His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  More tired than he realized, he went to bed nearly as soon as he got into the apartment.

  I do like him.

  Yeah, I do too.

  But you’re wise not to rush.

  Did you ever have a relationship…other than with Cole?

  I don’t think so. Not really. I guess I never met anyone who could match up to you.

  !!!

  I’m joking, Elliott. I can joke now. I like that. But I do remember you, now, from when we were kids.

  How did you ever get hooked up with someone like Cole?

  We’re getting into the grey areas, here. It’s like a fog lifting, and most of my life is still not really clear to me yet. But I know Rob was a disaster, and that I never should have gotten involved with him. Maybe I was just lonely and rushed into something I could only regret later.

  Why did you let your family think you were dead?

  I’m not sure yet, but I think…I think my father disowned me. He was not a nice man. I knew it caused a lot of trouble between my parents, and I think I thought it would be better for everyone if I pretended to be dead. And now I am.

  So, you did it to spare your mother trouble with your father? What about Marie?

  Marie was in the convent. She had God. She didn’t need me.

  I won’t even ask about Al.

  No, please don’t.

  * * *

  The rapid acceleration of John’s self-awareness both pleased and oddly disturbed Elliott, as he sat in the living room with his coffee, looking out the window at the towers of the Loop in the distance. As John reclaimed his individuality, Elliott was mildly concerned with how two separate people could manage to exist in one mind and body. It hadn’t reached the point—and he prayed it never would—of his becoming a classic, textbook split personality, sharing his body alternately with John. He swore the moment he sensed that happening, he would seek professional help. He really liked John, and wanted to help him any way he could, but not to the point of losing part of himself. Still, he had no idea what John’s options were, or what would happen when, as John had indicated, he’d be free. Free to do what was the question.

  * * *

  The days passed, filled with busywork. No word from his lawyer, which was fine with Elliott. A few check-in calls from Cessy, but no word from Brad. A meeting with his crew to go over sketches and ideas for the Elmdale building once escrow closed. A call from Steve asking if Elliott could help him take his pictures down to the gallery the following Monday evening after Steve got home from work.

  Finally, on Wednesday just after the evening news, he heard from Brad, who had talked with the department’s historian on gang activity.

  “Chet did some research,” Brad said, “and it seems Vittorio was having an affair with Celeste Brusco for about a year before Al was born. The rumor was that his wife wasn’t able to have kids. Vittorio couldn’t divorce her, being a good Catholic, but he was bound and determined to have a son and decided Celeste was going to give him one. He kept her almost a prisoner in her apartment, and he assigned one of his top aides, a guy named Larry Genestra, to keep an eye on her and not let her out of his sight. Celeste apparently wasn’t too happy about it, but she didn’t have much choice. When Al was born, Vittorio paid her off and sent her on her way. No idea what she might have thought about that, but she dropped off the radar. Nobody was supposed to know, but of course, a lot of people did.”

  “Interesting!”

  “Yeah, and it’s pretty likely that Genestra might have done a little more than watch over her. The fact that Genestra lived to a ripe old age is a pretty good indication that Vittorio never suspected that Al wasn’t his own.”

  “You haven’t had a chance to get back with Al on this yet, I gather?”

  “No, he’s put us off a couple of times, but we’re through farting around with him. I called his office just before I left work and told him we’ll be there tomorrow at two, and that he could talk to us there or we could arrange to have him brought into the station.”

  “Good luck! Do you think he knows Vittorio wasn’t his dad?”

  “I doubt it. Who would have told him? But we’ll definitely check it out when we talk to him. It’ll be interesting to see his reaction.”

  “I’d like to see that, too,” Elliott said, and had the distinct impression that he was speaking for John as well.

  “I’ll let you know,” Brad said. There was a pause during which Elliott could hear a muffled exchange, then, “Ah, Cessy says dinner’s ready. I’ll talk to you later.”

  * * *

  It occurred to him Thursday morning that John had been very quiet over the course of the past few days—or, rather, nights—and Elliott wondered why. He did recall having some rather peculiar dreams, the details of which he could not remember. Whether they had anything at all to do with John he had no way of knowing.

  When the phone rang around six fifteen Thursday night, he assumed it was Brad, but it was Steve, asking for Cessy and Brad’s address so that he could send them an invitation to the opening of his gallery showing, which was now only a little over a week away. He could tell Steve was excited about it, and he couldn’t blame him. Though he said nothing to Steve, he had every intention of buying the portrait of Steve’s brother. He was quite sure Steve would refuse to accept it as a gift, and knew that even offering it might appear that he was flaunting his wealth, not to mention probably being inappropriate at this stage of their relationship. But he really liked the painting and didn’t want it to go to strangers. He’d buy it anonymously and not display it until he had a better idea of where he and Steve were headed. Perhaps someday, if anything ever were to develop between them, Steve would accept its return.

