Sky Full of Mysteries

by Rick R. Reed

  When he returned to the living room, Tommy had just finished drying off. He held the towel out to Cole. “Thanks, man.” He moved to the window and looked out. “It looks like it’s slowed down out there. Just a drizzle now. I can probably get home okay.” He turned around and looked at Cole with hope in those amazing green eyes. “Unless you want me to stay? I could fix you some supper while you take a nap?”

  Cole exchanged the towel Tommy held out for the clothes he held in the other hand. “That’s too kind of you. I’ll be okay. Got some leftover Giordano’s in the fridge.” He chuckled. “I live off that stuff.”

  “It is good pizza,” Tommy said. “But I think I could make you something healthier.” He pulled his tank over his head and had his fingers in the waistband of his running shorts when Cole stopped him.

  “Dude, the bathroom’s down the hall.” He jerked a directional thumb over his shoulder.

  Cole was shocked. Under other circumstances, this might be the onset of an erotic encounter. But today was definitely not the day. He frowned and wondered if the day would ever come again. Since Rory’s disappearance, Cole’s libido had also taken a powder.

  Tommy blushed. “Sorry!” He hurried into the bathroom. Cole turned to look. Tommy hadn’t bothered shutting the door. Cole couldn’t help it—he stared as Tommy finished undressing. He could see him in the medicine-cabinet mirror, and it was obvious the man didn’t eat much pizza. In fact, he must subsist on things like skinless chicken breasts, fruit, nuts, and salad. There was hardly an ounce of fat on his body. Unless you counted that beer can dick….

  Cole forced himself to turn away and move toward the window. The rain had all but stopped. He could see from the sway of the trees outside that it had gotten windy. He was hard, and that felt like a betrayal.

  “Cole?”

  When Cole turned around, for just a moment, it wasn’t Tommy D’Amico he saw standing there, but Rory. He shook his head and the image dispersed. “Black looks good on you,” Cole said.

  “Thanks.” He held up his wet clothes. “You wouldn’t have a plastic grocery bag or something for these?”

  “Sure.” Cole went and fished out a Jewel bag from under the sink and returned to the living room with it. He handed it to Tommy.

  Tommy took it and stuffed his wet clothes inside. He looked up at Cole and smiled. “Dora—my roommate—is gonna be worried. I went out for a run about—what—six hours ago? She’ll think I was abducted.” A look of concern wrinkled Tommy’s eyebrows, or maybe Cole should say eyebrow, because he appeared to have only one. “God, I’m stupid. Sorry I said that.”

  Cole didn’t even realize what Tommy had said that was worthy of apology. Then it dawned on him—Rory, gone. “It’s cool. Tell Dora I said hi.” Cole could vaguely remember a blonde woman, sort of a grown-up Jan Brady in his mind.

  Tommy laughed. “I will.” He started toward the door. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Cole walked with him to the door. “Sure you will.” He tested him: “What’s my number?”

  Without a pause, Tommy rattled off the phone number.

  “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

  Tommy headed out into the hallway. “You get some rest. Take care of yourself. And if you need anything….” He waltzed back inside, moved to the coffee table, and sat down on the couch. He pulled a pizza box over to him, grabbed a pen, and wrote his number on the grease-stained inner top. He stood and wiped his hands on the sweats. “If you need anything, seriously, don’t think twice about calling. No matter the time.”

  And with a smile and a little salute, Tommy D’Amico was gone. Cole closed the door, then leaned against it. He shut his eyes, disturbed by what he felt.

  All he kept telling himself over and over was that it was too soon, too soon.

  Chapter 7

  “WHERE HAVE you been? I’ve been frantic!” Dora was up in Tommy’s face the minute he opened the door to their apartment in Edgewater. She even gave him a little shove.

  A jolt of guilt ran through Tommy, almost like something physical. He gave her what he knew had to be a half-assed smile, one a writer would call “sheepish.”

