Chapter Five-- Strangers in the Night

Sid pulled the garden hose off the side of the house and rinsed what was left of the errant bird off his Cutlass. I stood, hands in my pockets, waiting. He wiped the car dry carefully with an old chamois, inspecting the damage. 

"I wonder if my insurance covers replacement for wind-shields?"  Sid wondered aloud.

"Probably, but it also depends on your deductible. How high is it?" 

"Two-hundred." 

"It'll cost more than that," I said, sitting down on the concrete steps, my back flat against the black wrought iron railing. I thumbed through the note pad, reading key words.  "So, tell me the rest of the schoolmaster's story."

"I don't want to get into the rest-- I mean, not in detail." He paused. He sat down next to me on the steps-- his knees touching mine. 

"Fine," I said. "Give me the abridged version." 

"The minister killed Camden," Sid said, scratching at a spot of dried paint on his pants. "Then he rummaged through Camden's home and took the notes he'd written. He wrapped the body in an old wool blankets from the bedroom, then buried him in the woods next to the church."

"How'd he kill him?" I asked, flipping the pages of the memo pad.

"Camden turned his back on him, and first the good minister hit him in the back of the head with a cast iron door-stop-- then seeing the fight was out of Camden--" Sid paused.  "He strangled him."

 I read a few of the comments Sid had written down. His notes seemed to end there. 

"So, he got away with it," I said. My heart pounded. My hand holding the pad shook. I couldn't hide it. Sid saw my mouth trembling. Fuck, what was wrong with me? 

"You know," Sid said, resting his hand on my knee. "It's like Peter Deal said-- you know, your imagination in over drive." I think Sid said this as much for his own benefit as mine. "Well, you're right. He did get away with murder. Everyone believed Camden left town. A couple of people did come looking for him-- his sister and her husband. Yeah, and get this-- her name was Emma Lancaster."

I wasn't surprised. This was my imagination, after all.

"She wanted to know what happened to her brother," he said. "She and her husband went to Freeport, looking for him. Someone from the  congregation told them the lie that Camden became infatuated with the local pastor. She didn't believe a word of it."

 I glanced down at the pad in my hand. 

"Let's go in-- I'm starved," Sid said. It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that all I had today was coffee, no wonder I was shaking.

We found a brown paper bag of clothes from Lynn wedged inside the door. In neat black marker she'd written: have a good time tonight.  Folded inside I found three pairs of worn jeans, a black sweater, assorted t-shirts, socks, plaid flannel pjs and a package of unopened briefs. I hated briefs.

Sid laid his keys on the counter and stretched. 

"Why don't you take a bath and relax. I'll make dinner," he said.

Sounded perfect. I took the memo pad. Not the most relaxing reading material, but I had to read it. I grabbed a t-shirt and red flannel pajama bottoms from Lynn's care package and headed for the bathroom. 

It was spotless. 

Towels stacked. Shampoo lined up. Floor sparkled.  One look in the medicine cabinet, confirmed my suspicions-- Sid was a neat-freak. I set the pad down on the counter. His handwriting was even neat. I stripped off my clothes and adjusted the water to super hot. Sid kept the air-conditioner set to 'create iceberg,'  making the hot bath water welcome. Besides, sweating in a hot tub would get the ache out of my neck. 

I inched into the tub and stretched back. I picked up the pad, careful not to get it wet, and I read.  The parallels to my own life were disturbing-- at least in some areas. When I got to the last couple of pages, I stopped. I'd already skimmed that part outside on the steps and got the idea-- no need to revisit. Fuck. Why would I ever invent shit like that? It made me sick. I'd almost feel better if this was a past life, not invention.

I closed my eyes and nodded off for a bit. I woke, and the water had cooled. I flicked the drain lever with my big toe.  Sid's dinner smelled delicious. Definitely chicken. And a hint of vanilla. I dried off  and dressed fast.

I stopped short when I walked out of the bathroom. Soft music, candle light. Candles, that was where the vanilla scent came from. Sid walked out of the kitchen with two goblets and a bottle of white wine.

"Dinner's ready," he said, noting my glance at the table. "God, this looks bad doesn't it? I don't get to cook for anyone much. Gives me a chance to stretch my culinary skills." 

