by Dorien Grey
“So maybe there’s a chance Hill might be from around Barstow, then?”
Steve shrugged.
“It’s possible,” he said, “The whole area kind of lends itself to people who like their privacy. There are a lot of places to get lost in. It’s got a lot of advantages for artists and writers, being both pretty isolated and yet relatively close to L.A. and San Diego.”
After looking at the rest of Steve’s paintings, Elliott followed him on a tour of the rest of the apartment. Beside the long living room, one end of which was a dining area, there was a small windowless kitchen, a bath and two bedrooms, one of them set up as a combination studio and den. On an easel near the window was a painting in progress, which Elliott recognized immediately as Belmont Harbor—more specifically, a popular gay area known as “the rocks.”
Returning to the living room, he took a seat on the small sofa while Steve went into the kitchen, coming back in a moment with a tray on which were a bottle of wine, two glasses and a plate of cheese and crackers. Elliott was pleased to think that Steve had gone out of his way to impress him. It had succeeded.
“I hope you like Mexican food,” Steve said as he put the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa and sat beside Elliott.
“I love it,” Elliott said, and Steve smiled as he poured the wine, handing Elliott a glass.
“Good,” he said. “If you didn’t I’d have had to fall back on ordering in a pizza or Chinese. But I had the urge to make enchiladas—my grandmother’s recipe, though I went easy on a couple of the spices. You can add more if you want them.”
They clicked glasses in a silent toast. After taking a sip, Elliott set his glass down and reached for the cheese and crackers.
* * *
When he got home around one o’clock Sunday afternoon, he noted two messages on his machine, both from Cessy. The first was from the night before, the second about an hour before he’d gotten home, wondering why he hadn’t returned her first call, where he was, if he was all right, and so on. He decided he’d better get in touch before she called again.
The phone rang three times, and he was about ready to hang up, figuring they must be gone, when he heard the receiver being picked up, and Jenny’s voice, “Hello?”
“Hi, Ladybug,” he said. “Is your mom home?”
“Yes. She’s out in the yard with daddy. We’re planting a tree.”
“Oh, well don’t bother her now, then,” he said. “Just tell her I called, okay?” He knew Cessy would call him back the minute she got in the house.
“Okay. Bye, Uncle Elliott.”
“Bye, Ladybug.”
Hanging up the phone, he headed for the bedroom to change clothes. Though he’d showered at Steve’s, he’d not brought along a change of clothes and didn’t like wearing the same clothes, especially underwear, two days in a row—one of the reluctant legacies inherited from his somewhat obsessive-compulsive mother.
As he changed, having resisted the impulse to shower again, he reflected on his evening with Steve. It had been memorable on several levels, not the least of which was the determination that John was from the same general area as Steve, and that there was some definite link between John and G.J. Hill.
Was it conceivable, he wondered, that John was G.J. Hill? That would be a real stretch, he knew—John had given absolutely no indication of it. Of course, one of Elliott’s primary frustrations with the whole question of whether John was real or not was the fact that John had provided him with no concrete information on his own. The only way he could determine for sure what John’s link with Hill might be would be to contact Hill directly, but he wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish that unless he heard from Hill’s publisher.
The ringing of the phone just as he was putting on his socks sent him semi-hopping into the den to answer it.
“You’re home!” Cessy said.
“Yes, mother, I’m home,” he said, not quite sure whether to be amused or irritated by her keeping constant track of him.
“Well, I was beginning to get worried. Why do you bother having a cell phone if you never turn it on? You had a date?”
“I went to a friend’s for dinner and stayed over.”
“Do I know him? You have so many people coming and going in your life, I do wish you’d pick one and settle down.”
Ignoring the last part, he said, “No, you don’t know him. But I promise I’ll keep you posted, and when I do decide to settle down, you’ll be the first to know.”
“I’d better be!” she said. “But the reason I called is to ask you over for dinner tonight. I’ve got a pot roast on, and there’s enough food for an army. Would you like to bring your friend?”
He wasn’t sure if she was serious or just teasing, but knowing his sister....
“Jeez, Sis, I just met the guy! I don’t want to scare him off by parading him in front of the relatives so soon. Nice of you to ask, but no.” He had the sudden mental image of being at a dog show, trotting Steve in front of Cessy and her family like a prized Whippet. She had never been quite so pushy before, but perhaps she was becoming desperate for him to find someone.
“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” she said. “So can you make it? Around six thirty?”
“Sure,” he replied. Normally, he would have begged off—he felt he was practically living there recently—but knew it would give him another chance to talk with Brad. He still didn’t know exactly how to approach him about sending John’s photo to the San Bernardino County police, though. While he was fairly confident that John was from that area, he had absolutely no way of knowing whether John had gone missing from there or had merely moved away, in which case contacting the police there would be all but pointless.
Fighting off a rising tide of frustration, he went into the den, grabbed Hill’s three books, and strode into the living room, where he plopped himself down on his favorite chair and, with all three books in his lap, determinedly opened the top one—Sea Dreams—and began staring intently at each photo, as if doing so might force John to reveal something. He was perversely aware that the act might very well increase his frustration rather than lower it.
