So he kept his frustration and hurt bottled up inside and did little beyond go to work, come home, eat, watch TV, and sleep.
He supposed this was what depression felt like. But he didn’t even care enough, nor have the energy, to Google the symptoms of that malady to find out if he was indeed suffering from it.
As the bus headed north, it would typically empty out as people got off to begin shifts along Clark and its cross streets. Wren sat up straighter, reminding himself he needed to stop wallowing in misery, to just try to look outside himself for five minutes—then maybe he could begin to move on.
A heavyset African American woman wearing too much perfume and a black dress that was too tight for her vacated the seat across the aisle from him, leaving behind a clumsily folded
Chicago Tribune
.
Snatch that paper up. See what’s going on outside your own little dramafest. Maybe there’s something in there that will take your mind off Rufus for the next ten minutes. Hell, maybe the classifieds is just twitching with dream jobs, just for you.
Right.
Wren did lean over and pluck the newspaper from the seat. He scooted back up against the window and opened it.
And his heart nearly stopped.
The front-page headline practically screamed at him, making his blood run cold and the world around him dissolve.
Second Murder on City’s North Side Believed to be Linked to Escort Service
Wren fought his way through the spare, journalistic prose to learn that a second young man had been “stabbed to death along Chicago’s lakefront.” The victim, whose name and details were being withheld pending notification of next of kin, was believed to have been associated with the same escort service, À Louer, that Evan Maple, who was murdered in a similar fashion two weeks ago, worked for.
Wren scanned the article for more, but there was nothing to identify who the victim had been. But Wren was suddenly certain it had to have been Rufus who’d been killed.
That was the reason he hadn’t called.
He was dead. And before that he was being stalked by some serial killer out to put an end to male escorts by picking them off one by one, stopping their hearts and their commerce with something like a sharp hunting knife.
Wren felt like he was going to be sick. Although he still had several blocks to go, he reached up and pulled the cord to alert the bus driver he needed to get off. When the bus had barely stopped at a corner, Wren dropped the paper to the floor and hurried out the back door of the bus.
Outside the air was thick with humidity and exhaust fumes, even this early in the morning. The sun, beating down harshly out of a dirty white sky, didn’t serve to make him feel any better. Wren sat down on the curb and then put his head between his legs, trying to slow his breathing and force back the bile burning the back of his throat.
He sat there for several long minutes, waiting for his heart rate and respiration to slow, telling himself over and over again that he needed to get ahold of himself and that À Louer employed several young men, any one of which could have been the killer’s victim.
Including Rufus! And Wren felt sick all over again, unsure if he had the strength to ever get up from this curb. He drew in several deep breaths, never mind that the air felt like a dirty blanket soaked in Lake Michigan water, trying desperately to calm himself.
You’re being ridiculous. That was not Rufus. It couldn’t have been. He’s streetwise. Savvy. He knows how to protect himself. Still… what if it was? What if it was?
Wren glanced down at his watch, which told him he had only fifteen minutes to get to work. It was seven forty-five. What it also told him was that, if he called Rufus now, it was unlikely he’d be anyplace else but home. Early mornings were not an escort’s busiest times. Even Wren knew that much.
But Rufus could be sleeping. He could be dead.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Just call.
Wren pulled his cell from his pocket. Part of him told him not to call, because if Rufus didn’t answer, he would just spend the remainder of the day going slowly insane with anguish and regret. And that same part of himself told him that Rufus had yet to answer any of his calls, so how likely was he to pick up anyway?
All of this was moot. He
had
to call Rufus. He had to at least try.
He found his number and pressed the icon to connect him. The phone rang four times and went to voice mail.
“This is Rufus. You know what to do and when to do it.”
Beep.
“Rufus, man, it’s Wren. I just read about the second killing in the paper, and that’s fucked up.” Wren paused. “I’m—I’m worried about you. If you’re there and you can hear this, pick up. Oh, what am I talking about? You can’t hear me on a fucking iPhone. God, I’m babbling. Please, Rufus, just give me a call the minute you get this and let me know you’re okay. Please.”
