1
Cameron Mason, just twenty-seven, and the cub reporter of the Chicago Tribune, eased his large frame through the window of his parents' home. He normally used the front door when he came and visited, but lately the man had felt unwanted in the house he had grown up in. He had moved out three-years earlier, when his investigation into a scandal at a lumber factory inadvertently caused his father to loose a great amount of money. Cameron was never sure his father was aware, or was involved in the money laundering, but since it had become public, he had spoke little to his mother and even less to his father.
So he packed up, and moved downtown into a small apartment near the Sherman House at Clark and Randolph. Besides, he was spending a lot of time at the paper, becoming much loved and much hated investigative reporter for the Tribune. Living on his own also gave him a chance to live his life the way he wanted too, answering to no one.
As he hardly closed the window, for despite the fact it was late September, and tree's were beginning to change, the City was still under the grip of a months long drought. Leaving it open, he turned and looked around the bedroom he used to share with his younger brother, Sam. It looked lived in, which it still was, for Sam had moved back after coming back from college a year before. He was now a fireman, which paid the bills, but little else. So he lived at home, putting money away so in a few years he could marry Carla Williams, his long-time sweet heart. Cam looked over at the bed, and saw his younger brother sleeping. He must've been tired, for he went to bed with his cloths on, and had not cleaned himself up either. His chubby face and red hair was covered in dirt and sweat.
As Cam approached the bed, Sam opened his eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was coarse after sleep, but his blue eyes betrayed him by being quite awake.
Cameron smiled slightly. "Good afternoon, my brother. I see you still are not a morning person."
"And your still an idiot," was all Sam could say. His mind was still in slumber land. He raised himself to a sitting position. He shook his head when he saw he still had his shoes on. "What are doing here?" he asked again, this time with honest curiosity.
Cameron sat down next to his brother, putting a hand on his knee. "I heard you were fighting another fire."
Sam looked at his brother. He shook his head. He hated when Cam came over asking questions about the fire department. Earlier in the year, Cam had gotten it into his head that the City was in danger of burning. This was nothing new, really. Over the years, editorials had been printed in various newspapers. Most were ignored, but some city leaders did introduce several reforms including changing the fire department from volunteer too professional. Of course, this change was due partly because volunteer companies had taken a greater interest in saving the property. As an example, a few years ago, two volunteer companies had came to fight a blaze, only to end up fighting each other on whose honor it would be to save the building. In the end, the building burnt to the ground. There was nothing to save but ash. The press had a field day with that.
Cam had sighted that other people, writers, builders, and a few travelers, who had called the city a wooden shantytown. But, it was far from it. Most of the hotels and banks and other buildings, like office blocks and commercial retail stores were constructed of brick and stone and iron. On the other hand, the Chicago Tribune had just recently put out an editorial to the fact that these buildings were shabbily constructed, that some of the best brick buildings were only one brick thick, so that their facades were ceaselessly falling into the street, and that the projecting cornices on stone builds were so wobbly, that a light breeze could bring them toppling down on pedestrians far below. As for the iron structures, most were barely secured in place. So, Cam was confident that there was some need for concern, but he found a few in his belief. It was at times like these, he would seek out his brother for some help.
For Sam, though, he would become a little leery of his brother's motives. So he asked what he wanted, and if he was still seeing that polish boy.
Cameron eyed him suspicion. Leave it to Sam to ask a good question followed by an evil one. One that he knew would drive Cam crazy. "Listen, Sam. All I want is a little info for my article. What's the big deal? And why do you care who I'm seeing?"
"It is a big deal. Every time you write an article on the city, on the fires, on the department itself, people give me looks like I'm betraying them. They think I give you information."
"You do."
"Yes, but they don't have to know that."
Cameron got up and wandered over to a table by the door. It was littered with paper clippings, photographs and a sketchpad. He lifted the paper and saw that his brother's talent was getting stronger. Without turning, he asked Sam how his parents were.
