by Rick R. Reed
“You’re nuts.” Rage gradually started to eclipse Tyler’s terror. “You can’t do this.” His breath quickened and he told himself, internally this time, to calm the fuck down. Getting even crazier than he is right now will do you no good. “Emory? This isn’t necessary, man. Unwrap this tape, okay? We can literally come out of the closet and talk about this. Talk about what you need and how I can help.”
“How you can help? You think I need help?” Emory giggled. “The only one that needs help right now is you, mister.” He stood quickly and Tyler could see, to his disgust and queasiness, an erection poking out the front of Emory’s tighty-whities. There was also a piss stain along the front. God save me.
Emory stared down at him, helpless on the floor. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
And almost before Tyler knew what was happening, Emory was gone.
Tyler tried to swallow again as Emory slid a deadbolt into place—on the outside of the closet door. He lay back down and curled up on his side, drawing his knees up to his chest. Groggy and exhausted, he closed his eyes and prayed for the oblivion of sleep. Maybe when he reawakened, he’d be in a better place to fight—or use his wits to get out of this mess.
You should have known better.
Chapter Seventeen
Cole Hardwick was sad.
Sometimes, it seemed everything about his life was as sad as the dinner he was putting together at this very moment—a microwaved frozen entrée, which consisted of a dry chicken breast with a salty yellow sauce, fake mashed potatoes, and a pile of wrinkled peas and carrots. His apartment here in the Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago was sad. Even though the area bordered Lake Michigan, Cole’s apartment was set far back from its shores, a good mile west, on a busy area of Touhy Avenue. The traffic noise ceased only for a short time in the wee small hours of the morning. The place was only about six-hundred square feet and came furnished with threadbare stuff that he could have improved on at any thrift store in the city. His neighbor below seemed to love nothing more than fighting with his boyfriend, smoking cigarettes, and cooking cabbage, all of which Cole bore witness to on a daily basis.
Sad. His TV was on the fritz, so he had the radio on, tuned to alternative rock station WXRT. The DJ talking was a cruel reminder of how alone he was. This was what passed for company in his world.
The couch groaned in protest as he lowered himself on it. He set his bottle of Bud Lite on the coffee table before him, along with his microwaved dinner, which he’d attempted to make more homey by putting on one of his dinner plates. Sad.
He sighed, took a swig of beer, and dug in. Someday, he needed to learn to cook. Maybe tomorrow? He could crack open that classic his parents had given him when he’d graduated from Northern Illinois University Chicago Circle, The Joy of Cooking. He’d been meaning to start trying some of its recipes for ten years now and never once had actually acted upon the plan. It was always easy to order a pizza or just nuke something as he’d done tonight.
What he was really sad about, though, was one Mr. Tyler Kay. He was supposed to have met Cole for lunch today downtown at the Walnut Room, the signature restaurant of the flagship Marshall Fields where Cole had begun working only today. Cole had been primed for a festive, if not romantic, occasion.
They were going to celebrate his new job and finding employment after what seemed an endless time—six months of searching.
“Hey buddy, I’m gonna treat you to lunch on your first day,” Tyler had said a few days ago over beers at Little Jim’s. “And I’m sparing no expense. We’re going to the Walnut Room, so all your coworkers can see us together and get jealous.” He’d laughed and winked at Cole. Cole thought Tyler had been reading his mind. It had been a gloriously happy moment for Cole, who took Tyler’s invitation as a date, whether that had been Tyler’s intent or not.
He’d looked forward to their meet-up all morning and the anticipatory high energized him, made him even more cheerful than his usual outgoing self. He’d sold three suits that morning, and his manager had been impressed. He told him it was rare to have such awesome beginner’s luck.
He got away a few minutes early for lunch and headed to the Walnut Room, hoping Tyler would already be there. He pictured him in a clean, white button-down and gray slacks, his blond hair gelled neatly into place, pale-blue eyes shimmering. He’d be waiting at the table and would have a card and a small gift as a token of good luck for Cole’s first day.