Wren ended the call and finally felt he had himself together enough to stand and walk the rest of the way to work. At least he wouldn’t be late. Thank heaven for small favors.
THE DAY
passed in a blur of worry. As Wren bagged groceries, he barely spoke to Sophia or Chuck, the cashiers with whom he worked. He said, like a robot, “Thank you and have a nice day” and “Do you need any help out with that?” to all the customers who passed his way, never raising his eyes to meet theirs. They could have been elephants standing in front of him and Wren wouldn’t have noticed.
His mind was elsewhere, conjuring up horrific mind movies of Rufus out at night along the lakefront, walking through the darkness, when a shadow emerged from behind a tree or sprung up from the boulders lining certain sections of the water, moving with lightning speed to plunge a knife into his back. Or that same faceless dark wraith would grab Rufus from behind by his hair, yank his head back, and draw the knife across his exposed throat, painting a line of hot crimson pain there, deadly. Sometimes his imaginings would make him feel so sick, he wondered how he could continue standing, go on putting fruits and vegetables into one bag, toiletries into another, frozen food into yet another…. But he did, his body on automatic pilot.
On each of his breaks, Wren would rush out the door by the loading dock, where he would quickly smoke two or three cigarettes and scan and scan his record of recent calls, praying Rufus would show up in the list. It pained him that he was not allowed to have his cell phone on him while he worked.
He tried Rufus many more times. He even broke down once or twice and called Chillingsworth, but the result was the same—voice mail and no call back.
Later in the day, he went to the corner of Clark and Howard and bought a copy of the
Tribune
from a machine, hoping to find more news about the killing. But there was nothing, save for an edited-down version of the same story he had read on the bus that morning.
All this merely affirmed the dread, deepening inside him like an infection, that told him Rufus was dead.
He could feel the loss in his bones, in his heart.
It was real.
And he never had a chance to say good-bye.
He hoped whatever had happened, if it was indeed Rufus or even some other young man, that death had come quickly and without pain or terror.
Oh, stop thinking like that. You don’t know anything. Rufus has never called you back—not once. Why should that change? He’s fine. Believe that. Believe that until you know differently.
Somehow Wren managed to make it through an entire shift at the grocery store without collapsing into hysterics, getting sick, or losing the strength in his legs. In fact, he was so adept and focused on making his body do the work, no one noticed his worry.
When he was finishing up his day and hanging the green apron they made him wear in his locker, Wren came to a decision. He couldn’t go home. He knew he wouldn’t be able to bear an evening spent with his mother, with more worry, with sick dread and anxiety. While his coworkers may have not noticed his nervousness, Linda certainly would. And she was not the kind of mother who just let things pass. She wouldn’t rest until she needled the truth out of him.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready to share the truth or the burden of his worry. The thought of simply voicing them aloud made his fears somehow more real and more likely to be true.
Plus, he needed to know. That desire hadn’t lessened throughout his interminable day at the store. In fact, it had intensified, until now as he exited the store through its automatic doors, he knew he had no other course than to hop on the “L” and take it to the Bryn Mawr stop, where he could camp out on Rufus’s doorstep if necessary until he was reassured that the man was all right.
WREN HAD
been there for close to three hours. It had been easy to find Rufus’s building, since he had practically given him coordinates when they first talked. Now Rufus’s front stoop on Catalpa Avenue was littered with cigarette butts and a smashed can of Red Bull. Many of what Wren supposed were Rufus’s neighbors had eyed him suspiciously as they stepped around him to enter the redbrick six-flat apartment building. One, an older gentleman with a bald pate and a ring of silver hair above his ears, even stopped to ask if he could help him, what business he had here. Wren waved him off, telling him he was waiting for his friend Rufus. After the old man had gone inside, Wren wondered if even the term friend was too grandiose for what he and Rufus shared.
