by Rick R. Reed
But when he was in that bitch, Tina’s, nasty clutches, he just couldn’t think sensibly. It was all about what she wanted.
And so it had become a vicious cycle: feel bad about HIV and being a goddamned drug addict, and take more of the drug to make himself feel better. And it almost always did that…it just took more…and more. Where once a couple snorts would keep him high for hours, now he needed to inject amounts he once thought would kill him. But even lately, Tina was reneging on her promise of oblivious bliss, making it harder and harder to feel what he used to feel. So he took more and more of the drug to try and attain his former highs of ecstasy.
He thought sometimes—when he was lying in bed, imagining what it would be like to just get in the tub and slit his wrists—that maybe if he could simply get away from all these bad influences, from all the easy options for acquiring the drugs (he really didn’t even need to buy it; he could find Tina everywhere he turned, with sweaty, jazzed-up compatriots willing to share), from the failed promise of a life he once thought so exciting, he could free himself. Then he could get clean, be the old Ethan: sarcastic, witty, sexy, and handsome as hell.
And maybe discover he had come out the other side unscarred, ducking the horror of HIV infection. His symptoms were not related to a virus replicating in his bloodstream, but due simply to the toxins of a drug with which he had overindulged.
Sure.
That was it.
If he could only get away…But how? At twenty-one, Ethan had graduated from Indiana University with honors (in English literature) and buoyed from his success (and acceptance to the master’s program at Colgate University), he had come out to his parents, who had always seemed fairly liberal to him. But his father had turned his back on him (literally, figuratively, financially…in every way one could think of) and his mother, always weak-willed and taciturn, stuck with the husband who ruled her. He had no family, save for Robert, who had come along and swept him off his feet, taking him from a shared one-bedroom in Andersonville and a job as a clerk at Unabridged Bookstore to a “dee-luxe apartment in the sky.”
He didn’t think Robert would understand his wanting to get away.
And to get away, he would need to confess. He needed the money Robert had, but didn’t need his judgment and disapproval, or the disavowal Ethan was sure would come. He knew he was already on thin ice with Robert, and didn’t know how much longer he could hang on to the man…or his money.
So Ethan felt stuck, sitting here, looking out floor-to-ceiling windows at a gray day, with the trees of Lincoln Park below him bereft of leaves and reaching up to a cloud-choked sky, the color of curdled skim milk. The trees reminded him of himself: bare, near dead…and reaching up toward an unresponsive sky.
Ethan closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the leather of the couch. His breathing felt labored and his limbs weighted down with a lack of nourishment and no rest for going on seventy-two hours. But as firmly as he held his eyes closed, he knew they would pop open again the minute he let down his guard. Either that or he would simply drift off, suddenly and without warning, as he had in the past, and sleep for a day or two straight. He pictured the cigarette slipping from his fingers to the rug beneath him, a fire starting. He leaned forward, took one final drag on the cigarette, and put it out in the silver bowl in front of him.
He was tired of thinking, exhausted with chastising himself. He had always been a good liar, and maybe, he thought, there was a way out of this mess without telling Robert the truth. But even if he could make up a story, how would he pry the money out of the old man for an extended stay in rehab?
Ethan knew that was the kind of help he needed. He had gone far beyond quitting on his own or even self-help measures like the twelve-step Crystal Meth Anonymous program that met at Ann Sather’s restaurant. Yes, he had gone so far as to check that out and relented when he realized he would be going only to make new contacts for scoring drugs and sex. Robert could afford to send him to rehab, to some clinic in the godforsaken wilds of a place like Minnesota, but Ethan wasn’t sure Robert could spare the sympathy required. He knew that particular emotion stretched thin for Robert. He was sure Robert suspected he was up to something; the man wasn’t an idiot, just a little naïve. Ethan knew, though, Robert had no idea the extent of Ethan’s problems.
And if he could just get to rehab, he could get back in touch with himself again, maybe even write about his experiences and become another Augusten Burroughs. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Robert seemed to attract the literary types! And Ethan had always wanted to write.
But he knew that once he finished rehab (if he even could), he would not come back to Robert. He would not even come back to Chicago. Too much temptation here. He would be back on the phone with Tony within days, maybe hours. He knew himself that well. To resist temptation, he needed to remove himself completely from it.
He realized he needed money and lots of it. Suddenly, the answer to all of his problems surfaced in the image of dollar signs. He wondered how much longer Robert would be gone.
Ethan hurried to the front door and pulled the chain lock across it. This way, he would at least have some warning should Robert come home before Ethan was done looking around in Robert’s office. He was sure Robert kept financial statements and stuff like that in his desk file drawer, lower left-hand side. He had never been interested enough to look before, never caring about Robert’s net worth, as long as he paid Ethan’s American Express bill at the end of each month and doled out hundred-dollar bills whenever Ethan asked.
Ethan didn’t know anything about Robert’s assets, or how liquid they could be. He didn’t realize, yet, what he would need to do to lay his hand on a sizable chunk of money without Robert finding out…at least not until he was gone and hidden away in a rehab facility. But once he knew how much could be withdrawn at once, he could begin to formulate a plan.