Maybe he was letting his imagination run away with him. But still, he’d been thrilled Tyler had actually initiated them getting together for once. Cole had had a crush on the guy for months now and had spent many hours locked in Tyler’s embrace—in dreams and fantasies that Cole prayed would one day become real. This lunch, maybe, was a step toward that dream being fulfilled.
He’d unfolded his napkin, still riding a high from his successful morning, and ordered a bowl of French onion soup while he waited.
And waited.
He’d finished the soup and it was only when he had ten minutes remaining in his lunch hour that he realized Tyler wouldn’t be showing up. The soup’s pungent flavor now tasted acidic, sour in the back of his throat. The bright, sunny day outside only served to make him feel more depressed, deflated, and defeated. Like a loser…
He’d grudgingly accepted Tyler may never return his feelings. But he didn’t expect the guy would stand him up! At the very least, Cole’d assumed they were good friends. Even friends didn’t make a lunch date and then just not bother appearing without so much as a word of explanation.
When there was only a minute or two left, Cole paid for his soup and went back to work. He tried to put on a smiling mask, but his heart was no longer in the job. He’d sold only a tie and a trio of black socks that afternoon, and he attributed his lack of success to the fact that he was most likely radiating failure. Thank God he’d had such a good morning.
And now he sat alone and lonely in his cramped, characterless, and cheerless apartment, forcing down food he wasn’t enjoying and wondering about Tyler. He’d called his number at work and had been told he hadn’t come in that day. He’d called his home and left several messages for him.
No word. Nothing. And the rejection really hurt. To Cole, it seemed this was standard operating procedure for young gay men these days—to simply not call and to vanish, even if you thought you’d made a connection. It had happened to Cole one too many times for his liking. No, make that a hundred too many times. A friend had once told him he was “too nice for his own good.” Cole shrugged. He’d never understood how that was even possible.
He never, though, expected Tyler to treat him this way—to just vanish. They shared, he believed, at least something that could last as a friendship, even if would sadly go no further.
The evening, long, dark, and uneventful, stretched out before him. No TV and he’d returned that Stephen King book, Needful Things to the library last week. He could shower and head out to a bar, but he didn’t feel inspired to be around crowds. He was also reluctant and pessimistic. He’d just stand against the wall, a beer clenched in his fist, and be ignored. Standard operating procedure.
He wanted to be around Tyler. No other man, no matter what he looked like, could compare. Cole wished it wasn’t so, but the heart wanted what it wanted.
And if Tyler wasn’t showing up and wasn’t answering his phone, maybe there was something wrong. It didn’t have to necessarily mean Tyler was avoiding him. To think so was evidence that his self-esteem needed a good kick in the ass. He wasn’t necessarily being blown off. Tyler could be sick or in trouble. He might need Cole’s help.
Or he could just be avoiding you. His mind could be relentless—his worst enemy.
Or he could be holed up with some hottie he met at Sidetrack. Case in point.
Cole shook his head, imagining slapping himself in the face, and forced himself to get up off the couch. He needed to do something.
*
Cole got off the L at Western and walked the two
or three blocks to Tyler’s new digs on Lincoln Avenue. The street was still alive with hustle and bustle, even though it was getting late. People window-shopping in Lincoln Square, catching a movie at the Davis, or hanging out in one of the many cafés, restaurants, and bars. All of this made Cole feel paradoxically hopeful and depressed because his aloneness set him apart from everyone he passed. Even folks walking alone at least had a dog for company.
He rang Tyler’s intercom button several times. He stepped back to look up at the window he knew faced the street and noted there were no lights on. This is a fool’s errand. He’s not home. And you should be. You need to get a good night’s sleep and be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the sales floor tomorrow. He rang once more. No answer.
He turned back to the street, thinking about getting a cup of coffee or maybe a doughnut, which he knew he didn’t need, but at least the sweet would give him a little comfort.
It began to drizzle, and Cole noted how the precipitation matched his mood.
