by Dorien Grey
Well, even if he had made a will, since Bill died before him, his brother would have ended up with it all.
And let’s not forget Jim Babcock. If Aaron had made a will, Bill would undoubtedly have changed his at the same time, which would have cut Babcock off at the knees.
* * *
Monday and Tuesday passed quickly, with a general check-in call Monday night from Cessy, a few calls from friends, and one from Steve setting up dinner plans for Gil’s last night in town. There was nothing Monday night from John, which was fine with Elliott.
Tuesday, Elliott and his crew started work on Aaron’s old apartment. Elliott had been mildly concerned Aaron might act up and call himself to the attention of Arnie, Sam, or Ted.
He was in one of the bedrooms putting up molding around a newly installed window, the other three men busy elsewhere in the apartment, when he heard a soft rap-rap on a piece of molding not six inches from his ear. He jumped and glanced around the empty room, then listened for any comment from the others. There was none. The rap had been very soft, and that fact alone was somehow chilling. It told him Aaron not only knew he was there but had deliberately made certain the communication was not heard by the others.
He wasn’t sure just why it bothered him as much as it did, except that it was the first direct evidence Aaron was not only aware of something other than his own inner turmoil, but that he was specifically trying to get Elliott’s attention. While he had dismissed the earlier rapping incident in the kitchen as just a random act, there was no doubt in his mind about the purpose of this one. He hoped it was a good sign, but wasn’t sure. He wasn’t overly fond of the idea of establishing anything even resembling direct contact with any non-corporeal being other than John.
He forced himself to continue what he was doing, but ten minutes later it came again—two soft raps on the molding closest to his head.
Taking a deep breath, Elliott stood up facing the window and closed his eyes.
Okay, okay! You’ve mode your point, he thought. As with John, he refused to say anything aloud.
Nevertheless, throughout the day, whenever he was alone, he heard the soft tapping. He was relieved when the time came for him to leave the building and go home. He tried to concentrate on getting ready for dinner with Steve and Gil and kept his thoughts on a short leash, reining them in sharply if they wandered too far from the task at hand.
* * *
He’d arranged to pick up Steve and Gil at seven, and when he found himself running late, he called as he left the condo’s garage to suggest they meet him in front of Steve’s building. It occurred to him as he turned off the Drive at Belmont that it seemed like a lot longer than three days since he’d seen Steve. Perhaps, in an effort not to think about what had happened at work during the day and, by extension, of his reluctant but inescapable involvement with Aaron, he directed his thoughts toward Steve, and exactly why three days should seem like such a long time.
Elliott had never been what he considered “relationship oriented.” He was never one who felt that a relationship was vital to fulfillment, and had always been perfectly content living the singles life. Perhaps, he thought as he sat at an interminably long stoplight, Cessy was getting to him with her constant insistence that he find someone and settle down.
He was well aware as forty approached that he would be passing through that unseen but very real door that led to the gradual but inevitable drying up of the cruising pool and one’s being subtly shunted aside to make room for the next generation of fantasy fodder. Like most people who had not yet reached that door, he’d never given much thought to what lay on the other side, and he didn’t really want to start now. However, he was increasingly aware he couldn’t ignore it too much longer.
Steve and Gil were waiting for him, and he was relieved to switch his attention once again to the immediacy of the moment.
* * *
Dinner at an Italian restaurant on Devon—a long drive, but the food and the ambience were well worth it—was, Elliott decided, just what he needed to pull himself back to the real world. He decided, too, that he really liked Gil, and was relieved that he couldn’t detect an iota of jealousy in his reactions to Gil and Steve’s talking of everything they’d done together during Gil’s visit.
They pulled up in front of Steve’s building shortly before ten, and Elliott and Gil exchanged good-byes.
“Call you tomorrow,” Steve said as he got out of the car.
* * *
I found out more about the wills. Considering that Aaron’s thoughts are still less than totally linear, it took a little doing.
And?
I was right—they never kept their appointment with the lawyer. Bill disappeared two days before.
Now, that’s interesting!
Isn’t it.
Yeah. I wonder if the timing might not have something to do with Bill’s decision to dissolve the partnership with Babcock. Can you see if Aaron was aware of Bill’s decision, and if so, if Bill might have said anything at all about whether Babcock was aware of it?
Sure. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. It won’t be tomorrow, though.
Oh? Any particular reason?
Steve’s calling you tomorrow.
So?
So, I don’t think it’s to talk about the weather.
Ah, yes. I hope you’re right. Do you miss sex?
There was the tingling sensation of John’s laughter.
A long story. I’ll tell you about it sometime.
Why not now?
You need your sleep. You probably won’t be getting much of it tomorrow.
I love an optimist.
Realist is more like it.
* * *
Steve called as Elliott was having an afternoon coffee break. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“Not at all. Did Gil get off okay?”
