Sky Full of Mysteries

by Rick R. Reed

  Cole listened to the close of Tommy’s office door, the start of the new-age music he listened to as he wrote. Today it was Yiruma. Cole waited a moment, in case Tommy should open the door, and then headed down the hall to the master bedroom. He knew Tommy would not emerge until dinnertime, or even later, if he really got involved.

  He sat down on the king-size bed, running his hand over the orange and gray quilt. Part of him simply wanted to collapse backward on it, close his eyes, and sleep for hours. The hum of the window air conditioner was soothing, and he knew he could be under within minutes if he allowed himself.

  But no, it was the anniversary. He would do what he always did on this day. He pushed himself up and off the comfortable memory-foam mattress and walked to his closet. One of the advantages of the condo, which was built in the 1920s, was its massive size, a total of nearly 2500 square feet. Their bedroom was enormous and included two walk-in closets, one here and one they’d added off the en suite master bath.

  Cole’s was in the bedroom, and even though he knew Tommy wouldn’t hear it, he opened his own closet double doors quietly, wincing at the familiar squeak of the hinges. Cole felt a rush of heat rise to his face, despite the frosty air-conditioned chill all around him. Guilt induced that heat, Cole knew. Like an addict, he’d told himself dozens of times he should put away his obsession with Rory. It wasn’t healthy, not for him, and certainly not for his marriage. Secrets never were. Tommy was understanding, sure, but Cole knew he didn’t realize the depth of Cole’s feelings for Rory, not after all these years. Tommy didn’t realize how much he still yearned for Rory, especially around this time of year.

  Cole squatted down on the floor, pushing aside his rather sizable collection of running shoes, Cons, and sandals—no wingtips for this boy—and from the far back recesses of the closet, hidden by shadows and garment bags, pulled forth the old black Reebok shoebox. The box held his and Rory’s entire history. Sad thing was, there wasn’t even enough to fill it halfway.

  As he opened the box, Cole wondered why he even bothered. In more logical moments, he told himself that the Rory he still loved didn’t even exist anymore, no matter what had happened. If he was alive, he would have aged, just like Cole, by twenty years. So much could happen, physically, emotionally, spiritually, to a person in two decades. Most people weren’t even close to the selves they were twenty years ago.

  Still, he dug into the box. There were only a half dozen or so items inside, and Cole knew each and every one of them by heart. He could just as easily have sat in the kitchen and brought each item out in his mind, examined it, and put it back.

  But there was something about touching the mementos. There was an electric connection to each item. He likened it to movies he’d seen about psychics—and how they could get a certain energy from a person off an object they’d touched.

  First, there was his old ID for the Bally gym at Century City mall. Cole fingered it and laughed, remembering a time when he did have the energy for going to the gym on a regular basis. Thank God he did, because it was where he’d met Rory. At first sight, he knew that all he’d wanted to do was kiss the guy. He believed, and still did, in a way, that to kiss this kind of nerdy, uncoordinated, bespectacled young man would be a revelation and a kind of salvation for him. He’d be home. His wish had come true later that same day. And Cole had not been disappointed.

  What they shared had been far too brief, but it had been real.

  Next, there was a cereal box top Cole had hung on to through all these years, simply because it was Rory’s favorite breakfast food. It was kind of endearing that Rory loved Froot Loops so much. Cole used to kid him about how childish it was, that he should eat something more grown-up, sensible, something with a little fiber, for Christ’s sake. “Real men don’t eat Froot Loops,” he’d tease, playfully whacking the back of Rory’s head as he sat on their thrift-store couch, hunched over a mixing bowl full of the stuff, just going to town. “You want me to put some cartoons on?” Cole remembered asking, and Rory had nodded, grinning through a mouthful of milk and unnaturally colored, fruit-flavored confetti.

  As the weeks and then months passed with no sign of Rory, he’d hung on to the cereal in the pantry. It wasn’t until he moved in with his sister, Elaine, and she was helping him pack up for his move, that he rescued the box of cereal from the trash, where she’d thrown it.

  “Oh no, not this.” He’d snatched it out of the wastebasket.

  “You and your sweet tooth,” she said, taking the box from him. She opened it and dug around inside, grinning at him. When she put some in her mouth, though, she spit it into the sink. “That stuff is stale, Cole. Tastes like sugary cardboard.” She replaced the box in the trash.

  He waited until she was in the bathroom to rip off the top of the box as a souvenir. Even then it was stupid. But somehow the cereal was a concrete reminder of Rory, who could sometimes be a little kid in a very smart man’s body.

  There was a poem Rory had written him, late one night after the third time they’d made love. It was scrawled on a yellow Post-it. Bad rhymes and nearly short enough to be a haiku, it was still the only poem a man had ever written to Cole, about Cole. Even Tommy hadn’t, and he made his living as a writer. Cole got a lump in his throat as his fingertips danced over the six lines and the words “You’re all my heart.”

  He missed his sister too, although not nearly as much as Rory. She’d passed away the year before, much too soon, a victim of breast cancer. He knew he should get out to Arlington Heights more often and see his nephew, Bobby, who was in high school now.

