Chapter 9
Fortunately, work had piled up in my absence—e-mails to answer, a web page update, three meetings to attend—and I was grateful for the distractions.
The meetings, returning of calls, and other administrative tasks kept me busy until nearly seven o’clock that night.
For one of the first times since I’d taken this job, I was reluctant to go home, when normally I’d be chomping at the bit to get out of this sterile hive of cubicles.
Around five, I’d sent a text to Josh, telling him I was working late and that our boss was treating us to pizza.
I thought I might not be home until late.
He shouldn’t expect us to see each other tonight.
He texted back immediately, wondering why we couldn’t at least crawl into bed together at the end of the day.
I ignored that text and the several that followed. Each successive e-mail was a little whinier, a little more pleading. What had I gotten myself into?
Would the day come when I’d be forced to be like Richard Blake and not return home at all? Nothing as bad as what happened to him had fallen upon me. Josh had never threatened me, not physically. He’d never raised a hand—or a knife—to me.
Still, I wondered, is that what it would take? My life being threatened? Did I really need to go that far to realize I might be in peril? That staying with Josh wasn’t a good choice?
And what if the threat came true? It was possible to delay too long. It was possible to give up one’s life, health, sanity—for what? A relationship that could very well be built on lies? To lie down at night with a person who might not allow me to get up again?
C’mon, Ted, you’re smarter than this…
I sat at my desk, staring out at the urban night—the gothic spires of the Tribune Tower were lit up, and so was Navy Pier. The Ferris wheel turned. The Chicago River was a slick black line below. The lake a vast expanse of darkness. These sights made me feel isolated, removed from the world.
I scrolled down the contacts in my phone until I came to Karl. I hesitated only for a moment and then pressed the screen to call him.
Voice mail. Shit. I hung up.
I was gathering up my things to get ready to leave the eerily empty office when my phone rang. The screen told me it was Karl.
“Hey! Sorry I missed your call. I was out walking the dog and I didn’t have my phone on me. What’s up?”
I couldn’t tell him what was ‘up’ over the phone. “What are you doing right now?”
“Not much. Just winding down. It’s been a long, busy day.”
“Have you eaten? Wanna do dinner?” The idea of food seemed a little sickening, but it’s what one does. Where else could I meet him? A church? A bar? Both of those places, the homes of sinners and saints, just didn’t seem appropriate.
“I had a little something a little while ago. But I could go for dessert, so I could meet, sure. Do you have a place in mind?”
“Ann Sather is on the way home.”
“Oh, and one of their cinnamon rolls would make a perfect dessert.”
“See you there in a half hour or so?”
“Perfect.” He paused, and it was as though I could hear him thinking. Then, he asked, “Hey Ted. Is everything okay?”
He must have picked up on the stress in my voice. “Peachy.” I said, knowing my tone belied my answer.
I hung up.
*
Ann Sather is a Swedish restaurant steps away from the Belmont L stop.
It’s a Chicago institution, occupying this space (a former funeral home) for longer than I could remember.
Somebody once told me it was a little ways down the street, in a smaller space.
But that had to have been at least forty years ago.
The restaurant was known for its enormous cinnamon rolls and Swedish meatballs.
The walls were painted with cheerful and quaint murals.
The place was huge, but I’d never seen it not crowded and lively.
I’d also never had a problem getting a seat. The place was huge.
I looked around at the tables to see if Karl had arrived yet.
“One?”
A young Hispanic man, cute, with the darkest eyes, approached me, menus in hand.
“One is the loneliest number, or so I’ve heard.”
He looked at me, a question written across his features. Not a fan of late 1960s rock, I guess. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone? A guy with curly blond hair? On the small side?”
“Present!” The voice behind me was one I knew well from podcasts and a few meetings. I turned to find Karl behind me; he’d just come in the door.
“Good timing.” I forced a smile I wasn’t feeling and let the host lead us to a table that had just opened up next to the windows facing Belmont.
