Sky Full of Mysteries

by Rick R. Reed

  His mother looked so different—she’d aged. Her hair, for one. It was once the same reddish-brown as his own, and she kept the roots and stray hairs touched up, but now it was white, like an old lady’s. Her face was careworn, the creases in her forehead, around her eyes and her mouth, were deep. She’d gained weight—and she never would have worn that gray-and-pink tracksuit she had on.

  He knocked again. And again.

  Finally, in despair, he simply turned and plopped down on the front steps, head in his hands. He had nowhere else to go. Nowhere to find answers that might begin to solve the mystery that seemed to have turned his life upside down.

  After a while the door creaked open. He turned slowly, peering at his mom over his shoulder. She stood, arms limp at her sides, staring, jaw slack. Her eyes, even from where he sat and even behind her glasses, were rimmed in red, as if she’d been crying.

  “Mom?”

  “It’s not you,” she repeated, her voice dull, that of a zombie. “It can’t be. You’re, you’re—gone.”

  Rory stood, making his movements slow, as he would to ensure he wouldn’t frighten a wild animal.

  A little dog, lemon and white, panting, danced around her feet, whining and trying to get out the door.

  “You got a dog?” Rory asked.

  She shook her head. “I needed the company,” she said simply. “I was so alone.” He could see her throat work as she tried to swallow.

  He took a step toward her. “Mom? I don’t know what’s going on. But it is me. It’s your boy, Rory.” A lump formed in his throat. She cowered as he neared her, and that stopped him in his tracks. He noticed her hands shaking.

  “Get back in, Minnie!” she shouted harshly at the dog. And the dog vanished into the shadows behind her, although Rory could still hear her whining. Greta looked him up and down, as though looking for a clue. “Who are you?” she asked, but Rory could detect the defeat in her voice.

  “You know who I am, Mom.”

  She slumped to one side, letting the doorframe support her. “You certainly look like my son.”

  “I am your son.” He raised an arm to tap the port-wine birthmark on the inside of his forearm. “Surely you remember this? And the time, when I was six, I tried to wash it off with Lava soap.”

  She shook her head—hard. “You can’t be my son, young man! And that’s why—you’re young! My son, my son, if he were still alive, would be forty-three years old.”

  Rory stepped back and almost fell off the edge of the porch. “What?”

  Her cry, an accusation really, came out garbled, desperate. “My son would have some gray in his hair! A few lines on his face. Maybe a little paunch on him. My son might need bifocals. My son, my son! Can’t be you. You just can’t be him.” She reached out her hand and then let it fall. In a whispered rush of breath, “It’s not possible.”

  “It’s me, Mom. It’s me. I think you know that.”

  What was going on? Rory didn’t dare even wonder, although the pieces, impossible though they were, were beginning to slide into place, even though Rory couldn’t accept them.

  After a bit she simply closed her eyes and stepped back. “Come in,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

  He followed her into the house. It looked familiar, yet not. The only piece of furniture he recognized was the leather recliner in the corner his dad loved. Its buttery surface was worn, darkened by body oils. There was a large black screen over the fireplace. What had happened to the seascape his father so loved?

  The dog rushed up to him, anxiously sniffing his ankles.

  “Minnie!” Mom cried. “Get away.”

  Rory squatted down to make friends with the little dog. “It’s okay.” He reached out his hand to let her sniff. She did—and then she licked it. He scratched her behind the ears and while doing so, looked up at his mom and smiled. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Mom,” he said, even though he knew it wasn’t. “I don’t understand what’s going on either. No more than you do. But I do know you don’t need to be afraid.”

  She didn’t say anything. She turned and disappeared into the kitchen. There was the sound of the pilot light on the stove clicking on, a faint whoosh. She came back. “I’m making tea. Come in the kitchen and we’ll talk.”

