A Cup Full of Midnight (23 page)

“I’ll give him the message,” she said. “But I wouldn’t want to be you when he gets it.”

Since I had no idea where to look for Elgin, I drove back to The Body Shop, parked in front of the bicycle store, and waited until seven-fifteen, when Alan Keating’s silver Skylark pulled up in front and Byron got out of the passenger side.

I gave Keating time to pull away before I went inside. The receptionist, the same bored-looking woman I’d seen before, looked up from her magazine and said, “You have to sign in.”

I scrawled something illegible on the register and ducked into a men’s dressing room crowded with milling bodies in various stages of undress. Edging between a row of lockers and the sweaty paunch of a middle-aged man with a towel knotted around his hips, I spotted Byron’s blond hair and changed my trajectory to head in that direction.

He had one foot propped on a wooden bench and was bent over it, tying the laces on a thick-soled athletic shoe.

I clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up, startled.

“Hey, buddy,” I said. “Let’s go for a run.”

He looked like he was about to object, then shrugged and tossed a towel over the back of his neck. “What the hell? Think you can keep up?”

Neither of us bothered to sign out as we passed the reception desk. I trailed Byron into the parking lot and followed his lead in a series of light stretches.

“Where to?” he asked.

“How about the park?”

He trotted off in that direction. I jogged along beside him. For the first few minutes, I thought he was going to take it easy on me. Then we turned into Centennial Park, and he picked up speed.

He was fifteen and in good condition. I was twenty-one years older, with my ego at stake. A sharp pain sliced through my calf; I gritted my teeth and pushed through it, knowing I’d pay for my hubris later. I kept up with him, barely.

We made five laps around the park, our breath streaming out behind us like exhaust fumes. Then I veered off and headed for the duck pond. He followed me across an arched wooden bridge that led to an island about the size of a two-car garage. Ducks nested here in spring, but now it was a drab tangle of brown vines and fallen logs amid a copse of bare trees.

I leaned against one to catch my breath.

“Not bad for an old guy,” he panted, pulling the towel from around his neck to wipe away sweat.

“Thanks.” I didn’t have a towel, so I pulled up the collar of my T-shirt and wiped my face with that. The sweat was already beginning to evaporate, and the chill air made my skin feel clammy. “You recognize this place?”

Byron looked around reflexively. “Sure. I been here a few times.”

“With johns?”

He gave me a narrow look. “Sometimes. Why?”

“You remember a john named Moreland?”

“I don’t know. How many guys you know’ll tell a hustler their names?”

“Not many. But I bet you remember this guy. He’s about five-ten, skinny, wears glasses, got a little pencil mustache.”

He laughed. “Half the johns in the city.”

“This one’s a little different. You almost cut his dick off.”

“Oh. That perv.”

“So you did cut him.”

He gave an angry shrug. “So? It was an accident. He didn’t press charges.”

“He’s still not. But it wasn’t an accident. He says you stabbed him for no reason.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“What’d he do? Try to stiff you?”

“Tried to stiff me all right, but not the way you mean.” He kicked at the base of a tree. It was about the diameter of his arm and grew out of the side of the island, jutting almost straight out over the water. “We dealt for a blowjob. Then he decides he wants more.” He tested the trunk for strength, then stepped out onto it and balanced there. Bounced on the balls of his feet, as if on a diving board. “I don’t do that shit, man.”

“Not even with Razor?”

“Razor never touched me.”

“The hell he didn’t.”

“Seriously.” He gave a self-conscious little laugh. “He said I was too beautiful just to fuck.”

“Yeah. That Razor—he was a real do-gooder.”

He shrugged. “He liked to look. To watch me while I worked out, took a shower, whatever. I don’t know why he didn’t want to screw. He said something about the sweetness of anticipation, whatever that means. I got no problem with that. But hey, he paid the bills. He wanted to do me, I would’ve let him. At least I’d’ve gotten something for it. But this guy . . . Moreland . . .” He stomped at the branch, lost his balance, windmilled, and recovered. “Stupid son of a bitch. I say no, and he tries to make me.”

“Not so smart,” I said.

“Damn straight. Little weasel like him. Like I couldn’t take him.”

“Why’d you use the knife, then?”

He bounced on the trunk again, lightly this time. “I wasn’t thinking, I guess. It was like—” He stopped suddenly.

“Like?”

“Nothing, man. I just got scared, is all.”

I could have finished his sentence for him.
It was like when my mother’s boyfriend . . . like when my uncle . . . like when my stepdad . . .
I’d heard it a thousand times, and it never got any easier to listen to.

“You ever get scared of Razor like that?” I asked.

“No.” He walked heel-to-toe halfway out the trunk of the tree and bounced again. Good balance. If it had been Paulie, I’d have called him back in, but what the hell? The water was shallow, and the worst that could happen would be he’d fall in and I’d have to haul him out. “Like I said, he hardly touched me. He was nice to me. He gave me things. Let me drive his car.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying the wrong thing.

He answered my silence anyway. “I’m not stupid. I know he wasn’t a saint. But there was something about him. Nobody messed with him.”

“Somebody killed him.”

“Yeah. Well.” He stared out over the pond. “The world is full of messed-up people.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I
was halfway home to change clothes and feed the horses when my cell phone chirped. It was Elisha.

“I hope it’s not a bad time,” she said.

“It just got a lot better.”

“Flatterer. I wanted to thank you again for dinner the other night. I had a good time.”

