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In Someone Else's Hands
In Someone Else's Hands
In Someone Else's Hands
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In Someone Else's Hands

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When a failed terrorist attack on the Boston Art Museum draws a young gay couple into the plot by abducting and holding them hostage, one of the two men’s lives suddenly and horrifically comes to an end, while the other is saved at the last minute by the swift actions of a hardnosed and dedicated detective.
Drawn into the life of the man he’s just saved (a man who bears a striking resemblance to someone he loved and tragically lost), it soon becomes obvious that there’s more to their friendship than meets the eye.
Through a series of serendipitous events, both men must revisit painful memories and emotions once believed put to rest. Yet what they ultimately discover is that in order to find a future together, they must first find a way of letting go of their pasts.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 1, 2014
In Someone Else's Hands
Author

Sam Sommer

Sam Sommer is the author of RESERVATIONS FOR 4, a one-act play that was presented as part of the (2012) Downtown Urban Theatre Festival, NYC; BED & BREAKFAST, a new gay comedy (2008) NY Fresh Fruit Festival and winner of Best Full-Length Play; ‘TIL DEATH US DO PART, Three One-Act Plays that premiered on Theatre Row, NYC (1997); and ATTIC, at The Wings Theatre, NYC (2000). Sam’s short stories have been published in numerous anthologies over the years, most recently, COLOR ZAP!, Wilde Stories, an anthology of the best gay speculative fiction of 2012, published by Lethe Press, and POOL OF SORROW, OMG Queer Anthology by Bold Strokes Books. Sam’s first novel, JACOBS’ DIARY: Sleeping With the Past, (2013) is now available from Bold Stokes Books. Sam is presently living in Santa Fe, NM with his partner of many years where he plans to spend as much time as he can writing, painting, and living the good life.

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    In Someone Else's Hands - Sam Sommer

    PART ONE

    LOSS AND REGRET

    CHAPTER ONE

    Emotionally spent after a phone call that had gone absolutely nowhere and left him feeling ambivalent and mildly depressed, Artemis walked the short distance from his cabana to the beach for the sole purpose of watching the tropic sun melt into the horizon. It was one of the few things that had continually given him pleasure during his weeklong stay on the island.

    He eased himself onto one of the two lounge chairs that sat just outside his little bungalow, kicked off his sandals and closed his eyes, wondering what tomorrow would bring. When he finally opened them, the sky had turned an intense shade of orange, tinged with just a hint of hot pink. It immediately brought back a memory of the swirled raspberry and peach sherbet his mother used to serve him on warm summer evenings, just like this one.

    The smell of burning charcoal from someone’s barbeque permeated the beach and reminded his stomach that he hadn't eaten. He would eventually have to take a walk down the road to the only place he knew of on the island where one could get a decent burger and something that resembled French fries, although they clearly weren't. Made from a local tuber called a Paw-Paw, they were a reasonable facsimile, and actually quite tasty.

    Pickin’ up Paw-Paws put ‘em in your pocket way down yonder in the Paw-Paw patch. He could hear the repetitive little ditty in his head as if it were only yesterday, a distinct if enigmatic childhood memory that had no real meaning to him until this trip. He supposed had he been brought up in the Deep South he probably would have known what a Paw-Paw was. Unfortunately, Bostonians didn’t eat Paw-Paw He reminded himself he had an eight-o'clock flight the next morning, so if he was going to eat something, it’d better be soon.

    He'd been on the island for a long and torturous week, and aside from some casual conversations he'd had at Harmon's, a local bar half-way between town and where he was staying, and the woman who stopped by every morning to clean his little room regaling him with stories of her five children and seventeen grandchildren, he'd been more or less alone. It was exactly what he’d wanted—to get away from everyone and everything—the reason for coming to this decidedly off-the-beaten-track part of the island, but he had to admit the solitude had begun to get to him.

    Artemis left Boston to get away from the cold, but mostly to get away from a poisonous relationship. He and John had been at odds with one another for months, and he knew it wasn't going to get any better. It was over. He knew it, and so did John. Only neither one of them had the guts to do anything about it. Instead they continued to act out, letting every little thing they'd say and do convey their oppressive unhappiness far better than the pleasantries they perpetuated for the sake of civility.

    He'd time enough to think during his week of seclusion and resolved to take care of the problem the minute he got back. He knew it wasn't going to be easy, but it couldn't possibly be any harder than what they’d already gone through.