His eyes narrowed with concern, "The usual. Dad still is complaining about loosing the money." Sam got up and moved over to the water bowel next to the window. He splashed water on his face.
"And Mother?"
As he dried his face, Sam let out a big sigh. "She's still the quiet soft spoken women who will do anything her husbands says."
"Including not talking to me?"
Sam walked over to him, throwing the towel over his shoulder. "Well, in a way, yes. But she does have a letter for you."
Cameron turned to his brother, a smile on his face. Sam picked up the drawing pad, and paged through it, until he came to a blank page with an envelope in between the pages. He handed it over to his brother. Cameron took it, and was about to open it, but decided to wait. He asked Sam if they were here.
Sam returned to the wash basin, and took off his shirt." No, they mentioned they were going to see Grandma up in Peshtigo. The old girl is not doing so good."
Cameron looked over at his younger brother, and wondered how Sam got to be more popular than he was. Younger siblings always had to live in the shadows of the older ones. This family was different. Sam took all the glory, while Cam came off as Cameron, Sam's brother. Still, it wasn't that bad. Cam could be whom he was, with little possibility of his family finding out. He didn't want to know the consequences if his parents found out whom he slept with.
"He's doing fine."
Sam stopped washing and looked over at his brother. " I beg your pardon?"
"Joshua. He's doing fine." Cameron said shyly.
Sam went on cleaning himself, but he began to smile. About six years ago, Sam had discovered his older brothers' passion for young men. At the time, it seemed Cameron would bed any guy that came along, but two years ago he met a twenty year old man by the name of Joshua Kawalski. For all intents and purpose, the two were married. Still, the families of both would be shocked beyond belief if the ever found out.
Sam went over to a closet, and poked around until he found a clean shirt. Then he lowered himself and found a clean under shirt. He threw both on the bed, then sat down beside them.
"Do you love him?" Sam asked suddenly. Cameron turned to his younger brother, a surprised look on his face.
"Who, Josh?"
"Yes."
Cam leaned against the dresser, and let out a sigh. Ironically, that very same thought had been going through his head the last few weeks. This was his longest relationship, and he was wondering were it was going to go. It was not safe to tell people who they were, and what they did. Could they live a lie forever? He had asked Josh the same question, but the boy had shrugged his shoulders, saying that he was very happy with the way things were, and maybe they should not try to fix what wasn't broken.
"Very much."
Sam lowered his head. It was hard for him at first to deal with his brothers' homosexuality. His religion called it an illness, and doctors called it even worse. Sam had found out what some doctors did to men when they found out what they did in bed. It frightened him at first, but then he realized his brother was no different than anybody else. He was the same. He just slept with men instead of women. So what, Sam said to himself, I can deal with that. And he has for six years. He loved his older brother, and despite his fathers' wishes, he even looked up to him.
"Good", he finally said. "Now, what do you want to know?"
2
Cameron Mason made his way north on Michigan Avenue, towards The Chicago Tribune's office on Dearborn Street. He was looking over his notes that he taken from Sam, and was paying little attention, when a man bumped into him, knocking nearly off his feet.
"Hey!" cried Cameron. He looked at the man, and was shocked to discover a very handsome, but quiet disheveled looking man staring at him, with a look that almost screamed "watch where you are going". He man had long blonde hair that hung at his shoulders, with a shirt that clung so tight, that the few buttons he could get in their eye sockets, looked like they were about to burst from the strain. His pants were quiet opposite of shirt. They were oversized, and he was clutching them with his left hand at his waist. His feet were bare. The stranger looked at Cameron, giving the young reporter the impression that he was being sized up for his cloths. When he spoke, the voice was soft and almost proper.
"Where am I, and what is the year?"
Cam took a few steps back, and looked around. Some people had noticed what was going on, and stopped to stare. The young man was aware of how close he was to an area that had become the shame on the city. It was just a bum, a poor man with nothing. He felt compelled to turn away and run, but Cameron stood still for a moment, his mind racing. For some reason, as he reckoned later, there was something about this man that told his brain to tell the man what he wanted to know.