“Me too.”

“And I was wondering . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“You were wondering?”

“How you feel about chicken curry.”

I smiled, even though she couldn’t see it. “I live for chicken curry. You have a place in mind?”

There was a brief silence. Then she said, “I was thinking of eating in. I make a mean Kerala chicken.”

“She cooks?” I said. “Be still my heart.”

“She cooks. But he’s expected to bring the wine.”

I stopped to buy flowers, then pulled into J. Barleycorn’s and picked up a bottle of Shakespeare’s Love, a fruity white wine the manager assured me was a perfect complement to Indian cuisine. Then home to take care of the horses, check in on Jay, and drive to Elisha’s split-level brick house a few miles from the high school. A warm light glowed from behind wispy curtains the color of saffron, and an array of security lights flared to life as I eased the Silverado into the driveway.

Elisha met me at the door. She was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a red turtleneck with white rhinestone snowflakes at the neck and cuffs. Her hair was damp, wispy across her forehead, the sides swept loosely into a silver clip that freed the rest to tumble down her back. I felt better, seeing her.

When she saw the flowers, she flashed a smile and clapped her hands like a child. “Christmas roses! I didn’t think men did things like this anymore.”

“I aim to please.”

She kissed my cheek, and I smelled her shampoo, a sweetly exotic scent like jungle flowers and vanilla. It mixed well with the ambient aroma of simmering spices. “This is a good start. Come in. I’ll put these on the table.”

I followed her into the kitchen, where she gave me a wooden spoon and instructions to stir the curry while she poured wine and tended to the roses.

“They say there’s a language of flowers,” she said. “What do these mean?”

“I thought you might know,” I said.

“Sorry.” She smiled. “French and Italian. A soupçon of Latin. But no flower.”

“No interest?”

“Not much opportunity.” She opened a blond wood cabinet and took out two long-stemmed glasses. “My ex-husband wasn’t much of a romantic.”

Sensitive territory. A make or break moment?

I asked, “How long were you married?”

“Six years.” She uncorked the wine and poured us each a glass. “But he checked out long before that.”

“You tried to make it work.”

“Too stubborn to quit.” She took the spoon from me, tasted the sauce, and tipped the spoon toward me, her other hand held beneath to catch the drips. “Does this taste right to you?”

“Just about perfect.”

She shot me an impish grin. “Just about?”

I put my hands on her hips and pulled her close. She didn’t pull away. “Delectable,” I said. “Elixir of the gods. Spiced ambrosia. How’s that?”

“Getting there.” She pecked my chin with her lips and slipped out of my arms, blushing. “I’m being too forward. This is going too fast.”

“It’s the curry.” I turned away to hide my erection, annoyed with myself for rushing things. “They say hot foods do that.”

“I’m too comfortable with you,” she said. “And not comfortable enough. You make my brain all fizzy. Maybe it’s your aftershave.”

My brain was feeling pretty fizzy, too. “I’ll change it, if you want.”

She brushed the back of my hand with her fingertips. “Don’t you dare.”

She transferred the curry into a serving dish and carried it to the table, where a tossed salad and a loaf of King’s Hawaiian Bread were already waiting.

The curry was delicious, the wine light and sweet. I tried not to gorge. Elisha ate with gusto. She either exercised a lot, or she had a good metabolism.

She refused to let me help clean up. “There’s nothing to do,” she said. “Everything just goes in the dishwasher. Anyway, I’d rather talk. I have thirty student journals to read, but I can put it off for about an hour. Do you have to go right away?”

“I’m in no hurry.”

We sat on the couch like a couple of awkward teenagers, thighs touching, my arm draped across the back of the sofa behind her shoulders. Close enough to feel the heat of each other’s skin. Wanting.

Holding back.

She talked about school, her students, the ones she delighted in, and the ones she cried over at night. She talked about PTA meetings and empty supply cabinets, dress codes and anti-drug programs. We talked about Josh, his poetry, his artwork.

“You know him pretty well,” I said. “You read his writing, you know how he thinks.”

“A little. But I can’t discuss specifics with you. Not without his parents’ permission.”

“I know that. I just need a general impression. If someone said he was part of something—something bad—would you believe it?”

She laid a hand on my arm. “You’re not looking for a general impression. What’s this about?”

“I can’t go into it. I’m sorry.” I held her gaze, but it took some doing.

“He’s a good kid,” she said at last. “It’s not in him to hurt anyone but himself. Is that what you wanted to know?”

The knot in my gut loosened a hair. “I think so.”

“There’s no one more vulnerable than a Goth kid. I always worry about them, because when you’re smart, sensitive, and disillusioned, the world can get pretty harsh.”

“I think Josh’s friends were beyond Goth. Goths are stylers, right?”

“Mostly. But there are fringe groups. Can I do anything to help him?”

“I don’t know.”

Her hand slid down my arm. I turned my palm to meet it so we ended up with our fingers entwined. After a moment, she leaned her head against my shoulder and said, “We’ve talked about my life
ad nauseum
. It’s your turn to spill.”

I told her about Paulie, skimmed the details of my work. Took a chance and invited her to the Christmas party Jay had planned for Dylan. Told myself I didn’t care if she accepted and grinned like a schoolboy when she said yes.

An hour later, she tilted her head up and pulled mine forward for a long, deep kiss that tasted of wine and spices and left us both breathing hard. She rocked back, away from me, and searched my face with her eyes. “Are you going to be mad if we stop now?”