"Don't apologize. It looks great." I smiled. He'd gone to a lot of trouble. I can't remember anyone going to this much trouble for me. Linen napkins-- even. I sat down, and Sid poured me some wine. I took a sip. Not cheap stuff either. I helped myself to the main dish. 

"I know it's just a casserole, but it's my mum's recipe," he said, watching me eat. 

"It's fantastic," I said with my mouth full. "I don't cook much. The only home-cooked meals I get anymore are from Lynn, and her cooking sucks dick."  

"Whoa! Slow down," he said.

"I was hungrier than I realized." I said, washing the casserole down with some more wine.  Sid refilled my glass. I took another roll and a second helping of the casserole.

"I was reading your notes while I was in the tub. What do you think of this past life shit?"

Sid stared at me. The room was quiet except for Frank Sinatra, crooning in the back ground. He seemed to come to some resolve. 

"I don't believe in past lives. But I do think that there were details of what you said that sounded real. Too, real. There was one element that disturbed Dr. Deal," Sid said, touching the rim of his wine glass a moment. "Don't you wonder why you don't remember anything?"

"I hit my head on the steering wheel. I was in shock," I said, pouring myself some more wine.

"No, I meant while you were hypnotized."

"I've never been hypnotized before. I don't know. Was I supposed to remember? My knowledge of hypnotism comes from late night movies and articles in magazines. But as I recall, doesn't the hypnotist say something like, 'when I count to three you will remember nothing'?"

"Yeah, or 'when I count to three you will wake up and remember everything.' "

"Then, I don't remember? Is that a problem?"

"Peter told you not to remember. He thought it might be better if you didn't. He thinks maybe it's not a past life."

I laughed. "What the fuck is it then? My future?"

"He thinks you should go to another psychiatrist. To talk about this I mean."

I gave Sid a blank look. "Talk about what?"

"It might be repressed memories." 

"Didn't Dr. Deal imply that repressed stuff was a bunch of shit? No," I said, choking on my wine. "I read the rest of the notes. Maybe it's symbolic. I saw in a movie once how objects and events under hypnosis can be metaphors."

"Maybe, I don't buy the idea of repressed memories either. Still, you should take what Peter said seriously," Sid said.  "I'd say go to him. But I think he's too close to my family. Even if there's nothing to this repressed memories, talking to someone wouldn't hurt. You've been through a Hell of a lot. What you told us under hypnosis, God, it was so real-- ever think of going into acting?" 

"No," I laughed. "You know-- I'll think about this counseling thing, but drop it for now."

"What about going over to your house tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject. "You probably should go check out the damage. I'll go with you." 

"Yeah, I should," I said. Truth was, I didn't want to face it. Family photo albums, my old acoustic guitars, the upright Grande piano, all the music I'd written. If Sid went with me, at least I wouldn't have to face it alone. 

"This discussion is too serious," I said. "I'll help you clear the table, and we'll talk about it later." 

We picked up the dishes, scraped and rinsed them off.  I had a light buzz from the bit of wine I drank. Sid filled the dish washer, and I went to get the casserole dish,  humming and singing with Frankie to "Strangers In the Night."  

I turned around.  Sid was there, and Frankie was crooning 'something in your eyes, was so inviting.'

I hesitated, looking at his eyes, then down at his lips. He leaned into me heavily, pressing my back side hard into the table.  His shoulder brushed past my arm as he blew the candle out behind me. The casserole clattered to the table.

Sid shifted his body, but didn't pull away. Instead he pressed his body into mine, face to face. I leaned back as he leaned forward. He pushed his hips into mine. Both my hands grasped the edge of the table, supporting my weight. My arms buckled a little as he kissed me once lightly on the lips. He drew up, searching my eyes begging for permission. God, he had to feel my erection through this thin flannel. I pushed up into him, permission granted-- 

I wanted to taste his lips. One hand delicately circled my ear, and I felt his other hand on top of my left hand, clutching the table.  I waited. He pressed into me harder. My arms buckled and gave, elbows and forearms fell flat to the table in back of me.  He looked into me, through me-- and he kissed me again, this time, mouth open. I tasted him-- white wine with a bit of lemon.