"Chicago," Cam finally said. The man looked at the small crowd of people, and then at the buildings around the avenue. He stepped closer to Cameron, who seemed not to able to move. He was staring at the man's blue eyes, swept up in their clarity.
"What is the year?" the man asked again, this time his voice was edged with a grit that sent a quiver down Cameron's spine.
"1871. September 30th to be exact." Cameron finally backed away. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His notebook and pencil slid to the sidewalk, hardly making a noise. The man turned once again to the crowd of people, and like a swift breeze, was gone up an alley.
For what seemed like hours, but lasted only a few seconds, Cam stood looking at the alley were the man had disappeared. His mind raced with thoughts on what he had just experienced. He tried to fathom why a person would ask such odd questions (the fact that he answered the man never seemed to enter his mind). Slowly, he picked up his pad and pencil. He noticed that the people, who had stopped and watch this bizarre show, had moved off.
Unlike most people, who took little notice of how the city was changing in such a few short years, Cam had a deep interest in its past. He would often spend hours at the Chicago Historical Society building at the corner of Dearborn and Ontario. There he had learned about how the city had grown from its humble beginnings as a trading post at Fort Dearborn, on some marshy ground near Lake Michigan; how Chicago was plotted and surveyed in 1830 and the story of one Daniel P. Cook, who legend has it never stepped a foot in the county for which it is named. Soon after, the post office was established and then came a lighthouse, saw mill and the first bridge that stretched across the River. When the village of Chicago was organized in 1833, it had fewer than 100 inhabitants, including Cameron's grandparents. The many new immigrants joined the fur traders, gamblers, land speculators, Indians and soldiers (though by 1835, 80 percent of the population had been there less than a year). But soon, the Indians would be driven from the city. After numerous tangles with mostly the Sauk and Fox tribes lead by chief Black Hawk, the United States government decided to expel all the Indians from the southern end of Lake Michigan to the Mississippi. In early 1835, 5000 Patawatomi Indians gathered in Chicago bid a last farewell to their old hunting grounds and went west in search of new homes (by 1836 the soldiers would soon follow next; Fort Dearborn was shut down and, has been slowly slipping into death).
When the 1870 census was finished, Chicago had counted their people at 344,000. The city encompassed an area of six miles north to south and three miles wide from the Lake west, on 23,000 acres at a value of well over $620 million, and Michigan Avenue had in recent years grown into one of the most stylish areas of Chicago. Many town homes and apartments with splendid terraces overlooked the shore of the lake, which seemed to extend forever, along with the railroad tracks that ran adjacent the breakwater. Near 12th Street and Michigan Avenue stood Park Row, a fashionable area of city, its architecture born not of Greek Revival that a had swept the city in its early years, but Victorian in nature, with tall arched windows. Further north was the stadium of the Chicago White Stockings baseball, and stretching from the Chicago River almost a mile south to Harrison street was the business district. Many of the city's finest department stores were located on State Street, along with the Palmer House, which is one of the tallest buildings in town.
But the South Side did have one area that failed to live up to the opulence of State Street, an area that was very close to the business district, an area that was by no means impressive. It was a small section south of Randolph, running from Wells Street west to the river. Conley's Patch, as it was called, was a neighborhood that was a stretch of cheap saloons and brothels, with pawnshops, unappealing one-story shacks and boardinghouses thrown together like a patch of weeds. Some had tried to improve the area, but like a true nuisance, if you didn't get at the root, it was going to come back. That it did, and that was the true nature of the problem.
Cameron tried to write an editorial on the subject, but found his boss was very unreceptive to the idea. Cameron knew why, even before his boss mentioned that the problem was not that bad and why stirs up a hornet's nest when you didn't have too. Despite the nastiness about the fires of the past years, the subject of Conley's Patch seemed to be deemed nothing. He was told to forget about it. The article was still in his desk, waiting for a more enlighten time.