Did he hate to do this to Robert? He was too exhausted to feel remorse. He told himself, over and over, the old saw: desperate times call for desperate measures. It was rationalization enough to go into the den off the living room and stoop to the file drawer of Robert’s desk. It was locked, but that was easy enough to remedy. Three or four minutes of fiddling around with a bent paper clip and the lock sprung open.
And as the drawer opened, Ethan saw before him the keys to his redemption. Robert’s financial records, including holdings, stocks, bonds, mutual funds, tax reports, and more were all neatly cataloged in hanging green folders, labeled with dates and account numbers. This was going to be a cinch! At least finding the information would not pose a major problem. Armed with information, he could figure out a way to get to the funds he needed.
He was just beginning to rifle through the files when two folders near the back caught his eye. One was labeled “Last Will and Testament” and the other, simply, “Insurance.”
Ethan pulled out both folders and sat on the floor with them.
Chapter 7
Jess wasn’t sure she wanted to invite Robert up. Bad enough her apartment looked like a slum compared to his penthouse. Added to that was Jess’s increasing fatigue and the dark cloud that once again settled over her as she thought of the empty rooms and all they signified. Jess imagined herself getting inside, alone, and heading straight for her bed, pulling the covers completely over her head and just vanishing. For days.
She fidgeted with her hands, pulling a stray strand of yarn off her mittens as Robert backed the Lexus into a parking space on Paulina, around the corner from her building.
Part of her wanted to say, “Oh, don’t bother yourself with parking. I’ll just hop out here.” But the other part, the stronger part, wanted to stay with him, even if it was only for a little bit longer.
The two had talked little on the drive north, yet the silence was comfortable, companionable. She even dozed off for a couple of minutes as they rounded the corner at Sheridan, coming off Lake Shore Drive. Jess had never felt more tired in her life. And the combination of Robert’
s protective presence and the warmth of the car had caused her to drift off.
Sleep only lasted a few minutes, but it was deep enough for her to begin dreaming. Jess awakened with a start because of a peculiar image: she was looking at herself in the car’s sideview mirror and the face looking back at her was not her own, but that of a man. She shook herself, feeling a tingle down her back. The man looked familiar, but she didn’t, at that moment, remember where she had seen him before. She looked over at Robert and was glad he was there. Again, she couldn’t understand why his presence was such a comfort for her.
She was pretty sure he felt the same. He had let his hand rest atop hers for a minute or two during their drive and oddly enough, it didn’t feel strange. It felt right. And she knew the normal thing for him to do, when she sat up straighter and said, “My building’s right up here, just past the El tracks,” would be to pull over and simply let her out. But he had murmured, “Nice building,” and continued down the block, looking for a place to park. Now, he shut off the ignition, looking over at her expectantly.
She had the almost giddy feeling that she was on a first date, that nervous moment when the date is asked inside…or not.
She returned his gaze almost shyly and, without really even considering it, said, “Wanna come up? See my place? You showed me yours. It’s only fair I show you mine.” Jess laughed.
“That sounds good. Let’s go.”
And they hopped out of the car, picked their way down Fargo, being careful of icy patches, and arrived at her front door.
“I have to warn you. When Ramona left, she took almost everything. I mean that literally. It’s a two-bedroom place with probably not enough to fill a studio.”
“Minimalist. I like that.”
“Sure you do.” Jess fitted her key into the lock. She led him through the doors on either end of the vestibule, and up the stairs, embarrassed about the ever-present smell of cooking cabbage and disinfectant, and the sounds of Ace of Base coming out of the first-floor unit.
She paused outside her own door and, for just a moment, imagined that, while she was gone, Ramona had come back. She would swing the door open and, like Dorothy opening the door to Munchkinland, would find not the dreary specter of a deserted apartment, but a warm place, alive with color…rugs on the floor, pictures on the wall, comfortable leather furniture positioned just so. She could see the Mission-style rocking chair by the fireplace, the green chenille throw over its back. And there would be Ramona, rocking gently as she read. She would look up and smile as Jess came in. How long had it been since she had seen that smile? Certainly a lot longer than Ramona herself had been gone.
She looked over her shoulder at Robert, who was staring out the window at the end of the hall as an El train rumbled by. “You’re back with the common people. I guess you don’t hear much up at your place.” She had to shout to be heard over the thunder of the train and the snap and pop as it connected with electric spots on the rail.
“I think it’s kind of charming.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve never had to tell your mother to be quiet for just a minute on the phone, so you can let a train go by.” She pushed open the door. “I warned you.”
For one breathless moment, Jess hoped her thoughts would come true, and that all would be as it once was, complete with Ramona sitting on the rocker by the fireplace, expectant, and wanting to know who Jess had brought home with her. It made her heart sink even lower when she opened the door into the living room and saw the pale, watery sunlight pouring in through the window, illuminating dust motes rising from the hardwood with the draft from the hallway. She flicked on the overhead light, then turned it off again quickly. It only made the barren rooms look that much more depressing.
Robert stepped in behind her. “You weren’t kidding. This place looks like no one lives here.”