    It scared him to think that he couldn't honestly remember what it felt like to love John. How could that be possible? How do you feel so strongly about someone one minute and nothing but resentment the next? It wasn't as if he was fickle. He'd entered into the relationship with his eyes wide open and truly believed John was the love of his life. Nothing had changed, and yet everything was suddenly different. They'd both been stagnating, putting their lives on hold for far too long, hoping against hope that they could somehow salvage what they had—rekindle whatever it was they'd both originally felt, but it seemed this time the light had gone out for good.

    Artemis secretly hoped that when he returned, he’d find John had moved out, that he’d the good sense to make the first move. Only he knew better. It was going to take some serious maneuvering on his part to make that happen, and it wasn't going to be easy, or pretty—John hated change even more than he did.

    With the last light of day quickly fading and his stomach growling at him like an angry cat anxious to be fed, he knew it was time to go inside and change for dinner. The Wayward Dolphin beckoned to him and he could almost smell the pungent aroma of grease and charred meat.

    He arrived for dinner in what had become his uniform of the week (a worn pair of cut-offs and a tank-top). Solomon, the owner of The Wayward Dolphin, nodded to him from behind the counter. He had on one of his many flowered, print shirts that he wore open to the waist. His dreadlocks came down to his shoulders and were tied back with a piece of nautical rope that was as white as his hair was black.

    Artemis took a seat out back on the small patio where it was cooler, and because it was open to the sky and surrounded by a luxurious swath of oleander. He glanced at the menu to see if there was something of interest he hadn't noticed before. Solomon arrived at his table carrying with him a chilled glass of his favorite beer and the toasted flat bread that was the specialty of the house.

    What will it be tonight, Boss? Solomon asked in that lilting Caribbean accent Artemis had become so enamored of as he placed the beer down in front of him.

    It's a tossup, he said, taking a sip of the beer. It’s Either the Dolphin's Special Burger Plate, or the Mojo Burger with Cheddar and Bacon. Any suggestions?

    Tell you what I'm going to do for you. Since I know this is your last night here. I'll make you something special. You just leave it to Solomon.

    I'm in your capable hands.

    Ten minutes later, he was eating the biggest, juiciest burger he'd ever seen, smothered in onions and bacon and something Solomon called his special sauce. Of course there were the Paw-Paws, golden brown and heaped high on their own plate along with some sort of marinated salad. He must have been hungrier than he’d thought because he polished off his dinner in record time and was ready for desert.

    So my friend, how was your meal? Solomon asked, taking the plates away and wiping down the table with a wet rag that smelled of detergent and bleach.

    Incredible! Move this place to Boston and you'd make a fortune.

    But I'd have to live in Boston, and I don't think I could ever leave my island. It's a part of me like my arm.

    You're a lucky man, Solomon. Not many of us are fortunate enough to want what we already have.

    You come back to Solomon again very soon.

    It was doubtful whether Artemis would ever return, but then one never knows. If he'd learned anything over the years it was to never say never.

    Artemis walked back to his room, making a conscious effort to take in all the sounds and smells of the island. By tomorrow night he'd be back in Boston and his week here would be no more than a memory. He envied Solomon.

    He packed up his things as soon as he got back to his room. He'd collected almost nothing during his stay—a few pieces of coral, some shells he'd found on the beach, and a small basket he'd purchased from a woman who was selling them by the roadside. It wasn’t anything he needed, but she was so sweet and insistent that he couldn't say no to her. He'd give it to one of his neighbors when he got home. Jill, perhaps. Her apartment was filled with just that sort of thing. She'd give it a good home.

    He took a last moonlit swim, showered, and was in bed by eleven. Part of him wished he was staying a bit longer, but only the part that wasn't looking forward to the inevitable confrontation with John.

    CHAPTER TWO

    It was the middle of the week and the little airport with its one terminal was nearly empty. Artemis breezed through security in less than ten minutes and took a seat under one of the enormous ceiling fans that punctuated the building at regular intervals, and then waited for them to call his flight. He unpacked the novel he'd brought with him and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. Artemis was never much of a conversationalist.

    The truth was he was pretty much a loner. He preferred to bury himself in a good book or the peace and quiet of his own thoughts, as opposed to the ranting of some verbose salesman or middle-aged divorcee on holiday. However before he’d had the chance to read more than a few pages they began boarding his plane. He waited nervously until the final boarding call. He was still uneasy at the thought of returning home.

    Since the plane seemed to be only half full, he hoped he’d luck out and no one would be seated next to him. That way, he could lose himself in his book and not have to think about the next twenty-four hours. If it turned out there was someone sitting next to him, he'd simply wait until they were under way and then find another seat. Preferably somewhere in the back of the plane, and as far away from the newlyweds he'd passed earlier or the family from Fort Lauderdale with their precocious offspring, or the group of retirees who were already dealing out poker hands while simultaneously searching the overhead compartments for pillows and blankets.