In the morning heat, Mason turned and headed back to his offices. His mind raced with just a few thoughts. One was concerning the article on last night's fire, and the other was the strange man who had run into him. He was suddenly filled with the urge to find out who this man was.
3
Harit held his breath, his hearts racing. Blood poured through his veins like flood gates set on wide open.
All of it was making sense. Borusa was stealing the Doctor and his companions from Earth's time-streams. When he used the Time Scoop, he sent Harit down a time-corridor that was locked on Earth. Why he ended up here, at this time in history was a puzzle, but it also meant that he was trapped on this planet for a long time.
He cursed himself for not keeping up on his histories of planets in his Temporal Mechanics class. Earth, despite its increased influence in historical matters in the universe, was a boring planet. As far as he was concerned, the planet didn't get interesting until 3001. What a time to be without his "History of the Universe" or that pedantic Hitchhiker's Guide.
Harit moved down the alley, taking in the scenes of this barbaric culture. It was so bizarre to see such a run down, forgotten area, jammed up against the beauty of the city. What Harit had seen, this Chicago was a very impressive place for the time. He had spent hours, since leaving the barn, wandering around. He had gone from rich to poor areas in a single eye blink. From a beaten shack that some one called a home, to buildings that marveled the senses.
As Harit came out on a less crowded street, he paused for a moment. He began to think of the man he ran into. He was just a kid, but for some odd reason, this child, this human, made Harit uneasy. The Time Lord remembered how he looked when he bumped into him. How he looked like he was about to yell, but stopped. This human seemed to be intrigued with him. Harit had been noticed. It was something he realized when he first started out this morning. Most people saw him wandering down the street, asking about where he was and what year it was. Most just seemed too not to see him, or they walked across the road, or just turned and went back the way they came. In some ways, even his fellows Gallifreyans have forsaken their people. The Shobogans, who disagreed with the actions of their fellow Time Lords, now roamed the wastelands of outer Gallifrey. When some were let back in, most ignored them.
Harit snorted, not liking the idea that there was some kind of constant in the universe.
Still, this human had intrigued him. The creature seemed to enjoy his unease. He shook his head, and discovered that the one thing he really disliked about this new body: the hair. It got in his eyes, and he was quickly getting tired of removing it from them. Brushing it aside, he glanced back down the alley. If he was stuck on some backwater planet in a backward time period, he was going to have to make the most of it. And that started with finding a place to stay. As he made off back down the alley, he began to wonder how he was going to find that human.
4
The morning turned into the afternoon, and the body of Harrison was removed. It became apparent to Tegan, that there were groups of people who helped out when the time came. Hospice workers, Caleb had called them. She was surprised at all people that came and left the apartment. Some cried, others just sat for a few moments, remembering a friend who had lost a battle. It was with these people, that the former airhostess learned about true family. No one was judgmental, even the priest that visited, and gave last rites, seemed to be sadden by this death. This went against everything she was taught about people who were gay. She had been told they led lonely, unproductive lives. They were perverted, and their families would hate them.
But, what she saw today, changed her mind in some ways. Even if Caleb's family had turned away from him (who he hadn't spoken to in nearly 5 years), he discovered another family that embraced him, and understood him and accepted who he was. Tegan was surprised to hear that some religious organizations seemed to coming around in their views. However, she knew that there would still be people out there who hated men like Caleb and Harrison.
A thought had occurred to Tegan after a while, and she asked the Doctor about it. She had wondered how an alien, and one who was so ill, would not have been detected as an alien. After all, Time Lords do have two hearts. Did human drugs work the same way as alien drugs? How would he get a doctor to give him such medicine?
