His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  CHAPTER 10

  He awoke still in a foul mood. He didn’t want to go to work. He didn’t want to go back to bed. He didn’t want to just sit home all day and sulk. He didn’t want to do anything.

  One of the most disturbing of the various negative thoughts he’d been having the past couple of days was that, collectively, they were all signs of weakness, implying he had no control over his own life. Such a concept was both alien to him and totally unacceptable.

  * * *

  Forcing himself through the workday wasn’t easy. Ted, Arnie and Sam, sensing his mood, pretty much stayed out of his way. That the day actually went fairly well helped make him feel a bit better, and as always, he was grateful for his ability to largely lose himself in his work. He even reminded himself to contact Larry Fingerhood about listing the building once it was ready—he estimated two weeks—and to go through the paper when he got home to check for potential properties for his next project. He could devote part of Saturday to driving by any that sounded interesting.

  He arrived home in a much better frame of mind than he’d been the night before, and even discovering that his cell phone had been turned off at some point during the day did not bother him.

  The light on his answering machine was blinking as he walked into the den. One message. From Brad.

  “Elliott, tried to reach your cell but no answer. I’m on lunch break, but thought I’d tell you we confirmed that Hill arrived at O’Hare at eight forty-five p.m. on the twenty-second. We also checked the City Suites and sure enough, he had a reservation, but called the day he was supposed to show up to cancel it. That leads us to believe that someone—I wouldn’t be surprised if it was whoever killed him—picked him up. But where he would have gone, and why, if he already had reservations, we have no idea. We’re not overlooking any possibility. Next we start checking for any paper trail that might link him to Chicago, and we’re working with the San Luis Obispo PD on that one. Just wanted to let you know. See you tonight.”

  His mind and body continued on their separate ways as he got undressed and stepped into the shower to get ready for dinner with his parents. What, he wondered as he worked shampoo into his hair, would happen to John once he learned who he was? Would he do whatever lost spirits are supposed to do when the thing that kept them earthbound was resolved? He was still fluctuating between questioning and being sure of John’s existence, and was currently in the latter mode. He was also rather surprised to realize that, in that mode, he’d actually miss him.

  John was, as usual, present during these reflections, but, also as usual, unobtrusive. Elliott wondered if John would miss him, too. He quickly abandoned that line of thinking; he wasn’t comfortable with the concept of too much sentimentality.

  Deliberately splashing on some Old Spice—mostly because he really liked it but partly because he didn’t give a damn if other people, including his mother, thought it was totally déclassé. He pulled a never-worn dress shirt from the dresser, pricking his finger on one of the 499 straight pins the manufacturers always use when packaging new shirts, and went to the closet to extract a custom-made dark blue suit, which he’d only worn twice. He seldom wore a suit, and had this one only because it had been a Christmas gift from his parents—actually, they had simply made an appointment with his father’s tailor and instructed Elliott to show up for a fitting and put himself in the tailor’s hands.

  He picked out a blue-and-burgundy silk tie Cessy had gotten him for his last birthday. He disliked getting so dressed up and avoided it whenever possible, but ritual is ritual, and the evening’s dinner definitely fell into that category.

  * * *

  The evening rush hour was pretty much over as he drove up the I-94 to the Milwaukee turnoff, following it to the Lake Forest exit. As he turned off the Skokie Valley Road onto Vine and entered the country club’s parking lot, he saw his father’s Lincoln Town Car, which would have been lost among all the other town cars except for the license plate: Smith 1. There was no sign of Cessy and Brad’s SUV.

  Entering the club, he was tempted to go to the bar and wait until he saw Cessy and Brad come in, but he had to pass the doorway to the dining room, where he saw his parents at a table for eight by the fireplace. The maître d’ spotted him, and though he hadn’t seen him in at least two years, smiled broadly.

  “Good Evening, Mr. Smith. Your parents are right this way, if you’ll follow me.”