    Would you like the seat by the window? the woman seated next to him inquired as he stowed away his bag. I really wouldn't mind. I actually prefer the aisle seat myself.

    No, thank you, he said, pushing his small carry-on under the seat in front of him. The plane seems pretty empty, so I'll most likely move to the back of the plane once we get under way, but it was nice of you to offer.

    Before she had a chance to say anything further he opened up his book and began to read.

    Good book? she asked, without missing a beat.

    I'm not sure yet. I've just started it.

    I have two books with me, but just can't seem to get into either one of them.

    He just nodded.

    I certainly hope we won't hit any real turbulence this flight. I've been feeling a little off. Something from dinner last night didn't sit very well with me. I have somewhat of a delicate stomach.

    I'm sure you’ll be fine.

    Were you on vacation?

    Yes.

    "I've been visiting with my daughter. She's a performer at one of the big hotels on the island—Paris When It Sizzles. That's the name of the show. It's one of those topless extravaganzas like at the Follies Brassier in Paris. She's an exotic dancer—my daughter that is. Maybe you saw her? Her name is Chanel—like the cologne?"

    I'm sorry, no. I was staying on the other side of the island, but I'm sure you must be very proud of her.

    She immediately took out a picture from her wallet and pushed it under his nose. Those aren't her real breasts, she said, pointing with a manicured fingernail the color of pink cotton candy. She had them done a few years ago—for her career.

    Is that so?

    But the rest of her is real I can assure you. Then, without missing a beat, she asked, Are you married?

    He didn't want to be rude, but knew that it was time to take drastic action. Yes, as a matter-of-fact I am, to a man, and I can assure you everything he has is one-hundred percent authentic. No silicone, no augmentation, nothing but what the good Lord gave him.

    She looked at him oddly for about a second and then said, I like you. Yes I do. What's your name?

    He momentarily considered making one up for her, but decided that was childish. It's Artemis, Artemis Hammer, but most people just call me Art.

    Well I'm simply not most people, Mr. Hammer. I'll call you Artemis if you don't mind. I'm not an aficionado of shortened names.

    Is that so? he said, and wondered if someone who had just mentioned the Follies Brassier might actually know what the word aficionado meant, despite the fact she'd used it correctly.

    I believe we should be proud of the names our parents gave us.

    Really? Giving into the inevitable he put down his book, knowing full well it wasn't going to do him any good. And what is your name, if I might ask?

    Well that was absolutely rude of me, now wasn't it? It's Esther, Esther Rosenberg; just like that terrible woman who was convicted of espionage along with her husband. They tried calling me Essy when I was in school, but I put a stop to that at once. Esther is a fine name, just the way it is. She took a breath. It was Esther Middleman back then—before I was married.

    "It's nice to meet you Esther, and I believe that terrible woman’s name was Ethel Rosenberg, not Esther.

    Are you quite sure?

    Yes, I believe so.

    And to think for all these years I thought…well isn’t that just like me.

    I hope you don't mind, he said, trying to look as non-confrontational as he could. But I'd really like to get back to my book now.

    Of course you would. Well, I'll just leave you alone. It was nice talking with you.

    And you as well, he said, picking up the book from his lap. Perhaps we can chat some more later.

    I'd like that.

    Artemis tried his damnedest to force a smile, but it was doubtful as to just how convincing he was.

    Esther allowed him to read for about ten minutes, until the pilot announced over the loud-speaker system that all flight attendants should take their seats in preparation for takeoff.

    Would you mind terribly if I just held your hand until we're airborne? Takeoffs make me ever so uneasy. The plain truth is they terrify me.

    What was he to do, tell the lady no? Of course you can, he said, taking her hand. I completely understand.

    The further down the runway they got the tighter her grip became, so by the time they were airborne it felt as if he was about to lose all feeling in his right hand.

    You can let go now, he told her, We're okay.

    She opened her eyes which had been shut the entire time. Are you sure?

    To the best of my knowledge.

    Thank you, Artemis. I know it's silly. It's probably safer than driving to the mall, but I simply can't convince myself that something this big and this heavy will successfully get off the ground.

    Basic physics, he said, returning his mangled hand, which was now slowly beginning to lose the imprints of Esther's fingers, to his lap.

    I'm sure you're right. It's not as if there's something I could do anyway should something go wrong. However I don't think I'll ever get over it no matter how often I fly. It was very kind of you to humor me.