Jess choked back a sob at his words and then tried to cover it with a weak smile.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Robert kicked the door closed and took her in his arms. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sometimes, I can’t believe how insensitive I can be.”
Jess hung on to him, reveling in the spicy scent of his aftershave and the bulky warmth of his masculine body, the hard places where Ramona was soft, the sheer mass of it. She felt enfolded. She laid her head against his coat and tried to rein in her tears.
He stroked her hair. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Just let it out.”
Jess felt stupid. She was revealing too much of herself. He was a stranger. She should be seeing if she could get him some tea, a glass of water, anything. Not blubbering into his chest like a baby. She pulled away, wiping her nose on the back of her mitten. She pulled both mittens off and flung them to the floor. Neatness no longer counted.
“I’m all right. Really. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.” Jess let out a brief laugh that sounded more like the tail end of a sob. “As you can see, I’m not really set up for visitors.” She was going to go on, but Robert walked across the room and looked out the window.
“It might be empty, but God, look at how the light streams in. And it’s wonderful you have this balcony. And your street is charming. I can almost picture how it looked in the 1920s.” He chuckled. “Minus the SUVs parked bumper-to-bumper along the curb.” He turned back to Jess and smiled. “I still want the nickel tour.”
“Penny tour is more like it.”
“Come on…”
Jess shyly took his hand and pulled him down the hallway off the living room. She showed him the kitchen, noting how the herbs in the window had all pretty much died through a combination of neglect and the frost building up on the glass.
She peeked into the bathroom and gave him a quick view, mumbling, “Nothing special.”
“The claw foot tub is great. Must be wonderful for baths.”
“Was.”
She led him down the hall and gestured toward the two bedrooms at the end, one on the left and one on the right.
Robert looked inside and marveled over the door in the one bedroom that led to a Juliet balcony. He opened the door. The El tracks were just across the backyard.
“Very urban.”
“Right.” Jess flashed back to hot summer nights when she and Ramona would lay in bed with the door open, a sheet loosely thrown over their naked forms, hands barely linked, and listen to the sound of the El trains rumbling by with their recorded announcements blaring. They would have just made love, or maybe were having some quiet time, talking softly—a lot about nothing—just before drifting off to sleep, comforted by the knowledge that the other would be there when morning’s light gradually filtered in and illuminated the room the next day. Jess would always awaken and look over at Ramona’s skin, the color of dark chocolate, marveling at its smooth sheen and that she was there for her, for yet another morning.
Jess suddenly wanted him to leave, even though his presence seemed to still a lot of the despair welled up in her heart. Him being there just made the place seem emptier. Seeing it through his eyes, she saw an apartment devoid of character. It was simply a space where no one lived. She knew she would have to move out, soon. For one reason, she could no longer afford the rent. And for another reason, more important, she could no longer afford to live among these memories.
But she would think about practicalities like moving, later. Again, she had the desire to just get into bed and sleep…maybe forever.
They returned to the living room. Robert squatted down to look at the stacks of books, DVDs, and CDs piled on the floor. “Oh, we have a lot of the same tastes. I see you like jazz.” He held up an Oscar Peterson CD. “I love ‘Night Train,’ don’t you?”
“I always feel like stripping when I hear it.”
Robert laughed and pulled out a Sarah Vaughn collection, then Duke Ellington’s Nutcracker Suite, and then Sheila Jordan’s Portrait of Sheila and flipped it over to examine the other side. He looked carefully at almost all of Jess’s music. “I have a lot o
f these very same CDs, although some of mine are on vinyl. I know, I’m a dinosaur. You need not say anything to make me feel older than I already do.” He moved on to the movies and didn’t make much comment, but when he got to her books, he suddenly sat down on the floor and let out a delighted whoop. “I can’t believe you have the whole series!”
Jess moved closer, squatting down beside him. “What are you talking about?”
“The Heather Marshall, Teenage Witch books, of course. You have them all!” Robert laughed again and held up a hardbound copy of Hex Education, the sixth in the series. “I remember when I first saw the cover art for this one. I wondered if the cheerleader uniform with a pentagram across the front was maybe a bit much.” He shook his head. “I haven’t looked at these in years.”
Jess cocked her head. “I wouldn’t think you’d know them.”
“Oh I know them all right.” Robert gave her a mysterious smile. “Read them all as a girl, didn’t you?”
Jess closed her eyes and for a moment was back in her suburban Naperville bedroom, aged twelve “Every one of them, most two or three times. Heather was my heroine.” Jess looked toward the window, where a cloud moved across the sun. “You know, I was struggling with feelings I couldn’t explain, and Heather, who was an outcast and different herself, seemed to make everything better. I don’t know if I could have made it through adolescence without her there to cheer me on and make me feel I wasn’t such an oddball. Or give me hope I could turn some of the more popular girls in my class into cats.” Jess laughed. “I still pull those out from time to time and read one. They comfort me. I almost feel like I know Heather.” Jess paused, thinking. “Those books, for some reason, always meant more to me than anything I’ve ever read. Isn’t that silly?”