His tongue tickled the roof of my mouth, making me harder. It felt strange. Strange and good. His finger toyed with the fine hairs in my ear. Our teeth clanked together. God, he was wicked, the way he rhythmically rocked his hips into mine. I can't believe how much I wanted him. How much I loved this. I squeezed my eyes tight, rocking--  an odd yet delicious sensation. His tongue flicked the inside of my cheek and then twirled around inside, tasting me. 

My turn. I pulled my mouth away and gasped, then went in for more.  I shoved my tongue as far down his throat as I could. Sid's teeth clamped down, and my throat constricted in strangled surprise.  His teeth had me-- not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to keep my tongue prisoner in his mouth. He sucked on it hard, persistent, running his own tongue under mine. I felt like a guitar's E string, wound too tight, ready to pop. The trembling in my arms moved up my shoulders, into my chest. Shit, Sid's simulated fellatio was gonna make me come like some adolescent  boy right there on the table. I was shaking hard and right on the edge, gasping into his mouth. 

He knew I was desperate. He let go. Stopped-- pulled away. My eyes flew open, wide with surprise. Just one more suck, one more push, and I'd have come right against him. He read the question in my eyes.

I tried to pull myself away from the table, but my legs won't hold me-- sweat dripping off me in the air-conditioned Popsicle of a room. I couldn't speak. I bit my lip, struggling to get my arms out from under me.

I saw Sid, fighting with some kind of internal decision-- my sincere hope was that he planned to pin me on the couch or finish me in the bedroom. But no. He frowned and cleared his throat. 

Finally I managed to spit out the words, "Why did you stop?" He opened his mouth to speak but didn't. Then, he moved over to the couch to sit down. I just stared at him in disbelief. Had I just imagined what happened? I gathered myself up to stand.

"What was that?" I asked. "Some kind of test?"

"No, not really," he said. "I promised I wouldn't do this. Not doing too well."

"You were doing fine."

"Will you stop looking at me like that?" He asked. "Shit. Don't take this the wrong way, but-- you know, I'm your first. I'm like your experimental model. You know the problem with being an experimental model is that they usually don't work out. You test them and then--"

"So what was that all about? Taking me to the point of no return and leaving me there?"

"I want to be around a lot longer than a test model. I think that's a bit more important than your dick."

"Seems to me, I'm the one being tested, not you. And what am I supposed to do with this?" I said, grabbing my crotch. "Go beat off?"

"That or sit down, watch TV and play Scrabble with me."

"Play Scrabble? Are you fucked up in the head? I have a huge hard on here, and you're the reason, and you want me to play Scrabble?"

"That or watch old movies--" Sid said, picking the remote off the coffee table and turning the TV on. He looked over at me and sighed. "Listen, I've waited for you for a lot longer than one stupid evening. I'm not going to blow it by fucking you because we're both horny. You're not the only one with a hard on."

"Shit," I yelled. "I guess I'll go beat off in the bedroom!" 

"Go for it," he said, throwing me the Kleenex box off the end-table.  

"You fuck!" I said, catching the box. I stomped off into the bedroom. I almost slammed the door, but then changed my mind. I left it open. Let him listen, the shit.

I threw myself down on the bed. I made sure my moans would carry well out into the other room. I was getting into this. I figured the more vocal the better.  After a few minutes, Sid turned down the sound to the television a bit. The ass was listening. Good. I got myself hotter, and hoped he could hear me jerking my cock up and down. He could have been in here. And just before I came I cried out, "Hey, Sidney! This is for you!" And when I came, I swore unintelligibly. Very satisfying.

I noticed Sid had turned the sound completely off on the TV. 

He was groaning. Must be he's doing what I did. I laughed. 

Ha, ha, I had the Kleenex. 
---------------------

I woke sore and tired. I vaguely recalled dreaming that I was flying-- I wasn't myself. In my dream, I glanced at my hands seeing little brown sparrow wings. I remembered someone telling me I was weightless. Caught in an air current, I heard a clicking in the distance up ahead. I glided toward the sound-- into an old broken down bell tower. Then I woke. 