The Doctor shrugged, not really knowing. He told Tegan that the current drug regimen was excruciating, that most AIDS patients must take up to twenty pills a day. How these effected a Time Lord physiology, he didn't know. Galliffrians were not human, but like the Doctor, who's half-human heritage was a well kept secret, was sure that any Time Lord who came in contact with such a virus as HIV, would have difficulty fighting it.
He had looked at the bottles that were on the dresser after Harrison had died. The Doctor was aware vaguely of the recent advances in the drug treatments for people with HIV and AIDS. It was possible, he guessed that some of these protease inhibitors --new classes of drugs that treat these infected people-- were helping many gay men, and a great many were responding well to them. Still others were not. Most likely, he finally told her, that Harit could get his hands on anything. All Time Lords are telepathic, and if used, one can persuade almost anyone.
Wonderful, she thought.
As evening fell, the apartment emptied, leaving Caleb and his new friends alone. The heat of day seemed to dim a bit as the night began to creep into the western sky. They sat and ate some of the food that people had brought over, giving Tegan a slight smile. She always found it odd that people brought food over to comfort the grieving. It was a nice tradition, but still a little odd. After a good meal, she tried to change the subject with the Doctor and Turlough, but, in the end, sadness overwhelmed her, and she moved away from her two companions and Caleb.
She moved through the apartment, taking in some of furnishings, most which appeared to her as being very old and expensive. She signed, feeling like some of the antiques. In the enclosed deck area at the back of the apartment, Tegan discovered a big chair and a room filled with many books. She sat down and looked out the window, which faced the west. The sky was tinged in red hues. It looked to be on fire. Like the sky, her thoughts were a storm of confusion and sadness. She didn't know what to feel. It was as if that part of her did not exist anymore. For some odd reason, she thought she lost a good friend. Which was odd, due to the fact the conversation all had taken place with in a span of twenty minutes. Was the fact that he was a Time Lord have anything to do with it? Was she so connected to the Doctor that even the sad death of another of his race, made her feel like it was him?
No, she reasoned. She had seen the death of a few Time Lords, Hedin and Omega being the first. So it was illogical from her point of view, to feel any sorrow for this Time Lord. But, she was human, and Turlough had pointed out her many times, how distressing he found us emotional creatures. Sentiment, he had said to her, would be our undoing. When pressed about what he meant by "our undoing", Turlough would shut up and leave a very confused girl.
She looked around the small deck area, and took in, for the first time, the immense collection of books. She raised herself to get a look at the titles, discovering they appeared to be history books. She reached and picked up the first title on the pile. It was a history of Chicago during the 1920's. A tale about its prohibition years and a biography of its greatest villain, Al Capone. Still another was on its grand architecture. Another on serial killers of the early 20th century, and one on the Great Chicago Fire. She was about to page through the large red tome, when the Doctor walked in. He scanned the area, and gently played his fingers over the books. He looked out the window, staring at nothing in particular.
"What do we do now, Doctor?"
The Doctor held his gaze for a few moments, then spoke. "I don't know, Tegan."
Tegan rolled her eyes. "With all due respect, I'm tired of you saying that."
The Time Lord turned, and gave her a half-hearted, but stern look. A slight sigh escaped his tight lips. "So am I," he admitted. He sat down on the floor next to Tegan.
The former airhostess looked at him, for she was shocked. It was few and far between when the Doctor would acknowledge he had made an error. She didn't know what to say. And for a girl stuck with the moniker of "a mouth with legs", this was quite astounding.
"Why didn't he regenerate?" she asked, changing the subject.
The Doctor was about to say that he did not know, but stopped himself. He guessed if he took a while, and looked at it deeply, he would be able to figure it out. Looking over at the books, he took leap of faith.
"Most likely the virus destroyed the cells of the regeneration process. Humans and Time Lords share a few traits. Our immune system, while much stronger, would most likely fall by the way side, when attacked by such an aggressive virus."
Tegan reflected on that for a few moments, admitting to herself she understood little of her own human body, let alone the Doctor's. She turned her attention to the books again. She picked one up.