    Not at all. I understand.

    You're very kind. I could tell that the minute I saw you.

    Is that so?

    I'm quite a good judge of character you know.

    I'm sure you are, he said, and smiled, not just to be polite, but because there was actually something about this Esther Rosenberg that he was beginning to like.

    I can also tell if you don't mind me saying so, that not everything is quite right at home with you and your partner. That is what you boys call yourselves these days—partners? Isn’t that right?

    Actually, Esther, I do mind. That's a little personal, don't you think? And how on earth could you possibly know that?

    "Simple deduction really. You said you were on holiday, and all by yourself, on the opposite side of the island from where the majority of hotels are, and all the young people. That means you were here to get away from everything, or just someone."

    That's quite a stretch of deductive reasoning, he said with more than a little annoyance in his voice. The truth was he didn't like feeling all that transparent. I'm most certain there could be at least a half-dozen other good reasons as well, don’t you think?

    Perhaps, but I'm right, aren't I? she said with a wink.

    It really isn't any of your business, now is it? I don't mean to be rude, but you don't know anything about me, and I don't appreciate your taking liberties just because I showed you a little kindness.

    Oh my, we are being defensive, aren't we?

    If you don't mind, I think it's time for me to move to the rear of the plane.

    Please don't do that, she begged with heartfelt sincerity. I don't want you to go, and I'm really sorry if I've offended you. I have a big mouth sometimes—most of the time really, but I don't mean any harm, honestly I don't. I was just trying to be helpful. I thought there might be something you'd like to talk about. Unburdening yourself to a complete stranger is often good for the soul.

    Artemis didn't know what to do. He was torn between two distinct feelings. On the one hand he didn't like being analyzed. On the other there was something just so honest and appealing about her, something he was actually drawn to, for reasons that completely escaped him that he didn't want to offend her by leaving.

    I'll tell you what, he finally said. I'll stay, but only on one condition. No arm-chair psychology, all right?

    That's a tough one, she said, shaking her head. But I accept—under duress.She offered him her hand. Friends?

    Friends, he said.

    In the ensuing hours, except during the in-flight movie—where to his surprise Esther was completely silent, not even allowing him to speak—his loquacious seat-mate filled him in on practically her entire life. This included: early childhood, two marriages, her daughter and her somewhat unorthodox show-biz career, the son who married an Eskimo and was now living in Fairbanks Alaska, her Mahjong Club that met once a week, and so forth. By the time they’d landed in Boston he knew almost as much about Esther as he did his own partner, which struck him as significant.

    Esther was met at the airport by one of her Mahjong compatriots who insisted that she give Artemis a lift home, despite the fact that he made it perfectly clear he lived all the way on the other side of town and was perfectly capable and quite content to take a cab.

    Esther's first comment to her friend the minute they were comfortably seated in her car was, Don't bother telling him all about your daughters, Lillian, Mr. Hammer is gay, and I don't mean carefree and fun-loving. It's all right that I mentioned that, isn't it Artemis? she asked.

    "Yes Esther, I've been out of the closet for years. Even the Chinese woman who does my shirts and doesn't speak more than a dozen words of English knows I'm gay—it isn't a secret.

    I'm so glad. I didn't think it was, but I never like to presume.

    That was the funniest thing she'd said to him all day, and the fact that she actually believed it to be true was even funnier.

    Now you take good care of yourself, Artemis, Esther called out to him from the car as he climbed the stairs to his building. Don't be a stranger. We live in the same city, so give me a call sometime. I’m in the phonebook. We can have lunch.

    Thank you, Esther. I'll try to do that. And thank you again for the ride, Lillian. It was a real pleasure meeting the both of you.

    As the car pulled away and he turned to face the entrance to his building, he could actually feel his stomach begin to knot. Was he ready to face the inevitable? He looked at his watch. John wouldn't be home for at least another few hours. There was still some time to compose himself, shower, unpack, and decide on an appropriate strategy for breaking the bad news to him.

    Of course he could always wait a few more days, or weeks, but that would serve no real purpose. He'd already spent too much time hoping that John would make the first move. Realistically he knew it wasn't going to happen, a theory immediately confirmed by the bouquet of fresh roses that sat on the kitchen table along with a note from John that read, Welcome home! Don't eat; I've prepared a special dinner for us. See you at the usual time. Love and kisses, John.

