This is the first of an eight part series to be published weekly. It blends the Mystery, Psychological Thriller and Romance genres. Please enjoy!
Present Day - 2021
As we cross the street to Starbucks, I tell Leya, “I didn’t think this through. He’s probably already in there waiting. What if it’s crowded?” I scowl at the door like it’s to blame for the shitshow that is about to become of my afternoon. “You have to sit right behind us for this to work.”
She puts a hand on my arm. “Take a breath, Brock. We’ll figure it out. Remember, it’s Superbowl Sunday. People are at parties eating bean dip. Starbucks won’t be the town hotspot right now.” She takes her hand back and steps ahead of me, “I’ll go in first, place my order and get situated.”
I hang back so it doesn’t look like we’re together. I almost forgot about the Superbowl; I’ve had other things on my mind – William Jones. We were friends for the first eighteen years of our lives. And then we weren’t. I’ve seen him exactly four times since that day over three decades ago. Four times: a sentencing hearing – Warren Lewis’s sentencing for the murder of my mother – and three funerals. If it wasn’t for that damn letter, I wouldn’t be on this sidewalk right now, peering through the Starbucks window, seconds away from meeting number five.
Two days ago, I received a letter from Warren Lewis’s new lawyers requesting my presence at their office. Apparently, this law firm does not believe in the criminal justice system because they are endeavoring to free a man convicted of murder by a jury of his peers. William and I were the two eyewitnesses at the original trial back in 1990. William received the same letter I did and it was he who texted me, demanding today’s unholy reunion. I wanted to ignore his text, like usual, but he claimed to know details that I don’t. He used the right words and pushed the right buttons, so I had no choice. Here I am.
Looking through the glass I see that William is in fact already seated, nursing a venti-sized something or other. The Starbucks Gods are on my side because the table behind him is miraculously free. I let out a sigh of relief as Leya settles in with a beverage in one hand and her cell phone in the other. I pull the door open and a woosh practically sucks me inside where I’m assaulted by the intense aromas of too many coffees.
I hate coffee.
I buy a bottle of water before tentatively dropping into the seat across from him. I meet William’s eye. This is the first time I’ve been one-on-one with William Jones since November 10th, 1989.
William and I find ourselves at Fox Bowl. It’s Friday night so the place is teeming with beer-drinking assholes who are taking this whole thing way too seriously. Like they’re actual athletes playing a real sport.
Dumb-asses.
Whatever. To us it’s just a real-life video game.
The guy behind the counter, I’ve decided his name is Shoe Dude, asks us what sizes we each need. We both tell him ten-and-a-half. Friends since birth, William and I have always been about the same height. I guess we wear the same size shoes too. Shoe Dude doesn’t move. He waits expectantly for us to hand him one sneaker each. This is when I remember that I wore my favorite high-tops today. Shit. I should have changed into my Adidas before we left. It’s totally bogus having to leave one of my expensive Air Jardans with Random Shoe Dude.
William points to my cherished sneaker on the counter. “Um... You’ve only worn those a few times ever. Why’d you wear them here?”
I shrug, “Because I’m a moron.”
“Obviously.”
I give him a shove.
“This whole process is ridiculous. Like there’s any danger of anyone wanting to steal these.” He holds up his shabby tan, red and green faux-leather rentals with an underlined “10” on the heel.
I laugh. He’s right, but there’s no point in arguing a system I can’t change. It’ll be fine. Shoe Dude is here to make sure it’s fine. It’s his job to trade worn and tattered street shoes for worn and tattered rented shoes all day long. My sneaker, though special and immaculate, is just another face in the crowd to him. I could have handed Shoe Dude a solid gold brick instead of a sneaker and his glassy, dead-eyed stare wouldn’t have registered the difference. He just wants to make it through to the end of his shift without killing himself. Or someone else.
We bowl two games. I win the first 152 to 143. The second game is just two eighteen-year-old boys screwing around and having fun. With exaggerated hooks and stupid approaches, it ends up more like a game of HORSE than anything else; each turn more ridiculous than the last. We don’t even keep score, we just laugh and high-five like idiots, drawing disapproving looks from the adults in the surrounding lanes. We ignore them. Like they weren’t kids once upon a time, even if it was a hundred years ago.
Back at the rental counter, we return our bowling shoes and Shoe Dude crinkles his nose. He attacks them with deodorizing spray like he’s killing an onslaught of roaches with a can of Raid. As if they’re radioactive, he barely touches them with his fingertips, holding them at full arm’s length as he swaps back our street kicks. This guy loves his work. He probably has a secret foot fetish. I bet his day job is at a full-service shoe store. Or maybe he’s in school studying to become a podiatrist.
After safely reclaiming my prized and precious high-top, we decide on a game of air hockey. William beats me easily. I tell him that it wasn’t fair; that I had to play uphill and against the wind. He gives me a shove and we both laugh. We’re still laughing in the parking lot all the way to my car until I turn my key in the ignition and the laughter stops.
We’re assaulted by the most awful song ever written and recorded in the history of sound – Wind Beneath My Wings. It’s ear rape. I punch at my radio, jabbing and prodding any and all buttons as fast as I can because even five seconds of that heinous, putrid song causes me actual physical pain and I want to ralph. I land on She Drives Me Crazy and leave it. Literally anything else will do.
William watches in amusement, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “You want me to switch it back? I can take it if you can take it.”
He grins, “No one wins in that game of chicken from hell.”
“Good answer.” I turn to William. “How about a detour?”
Present Day
I haven’t seen him since Laura’s memorial service. In the two years since, I’ve transformed myself. Over the post-high school years, I had gained about thirty-five pounds. Now I’ve lost all of them. I accomplished this by taking up running and cutting out sugar and carbs. William, after high school, lost twenty pounds that didn’t need losing. He accomplished that by struggling with depression and addiction. Supposedly he’s been clean for over ten years now, but despite his baggy, oversized coat, I can tell that he’s still too skinny. An unhealthy skinny. With gaunt, skeletal features and sunken eyes, he looks unwell and probably doesn’t top 120 on the scale. For a 5’ 11” adult male, that’s almost dangerously underweight.
He doesn’t appear to be high, but I’m no expert. His brown eyes do not sparkle with life. His mousey hair is messy but clean. He looks exactly the same as he did two years ago, so I choose to take this as a good sign.
I indicate the phone in my hand. “If I get a call or text from my son, I’ll have to take it.”
William shrugs, “Whatever.”
What’s with the cold indifference? That’s my role in our almost nonexistent relationship. Maybe we just need to start talking. I consider asking him who he likes in the Superbowl. No. The William I used to know didn’t give a shit about sports. He probably doesn’t even know who’s in it. And I’ve always been more a baseball/basketball kind of a guy. He probably remembers that about me.
He probably remembers everything about me.
Maybe I shouldn’t bother trying to figure out how to break the ice. To hell with the ice. He’s the one who pushed for this tete-a-tete. I decide to just wait him out. There’s no way I’m going first.
He meets my eye for just a moment but he can’t hold it. He drops his gaze down to the cup in front of him. Eventually he says, “My life’s been shit.”
That was not the opener I was expecting. I actually don’t know what I expected, but this hits me like a fist.
Is he accusing me? Blaming me?
I take a pull on my water and I don’t reply.
“Just in case you didn’t know, I lost a lot that night too.” His lip quivers and his voice quakes. “Actually, I lost everything that night.”
One of the things I like most about William is that he’s usually up for anything. He’s a pleaser. My other friends…not so much. With Laura, Charlie and Abbi, it’s hard for the four of us to all agree on anything. I’ve been dying to go see Laser Floyd at Triton College, but no one would go with me. The Dark Side of the Moon is totally rad. Add in the light show and you’ve got anything MTV has to offer beat by a mile. Tonight with William is an opportunity. It’s only twenty minutes away and tickets are cheap. There’s a 9:00 show and William says he’s up for it.
Triton College is in River Grove and they have this cool planetarium-like building on their almost intimidatingly modern campus. I can’t believe that by this time next year I’ll be on a campus just like this every day. It seems so grown-up. So not high school.
We arrive just before 9:00 and manage to get two of the last tickets. The audience is mostly college kids, but we just kind of blend in. The seats are super close together and awkwardly reclined because the vaulted ceiling is actually a projection screen. William’s left knee is touching my right.
I angle away.