They hardly knew each other, and yet Wren persisted in this fantastic love for him, worrying himself nearly to death—no pun intended—about Rufus’s whereabouts and well-being.
So Wren sat and smoked, watching passersby and studying Rufus’s neighbors’ faces for any signs of recent trauma in their little community. But even when Wren mentioned Rufus’s name to the old man who spoke to him, the gentleman registered nothing upon hearing the name, which Wren, in his desperation for good news, took as a positive sign.
He felt the air take on a tiny bit of chill as the sun, to the west, set, leaving deepening shadows and a sky that went from orange to a shade of lavender, foretelling dusk.
Hope rose within Wren each time he heard a footfall or the voice of someone coming down Catalpa Avenue. He would look up, almost seeing Rufus in whatever person or group of people came sauntering down the street, but none of them was ever Rufus.
Of course not. Rufus is dead. You should just go home. Put on the news. Maybe they’ll release his name.
It didn’t matter. The hope renewed itself each time a new person appeared within his range of vision. Wren was unshakable in his optimism, in his hope that, if he just waited long enough, did the time, he would be rewarded.
Rufus would appear.
As the lilac light turned slowly into dark and the dull yellow light of sodium vapor streetlights illuminated the shadows, Wren finally was weary. His throat was raw from having smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes, and he felt weak from having worked all day and not having eaten much of anything during all that time. He was finally ready to accept that Rufus was not going to show up. He could only hope his absence was due to any number of factors besides being murdered.
Just thinking that word, murder, made Wren shiver in spite of the heat.
He stood, brushing ash from his jeans and wondering which would be better transport home—the “L” or the bus. It didn’t really matter much, because he was suddenly so exhausted from worry and waiting that he knew he would fall asleep as soon as his head connected with the window glass of either mode of transport.
He took a few steps forward and was stunned by a blast of cold air hitting him from the east. He could smell the lake in the wind. The blast was followed by a low rumble of thunder and a flash of blue-white light in the sky.
A storm was on its way. Perfect. Wren decided on the “L,” because it would get him closer to his front door should there be a torrential downpour.
The wind blew again, surprisingly cold, lifting Wren’s hair from his forehead. It felt good. Refreshing.
But the sharp flash of light and the peal of thunder that followed the gust this time were obviously much closer. Wren could smell ozone and the hint of coming rain now on the air, which was flipping over the catalpa leaves above his head.
A heavy droplet of water, icy, hit the top of his head.
Another flash of lightning, and in it Wren saw Rufus hurrying down the street. At first he told himself it was wishful thinking once more conjuring up what was right before his eyes. This had to be another young man, one lucky enough to possess Rufus’s lanky good looks and grace.
Wren stood stock-still in the wind, the droplets coming faster now, and stared. He brushed water from his eyes.
It was Rufus. Wren knew it in his heart the moment he laid eyes on him, knowing him first from his cocky, hurried gait and then by the features that were distinctly his as he sped toward him, presumably to beat the rain.
Wren, in spite of the chill in the air and the threat of an imminent storm, quivered a bit as joy surged through him.
It’s him! It’s him! And he’s alive.
Wren wanted to act out some romantic movie fantasy and run to Rufus, arms outstretched. But he had enough restraint to know how absurd that would look and how Rufus would most likely view it.
Wren could tell that Rufus had not yet seen him, and it was hard to wait patiently for him to make his way close enough so Wren could speak to him and be heard over the wind and rumbles of thunder, which were now coming with increasing frequency.
Then, about half a block away, Rufus stopped, eyeing him. Their gazes connected, and Wren was afraid for a moment Rufus would turn away, walk or run quickly in the other direction, pretending he hadn’t seen Wren.
But he didn’t.
Rufus smiled, and his face lit up with what Wren would describe as a small fraction of the delight and relief coursing through him, energizing him. The smile made Wren want to cry.