Innuendo (25 page)

Jordy looked up and saw some guy with a rough, bearded face staring down at him. Oh, God, was that him, the guy who'd been watching him from across the street? No, he didn't think so, but whoever he was, this guy was a major creep too. He wore a black leather vest and tight black leather pants, the crotch of which looked like it had been stuffed with a week's worth of socks. Fuck, what a pig. Why were these older guys always hitting on him? Was it because his face was so boyish, because his tall body was so reedlike?

“You're going to catch cold sitting out here, kid. Come on inside and I'll buy you another cup of coffee.”

Well… well, maybe, thought Jordy. Maybe the guy was just being nice. Maybe he really wanted to help. He wasn't that bad, actually. His voice was gentle enough, the eyes likewise sweet. And it was going to rain. But then Jordy remembered exactly what happened to Andrew, and he shook his head and looked away. No fucking way.

“No thanks.”

“You sure? It's fixing to rain. You're gonna get soaked out here, you know.”

“I said no, so just leave me alone, alright?”

With that the guy turned toward the door, saying, “Hey, listen, you little shit, I was only trying to be nice.”

Under his breath, Jordy muttered, “Yeah, right.”

Jordy raised his cup, downed the last bit of now completely cold coffee, then turned and looked down the dark empty street. That car was still parked there, but what about the guy? Was he still behind the wheel? At first Jordy couldn't tell, but then a dark shadow moved inside the vehicle. Yes, he was sitting there. And he was looking right this way.

Jordy just had to get the fuck out of here. Not just this place, not simply this stupid coffee shop, but The Cities. He wished he could do it all over again, these past few months. He wished he'd never left home, and the next moment he was on his feet, pinning his old wool coat shut with one hand. He didn't have a car. He didn't have a bike. And he didn't even have enough money to spend on a bus, which at this hour would be a long wait, anyway. It was going to take, he knew, at least forty minutes for him to walk, which meant it would be after one in the morning by the time he got back to that shithole of an apartment he shared with all those kids. He wondered how many would be sacked out there tonight, four or five, or ten or twelve. At least no one had better be in his bed, that was for fucking sure.

Heading south on LaSalle Avenue, he saw the sky again throb with lightning, and he wondered if he would in fact make it home before the storm hit. Picking up his pace, his straight, long hair bounced with each of his strides. He was a beanpole of a kid, slightly over six feet tall with a frame that desperately needed another thirty or so pounds. Or at least that was what Andrew always said. Andrew, who promised to take Jordy to the gym and help him work out, pump some iron. Right, Andrew, who had promised so many things, namely that they'd always be together.

“We'll get those arms all beefed up, you'll see,” Andrew had once said, lying naked in bed next to him and squeezing Jordy's twiggy arms. “We'll go work out every day, and you'll see, you'll get some muscle.”

Yeah, sure. And someday we'll actually cross the Minnesota border, which neither of them had ever done. Forget the Dakotas, forget Iowa. Chicago, that was Andrew's big dream.

“I hear they have some rocking dance places down there.”

“Yeah, sure they do. I've heard all about ’em. They're supposed to be incredible, but how the hell would we get in? Anyone who takes one look at me knows I'm underage.”

“I don't know, we'll get some fake IDs or something.”

A stream of cars whooshed past Jordy, and tears came again to his eyes. He was such a sissy, he knew, but he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop crying. Beautiful Andrew. His beautiful Andrew. Dead, his throat slit. He bit his lip, tried to force the image out of his mind. Why? Why the fuck why?

Suddenly he sensed a car slowing. He glanced back, saw a brown Ford Explorer come to a crawl by his side, and then everything inside him went tense. Was this the guy he'd seen parked down the street from the cafe? The next moment the passenger window slowly descended with a deep electric hum. Jordy looked in, saw a heavy man with gray hair behind the wheel. He was wearing a white shirt and a fancy suit. And he was rubbing his crotch nice and slow.

“It's awfully late,” he said, his voice all deep and lusty. “You need a lift, kid? I'll take you wherever you want to go. You want to get in?”