The sold-out room darkens and the opening notes of Speak to Me fill the domed theater. We sit/lay there and watch the show as the classic songs I know so well are brought to visual life. It’s about 9:45 when Eclipse ends and the house lights come back on.
As we walk across the parking lot, William says, “That was totally awesome.”
The poet in me replies, “No duh.”
We make it back to my car and I start driving home. Halfway back to my house, William turns to face me and says, “Pull over somewhere. I want to show you something.”
Present Day
This isn’t good. His text said we need to talk about the investigation and the trial. I feel like he’s dangerously close to revisiting territory that I refuse to revisit. I should get up and walk out. Half of me desperately wants to do just that. The other half needs to know what he has to say.
I prompt him with a reluctant sigh, “Your text said you know things about Warren Lewis.”
“We haven’t been alone together in over three decades, Brock. There’s no rush, is there?” His lilting voice is teasing and his phony smile is ugly.
What is happening? Did he lure me here with a lie? Maybe he’s just using these letters as an excuse to unload his shit on me. I can hardly handle my own shit. I can’t take his too. Rationally, I know that I’m not the only casualty of that night, but I’m also sick of all the “innocent victim” crap. I’m thinking that the time for self-reliance is long overdue. He’s a grown man. How about some personal accountability for the tragedy that is his life?
I stand up. Remembering we’re in a public place, I keep my voice low and bite back the words I really want to say. I tell him, “I’m out,” and I turn to leave.
“Brock, wait. Please.” He gestures to my empty chair.
I stop and look at him. He holds my eye this time and I think maybe he’s ready to do this. I sit back down.
He says, “Remember when we were driving back to your house after the Laser Floyd show? Remember how I asked you to pull over somewhere. Somewhere private? Alone?”
William says, “Pull over somewhere. I want to show you something. Somewhere quiet.”
We’re driving west on Roosevelt Road. I pull into an empty parking lot next to an abandoned building. The seafoam-green swirly roof looks like the top of a soft serve ice cream cone, but I think it was most recently a carpet store. Even though the lot is deserted, I center us perfectly in a parking space. I yank up the parking brake and turn to him.
“What’s the point of stick shift?” he asks.
“That’s totally random.”
My car is a 1986, Nissan Sentra 5 speed manual transmission. I count off on my fingers, “Better gas mileage, more control over the car, active engagement with the driving so you’re less likely to be distracted—”
“Okay, okay. I just thought that you thought you looked cool shifting.”
“Duh.”
He laughs, “Not even.”
He seems oddly nervous. He leans back in his seat and lifts at his shirt to give himself access to the front pocket of his jeans. When he does this, I see a flash of bare stomach. I force my eyes to look away. He pulls out a small plastic packet of white powder, holds it with two fingers and waggles it between us. “Do you wanna try something new?”
Present Day
I look at him and pause for a long moment. “How could I forget?”
“You never asked me where I got it from. I was a shy, quiet eighteen-year-old kid. Where would I get it? I had no job and no money. I had no ‘connections’. I wasn’t a user or an addict – yet. I didn’t have a dealer. Where did I get the cocaine?”
It’s true. I never asked where the drugs came from. Honestly, I never even wondered. With how that night would later end, such details were left long forgotten and irrelevant. But I do remember that moment. Like it was captured on a video that I watched over and over again. Lovesong by The Cure was quietly playing on my car’s radio. Even quieter was the ticking sound of my keys as they swayed, hanging from the ignition, in almost perfect rhythm to the music. We sat there in that dark, deserted parking lot by that stupid seafoam-green swirly-roofed building.
William continues, “I was still a drug virgin. That was the truth. I’d never done drugs of any kind before and I thought it would be safer to have my first time be with a friend. My only friend. But you freaked out.”
William asks, “Wanna try something new?”
My mouth drops open. I’m in shock. I’ve never even smoked pot before – hell, I’d never even tried a cigarette – not to mention done coke, crack, blow…whatever you wanna call it. I have no desire to either. That’s not my thing and it never will be. Looking at that little packet, dangling from his fingers, I can’t even believe that I’m this close to something so scary, so alien, so wrong, so illegal.
I don’t want it in my sight. I don’t want it in my car.
I’m freaking out on the inside, but acting with as much fake-calm as I can muster, I unbuckle my seatbelt and I take it. I look at the white powder for a few seconds, then whip my door open and bolt. I run in a random direction and stumble upon a storm drain. I bend down and drop the evil thing to its permanent death.
William hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting there; his face buried in his hands. I get back in my once-again drugfree car and slam the door closed. “What the fuck William!”
He looks up at me, his beet-red face crumbles and suddenly he’s crying. “I’m sorry. I’ve never done drugs before. I swear.” He sobs and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “But I’ve thought about it. You know, tonight? Everything we’ve done? The pizza, the bowling, the laser show…it’s the most fun I’ve had since… I don’t even know. Most of the time, I’m just alone.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. The best I can do is listen. Keep him talking. I put a hand on his knee and the contact seems to encourage him.
“How often do we get together? A couple times a month? If I’m lucky? If I weren’t here tonight, you’d be doing all these things with your real friends. To me, you’re my only friend. To you, I’m hardly even a friend.”
I squeeze his knee gently, “That’s totally bogus. You know we’re friends.”
He scoffs and sniffs back a wad of snot. “Yeah, right. I’m not dumb and I’m not blind.” He looks up at me. “It’s okay. I get it. Our moms are friends and you’re like forced to spend this time with me. It’s been that way our whole lives. I’m not your friend, I’m your obligation. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.”
This boy sitting next to me is so fragile and vulnerable right now. I’ve known him forever, but I’ve never seen him like this before. I wish I had a box of Kleenex in my car. He really could use a tissue.
I move my hand from his knee to his shoulder. “I’m not gonna pretend that you’re my best friend. Some of what you said is true, but not all of it. You are a real friend. You’re my oldest friend. I’ve known you longer than anyone else – my whole life. And I totally had an awesome time tonight. I’ll tell you the truth, none of my ‘best friends’ would go with me to the laser show. They all thought it would bite.” I squeeze his shoulder, “I like hanging out with you.”
Present Day
I calmly say, “I didn’t ‘freak out’. I got rid of the cocaine. I didn’t want anything to do with it. I didn’t want it near either of us. I didn’t want it in my car.” I clear my throat. “So, where did the drugs come from?”
“Remember how close I was to my sister?”
I hate it when people answer a question with a question and this one in particular throws me. “What does the coke have to do with what happened that night? Or with Warren Lewis? And what does any of this have to do with your sister, Maureen?”
My phone buzzes. I look at my screen and discretely read Leya’s text: “Answer his questions. Keep it a conversation. Keep him talking.”
William had been studying the veins on his bony hands and didn’t even notice my distraction. He continues, “She was the only other person I had. She loved me. She cared about me. We were a team. Back in May of 1989, she graduated from high school and was getting ready to leave for college in a few months.” He pauses and takes a sip of his drink.
I still don’t know where any of this is going. Why is his story moving us back in time to May instead of forward? I guess I’m just going to have to let him tell his narrative at his own pace. Plus, I don’t want another reprimand from Leya.
“Something changed with her, Brock, and she disappeared from our lives long before she physically left for school. She had started seeing some guy; I even met him once. He was older. But then, one day, she locked herself in her bedroom and wouldn’t come out all summer. That August, she left for college and never came back. Not for breaks, not for anything. The day she left for Portland – she went to the University of Southern Maine – she didn’t even say goodbye. One day, she was just gone. My uncle, my mom’s brother, lives there. That’s where Maureen spent her breaks. I hardly ever saw her for the whole rest of her life. It was around this same time that my mom began to flake out. She quit her job and took up a second residence in Maine with my uncle and Maureen. I never knew why. Even when Mom was home, it was like she was there, but not really. I was the youngest in my family and nobody told me shit about what was going on.”
I remember that Maureen did pretty much vanish, almost like she no longer existed. And his mother too, which was really weird. Why would a mother go off to college with her daughter and leave her husband and younger kid behind? I never knew why and I never asked. I wasn’t family. It wasn’t my business or my place.
Or maybe I just sucked as a friend.
He resumes, “So, Maureen starts seeing this guy in May, around the same time you and Laura started dating. You, Charlie, Laura and Abbi had already been a tight crew for years, but when you and Laura started dating, you had even less time for me.” He drops his eyes to the table again. “I sound like such a pussy. But that’s what my life was. My sister and you were my only two friends. I lost her and I was losing you too.”