The sidewalk outside was crowded with commuters just getting off the L at Belmont and revelers headed east for Wrigleyville and farther east, Boystown.
In another time, I might have felt happy, excited.
But that was another time. Now, the crowds only served to make me feel more alone, more out of the loop of what passed, I assumed, for these normal folk. You know, the ones who’d never dated a murderer…
Once we were settled, cinnamon rolls and coffee ordered, I came right to the point. “I listened to your latest podcast. At first, I almost made myself sick with worry that you were about to include me in it.”
“I told you. I would never do that.” Karl smiled. He cocked his head, “I hope you’ll come to trust me.”
I believed him. Sometimes, we just have a sense, deep within, that something is true and right. “Anyway, the guys you did profile? They have me worried.” And it was at this very moment that I realized just how anxious I was—and concerned—and afraid.
I went on to tell him how increasingly possessive and jealous Josh was becoming—how he seemed to want us to be in our own tiny bubble of two. “Look, I’m a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need a few friends in my life, a little diversity. He wants no one around us. Ever.”
“Isolation is often the beginning of abuse. Classic. Has he done anything threatening?”
“Threatening? No. Not really.”
“So you’re concerned you have a possessive boyfriend on your hands?” Karl asked.
“That would be the logical conclusion. But that would be for a world we both know I’m not living in.
” I paused for a minute and then words poured out of me that I wasn’t planning on speaking, at least not yet.
But they’d been so pent up, it was though a dam was bursting. “He killed your brother, didn’t he?”
Karl set down his coffee and peered for a long time out the window at the throngs of people on the sidewalk, hurrying east or west. The street was clogged with traffic. “Do you really want me to answer that? Isn’t the tone and theme of my podcast enough of an answer for you?”
“I’m sorry.” Karl’s pale blue eyes appeared darker somehow. I felt as though I’d wounded him—and I probably had. I had an urge to stand and move around the table to hold him. I resisted the urge and waited for him to respond.
“Yes. I believe he killed my brother,” he spoke the words softly, so softly that even I, across the table, could barely hear him.
Karl looked around nervously. I guess he thought the same as I did—that most people in the Swedish restaurant were not talking of murder, especially the killing of family members.
In spite of the comfortable temperature of the room, I was chilled, once again, an outcast from the so-called normal world.
“I’m hoping what I can uncover with Meat Locker will urge—or maybe force is the better word—the authorities to take a second, and harder, look at the case.
It’s never been officially closed, but I know for a fact it’s dropped well off the radar.
That’s often what police do—if they can find a solution that fits in the puzzle, it can be good enough, no matter how hard they have to shove to make it fit.
It’s one more case off their load. And don’t get me started on prejudice and homophobia. ”
Karl paused to stare out at the night. His mouth turned down at the corners when he looked back. “After all, it was just a random gay drug addict killed in an alley. Who gives a shit?”
“I do. And lots of folks like me.” I cocked my head. “Why are you so sure it was Josh?”
“Richard Blake, mainly. I mean, come on. You listened to my last podcast?”
I told him I had. What had happened to Richard Blake was also my reason for concern, or at least a prominent reason, a compelling one.
“Concern?”
“More than concern, I guess.” I looked down at the cinnamon roll before me. Nothing had ever looked more unappetizing. It might as well have been a cockroach. I shoved it away. “I need to escape from him. But I’m afraid. I’m certain he’ll come after me.”
“What do you want to do, Ted?”
I thought again of Richard Blake and how he’d escaped.
He’d set up his own personal witness protection program.
I pondered my life here in Chicago, my job, the friends I’d neglected since meeting Josh, the lakefront, the diverse ethnic neighborhoods, the bars and restaurants I’d once loved frequenting.
Chicago was home—the lake was always east, its streets a logical grid (for the most part).
I could navigate this metropolis now with ease.
The possibility of giving all that up seemed hugely unfair and filled me with rage at the mere prospect of such a loss.
I realized suddenly just how much Josh—and his jealousy—had stolen.
