was barely perceptible at this point, just a thin line of lavender at the horizon. Still, it was beautiful. Tyler felt reconnected to the world in a way.
Once upon a time, he’d met a boy, and his name was Emory Hughes. They’d worked together. They’d watched movies—they loved the same ones. And they’d even shared one another’s bodies in a moonlit bedroom.
It should have been good. But it was a detour away from real life, Tyler realized now. He was a young man, barely into his twenties. He shouldn’t be holing up and hiding away with a disturbed, lonely man. It was all right to feel sorry for Emory, to even show him a bit of kindness and affection, because Tyler knew, from his limited view into Emory’s world, he was sorely in need of those qualities.
But being considerate of a fellow human being, Tyler realized, didn’t have to be at his own expense.
He stood. It was just too damn cold! When he turned, he saw the north side of the city spread out before him, just coming to life—lights on in apartments, the L stop at Granville housing a stopped but rumbling southbound Red Line train, a few people picking their way through the still untouched snow.
He began making his own way toward the L station.
He’d made two decisions—one, he’d head downtown and linger over a big breakfast, pancakes, bacon, coffee, at the diner near the building where he worked. And two, when he got home tonight, he’d call up some of his old friends, the ones he’d ignored since starting his job last summer, and see if they wanted to head down to Halsted for a few drinks.
And maybe he’d meet a nice boy.
One who didn’t mumble in a dark corner to the world’s most infamous serial killer.
Chapter Eleven
Dear Jeff,
It’s been a week since Mother’s life insurance came through.
It wasn’t much, certainly not enough to live on for a long time, but adequate to keep me for a few months, maybe even as long as a year while I figure out what to do with my life. Good thing the payment came through, too, because guess what? I quit my job! No more bitchy bosses, no more smelly, crowded L train cars, no more hours of mindless work, benefiting no one except an overly rich insurance company. No more being a prisoner in a cubicle hell.
I didn’t really mean to quit…at least not so suddenly. It was sort of an accident.
I told you about Tyler abandoning me in my last letter. When I woke and he was gone, I was devastated. I thought we’d started something beautiful the night before. I thought he was my soul mate. I thought we’d be together forever. I thought the union of our bodies meant something.
It was that day I quit my job even though I didn’t know then I was quitting.
I couldn’t go in and face seeing him after he left me lying alone in the bed we’d shared without even so much as a goodbye. I spent the day moping around the apartment, remembering how he’d promised to make us breakfast in the morning and how we might turn the day into a snow day, like back when we were schoolboys.
I waited around, thinking he might return. Maybe he was out, picking up coffee, I told myself.
I looked for a note.
When the hours passed and the sun came streaming in, I knew he wasn’t coming back.
Ever.
I tried calling him at work a couple of times. It’s hard enough to get through to someone who makes his living on the phone, harder still when you’re pretty sure that someone wants nothing to do with you.
I didn’t report off that day, nor the next. Finally, on the fourth day of my not turning up, Jennifer Vidovic, my boss called, whining at me. Why hadn’t I called? Did I realize how irresponsible I was being? What was the story?
The story, bitch, is that I was fed up. I’d had enough of eight hours of mind-numbing boredom every day, of mindlessly repeating the same words, over and over, to different people. Sick of writing up reports with boilerplate words.
I felt like a puppet with no brain of my own.
“I’ll pack up your things and send them to you,” she said, very curtly, before hanging up.
And, just like that, I was free.
I’ve spent the past seven days thinking about Tyler, about what I should do. It’s hard to just let him go. Especially now, when it seems I have no one.
Emory
*
ONE WEEK LATER.
Dear Emory,
It’s good you found your way out of the boredom of the work world you were in. I had a bunch of jobs, and none of them ever gave me any kind of satisfaction. Heck, not even working in a candy factory was any fun. I can’t stand chocolate to this day.
You’ll be okay. You’ve got some money now, and that will buy you time. In here, I realize now what a precious commodity time is.
And Tyler? He doesn’t know what he’s missing. I can tell from the letters you write me that you’re intelligent and kind. That you have a soul. If I was out, maybe you and I would have met one fine night, long ago. And a lot more disappointing men would still be walking around.
But we’d be together, Emory. Because you’re the only man in the world who understands me.
What might have been are the saddest four words in the English language.
I know I’ll never be free. But I have some words of advice for you about this Tyler person. You seem to care very deeply for him, maybe even love him.
So don’t give up.
Be there for him.
Let him know that you care.
If there was a spark there before, you can rekindle it.
Love,
Jeff
*
Emory stared at the letter. He’d never signed it with love before. It gave Emory’s heart a little jolt. Could he and Jeffrey Dahmer have been a couple? The thought repelled and caused a shiver to crawl up his spine. But Emory would be lying if he said there wasn’t some thrill mixed in with the chill.
And what he’d said about Tyler? Emory shrugged. He wasn’t sure if he should let him go, or simply try again. Emory had never had a real relationship with anyone before, much to his shame. He didn’t know how these things worked—what the difference between pursuing someone versus stalking them.