  They made plans to have dinner and go to a movie Friday night. While everything was still on a very casual level, he was aware that they were easing into an assumption that they’d spend at least part of every weekend together, and he was comfortable with it.

  Cessy called at around seven thirty to update him on everything that had gone on since they’d last talked, which always managed to be a lot despite the fact that it had only been two days. Brad, she explained, wasn’t home yet, having been delayed as a result of having to follow up on a drive-by shooting.

  When Elliott said he had hoped to hear from Brad, Cessy said she’d have him call if it wasn’t too late when he got home. He felt a bit guilty about not saying not to bother if Brad was tired, but he really was curious about whether or not Brad had met with Al, and if so, what had come of it.

  At around nine thirty, Brad called. He sounded tired, and Elliott again felt guilty about making an issue of wanting to talking to him right then.

  “Okay,” Brad said, “Collina was there and we had a chance to ask him what he knew of his real mother, and the possibility that Vittorio Collina wasn’t his real father. Now, if someone started questioning me about my parentage, I’d be pretty damned pissed. Al kept his best poker face and flatly denied having any idea what we were talking about, but the rage wasn’t there. We couldn’t prove he was lying, but I’d bet my bottom dollar he knows more than he wants us to think he does. It’s possible he knows about his real mother but not about Vittorio not being his real father, and I can’t see any way of finding that out.”

  “I don’t suppose Marie would know anything?” Elliott asked, although he knew from what John had indicated that while Marie knew something important, it apparently wasn’t about Al’s true paternity.

  He could almost see Brad shaking his head. “No, I’d think that would really be unlikely. We could ask, but I’d rather we checked everything else first.”

  “I understand.”

  If the purpose of the visit to Al had merely been to rattle his cage, whether it had worked or not was something only Al knew. But at least it let him know he was being watched, and that knowledge just might lead him to do something that could eventually convict him of John’s murder.

  * * *

  I hope you’re wrong.
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  About what? Al’s being responsible for your death?

  Yes.

  You still can’t remember anything about how your…about what happened to you?

  No.

  What is the last thing you do remember?

  Before you and being in your room in the hospital, you mean?

  Yes.

  I remember being…on a boat. A ferry. Something happened to it.

  Yes, it capsized. In Africa.

  In Africa. Yes. I was there because…I was…in the Peace Corps! That’s interesting! It’s all still like being in a thick fog. I’m starting to see some things more clearly now…mostly early things. I remember college pretty well, and dropping out.

  Why did you drop out?

  My father and I…he disowned me.

  Do you remember why?

  He found out I was gay.

  How did that happen?

  Al told him.

  Al’s a shit.

  Which is why I’m sure he has to be my father’s son—they’re too much alike for him not to be.

  What about the years between your dropping out of college and joining the Peace Corps. What were you doing then?

  I’m not sure. Moving from place to place. No clear memories. I think that’s when I developed an interest in photography, though.

  How did you live, after your father disowned you?

  My… My mother. She sent me money. Until my father found out.

  And that’s when you joined the Peace Corps?

  I don’t know. But probably. It makes sense.

  * * *

  Reflecting on the conversation the next morning, it struck Elliott again how strange it must be for John, or any amnesiac, to slowly be recovering lost memories. He couldn’t imagine how that must feel. But he knew John was not like other amnesiacs in several major ways, primarily because he was dead, but also because he was not only dealing with emerging memories of his past life but with the ability to be aware of things outside himself which he could not possibly have known while alive. The body in the basement, for one. His assertion that Marie knew something about Al that John himself couldn’t have been aware of while he was alive, for another.

  That night, his arm across Steve’s chest, he dreamed of water and hills, but they were not the ocean and mountains of his earlier dreams. The water he instinctively knew was a lake, and the hill was more of a large rise, topped with a sprawling, Mediterranean-style villa with a green-tiled roof, from which a manicured lawn stretched down to the water’s edge. There was a boat house, and a pier, though no boats were visible. Steve emerged from the house and waved.

  * * *

  “I had an interesting dream last night,” Steve said as they sat at Elliott’s kitchen table having breakfast. “You were in it.”

  Any vestige of sleep Elliott might have had vanished instantly. “I was? I’m flattered.”

  Steve grinned at him. “Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t have any control over my dreams.”

  Elliott managed to return the grin, though he didn’t feel like grinning. “So what was it about?”

  “I’m not sure of all the details. Something about a big fancy mansion on a lake. You came out and waved at me. Are you really that rich, by any chance?”

  He hoped his shock didn’t show. “Loaded,” he said, hoping Steve wouldn’t be sure if he was serious. He had never discussed his financial status with Steve because he knew it could be intimidating for some people and he didn’t want to risk its somehow coming between them. But it was Steve’s dream—his dream—that hit him. This was the second time Steve had inexplicably had a dream that might have been a result of John’s experimenting with his ability to reach out to others.

  John obviously had made a bridge to Steve, although why he’d done it, Elliott couldn’t comprehend—perhaps it had something to do with Steve’s having had prior experience with a spirit. But that both he and Steve had seen one another in the same dream was somehow downright unnerving.

