Chapter 6 #3
I wasn’t sure what to say. Between the fat-shaming and the wildly inaccurate characterization of how Michael regarded me, I was flummoxed. I certainly didn’t find any humor in his words. The only thing I knew for sure was that, in this moment, I was overcome with disappointment and exhaustion.
At last, the words came to me. “I’m really tired.” I didn’t look at him. “How about if we spend the night at our own places tonight?” I was so grateful we hadn’t yet taken the step Josh seemed to want so much—moving in together.
“Oh now, don’t be like that.” He reached for me and I stood.
“Seriously?” he glared at me.
“Seriously.”
He stared at me for a long while, although I pretended not to notice. He moved to the front door and paused while he put on his denim jacket. At last, he was ready to go, hand on the doorknob. He said, “I’m sorry two is not a sufficient number for you.”
And then he was gone. I expected him to slam the door behind him, but he closed it with care.
I waited a couple seconds and then crept out to the balcony, where I watched him, shoulders hunched against the wind off the lake, heading east, from the shadows.
There was a part of me, maybe, that hoped he’d turn around and come back. Another part longed for the luxury of occupying my own bed, alone, for the first time in a long while. I imagined waking up late, making coffee, reading on the couch, while Spotify played Brahms.
*
Despite the tension, I fell asleep quickly. As an introvert, entertaining wore me out, much as I craved it. Hosting guests sucked all the energy from me.
This is my long way of saying I fell asleep quickly.
*
Josh stands over the bed, looking down at me, when I wake. There’s no expression on his face, just a blank stare. The overhead light is on and in the unforgiving glare, his eyes have morphed from green to brown. His stare is dead.
Michael and Dan are at the foot of the bed and they’re dancing—a waltz—toward the bedroom door, then back again. Michael keeps time to music only they can hear, “one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.”
Josh holds out a hand. “Shall we dance?”
I get up on my elbows and the sheets and quilt fall away from my chest. “Here? Now?”
He laughs and points to Dan and Michael. “They are. No time like the present, sweetheart.”
I turn away from them, listening as Dan and Michael’s rhythmic footfalls retreat into the living room. Then they stop. The front door opens and closes.
“I think we’re alone now. What shall we do? The Watutsi? The twist? No. The tango. C’mon, bitch, get up.”
I pull the covers over my head and even through them, I notice the room suddenly goes dark.
Josh yanks the pillow out from under my head.
I roll over, emerging from my cocoon, and am about to ask, “What the hell are you doing?”
My words cut off, though, before they can emerge from my lips.
He’s bringing the pillow down over my face.
*
I woke from the dream, sweating, in spite of the chill from leaving the window open before I got under the covers. The air wafting in smelled of imminent rain.
I sat up to free myself from the damp clothes. For a moment, reality and dream merged. I called out, “Josh?”
Of course, he’s gone. I watched him leave.
I got up anyway and made a circuit of my apartment, checking under the bed, in closets, and behind the shower curtain. In the kitchen, I searched for any missing knives from the block on the counter. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized they were all present and accounted for.
I stood for a while in the kitchen, feeling disoriented and a little sick to my stomach.
To calm the grumbling, I opened the fridge and peered inside. There was a little leftover chicken in a Tupperware container. I pulled it out and made myself a quick sandwich—chicken, mayo, on wheat. I slapped it on a plate and took it into the living room.
I knew getting back to sleep wasn’t going to be easy. The dream (nightmare?) had unsettled me. The stillness of the night outside made me isolated, alone. I noticed things like the floors creaking as the building settled. Or were those footsteps in the hallway?
I took a bite of the sandwich and chewed. It tasted like nothing, causing me to wonder if I was still dreaming.
My phone was on the coffee table. I snatched it up and saw I had several texts, all from Josh.
I wasn’t in the mood, so I prevented myself from looking.
I decided that, since sleep seemed to be off the table, I’d finish the podcast I’d be listening to when Josh arrived. I brought it up in Apple podcasts and pressed play, not bothering with fetching my earbuds from the bedside table.
*
Podcast transcript, “Meat Locker: Cold Cases” Episode No. 44
True Crime Audio Presents: The Case of the Unsolved Hate Crime
Bailey Anderson: Welcome back to Meat Locker. Before the break, I told you about how my brother’s world fell apart during his sophomore year of college at DePaul University in Chicago.
It happens. Kids on their own for the first time can make bad choices and get led in the wrong direction.
I use the word “kid’’ deliberately. Reggie was no different.
He’d grown up accustomed to my guidance and my annoying corrections.
Because of me, he’d led a fairly sheltered life.
I was his sole moral compass. I kind of thought for him, so he could always see the right path.
I wasn’t much more than a kid myself, though, and no one told me I needed to teach him how to think for himself, how to make his own good decisions that would benefit him in the long run.
Once freed from the confines of our small town and tiny, but loving family, he hadn’t developed a solid moral compass within himself to lead the way.
Maybe he would have learned, given some time. We all have to figure things out.
But my brother never got the chance.
I was thrilled, though, when he told me, on one of our customary Sunday phone calls, that he’d met Joshua Kade.
He’d said that Josh was the man he’d been waiting for, the one who would right the sinking ship he was on.
“He’s such a good guy, Karl. You’re gonna love him.
He’s older, but that’s good, because he’s helping me to see just how misguided my actions have been lately.
He’s my savior.” I remember his laugh when he uttered this last part, but I knew he believed it.