  Heat rose to his cheeks, and he laughed uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

  Dora shook her head and sat back down on the couch. The apartment was silent—no TV or radio going. Tommy could just imagine her sitting there in silence, stewing and worrying over his whereabouts.

  The only sound was the patter of rain against the window. “Where were you?” Dora repeated, staring out the window. The question was more of an accusation.

  Tommy knew he could get all self-righteous and tell her they were roommates, not lovers, and that, as an adult, he had a right to keep his own hours. But he was touched by Dora’s concern, actually grateful that he had someone in his life who cared about him enough to worry. He also knew that part of her concern was motivated by her recent experience with the missing man, Rory Schneidmiller. Dora cared too much about people—it was hard to state that as a flaw, but it hurt her at times. He knew she obsessed endlessly over her brief encounter with the missing guy, searching desperately for a clue as to what had happened to him. Why she took this responsibility on herself was not evidence of masochism, but of kindness. Of a fierce desire to help. Compassion. Tommy knew she’d be an overprotective, but great, mom someday.

  Tommy sat down with her on the couch. He leaned over and gave her a little kiss, from which she flinched, but she grinned anyway. “You won’t believe it,” he said.

  She looked over at him, mock anger creasing her features. “What? Another hookup? Yet another sleazy sexual encounter?” She laughed. “Someone see you in that running getup and—” She stopped herself. “Hey, where are your clothes?” She slapped her forehead. “Of course it was a hookup. It always is. You guys.” She continued shaking her head. In her mind, gay men, the young ones especially, lived for little more than the pursuit of the next hookup. Tommy had to admit to himself he’d probably fed into the idea. He was not exactly Mary Poppins. More like a Mary Magdalene….

  “It wasn’t a hookup.” Tommy picked up the remote control, then set it back down. “Although that would have been nice.”

  “So? What did happen?”

  He told her about the bike accident and what he’d done to cause it—and the subsequent trip to the ER.

  When he was finished, Dora looked a little more forgiving. Actually, she was smiling. She touched his arm. “You’re such a good guy. But I still don’t get why you have different clothes on.”

  “Well, after the ER, we hooked up. Naturally. It’s what us gays do. We don’t let things like concussions and cracked ribs stop us—no sirree! Since he tore my clothes off, ripped them to shreds, really, he had no choice but to give me these.” He grinned.

  She punched his arm—hard.

  He yanked it away, rubbing his bicep. From looking at her, one might not guess how hard the girl could throw a punch. “Ow.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “No. Not really. I drove him home, helped him get his bike inside. We got caught in the rain, and he gave me these clothes. Which I will need to return, which is also the perfect excuse to see him again.”

  Dora said, “I knew there was something more going on than being a Good Samaritan.”

  “What? You think I’m not capable of a simple act of kindness?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you do like the pretty boys.” She leered at him. “Was he pretty?”

  Tommy closed his eyes. “Oh yes, the stitches in his forehead made him even sexier.”

  “And he’s a friend of Dorothy’s? You checked—or got some gaydar, I assume?”

  And this was the part where Tommy felt motivated to tell Dora the whole story. He hesitated, though, because it was just too weird. One of those truths that was stranger than fiction.

  “Oh, he was gay,” Tommy said.

  “What, did you make googly eyes across the emergency room?”

  Tommy laughed. “Not exactl
y. I’d met him before.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” Tommy got up and went into the kitchen. “Have you eaten yet?”

  “No.”

  “I was thinking of making a big salad. You want I should make enough for two?”

  Dora came into the kitchen. “Sure, but what I really want is for you to tell me where you met this guy before.”

  Tommy rummaged around in the fridge, gathering up romaine, spinach, marinated artichoke hearts, celery, red onion, cucumber, and some deli turkey.

  He set them on the counter and then turned to Dora and smiled. “You met him too.”

  Dora cocked her head. “Me? I don’t get it.”