Although the sense of John’s presence intensified as it always did whenever he went near Hill’s books, he wasn’t quite sure what he expected. He knew from experience that he couldn’t expect anything but sensations from John, at least not while he was awake, but he hoped that by concentrating very hard on each photo, he might sense something that might provide a clue as to what he should do, or where he should look next.
He made his way all the way through Sea Dreams and moved on to Moonrise. The fact that he still found each of the photos captivating, and noted new detail in nearly every one, made him almost forget his objective. John’s presence remained steady but unwavering. When he came to the photo looking out over the valley—the one Steve’s painting duplicated in daylight—he paused even longer than usual; he had no idea why. Staring very closely brought out some details he’d missed on earlier viewings, but nothing he considered significant.
A few pages further on was a photo of a lone, tall pine tree on a rock outcropping, silhouetted against the sky with the full moon showing through its branches, which again held his attention longer than normal. And a few pages beyond that there was a shot of a new moon balanced on the deeply shadowed outline of what appeared to be a sagging barn roof, as if the lunar weight were causing it to bend.
Elliott picked up an opened envelope from the table beside his chair and tore off pieces to make bookmarks for the three photos. He’d ask Steve if he might recognize exactly where they had been taken.
Finishing Moonrise, he set it aside and picked up Sand Petals. But even with the same intense study, none of the photos stood out as had the three from Moonrise. He was again frustrated—if John were trying to tell him something in those three photos, why had there been no fluctuations in his awareness of John’s presence.
The soft chiming of the grandmother’s clock in the dining area made h
im look up; he was startled to find he’d been sitting there for nearly three hours. Once again mildly exasperated with himself, Elliott got up and carried the books back into the den.
* * *
He arrived at Cessy and Brad’s just before six to find Brad and BJ engrossed in a football game on TV. Elliott had never been a very big sports fan, and was always grateful to his father for not pushing him to be. As a matter of fact, having little or no interest in organized sports, he had never really figured out what the fuss was all about, or cared. One night at a bar he had told an obnoxiously sports-oriented acquaintance, “If you’re so wild about football, put down the beer and get off your dead ass and go out and play it.”
After a brief exchange of greetings, he picked Sandy up from her playpen beside the couch and followed Cessy into the kitchen. As always, he was intrigued by the baby’s flawlessly soft skin, crystal clear blue eyes and that indefinable but distinct “new” smell that all babies share. He held her with her head on his shoulder, one hand supporting her upper back and rocked her gently back and forth.
“Don’t you ever miss not having children of your own?” Cessy asked, taking a stack of plates from the cupboard.
“Oh, I suppose sometimes,” he confessed. “I love kids. I just don’t want to go through the details of making one.”
“Well,” Cessy said without looking up from dealing the plates onto the table as though they were a stack of cards, “maybe when you settle down you can adopt. A lot of gays are doing that now, I understand.”
He grinned. “Yes, that’s what I understand, too.”
Cessy looked up quickly to see how he meant the comment and, seeing his smile, returned it.
“We’ll see what happens,” he said.
Dinner was delayed until the end of the game, and Elliott and Cessy sat at the kitchen table talking. Jenny wandered in and out of the room with various things she wanted to tell or show Elliott, and each time he gave her his rapt attention. Sandy had fallen fast asleep, and he had returned her to her playpen.
Cessy filled him in on their parents’ continuing adventures; their mother kept in close touch with her, sending detailed accounts of their travels. She seldom wrote Elliott other than the briefest of notes—probably, he surmised, on the not totally unfounded assumption that men didn’t care for nonessential information in a letter. They were planning to return to Chicago at the end of the month in time for some annual charity affair with which they were associated.
He had never spent too much time reflecting on his relationship with his parents. It wasn’t that they were bad parents, it’s just that they always had a lot of other things to do. Neither parent was particularly demonstrative, though neither he nor Cessy doubted they were loved to the best of their parents’ interpretation of the word. He was an adult before he realized one day that he could not recall ever having addressed them as “Mom” and “Dad”—they were always “Mother” and “Father”—and that he didn’t consider that the least bit unusual. It was simply the way of things—they were, after all, parents, not friends. Perhaps that was one reason he and Cessy were so close.
The kids had been excused from the table, and the three adults were sitting at the table drinking coffee when Brad brought up the subject of John, or more accurately, “Elliott’s John Doe.”
“You never found out anything from the picture, I assume,” Brad asked, freshening his coffee from the carafe Cessy had brought to the table.
“I’m still working on it,” Elliott said. “I took it to a bar the other night, but didn’t really have a chance to talk with that many people.”
He noted Cessy’s raised eyebrow and knowing smile.
“But I haven’t given up, by a long shot.”
Cessy shook her head. “I really don’t understand your fascination with all this,” she said. “I’m afraid it might not be healthy for you to dwell on it.”