  He returned his attention to the contents of the box. Here was the photo of Rory unpacking in their new apartment. He wasn’t looking at the camera, his glasses had slipped down his nose, and his reddish-brown mop was a mess, sticking up in several different directions. Cole recalled Rory didn’t even know when Cole snapped the picture. He was too absorbed in what he was unpacking—his computer game software, his most treasured possession. Back then Cole thought the photo would be funny, something to rib Rory about once he’d had it developed at Walgreens.

  But now, with the sunlight hitting Rory’s head just so, the youthful exuberance on his face, even the bend of that lithe young body, the photo had become sacred to Cole, a reminder of their beginning a new life together.

  How short that life had been! If he had known it would all be snatched away just a few weeks later, would he have behaved any differently? That was the thing about life, though; we were never given the courtesy of a warning when something bad was about to strike. We could only mumble bitter what-ifs, which tasted like ash in our mouths.

  Cole set the photo back in the box, eyes welling with tears. Why do I do this to myself? Once upon a time, it seemed there was a point to it, but no more. He was a middle-aged married man mourning a too-brief love from when he was in his prime. Pathetic.

  He didn’t look at the rest—a takeout menu, a note Rory had left on the nightstand shortly before he disappeared, letting Cole know he’d gone to the gym—he simply put the lid back on the shoebox and then sat for a moment, cross-legged on the floor, staring at it.

  As he did every year, he thought I really should get rid of that box. Burn it, maybe. And just like every year, he shoved it to the back of the closet, hiding it behind and under shoes.

  It was his history. No one could take that away.

  “Hon?” Tommy called from the hallway. “What are you thinking for dinner?”

  Cole got up, taking extra care to close the closet door quietly. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it had magically become six thirty. Weird—it seemed like only minutes had passed. Feeling the shame of the infidel, he walked slowly to the bedroom door, composing his face, taking a deep breath. When he opened the door, he rubbed his eyes, then stretched and yawned. “Fell asleep.”

  “My little dormouse,” Tommy said.

  And Cole felt a rush of love for this man, promising himself that next time Tommy was out of th
e house, he’d take that shoebox and put it in the dumpster downstairs.

  Tommy deserved more.

  “I’m thawing some pork chops. How about that with some new potatoes and a red cabbage slaw?”

  “Kind of German for this dago kid.” Tommy grinned. “But I love it. Call me when you need me to set the table. We have that riesling in the fridge.”

  “Perfect,” Cole said, watching as Tommy disappeared back into his office.

  He lingered for a moment, half in and half out of the bedroom, then shrugged and headed toward the kitchen to begin making dinner.

  Chapter 13

  HOW HAD it become daylight? It was dark…. What? A minute or two ago? And when did that high-rise apartment building become an empty hole in the ground with a chain-link fence around it, with a lonely crane suspended over the hole?

  Rory shook his head, trying to clear it of the cobwebs of just waking. Everything about him—limbs, mind, even his eyes—felt heavy, weighted down. He blinked a couple of times, rubbing at his burning eyes. When he opened them again, he thought he’d see something different, but no.

  He leaned back against the brick wall of the building near him, back and hands supporting him so he didn’t simply collapse.

  It was morning. Traffic whizzed by somewhere close. The familiar rumble of the “L” sounded, a few blocks away.

  He glanced down and looked at his clothes. At least they were still the same.

  The last thing he remembered was leaning against a dumpster and taking a piss—and then bright lights. What was that about? The dumpster, he noted, was still there. But it was green now instead of blue. The top was black plastic instead of rusting metal. Last night there was a bunch of trash spilling out of it, but now, as he looked down, the bricks of the alley were clear, free of debris.

  He shook his head again, as though doing so would free him of the headache he could feel beginning just in back of his eyes. “Okay, what happened?” he asked himself, his voice sounding too loud there in the alley. It must have been early morning, because there was a mist near the ground; everything was covered with a light sheen of dew. The brightness in the sky, to the east, was diffuse, eerily bright, though.

  Had he passed out? Sure. That’s what must have happened. He’d read somewhere about seeing bright lights just before having seizures or any sort of brain episode.

  God. What if there’s something wrong with me?

  He groped through his pockets. Wallet and keys were still there. Inside his wallet, the same things—his Illinois driver’s license, a library card, a picture of Cole on Fargo beach, and a lonely looking dollar bill. It was all the cash he remembered having last night.

  Had he slept there, on those grimy bricks, all night? He surveyed himself and noticed a puzzle. If he had slept on the ground or passed out, he was surprisingly clean. No dirt. No debris. He ran a hand through his hair and it came back empty.

  He felt a little nauseous. Bile splashed at the back of his throat. Something had happened, yet he had no idea what. He remembered the burger at Moody’s the night before, a few beers… not enough that he’d pass out from them, even though Cole always taunted him about being a lightweight when it came to booze.

  Cole. My God, Cole! It’s morning!