  “You won’t believe this.” Tommy pulled out a cutting board and began chopping up the romaine. Dora stepped up to him and grabbed his hand to stop him. He looked at her. “You do realize I’m holding a knife in this hand?”

  “I do realize you’re avoiding the question.”

  Tommy blurted out, “He’s the boyfriend of Rory Schneidmiller.”

  Dora stepped back, as though jolted. “No.”

  “Yes.” Tommy went back to prepping veggies for salad. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “It is!” Dora said.

  “But it happened.”

  Dora stepped close again. “Did Rory come back? Please tell me he’s back and that he’s okay.”

  Tommy set down his knife. “No. There’s still no clue about what happened to him.”

  Dora frowned, and Tommy noticed a new brightness in her eyes, which she tried to minimize by making herself smile. “I wish there was some good news. I can’t get that guy out of my head. I dream about him.”

  “You do?” Tommy asked. Dora had never mentioned this.

  “Almost every night. It’s always the same.” She turned away and went back into the living room. The TV clicked on, then canned laughter.

  He stood in the archway between kitchen and living room. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “It’s stupid.” Dora shrugged, staring at the screen. There was an old rerun of Gilligan’s Island on. She muted the sound and turned to him. “I always see him on a beach, probably Lake Michigan, but I suppose it could be anywhere.”

  Tommy sat down beside her. She was staring ahead as though she could see the dream in her head right at that very moment. She drew in a breath. “He’s just standing there. It’s night. There’s no moon. The scene is kind of peaceful. But then there’s this weird thing that moves into place.”

  “Like an animal?”

  “No, no. It’s in the sky. Kind of like a big cloud, but almost like it’s alive, like some kind of mass. And I can see dark figures, like people, moving inside it. There are bright lights shining down on the water from the very bottom of the thing.” Dora stopped, breathing just a little harder.

  “And then, and then Rory is being pulled up into it.” She stopped suddenly and didn’t say anything for a minute. “That’s when I wake up. And I’m always in a sweat. Heart racing. I’m terrified.” She turned to him. “What do you think it means?”

  “I have no idea,” Tommy said. “It’s probably just your subconscious preying on you. You know, because you’ve been so concerned about this guy.”

  “I know,” Dora said softly. “I’ve been trying to let it go. I mean, what’s the point? I’ve done all I can to help, which isn’t much, but still. Just when I stop thinking about him for a while, the dream comes back.”

  “I don’t know how to explain it.”

  Dora touched Tommy’s shoulder. “And I don’t know how to explain that, of all the millions of people in the Chicagoland area, the one you choose to run out in front of and cause an accident is this guy’s boyfriend.”

  Tommy felt a little chill. “Strange but true.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  They were quiet for a long time, listening to the rain, watching Ginger in an evening gown move across the TV screen. Dora looked at him. “You like this guy, don’t you?”

  “I think I do,” Tommy confessed.

  “Lord help us.” Dora picked up the remote and unmuted the TV. A burst of laughter followed her pronouncement.

  THE NEXT morning, Tommy woke early with Cole on his mind. There were scattered images of him remaining from dreams, which might explain the tent in Tommy’s boxers, although truth be told, he woke up like that almost every single day.

  He lay in bed for a moment, thinking of the darkness of Cole’s hair, the way the stubble highlighted the angular planes of his face, his beefy body. He glanced over at the clock and saw it was only a little after six.

  He had his first class at DePaul in a couple of hours. Every single class, every single one of them, bored him to tears. Why was he wasting his life this way? His father, in Long Island, was an attorney… family law. And his father before him? An immigrant, he came over on a boat to Ellis Island from Sicily. Tommy’s own dad had grown up the son of the owner of a shoe repair shop. His dad always said his family didn’t have much, but they’d always had enough.

  Despite that, his dad had wanted more for himself. He worked construction all through college and then law school, just to pay his own way. He was fond of saying, and it was true, that he was a self-made man. He wanted more for his only son, Tommy.