I shift uneasily in my seat. Am I supposed to feel guilty about living my life? People grow and change and move on. I look at William sitting across from me. He hasn’t done any of those things. He’s like a middle-aged teenager.
“I actually don’t know how my dad managed it. His daughter just disappeared on him, his wife was shutting down and his son was slipping into a depression. And while he never sent me to therapy, he did get our family doctor to prescribe Fluoxetine for me.”
He sees the confused look on my face and says, “Prozac. It hadn’t been around long at that time, but it became popular, fast.”
William was taking Prozac?
“So that afternoon in November, after school, the guy Maureen had dated back in May, who I’d only met once like six months earlier… He was waiting for me outside the school. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He asked me how I was doing, about my classes and he asked about Maureen. I didn’t have much to say about her though. I just didn’t know anything. He smiled and said that was okay. I might not have had anything for him, but he had something for me. He’s the one who gave me the cocaine. And his name was Warren Lewis.”
We go to Kappy’s, a twenty-four-hour diner on Roosevelt Road. It’s like Denny’s, but way better. I feel like we’re both jonesing for a sugar fix. Comfort food. William orders a piece of apple pie and a large vanilla shake while I have a slice of banana cream and a glass of chocolate milk.
I’ve been trying to convince him that I am actually his friend and I think I’m finally breaking through. In truth, I’d been pissed about missing out on time with my crew tonight. I’d been “informed” by my mom that William would be sleeping over. That’s not how I’d envisioned kicking off this three-day weekend, but William and I have been having fun, save for the white powder incident in the parking lot.
It’s different than with my other friends, but different can be good…in doses. But that packet of white powder did scare me. Should I tell his dad, who happens to be the chief of police? I’m not a narc. How can I tell his dad without William knowing it came from me? I’m the only one who knows. I guess I’ll decide after seeing how the rest of tonight goes.
The sugar seems to be helping. William is a little more himself. He stabs at a bite of pie and says, “This is decent. I totally needed this.”
I ask him, “Dude, why haven’t you made more friends?”
He frowns.
“No, like, I’m not trying to insult you. I’m actually curious. What I mean is, you’re like smart, funny, nice, an awesome artist, an okay bowler, a better air hockey player and like, you totally need to bag your face, but you’re okay.”
He laughs.
“I’m just saying, you’re a good guy. You should have lots of friends.”
He blushes and takes a big gulp of his shake. “I’m too shy. I don’t give people the chance to get to know me and I don’t try to get to know them.”
“Groups and clubs. It’s a good way to meet people who are into the same things as you. You’re a good singer, you should be in the choir. You’ve been taking Spanish, but you’re not in Spanish Club. You should try out for a play.” I take a bite of pie. “Something like that.”
“It’s a little late, isn’t it? It’s mid-November and we’re seniors.”
“Okay, but college is only nine months away. The truth is, most of the 550 kids in our graduating class are douche bags anyway. High school is full of assholes, but they don’t all go to college. College is a clean slate. You won’t know anybody, but neither will anyone else. Force yourself to join some clubs. Meet people and make friends from the beginning.”
He shrugs, “I guess that make sense.”
“No shit Sherlock.” I ask, “Have you decided on a school yet?”
“Not officially, but I was thinking about Herron School of Art and Design.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a small school in Indianapolis. About 800 students. It’s part of Indiana University. I’m not sure how talented I really am, but I was thinking about studying art therapy. I think it’d be cool to use art to help people. Maybe work with kids.”
I rarely see William genuinely interested in something. I tell him, “That sounds awesome. You know I love your drawings. College will be a whole new world. You’ll be surrounded by cool people just like you. Maybe you’ll even meet someone who will be more than a friend.”
I’m not just trying to make him feel better about himself. I really believe what I’m saying. I can totally see college being where William flourishes. I nudge his sneaker with mine under the table and he smiles again.
Present Day
My jaw drops and I blurt, “Oh my god!”
William says, “Right? You never knew that Warren Lewis dated Maureen or that he was a drug dealer and the one who gave me that coke.”
I’m trying to make sense of what I just heard. So…Warren Lewis wasn’t some aimless addict. He didn’t, by chance, happen upon our house and break in looking to rob us of anything he could pawn off for cash to buy more drugs. That’s the story we had been told by William’s dad – the chief of police.
I say, “If he was a dealer, then he probably wasn’t a user at all. If he met up with you that afternoon, then his showing up at my house later that night, where you happened to be, wasn’t random.”
I think of how Leya said I need to keep it a conversation, but I can’t help myself. I grill him, “How did he know my house? Did you tell him to come over? Did you give him my address? Did you call him?”
William looks away. “No. I didn’t. I think. I mean, I don’t remember.” He exhales a breath and says, “There’s something else you don’t know about that night. The packet of cocaine that you dropped down the storm drain? It wasn’t the only one. Warren gave me two of those.
We had told Mom that we were going bowling. We could have bowled a dozen games each and we would have been back by now. There’s a pay phone in Kappy’s vestibule. I drop in a quarter, call Mom and tell her we’re fine and we’ll be home in an hour.
As we walk back to my car, William asks, “We’re ten minutes from your house. Why an hour?”
Now it’s my turn to ask him, “Do you wanna try something new?” I cock an eyebrow and flash a smile.
Present Day
“What?”
“He gave me two. You dropped one of them down the storm drain but you never knew about the second one. I didn’t think I’d use it. Especially after the talk we had in Kappy’s. But then later…you know…”
I have to look away from him.
“…I changed my mind. I took the coke and I got high. Right in your kitchen while you were sleeping.”
“You used cocaine that night? After everything?”
“What do you mean after everything? Brock, I did it because of everything.” A tear begins to pool in his left eye, “I waited until you fell asleep. That part I remember. I actually don’t remember anything else until after the break-in. After the attack.”
Wow. After everything I said to him that night, he still did the blow. “You testified that you saw Warren Lewis leaving the house. Did you actually see him?”
“I think so.” He plays with an empty packet of sugar. “I mean, I must have. My dad told me that I told him I did, but I’m not sure I remember it. You picked Warren Lewis out of a photo lineup and identified him at the trial. You know he was there, right?”
I think back to my buried memories of that night. What I heard, what I saw, what I felt. I wish I didn’t remember any of it. I yearn for repression. Sadly, my memory is in-tact and the guy who was there matched the photo I picked out of the lineup. That photo was of Warren Lewis.
I say, “Yes, I do. But what about your testimony? You never indicated that you met Warren Lewis six months earlier. That he dated your sister. That he gave you cocaine the day of the murder.” I lean forward in my chair. “Answer my question, William. Did you see him? Or was your testimony a lie?”
“This is what I needed to tell you. I really don’t remember. My dad and I talked through everything that night. We worked on my statement together. He told me that he was able to draw my story out of me while I was still coming down from the high but before I forgot everything.”
The tear escapes and splashes on the table. “Here’s how I always believed things happened. We were in your bedroom and you decided it was time to go to sleep. You drifted off quickly, but I was still too upset about…well, I was upset. I remembered the second baggie of white powder still in the pocket of my jeans, so I quietly got up, got dressed and went down to the kitchen. I gummed some coke and waited for the high to kick in. Things are unclear at this point. I don’t remember the feeling of being high, though I know that I was. But I have no idea how long it lasted. At some point, I headed back upstairs. You were still sleeping. I laid back down and eventually, I fell asleep too. I woke up from noise downstairs. You weren’t in your bed anymore. I went to investigate, and I saw Warren Lewis leaving through the sliding patio door in the kitchen. I found you and your mom both unconscious on the floor. I freaked out, grabbed the phone and called my dad.”
He picks up his cup and sets it back down over the tear splash, “That’s what I always thought happened, but is that just a story?”
“That was your testimony.”
“Because, Brock, that was what my dad told me that I told him.”
My phone buzzes again.
Leya: “Go back to how Warren got to your house.”
“So, what brought Warren Lewis to my house that night? I’d never met him. He didn’t know me. You are the only common denominator there.”
“I wish I had an answer for that. I really don’t know.”
“William, that’s not good enough. According to the letter we both received, his lawyers seem to think there are problems with the evidence and with the eyewitness testimony. The eyewitness testimony part is us. You and me.”