Shit. Then, I remembered last night. The disappointment I usually felt knowing a great dream wasn't real diminished. I heard the click, click, click from my dream--  and it was Sid banging on his computer keyboard. I also remembered my little revenge last night-- if a screaming maniacal masturbator could ever be vengeful. 

Sid was working on a Sunday morning. What a work-a-holic. I never work on Sundays. I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock and groaned-- 9:22 with a dot. 

What was the real purpose of those stupid digital dots anyway? Why can't they make them straight forward and say am or pm? There was no universal dot meaning-- on one clock the top dot means am, another it's pm. Probably some type of traveler's conspiracy theory-- to never know night from day. I imagined the evil clock maker now with his magic wand on the assembly line tapping each clock as each rolled by, "Dot… no dot… dot… no dot…" 

I had an urge to pull the covers back over my head and sleep forever. Maybe I could fly out of this mess of a life like a sparrow in my dream. Maybe nothing else would happen if I just stayed in this bed. Although, last night I would have preferred something did happen other than with my own hand. 

Might as well get up and face Sid.

I sorted through the clothes Lynn gave me. I held up the jeans-- relaxed button fly Levis. The only time I wore skin tight anything was on stage. I only wore them then because the other band members razzed me to wear leather or stupid fish net. I hated it.

I sat on the edge of Sid's bed and looked around his room-- something I hadn't done before now. All the furniture in the room matched. All colonial antique cherry. Very nice collection. I felt relieved to see dust collecting on the dresser. I was beginning to worry Sid's neatness was pathological. 

He had novels stacked on the floor next to the bed and some spilling underneath. I checked the titles and authors. An eclectic taste-- sci-fi, classics, detective novels--I noticed a few of my favorite authors, Amy Tan and Tolkien. The Dead Zone by Stephen King, half hidden under the bed. A book of poetry by e.e. cummings on his night stand.

I always have the urge to open closets. I know it was nosey just like looking in people's medicine cabinet  or secretly reading cards, but I couldn't resist. Just a regular closet. More organized than my dad's, messier than Lynn's, and much neater than mine. 

Sid knocked on the bedroom door. 

"Yes?" I said, snapping the closet door shut.

"Just checking to see if you're up. I need to get some clothes. I forgot to get some out last night." Ahh, yes, last night. 

"You can come in." He was up, but not dressed.

"Nice boxers," I said. Silk Looney-Tunes with royal blue background.

"One of those Christmas presents you can't take back," he said, bending over. My his ass looked hot in them. I wouldn't take them back. "There's cereal in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Help yourself," he said.

I went out to the kitchen grabbed a cup of coffee and then walked over to his desk. I wanted to take a look-n-see at his monitor and find out what he was working on so diligently on a Sunday morning. He walked out about then and caught me in the act.

"Just doing a little research," he said.

"This doesn't look like java script or html to me. Why's a web page designer browsing on the Later Day Saints family search site?"

"Caught me. I was looking up your past life. The one I didn't believe in. Guess what, there was a Daniel Camden born in Michigan during that time. Here is the print out. Notice there's no death date."

"There's nothing on here about other ancestors," I commented, reading the sheet.

"That's not unusual, many of the birth records prior to the 1900's don't mention ancestors. But if we have his birth date,  sometimes you can find out family history and places of employment." 

"Interesting, but is it really important?"

"I know you. You'll wonder. I'll work on this while you're at work tomorrow," Sid said. "Oh, yeah, and you had a phone call from Smith earlier."

"He's up already?" Lynn's out telling the world where I'm residing-- big mouth.

"The band is worried about you. They want you come to practice at Smith's later today." We usually practice there or in my basement studio-- the one I don't have anymore. Goodbye studio. I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach thinking of all the equipment and memories destroyed. "I told him we were going over to your place later this morning to check it over. Do you still feel up to it?"

"Might as well."

---------------------

We avoided the topic of last night until the ride to my house. I was thinking about how much I hated going to see my burned up life when I alluded to my behavior. 

"No, it was my fault. Seriously, Wes. I'm sorry. Not sorry how it turned out, but sorry for starting it."

So, he liked listening. 