“I want to free myself, but I just don’t know how. ”
“I can’t make that decision for you. But I can promise you this, even though we don’t know each other well—I will do everything in my power to help you. It’s the least I can do. For Reggie. For you.”
His words hung in the air between us, touching my heart deeply. Was he offering a lifeline to a drowning man?
Or an anvil?
It all snapped into place how precarious a position I’d put myself in. And all just for wanting a man to love me. Was that so much to ask for? It didn’t seem fair.
“Thanks.” It was all I could think of to say.
The lights in the restaurant seemed too bright, the conversation too loud.
I wanted to escape, but had no idea to where.
I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table, supposing it was enough to cover our small bill.
I stood on legs I wasn’t at all sure were able to support me.
I imagined how I must look to Karl, literally sick with worry—pale, sweaty, trembling.
“Look, I need to get out of here,” I practically gasped.
“Going home? Is he there?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. Thank god we haven’t moved in together yet.
He presses me to make that leap. A lot. But he could show up at my door, even tonight.
” I visualized cowering in my own home, listening as the sound of the intercom buzzer grew more and more insistent as Josh, below, got angrier and angrier.
It wasn’t just a fear; it was a certainty that what I feared was exactly what would happen.
“But I’m so suffocated at the moment. Nothing to do with you, Karl.
If anything, you’ve helped open my eyes to the danger I’m in.
I just need to move, to go, to think…” My nerves felt raw, exposed.
“I get it,” he said. The sympathy in his features was obvious. “Go. And please, if you need anything or I can help in any way, let me know. And—keep me posted on how you’re doing.” He eyed me, making sure I returned his gaze. “I care.”
“Okay,” was all I could come up with to say in response. I hurried out of the restaurant…
…and into the rain.
The sky had opened up while I was inside, reflecting my inner turmoil. No matter if I got drenched or froze to death, I’d walk and walk until maybe I found some resolution, some way out of this web in which I’d inadvertently entangled myself. Spider and fly comparisons came to my mind.
I started down Belmont toward the lake. As I walked, businesses vanished from either side, replaced by apartment and condo buildings.
The warm yellow lights in their windows, especially against the cold, merciless rain, looked homey, inviting—words I wasn’t sure I’d ever know again.
The foot traffic dwindled too as I moved east.
At last, I came to Belmont Harbor. The moored sailboats and motor boats rocked and rolled on the dark waves. Not a soul was around.
I turned and headed north, up the lakefront trail, passing where the old Belmont rocks once were, replaced now with sterile concrete. Despite the rain—I was already drenched, anyway—I sat on the top concrete tier at the north end.
The water before me looked in turmoil, the waves ocean-like, big, capped with white. In addition to the rain, the waves’ spray splashed my face.
This is what misery looks like.
This is what misery feels like.
Where do I go? What do I do now? Was I being ridiculous? Overreacting? I didn’t think so. I mean, how many of us contemplate whether to break up with someone based on suspicion of murder? There’s a Hallmark movie you don’t see.
The last thought, in spite of my mood and the rain, made me smile, if only for a moment.
I stood wearily, feeling a hundred years old. Across the dark water, pale light flashed. Thunder rumbled, a giant’s growl.
I knew where I needed to go.
It had been too long since I’d seen the woman with whom I’d once been best friends, the woman I regarded as a twin sister—separated from me at birth.
Camille D’Amico was a few miles north, in the same Rogers Park neighborhood I lived in. The advantage of looking her up at this perilous point in time was sound—I’d never mentioned her to Josh. And even though her apartment was but a few blocks from mine, he’d never think to look for me there.
Despite what some might call a sarcastic sense of humor and cynical world view, Camille was warm.
Nurturing. In the absence of my own parents, she was the next best thing, although I wouldn’t tell her she was a mother figure to me.
She was nine years older, so the mom thing was unlikely.
She’d listen without judgment and, if needed, protect me with the fierceness of a mother lion.