“No,” snapped Jordy as he kept walking.

“How about fifty bucks? You need that? I bet you do, don't you? How about fifty, will that do?”

With glaring eyes, Jordy looked into the truck, saw the guy reach into his suit coat and pull out his wallet. In the light from a nearby lamppost he also saw the glint of gold on his left ring finger.

“Fuck you, you old fart!” shouted Jordy, who then honkered up a good wad and spit it through the window onto the guy's fat thigh. “Why don't you go home to the suburbs and fuck your stupid wife, huh? Why the fuck are you out here looking for cock?”

The guy stomped on the gas, and the vehicle flew away, but not before Jordy was able to kick the side door. And as the stranger hightailed it, Jordy wondered just who he was, really some married suburban creep or an undercover cop hoping for a bust. The cops were doing that, they were, going after kids. He'd heard all about it. Just last week the whole DQ had been buzzing because some kid had gotten scooped up by the cops for hustling. Well, Jordy had never done it, sold himself, and he never would. All he wanted was…

Shit, but Andrew was gone.

From somewhere back along the street he heard a car door slam, and Jordy turned, scanned the parked cars, the empty sidewalk. It was a little late and this neighborhood wasn't the best, that was for sure. He heard footsteps but couldn't see anyone. Looking at the tall redbrick apartment buildings that were packed in right up to the sidewalk, he saw maybe three or four lights on.

Clenching his arms around his chest, he hurried on, crossing onto a bridge that led over the freeway. The wind was stronger here, the chill more biting, and he looked over the edge, saw the anonymous cars hurling along at insane speeds. It crossed his mind that the guy in the Ford Explorer might circle around and come after him—this time no longer offering money—and so he glanced over his shoulder. He saw headlights barreling down on him, but they were from a small car, he could see that right away. There was something else, though. Or rather someone else—just a half-block back a figure was hurrying along the sidewalk as well. Some guy, that was all he could really tell. Where the hell, wondered Jordy, had he come from?

Walking still faster, Jordy pushed on. Out of nowhere a sprinkle of rain came, spraying chilly water across his face. Shit, he realized, the storm was going to come sooner than he thought. Just a couple of seconds later the sprinkle turned into a steady rain, and Jordy pinched his collar shut, bowed his head even more, and broke into a quick trot. Scurrying across the bridge, he glanced back, saw the dark figure behind him break into a run as well. Holy shit, he thought. He's following me. It's probably the same guy who'd been watching back at the cafe, and it very well might be the same guy who got Andrew. And now he's going to do it, he's going to get me too.

There was a crack of lightning and an almost instant explosion of thunder, and Jordy started running as fast as he could. As if a single huge switch had been flicked on, the rain came down in sheets, now falling so hard that Jordy could barely see the other end of the bridge. But then what? Where would he go from there, how would he get away? Maybe there was a bar up there. Or a grocery store. Just someplace that was open that he could duck into.

He glanced over the bridge, saw the freeway traffic below now crawling along through the storm. Wiping the water from his brow, he checked over his shoulder yet again. Oh, shit, the guy was gaining on him! What if he didn't just have a knife? What if he had a gun? Oh, God, thought Jordy, now running as hard as he could. Why had he ever left home? Why had he ever run away? He just wanted to be back there, back with his parents and his brother and their dog. He'd never do it again, never have sex with another guy, never get in trouble, if only he could get back home. Please, God! Please, just don't let this guy get me too!

Reaching the far end of the bridge, he looked up the street, but through the pouring rain all he could see were apartment buildings and some big old houses, all of them dark and lifeless. There were no businesses, not as far as he could see, no public place he could duck into. No, those were all on Nicollet and this was LaSalle. Looking back, he saw the guy charging through the rain right at him. Oh, shit, Jordy was never going to be able to outrun this guy, never. He climbed up on the railing of the bridge, saw the steep bank and the edge of the freeway below. There were cars down there and people. He could slide all the way down. Someone would stop. Someone would help.

Only ten or fifteen feet away now, the stranger started shouting, yelling, “Hey!”

Through the pouring rain Jordy glanced back, thought he recognized him, and cried, “You're not going to get me too!”