"No," I said. "I wanted it. Then I acted like an ass." 

"Wes, you're a friend, first and foremost, regardless of whatever else I feel for you. I want you to stay at my place-- especially with everything that's happened." 

"So that means-- what? Until you're sure you're not just a free sample?" I asked.

"No, not free sample-- experimental model, which means I won't start anything again until I'm sure."

"Sure of me?"

"Sure of us both," he said, turning down my street. And there was my home.

In the daylight, it didn't look as bad. The old place was still standing. Glass crunched beneath our feet as we walked around the outside. We noticed most of the damage was in the front living room and my bedroom directly upstairs from it. The only unbroken window was the one to my back door. The stale smell of burned plastic and insulation clung in my nose. I  delayed going inside for as long as possible until Sid broke through the yellow tape and ventured inside first.

Maybe it was best I saw the worst right away. 

Nothing was left of the living room. The wall eaten through, springs sat on the floor where the sofa once was. Ironically, there was still logs left piled next to the fireplace. I knelt down into the charred sticks and ashes where my old oak bookcase once stood. All my photo albums, diaries, books and personal letters were gone, transferred into piles of ashes. This had to be the focal point of the fire-- the hot spot. The fire so intense, it burned a hole where I could see into the basement through the hardwood floor. Looking up, another hole gaped, reaching into my bedroom. From here, I could see the charred rafters of three floors. 

I looked back around me, remembering all the hard work I'd done pulling out the old olive shag carpet and stripping the oak floors. As I looked down in to the pit, I could tell the fire only scorched the basement. The real damage was from the water, putting out the fire.

We walked back to the kitchen. It was salvageable. One good scrubbing and the room would be unchanged. There was a bit of water damage to one wall, but the tile floor wouldn't have to be replaced.

The staircase was fine. It looked like the fire had just flashed up the walls to the next story. Soot blanketed the upstairs. Boot imprints stamped the upstairs hallway. My bedroom was a loss. This looked like a hotspot also. I could see daylight through the ceiling.

"Maybe you could add a sky light when you rebuild?" Sid commented, trying  his best to cheer me.

Nothing left to do but look at the basement.

The studio was a loss. A torrent of water worked its way down through the floor and in its wake everything was saturated in the basement. The padding on the walls reeked. There was standing water at the bottom of my twelve string guitar case. The fine wood had warped. I would sit down, but there was no spot that was dry or not covered with soot.

"Let's go," I said. "I've seen enough." We sloshed across the basement floor, up the stairs and out the back door. I didn't bother to look at the piano. 

I needed to get out of here.  I needed to take a bath.
-----------------------------

I didn't think I'd ever get the smell out. It lingered in my hair and clothes. I threw them aside. I jumped in the tub and scrubbed and scrubbed. I put on clean jeans and t-shirt. I still smelled like fire. I think smells can hold you captive. They stay with you. Even though logic tells you they're gone, they stay with you.

I kept thinking I smelled it in my hair, my body all that afternoon. Following me. Not the whole while, but it came and went. Just enough to stay in the back of my mind. A reminder.

Part of me wanted to go practice with the guys. Part of me was afraid to. Since the night I saw my substitute on stage, I felt like I'd been turned in for a better model. Sid was not the only one with a complex. Although I had no real reason to feel this way, it was kinda like the smell of soot in my hair--  came and went yet never quite left. Sid tried to convince me I had nothing to worry about. 

I grabbed the guitar, and we left.

--------------------------

Smith's garage has horrible acoustics. It's not unusual for objects hanging on the wall, like hammers and  saws, to vibrate, fly off and hit you while playing. Pruning sheers leave nasty scars. Still, without my studio, we were limited to where we could practice. Jimbo's wife kicked us out of their house years ago, and John never had a residence long enough to practice in.

When Sid went to drop me off, I could tell he wanted me to invite him to stay and listen. He's done it before, and the band never cared. We like having an audience. Spouses, friends and significant others often sit and listen to us play, argue and joke around. I almost sent Sid down the road until I saw the substitute was already hooked up in the garage.

"Hello beautiful," John said giving me one of his smothering bear hugs. "Looking better. Your black eyes are almost gone already." He winked at Sid.

