Chapter Six
John wasn’t certain he was sane. After all, his memories began with a black abyss, and his life had been steeped in misery. Sometimes in the cell, especially at night, he doubted his own existence. But he’d been suddenly whisked away and now faced so many things he’d previously only imagined: The sky and the stars. A clean body covered in soft clothing. A bed. And a man who spoke with him—called him by name!—and whose touches never hurt. Maybe these were the desperate fictions of a tattered mind.
If it was a delusion, John intended to relish it as long as he could. He lay in the darkness, feeling the warmth from Harry’s body, listening to the symphony of Harry’s even breaths. This was contentment, better than a brief pool of sunshine.
And Harry said John hadn’t been bad.
He fell asleep smiling.
***
He woke early and spent some time watching Harry sleep. He was a beautiful man, with a diamond-shaped face that tended toward frowns when he was awake but smoothed during slumber. John traced a finger over his own cracked narrow lips and envied Harry’s, lush and soft-looking. Unlike John’s skin, pale as a mushroom, Harry was a light tan with slightly ruddy cheeks.
Harry opened his eyes and startled so violently that he nearly fell off the bed. “Shit!”
“I’m sorry!” John curled into himself protectively. He hadn’t intended to make Harry angry.
But after a long look at John, Harry rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “You’re different.”
“I….”
“You look….” Another head shake. “Never mind. We need to go.”
It didn’t take long for Harry to get dressed. He carried his suitcase outside and returned immediately for John, who settled comfortably into his arms. John felt oddly safe when Harry held him, although he had no assurances that Harry wouldn’t harm him eventually. Fine. He’d enjoy the contact for now.
Harry grunted as he crossed to the door. “You feel heavier.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not exactly your fault, is it?”
As he had the previous morning, Harry put John in the trunk. This time John wore clothing and wasn’t in chains. Still, Harry seemed hesitant to close the lid. “Are you gonna be okay in there? We got a long way to go today.”
“I’m fine.”
Frowning, Harry shut him inside.
In truth, the trunk was uncomfortable. John could barely move and definitely couldn’t straighten his limbs, and sometimes the car’s sudden starts and stops slammed him into the metal walls. But he was well accustomed to solitude, inactivity, and darkness, and at least the trunk was warmer than his cell. Also, when the car moved smoothly—which was most of the time—the gentle bouncing soothed him. Although he couldn’t see or hear Harry, John knew he was close by, and that was a solace as well.
The car stopped several times, but not for long, and John remained locked in the trunk. By the time Harry finally opened the lid, it was nighttime again, but the stars were shrouded by an overcast sky. Without saying anything, Harry carried him into a room similar to the last, although this one had two narrow beds instead of a wide one. Harry set John down on one mattress—still without comment—and then took a quick shower in the adjacent bathroom. He emerged with wet hair, wearing boxer shorts and an undershirt, and after a long silent scrutiny of John, he turned out the light. Bedsprings creaked as he got into the other bed.
John wanted to ask a thousand questions, but he dared not risk angering his keeper. So he remained quiet, although he didn’t fall asleep for a long time.
In the morning John discovered he could sit up by himself. He held up his arms, and in the weak light that crept around the curtains, he thought he discerned more substance to his body than he was used to. He was still terribly thin, but now weak muscles seemed to have developed, and his skin felt softer and more supple. More alive.
He brushed a trembling hand across the top of his skull and encountered… hair. Nothing like the thick brush Harry possessed, but far more than the few tiny wisps John was accustomed to.
He glanced at the other bed and discovered that Harry was awake and staring at him. “You look different. You’re changing. How come?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you done this before?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Scowling at John’s unsatisfactory answers, Harry got out of bed and prepared for their departure.
In the trunk John noted that today’s journey was shorter and that toward the end there was far more starting and stopping. Traffic noise filtered into his cocoon, and he eventually realized that the odd pinging sound must be raindrops hitting the metal above. When Harry popped the trunk open, John wasn’t surprised to see that his hair and clothing were damp. Behind him was a neon sign for the Totem Pole Motel.
“Got us another room. I’ll look for something better tomorrow. God, I’d love to have a real kitchen! I’m so sick of eating restaurant food. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since I left Missouri.” His face scrunched up, as if that were an unhappy memory. Then with a loud groan, he hoisted John into his arms.
Two beds again. John’s slight disappointment was ridiculous, because he ought to be deeply grateful to have a bed at all. This room was slightly larger than the others, with a desk, a small round table, and a few chairs. Several paintings of Indians adorned the walls. John sat on his bed instead of lying down as he watched Harry fuss around, getting settled.
He finally hazarded a question. “Where are we?”
“Portland.”
“Oh.” He knew in an abstract way that the city lay at the northern edge of Oregon. It had a port, he thought, and mountains nearby. A lot of trees. As always, he didn’t know where this knowledge came from.
Harry stood at the end of John’s bed, hands fisted on his hips. “I got some errands to run.”
John nodded.
But Harry didn’t leave. Instead he remained rooted in place, brow furrowed as he scrutinized John. “I don’t understand you.”
“I’m… sorry.”
“You can talk. And feel things. And I guess you can think okay too, right?”
Although this conversation made John uneasy, he was also gratified to have these things acknowledged. It meant Harry wasn’t viewing him as an object. “I can,” John agreed softly.
“Yeah. I’ve thrown you in the trunk of a car and dragged you a thousand miles away, and you ain’t complained even once.”
John sat up straighter in bed. “I’m clean, Harry. I have clothing. Beds. I’ve seen the sky! And I’m not… not alone.” That part was important. Maybe the most important of all. “Why would I complain?”
Looking grave, Harry shook his head. “You ain’t mine. You know that, right? When this job is over, the Bureau’s gonna want you back. I don’t know what they’ll do with you then.”
Although John had suspected as much, the words were still painful to hear. He sought courage within himself and found a small amount. “When they take me back, I’ll have good memories to bring with me. I didn’t have those before.” He even managed a smile, hoping it didn’t look too ghastly.
“What do you remember?”
“Pain. A room somewhere. It had white tile. A metal table. Straps and chains. A man with….” He shuddered. “With knives. He told me to call him master, but he never said my name. Then there was shouting. Gunfire? More men. And then my cell with my patch of sunlight, and more chains and knives and… and my cell again. Then you.”
He’d never said so many words at once, and even though he knew he was far from eloquent, Harry listened closely, his usually ruddy face pale and his eyes wide. When John finished speaking, Harry remained silent. He’d trapped his lower lip between his teeth.
Gathering all his bravery, John asked, “Can you tell me what I am?”
After a pause, Harry nodded. “Yeah.” Then he sighed. “Do you know how to read?”
“I… I don’t know.”
While John watched, Harry rummaged through his suitcase. He pulled out a paperback book and tossed it to John, who surprised himself by catching it easily. The lurid cover depicted a woman in a yellow dress sprawled on a bed, unconscious or dead. Behind her a brutish man stared at his oversized hands. But the words were more important than the image, and John discovered he could read them very well. “The greatest horror story of them all,” he recited. “Frankenstein.” Swallowing thickly, he looked at Harry for an explanation.
“Have you read it?” Harry asked. “Or seen the movie?”
“I don’t know.” If he had, the details lay in the missing parts of his memory. But he did know one thing. “A monster?”
“Read it.” Harry put on his jacket and a flat cap and left the room, shutting the door firmly.
John picked up the book and began to read.