But then the man was upon him, and the next moment Jordy was tumbling head over foot down the steep hill and into the busy stream of traffic below.

Way in the distance
and far to the east, Martha Lyman saw the late night sky spark and snap with a bravado show of lightning. Not just one or two pops, but a bunch of them, one right after the other. Yes, she thought, leaning on the fence behind her house and gazing across their farm at the huge storm, someplace was getting hammered. Someplace like The Cities. And Andy, her Andy, was up there beneath that storm, his body covered by a white sheet and stored in some refrigerator.

She couldn't sleep, not with the image of her dead son burned into her mind. In fact, she wondered if she'd ever be able to sleep again. How could she? How could she when all she could see whenever she closed her eyes was the ashen face of her boy? Oh, Andy. He was never that pale, not her baby. He used to be so tan from being outside, from working the fields. His skin was so rich and healthy-looking, his hair so golden blond. What a handsome boy. Her pride. Often she just looked at him, marveled at his strength and his beauty and his youth, and she'd think: Good God, did such a handsome boy come out of me? Did I really make him?

She was glad she went up there today, glad she drove all the way up to The Cities. She had to see him one more time, especially before they hacked him apart. Just hours after she'd left they were supposed to have started the autopsy, cracking his chest wide open, pulling his insides out and slipping all that mess into plastic bags. The very thought of it was more than she could bear, butchering her boy up like he was a side of beef. She asked them not to, pleaded with the detective to leave her boy alone, that he was dead and nothing was bringing him back, but he told her that he had no choice. It was the law. An autopsy was required when someone died of unnatural causes. Good Lord, what a final indignity, being split open by some total stranger.

Aside from the lights that continued to pound in the distant sky, Martha saw headlights way down the road and coming this way. Was it him? Was her husband finally coming back? It had to be going on two or three. Two or three in the morning, and she was still the only one home.

After she'd been at the morgue, she'd been interviewed by the police. But after that Martha really wasn't sure what she'd done. Somehow she got into the skyway system downtown and just started rambling around the indoor system of walkways and pedestrian bridges. Eventually she'd found her car. And then she'd just started driving. It had taken her hours to get home, and when she did there was no one here, neither her daughters nor her husband. Only a simple note.

Martha—

I've taken the girls to their grandmother's for the night. I'll be back later, I don't know when.

John

So was this him, was that his truck now speeding this way? Her eyes, dazed and achingly tired, focused on the vehicle, watched it as it flew across the flat terrain that stretched nearly as far as the eye could see. But it didn't slow as it neared their farm. Rather, as if she and her life hadn't ever existed, it just went flying right on by, disappearing into the depth of the night.

When she'd come home to no one Martha had in one simple moment realized that the life she had known would never exist again, that it was gone forever. She'd picked up the note and understood that her husband could have been and probably had been gone all day. He hadn't put a time when he'd left, nor had he said when he'd be back. And looking around the farm, she saw that nothing had been done. The tractor was just where it had been this morning, over by the metal pole barn. There had been no more tilling, no more bailing. She'd looked around, calmly taken it all in, and it just came to her, easily and simply: I want a divorce.

Yes, she thought hanging on to the white fence, that was going to be the fallout from all this, the complete and utter dissolution of their little family. It wasn't Andy's fault, not at all, but the trauma of coming to terms with his being gay and running away had forced upon them a test of greater magnitude than she could ever have imagined. Sure, it was a test they might not ever have faced, and certainly one they need not have taken. And if they hadn't, they probably would have just marched on, working the farm, raising their kids, and growing old together. Or maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a test at all. Maybe all of these travails had simply shone a light on the truths she had previously chosen not to see. Whatever. Without all of this, though, she doubted anything would have changed. But instead everything had, most definitely so, especially now with young Andy's death. It was just kind of one of those before and after things. Tonight she saw everything quite clearly, just who her husband was to her, what role he really played in her life, how much she could or couldn't depend upon him. And she understood that all of this was a storm too great for them to handle, that this was something from which their marriage could not and would never recover.