“About ten minutes ago. I was going to wait until you got home but thought maybe you’d consider joining me for an early dinner. This is my last day off from work, so since I’ve got the afternoon free, I thought I’d make some enchiladas. I think you said one time that you liked them.”
“That I do,” Elliott said. “What time?”
“How soon can you make it?”
Resisting the temptation to say “ten minutes?” he instead said, “As long as it takes me to get home, shower, and change.”
“No need to go home first.”
“Yeah, but I’m really scuzzy after working all day.”
“I like scuzzy every now and then. You can shower here, and since we wear the same size…”
“Be there about five twenty,” Elliott said.
After his coffee break, he and Arnie installed a pair of carriage lights flanking the front door and one beside each of the doors to the lower-level apartments. Turning them all on, he walked out to the sidewalk to get an overview of their work while Arnie returned inside.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a motion in the second-floor window—Aaron’s apartment. He studied the window but saw nothing more. He quickly reassured himself it was probably just Arnie going into the unit. That, or his imagination. He took his time walking back to turn off the coach lights before checking on his team’s whereabouts.
He found Sam and Ted where he’d left them, laying new linoleum in the bathroom and putting finishing touches on the kitchen cabinetry, respectively. Arnie was preparing to install a new light fixture over the kitchen sink. Elliott was tempted to ask if anyone had been near the living room window, but he didn’t.
Despite his determination to think of nothing but the job, he couldn’t help considering again that, in all the time—albeit short—John had been in his life, there had been absolutely no physical evidence or manifestations of his existence. No sounds. No mysterious sightings. John was not a ghost, as Elliott understood the term, but it appeared Aaron might be, and that possibility unnerved him.
He was vastly relieved when quitting time arrived, and h
e spent the drive to Steve’s trying very hard not to think of what he had not seen at the window. Since he had no idea what type of wine might go with enchiladas, he stopped on the way for a six-pack of Dos Equis.
* * *
The door had not fully closed behind him when Steve, who hadn’t said a word, grabbed him by the head with both hands and pulled him forward for a lip-crushing kiss, which he returned in the spirit in which it was given. When they finally pulled apart, Elliott took a deep breath, grinned, and said, “Have we met?”
Steve mirrored his grin. “Hey, if you liked ‘hello,’ stick around for ‘Have a seat.’”
Elliott walked over to the couch while Steve headed for the kitchen.
“Need help?” Elliott called.
“Not at the moment. But hold that thought for later.”
He heard the whir of a blender, and a minute or so later, Steve returned with a small pitcher of margaritas, two salt-rimmed iced glasses, and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres, which he set on the coffee table.
“I’m impressed,” Elliott said as Steve settled beside him and poured their drinks.
“That’s the purpose of seduction.”
“Like I needed to be seduced.”
Steve grinned and raised his glass in a silent toast, and Elliott echoed the motion.
They settled back to enjoy their drinks, talking easily of Gil’s visit and what Elliott had been doing since they’d last gotten together. Elliott described the progress being made on the building, without any mention of rappings or flickers of movement in windows. He did bring up his visit to the Anvil, describing the place and his having met Button and Paul.
“Sounds like an interesting place,” Steve said.
“It’s a neighborhood bar. No more, no less.”
“Well, maybe we can go some night, if you’re up to it. I get really tired of the ‘if you’re not in, you’re out’ places.”
Elliott nodded, reaching forward to take the next-to-last hors d’oeuvre.
Draining his margarita, Steve laid a hand on Elliott’s leg.
“Okay, enough small talk. How about a trip to the bedroom before I explode?”
“Don’t you want to wait until after dinner?” Elliott asked.
“No. Do you?”
“No, but…”
“They’re enchiladas. All made. All cooked. All I have to do is put them in the oven for a few minutes.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?” Elliott said with a laugh.
“I try.”
“Well, let me shower first.”
“Why bother? One man’s scuzzy is another man’s butch.”
Shrugging, Elliott followed him to the bedroom.
* * *
They finally had dinner a little after eight, and ate largely in contented silence. Elliott noticed Steve looking at him frequently, and sensed he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to broach it.
As they sat at the table having coffee, Elliott couldn’t resist. “What?” he asked, finally, as he caught another look.
Steve sighed, looking slightly embarrassed. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said, “but it’s really been bugging me.”
“What?” Elliott repeated.
“I’ve been having these strange dreams…” he began, and Elliott immediately tensed up but said nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “You remember telling me about the guy who died in your building—the one you’re working on?”
“Yeah?”
“Was his name Aaron?”
Elliott was suddenly aware of John’s proximity and a sharp sense of curiosity from him.
“Yes,” he replied, still not sure how he should be reacting. “I told you that at the time.”
Steve sighed. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t mention the name, and I’d have remembered a name like Aaron.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment until Elliott said, “So, what kind of dreams?”