“What I do know is that my dad is the one who told me to leave out everything about the drugs, about having met Warren Lewis and about Maureen. He didn’t want any of that in my initial statement or, months later, in my trial testimony. I remember thinking that was weird. I didn’t understand it. But I was just a kid. He was the chief of police and my dad. He knew best, right?”
He rotates his cup a quarter turn, “All these years, everything seemed so clear in my head. Now, with this letter…I just don’t know anymore. I can’t decipher between what I remember and what I’ve been told.”
Wow. That’s the thing about the truth. The blunt, honest truth can be like a punch in the gut. I stare at William until he meets my gaze.
“I think we need to talk to your dad.
~~
Three days earlier.
Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 4th at 10:01pm:
Hey Brock.
Considering it’s taken me forever to work up the courage to send this message, you’d think I’d be better prepared with what I want to say. Okay, here it goes. The thing is… I like you. I feel like such a fool. Like I’m passing you a note in middle school. “Check this box if the answer is yes.” I’m so embarrassed for the future me. Eventually, when you finally find out who I am, you’ll read this back to me and tease me relentlessly. We’ll laugh.
Hopefully.
I don’t know if you’re ready for something new. Hell, I don’t know if I’m ready. And I don’t want to screw up our friendship. So, what do I do? How do I find out if we could be more than friends? Are we compatible? Do we fit? Do we work? I used to think of myself as a modestly intelligent person. Until now. This was the best I could come up with. A burner phone and anonymous texts like some creepy stalker. Please Brock, do not cower in the shadow of my blinding brilliance.
This is neither junk nor spam. DO NOT DELETE! I AM NOT A ROBOT!
Wait.
Is that what a robot would say if the robot was trying to convince you that it wasn’t a robot? I should have never brought up the robot thing. It might never have even occurred to you. Now I’ve put it in your head and you probably can’t stop thinking: robot, robot, robot. I assure you; I am a real live person in your life. Obviously, I’m not the bravest person you know; I’m hiding behind the anonymity of an unknown number. You know what? Maybe I am a robot. Do robots get embarrassed? They definitely write better texts.
I’ve waited for what feels like an eternity to send this message. I’ve typed and deleted it repeatedly over the course of an embarrassingly long time. Imagine how bad all previous versions were if this is the winner. Have I scared you off yet? You might read this and immediately decide to block me. Who could blame you? But I hope you don’t. Give us this chance. So, what do you think? Do you wanna try something new?
--You’re (hopefully one day not-so-secret) admirer.
Text message from Brock Sanderson to Unknown Contact. February 5th, 7:12am:
I didn’t block you. I read your message thrice, laughing harder each time. I felt like one of my kids, guffawing at something on their phone. Except unlike with them, it wasn’t at some video on YouTube or TikTok that I couldn’t even begin to understand.
Yes, Mystery Admirer Person, I want to try something new. I’m in. So how do we do this?
Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 5th, 7:18am:
Phew. I spent a sleepless night worried that I might have already screwed this up. Thanks for cutting me some slack. (Though now I’m questioning your judgment – JK.)
So, I’ll text you every day. Again, despite my best efforts to convince you otherwise, I’m really not a stalker or a creep. You text me too. Whatever’s on your mind. This is a safe space for anything you’re feeling. Treat me like your private journal. Vent, scream, yell, cry, laugh, wonder, think. Tell me all of it - unfiltered. I’ll have to be more careful. I can’t give away any defining clues. Not yet.
No guessing!
I realize it’s unfair that the anonymity is one-sided but there’s not much I can do about that. I guess I’m making the rules here. For now. And “thrice”? Really? You tossed me that bone to make me feel better. Who talks like that? Now we can poke fun at each other. Of course, I reread my first text only to find a “neither/nor” and TWO semicolons. Shit. I am a robot.
Anyway, I’ll go first. I threw a boomerang once and now I live in constant fear.
So, what’s on your mind?
~~
“I’m fine, really.”
I should have that phrase trademarked. I say it more than any other combination of words. I feel like I own it. It’s my mantra. I say it, I text it, I email it… I should have it printed on a t-shirt or embroidered on a pillow. I’m currently saying it to my friend Shelby at the end of our lunch. We both teach at Glenbard East High School in Lombard, Illinois. She’s the choir director and I teach band and orchestra, so we work in the same department.
Shelby’s a strong “Unknown Contact” candidate. She’s late thirties, single, attractive and quite possibly looking over her shoulder, fearing the violent return of a boomerang.
I attended this high school as a student and now I’ve taught here for over a quarter of a century. If you’re thinking Welcome Back, Kotter – you’re old. And not funny. I was only three when that show debuted and not quite seven when it ended. But, having heard the joke many times, I’ve Googled it and I get the (very dated) reference.
It’s still not funny.
I had already been friends with Jose Flores from the Math Department for a while before Shelby Mayes joined the team twelve years ago. I invited her to sit with us at lunch on her first day and the three of us have been a tight trio of friends ever since.
Sadly, three years ago, Jose jumped ship and took on a professional job in the real world. His son was in his first year of college and despite having earned a presidential scholarship, money was tight. Jose felt he had no choice but to give up his passion – teaching – for a higher salary. What I know is that Jose loved being a math teacher and now he hates being a budget analyst at a major corporation. A year later, he and his wife Angela got divorced. With their kid grown and gone, they just realized that they didn’t know each other anymore. There was no reason to stay.
If Shelby isn’t my Unknown Contact, maybe she and Jose should give things a try. I’m seeing Jose Saturday night because our sons are in town for the weekend. Jose’s son, Sammy, is the same age as my younger son, Kyle. Because of our friendship, Kyle and Sammy had been acquaintances going back to the fifth grade. When they realized that they were both going to the same college, Augustana, their acquaintanceship turned into friendship. Then, two-and-a-half years ago, they progressed from friends to boyfriends. They’re coming home for the weekend and we’re having dinner tomorrow night. Jose will be there. I should invite Shelby.
So, at lunch I say, “It’ll be Kyle, Sammy, my dad, Lydia, Todd, Jessica, Janet, Ritchie, Jose, Angela and me. You could make us an even dozen.”
Todd, Kyle and Sammy all took choir in high school, so Shelby knows those three (from a teacher-student standpoint anyway). Lydia is my dad’s wife, Todd is my older son, Jessica is Todd’s fiancée, Janet is my sister and Ritchie is her husband.
Shelby crinkles her nose, “Angela’s coming?”
I smile, “Well, she is Sammy’s mother.”
“And how do I fit into this gathering? Why do you want me there?”
“We haven’t gotten together in forever. The three of us can hang out after.”
Do I really want my friends Shelby and Jose to become a thing? Do I want Shelby to be my Mystery Admirer? I said I was ready for something new, but am I?
An abundance of questions and a famine of answers.
Shelby puts her hand on mine for a brief moment. “The hanging out later part sounds great, but dinner sounds like a family thing. I’d feel out of place. Text me when it’s over.”
I guess I’m destined to be the odd one out. Everyone else is a couple. Dad and Lydia. Todd and Jessica. Janet and Ritchie. Of course, Kyle and Sammy. Even Jose and Angela, though divorced, are in some weird way still a sort of a couple. And then there’s me. Mr. Alone. Number Eleven.
Shelby, seemingly reading my thoughts and probably my anguished face, says, “Okay, I’ll be there.”
It’s not like there will literally be an empty chair sitting there next to me. Dad will make sure the table is set for eleven. The twelfth chair will be safely stowed away, like a naughty child in a timeout in some dark recess of the house. It’s been two years. Shelby’s a good friend for offering, but I hate being pitied, so I break out my personal catchphrase.
“I’m fine, really. You’re right. We’ll text you after.”
~~
I am a widower.
Two years ago, my wife Laura died in a fatal car accident. A head-on collision with a drunk driver. She was simply driving home from work on a dry, sunny afternoon. Are “died” and “accident” the right words when a drunk piece of shit gets behind the wheel of a mammoth SUV that’s not much lighter than a military-grade tank? “Killed” and “murdered” seem more appropriate. Laura and I were only fourteen when we became friends and sixteen when we began dating. I suppose that meant we’d had decades together. It sounds like a lot, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The second half of her life was stolen from her. It was stolen from us.
She was brilliant at all of it: Daughter, sister, wife, mother, friend. We were told that she died instantly; that there was no time to suffer. That was meant to be a comfort. Relief? Yes. Comfort? Hell no. I had just been robbed of the love of my life. Comfort doesn’t live here.