He had, for the first time in his life, fallen in love. “He’s my guardian angel, my soulmate—the one,” he gushed. “You’re gonna see. You’ll be so proud.”
I knew nothing more about Josh other than the attention he paid to my brother.
And much of what Reggie said was true—Josh urged him to go to AA and NA meetings, to attend his church, the Center for Spiritual Living, to make plans to return to school by the next semester.
Everything I heard about Josh as their relationship developed seemed positive.
So why could I never accept this wonderful gift? This savior? Why did something, almost psychic, nag at me?
It was all smoke and mirrors. Even though I had nothing definitive to pin it on, I simply knew. My gut, my heart, my intuition told me.
And those things were seldom wrong.
After they’d been together for several months and my brother had moved in with Josh, I made plans to come out to Chicago to visit.
I had hoped to bring our mother as well, but she’d just gotten bad news—a diagnosis of breast cancer.
This certainly put a crimp in my plans, a crimp that replaced anticipation with guilt.
But Mom assured me she’d be fine. I was only going for a long weekend and none of that time overlapped with her beginning chemo and radiation treatments.
So I headed out to Chicago. My first red flag was a text I got when we landed and I took my phone out of airplane mode. The plan was Reggie was going to pick me up at Midway, using his new boyfriend’s car. He’d been excited and told me he’d meet me outside baggage claim.
But the new text told a different story. It turned out Josh needed his car, after all. Would I mind taking the L in from the airport? It was right at the station and all I needed to do was switch trains downtown for the Red Line and then ride it up to the Granville stop. Easy.
I’m a small-town guy—Newell doesn’t even have a bus line, cabs, or Uber—but I tried not to be daunted and made what turned out to be a surprisingly easy trek to Granville Avenue.
Outside the L in the Edgewater neighborhood, there was a swarm of people, traffic, lots of noise.
But with all these people swarming around me, not one of them was Reggie.
Great. What would I do now? A city like Chicago was daunting, even if I knew my brother only lived a block or two away from the L stop.
But which block? North? South? East? West?
I had the address, but venturing out into this chaotic urban landscape at that time was terrifying for this small-town guy.
I texted him, a little put off, and he said he was on his way.
He arrived, with Josh in tow, about ten minutes later.
Two things immediately struck me.
One, Josh was too good-looking for his own good.
Dark wavy hair, pale green eyes, a lean body with broad shoulders.
He was the kind of man you’d expect to find on the cover of a fashion magazine or strutting down a runway in Milan or Paris.
He wore a pair of pressed khaki shorts, a button-down blue shirt, and a pair of leather sandals.
He was all smiles as he approached and, yet, I felt suspicious.
The smile seemed fake. It didn’t reach up to his eyes.
I told myself I was just an over-protective brother and that I shouldn’t make snap judgments.
The other thing that struck, or maybe bothered is the better word, is how my brother appeared.
It was like he’d shrunk—physically and emotionally.
His joy, his zest, his sense of humor were all missing.
He’d shaved his head close to his skull.
He was much thinner than the last time I’d seen him.
This was weird, because Reggie always veered toward carrying a few extra pounds on his frame.
That boy loved his sweets! I almost didn’t recognize him.
His clothes, jeans and a faded red T-shirt, were rumpled and looked none too clean.
They hung on him, like castoffs on a scarecrow.
When I hugged Reggie, I could feel his bones. I could smell his stink.
What was going on? I automatically would have thought drugs, but he’d assured me he’d been clean now for a good couple of months.
But a thought pestered me—what addict hadn’t made those assurances?
One of the symptoms of addiction was lying.
Even I knew that, and I wasn’t all that familiar with the landscape.
The weekend now is a blur. I had thought we’d do the usual tourist stuff—shop at Water Tower Place along the Magnificent Mile, take in a comedy show at Second City, maybe do one of those architecture boat tours, visit Millennium Park and Navy Pier. Have Chicago’s famous pizza.
But we ended up staying in all weekend. Reggie and Josh argued in the bedroom while I tried to read in the living room. I overheard snippets and the one that stood out the most cut me to my heart. “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?”
Reggie said something that sounded like, “If I had, would you have allowed it?”
Allowed it? I was flabbergasted. This was supposedly two grown men with the ability to make independent choices. Right?
I couldn’t make out Josh’s response.
Allowed? Seriously?
I longed for the chance to get my brother alone, so I could make sure he hadn’t landed himself in a controlling and perhaps even abusive relationship.
But the opportunity never arose. I didn’t see my brother even for a minute without Josh by his side, which was convenient because Josh did most of Reggie’s talking for him.
I left town shaken and depressed. Something was definitely not right and I was determined to help my brother, whether he knew he needed help or not.
I never got the chance. I went home, feeling hopeless and trying to rely desperately on my brother’s common sense, his instinct for self-preservation, and his self-respect.
Everything smelled bad. I felt sick to my stomach the whole plan ride home.
Why didn’t I force Reggie come home with me? It was a question that would become central to my life—forever.
The next news I had about Reggie was that he’d been murdered.
*
The podcast ended with its usual eerie New Age music and promised more details to come.
By now, the sky was lightening and I felt bone-tired, but it would be a futile gesture to get back in bed.
I moved to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee brewing. My phone chimed a couple times, indicating new incoming texts.
Josh?
I wasn’t ready to talk to him. Not yet.
But a reckoning was coming.