Steve took a long sip of his coffee before answering. “Hard to say. I can’t remember them clearly, but I know you’re in there somewhere, and there’s this Aaron guy. I always love dreaming…when they make sense. But these are just frustrating jumbles, and I can’t make hide nor hair out of them. They’re no fun, and that ticks me off because dreams should be fun.”
Elliott wanted to reach out and take his hand, but instead, he just shook his head. “Dreams are really weird sometimes,” he said lamely.
There was another period of silence, finally broken by Steve. “So, how do I know his name is Aaron? That’s not a name people usually pull out of a hat.”
“I have no idea,” Elliott lied, feeling guilty as he did so, and aware again of John. “But don’t let it bother you.”
“Mmmm,” Steve said, obviously not convinced.
Because they both had to work in the morning, Elliott did not spend the night, though they managed another workout session after dinner. He left for home just before midnight, exhausted but happy.
Very interesting.
Ya think? What the hell’s going on? And why are you dragging Steve into it?
That’s just it—I’m not dragging Steve into anything. I haven’t had any direct contact with him at all. How he came up with Aaron’s name I have no idea.
Could it be Aaron?
I don’t see how…or why. Aaron has barely gotten his act together enough to be aware of you.
But he is aware of me. All that knocking business.
Yes, he’s aware of you, but he’s still primarily just a boiling cauldron of emotions.
Steve has been in the building and in Aaron’s apartment.
So has your work crew, and they aren’t aware of him. I doubt that would have made a difference.
Well, something is going on, and I wish I knew what it was. And those dreams he says he’s been having—all “jumbles.” That sounds like Aaron to me.
That it does. I’ll see if I can get anything at all out of Aaron.
Please do! I want to keep Steve out of all this.
* * *
Wednesday evening, Steve called. “Want to go to a party?”
He remembered Steve had mentioned they would not be able to get together the following Friday because his company was having its annual Founders Party. “It’ll be my first,” he had said, “and I’m not particularly looking forward to it. There are some nice people there, but forty hours a week with them is enough, thank you.”
“No other gays?” Elliott had asked.
“Only about two-thirds of the art department,” he’d said with a laugh, “but still…”
The minute Steve mentioned a party, Elliott assumed it was the work function, but wasn’t sure.
“You mean your office party? Friday?” he asked.
“Yeah. Had you made other plans?”
“No, not at all. It was just that I’d assumed it was just for the employees.”
“So did I until today, when one of the staff lesbians said her partner was coming, and asked who I was bringing. Came as a surprise to me, but… So, would you like to go? Free food and booze, and it will keep me from looking like a wallflower, or dying of boredom.”
Elliott, having worked for himself all his life, had never attended an office party, but viewed them as being about as much fun as a sprained ankle. Still, he rationalized, Steve had endured meeting his family and Cessy’s interrogations.
“Sure,” he said. “What time, and where?”
“Seven, at Renaldi’s on Broadway. You know it?”
“I know it. You want me to pick you up?”
“Nah, I can just hop on the bus. I’ll meet you out front.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I might take a bus, too, now that I think about it. Parking around there is a bitch.”
They talked for a few more minutes about the progress on Elliott’s building. Steve made no further mention of Aaron, for which Elliott was duly grateful. While he was curious to know if Steve had had any more of his dreams, he thought it best no
t to ask.
He’d heard nothing from John, and there had been no rappings at work, all of which he took as proof of the old adage “no news is good news.”
Until Thursday night. He’d gone to bed a little later than usual, and it seemed his head had barely hit the pillow before:
Aaron knows who Steve is…sort of.
Which means…?
He feels some sort of link to Steve, but hasn’t a clue about what it might be.
Well that’s a big help. Did Aaron tell Steve his name?
Oddly, no. I still am not sure how he came up with it. Steve is an empath, after all. Not quite on your level, but…
I’m sorry, but every time I hear that word I can’t help but think of palm readers and crystal balls.
John tingle-laughed.
It’s hardly the same, and you know it.
I suppose. But there has to be some sort of link between Steve and Aaron, and I want to know what it is.
* * *
Friday evening, Elliott made it home from work just in time to shower, change clothes, and hurry up to Broadway to catch the bus. Steve was waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant, and they went inside to be directed to one of the large dining rooms, where a couple dozen people were already gathered around the bar set up on one side of the room. Others stood around in small groups, or sat at a half-dozen small tables. A large round table in the center of the room was loaded with chafing dishes, breads, cold cuts, and desserts. Obviously, Steve’s employers believed in treating their employees right.
Being in a room with people he didn’t know had never been a real problem for Elliott, probably because of his parents’ social gregariousness. He remembered the advice one of his father’s country club friends had good-naturedly given him regarding feeling at ease among strangers. “Just remember, my boy,” the man had said, “you can buy and sell any one of them.”
And while he always tried to downplay his wealth, he realized the remark had an element of truth in it.