Grieving is self-taught; it’s different for everyone. There’s no one right way to do it. For me, it was the regular everyday shit that crept in and broke my heart over and over again. Mail addressed to her posthumously, handling social media, calling the insurance companies, changing the joint bank accounts, updating the credit cards, canceling her cell phone…
Laura was the one who managed our finances and paid our bills. I had to learn everything from scratch. I didn’t know usernames and passwords. I didn’t know what had online payments set up and what I was expected to write checks for. I had to figure it all out. The worst was having to explain to a parade of strangers that Laura had died and then having to awkwardly accept condolences from those strangers.
When offering condolences in the future, here’s a pro tip: Less is more. Tell me you’re sorry for my loss, then stop. There are no right words but there most definitely are wrong ones. Don’t tell me you wish you could take away my pain. That pain belongs to me. It’s mine.
Grief is a wound that has to heal itself.
Unlike a book or a movie, grief has no preset ending. Grief has no last page and no final scene. It minds no timetable and plays by no rules. Time passes and the sharp edges eventually dull, but still, it remains. Like a lurking ghost. Lying in wait. Hiding around the next corner. Ready to spring out.
Boo!
Right now, that next corner happens to be in my local Whole Foods where I spend way more time than any sane person should. It’s the closest store to my building, so I end up here almost daily. I live a mostly grain-free and sugar-free existence, or like my sons and friends like to say – fun-free.
When Laura died, I became fixated on getting healthy. There were those who told me that I was going overboard and becoming obsessed. I changed my diet, I started running, I lost weight… Today I’m healthier than I was at twenty-five. But with Kyle home for the weekend, I find myself aimlessly meandering the Market aisles, hoping to stumble upon a few snacks for him while trying my damnedest to avoid those lurking ghosts.
I now rent a two-bedroom apartment.
When Laura and I first bought our house, we thought we were buying into the American dream. Our very own home. Our little private plot of earth. The thing is, it’s a pretty short journey from “dream” to “nightmare”. All the lawn mowing and snow shoveling are bad enough, but there’s also the sump pump, the basement floods, the replacement of the furnace, the new air conditioner, the new roof, the new dishwasher, multiple new washing machines and dryers, new windows and the list goes on and on. The Money Pit (also a ratings pit) wasn’t exactly Citizen Kane, but the premise, while admittedly exaggerated, was true. I’m glad I had the house to raise my family in, but now, with grown kids, I couldn’t wait to give up the responsibility and get the hell out of there. Give me a monthly rent and a landlord and I’m a happy guy.
At my building, where I’ve lived for a year now, I collect my mail in the lobby and head up to my unit: 6C. I slide my shoes off at the door, drop the mail on the dining room table and bring my bag of groceries into the kitchen. Cujo follows me, meowing. It’s his dinner time so I take a moment to feed him before putting my purchases away. Did I overbuy on the garbage food? Nah. Matthew, my neighbor across the hall, will probably eat more of this crap than Kyle will.
With the cat satiated, I turn my attention to the mail. I don’t get much snail-mail these days but today, an official looking item piques my interest. The McLaughlin Group Law Offices. I have no idea what this could be. I rip open the envelope and read the first page. When I see the name, Warren Lewis, I almost fall to the floor. My heart is pounding and I’m beginning to sweat.
I collapse into a dining room chair, slip my phone out of my pocket and text Leya: Are you home? I need you.
Friday, November 10th, 1989
They say that youth is wasted on the young. At the very least, being eighteen is wasted on, well… Eighteen-year-olds. We’re seniors in high school, coasting through our final year, rapidly approaching a finish line we have not yet begun to contemplate. It’s Friday afternoon, just after the dismissal bell. Four best friends, one car and a three-day-weekend ahead of us. How lucky are we? At eighteen, we don’t even realize what it means to be young. Grownups tell us to enjoy this time of our lives, but we don’t really get it. We’re not thinking about how momentary youth and happiness both can be.
The thing is, it will turn out that I actually won’t be lucky at all. This weekend will never happen. Sure, the clock will tick off the minutes and the pages of the calendar will turn, but our plans won’t come to pass. Later tonight, I will stop being eighteen. Technically, I’ll still be eighteen for eight more months, but not in the same carefree way. Tragedy will strike and devastation will steal the fleeting remainder of my untroubled youth.
But I don’t know that yet. Twelve happily oblivious hours remain before that happens. And in those twelve hours there will be sex, drugs and rock-and-roll (though not in that exact order) but I don’t know that yet either.
Time is a concept too complex for the teenage brain. The only ending on our minds is New Year’s Eve and the arrival of a new decade. From our naïve perspective, the 80’s have been the polar opposite of the 70’s; hair, clothes, music... What changes will the 90’s bring? Does it happen overnight? Will someone tell us? Will there be a manual? Guidelines? Maybe poop-brown double-knit polyester makes a comeback in the 90’s with long collars, wide ties and bell bottom pants.
Maybe not.
Right now, we’re wearing acid-wash jeans, Swatch Watches and Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Like that’ll ever not be cool. I’m clad in my fly Coca-Cola sweatshirt and my new Air Jordan high-tops. Laura and Abbi wear scrunchies in their crimped hair while Charlie and I have crunchy spikes from too much gel. The 80’s have been rad. Maybe the 90’s will be the 80’s, part two. In case you missed it the first time.
The sky is a brilliant blue decorated by perfectly scattered puffs of white clouds. It’s a crisp, sunny autumn day, spectacular for November in Chicago.
Part of our Friday routine is to head straight to Sound Warehouse, a music superstore where we check out their huge selection of posters, records, cassettes and now, CDs. We rifle through this week’s new releases and then we bounce. Back in the car I turn the radio on to B96 and We Didn’t Start the Fire rocks my speakers. We only understand a fraction of the references, but still, we chant along knowing every word like it’s an anthem written just for us. I drive us to Yorktown Mall where we hit up the Food Court for Baskin Robbins milkshakes.
We sit at a four-top table and Charlie says, “Brock, let’s do downtown tonight. Ed Debevic’s?”
Abbi says, “We did Ed’s last time. How about the Hard Rock Café?”
I say, “I’m stoked for the Hard Rock, but it has to be tomorrow. Tonight, I have a…” I trail off then sigh. “A family thing.”
Charlie, ever the philosopher opines, “Bummer. That totally sucks, dude.”
Laura, my friend of three years and girlfriend of six months says, “Oh, that’s right. William…”
Present Day
It took a year to get the house ready to list for sale. More than anything else the house was made of memories. I had to get out. When Laura died, Todd was twenty-three and already living in his condo downtown. Kyle, nineteen, was away at college and I was left alone with all the reminders and ghosts. Eventually, I worked up the strength to box up Laura’s clothes and donate them to Goodwill. My friends Charlie and Abbi helped me with a massive garage sale. I wanted to move somewhere new with all new things. I kept my laptop, my cell phone, my piano, my guitar and my cat. That’s it. I used a chunk of the proceeds from the sale of the house to replace everything else. New furniture, new dishes, new clothes… A new home for the new version of me.
I wouldn’t have survived these past two years without my old friends, it’s just that it’s also nice to have some new people in my life who only know the new me. Who, when they look at me, don’t see a tragic figure who had endured unimaginable loss in his life. Twice. Someone to pity. Someone fragile. Someone who could break. Even if I might.
Those new people are my friends and neighbors – Matthew and Leya. With Matthew, who’s twenty-eight, in 6B across from me and Leya, who’s in her early thirties, in 6A next to me, I feel like the default dad of the floor. Matthew is our veteran, having lived here for three years. Leya moved in just six months ago and replaced me as the newbie. She’s another possibility to be my Unknown Contact, but I figure she’s a less likely candidate. She’s a skosh young, and I’ve only known her for six months. I could be wrong, but I get the feeling that my Unknown Contact has known me for a while.
But Leya is mere minutes away from learning more about me than she probably ever thought she would.
I texted Leya just now, not because she’s my friend, but because she’s a lawyer. I’m looking for a professional perspective. She’s a corporate lawyer, so this might be a little out of her lane, but she’s the only lawyer I know. She knocks on my door less than a minute after receiving my text. I’m too distressed from the letter to remember social graces, so in lieu of a proper greeting, I pretty much just shove the thing right in her face as she crosses the threshold.