"Someone sure likes Chicago history."
"He was obsessed with it," a soft voice spoke. The two travelers turned and saw Caleb standing next to them. Both had failed to notice his arrival. He now looked older than he did when Tegan first saw him. His face was drawn and ashen looking. His bright eyes of this morning had dimmed like the last remains of dying fire. His arms were crossed tight to his chest. Sometime during that last half-hour, he had lost his shoes, for he stood bare foot behind them. "He bought every new book that came out on the history of the city."
"Why all the interest?" Tegan asked.
Caleb sighed, and looked at her. "During our time together, he felt he owed me little explanation of his actions. Over the years, I let him do what ever he felt."
"Now there's something to build a healthy relationship"
"Tegan!" abolished the Doctor.
"No, Doctor, she is right." Caleb walked into the room, and stared out the window, looking at the same things the Doctor did. "We had a very weird, and very dysfunctional love affair. It seemed we go out of our ways to hurt each other, and then make up like nothing had ever happened. His history books was the one place he could hide, when our fights got out of control."
"What was yours?" Tegan asked softly, her voice suddenly filled with compassion. Her eyes began to mist over; she suddenly hated Turlough even more.
Caleb let out a slight sputter of laughter. "School, mostly." He turned to the two travelers. "I was studying to be a Doctor. Like so many of us who had infected loved ones, I wanted to be the one to find the Cure. Still, though, I find myself sometimes in church, wondering where my God was."
Tegan lowered her gaze, as finally a tear slid down her face. She swore. Talk about becoming involved in other people's lives. Trying to hide her face, she moved over to the pile of books, and spoke gently, "What era did he arrive in?"
Both Caleb and the Doctor turned to her. " I beg your pardon," the Doctor asked.
She turned and faced them, a big red book in her hands. "What time period did he say he arrived?"
Caleb shrugged. "Like I said, he told little of his past."
"But you had to have some clue."
" I have suspicions."
The Doctor looked at the book, then at Tegan, and then to Caleb. He suddenly realized were she was going. He smiled inward. It seemed this former airhostess, and big pain in the rear end, had finally learned something. He was about to say something, but decided this was Tegan's show.
"Where?"
Caleb turned to the books. He remembered, he explained to the Doctor and Tegan, when they first moved in together, he had commented on Harrison's collection. He had noticed they were mostly history titles, with a large amount dealing with the Great Lakes area of the Midwest. He also had a large collection dealing with European history as well. He had asked Harrison what he was doing with the titles, but all he would say was that he was doing research. When probed, as Caleb tended to do early in their relationship, Harrison had said he was looking for someone. At first, Caleb never asked who it was, but over the years, Caleb would get the courage to ask. But Harrison, the ever-beautiful man whose eyes held a dark harvest of mystery, was very tight lipped.
About five years into their marriage (Tegan thought that was such an odd use of the word), Caleb said he became very interested in who Harrison was. So when his partner was out, Caleb went over his books, trying to figure out who the man was. It would take nearly a year of probing, but he soon came to realize that the man he loved was not from this planet. How he knew, Caleb was unsure. He didn't have any intergalactic passport or any sort of birth record, but as the puzzle pieces came together, Caleb began to understand Harrison's obsession with the past. It meant a great deal to him.
"Fire," he whispered. He turned to face the two travelers. His face was awash with the knowledge that everything finally fell into place, like a golf ball into its hole. "He bought and read every book on the Great Chicago Fire. Is it possible that he came here during that time?"
"That was 130 years ago," the Doctor said.
Caleb smiled. "I know what you are going to say. That the man who now lies dead on that bed, could not be a 130 years old."
"No," the Doctor muttered. "I know he was much older." The Time Lord looked at Tegan, and smiled slightly. She had worked this out for herself. He was proud. He was about to say that exactly, when she spoke again.
"Doctor, was he looking for you?"