  Rory realized he must have been gone all night. What would Cole think? How worried must he be right at this very moment? Rory pictured him coming home from work late and finding the apartment empty. He imagined him on the couch with the TV on, waiting for the sound of Rory’s key in the lock, unable to concentrate on what was on the screen. He would have paced. Called Rory’s parents. Oh, and then they would have gotten in on the worrying too.

  He felt even sicker as he thought of the sleepless night Cole and his mom and dad must have spent as the hours ticked by, as the darkness of the sky morphed into the milky gray it was right now.

  He needed to get home, needed to get in touch with Cole and let him know he was okay.

  And he was. Okay. He looked down at himself once more. Clean. No scratches, cuts, or bruises. He hadn’t even had his pockets rifled through as he lay here—that was lucky. And other than the cloying queasiness in his gut, he felt no worse for the wear.

  He took a few deep breaths and exited the alley.

  It must have been early in the morning, because the traffic there on the side street was light. Where was he? Rory looked around for a street sign. He was on Albion, just north of the Loyola campus.

  Cars were huddled on both sides of the residential street, and Rory stopped for a moment, mouth open. The cars. They looked familiar, but different somehow. More streamlined. He could barely recognize some of them. Ah, it must be an aftereffect of whatever had befallen him the night before. Why was he thinking about cars, anyway? He needed to get home to Cole, or at least find a pay phone and call him.

  He headed out of Albion and found himself on Sheridan Road. He looked around for a pay phone and didn’t see one anywhere. And the shops and restaurants around the Loyola “L” station? He could have sworn they were all different now, as though someone had come in during the night and changed all the signs.

  No matter. Most of them were iron gated at this early hour. A city bus, also looking weird, swept by, heading south. He stood for a moment, frozen, as though the world had tilted on its axis and no one told him.

  A young woman, probably a Loyola coed, hurried by. She’d almost run into him. Crazy bitch. She was talking to herself and staring down at some black rectangle in her hand. What was it? A little mirror? It was as if she hadn’t seen him.

  Was he invisible? He laughed out loud at the prospect and the possibilities that could come with it and then decided, no, he wasn’t invisible, but he probably looked like a nutcase, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, laughing and talking to himself.

  He eyed the train station across from him and a little to the south. There would be pay phones in there. But he didn’t have change. And the walk to his apartment on Fargo was only a mile or so from here. A dollar wasn’t enough for a ride on the “L.”

  He’d just hoof it. The morning air would clear his head. Hell, he could run most of the way. The effort would be worth it when what he knew had to be a very worried Cole opened the apartment door. He imagined his face morphing from surprise to relief, his smile broadening as he opened the door wider. “What the hell happened?” he’d ask. And Rory wouldn’t answer because, well, he wished he knew.

  Single-mindedly, Rory headed north. He barely noticed other people on the street, although he did take in that most of them were staring at the same little black rectangles the Loyola coed had held. What was that about?

  It took too long, but eventually he got there—to their building on Fargo. Once again, someone had left the gate open. It was a common thing, and it always irked Rory because it compromised everyone’s safety. That’s something to worry about later. He closed the gate firmly behind him and walked to their entrance, on the left.

  He pulled out his key and tried to insert it into the lock.

  What now?

  The key wouldn’t fit. He turned it upside down, tried again, and got the same result.

  He stepped back, away from the wood-and-plate-glass door, seeing his reflection in the glass. He laughed bitterly. At least I’m not invisible. At least I still look like me. But what goes on here? Have they changed the locks overnight? Why would they do that?

  With a feeling of dread that caused a cold sweat to break out on his face, he wondered how long he’d been passed out. He couldn’t have lain in that alley for days, could he? That’s just not possible! But what to do?

  Just then he saw a dark figure in their lobby coming toward him. He hoped it would be a neighbor he’d recognize, but it was just some middle-aged guy with a salt-and-pepper beard, in running shorts and a tank top.

  As he exited, Rory grabbed the door before it closed. The guy looked back at him, eyebrows together as though to say “What the hell?” Rory just shrugged and gave him his best, m
ost honest smile and said, “I forgot my keys.”

  “Whatever.” The guy did a little skip and began his run from the courtyard.

  Inside, the air in the tile lobby was noticeably cooler. Rory noted that the Persian rug, red and cream, that used to lie on the floor was gone. Maybe it was being cleaned?

  He headed to the elevator. At least it looked the same. He got in and pressed the button for his floor.

  As he headed down the corridor, sure that the carpeting used to be dark brown and not this light beige now before him, he began to experience a sick feeling of foreboding.

  He didn’t want to think about it.

  When he got to their door, he again produced his keys from his pocket.

  And again, they didn’t work.

  “What the fuck?” Rory cried out, unable to help himself. Frustrated, he hammered the door with a volley of knocks. “Cole!” he yelled.

  After a moment or two, the door opened. The woman inside peered out at him quizzically, keeping the chain lock in place. She was middle-aged, with straight bleached-blonde hair and a spray of reddish-brown freckles across her nose. She had on a blue terry cloth bathrobe. Rory had never seen her before in his life. What was she doing in his apartment?