  Rory followed her into the kitchen. The room was unrecognizable. Where once had been a white stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher, there were now ultramodern-looking models crafted from stainless steel. Where there had once been a large picture window looking out on the backyard, there were now french doors. The cabinets he remembered had been maple—now everything was white, and the upper cabinets had glass windowpane fronting. Even the old maple table was gone, replaced by a center island with barstools.

  Rory felt something clench inside. Where was he? He looked down at the floor. The linoleum, a pebbled beige surface, had been replaced by terrazzo tile.

  He turned around, in an almost complete circle. “It’s so different. When did you do all this?”

  Mom, near the stove, lowered her head a bit to peer at him over the tops of her glasses. “We remodeled a few years ago, just before your father—” She stopped herself in midsentence.

  “What?” Rory took a step toward his mother. The house, he noticed, was so quiet. He looked out through the french doors and saw Minnie chasing a squirrel, barking at it as it scrambled up a tree.

  “Nothing.” Greta turned and began pouring water into mugs. “Come. Sit down.” She placed a tea bag in each mug and brought them both to the table.

  Like normal people, when the situation was so far from normal that Rory didn’t know of a word that could describe it. He sat down with his mother at the kitchen’s center island. For a long time, neither spoke, nor did either touch the tea in front of them. Along with Mom, Rory simply stared down into his tea, watching as it slowly deepened in color and the steam rose from its surface.

  At last Rory spoke. “I don’t know what’s happened. I woke up this morning in an alley in the city. It seemed like only a night had passed, but, but—” Rory couldn’t go on, couldn’t make himself say the incredible, unimaginable words, although they were there, poised at the tip of his tongue. But it looks like, somehow, and I have no idea how, twenty years passed in what seems to be a single night.

  Greta, he could tell, was unable to say any more herself. After several awkward silent moments passed, she got up from the table, the legs of the stool scraping against the tile floor. She hurriedly left the room.

  Rory watched her go. Listened to her footfalls as she made her way up the stairs off the entryway at the house’s front.

  He knew enough not to follow her. He was left with the anguish imprinted on her features for company. He waited for the longest time, thinking she would return. When she didn’t, he got up from the table and let the dog in. She scampered through the kitchen, and then he heard her running up the stairs, following her mistress.

  He looked out into the yard. It seemed like a typical August day in Chicago. He had no thoughts. What could he possibly think, anyway? He’d woken and stepped into an episode of that old TV series he sometimes caught on TV late at night, The Twilight Zone. There were simply no words to explain the chaos in his heart and mind.

  After what seemed like an hour or more, his mother, sniffling, came back down the stairs. She entered the kitchen, Minnie trailing behind. Rory looked up. His mother’s eyes were fiery red. She clutched a Kleenex in her right hand.

  He started to speak, but she held up a hand. “No. Don’t say anything. Not now. I’ve been upstairs, thinking. And the only thing I can imagine is that this, you, are a miracle. A true miracle. The Good Lord has seen fit to return you to me. Now, I don’t know how. And I sure as hell don’t know why.” She started to cry again as she spoke. “But Rory, sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re here.” She stood before him, hanging her head, sobbing.

  Rory took her in his arms, and she clutched him, weeping into his chest.

  After a bit of sniffling, she pull
ed away, stared into his eyes. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

  Rory, emotions threatening to overtake him as well, simply nodded.

  “We can’t tell anyone. No one would understand. But we have to accept this miracle somehow. This gift….” She looked away, staring outside. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “It sounds all right, Mom.” Rory didn’t know what else to say. The truth hit him hard—twenty years had somehow passed. He had all the proof he needed. And in that time, he had not aged, and the world had gone on around him. For right now, her plan, a pathetic one at best—keeping him a secret—seemed like the best option, or maybe their only one.

  There would be time enough to figure things out later on. If indeed anything could be figured out. Right now he was overcome with exhaustion and emotion. The fatigue came on suddenly, like a lead weight over his entire body. His eyes burned. “I’m so tired,” he said. “Is my old room still set up?”