It occurred to him that Tyler looked very similar to Dahmer, and he wondered why he’d never noticed before, caught up as he was in the sensational story of Dahmer’s apprehension and dark story.
There are ways of reaching out to Tyler.
As he was pondering what he should do, the buzzer sounded.
Emory jumped, startled. The sound of the buzzer had become so rare he had to think about what it was for a second. It was like a metallic bark, and Emory felt it like a cold jolt to his bowels.
He moved to the window that overlooked Kenmore, but the awning prevented him from seeing who was out there.
Maybe it’s Tyler? Maybe he’s come to apologize, to beg for my forgiveness?
Emory glanced at the clock on the VCR. No, it’s midafternoon. Tyler would be and should be at work. Still, Emory himself had left behind the monotony of those cubicles and endless forms, maybe Tyler had done the same, inspired. Perhaps that’s what he’s coming to tell me? Sure, I bet that’s it.
A burst of joy lit up his heart like the sunlight filtering through Mother’s red glass vase on the windowsill. He rushed to calm the buzzer, which was ringing now repeatedly. For so long, the whole Hughes family hadn’t been able to utilize the two-way function of the intercom. Over the years, what was once audible was so garbled as to be useless, so they simply shrugged and buzzed whoever was downstairs in.
Which is what Emory did now—certain Tyler was coming to call.
After pressing the bu
zzer, he waited by the front door.
There were two sharp raps. Breathless, Emory swung the door open and felt the hope and expectation fade from his face like a cloud’s shadow wipes out the sun.
“Expecting someone?” Mary Helen stood in the hallway, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She looked different. Her spiky hair had grown out a bit and now lay, a little greasy, flat against her scalp. The dye she used was only visible now at the tips of her hair. Her real color, a mousy brown, was back in full force. She was bundled up inside a red down-filled coat.
“Why would you ask that?”
She brushed by him and kicked the door closed behind her. “Because you looked so disappointed. For Christ’s sake, your dear sister, whom you haven’t seen in a month or so, drops by and you look horrified.” Mary Helen laughed.
She moved into the living room and plopped down on the couch. She surveyed the mess, her lips turning up in a grimace, her nose twitching with distaste. “What the hell’s going on here, Em?”
“What do you mean?”
She threw up her hands. “What do I mean? Look around! This place is a mess.”
It was true. The coffee table was crowded with Styrofoam cartons from the diner on Granville and pizza boxes. Crumbs lay scattered across the table’s surface. Emory had left his soiled clothes in heaps on the floor, on one of the side chairs. He didn’t know what to say. “I wasn’t expecting company,” seemed absurd.
When did he give himself permission to live like this?
“Struck mute, huh?” A bitter laugh escaped her. “And it stinks. What is that? Piss?”
Emory shivered. “No, no. Of course not.” He denied it but was unsure himself. He’d smelled nothing until she brought it up and now, a sour ammonia smell permeated the air. Emory felt his face heat up with embarrassment.
Exasperated, he asked, “Why are you here, anyway?”
Mary Helen eyed him. Her features softened in the wan winter sunlight filtering in through the Venetian blinds’ slats. Emory felt a jolt of horror as he realized: she feels sorry for me. She pities me.
Mary Helen, voice usually marred by sarcasm, came out softer. “You’re my brother, Emory. I know we haven’t been close recently, but I do care about you.” Her gaze roamed over the room once more. “Are you okay? I called your work, and they said you quit.”
Emory nodded. “That’s right. I couldn’t take it anymore. That place was sucking the life out of me, stealing my soul.”
“It always did sound like a horrible job; I’ll give you that.”
“And with Mother’s life insurance coming through, I thought I could take some time and figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.”
Mary Helen stood and began picking up his abandoned clothes and tucking them under her arm. “That makes sense, Em. It really does. But that money? It’s not gonna last long. And you’re shouldering the rent and all the bills on this place.” She moved into the bedroom where Emory presumed she was putting the dirty clothes she picked up into his wicker hamper.
She came back and started picking up the food containers, the glasses, and the dirty plates. Emory shuddered as a couple of cockroaches scattered off the table and scampered off into the space between the floor and baseboard. He was tempted to stop her from cleaning for him but was unable to move from his perch on this hard chair at the side of the room.
He stayed quiet and listened as she took out the garbage to toss it in the dumpster outside. Remained rooted to his seat as water ran in the kitchen. Mary Helen said nothing as she washed dishes and stacked them on the counter.
When she returned, she eyed him, hands on her hips. “I helped you out a little here. But the place still stinks.” She rubbed the toe of her boot into the floor, peering down, then looked back up at him. “The floors are filthy. I don’t even want to think about the bathroom or the sheets on your bed.” She sat back down on the edge of the couch close to him. Emory flinched when she laid a hand on his knee. “Listen. Listen.”
Emory looked at his sister and couldn’t believe what he saw—tears in her eyes. He didn’t think the bitch was capable.
