Back in his apartment, Nate undressed to boxers and a tank top and sat on his bed, a creaky, old full-size he had slept alone in for years. From outside the door, his cat, Disco, whined until Nate got up and shook some fresh food into her bowl in the little galley kitchen. Disco munched in her bowl, lapped up some water, and then rubbed against his leg.
He knew he needed to sleep—to try, at least—with the AC droning and the blinds drawn. His mind was racing, though. And now memories of Mike Carroll, painful and tender, were reaching through the decades like scarcely any time had passed at all.
Under his bed was a dusty plastic storage bin that he had found at Bed Bath & Beyond: one of the wide, flat ones. Disco dodged the dust balls, and Nate squinted as he drew the bin out and flipped open the top. It was filled with photographs, many still tucked into the Kodak-colored envelopes that held them when you picked them up from the drugstore.
He dug around until he found a nine-by-fourteen clasp envelope with the city seal in the upper left corner. The New York City seal had been modified in 1977 so that the Dutchman and the Native American man standing astride the windmill were in color. The Dutchman wore blue whereas the Native American man was barely clothed and kind of a mustard color. The envelope had been given to Nate by Mike with a Christmas present inside—tickets to a play he could no longer recall. Later, Nate would put all their photos into that envelope. There was a joke attached to it in the “to, from” message on the front.
Mike was deeply closeted, the thing that ultimately drove them apart. So much so that Mike had provided a fake name at their first meeting. It seemed silly, as they were both city employees meeting at the same conference, but such was Mike’s confession to Nate after their first intimate evening. He told Nate that he hadn’t planned to lie. But then he had looked into Nate’s eyes and felt a spark, then the old familiar fear. The safest thing in the moment had seemed to be a fake name.
Nate’s eyes grew misty as he thumbed through the twenty or so photos of him and Mike Carroll together between ’76 and late ’78. There were two or three from Central Park, and sure enough, one with little Joey DeSantos, grinning up at the camera with a Mets cap on, a bowl haircut nearly covering his eyes. There were a few summer photos from Fire Island, the place Nate had just returned from. In one from 1978, he and Mike were arm in arm at a backyard barbecue at a friend’s house, a friend who was now long dead.
So many were dead.
He slid the photos into the envelope and flipped it over. The inside joke was written across the front in Mike’s neat, girlish handwriting. There it was, the fake name Mike had provided that first afternoon. It was distinct and interesting. Nate had bought it completely, believing it captured well the sweet, sad-faced man who offered it. He moved a forefinger over the writing and smiled.
To: Nate, Christmas, 1977, with all my love
From: Caleb Evermore
He was about to stuff the old envelope back into the box, then looked it over again. He glanced over at Disco, keeping her distance from the mini dust storm from under the bed. Then he went looking for his cell phone. There was one more thing he needed to tell the detective. He wasn’t sure if it had any meaning or not, but it suddenly seemed important to tell her. It seemed ridiculous after so many years, but it was like a weight he wanted off his chest.
CHAPTER 66
Ninth Precinct Squad Room
West Village, Manhattan 4:37 a.m.
“Hernandez,” she yawned into the phone. A desk sergeant at the Ninth Precinct had put Nate through to her.
“Detective, this is Nate Porter. I’m sorry; I thought of something else. It might be nothing, but—”
“It’s okay. I’m falling asleep at a desk. What is it?”
“Well, it’s just . . . you mentioned the two brothers. Joey and Robbie.”
“Right.”
“Did you know about the third brother?”
“The what?”
Fifteen minutes later, she was at Nate’s door.
CHAPTER 67
East Seventh Street
4:53 a.m.
“Yes, there was another brother,” Nate said, putting a cup of coffee in front of Zochi. “He was a big part of Mike’s life, long before Joe and Robbie came on the scene.” Zochi looked back at him with her notebook in hand but hadn’t yet written a word. She was sort of dumbfounded. Outside, blackness was giving way to a smoky blue, and birds twittered on the fire escape. Nate’s cat eyed them greedily.
“Do you know his name?”
“Charles,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I have no idea if he’s still alive. I’d guess not, but . . . wow, I just don’t know. Mike made a lot of sacrifices for him too.” He paused, his tired eyes moving back and forth as if searching yellowed files of memory.