"We want you to meet the man who was nice enough to sub for you," John said, scratching his head. "We were thinking about adding another member. Now, don't get the wrong idea.  Sid told me you thought we wanted to replace you. Like we could ever replace you? You're one of the best as a writer and a musician. But you know that what the band has needed since the very beginning is someone with a strong distinctive voice. I think he can bring that to our band. He's an adequate guitarist, but exceptional vocalist."

"You're so full of shit," I said to John. "You have a great voice, so does Jim. What the hell is this really about? Connections?"

"Well, yeah, that's another part of it. I can't say it isn't. We would never replace you. Shit, you were a founding member of the band! You're what's kept us from tearing out each others throats. You've kept our heads above water. You're the wind beneath over wings for Christsake."

"Enough of the mixed metaphors. I came here to practice. So let's do it."

I sat the guitar case down. "And by the way, where'd this guitar come from?" I asked.

"We bought it. So shut the fuck up," John said, smacking me in the shoulder. "We care about you, dumb ass."

" I deserved that. Thank you. It's just like my old one. Where'd you get it?" I asked.

"Bought it from the new guy," John said. Shit, I was beginning to feel ungrateful again. 

That's when I opened the case, and there it was under the guitar.

 "Holy, Shit!" I yelled. 

Everyone thought I was off on another nut, and Sid bent to look at what the Hell was in my guitar case. He stood up. The card was in his hand.

"The missing card!" I said.

"What are you talking about?" John asked.

"Long story," I replied, looking at the envelope in Sid's hand. The top was ragged and a bloody thumb print-- my blood-- stained the front. I must have opened it after the accident. Odd,  I never ripped  envelopes open. Sid pulled out the card and looked at it-- 

He turned it over and showed it to me. All I saw were a series of L's and O's.

"Ones and zeros," Sid said to himself.

"Ones and zeros? What does that mean?" I asked.

"Binary code-- you know-- for computers."

"You think that's what it is?" I asked Sid.

"I can't think of anything else it could be."

"But why would he send his mom flowers with a card written binary code?" I asked. Sid shrugged. And how the heck did it get into my guitar case, I wondered.

"What are you two talking about?" John asked. "Let's jam, Spam!" Leave it to John to use archaic guitar witticisms. 

I plugged my guitar into the amp and turned to face our new member. 

"Here," John said. "I want you to officially meet our new member, Les Lancaster Zante."

"Lancaster? Your name is Lancaster?" I stopped tuning my guitar. "You don't happen to be related to the Lancasters that live out on River Road?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's my grandma. Why? You know 'er?"

"Small world," said Sid. "Too, small."

After finding out who the new mysterious band member was, I didn't want to practice. But the show must go on. We practiced the rest of the afternoon, but I couldn't get into it. I had to admit though, that  Lancaster had a great voice. Better yet his voice meshed with the rest of ours like he was created for that purpose. Fucking hell.

I didn't like how things were progressing with my life, and I told Sid so when we got back to his place.

"I got no home-- I got no car. I have a Hell of a head ache. And I think my finger's still infected. I'm on my third antibiotic, and it's still not working. It hurts like a bitch when I play the guitar."

"Better call the doctor tomorrow and have him call in a different antibiotic," Sid said.

"You know what I think? I think that rose carried some kind of heavy virus like e-bola, and I'm dying from it right now."

"That's not funny at all," Sid said.

"I'm not being funny; I'm serious."

We dropped the topic and fixed leftovers from last night. Afterwards, Sid got out the Scrabble board-- even though I wanted to play Battleship. 

I've played Scrabble with Sid once before. He cheats. Last time he got the triple word score on some 'confrabricated' word, claiming he had no dictionary to look it up. Jeez, ever heard of Webster's on the internet? 

After we got to playing, I suspected Sid was letting me win. I didn't say anything. It's pretty sorry when the guy who wants to get into your pants throws a Scrabble game. 

He put away the Scrabble board, and I helped him pull out the sofa bed.  He didn't try anything funny. Fuck.

Before I went into the bedroom, I kissed him on the lips good night, and I took my time. He didn't seem to mind at all, but I made sure I kept my mouth closed.