“Hear me, bud. You’re not well. I can see that. I don’t know what to do.” She cocked her head. “You wanna come and stay with Liz and me for a bit? Maybe this place is too much for you.”
And that last remark made him mad. “Too much for me? It wasn’t too much for me when I had two full-time jobs, one downtown and the other here, playing caregiver to our mother because you couldn’t be bothered. Why would it suddenly be ‘too much for me’ now? Huh?” He waved her away and lurched back so that her hand dropped from his knee.
Mary Helen’s mouth dropped open. Maybe because Emory had never before stood up to her. The tears remained in her eyes. A couple ran down her face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I should have been around more for you. I was mixed up, not sure where my own life was headed. But that doesn’t excuse anything.” She sighed and her gaze moved to the sunlight filtering in and illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. “Let me help you. Let me make it up to you.”
Emory realized suddenly, and chillingly, that there was no way she could ever make it up to him. Too much dirty water had flowed under the bridge of their sibling relationship. Too much trust broken. Too much care damaged.
Emory stood and walked to the door. Inside his head, a nest of hornets swarmed. But he felt preternaturally calm, almost numb, as he opened the door and stood there with it swung wide, his hand on the knob. “Thank you for cleaning up. It’s a good start. I promise to mop the floors, give the toilet and tub a good scrubbing, and do a massive load of laundry downstairs. But I need you to go now.” He opened the door a little wider. “I appreciate your concern.” He stared at a point above Mary Helen’s head, unable to meet her eyes. Those tears were too much.
“Wow.” Mary Helen got up from the couch to cross the room. She stopped in front of him and said nothing until he at last looked into her eyes. “You call me, okay? You need anything, you change your mind about coming over to stay, you call me.”
She laid her hand on his cheek, and he winced, drawing back.
She shook her head.
“The loss is just sinking in, huh?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emory managed to say, the words coming out borne on a strangled breath. He wouldn’t cry in front of Mary Helen. He stared down at the floor, not wanting to look in his sister’s eyes anymore. They were too much like Mother’s.
“Okay.” She edged by him.
Emory wondered if he’d ever see her again. He watched as she walked slowly down the hallway toward the elevator, her head bowed and shoulders hunched.
As she stood in front of the metallic doors, she turned and looked back at him. When her eyes met his, something passed between them, something Emory couldn’t describe, but which he knew he felt as closure. She gave him a little smile. Pathetic.
He went back inside without waiting to see her board the elevator.
Part Three
Spring
Chapter Twelve
At the end of March, the most amazing day presented itself—a glimmer of what was to come after the long, dark, and icy winter.
It wasn’t until afternoon, though, that Emory first realized it, immersed as he was in his morning routine, which now consisted of 150 sit-ups, 200 push-ups, and jumping jacks for twenty minutes. Thank God, there were no neighbors downstairs.
After his exercise, he had what he called an ascetic’s breakfast, which consisted of a soft-boiled egg over dry toast and a cup of black coffee.
He would then read the newspaper with the intention of finding a job in the classifieds, but really to search for news about Jeff. There hadn’t been much, since he’d been sentenced to fifteen consecutive life sentences on February fifteenth. In his statement to the court, Jeff’s words, so sad and regretful, chilled Emory.
“I should have stayed with God,” the Tribu
ne quoted him. “I tried and failed and created a holocaust.”
It was a jab to Emory’s heart when Jeff said, “I didn’t ever want freedom. Frankly, I wanted death for myself. This was a case to tell the world that I did what I did not for reasons of hate. I hated no one. I knew I was sick or evil, or both. Now I believe I was sick.”
That day in February, just after Valentine’s Day, was a day that broke Emory’s heart because he knew that what he’d thought all along about the killer was true—he didn’t want to do what he’d done. He’d been driven by forces outside himself that compelled him, irresistibly, to do what he’d mightily resisted.
Emory hadn’t heard from Dahmer since he’d been sentenced even though he wrote to him every day. Each day, Emory approached the mailbox in the building’s vestibule with the hope of a dreamer. And each day, as he rifled through the solicitations and the bills with no satisfaction, he’d mumble, “Maybe tomorrow.”
The poor man had been sentenced to fifteen consecutive life sentences, so the possibility of parole, and ever seeing freedom again, was off the table. No wonder he wasn’t up to writing.
Emory would be here for him when he was ready.
Emory had faith that the day would come. Somehow, someone besides himself would see the truth behind the crimes of Jeffrey Dahmer.
Would today be the day he’d finally get a letter?
After his breakfast, Emory would clean the apartment, top to bottom. He scrubbed floors and toilets, took out the garbage from the day before, washed and dried his dishes, glasses, cups, flatware, and pots and pans. He made his bed even though no one had seen the place since Mary Helen had dropped by last winter. The apartment smelled of ammonia, bleach, and Murphy’s soap.
The floors shone. The windows sparkled. The cockroaches had even beat a retreat, feeling starved out by Emory’s relentless cleaning and the boric acid he sprinkled behind appliances and along the baseboards.
His fingers were raw and red from all the work and all the detergents. His nails were bitten to the quick.