  Maître d’s always amused Elliott. He could clearly see his parents and would have had no trouble finding his way to them, yet he dutifully followed the maître d’ as though he were being led through an impenetrable jungle.

  His father, a large, robust man with a full head of pure white hair, rose and extended his hand. “Elliott. Good to see you.”

  Elliott shook his hand, said, “Good to see you too, sir.” He then moved to his mother and bent over so she could give him a peck on the cheek.

  “Mother,” he said by way of acknowledgment.

  “Elliott,” she replied as simply. Then she pulled her head back slightly and said, “Why do you insist on wearing that awful fragrance? Didn’t I get you a bottle of Perry Ellis for your birthday?”

  Taking the seat next to her, he smiled. “Yes, you did, and I usually wear it. But I was in the mood for Old Spice tonight.”

  She gave him a slightly raised eyebrow and a small smile. “I’m sure you were.”

  The waiter came by for his drink order. He ordered a Manhattan and his father asked for another Vodka Gimlet.

  “So how are you both?” he asked. “I want to hear all about your trip, but will wait until Cessy and Brad get here with the kids.”

  They filled the ten minutes until Cessy and her family arrived in general small talk, mostly his mother’s critique of the various hotels, cruise ships and airlines they’d had occasion to utilize.

  Elliott noted the Priebes, when they appeared in the doorway, were dutifully dressed for the occasion, Cessy in a very striking blue dress, Brad in his best suit, BJ looking mildly uncomfortable in an obviously new sport coat and sharply creased black pants, Jenny in a white dress with ruffles at the collar and on the sleeves, and Sandy in a frilly pink dress with a matching bow in her hair. Elliott was aware of his mother’s discreet scrutiny as, he was sure, was Cessy.

  Greetings exchanged—handshakes between Brad, BJ and the elder Mr. Smith, and Brad and Mrs. Smith; cheek pecks and small hugs between Mrs. Smith, Cessy and the children—a high chair was brought to the table for Sandy and everyone was seated. With that, the evening officially began.

  * * *

  He was back home shortly after ten and watched a little TV before going to bed. The evening, he decided, had gone quite well. His parents had enthralled BJ and Jenny with stories of their travels, and Elliott had been reminded about his father’s dry wit, which was often at the expense of his mother, who had the innate ability to completely overlook things with which she had no experience or in which she had no interest.

  They had traveled through some of the most squalid regions of Southeast Asia, yet his mother seemed sincerely oblivious to the very real suffering that had been around her, as though it all was part of some movie studio’s back lot.

  He went to bed around eleven thirty and was asleep within minutes.

  I wish it was easier.

  So do I. But what specifically are you referring to?

  For you to really believe in me.

  You don’t exactly make it easy.

  I know, and I’m sorry.

  But you still don’t know who you are?

  No. There are more…things…now, but…

  But what? What things?

  It’s hard to say. I’ve never been dead before. It’s like a blind man becoming vaguely aware of colors.

  Are you playing games with me?

  No! I swear. You’re not dead; you have no idea what it’s like.

  You’re right, I don’t. What is it like?

  It’s…different. Confusing. Like being
a newborn baby. I have no words to explain.

  And then Elliott was a small boy, lying on his back on the bright green grass on his parents’ front yard, looking up at a sky full of puffy clouds in which he could clearly see whales and elephants and sailing ships.

  * * *

  The ringing of the phone jarred him awake and he was amazed to see, as he fumbled to answer it, that it was nearly eight thirty—the latest he had slept since he was in the hospital.

  “Hello?”

  “Elliott. Did I wake you?” Steve’s voice asked.

  “No, that’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway…. That’s a joke, son,” he hastened to add.

  “Pa-da-Pum!” Steve shot back. “But I am sorry I woke you. I figured you’d be up by now.”

  “Yeah, I usually am, but I’m glad you called. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until tomorrow.”

  “Just thought I’d check in. How did the family gathering go?”