  * * *

  Though it took him a while to let go of his questions, he and Steve spent a quiet morning listening to CDs, talking about everything and nothing, laughing a lot, and, Elliott felt, becoming even more comfortable with each other. At around two thirty, Steve, who wanted to spend Sunday sending out invitations to his gallery opening and painting, said he’d better think about cleaning up and heading for home. Elliott suggested that as a water-saving measure, they might consider sharing the shower.

  At about four thirty, totally but happily exhausted, they fell asleep.

  Sorry about the dream. I was experimenting. It was fun.

  I’m glad you think so. So, what does it mean?

  I’m not quite sure. It has something to do with the house, though.

  Whose house is it? Your family’s, I assume.

  Yes. You’re very perceptive.

  I’ll overlook the irony in that one.

  You’re funny, too.

  Let’s get back to what the dream means.

  As I say, I’m not sure.

  Why was Steve in my dream? Why was I in Steve’s?

  That was the fun part. Since I don’t know exactly what it means, I thought I’d play with it a little. I really like Steve. He’s very open.

  Are you trying to pull a Cessy on me?

  I don’t know what you’re talking about…but would it really be so bad to settle down?

  Okay, so back to the dream. No idea of why the house?

  It’s important. Something’s there.

  Come on, John! Don’t tease.

  I’m not teasing. I told you, these things just come to me, and I pass them on to you. If you don’t want me to, I won’t.

  Yes, of course I want you to. It’s just that it’s really frustrating sometimes.

  Try being where I am.

  Thanks, but I’m in no rush.

  * * *

  Returning from taking Steve home after an early dinner, Elliott reflected again on the increasing frequency and depth of his exchanges with John, who was reclaiming the distinct personality—including the sense of humor—he remembered from their friendship as kids. While he considered this a major step in John’s reemergence as an individual, he realized it was one thing to have thought of John as a disembodied spirit and quite another to think of him as a real, complete person, someone he actually knew. And, remembering him as a horny teenager, Elliott chose not to speculate on where John was when he and Steve were together. He hoped the adult John’s discretion would keep him on the other side of the bedroom door.

  He pondered the meaning of his shared dream with Steve, of John’s family home—he assumed it was the same one on Lake Geneva to which the Collinas had moved when they left Lake Forest. What might be there, and how could he possibly find out until and unless John remembered something more specific? With Sophia Collina dead and Marie in a convent, that undoubtedly put the property in Al’s hands. Since he found it easier to imagine Al in a downtown condo penthouse than in an estate on Lake Geneva, and given the estate’s obvious value, he was sure Al would be thinking of ways to cash in on it. For all he knew, it might already have been sold—or perhaps Al was planning to bulldoze it to put up lakeside condos.

  But given the nebulous state of John’s information, there was really nothing Elliott could do at the moment.

  CHAPTER 15

  He managed to stay up about halfway through Saturday Night Live and then, finding himself nodding off, he turned off the TV and went to bed.

  Letters! There are letters! At the house. In a desk, I think.

  What letters? To whom? From whom?

  To…my father. From a woman. She…wanted money.

  Do you know what for?

  I’m not sure. I can’t read them. But I know they’re there, and they’re important. If we can find them, you’ll know.

  How can I find them? Is the house even still there?

  Yes. It’s there. It’s just as…as my mother left it. But it won’t be for long.


  Al?

  Yes. He wants to sell it.

  What about Marie? She must have a say in that.

  She doesn’t need the house. Or the money. But she has gotten much stronger since our mother…recently. She won’t let him get away with anything our mother would have objected to. I’m proud of her.

  So, what can I do?

  Talk to Marie.

  She knows about the letters?

  No.

  You said she knew something about Al and your father.

  This isn’t what she knows.

  And you still don’t know what she knows?

  No. She keeps it locked inside where she doesn’t have to think of it. I can’t get to it.

  And what can I say to her…that you told me to talk to her?

  You can ask Brad to talk to her.

  Oh, sure. Even better! He’s suspicious enough of my mental stability as it is.

  Why? You’ve been right.

  Yes, but one of these days he’s going to demand to know how I know what I know. What can I tell him then?

  Worry about that when the time comes.

  Easy for you to say.

  It is, isn’t it? Trust me.

  Do I have a choice?

  I hope not.

  * * *

  He could talk to Marie, he knew. The problem was how to broach the subject of the letters without mentioning John directly. And even if he did tell her of John’s presence in his life, he, as a confirmed agnostic, did not know how she, as a woman whose life was devoted to religion, would take it. He hoped that her concepts of an afterlife might not be limited to the idea of death as being an immediate, nonstop transfer of the soul from the body to either heaven or hell. And he was quite sure that even if she thought he was crazy and rejected his request that she see if she could find the letters, she wouldn’t tell anyone—especially Cessy—about it.