His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  * * *

  The two weeks of Brad and Cessy’s vacation passed rapidly, with work on the Sheffield building and taking care of Bozo occupying just about every minute of his time. John’s presence was constant but subdued, and there were dreams, and bits of conversation in the depths of sleep, but for the most part, he got the distinct impression that John was trying not to be too intrusive. It occurred to him, too, that the dead may well have very different concepts of the importance of time.

  He was able, though, to get together with Rick a couple of times the first week—a movie one night, dinner and a stay-over on a Saturday—but realized the following Thursday that they’d not even talked for several days. He felt increasingly comfortable with Rick, as Rick seemed to feel with him, but there seemed to be an unspoken agreement on both their parts not to rush things.

  It was pretty apparent that Rick was still carrying the torch for his last affair, and though Elliott was naturally curious as to what had happened and why, prying was not in his nature. He had pieced together the fact that the guy, who came from an ultra-religious fundamentalist background and had apparently come out only relatively recently, still had not yet totally broken free from his past.

  As to where his and Rick’s own relationship might be heading, he chose not to speculate. Still, not having heard anything was unusual, so he made it a point to call him Thursday night after dinner. He got Rick’s answering machine and left a message.

  A cool wind off the lake was blowing through the open balcony doors, and as he returned from closing them, he was drawn to the photo books neatly stacked, thanks to Ida, his cleaning woman, who had been in the day before, on the table where he’d left them. He found himself picking up Sand Petals and taking it to his favorite chair. Turning on the chair-side lamp, he sat down and opened the book.

  The immediate strong sense of John’s presence was not unlike a sudden gust of wind as if the balcony doors he’d closed had burst open again.

  The book, as the title suggested, was comprised of photos of the desert in spring. Each photo had, as those in Moonrise and Sea Dreams, a unique feel to it; each created a separate atmosphere of combined beauty and starkness—of desolate isolation and promise. Amazing blooming cactus, a long shot of endless waves of sand with one small flower visible halfway up a dune, which drew the eye like a magnet, carpets of spring flowers spread across the desert floor, bringing it to vibrant life. Elliott was both impressed and absorbed, and he was strongly aware that John was, too.

  It suddenly struck him that there was a common theme in all three books—waves. Waves of trees and mountains in Moonrise, waves of sand in Sand Petals, and of course Sea Dreams. Each book evoked a sense of power, of ebb and flow, of waves—and of life itself.

  He also speculated that G.J. Hill quite likely lived in California, which provided easy access to the subjects of each book.

  And who was G.J. Hill? John had indicated Hill was a man, and Elliott tended to agree, though he had no facts on which to base such a conclusion. If John did know Hill personally, how could he find out for sure? He toyed with the idea of trying to contact Hill through the books’ publisher, but then realized that even if he did manage to contact Hill, he would have no idea what to ask. “Do you know someone named John?” Who didn’t? But this would be a John whom Hill had not seen or heard from in a while.

  Not having a last name was the problem. But, of course, if he had a last name, he might not even have to consider trying to contact Hill at all. Confusion led to more confusion, which led to even more confusion, until he slammed the book closed in exasperation, tossed it back onto the coffee table, and pushed himself up from the chair. He strode into the den, plopped heavily on the loveseat, picked up the remote and flicked on the TV.

  His frustration had segued again to anger, and he wasn’t exactly sure why. Anger at whom? At what? At himself, he realized, for being pulled ever deeper into the quagmire that John represented, and at his inability to either just step away from it or know what to do to resolve it.

  * * *

  He was still angry when he went to bed and, finally, to sleep.

  I’m sorry.

  Yeah, you’ve said that.

  He was aware that even in sleep his anger was still with him.

  Why don’t you just go away?

  He instantly regretted the thought when an overpowering sense of fear, like being immersed in ice water, overcame him. The fear, he knew, was John’s.

  Where would I go?

  The fear was replaced by a feeling of sorrow and loneliness so intense Elliott wanted to cry.

  I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. It’s just…

  I understand. It’s very hard.

  But what do you want of me? What can I do?

  Help me.

  How?

  I don’t know.

  A flush of anger returned briefly, but he forced it away.

  That’s just it—you don’t know! Anything! How can I help you if you don’t know?

  Help me to find out.

  He was aware of his sigh, even through the depth of sleep.

  I’m not doing a very good job of it.

  Yes! You are! You’ve helped me feel things. I don’t know what they mean, but they have to mean something. Why do we dream of mountains?

  Instantly Elliott was wide awake.

  “We?”

  CHAPTER 5

  He glanced at the digital clock on the night stand. Five fifteen. Too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep even if he could, which he doubted. That single dreamed word we had totally unnerved him with the shock of realizing that it was true. If John existed—and if, again, that word could be used—or ever had existed outside Elliott’s own mind, he was John’s only hope of finding out who he was and what had happened to him.