  “Not bad, really. Everyone was on their very best behavior, though as usual my mother took advantage of every possible opportunity to let me know—she majored in subtlety at Sarah Lawrence—that what I do for a living is unworthy of the family. I delight in reminding her that Smith is the most common surname in America. She somehow fails to see the humor in that.”

  “What about your brother-in-law being a cop? Does she ride him, too?”

  “Ohhh, no! Cessy is the apple of both my parents’ eyes. Brad is strictly off-limits. Mother knows Cessy would up and walk out of the family. Besides, I think both my parents, however grudgingly, like Brad. But me, I’m the ne’er-do-well son, so I’m open game.” He paused and laughed. “It isn’t nearly all that bad, of course. I just like to make a play for sympathy every now and then.”

  “You’re entitled,” Steve said.

  “So you’re going to the gallery tonight at…what…eight?”

  “Yeah, and I have to spend the day getting ready for it. They’ve asked me to bring along my full portfolio, just in case they might want some other ones. It’s in pretty good shape, but I’ll have to take out some that I’ve already sold before I moved here. What’s on your schedule?”

  “The day’s pretty open. I’m going to go through the paper looking for a possible next project, and if I find anything that looks interesting, I’ll take a drive by to check it out.”

  “You don’t go through a broker or an agent?”

  “Oh, yes, but no one agent knows everything that’s out there. Some of the best buys come from owners trying to sell their own properties. Besides, I get a kick out of it. So, you still want to get together tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Why don’t you call me when you get up? That way I don’t have to risk disturbing your beauty sleep.”

  Elliott laughed. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about there, but yeah, I’ll call you when I get up. Anything special you’d like to do? There’s still a lot of Chicago you haven’t seen.”

  “Well, if you wouldn’t mind, maybe we could consider the Museum of Science and Industry? I’ve always wanted to go there. That’s the one with the T-rex in the entry, isn’t it?”

  “No, that’s the Field Museum. But we can do whatever you want. We can think about it and decide later.”

  “Okay. Well, I’d better get busy. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Good luck tonight.”

  “Thanks. See ya.”

  * * *

  Elliott took his time over his morning coffee, carrying it with him onto the patio along with the paper and a highlighter. Settling into a molded plastic chair, he noted that clouds were creeping across the western horizon, apparently hoping no one would notice, and hinting of rain for later in the day. From his vantage point, however, the sun was shining brightly along the lake shore, and several people, oblivious of the incoming clouds, already were wandering around the beach, while the white triangles of sailboats were visible a mile or so offshore.

  Taking out the classifieds and laying the rest of the paper on the table, using a large pot of geraniums from near the railing as a paperweight to keep it from blowing away in the ever-present breeze, he settled back and opened the paper to the real estate section.

  But like the approaching clouds, thoughts about John and G.J. Hill began encroaching on the periphery of his mind. Even if Cole had, for his own reasons, claimed falsely that John’s photo was Hill’s, exactly how had Elliott been drawn to Hill, and why? There had to be a reason—John’s attraction to Hill’s photos was too strong. It had to go beyond just an association with the places in the photos.

  But surely Cole couldn’t be stupid enough to think he could really get away with claiming John was Hill if he wasn’t. Everyone leaves traces of themselves somewhere. Even if Cole had done his very best to wipe away any evidence of Hill’s fingerprints from the motor home, surely there had to be some he missed. Even if, as Cole claimed, Hill had no family, somebody else had to have known him. And the more suspicious the police became of Cole, the harder they’d look until they found something.

  Which was all well and good, but where did that leave John? He tried again to imagine what it must be like for him—being dead, being in two worlds at once—and of course he couldn’t. Where, he wondered, was John when he wasn’t aware of him? Did the dead have any concept of time?

  He forced his mind back to the classifieds, and lacking his usual concentration, he almost randomly checked off a couple potential properties on the near north side. When he’d finished his coffee, he put the geranium back in its regular spot and carried the paper back inside, then headed to the shower.