  And Tommy hated to break his father’s heart. But this life wasn’t for him. With each class, each test, each paper, that fact became more and more apparent. What was for him was his passion for stories. He’d always loved to read. And he’d written several short stories, all hidden away in a box under the very bed in which he now slept. How could he disappoint his father? Especially when the man had spent most of the family’s savings and even gone into debt to put him through DePaul.

  Thinking of Cole helped put those worries aside for the moment. Thinking of Cole made Tommy happy, especially if he chose to forget, as he did right now, that Cole was in a kind of tragic and mysterious situation that would make him unsuited to forming any kind of attachment, let alone relationship, with Tommy.

  Maybe they could be friends?

  Tommy shrugged, turning over in bed to look out the window. From his perspective, all he could see was sky, and that sky was gray, flat. He knew, even though he barely knew Cole, that being friends would only be frustrating.

  He picked up the cordless on his nightstand and punched in Cole’s number. It rang four times, and each time it rang, Tommy wondered if he’d misremembered the number. The answering machine clicked in, and Tommy’s heart broke.

  “Hey, it’s Cole,” Cole said.

  And then, “And Rory.”

  Together: “And we’re not home right now. You know what to do and when to do it.” The beep cut off their laughter.

  Tommy pressed the button to end the call. Cole hadn’t changed the message? How sad. And how hopeful. Obviously he held out some hope the guy was coming back.

  Of course he does. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. Tommy thought his feelings were a true paradox. He wanted Cole to be free, unencumbered by memories of his missing boyfriend so Tommy could put a few of his expert moves on him. Yet he also wanted Cole to be a kind man. Because there was nothing sexier, no matter what they looked like, to Tommy’s head and heart than a kind man….

  It worried Tommy that Cole had not answered. And that worry was all about his head injury, an injury Tommy felt responsible for. He pictured Cole lying comatose in his bed, the phone ringing right beside his ear.

  Tommy called back. This time he left a message. “Hey, Cole, it’s your buddy Tommy. Just calling to see if you’re feeling okay this morning. Maybe you’re sleeping in? Call me when you get this, all right?” He was about to add that he was concerned, but that sounded too much like a worrying mom, so he hung up.

  He got up and took the phone into the bathroom in case Cole should call him back. But the phone remained disappointingly silent all through his shaving, tooth brushing, and showering.

  After he was dressed in jeans and a Blue Demons h
oodie, he padded barefoot into the kitchen. Dora sat at the table in her quilted bathrobe, a towel wrapped turban style around her head, with a mug of steaming coffee before her. There was also a plate with remnants of scrambled eggs, which Dora liked with ketchup. Her preference grossed Tommy out. He was glad she was done eating.

  “Good morning, starshine,” she said.

  “Morning.” Tommy poured himself a mug from the Mr. Coffee on the counter.

  “You want some eggs?”

  “I can get it if I do. Coffee for right now.” He took a sip. He liked it black. He glanced into the refrigerator, eyed the eggs, the milk, the juice, and then shut the door without taking anything out. He wasn’t hungry. Tommy usually ate like a truck driver. It wasn’t uncommon for him to down three eggs and four pieces of toast in the morning, or to devour three or four bowls of Apple Cinnamon Cheerios, his favorite.

  He went back into his bedroom and tried Cole again. Still no answer.

  What if he wasn’t waking up? Wasn’t that why Tommy had always heard you should have someone with you when you sleep if you’ve had a concussion?

  He eyed the clock on the nightstand again. Did he have time? It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t hear a word his professor said if all he could do was worry about Cole.

  He slid into a pair of socks and his running shoes and returned to the kitchen. “I’m heading out.”

  “You don’t usually have class this early.” Dora was scraping her plate into the waste can.

  “I’m not going to class.” He debated whether he should tell her his destination or just say he was headed to the library to get in a little last-minute studying before his first class. She’d accept that story without question, but it just didn’t seem right.

  “I’m going over to Cole’s.”