She reads it for what feels like an eternity, but eventually she looks up, a concerned brow arched, and asks me to tell her about Warren Lewis.
~~
My mother was killed in a home-invasion-gone-wrong when I was just eighteen years old. I was there. It was a Friday night in November of 1989. I was a senior in high school. My dad was out of town at a sales conference and my little sister, Janet, was thankfully at a friend’s house for a sleepover. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by noise coming from the kitchen. It wasn’t just any noise. It sounded inhuman. I ran down the stairs and saw my mom, still alive on the kitchen floor, bleeding out from a gaping neck wound – a sickening crimson pool expanding around her. Before my brain could even process the scene, I was kneed in the back and dragged across the floor. I had gotten one quick glimpse of the attacker before I was knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. Next thing I knew I was waking up in the hospital with a concussion.
My dad was there by then. I didn’t immediately remember what had happened. I didn’t even know why I was in the hospital.
It was weird seeing Dad sitting there alone, so I asked the obvious question, “Where’s Mom?”
I watched Dad’s face crumple as icy fingers grappled at my heart. It hadn’t completely come back to me yet, but the unimaginable devastation on Dad’s face made me want to rip out the tubes and wires that connected me to the bed I was lying in and run screaming down the hall.
So, Mom wasn’t with Dad, but someone else was in the room. He was with Mr. Jones – a neighbor, the police chief and my friend William’s father. My dad sat quietly and listened as Mr. Jones explained to me what had taken place.
The assailant had been a kid, just a couple years older than me, burgling for money to support his drug habit. Evidently, he had a long history as an addict. It seemed we were an unlucky random target. He had broken in and apparently made enough noise that my mom woke up and went to investigate. My friend William was sleeping over that night. Instead of suspecting danger, Mom probably thought one of us boys had gotten up for water or something and accidentally dropped a glass in the kitchen. The intruder saw her, panicked, grabbed a knife out of the block on the counter and lashed out. When he heard me coming, he grabbed the cast iron pan off the stove and hid around the corner before attacking me from behind. The knife and the cast iron pan were never recovered. They had disappeared from the scene with the attacker.
William, a heavy sleeper, had only woken up and made it downstairs in just enough time to catch a brief glimpse of the guy fleeing. Sobering quickly from his heavy slumber, William took in the horrific scene and used the wall phone in the kitchen to dial his dad who told his frantic son to not touch anything else and to wait by the front door. It was Mr. Jones who made the 911 call.
Being only two blocks away, Mr. Jones had been the first on the scene. At that point, nothing could be done to help my mom. He checked for and found my pulse before “clearing” the house, in search of any remaining threats. He turned his attention to his frightened son and thought that William might be going into shock. At the very least, he was exhibiting signs of PTSD. When the paramedics and the officer in charge arrived, Mr. Jones told them what he knew, then took his son home.
As Brian cautiously laid out the sequence of events, it all crystalized in my mind. It wasn’t until Sunday morning that William had recovered enough to go into the police station and give his statement. I had given mine in the hospital late Saturday afternoon. Despite not having seen or spoken with each other since before the attack, our accounts were compatible and we both picked the same guy out of a photo lineup. That guy got arrested and ultimately both William and I testified as eyewitnesses at his trial. He was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.
He was Warren Lewis.
~~
“Brock?” Leya breaks my trance. “Do you want to tell me about Warren Lewis?”
I really don’t. There are very few things I hate more than talking about the man who killed my mother, attacked me and destroyed the lives of so many. But I tell her anyway. I tell her the whole story.
When I finish, she shakes her head in sympathy, “You were only eighteen. I’m so sorry.” She puts a hand on my forearm.
“So, Warren Lewis is being represented by this law firm,” she waves the letter in her hand by way of illustration. “They claim they can prove his innocence. They’re bringing into question the physical evidence, or lack thereof, and what they describe as ‘problems with the eyewitness identification’. That’s where you come in. They want to meet with you and discuss what you remember about the investigation and the trial itself. At this point, they’re asking you to come in voluntarily.”
“At this point?” I ask.
“Right. Obviously, you will be subpoenaed if they’re granted a new trial, but for now—”
“Hold on,” I cut her off. “A new trial?”
“That’s one of the possible outcomes. Another possibility is, if they make a strong enough case and the prosecution doesn’t feel confident in a retrial, he could be exonerated and released.”
She squeezes my arm, “In these decades-old cases, sometimes the State’s Attorney’s Office has completely turned over. They may be more inclined to accept new evidence and not fight the old regime’s fight.”
She hands the letter back to me, “Are you still friends with William? Where’s his head on all of this?”
“We’re not close.” I rub my chin, “Doesn’t this ‘innocence’ stuff usually take years?”
“Sometimes. It depends. And for all we know this McLaughlin firm has been working on this case for years already.” She pulls her hand back. “My advice? Go meet with them and hear them out. But keep in mind, I’m not a criminal attorney.”
But she is a lawyer and a friend. She attended law school in Columbus where she lived with her family until her career brought her here to the Chicago suburbs.
She stands, “You should get yourself one of those. I’ll send you some names.”
Text message from Brock Sanderson to Unknown Contact. February 5th, 6:36pm:
LOL. It’s been a day and I needed a laugh. Since I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what you know. I received a deeply disturbing letter from a law firm today, I have a family dinner tomorrow where I am the only one not in a couple, and I’m receiving strange anonymous texts from a secret admirer who I supposedly know. You asked what’s on my mind. There you go. Please prove to me that you know me. And I wouldn’t hate laughing again.
Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 5th, 6:49pm:
I know you. I know you’re a brilliant musician and a fantastic teacher. I know that you never stopped being a great friend, even while you’ve been mourning your wife. I know you’re high on the shortlist of the world’s best dads. I know that you don’t let your sons or your friends see how much you’re still hurting. I know none of this was funny and I’m sorry. If you want to tell me about the letter, I’m here.
Okay, here’s something that only you will think is funny. I’m on the Paleo diet too, except I’m the caveman who discovered Kit Kats.
Sorry. That was ill-advised. I don’t even like Kit Kats. My problem is I’m funny when I don’t mean to be and not so much when I try. You really should block me. I AM A ROBOT! REPORT ME AS SPAM!
I’ll do better tomorrow.
~~
At 7:15, Matthew pushes his way through my door without buzzing or knocking. Any night there’s a Bulls game on, we watch it together, unless of course, one of us (read: Matthew) has a hot date.
We alternate apartments for this longstanding tradition and tonight is my turn. He leaves his shoes at the door and, as per usual, he greets me in an enormous bear hug. That’s Matthew. He makes contact. He’s just a friendly, gregarious, charming guy. I don’t think it’s possible to not like Matthew. Even though he’s older than my sons, he’s still in his twenties and being around him makes me feel younger. He’s one of those people who radiates an energy. The air changes when he enters a room.
Matthew helps himself to a beer in my fridge. I keep beer stocked pretty much just for him. He finds some of the chips I bought for Kyle’s visit and snags a bag for himself. He offers me a grin as he makes his way to one of my recliners, the one he calls “his”. I turn on the game and sit next to him, in “my” recliner. Cujo doesn’t generally care for other people, but he likes Matthew. He jumps up and settles between his legs. Matthew, from his shoes at the door to the socks on his feet, his shorts, his t-shirt, his unzipped hoodie – everything he’s wearing features a different logo. Whatever happened to brand-loyalty? I haven’t decided if it’s a fashion statement or a fashion faux pas, but either way, he pulls it off.
Unlike so many twenty-somethings today, Matthew does not meander through life with his head up his own ass. He’s intuitive, he pays attention and he can tell I’m distracted tonight. At halftime, he takes the remote out of my limp hand, presses mute and asks me, “What’s the score?”
“Huh? Oh. I don’t know. Are we winning?”
He clicks off the TV, “Okay, talk to me Sanderson. What’s going on?”
I look at my young friend leaning back in my (his) recliner, wearing shorts despite it being winter in Chicago. He could pass for a college student. Between his crooked grin and his wide, innocent brown eyes, he sees right through me. It’s like a superpower.
But Matthew is as genuine and real as anyone I know. Maybe he’s someone I can talk to about recent developments. I decide I trust him so I open the text thread from my Unknown Contact, scroll to the beginning and hand him my phone.
