His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  Elliott couldn’t agree more. And he was somehow pretty sure that Steve may very well have in fact had a run in with Rob Cole.

  CHAPTER 9

  They emerged from the restaurant to find the streets and sidewalks glistening with reflections of streetlights, auto headlights, and neon signs from an obviously recent downpour. He grinned at Steve and nudged him with the back of his hand.

  “So much for cloud reading,” he said.

  Steve shrugged. “So maybe Illinois clouds are different than California clouds. Besides, the rain’s stopped so I was right—we didn’t have to worry about it.”

  Heading for the subway, Elliott said, “It’s still early. What do you feel like doing?”

  Steve gave him a definitely suggestive smile. “How about you?”

  Elliott could recognize a double entendre when he heard one, but he deliberately sidestepped it.

  “I was figuring maybe we could go over to my place and watch a video.”

  “PG or X?”

  “Your choice.”

  Steve grinned again. “Did I mention that pizza has the same effect on me as art?”

  “Ah, so that’s what turned you on the night you came over to my place?”

  “Well, hardly, but it didn’t hurt.”

  Elliott returned the grin. “I’m beginning to suspect the phone book would do the same.”

  Steve sighed. “Well, I am partial to the Yellow Pages.”

  “So I guess I’d better start going back to my S.A. meetings?”

  “S.A.?”

  “Sexaholics Anonymous—though that title always strikes me as being redundant.”

  They descended into the subway and headed for Elliott’s condo.

  * * *

  He awoke before Steve, who lay with one arm across Elliott’s chest. Rather than making a move that might wake him, Elliott watched him sleep—hair tousled, mouth partly open, breathing quietly. The movement of Steve’s eyes beneath the lids indicated they were following the actions of a dream. Once again he was fascinated by the coffee-with-cream color of Steve’s flawless skin.

  He’d heard nothing from John the entire night, which he chalked up to John’s discretion, although he sensed a subtle underlying something akin to a mental aftertaste he couldn’t define—disappointment?…sadness?… resignation?… He certainly felt none of these things. Quite the contrary, as he watched Steve sleeping beside him, he was downright content.

  Lost in his thoughts, he was suddenly aware Steve was awake and watching him.

  “‘Morning,” Steve said, moving his arm to wipe the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Good morning. Sleep okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. Always.”

  Elliott grinned. “We should have pizza more often.”

  Steve returned the grin. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Hardly what I’d consider a warning.”

  Throwing back the sheets, Steve sat up and swung his legs off the bed. “If you’ll excuse me for a second, the bathroom calls.”

  Echoing Steve’s movements from the other side of the bed, he said, “I’ll put the coffee on while you’re gone.” Not bothering to put on a robe, he padded into the kitchen.

  * * *

  They had toast and coffee on the balcony, Steve in one of Elliott’s robes, and Elliott in a pair of sweats and a tee shirt.

  “God, I envy you this,” Steve said, indicating the view with a slight gesture with his coffee cup.

  “I’d trade it for your talent,” Elliott replied, only half joking.

  They were quiet a moment until Steve said, “I had a dream last night about Hill and that asshole lover of his.”

  Elliott instantly switched into “full alert” mode. “Really?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t show the intensity of his interest. “What was it about?”

  Steve shrugged. “I can’t remember it now, but I think it had something to do with Hill’s being dead. You told me you thought he was, but in the dream I knew it.”

  “Probably just the anchovies from the pizza,” Elliott said, and Steve grinned, but he couldn’t help but wonder why Steve might dream about Hill at all, let alone about his being sure Hill was dead. That was something only he and John “knew.”

  “Maybe,” Steve said. “But if Hill is dead and his lover had anything to do with it, I hope to hell Hill comes back and haunts the shit out of him.”

  “You believe in ghosts?” he blurted before he could catch himself. He didn’t know if this was a conversation he wanted to pursue.

  Steve took another sip of coffee and looked at him. “Sure. Don’t you?”

  “Uh, I don’t know,” he dissembled, having no idea what else to say and feeling equal parts interested and uncomfortable.

  “We had one when I was a kid,” Steve said casually, and Elliott didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not.

  “You had a ghost?”

  “Yeah. Really. His name was Robert. Or at least that’s what we called him. He was pretty cool. I was never afraid of him for a second.”

  “Do you think he wanted you to be?”

  “No. My folks rented this old place near Fort Hood while my dad was stationed there. I guess it used to be Robert’s. Anyway, like I said, Robert was cool. He loved classical music and bedrooms, the one my brother and I shared, especially. Maybe it used to be his; maybe he was gay—who knows. We never saw him, but we’d always know when he was around.”

  “So what happened to him?” Elliott asked.

  “You mean after we moved? I don’t know. I assume he’s still there, if the house is.” He gave Elliott a raised eyebrow grin. “You think I’m nuts, huh?”

  Elliott shook his head. “No, of course not. It’s just that I…” He had no idea how to finish the sentence, so he just let it trail off.

