Page 10 of Jealous of the Clouds
The dinner was over. We’d agreed earlier to spend the night at my apartment. Since the evening was warm, with a nice breeze off the lake, I proposed we walk home from the restaurant. It was only a couple miles, more or less.
And maybe the breeze would blow the stink of suspicion away.
Chapter 5
Josh’s prediction—he’d made it twice—came quicker than I thought it would.
Bailey Anderson, the host ofMeat Locker, called.
The call came a few days after our dinner at Cross-Rhodesandour failed night together at my place. I say failed because, for the first time, Josh was unable to perform. It was no big deal to me—it happens to almost all of us at one point or another—but he was devastated, claiming, of course, impotence was an alien thing to him—he’d never experienced it. I assured him I believed him (even though I didn’t) and tried to tell him it didn’t matter, because it really didn’t. I didn’t view it as some sudden permanent change. He’d be fine next time. Sleeping together, bodies pressed close, was enough for me. So, it was only Josh, really, who made it a ‘failed’ night.
But even the simple pleasure afforded from cuddling didn’t happen. I suppose our conversation over dinner, and my asking questions, had disturbed him more than he let on. He’d stayed awake most of the night, tossing and turning. At one point, he got up and went into the living room where my desk was. I peeked out and saw him silhouetted against the screen of my desktop computer. I didn’t want him to think I was spying, so I didn’t try to discern what he was looking at, as much as I wanted to.
Now, it was a Wednesday morning and I was close to being late for work. I had to pray that the L would be running smoothly with no delays. I still had a vague sense of unease about the weekend and was even wondering if I should back out of the relationship.
I was no longer certain that what I felt for Josh was love. Maybe, but also maybe not. Sometimes lust and infatuation and wishingrealhard can masquerade as love. I wasn’t a naïve kid. I knew it was right to question my feelings, especially in light of what I was now learning.
These feelings werenotbecause I thought Josh was a murderer, but the weight of the accusation, now that I was aware of it, wedged between us. I was clueless about how to remove it, so we could return to the blissful days I associated with early romance.
Just as I was heading out the door, softly repeating to myself my usual mantra, “keys, wallet, phone,” the latter actually vibrated in my front jeans pocket. I was already at my front door, hand on the knob, and thought I should just let it go to voice mail. That would be the sensible thing to do. I could check it when I got on the train or to my cubicle downtown. Besides, most of my calls were of the robo variety, so why delay even another minute?
I have never been able to let a call go to voice mail. And maybe I was a stranger still to the “sensible thing to do.”
At the very least, I had to have a glance at the screen. Why? Simple—hope. That particular emotion with feathers was left over from the days when we didn’t know who was on the other end of a ringing phone. There was always the optimism that someone special was calling.
I pulled the phone out of my pocket and did a double take. I didn’t expect to see the nameBailey Andersonon my screen for a couple of reasons. One, I didn’t think a podcast host would be that transparent. At the very least, a call from him would be shielded by his production company name or at leastMeat Locker. And two, I believed, and maybe rightly, that I was too small potatoes for the host of a national podcast to phone little old me.
But Bailey Anderson was old-school, I guess—in terms of transparency. And maybe he simply wasn’t afraid to be open about who he was—which I took as a good sign.
The phone chirped again—once more and it would go to voice mail. If I left now, I could, if the stars aligned, be at my desk before I’d be considered tardy by my clock-watching boss, Gordon Beck, who was all about working late whether it was necessary at all, towing the corporate line, and never about employee morale.
But I wasn’t strong enough, or incurious enough, to let this go.
I moved across my living room, plopped down on the couch, and pressed the screen. “Hello?”
“Good morning. Is this Theodore Cornish?”
“It’s me. I go by Ted.”
“I’m glad I reached you, Ted.” He introduced himself in case I hadn’t seen the name on the Caller ID. He explained a little bit about the podcast and its most recent focus. He wasn’t one to beat around the bush. “I understand you’re dating Joshua Kade?”
The question immediately put me on guard, defensive. Even though I’d had my doubts and worries, I jumped immediately to Team Josh. I tried to keep my voice calm as I asked a couple things. “How did you get this number? And what business is it of yours who I’m dating? I don’t know you.”
He didn’t seem phased. His voice was slightly different from the podcast. While it was deep and resonant, just like the voice I already knew from my earbuds, there was a raspiness to it, a slightly breathy quality. “Your phone number’s public record, Ted. And it’s my business because I’m doing a podcast series on the case. I’d like to give you the opportunity to share your viewpoint.”
“I’m not sure what I can contribute.” I guess I was relenting a little bit. Part of me wanted to know more about the case. He seemed like the person who, to date, might have the most answers.
What about this boyfriend of yours?A voice in the back of my mind chided.
“Sometimes people don’t realize what they know, what might be helpful,” he said. “Look, I’m sorry if this feels like a bit of an ambush. I admit I try to call folks at inconvenient times, like early mornings or the dinner hour. After many years as a journalist, I’ve found that it’s often the best way to get hold of someone. The case is one that has bothered me for a long time and I’m simply trying to track down anyone who might have some insight. You’re romantically involved with Josh, just like Reggie Baker was, so you might be able to tell me something that’ll help.”
“Help what? Get him suspected again? Maybe throw him in jail?”
“That isa possibility. It’salsoa possibility that you could be a wonderful character reference—maybe one strong enough for me to shift focus. Wouldn’t it be great if something you shared helped me shift the light of suspicion off him?”
I sat and pondered, saying nothing for a minute or so. Finally, not sure if I was doing the right thing, I sighed and asked, “How do you want to do this?”
I could almost sense him smiling at the other end of the call. “Can I take you to lunch today? You work downtown, right?”