He takes a minute to read them all and a huge grin breaks out across his face. “This is brilliant. But I can neither confirm nor deny that I’m your secret person. And you’re not allowed to ask me. No guessing.”
I laugh but Matthew scoffs.
“I’m a little insulted that you don’t think it could be me.” Matthew is openly gay and has been “out” since the age of fifteen. Finally, he winks at me and flashes his trademark smile. “Whoever this is, you shouldn’t assume it’s not a guy.”
I never assume. And I wouldn’t be disappointed it is, but I can’t respond to him because two things happen at once. An incoming text pings on my phone and my door buzzes. Still grinning at me, Matthew hands my phone back and goes to answer the door. It’s Kyle standing there with a duffle bag. When he sees Matthew, his face explodes into a smile and, of course, they hug in a joyous embrace.
Matthew cries, “3.0!”
I hardly register this though because the second thing, the text I received, is from William.
Friday, November 10th 1989
“William… He’s sleeping over, right?” asks Laura.
“Again? Dude, that’s totally bogus,” Charlie rolls his eyes. “He’s such a dweeb.”
The three of them laugh at me.
I stopped having sleepovers with friends when I started high school. Except with William. William is not a part of our crew. His mom and my mom have been friends since childhood, so William and I have been forced into our own sort of friendship. We grew up together. We were the same age, in the same grades, at the same schools, living just a couple blocks away from each other. Recently, his mom seems to have practically moved to Maine with William’s sister and uncle. His dad is the police chief and works late a lot. William sleeps over from time to time so he’s not alone so much.
He’s not actually a bad guy; he just doesn’t fit in with my other friends. He’s shy, he’s quiet and they think he’s a dork. He’s really not a dork, but I am kind of all he’s got. Laura, Charlie and Abbi think it’s funny.
Whatever.
I don’t mind William. He’s fine. He’s William. But he can be a little too clingy. I know this sounds selfish and awful, but sometimes, when I’m forced to spend time with him, like tonight, I feel like I’m missing out on something better. They won’t go downtown without me, but they’ll still be together, hanging out. And I’ll be with William, probably eating pizza and playing video games.
It’s fine, really.
Abbi says, “Let’s see a movie. God, I wish The Dupe was still open.”
The Dupe is the nickname for The DuPage Theatre. It’s an awesome classic atmospheric style theatre on Main Street in downtown Lombard that was built in 1928, but it closed a couple years ago. We loved that theatre. They always played films in their second run at bargain prices. It was added to the National Register of Historic Places two years ago, but it continues to sit there, depressed and deserted.
Since we’re already here, we settle for the Yorktown Cinema at the mall. There’s only one new comedy out this week, so we buy tickets for the 3:45 showing of Staying Together.
Present Day
Text message from Brock Sanderson to Unknown Contact. February 5th, 11:38pm:
I guess you do know me. That actually was funny and no, I still haven’t blocked you. Judge me as you will.
The letter is from a law firm representing Warren Lewis. They think they can prove he was wrongfully convicted. They want me to come in and talk to them. It’s messing me up. This is not okay.
Depending on how long you’ve known me, you either know who Warren Lewis is, or you’ll Google him and learn things about my past you might wish you didn’t know.
~~
I have a mystery admirer. That’s crazy. Regular, usual, boring me. I think I’m lying on my couch. I must have fallen asleep watching the game. That happens sometimes. The TV eventually turns itself off. I should get off the couch and make my way to my bed. I should, but I don’t. I don’t because I can’t. My eyes won’t open and my arms won’t move. And I’m not alone.
My admirer is here with me…I can sense it. I feel younger. A lot younger. The age of a person who might have a secret admirer and it wouldn’t be weird. As a matter of fact, I can’t tell for sure, but I think I’m wearing my Coca-Cola sweatshirt and my Air Jordan’s. I haven’t worn or even seen those things since that night more than thirty years ago. It’s impossible, but I don’t question it.
A fingertip touches my forehead and traces down the bridge of my nose. It crosses my lips and turns left at my chin drawing invisible lines up my cheek, around my ear and finally across my neck. I still can’t voluntarily move but I involuntarily get goosebumps all over. Whose finger is doing this to me? Did I say that out loud or only think it? I am suddenly shushed when a pair of lips presses against mine.
And now I’m awake. I haven’t had an erotic dream in years, tame as this was. I haven’t even felt like a sexual being in two years. My mystery admirer thing is making me feel some feels I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel again. I am able to move and open my eyes. I am not on the couch, I’m in my bed. I’m not in clothes I haven’t seen in three decades, I’m in my regular sleep pants and an undershirt. But the dream – that felt extremely vivid – left me with in aroused situation happening inside of my sleep pants. I haven’t had movement down there since... In two years. I feel like I’m beginning to truly wake up.
~~
Matthew and I run together on weekend mornings. He’s usually fashionably late and today is no exception. I watch his approach. Speaking of fashion, who looks this good for a workout? In my workout clothes, I look like I’m dressed for laundry day. Matthew looks like he’s ready for a photoshoot.
He breaks out into his trademark smile and I can’t help but smile right back. I always feel a little jolt of joy when I see him. Even when I’m having a “dark day”, Matthew is on the shortlist of people who can chase away my demons.
“Sanderson! Where’s 3.0?” he asks, hugging me sideways.
Matthew calls everyone by their last names; it’s his thing. With three of us “Sandersons”, by Matthew’s decree, Todd is “2.0” and Kyle is “3.0”.
I shake my head, “He’s a college kid and it’s 7:00am on a Saturday morning. Where do you think he is?”
I’ve been in my new apartment for a year now. It’s a two-bedroom unit so it’s Kyle’s part-time home too. Last summer, he had time to get to know Matthew and they quickly developed a friendship.
“Right. Wake his ass up and drag him out here for a run.”
“You remember college, right? There’s exactly a zero percent chance of that happening.”
Sammy has a car and he dropped Kyle off last night. He, Matthew and I watched the second half of the game then stayed up late talking about the life of a twenty-one-year-old college senior. Augustana is only a couple hours away and Kyle pops home on occasional weekends. I think he likes my new apartment. I know he likes Matthew. As a friend, of course. Sammy needn’t worry.
I had been the first one to go to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about William and his text. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Being the other eyewitness at the trial, he would have received the same letter I did. And surely his father did too. The three of us were the keys to the case.
I last saw William and Brian two years ago when they both came to Laura’s memorial service. One year ago, William sent me a “thinking of you” text on the anniversary of Laura’s death. I still haven’t decided if it was thoughtful, weird or creepy. As usual, I didn’t respond.
His text last night was two short sentences: Did you get the letter too? We need to meet and talk.
I haven’t replied yet.
Matthew breaks my reverie, “You ready?”
I nod.
First, we run five miles outside and then we use the equipment in the fitness center. Well, mostly we contemplate equipment we never use while sipping water. We do some modest cardio, but we’re not big into the weights.
Last night I told Matthew about my Mystery Admirer, but our conversation was interrupted by Kyle’s arrival and William’s text. Now, I say to him as we both sit on machines we have no intention of using, “I’ve been thinking about getting back out there. You know, dating again.”
“You’re not the same guy I first met a year ago.” He tightens a loose shoelace, “I grant you my permission.”
I snort.
Laura and I were together since we were sixteen and I never imagined being out there again. But, now? I don’t know. This mystery texter thing has me thinking…maybe.
“This is your year, Sanderson.” He winks at me, “You’ll see.”
Yeah, we’ll see. Could it be Matthew’s year too?
Friday, November 10th, 1989
The movie is not great, but with my friends, even a bad movie is a good time. We laugh more at it that with it. When it’s over we’re immediately making fun of everything: their clothes, their hair, the things they said, the things they did… We decide that we could make a better movie ourselves.
Back in my car, and still bouncing around plot ideas, Laura says, “I wanna leave early tomorrow and stop at Rolling Stones Records.”
Rolling Stones in Norridge is huge and cool and it’s totally the most awesome record store on planet earth. Comparatively, Sound Warehouse is totally lame. We could spend hours and never get bored.
Charlie says, “I know Brock has been dying to pick up Air Supplies Greatest Hits.”
I punch him in the arm, but I’m laughing along with the rest of them.
I sigh and remind my friends that I have to be at my house by 6:00. “Am I just taking each of you home?” I ask, all sheepish and whiny.