  She smiled through her tears, nodding. “Of course it is.” She shrugged and smiled shyly. “I think there was always a part of me that kept it the way it was just in case….”

  “Can I just go sleep?”

  She pointed to the ceiling.

  He started from the room.

  “Don’t go away, son.”

  He paused at the doorway. “I’m not going anywhere. Not if I can help it.”

  And he headed for the stairs. Maybe, when he woke, he’d discover this had all been nothing more than a bad dream.

  Chapter 16

  “I DON’T know if he’ll ever get over it, or him, rather,” Tommy said to his best friend, Dora. The two were having lunch outside, on her flagstone patio in the northern suburb of Deerfield. Tommy had picked up a big salad from Whole Foods in downtown Evanston before heading north on the Edens Expressway. Dora was on yet another diet, and he knew she’d appreciate the effort, if not the greens.

  Dora took a bite of her salad, looking thoughtful as she chewed. Tommy thought she didn’t need to diet. Sure, what with having children and the relentless passing of the years, she’d put on a fair amount of weight. But the extra pounds looked good on her. She carried them well and knew how to dress for a lady of a certain age and carriage. Her face was still unlined, and she kept her blond hair, though now short, colored and highlighted so it, at least, still looked as though it was in its twenties. She asked, “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  They had this same conversation, it seemed to Tommy, every year around the anniversary of Rory’s disappearance, when Cole would make his annual pilgrimage to Graceland. Tommy didn’t really get why it bothered him so much, because after a few days, Cole—and their non-Rory lives—would return to normal. During the remaining 360 or so days of the year, Cole never mentioned Rory and, as far as Tommy knew, never gave an indication of thinking about his first love. “Well, you know it does. A little.” He took a sip of iced tea. “I mean, I should be tolerant, right?”

  Dora moved some of her veggies around on her plate, peering down at them as though they were maggots or cockroaches. “What I’d really love is a big juicy burger with bleu cheese and crispy bacon, with a huge heap of fries alongside. A beer. And after, a cigarette.”

  She laughed, but Tommy witnessed a kind of longing in her features. Mention of the burger made him think, once again, of Rory. A Moody’s burger had been his last meal, served up by none other than the woman sitting across from him. Tommy wondered if she was aware of the connection and then immediately doubted it. Most people didn’t put such things together, especially after twenty years had passed. But he wasn’t married to most people….

  Dora choked down some more of her salad. “No. You shouldn’t be tolerant.”

  “What?”

  “I said it. I’ve been holding it in for years. I’m not going to listen anymore. And neither should you.

  “You don’t need to be tolerant. Not for another year, not for another day. Tommy, it’s been twenty years! That’s a nice round number and way beyond what anyone would have a right to expect from you, anyway. Twenty years. You’re done. He needs to get over that boy, especially when he has a gorgeous, smart man who loves him with all of his heart right in front of his nose. You just need to tell him to get over it. You’ve been patient, kind, and understanding more than long enough.”

  “You’re heartless.”

  “And you have too much heart, Tommy. You always have. We all know that boy was most likely dead within hours of my waiting on him. That’s very sad—tragic—but it’s true. And to my mind, it’s a little sick the way Cole pines after him. I think anyone with a reasonable mind would agree with me that you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty in the understanding department. For your sake and for his, Cole needs to let this go.”

  Tommy knew she was right. They’d had a similar conversation every year around this time for the past ten years—yet this was the first time she’d told him he was being too tolerant, too kind, too understanding. And every year, he came away from seeing Dora with the same resolve—that he would speak with Cole, tell him how much it hurt him that he still had these feelings for Rory. Tommy knew that if Cole and Rory had simply run their course, they might not even be together today—young, hot love often had a way of burning out as quickly as it flared up into lusty flame. But then, if Rory hadn’t disappeared, Tommy might have never met Cole. And Tommy couldn’t imagine a life without Cole. He was his husband, his family, his best friend.

  His everything.