There was a Dunkin’ Donuts over on Western, so Cole headed over there. A buttermilk glazed and a large coffee with three sugars and lots of half-and-half would be just the thing to turn around his foul mood. Or, at least in theory… He knew once he’d consumed all those calories and considered his ever-expanding girth, he’d feel differently.
Still, maybe this time, he’d be lucky, and the treats would do the trick, turning a depressing night into a happy one. Buddy, it never works.
After he’d ordered at the counter, he sat at one of the booths in the too-bright restaurant, feeling conspicuous, as though the other patrons were judging him and thinking, right. That’s the last thing he needs.
Sometimes, Cole was his own worst enemy.
As he was finishing his coffee, the two buttermilk sinkers now literally a crummy memory, he had a strange thought, one that had the potential to galvanize. He didn’t know where it came from. He certainly never considered himself any kind of psychic, and he would say his intuition was, at best, faulty and unreliable, but a thought appeared in his head, clear as could be, as though there were someone outside himself talking to him.
Help me.
The words flashed in his mind in red neon. And he heard Tyler saying them.
Cole stared out at the darkness pressing against the plate glass windows and shivered.
“I’d like to,” he whispered to himself. “But where do I start?”
He went out into the rain and decided on a course of action. He’d call Tyler’s work in the morning, see if they had any idea where he might be. He clung to the hope that there was a good explanation for his silence, other than he was bored with Cole, or he’d found himself a boyfriend who was consuming all his time and energy.
If that didn’t work, he’d track down Tyler’s family.
This just didn’t feel right.
Help me.
Chapter Eighteen
Tyler was asleep.
That made Emory feel good, as though it was evidence of how comfortable Tyler had become here, as a guest in his house. He stood, framed in the doorway to Mother’s closet, looking down on Tyler’s sleeping form, the way he was curled up on one side, his knees drawn up to his chest, snoring. Emory’s lips turned up in a little smile. He regarded the bowl of oatmeal with its brown sugar, raisins, and cream that he’d brought for Tyler. It could be a perfect morning if only Tyler would cooperate and see how well-meaning this all was.
I’m not really keeping him prisoner. I’m just training him, like one would do with a dog. I want him to know he’s safe and secure. And I need this time of confinement simply to show him how it all works. I know the day will arrive when I can loosen up what binds him, let him out of this closet, and he’ll exist with me, side-by-side, my soul mate. We’ll be a real couple, happy at last.
He squatted to set the bowl on the floor. The clunk on the floor roused Tyler, whose eyelids fluttered open. He regarded Emory with a mystified stare.
Emory laughed. “You look like you’re seeing a ghost! Or maybe you forgot who I am.” He tussled Tyler’s hair, which was greasy to the touch. He jerked his hand away when Tyler recoiled, pulling back.
“You’ll learn,” Emory whispered. He paused for a moment and then pointed at the bowl of oatmeal, above which rose wisps of steam. “You must be hungry. I made you Mother’s famous steel-cut oats. You have to cook them for a half hour. No minute oats for you, young man. And I added a lot of brown sugar, so it’s super yummy.”
He didn’t want to interpret the look on Tyler’s face as a glare, so he simply tried to make himself believe his expression was one of interest, maybe even hunger.
“Why are you doing this?” Tyler’s voice came out as a croak, which made Emory realize how long he’d gone without water. He stood and hurried from the closet to grab him a glass of water from the tap in the bathroom, the closest source.
When he returned, Tyler had scooted out of the closet. The morning light hit his naked body and Emory grimaced. He’d soiled himself during the night, and the visual and olfactory evidence of that was a turnoff. “We need to get you in the bath.” He squatted down and held the glass up to Tyler’s lips, who turned his head away.
“Tsk! Now, don’t be like that, Ty. I know you’re thirsty.”
