Land of the Living Ch. 01

"It's the fucking truth. I can't hold a pencil anymore, and you spew your garbage every week for that rag. Now get out of here. I can't stand the sight of your mediocre self."

He had fled, vowing not to return. Yet he had come back, and stayed to the end. On the last day Marc's emaciated body became wracked with harsh gasps as his organs failed. Jordan looked for a last time into his glazed, unseeing eyes, kissed him on his chapped lips and whispered, "I love you," though he knew Marc was past all hearing. The agonized waiting as the dying man's labored breathing gradually slowed and stilled would remain forever etched in his memory.

"I've made you sad," Lee's voice said, jerking him back to the present.

Jordan passed a hand over his eyes. "It's okay. I needed to talk about this--it's good."

"Gentlemen, we're closing," the barista said as he stopped by their table to pick up their cups.

Lee looked at him intently. "I'd like to continue this at my house. You haven't told me about your own writing."

At Lee's modest, elegantly furnished home the professor had served him Scotch and they had continued to talk. It took considerable conversation for Jordan to discover that Lee had written, some years previously, a novel that had been nominated for the National Book Award. The older man displayed a copy with mingled pride and diffidence.

"I remember reading this my freshman year in college," Jordan said. "I loved it. I can't believe I'm meeting the author."

Lee laughed. "Right now I'm feeling pretty old."

"You haven't written any others lately?"

Lee shook his head regretfully. "I'm not sure why. The usual reasons, I suppose. The teaching, not having enough time. I love teaching and I'm good at it--I don't feel unfulfilled not writing. Maybe that's the problem."

Almost before he knew it it was one o'clock in the morning, and Lee was looking at him with a new intentness in his eyes. Jordan had wondered what he would do if this moment came. He found himself reaching out and stroking one bearded cheek. The sweetness of Lee's smile at his touch filled him with a warmth he had not felt for a long time.

"You know why I gave you my card?" Lee asked as he cooked breakfast for Jordan the next morning.

"No, what?"

"The way you teared up when you told me you had known Marc. I could tell he was someone special to you. I wanted to help." Lee bent and kissed Jordan. "Besides, your butt looked great in those tight black pants. I was feasting my eyes every time you left the table."

Jordan hugged his arm as they laughed. Even then, though, he had not been bowled over by the chemistry between them. Every time he thought of Marc, on the other hand, his mind filled with erotic images: Marc naked on the porch of the stone cabin, ready to fuck him, his long cock jutting up from his coarse pubic bush; Marc gently rubbing both his nipples with the palms of his hands until he writhed helplessly with pleasure; Marc overwhelming him with ardent, tobacco-scented kisses.

He owed Lee a lot. The older man had supported him, encouraged him to quit waiting tables and find work that would let him write. Yet dissatisfaction had slowly grown through the placid months of their life together, going off to work at the paper every weekday, weekends spent safely, predictably, at the movies, the theater or the lake. Finally, he had begun to search for something to fill the void.

Marc had frequently been cruel to him while he was alive--but in death, he cast a spell over Jordan that he couldn't seem to break.

He was roused out of his memories by the tread of heavy footsteps at the front door. Hastily he logged off. He said nothing to Lee that evening about the message.

The following day Jordan came home and went immediately to the computer. Logging on, he felt nervous anticipation as he saw the blinking icon signaling incoming mail. He opened his in-box and gasped.

There was another message from marcmoss, this time with an attached file: "Any day now."

With trembling fingers he opened it.

Hey Camel: Just another heads up, and a little present to hold you until then. Marco

He punched the icon to download the file, which was untitled. As the frame on the screen began to fill, he watched in fearful fascination.

"Oh, Jesus," he muttered when it was done. He was shaking all over.

The picture itself was attractive, the kind he would have downloaded from one of the sites he used to peruse regularly until the blowup with Lee. It was an image of a dark-haired, mustached man, slender but toned, smiling with casual arrogance. He wore only a very brief, bright red Speedo, perching on the rocks that ringed one of the area lakes on a bright sunny summer day.

It was Marc, of course. It was bad enough that someone had sent him the picture that had once been his favorite. What made it a thousand times worse, what caused coppery terror to rise in Jordan's throat, was that, as far as he knew, he had possessed and destroyed the only copy. He had taken that picture himself on one of their excursions, and burned it in the depths of his grief soon after Marc's death.

"What?" Jordan said, irritably. He and Lee were driving to dinner at some friends' a few days later. No further messages had come, but Jordan's nerves remained on edge. He had not been able to trace the source of the e-mails--the anonymizing server they had come from had been singularly unhelpful.

"I said, is there something wrong?" Even Lee must have noticed his mood.

"Nothing. I'm fine." What could he say? A ghost was sending him e-mails and pictures from his past?

Lee sat back, his face dark. "You're so jumpy and rude. If there's something I've done that's bothering you, why can't you let me know what it is?"

"It's not you." They were on a busy street and Jordan wasn't sure where the left turnoff they were supposed to take was.

Great time to start, Lee.

"Then what is it? You were just like this around the time--"

"When what?" They had reached the intersection and were stopped in the left-turn lane. The light was green and traffic rushed past them in both directions. Jordan turned to face his partner as his temper flared. "When you found those e-mails from Burt? Is that what you were going to say?"

Lee sat stiff and silent.

"Damn it, Lee! Don't start in on me again." Jordan thought he saw an opening and swung the wheel, angrily stomping on the accelerator. Their car jerked into the intersection. At that instant a horn blared loudly and brakes shrieked to their right.

Lee wheeled toward the sound, screaming "Oh my God!" just before the oncoming car broadsided them.

The next few days were a series of mercifully blurry images. Sitting in the shattered car amid pebbles of glass, cradling Lee's bloody head, screaming for help. The ride to the hospital. Waiting in the cold, impersonal lobby, trying not to weep. Praying, despite the fact he didn't believe in God. Breaking down at the news that his partner was in a coma. Then, days later, rushing to the hospital after hearing the encouraging phone message.

"When can I see him?" Jordan demanded eagerly.

The doctor, a quiet, competent woman, frowned. "Perhaps not just yet."

"Why not? I thought you said he'd recovered consciousness."

"Yes, but--" she finally continued. "There seems to be a problem with his memory."

"What sort of problem?" Jordan asked, anxiety rising.

She hesitated, then spoke. "It appears he has at least temporary amnesia. He does not know his name, occupation, or any basic information about himself. My guess is that he won't recognize you, either."

Jordan stood silent, momentarily stunned by this news. "But maybe seeing me will make him snap out of it," he countered. "Please."

"Well, perhaps," she said doubtfully.

They had walked into Lee's room together. His head still bandaged, his partner turned toward Jordan and the doctor. His eyes were mild, impersonal. There was not a flicker of recognition in them.

"Who are you?" he asked.

TO BE CONTINUED...