The Doctor turned away. He walked towards the room that had contained the body of Harit, his thoughts a big jumble of unanswered questions. "It's a possibility. But, if he lived these last 130 years here, he would've been part of this time-line."
"Meaning?"
"Well, Tegan, look at this way. He arrives sometime before, during or after the fire. He lives here, making a life for himself and eventually dies here today. He's become part of this history. I suppose he could've been curious how he was interacting with this time stream, seeing if he was causing any historical anomalies. If memory serves, he was brilliant in Temporal Mechanics. But since he lived this time-line, the idea he was looking for me, is a little far fetched."
"End of story?" asks Caleb.
The Doctor looked at him. Caleb was turning to out to be a very unusual person. He didn't follow all those predictable human traits. He knew he was dealing with an alien, he knew the Doctor was an alien, yet he stood before him with an open mind that the Doctor rarely comes across.
"No, I do believe there is something we are missing. There is some connection to his interest in the past, and my arrival today. We must figure out how he knew I'd be here, and what, if any, did he do to get me here."
"Could he have altered something?" It was Turlough's voice. Everyone turned to him, surprised at his sudden interest.
"What do you mean?" asked Caleb.
Turlough moved to the books, and picked up a title at random. "Doctor, you've proven to me and Tegan that you know when someone is fooling with the course of Earth's history. Our recent trip to 1215 is a prime example."
"So, you think Harrison altered something in the past?" asked Caleb, The Doctor moved over to Turlough, taking the book from his hand. He glanced at the title; it was on Chicago's netherworld of 1880 to 1920. Following Turlough's line of thinking the Doctor sat down, and closed his eyes. Ever since their arrival, he felt he was missing something. It was a sensation so strong that he felt he needed to check his bottomless pockets, or run to the door to see if something was passing by. Could this be the answer to that lost something? Could Harit have changed the past?
The Time Lord wished he still had K9. He would be able to sort out this mess. The Doctor pondered for a moment on trying to contact Romana, but quickly dismissed it. It could take weeks just to track a CVE, and if he found one, it was no guarantee he could get a message to her. No, the only logical thought was go with Turlough's idea that somehow, Harit had altered something in the past. It could not have been something major, due to the fact that if he had altered the time-line in the late 19th century, the Time Lords would have either sent the Celestial Intervention Agency to investigate, or most likely had sent the Doctor.
So what was it?
5
The afternoon warmth gave a way to a pleasant evening, a light southwestern breeze blew through the dusty streets of Chicago, and Cameron sat on his terrace, smoking a cigarette.
Behind him, the sheer curtain moved with the wind. Abaft of the curtains, Josh Kawalski moved between the rooms, humming a song that Cameron did not recognize. He had a pleasant voice, Josh. He was a singer and part-time actor. All the ladies and even a few men adored him. He was tall, and very thin, with dark brown hair, seductive brown eyes, and a smooth face. Add a smile that could melt even the most coldly of hearts, and you had an almost perfect companion. At twenty-two, he had already decided where he wanted to go, and who would be with him in years to come. It was the fact that he knew his own destiny that bothered Cam the most. For he never believed in love at first site, until he met this laughing boy two years ago. When he was sixteen, and had become aware of his attraction to other men, Cam became good at being the deceptive child, going to places that most decent people would never go. He would conjure up lies like a master magician, creating stories that were so detailed, that one could never accept the fact he was lying. He reflected later, that this was the reason he took so quickly to journalism. His story telling ability, and his unerring ways of getting under people's skin, made him a natural.
But he also became cynical during that time. He found ways to explore his sexual awakening, yet he also discovered how a dirty little secret this life was. The revelation of hypocrisy that existed at so many levels shocked him. He often remembered seeing men of upper class lives claim how terrible and disgusting the acts that these depraved men did, when later they would arrive in Conley's Patch, in non-descript clothing looking for some poor boy.