  “Well, as I think I said before, there are more things in heaven and earth…” Steve began,

  “…than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio,” Elliott finished the quote. “And I guess you’re right.” He felt another surge of discomfort and got up from his chair. “More coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  Taking Steve’s proffered cup, he went back inside. What he really wanted was a chance to recoup. The talk of ghosts and Steve’s dream had really disconcerted him.

  His hands refilled their cups and added cream and sugar while his mind tried to figure out what was going on. Was it possible that Steve was being influenced by John? Why else would the dream be of Hill and Cole? Most likely, he told himself, it was sheer coincidence, and not all that unlikely, considering they had been talking about the Hill situation. He was having enough problems just dealing with John as it was. He didn’t need or want Steve involved.

  * * *

  They took their time over coffee, then decided to go to brunch. Steve wanted to stop by his apartment to change clothes first, having discovered a previously unnoticed but large spot of undetermined origin on the front of his pants.

  “Well, I’ll start getting ready,” Elliott said. “You want to join me for a shower?”

  Steve looked at him and grinned. “Uh, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea if we actually plan to have brunch before four this afternoon. You go ahead, and I’ll shower at home before I change clothes, okay?”

  Elliott shrugged. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said.

  “I know exactly what I’m missing,” Steve replied. “But there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

  * * *

  As he was lowering his head into the spray to wash the shampoo out of his hair, he heard his cell phone ring, and a moment later heard Steve’s “Hello?” He finished showering, dried off and padded into the bedroom to get dressed. Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from him and putting on his socks. He partially turned to look at Elliott when he realized he’d entered the room.

  “Sorry,” Steve said, indicating the two identical cell phones side by side on the bed. “Your sister c
alled. I didn’t realize we had the same phone until it was too late.”

  Elliott mentally rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but merely sighed. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said. “I imagine she dragged out the rubber hose?”

  Grinning, Steve said, “It wasn’t quite that bad. She sounds really nice, if just a bit…uh…curious.”

  Elliott went to the dresser to extract socks and a pair of shorts. “That’s Cessy,” he said. “She’s always treated me like I was the younger of the two. She can’t wait to start picking out china patterns for me.”

  “I kind of got that impression,” he said. “Maybe I should have told her I like Wedgewood.”

  Luckily, Elliott could tell he was joking.

  “I told her I’d have you call her as soon as you could. She said to remind you about the recital.”

  Elliott knew full well that was Cessy’s way of prodding him to invite Steve, and he knew that, now having talked with him, she was going to be relentless until she met him.

  “Thanks,” he said, hoping Cessy had not gone further into the recital thing. However, knowing her, and not wanting to simply ignore it in case she had directly asked Steve and he was being diplomatic in not saying so, he felt obliged to bring it up.

  “My niece is having a recital at her school a week from next Sunday,” he said as he selected a pair of pants and shirt from the closet. “I’d mentioned that I’d met you and she jumped on it. She wants me to invite you to come to the recital with me. I told her I was sure you’d have better things to do with your time.”

  Steve got up from the bed, putting on his shirt and stained pants. “I don’t mind recitals,” he said, and Elliott turned to look at him.

  “You don’t?” he asked. “I mean, I’d be happy to have you come with me, but you really don’t know what you’d be letting yourself in for. If you thought she was ‘curious’ on the phone, just wait until she gets into the same room with you.”

  “Well, I’ll leave it up to you,” Steve said. “I certainly don’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

  He was already in an awkward position but didn’t want Steve to know it. It was precisely because of Cessy’s curiosity that he hated telling her any more than he absolutely had to about anyone he was seeing. Usually, it didn’t matter, since he seldom saw the same guy more than a couple of times, and never got anywhere near being serious about any of them. Rick was out of the picture before he had a chance to know if anything substantial might have developed or not. And Steve was really too recent an entry into his life to have given much thought to where if anywhere it might go.

  But he did really like Steve, he reasoned, and perhaps it might be time to seriously think of settling down. If he decided he did want to have someone to share his life, he didn’t want to push it off until he was seventy to do it.

  “Well, sure,” he said as he buttoned the last button on his shirt. “If you’re brave enough to step into the lion’s den, I’d really like to have you go with me.”

  Steve smiled and stepped into his shoes. “Okay, then. Thanks. But if the pressure gets a little too heavy, please feel free to withdraw the invitation at any time, with no hard feelings on my part.”

  By the time they’d stopped by Steve’s so he could shower and change clothes, it was nearly one thirty, so after debating on where to go for brunch, Steve suggested IHOP, which served eggs benedict all day. Elliott was actually rather pleased by the further evidence that Steve had his feet pretty firmly on the ground in not opting for someplace more trendy.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until early Sunday evening, back home, that he realized he’d not returned Cessy’s call. Surprisingly, there was no message from her on his machine, and she’d not tried his cell. It was unlike her, but perhaps she was just trying to give him some quality time with Steve. He knew that when he did call, he’d be in for a long interrogation, and decided just to let it go and enjoy the respite.

  Besides, he rationalized, Brad would not have had time to contact the San Luis Obispo police with his concerns, if he would contact them at all. He didn’t want to ignore Cessy, but determined to see if he could hold off calling until Monday evening.