“Well, I’m hardly dwelling on it,” he said, realizing even as the words left his mouth that he was lying. “It’s just that the idea of someone being robbed of their very identity really, really bothers me. Somebody knows this guy, somebody misses him. I’d be a pretty poor excuse for a human being if I didn’t do whatever I can to help.”
Cessy gave him a small smile. “But there must be so many John Does out there. You can’t find names for them all.”
“No,” he said, “but this is a guy who died lying on a Gurney right next to me. That makes him special.”
Brad nodded in agreement. “I understand,” he said. “It’s frustrating for a lot of us in law enforcement—we do whatever we can with every John Doe case, but there are so many other, more urgent things to deal with, that after the initial investigation, we just don’t have the time.”
Elliott reached for the carafe and poured himself more coffee. “I don’t suppose you found out anything more about…what was his name? The guy in the Sheffield basement?” he asked.
“Joe Donnelly,” Brad said. “And, no, not really. We’re convinced that Vittorio Collina was behind it, but the whole thing is kind of moot now. So, while there’s no statute of limitations on murder, Vittorio’s death effectively put an end to pursuing the matter.”
“Vittorio Collina? Vittorio Collina?” Cessy asked. “Our next-door neighbor Collinas? I never realized. No wonder Marie became a nun!”
Elliott nodded. “If I had a brother like Al and a father like Vittorio, I’d probably have become a nun, too.” He caught Brad’s quickly raised eyebrow and suppressed smile, and grinned.
Cessy, oblivious, continued. “So we lived next door to a murderer? And they seemed like such a respectable family!”
“I’m afraid ‘respectable’ isn’t a word many people would ever use to describe Vittorio Collina,” Brad said. “He was a gangster and an inveterate womanizer…and those were his good qualities.”
“Poor Marie! It must have been terrible for her.” Cessy shook her head and stared into her coffee cup. “And you and…Johnny, was it?…were best friends. He seemed like such a nice boy. I don’t remember much about Alphonso, but I know I didn’t like him. He used to make Marie cry just for the fun of it.”
“That’s Al, all right,” Elliott said. “And I don’t think he’s mellowed with age. I was telling Brad that Al had called me the other day to try to con me into selling him that property I just bought on Sheffield.”
“And Johnny? What became of him?” she asked.
Again, Elliott felt a strange wave of sadness. “He died in Africa several years ago, while he was in the Peace Corps,” he said. “Al mentioned it…and I do mean mentioned it. He might as well have been talking about losing a phone number. It was obvious he couldn’t care less. After all these years, he’s still a bastard.”
* * *
He talked with Steve several times over the next week, but they didn’t have the chance to get together, largely because Elliott was so preoccupied with completing the Sheffield building. Work was going along well—was, in fact, ahead of his projected timetable. The back porch/patio project was completed, and four of the six apartments redone. Elliott had not forgotten about the three photos from Moonrise, and wanted to ask Steve about them as soon as he could, even though he didn’t sense any pressure from John to do so.
He had learned not to project anything onto John in the way of anticipating what he could or should expect. It was as frustrating as thinking his intense concentration might produce some specific response. It never did. John communicated what and when he wanted or was able to communicate, and Elliott was powerless to change it. He had gradually rejected the idea that John was deliberately concealing information, and resigned himself to the fact that John was truly as much in the dark as he was.
He had always been one to prefer action over excessive contemplation. He was used to thinking about something long enough to lay out what he considered to be a workable plan of action then following his plan. But that was in his dealings with the real world; it didn’t necessarily apply to John.
Having largely accepted the idea that John was a real entity as opposed to something his mind had created for whatever reason, he was not comfortable with all the speculation that seemed to accompany that acceptance. Why John did not respond or react in what Elliott would consider a logical manner was a primary source of his frustration, but he recognized that he had no idea how being dead might affect one’s perceptions, thought processes, responses or reactions. He just took it on faith that both he and John were doing the best they could.
He continued to have dreams, but it was almost as though having convinced Elliott that the dreams meant something, John had relented a bit on their intensity. But Elliott was always aware, in those dreams, of a sense of confusion and loneliness and longing.
On Friday evening, Elliott called Steve to ask him over for an impromptu order-in-pizza on Saturday, and Steve agreed. He told Elliott he had just received some potentially good news he was anxious to share, but would wait until they got together. Elliott was of course curious, and had a mental flash that the news might involve an old flame returning to Steve’s life as had happened with Rick. He was curious as to why he would even think such a thing, but chose not to pursue it.
* * *
Steve arrived promptly at six, carrying a six-pack of imported beer.
“Pizza’s not pizza without beer,” he explained, and Elliott agreed. He already had two six-packs of domestic beer in the refrigerator in anticipation, but didn’t say anything, figuring they would serve as a backup if needed.
He called in the pizza order after checking with Steve on his preferences, which he was pleasantly surprised to find matched his own, right down to the anchovies. Taking two beers out of the carton, he put the rest in the refrigerator and returned to the living room, where Steve was standing at the window enjoying the view.
“Mind if I come over sometime and do some sketches from your balcony?” he asked.