    Had his week away changed nothing? He so hoped that John had used the time to reflect. Perhaps he had. Perhaps this was John’s idea of starting over fresh—the reason for the roses and special dinner. You'd think that after all the bickering and fighting they'd gone through, followed by days on end of uncomfortable silence, that he'd be only too happy to call it quits? Artemis refused to let John do this to him. It didn't matter what John wanted. He wanted out. He wasn't going to wait around for John to come home and tell him how much he missed him, to ply him with martinis and gourmet food followed by a night of great makeup sex. No way, no how!

    Artemis left his bags sitting on the floor in the kitchen, did a quick about face, and left. He walked until he was too cold to continue walking, until his face was numb and he could no longer feel his fingers and toes. He ate dinner in some small out of the way diner he'd never been in before, and couldn't tell you what he'd eaten if his life depended on it. Only then did he return home, and only because he couldn't think where else to go, and because he knew John would be worried. Despite how he felt about him at the moment, he didn't see the need to upset or confuse him any more than necessary.

    Where have you been? John asked as soon as he walked through the door, his face the picture of concern.

    Out walking.

    I see. John just stood there staring at his partner, afraid to say anything that might upset him. Dinner's inedible by now, I would suspect, he finally said, running his hand nervously over the back of a chair. I tried to keep it warm for as long as I could, but—

    It’s all right; I've already eaten.

    Of course you have.

    John took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly, afraid to ask the inevitable question, the one he’d been preparing for and dreading the answer to. So did you find what you were looking for?

    I don’t know, Art said taking off his coat and letting it fall to the floor.

    I don't understand. What does that mean?

    The tears were now beginning to stream down Art’s face. I thought I had it all figured out, thought I understood what it was I wanted, but the minute I saw the flowers and read your note it all seemed to fall apart.

    Maybe that's a good thing? John suggested.

    Why?

    Because it means we still have a chance.

    Artemis pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat. Did you know when they do breast reductions they actually remove the nipple and then re-sew it back on? Esther Rosenberg told me that.

    Who's Esther Rosenberg?

    She lives on the other side of town. She sat next to me on the plane coming home. Her daughter is a topless dancer. Things suddenly started pouring out of him helter-skelter, like candy from a piñata, and he couldn’t seem to stop himself. You should come back with me to the island sometime and see my friend Solomon. He makes the best goddamn burgers I've ever eaten.

    You’re not making a lot of sense, do you know that Art?

    It's Artemis. Artemis Hammer, just the way my parents named me.

    Okay Artemis, if that's the way you want it.

    Sit down, will you, Artemis said. Tell me what you've been up to while I was away.

    CHAPTER THREE

    The fact was John had been up to quite a lot. He’d been a very busy boy while Art was in the Caribbean. In his own befuddled and patently self-destructive way, he too was searching for answers. Whereas Art needed distance from John and the distractions of everyday life—so that he could focus in on what he wanted from the relationship (if in fact there was anything left to salvage), John had determined the answer to their problems was to merely avoid thinking about them. His solution was simple: he proceeded to sleep with as many people as he could in the time allotted.

    Of course this wasn’t so much a solution as a quick and painless distraction. The bottom line, if in fact there was a bottom line, was this was simply John’s way of getting back at Art for everything he felt angry and resentful about, every misunderstanding, every perceived slight, no matter how insignificant or petty.

    John James Calderwood had been brought up in a large Protestant family in Seattle, Washington. He had seven siblings; three brothers and four sisters. His father was a well known physician, and his mother one of those old fashioned women who was brought up to believe that a woman’s place was in the home. It was a household where only pleasant, non-confrontational subjects were discussed. Anything that even smelled of negativity or dissatisfaction were verboten. This explained John’s present predicament with his own partner.

    Strangely enough, sleeping around had actually worked at making John feel better, and had temporarily managed to drown out that annoying little voice telling him that what he was doing would never solve anything, and would in time only complicate an already complicated situation. Still, things seemed to be going well until the night before Art returned home when everything went from bad to, "This just can’t be happening" in one unimaginably impossible, horrific, nightmare of an evening.

    - - -

    The guy seemed normal enough. He was moderately attractive and sported a short goatee the color of henna. He wore a small gold earring in one ear and a black leather wrist band. As soon as they arrived at his apartment, which was located in a less than savory part of Boston, the amiable Dr. Jekyll rapidly morphed into the hideous and evil Mr. Hyde.

    Before John knew what was happening he was struck in the face with the back of a hand and thrown down on an unkempt and decidedly nasty smelling bed. The immediacy of what happened came so unexpectedly and was so disorienting that John had no time to react. Shocked and confused, his hands were quickly tied behind his head and secured to the headboard with something

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