  * * *

  As he got ready for bed Saturday night, he felt a sense of mild frustration not associated, for a change, with John. The day had been largely a waste, and he deeply resented wasting days. His property search had produced nothing, nor had just driving up and down side streets on the chance of finding anything of possible interest. As a sign of his desperation to wring some sense of accomplishment from the day, he had, on returning home, done the laundry—a task Ida normally handled—then gone back out to go to the grocery store for some things he really didn’t need.

  The evening had been spent in front of the TV. He briefly considered calling a couple friends to see if they’d like to go out for a drink, but then decided he didn’t really want to.

  His dreams, that evening, were his own.

  * * *

  Whereas Saturday had been not much more than a cipher, Sunday was thoroughly enjoyable. He’d called Steve at eight and when Steve suggested they have breakfast, picked him up at nine thirty. They ate at a small family diner near Steve’s apartment, taking their time and talking.

  Steve’s meeting with the gallery owner had gone well, he said, and though he tried to be casual about it, Elliott could tell Steve was hyped at the prospect of his upcoming show.

  They spent the bulk of the day at the Museum of Science and Industry. Steve was fascinated by the architecture of the sprawling Beaux Art structure, which Elliott’s trivia file told him had originally been built as the Palace of Fine Arts for the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. Though he’d been there often, Elliott always enjoyed it, and took pleasure in watching Steve’s first-visit reactions. They had, at Steve’s insistence, their pictures taken on a vintage open roadster on the Yesterday’s Main Street exhibit, walked through the U-505, a WWII German submarine, and visited all of Elliott’s favorite exhibits.

  After an early dinner at one of Elliott’s favorite Chinese restaurants, Steve suggested they go over to his place for a little show-and-tell, to which Elliott readily agreed. However, because they both had to work the next morning, they didn’t make it a sleepover, and he left for home around eleven.

  * * *

  The next week passed quickly and busily. On Thursday, he called to verify that Steve still wanted to go to Jenny’s recital on Sunday. He wasn’t sure he’d want to go to a similar affair if the situation were reversed.

  “You’re sure you
don’t mind going?” he asked yet again. “I’m just afraid you might be bored out of your mind. This isn’t exactly the Chicago Symphony.”

  Steve laughed. “I don’t mind if you don’t. But I’ve been thinking…from what you’ve said of Cessy, is she going to assume that just because you show up with a guy there are wedding bells in your future?”

  “Of course she will,” Elliott replied. “She assumes that when I have the pizza boy do a delivery. She’ll get over it.”

  “Well, I just don’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

  “If anybody might be put in an awkward position, it’d be you. Cessy means well, but she’d make a great prison camp interrogator. But if you can handle it, I do want you to come.”

  “Well, if she gets too pushy, I’ll just pull out the video tape of our last session.”

  “I do assume you’re kidding,” Elliott said.

  Steve laughed again. “Yes, I’m kidding. Though it might be fun sometime.”

  Elliott sighed in relief. “Yeah, it might. But let me know first, okay?”

  “Promise. So, do you want to give me a call Saturday to let me know what time Sunday and where we should meet?”

  “Sure.” He resisted the temptation to suggest they get together either Friday or Saturday night. He didn’t want Steve to think he was trying to rush the relationship. Meeting the family was pressure enough.

  And he was rather surprised that thought had even occurred to him. He wasn’t much of a relationship-pusher, and he thought of a couple of times when he’d met nice guys who had driven him away by coming on too strong and too fast. He didn’t want to do that to Steve.

  There was a rather long pause before Steve said, “Okay. I’ll talk to you on Saturday then.”

  Elliott wondered if perhaps Steve might be thinking along the same lines, and hadn’t mentioned getting together for the same reason. He sensed bemusement at the thought, and knew it was neither his nor Steve’s. John, apparently, was slowly finding an identity, even if he didn’t yet know whose identity that might be.