Patiently, Emory waited beside him on the floor. Finally, after only a few seconds, Emory got his reward when Tyler turned his head back and took a few sips. “Good boy,” Emory whispered. “Now, you need to scoot yourself back into the closet. I brought in the mattress for you and the covers.” He frowned. “Although I need to get most of that stuff down to the basement now and get them washed.” Emory realized he’d been a little rash in this decision and hadn’t considered all the possibilities, distasteful, that might arise when keeping a human guest.
After Tyler had swallowed a little more than half the glass of water, Emory asked, “Are you ready for that oatmeal now? We don’t want it to get cold.”
“How am I supposed to eat it?” Tyler held up his hands, clasped together as though in prayer and bound at the wrist with duct tape. Emory thought he could feed him, like a baby. But that’s no way to treat a grown man.
Emory cocked his head. “Tyler, you know I’m just doing this so we can be together.”
“By force?”
“Don’t look at it like that. I’m working on the advice of a friend.”
“Dahmer?”
Emory smiled. “How did you know?”
“I’ve seen all the clippings. Since I first met you, I’ve noticed how fascinated you are by him.” Tyler’s gaze cut away from Emory as though he was afraid to regard him. “You feel like, what, you share some affinity with him or something?”
“I do. We do share an affinity.” Emory slid the oatmeal aside and lay next to Tyler even though he smelled. “We’ve been writing to each other since he first got arrested.”
Tyler stared at him, his mouth twitching. “He writes to you? From prison? They allow that?”
Emory nodded. He felt proud. “We’re regular pen pals, Tyler. I may be the only person on the planet who understands him.”
“You understand a serial killer? A cannibal?” Tyler rolled away from Emory, presenting his back. Emory tried to ignore the smear of shit on his backside and the smell that went with it, but the odor was so strong and repellent, it was hard to do.
Emory placed a hand on Tyler’s shoulder and rolled him back, so he could look him in the eye. “Tyler,” he whined. “It’s not like that. He’s just like you and me. He wants love. He never wanted to hurt anybody. That’s the truth.” Emory leaned close to Tyler’s ear. “Just like I don’t want to hurt you. I want you to know how much I care about you.”
Tyler’s eyes welled with tears, and Emory couldn’t understand. “Why are you sad? I just want you to stay.”
“Well, I guess Dahmer would get that,” Tyler spat.
“Don’t be that way.” Emory stood. “Would you like to hear one of his letters?”
Tyler
said nothing, so Emory took his silence as a yes and hurried to his desk to find the latest missive from Jeff.
He returned with the letter, which was in his mailbox only this morning. The mailman must have forgotten to deliver it yesterday because it was all alone. And the mail usually didn’t arrive until midafternoon.
He held it to his side and gawked down at Tyler, who’d curled himself up in a little ball on Mother’s bedroom floor and was sobbing. “Oh no,” Emory whispered, kneeling beside him. The smell of feces rose. Emory leaned back and away on his haunches, in danger of tipping over backward.
He set the letter on the floor. “Stay here,” he said and realized how pointless it was. “And don’t make any noise. I don’t want to have to gag you. I want us to talk this out.” Before Tyler could reply, Emory hurried off to the bathroom, where he wet a couple washcloths with warm water. He rubbed a little soap on each. He started out and then returned to grab a stick of deodorant from the medicine cabinet.
When he returned, Tyler lay silently on the floor. Limp, he simply let Emory clean him up. When Emory was through and had succeeded in helping Tyler scoot over to the couch in the living room where he leaned against it, still on the floor, Emory gathered up the soiled bedding in a big ball, readying it for the laundry room. He sighed and went about making up a clean bed in the closet. “You’re going to be a lot of work,” he said to no one.
Finally, he came back with the oatmeal and a spoon. “I’m sorry. This is cold now. But please eat. It’ll still fill you up.”
Tyler stared, saying nothing. When Emory brought the first spoonful of cereal up, Tyler opened his mouth. Emory was pleased that he ate the entire bowl of oats and finished his water.
He retrieved the letter and came to sit beside Tyler, their backs against the couch, the morning sunlight slanting in through the blinds. The scene felt cozy, and Emory leaned into the hominess of it. He wasn’t used to this.