  He watched the ten-o’clock news, still with no call from Cessy, and went to bed.

  I am not a ghost.

  What are you, then?

  I am a human being, just as I was…before.

  And you still have no idea who that human being was?

  No. But…

  But what?

  I’m not sure. So many…things. It’s confusing.

  Exactly what do you know?

  My name is John.

  Yes, we’ve established that.

  I am not a ghost.

  If you say so.

  And I am not G.J. Hill.

  Then why did you identify the photo as being you? Cole says it’s Hill.

  And you believe him? The picture is me. But I know I’m not G.J. Hill! Why do you always doubt me?

  He felt a flush of embarrassment, even in sleep, knowing that John was right.

  I’m sorry. Really. It’s just all so confusing, and I’m trying to understand.

  I know. So am I.

  Aware of a mounting and mutually shared frustration, he released his grip on semiconsciousness and sank below the level of dreams.

  * * *

  Arriving for work shortly before eight, he heard the sounds of demolition. A huge commercial Dumpster was in the street directly in front of the building next door, to the north. He had been vaguely aware, over the past week or so, of several moving vans coming and going, but it never occurred to him that the building was being vacated in preparation for demolition. A perfectly good building with character, and in his eyes, charm, another piece of the fabric of Chicago’s past with decades of practical use ahead of it, was being sacrificed to what he considered nothing but greed. Al Collina at its worst.

  The thought that the building he was currently putting such great care and effort into restoring would soon be sandwiched between towering, featureless slabs of concrete infuriated him. Recognizing that his anger was irrational and disproportionate did not make him any the less angry.

  His mood was not materially lightened when, while going out to attach a brass plate with the building’s street number to the new front gate, a late-model Mercedes pulled up into the fire zone in front of his building, and parked directly in front of the fire hydrant. The moment the driver got out of the car, Elliott recognized him, though he had not seen him in more than twenty years—Al Collina.

  Beefy, with crankcase-oil hair, spotless white shirt with the sleeve cuffs rolled up, expensive sport coat slung over one shoulder, Collina totally ignored the fire hydrant and the yellow curb. It wasn’t that he wasn’t aware that they were there, Elliott knew; he didn’t give a damn.

  Collina paused long enough to light up a cigarette then strode past the Dumpster and disappeared into the courtyard of the building being demolished.

  Elliott couldn’t decide whether he should call the police for the parking violation, or simply go get a screwdriver and puncture the car’s tires. He opted for a third solution and went to his car for his digital camera, which he used frequently on the job. It had a feature that marked the time and date the photo was taken in the lower-right corner. He snapped several pictures of the car, the yellow zone and the fire hydrant.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” a voice demanded just as he took a shot of the front license plate. He turned to look into the no-nonsense face of Alphonso Collina.

  Though the years had been less than kind, Elliott could see the sixteen-year-old bully clearly behind the man’s narrowed eyes.

  “Guess,” he replied, closing his camera and sticking it into his shirt pocket.

  Collina’s eyes narrowed further as he studied Elliott’s face. “I know you,” he said after taking a long drag from his cigarette. “You’re Elliott Smith.”

  Elliott said nothing. Collina indi
cated Elliott’s building with a jerk of his head and a wave of his cigarette. “This is the place you pulled out from under me. You realize you cost me one hell of a lot of money by not taking my offer. I had to totally redo my plans for this whole block, and I figure you cheated me out of the profit from the twenty-four condo units I’d have put up in this space.”

  “Cheated you?” Elliott asked, incredulous. “Now, that’s a novel way of looking at it.”

  “That’s the way I see it,” Al said.

  Elliott shook his head and turned back toward the building. “I’ve got work to do,” he said. “Nice talking with you.”

  He walked through the gate and into the courtyard without looking back.

  * * *

  As he expected, there was a call from Cessy waiting for him on his answering machine when he returned home. He had planned to call after dinner, but thought better of it. Cessy’s patience for indulging her big brother’s inattention had its limits, and there was a chance Brad might be home, so he fixed himself a drink and went into the den to call.

  “Hi, Ladybug,” he said, recognizing Jenny’s “Hello?” “Is your mom home?”

  “Just a minute, Uncle Elliott.…Mom! It’s Uncle Elliott for you!” …followed by, “You’re coming to my recital, aren’t you? I’ve been practicing really hard.”

  Jenny had been taking piano lessons since she was six, and while he doubted she’d ever have a career as a concert pianist—or want one—she was pretty proficient for her age and enjoyed playing.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, and meant it.

  “Good! Here’s Mom.”

  “He’s very nice,” Cessy said.

  “Good lord, woman! I don’t get a ‘hello’ before you start in on me?”

  “What are you talking about? I just thought that Steve seems like a very nice guy, and I thought you’d appreciate that I share your opinion of him.” She paused. “That is your opinion of him, isn’t it?”

  He laughed. “Yes, he’s a very nice guy. And he says he thought you were nice, too. But cool it, please. I’ve only known the guy a couple of weeks. Don’t start making things complicated just yet.”

  She sighed. “I’ve never understood you, Elliott Smith, and I don’t think I ever will.”