  And even if John was only a figment of his imagination or some side effect of his accident, what could he lose by looking into it? The fact remained that a man had died in his presence in the hospital emergency room, and that man deserved the dignity of an identity. Someone, somewhere, knew him. He had to have family, friends—a partner, perhaps—who wondered where he was and what had happened to him.

  As for his own family, he’d received a letter from his parents saying they had decided to extend their vacation with a side trip to Bali, which would delay their return home by several more weeks. He loved his parents, but they had always led their own lives quite separate from his. Cessy, Brad and the kids had returned from Florida on Saturday, and he spent Sunday afternoon with them, hearing all about their adventures and generally catching up. He didn’t mention John Doe’s photo, figuring Brad deserved not to be reminded of work on his last day of vacation, and he was relieved that Cessy, for a change, did not press him on his social life.

  However, Monday morning he got up, went through his morning ritual, and waited until seven o’clock when he knew Brad and Cessy would be up, then reached for the phone.

  “Hello?” Cessy’s voice didn’t betray any curiosity over who might be calling at 7:00 a.m. As a policeman’s wife, she was used to calls at all hour, day or night.

  “Cessy, hi. Sorry to bother you so early, but is Brad around?”

  There was a slight pause before, “Yes, he just got out of the shower. Is something wrong?”

  He hastened to assure her that everything was fine, but that he just needed to talk to Brad for a moment. He heard a hand-over-receiver muffled, “Brad? Elliott wants to talk to you,” followed by, “He’ll be right here. Are you sure everything is okay? You seemed a little distracted yesterday. I worry about you.”

  He resisted the temptation to say, “So I’ve noticed,” and settled for, “I’m fine, really. I’ve just been very busy working—as I told you, the new building has been taking up all my time.”

  Apparently making up for her lapse the night before in not asking about his private life, Cessy asked, “Have you been dating at all? I didn’t get a chance to ask you yesterday, but that doesn’t mean I�
��m not curious.”

  And while her question didn’t surprise him, it did remind him again that he’d not heard from Rick.

  “Not really,” he said. “I’ll start up again when this project is a little further along.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to become a monk. I…oh, here’s Brad. I’ll talk with you soon.”

  There was the shuffling sound of the phone changing hands, then, “Hi, Elliott. You still want that photo, right? I’ll make a point of getting it today.”

  “No problem,” Elliott said. “But I would appreciate it.”

  “Hey,” Brad said, “it would make my job easier if more people would take an interest in trying to find John and Jane Does.”

  “I guess most people just aren’t aware of them.”

  “That’s true. But people go missing all the time, and for all sorts of reasons. Most disappear voluntarily and generally show up eventually. Very few of them, over all, end up dead. And for those who do, well…the very fact that someone’s a John Doe often indicates he’s not from the area where he was found, and anyone who might be looking for him just doesn’t know where or how to look.”

  “That sucks,” Elliott said.

  “That it does,” Brad replied, “but that’s the way it is.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Well, I’ll make a point of getting it for you today. But right now, I’ve got to run.”

  “Sure,” Elliott said. “I’ve got to get going myself. Thanks a lot, Brad.”

  “I’ll give you a call tonight.”

  * * *

  Work on the building was going along well. He’d subcontracted the tearing down of the garage and blacktopping of the new parking area while he and his regular crew concentrated on the kitchens and bathrooms of the two empty apartments at the rear of the building, which included replacing the kitchen window with a doorway to what would be the private patio. There were an infinite number of logistical details to be juggled all at once, and Elliott thrived on them.

  He had always prided himself on the fact that when he worked, he worked. He kept his mind focused on the job immediately at hand, and didn’t allow it to go wandering around looking into things that might distract him and thereby slow him down. To Elliott, time was not so much money as it was productivity. He was always aware of John’s presence, but by this time he had accepted it to the point where he was able to pretty much ignore it.

  On the drive home, though, he began to think of both Brad’s anticipated call and of the fact that he’d still not heard from Rick. He found it interesting that of the two, it seemed to be Brad’s call that concerned him most.

  He found a message from Cessy waiting for him on his machine. “Elliott, your cell phone must be turned off. Call me as soon as you get in. Brad called this afternoon and mentioned he was bringing home something for you. If I’d known that this morning, I’d have invited you over for dinner tonight then. You men just never think. It’s five o’clock now, so plan on coming over for dinner and you can kill two birds with one stone. Call me.”

  Checking his cell phone he saw that it had, indeed, somehow been turned off. He then glanced at his watch—it was five twenty-eight—sighed, and picked up the phone to call his sister. He’d just had dinner with them the night before, but at least he wouldn’t have to wait for Brad.

  Assuring Cessy he’d be over shortly, he took the time to give Rick another call. He didn’t expect him to be home yet, and was surprised to hear the phone being picked up, and a voice he’d never heard before saying, “Hello.”

  Thinking he might have gotten a wrong number, he said, “Is Rick in?”

  “No,” the voice said. “He’s still at work. He should be here shortly. Do you want him to call you?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Elliott replied. “I have to be leaving in a minute. Just tell him Elliott called.”

  There was a slight pause, then, “Oh. Okay. Elliott, huh? I’ll tell him.”