  Which was why it was hard to have a talk with him about this annual “thing.” How could Tommy take it away? And he knew that’s exactly what he’d be doing. Cole was a nice man, a pushover, really. He’d give in. He’d promise to let things go, to not commemorate the anniversary.

  But would he keep the promise?

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Tommy said. “I should have a talk with him.”

  “And you know you won’t.” She laughed. “Every year, you tell me you feel bad and every year, I bite my tongue, letting go of my own good judgment and not telling you to have it out with him—that his memorializing this guy goes above and beyond. This year, I made myself speak up. And it doesn’t seem to have had much effect.” Dora shrugged. Tell you what, next year let’s just skip talking about it.”

  Tommy grabbed her hand. “Oh, can we? Pretty please! I’ll treat you to that burger and fries. And we’ll get a pitcher of Leinenkugels!”

  “It’s a plan,” Dora said. “We’ll get drunk off our asses and raise a glass to when we were roomies and our place needed a revolving door for all the men we had stoppin’ by.”

  Tommy joined her in laughter. “Oh, those were the days.”

  “You were quite the slut.” Dora nudged him.

  “Oh my! Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!”

  “But it all came crashing to an end when you met Cole. At least for you. My wild oats days continued for a couple more years, especially after you moved out. Gave me even more freedom to get my freak on.” She snorted. “But after Cole? You were a different man. I didn’t think there was any such bird as a one-man man, or even a one-woman man. I believed men were helpless little babies when it came to their libidos. No control.” She leaned in close to Tommy. “You ever get a little on the side? You can tell me.”

  Tommy reared back in his chair, a hand to his chest. “Me? Never!” He burst into more laughter, and Dora eyed him, the surprise on her face plain.

  “That’s sarcasm, right?”

  He shook his head. “It’s sad. I haven’t touched another man’s cock in two decades. I’ve eyed a few, of course, at the gym and when I bring up some porn on the computer, but I can’t imagine myself with someone else. There’ve been a couple close calls here and there over the years, but I always think, why should I go for hamburger when I have steak at home.”

  Dora reached over the table to tweak his nose. “You’re adorable. Why is it that it always seems to be the gay guys who are the sweetest?”

 
; “Oh, I’ve met some pretty vinegary gay guys, believe me. Gay men have not cornered the market on sweetness, take it from one who knows.” Tommy laughed and then leaned in and asked, “What about you? Any dalliances?”

  Dora gave him the side-eye. “Honey, don’t nobody need to see these droopy tits, stretch marks, and flabby thighs.” She shook her head. “Besides, I can barely find the energy to make love to David a couple times a month! I can’t add anyone else into the equation.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “Oh, go on!” She looked away for a moment. “And you’re a beautiful man. And I love you.”

  They finished their lunch in comfortable silence as the warm breeze, with just a hint of the coming autumn, washed over them.

  Tommy thought, really, he had so much to be grateful for. And all in all, there was much that was right with his world.

  WHEN HE got home from Dora’s, Tommy found Cole asleep in their bedroom. Naps were a pretty regular occurrence around their household, since neither of them worked outside the house and they had the luxury of enough time to indulge the habit.

  The TV was on, the volume low. Cole had put in one of their Golden Girls DVDs. They had all seven seasons, and Cole referred to them as his form of Ambien. Televised comfort food. Cole once confessed that he rarely saw the end of an episode anymore because the show put him to sleep, usually within five minutes. It wasn’t that it was boring—quite the contrary—but that it just felt so warm, familiar, and comforting that he could relax and let go, the wisecracks and laugh track lulling him off to dreamland.

  Tommy moved quietly into the room. It was peaceful. The sun’s dying light filtered in through their honeycomb blinds, and he could see tinges of lavender and tangerine through them in the dusky sky. The trees were sharpening in definition, becoming black silhouettes as the sun set.

  He sat down on the bed, still trying not to make any noise, and bent to remove his running shoes. He was glad Cole was a deep sleeper. He liked having this time—stalkerish though some might consider it—to simply drink in the beauty of his man.