And yet, like a mama bird watching her baby fly the nest, I was sad because once he came out, he spread his wings, leaving me further and further behind. Yes, he loved me with all his heart, but when you hide yourself from the world for the first part of your life, the liberation given by coming out is heady.
Reggie took advantage. I heard from him less and less and tried not to begrudge him his freedom, his new life. I began taking English and journalism classes at the Kent State branch campus across the river from us.
When I say I heard less and less from him, it wasn’t a complaint. It was simply reality. The same reality most parents face when their children leave the nest, especially when those children are in their late teens and early twenties.
When Reggie and I did reconnect, it was blissful—on both sides. Holidays were always filled with joy, hugs, and laughter.
Mom and I made it out to Chicago at least once a year to visit him on campus. Reggie never cared that we looked like we came from a trailer in the Appalachians. He introduced us to all of his friends, the sons and daughters of doctors, lawyers and, as the song goes, business executives. He knew how much we gave to him.
He was proud of us, despite our humble background.
Yet he never realized how much, how very much, his light, his joy, his zest for life, meant to us.
He took us around to Boystown and the bars on Halsted Street. Those were happy times—we always felt welcome, whether we were in what Reggie called a bear bar, or a twink bar, or even a scary leather bar.
Reggie seemed to know everyone!
Yes, he was a portrait entitledLife of the Party.
All too soon, that party came crashing down around him, as he let his grades slip a little, then a lot, as he became more and more involved with the scene. His drinking and use of cocaine changed him, turning him into someone I didn’t know. He became a selfish, hedonistic, and yes, I’ll say it, whore.
He seemed to care about nothing except getting high and getting laid. A monster had gotten him in its grip. Or at least that’s how I liked to think of it—because, that way, he wasn’t responsible.
His calls to me petered out and then stopped. He rarely returned a call or an email. I worried, probably more than my mother did.
“He’s just young and sewing those wild oats. He’ll be just fine; you’ll see.”
I wish I shared her optimism, but I couldn’t stop the relentless movie in my head of overdoses, car crashes, and muggings.
He had to drop out of DePaul his junior year. It was a case of drop out or be kicked out. My heart was broken. Despair and disappointment.
He stayed in Chicago, though, drifting from man to man, from couch to couch. I barely spoke to him for over a year.
And perhaps his death would have been even sooner if he hadn’t met up with the man I would once think of as his savior—Joshua Kade.
*
When the intercom sounded from downstairs, I jolted, startled. I clicked off the podcast, set my phone down, and pressed the button to admit Josh. Or at least I hoped it was Josh. He was due to arrive at five to help me make dinner for a couple we’d met over the weekend at Big Chicks, our favorite bar because of its relaxed, non-cruisy vibe and the incredible artwork that graced its walls.
Since it was nearing when he was supposed to arrive, I was confident Josh waited downstairs. I darted on to my balcony and looked down at the street. The leaves lining it were ablaze with color and there was a dewy feel to the air. The sky was leaden gray. I leaned over and waved, and then came back inside.
I listened for footsteps up the staircase and opened the door when he was on the landing.
“Hey there,” I smiled and opened the door wider, stepping back to let him in. He looked so handsome in his simple white button-down, faded jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots. I felt a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. His dark hair was still a little damp from the shower. He smelled of soap and aftershave.Is the heat from lust or from guilt at what you were just listening to?
I was dying to know how Josh would figure in this episode. I was dying to hear the rest, how Josh was, ironically, the savior of the man who was later murdered. A second twinge of guilt rose up as I remembered I’d promised Josh I wouldn’t listen to the podcast. I thought it was a bit of an odd request, overkill, but I complied—at least in words.
Of course, I’d never mentioned I’d met with Bailey Anderson, aka Karl. And I wasn’t about to tell him about our three or four meetings since our initial one at the Billy Goat. It wasn’t because I had something to hide—all we did was meet up for breakfast or lunch, or a walk by the river, and talk. We didn’t even discuss much about the case, simply about our lives and work. If Josh came up, it was only because Karl wondered howthings were going. I suspect he would have liked hearing things weren’t going well, for a multitude of reasons, but I never gave into the temptation to share our problems as a couple. It was bad enough I was ‘seeing’ this guy behind Josh’s back, I didn’t need to compound the betrayal by using him as a sounding board for relationship problems. I’m not sure our relationship would have continued if he discovered my innocent, but very loaded, relationship with Karl Baker.
I was glad Karl was true to his word about keeping our conversations to himself—so far.
Josh handed me a couple bottles of wine, a pinot grigio and a cabernet. “I wasn’t sure what to get.” He grinned sheepishly, meeting my gaze as he headed for the living room. “I forgot what you said you were making.”
“Roast chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, a big salad.” I’d never been much of a cook, but my roast chicken game was strong. I made it every time I had someone new over for dinner. “So the white will be nice. I have some chardonnay in the fridge, too, so we’re good.”
“What time are they coming again?” Josh plopped down on my couch.
“Seven, so no rush. We have time to relax a bit.”