  “Elliott, huh?” He wondered what that was supposed to mean and who was answering Rick’s phone. He had a feeling he knew, and he found himself mildly irritated. If, as he suspected, Rick’s “ex” had reentered the picture, he felt Rick should have had the courtesy to let him know. As he hung up the phone he felt a surge in awareness of John’s presence, and a strange sensation of empathy.

  Quickly washing up and changing clothes, he headed back out the door for another Dinner at the Priebes’.

  * * *

  Arriving shortly before six thirty, he found Cessy in the final preparations of dinner and the kids in their rooms doing homework. There wasn’t enough time for him and Brad to have their usual predinner beer, but as he settled into his favorite chair, Brad left the room, returning a moment later with a 9 x 12 manila mailing envelope.

  “Sure you want to look at this before dinner?” Brad asked, only half-jokingly, as he handed it over.

  “Sure.” Elliott opened it to extract an 8 x 10 photo, which was face down. As he did so, John’s presence nearly overwhelmed him. He turned the photo over and looked at the handsome but badly bruised and unmistakably dead face of the man. A small mug-shot type sign on his chest identified him as John Doe #147.

  He was not prepared for the tsunami of emotion that swept over him, sorrow so overwhelming he became light-headed and felt his eyes misting over. He had to blink rapidly to clear them.

  “You okay?” he heard Brad ask.

  He nodded. “I’m fine.”

  At the same time, he was fully aware that though he did not recognize the man in the photo, John did.

  Luckily, Brad’s attention was distracted by Cessy’s appearance in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Five minutes.”

  She turned back into the kitchen. Brad returned his attention to Elliott.

  “So do you recognize him?” he asked.

  Elliott shook his head to clear it, and tried to pull himself together. “I definitely recognize him from the ER,” he said, “even though I only saw him for a moment and was pretty much out of it myself. As to other than that, it’s really hard to say.”

  Fighting his light-headedness, he pretended to study the photo more carefully for a long moment. Short-cropped dark hair—brown, Brad had told him earlier—a neat, short-stubble beard of the kind seen frequently in the bars and in TV commercials.

  “Now that I got a better look at him, he does look familiar somehow.” He knew he was mostly lying. “I think I might have seen him in one of the bars.” That wasn’t true, but it was the first thing that came to his mind. That John had obviously recognized himself was the primary thing. As to Elliott’s actually recognizing him, the face shared too many qualities of any number of good-looking men seen in the bars and on the streets every day. True, he might have seen him before, but…

  “The bars? So, you think he might have been gay?” Brad asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Elliott replied, again pulling himself back into the moment. He hated misleading his brother-in-law, and he had nothing other than his assumption to go on that John might be gay. But he needed an excuse for his next question. “I was wondering if I might keep this?”

  He was aware of Brad’s immediately raised eyebrow.

  “Why?” Brad asked logically. “If you think he might be gay, we can take it around to the bars to see if any of the owners or bartenders might recognize him. It might give us a lead.”

  Elliott regretted ever having asked, but now that he had, he felt he had to follow up on it.

  “That’s a good idea,” he said. “But if I could keep this one, I might be able to ask some of my friends if they’d ever seen him. It couldn’t hurt to cast a little wider net.”

  Brad thought a minute, then said “Well…”

  “You know I’ll be discreet,” Elliott hastened to add, “and as I said, it might turn up something.”

  Brad pursed his lips and stared at him, making Elliott even more uncomfortable. “I suppose,” Brad said, “but you’d better be dam
ned discreet. The department likes to keep pretty close control on its evidence. But like you say, it couldn’t hurt if the guy was gay. You can get around in the bars easier than we can.”

  Elliott was sliding the picture back into the envelope when Cessy appeared again in the doorway.

  “Ready,” she said, and Brad and Elliott rose from their seats, Brad walking to the stairway to the second floor to call the kids.

  * * *

  John’s presence weighed on him like a thick winter coat throughout dinner and all the way home. He couldn’t imagine being in John’s position—to see himself…dead.

  The gigantic wave of sorrow that had swept over him when he first looked at the photo had ebbed but not vanished, replaced by a sense of John’s apparent final resignation to the fact that he was, indeed, dead. But there was also an element of hopelessness. John had recognized himself, but still, apparently, had no idea who he was.

  As soon as he got back to his condo, he took out the photo again and studied it carefully, as if either he or John might somehow be able to tell something more. Had he ever seen John in a bar, he wondered? It was possible, but as Brad had said, the fact that John was a John Doe indicated he was not from the immediate area. And that again begged the question as to whether “John” was the body’s real name.

  The photo was in black and white, so even if the eyes had been open, it would be impossible for Elliott to guess their color, though, again, Brad had said they were brown. The face was calmly expressionless in death, and there were ugly dark bruises and some apparent swelling on the cheek, jaw and neck, but none was disfiguring. John was without question a good-looking man…probably very close to Elliott’s own age; and the harder he stared at it, the stronger he felt there was something familiar about him.