Charlie shakes his head, “Selfish jerk.” He turns to Laura and Abbi in the back seat. “This asshole is why we can’t go downtown tonight but that’s not enough, is it? He doesn’t want us to have any fun without him.”
He yelps when I jab an elbow into his ribs. I point a thumb at myself, “This asshole is the only one of us with a car. Without me, your options are quite limited.”
He elbows me back, “Your car is the only reason we keep you around.” He grins at me like an idiot.
“I knew it!”
Present Day
Barnes & Noble is one of our family’s favorite places – we’re all big readers. It makes me happy to see that the store is crowded and buzzing with activity. I love even the smell of the books. And while I won’t be eating the cookies or drinking the lattes, the in-store café adds to the symphony of sights, sounds and aromas. Books have not disappeared. If people would spend more time reading books and listening to music, the world might not be as screwed up as it is.
We take our time browsing and I appraise my son. With Matthew’s grand greeting and the distraction of William’s text last night, I didn’t get to perform my usual “dad check”. He catches me staring and rolls his eyes. That’s college kid lingo for “Oh my god Dad, I’m fine.”
I pick up two psychological thrillers plus the newest Sally Rooney and Richard Russo. Kyle has the latest Ruth Ware and a couple paperback classics.
Back in the car, I catch Kyle appraising me back. “How are you doing?”
I regard my younger son. Todd was four years old when Kyle was born. Laura and I knew that we were not supposed to compare our kids to each other, but we couldn’t help doing it anyway. They were so different from one another; we found it fascinating. And discovering, remembering and talking about those differences were some of the biggest joys of parenthood. Todd was always a little bigger and more physical than Kyle. Todd learned how to walk and ride a bike sooner. Kyle learned how to count and read sooner. Todd was always more adventurous and daring while Kyle was more cautious and sensitive. We loved the differences. And now my younger son is freaking twenty-one years old. How the hell did that happen?
I try to roll my eyes like he did and he cracks up. But then his look turns serious.
I say, “I’m good.” I don’t know how convincing I sound. I detect a slight waver in my own voice. I turn and face him. “Really. Better every day.”
I saw a psychologist for twenty years after the events of November 10, 1989. I had to deal with the grief of losing my mother, the trauma of the sight of her dying a violent death and the guilt of not having been able to save her. It would have been a lot for anyone to deal with but I was only eighteen. It took seemingly forever, but after a couple decades, I was finally ready to stop my sessions. Then, two years ago, when Laura was killed, I went back.
Kyle says, “You should spend more time with Matthew. He’s like human medicine.”
“More like alternative medicine.”
Kyle laughs. “True story. A natural remedy.” He faces forward and buckles his seatbelt. “I’m glad you have him.”
Matthew is a staff writer with Pride Media and he works from home. His hours are flexible and he makes good money, but it’s not his passion. His work is important, but his dream is to write genre bending novels. So far, that hasn’t worked out for him. From my perspective, he has a pretty sweet gig going, but I guess I only know what he lets me see. He sure seems to be always available and ready for anything.
“So, what’s Sammy up to today?” I ask my son.
“He spent last night and this morning with Angela and today he’s having lunch with Jose.” Kyle props his glasses up on his forehead and rubs his eyes. “I’m worried about him.”
“What’s wrong?”
“His parents have been divorced for a while now, but lately the tension between them has been on the rise and Sammy is feeling a little caught in the middle. It started six months ago when he turned twenty-one. Angela began to talk to him more like an adult friend and confidant than like her son, telling him things that no kid should hear about his parents at any age. It’s like she’s trying to turn Sammy against his dad. It’s all one-sided because, of course, Jose takes the high road and doesn’t talk about Angela at all.”
He lets his glasses slip back down into place, “Sammy doesn’t like talking about it, so when he does say something, I mostly just listen. I don’t want to push. He knows how much his dad loves him; he doesn’t need me to tell him that.”
He sighs, “Dinner tonight is the only time this weekend all three of them are together. At least there’ll be an audience so I’m not anticipating a spectacle.”
I guess it’s complicated having divorced parents, even when you’re twenty-one and a senior in college. It’s like reverse visitation. The kid has to be fair and equal as he disperses his time and attention to the parents. I don’t get time with Jose that often but I thought he and Angela had been on decent terms, at least as far as divorced couples go. How have I not seen this? I’m way overdue to check in with him. I need to be a better friend.
When Jose started his new job, Shelby and I went from seeing him daily to seeing him rarely. We promised to get together at least once a month, but his hectic schedule is a formidable obstacle. He travels and he works a lot. He once told me that sixty hours is a light week for him. I can’t blame him for doing what he has to do; I just miss my friend.
Time marches on and people and relationships change. If we weren’t anchored by Kyle and Sammy’s coupledom, Jose and I might have completely drifted apart.
Like so many others in my life, he made a concerted effort to be there for me when Laura died. He created time that he really didn’t have and I’ll never forget that. And it wasn’t just texts and calls either. He made it clear that he was there if I needed him, even though work was ridiculous and he was in the throes of a painful divorce at the time. I couldn’t ask for a better friend and I can’t wait to see him tonight.
I tell Kyle that I’ll help make sure there’s a buffer zone between Jose and Angela at the dinner table.
Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. Saturday, February 6that 2:24pm:
I read your last text over and over. I’ve taken all day to respond because I don’t know what to say. I want to make it better. I want to make it go away. I can’t. Saying “I’m sorry” seems so inadequate. So lame. So, let me try: I am SOOOOO sorry.
See? I told you… Lame.
What I can do, if you like, is to offer a distraction. This is just for funsies; we are not far enough along for real hints or serious guessing, but let’s play a little game. Two Truths and a Lie. You know it, right? I’ll make three statements. Two of them will be true and one will be… Sorry. I’m overexplaining. It’s all in the name of the game. Here it goes:
1. I’m a great whistler
2. I hate it when people pay with exact change
3. I was born with a tail
I know. I’m not exactly giving myself away here. I told you it’s too soon. But at least a bit of levity, maybe? Like I said – a distraction.
I’m here to listen.
When we’re all together in my car, Charlie and I sit in the front and the girls sit in the back. Our friendships started in those pairs. Second semester of freshman year we were all in the same English class and we bonded over making fun of the teacher. We’ve been a tight foursome ever since, but Charlie always rides shotgun. Everyone knows and that’s just how it is. Laura and Abbi are fine with it. They’re happy whispering in the back. I start the car and Love Shack is on the radio. That one’s a keeper. By the chorus we’re all slapping the ceiling, singing at the top of our lungs and doing our best to imitate the music video.
Abbi says, “Just drop me off at Laura’s. We’re gonna have some girl time,” they giggle.
Charlie scoffs, “Now everyone’s abandoning me.”
“You’re always welcome to join William and me,” I grin at him.
“Not even,” he deadpans. “It’s fine. I’ll just call my other friends – my real friends.”
“Chuckles, you only wish you had other friends.” Abbi laughs.
The girls can get away with it, but if I were to call him “Chuckles”, I’d be taking a punch and nursing a bruise.
I drop off Charlie first and Laura hops up front. When I pull up in front of her house, Abbi gets out and gives us a minute. We face each other and lean in for a goodbye kiss.
Laura rests her forehead against mine, sighs and asks, “What are you and William doing tonight?” She says William’s name like it tastes bad in her mouth.
“Pizza and video games. I know. It’s like we’re still twelve.”
“I get it. You don’t have much of a choice. When will your mom stop forcing this on you?”
Everyone is supposed to love their parents, but at eighteen, it’s generally not cool to like them. I’m a huge dork and the exception to the rule. I have the best mom. No parent is perfect and my mom’s one flaw is overdoing the William thing. But she’s awesome. She’s always there for me. She asks so little and gives so much. I’d never want to disappoint her.
“He’s not that bad,” I say. “I’ll miss you though.”
We kiss again, deeper this time, and she runs her fingers through my hair above the nape of my neck before sliding her fingertips down my jawline. “I’ll miss you too.” She pinches my cheeks, snakes a hand under my sweatshirt, giving me a tickle and a poke in the belly. She winks, leaving me with the parting gifts of goosebumps and a flush that flashes through my whole body.
I check my watch. I’ll get home at exactly 6:00.
Sigh.
This was the first of eight chapters in the story. I plan to publish each new chapter weekly. I hope you enjoy this part mystery, part psychological thriller and part romance.