It was then, that he vowed he would never fall in love. He hated seeing those boys, who were really only starved for attention, waiting for some rich gentleman from the North side to come and sweep them away. Which was what they always thought would happen. Of course, some did leave. They were never seen again, which made Cam wonder what truly happened to them. Conley's Patch was a den of gossip, and you never took any story as gospel. But, after a while, with tales of how some boys and girls were killed after being taken away by their gentleman callers, you began to wonder if there wasn't a least a thread of truth running through the whispers.
When Josh came into his life two years ago, Cameron was just beginning his work at the Tribune, and was doing a piece on the Chicago Theatre --they were doing a revival of She Stoops to Conquer --, when he made eye contact with this devilishly handsome young man. Something registered between him and the actor, and Cam instantly wanted to be near him. But, it would take a month before they actually got to speak to one another.
Once together, they spent as much time as they could with each other. They took great efforts to hide what was going on, but most of the people who were involved with the theater, knew that they were more than just good friends. It came as quite a shock to Cam that not only did they not care, but they also seemed to approve it.
Now though, things were changing in both their lives. Josh had been offered a position in a Broadway production in New York. While it was still six months away, he seemed to agonize over if he should go. Meanwhile, Cam was beginning to be taken serious in the Chicago press, and felt if he left now, he would lose more than he would gain. While Cam could most likely get a job at any newspaper in New York, he knew that he would some sort of entry-level position. He would be doing theater critic stuff, while he wanted the tough stories that made the front page.
While, by nature, not a competitive person, he still felt the sting of losing the front page. Cam's thoughts were disrupted by the voices in the streets below. He crushed out his smoke, and stood up. He leaned over the edge of the balcony, and, in the waning light of summer, saw a group of people surrounding another person on the corner of Clark. The gas lit streets gave off only small pools of yellow glitter, and Cameron had to strain to see whom these people were pointing at.
The voices that streamed up from the street sounded angry and accusative. What Cam could see, the man in the middle was the center of that reproachful gang. He tried to peer into the puddle of light, but failed to see just who the person was. Soon, the voices began to rise, and Cam could make out a few words. He was about to go downstairs to find out what was going on, when Chicago's finest showed up, and broke up the crowd. He listened with his head cocked to one side, trying to hear. Then, the police pushed the man into the pool of light. Cam straightened up; realizing the man was the same one who accosted him earlier in the day.
He backed up a bit, hoping the man didn't see him. Soon though, he realized that he was well protected in the early evening darkness, so he leaned back over the railing and watched the man. Cam noticed that while his feet were still bare, he seemed to have found a pair of pants that fit, for he was using his hands to fight the police. They got him quickly into handcuffs just as a horse drawn wagon came around the corner. He was quickly thrown in, but Cam saw the man look up. Cameron drew in a quick breath as their eyes locked. He fell back into his chair. He held that breath for what seemed like hours, his mind a whirlwind of questions. When he finally let it out, he leaned over the edge and looked back down in the street. The police were gone, and only a few people muddled around. Within a few moments, Clark Street moved along like nothing was wrong.
Cameron Mason felt different, though. He was suddenly filled with the unwanted sensation of curiosity. This was the second time in only a few hours he had seen this person. In a city of over three hundred thousand, ones mind could never imagine the odds. Was this some sort of sign?
Cam turned and looked through the shear drapes. Pale light was filtering out, and he could see the dark outline of Josh moving around. The young man loved keeping the place neat and tidy, despite the hectic, vagabond lifestyle of an actor.
It was another thing that Cam loved about Josh, but now things seemed to be in some sort of flux. Would Josh go to New York, and would he follow. Or would he stay, and climb up the ladder of success at the Tribune?
Cam closed his eyes, and turned back to the street. He looked at the dusty road, watching people roam the avenue. A light wind blew, raising the leaves that were falling from the tree's that were beginning be effected by the change of season; they scattered like frightened mice.
For the first time in a long time, Cameron felt the same.