Drawn Together (3 page)

“May I help you?” the clerk asked him.

“Yes, I was told by a guest, Ran Yamane, that he would have a key waiting for me at the desk, for room” -- embarrassed, he looked at his arm -- “three twenty-four. I forgot the number; room three twenty-four.”

12 Z. A. Maxfield

The clerk didn’t bat an eye, as if he had people coming in all the time with room numbers written on their arms. “Your name?” he asked.

“Rory Delaplaines.”

“Hm,” said the clerk. “I must have mistyped this. It says Laurie here. Let me get that for you, sir.

“Then Ran Yamane did mention me? I was afraid…”

“Yes, he came by specifically to request that we prepare you a key,” said the clerk.

Rory reddened. “I see.” He smiled at the clerk. “He’s nice, isn’t he?” he said stupidly, regretting it the instant it left his mouth.

“Yes, he is.” The clerk slid a key card to him across the huge granite desk. “And I have a note here that he most expressly wished for you to enjoy a fruit basket he sent to the room.

Enjoy your stay, sir.”

“Thank you.” Rory didn’t quite believe his good fortune. “You’re sure it means me there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah. Well…thank you.” Rory wheeled his little pilot case toward a bank of elevators and pressed the Up button. Once inside, he allowed himself to speculate. The desk clerk was no doubt having a field day laughing at him. Furthermore, a number of different interpretations could be placed on his presence here. He began to seriously wonder what Ran Yamane had been thinking when the elevator doors opened. He wheeled his case to the room, and used his key card to unlock the door.

Of all the things he might have felt on entering Ran Yamane’s private quarters, the last thing he thought he’d experience was the vague general impression that he was criminally insane. No matter how many times he kept repeating to himself that he had been invited, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just wrong.

Walking carefully into the room, Rory found it to be neat, although it was apparent at once it was a room for smokers. It smelled like the ashtrays of a thousand dirty southern bars had been dumped there. All the occupant’s belongings were neatly stored, hardly visible in the room. A pair of slippers at the door indicated that Yamane practiced the custom of taking off his shoes when he entered, so Rory did the same, noting -- and almost laughing at -- the difference in the size of their feet. A deeply embedded southern politeness held him back from making himself at home, but he fought it, noticing the fruit basket on the table and its large note that said, For Laurie.

Rory certainly knew how Alice in Wonderland felt when she read the note on the cookie that said eat me. His hunger dictating to him, he tossed caution to the wind and removed an apple, taking a bite without even washing it in the sink. He closed his eyes tiredly and sighed. No larger or smaller, Rory eventually took his pilot case to the corner of the room by the window and sat down on the floor. After a while, using his messenger bag as Drawn Together

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a place to rest his head, he drifted off where he lay, the half-eaten apple forgotten in his hand.

* * * * *

When Ran Yamane came into the hotel room after his panel discussion on romance in classic manga, he thought -- a little sadly -- that his guest had never showed. Automatically, he removed his shoes without turning on the light and placed his feet in his slippers. When his toe bumped into something large and plaid, he realized that there was an unfamiliar pair of shoes on his hotel room floor. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, and he searched the room for any signs of his visitor. Neither of the beds looked occupied, and the bathroom was untouched. His eyes found something out of place in the corner of the room by the window.

There on the floor, curled up with his head pillowed on his messenger bag, was his guest. Yamane went to the sleeping man and noticed that he had a half-eaten apple in his hand. He removed it carefully and threw it away. Going to the spare bed, he retrieved a cover from it. He placed the ugly bedspread over his guest, wondering how old he was. He looked young, perhaps even high school age, while he slept, but Yamane’s memory of him was that of a grown man in his late teens or early twenties.

Cross-legged, Ran sank down next to his sleeping guest, uncertain what to do next. He had previously intended to ask him to eat dinner at one of the restaurants on the waterfront, but was not inclined to wake him up. He sat there for what seemed an eternity of indecision until a raucous crowd walked by the room. His visitor jumped visibly, startled awake.

“What? What are you doing?”

“I was trying to decide whether to wake you up, but a noise outside did it for me. I’m sorry if you were distressed.”

“No. I sleep soundly. How long have you been there?” He sat up.

“Not long,” Yamane prevaricated. “I came back here to ask if you would care to get dinner.” He looked away. This was so strange. It was as if someone else inhabited his normally antisocial body.

“Oh,” said Rory, whose face was burning in the faint light. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have absolutely no cash. It would be better if you asked someone else… Thank you for the fruit; that was very thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful.” Yamane tried out the word. “That’s what the desk clerk said. I’m not normally that kind of person at all.”

“You’ve been kind to me.”

“I know. How odd. Please come with me.”

“Um, okay.” Rory got up and fished through his pilot case for a clean shirt, slightly wrinkled, but better than the one he’d slept in. When he’d changed, he turned to find 14 Z. A. Maxfield

Yamane watching him. Rory put his hand on Yamane’s arm. “Just so you understand, though. You being a man wasn’t merely a minor disappointment to me personally, it’s a major obstacle romantically speaking, if you know what I mean. I mean, insurmountable. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time or your money making an assumption --”

“Understood.” It was Yamane’s turn to blush.

“That said, do you still want to eat with me?”

“I do, Laurie.”

“In that case, may I please have your marker?” Rory held out his hand. Yamane went to the closet and retrieved his Sharpie from the pocket of his long silk coat.

“Here,” he said, handing it over. “Why?”

Rory took Yamane’s hand in his, turned it over, then pushed the sleeve of his shirt up past his forearm. Yamane tried to pull away, but Rory held firm. He took the marker and wrote “Rory Delaplaines” on the skin on the inside of Yamane’s delicate wrist. When he let go, Yamane looked at it for a minute and then asked, “What the hell is that?” Rory laughed. “It’s my name.”

Drawn Together

15

Chapter Three

Once they exited the hotel, the two men moved slowly along the pedestrian walkway that took them over busy Shoreline Drive and then descended the circular staircase on the other side. They walked toward the restaurants and shops in companionable silence. Yamane was deep in thought. There was no point in asking himself why he was allowing this man into his life. It was so completely out of character, so perfectly random, that there could be no right answer. He slid a glance in Rory’s direction. Rory Delaplaines. It was a fact; he’d gotten the name wrong from the beginning. How awful must it have been to read the inscription in that book only to find out that the name was wrong?

“Where does the name Rory come from?” he asked finally, breaking the silence.

“It refers to my red hair. It comes from the Irish name Ruaidhri, meaning red king,” said Rory, as if he answered this every day. “What would we do without the Internet?”

“I like it. It suits you. It’s a name for a child or an overeager puppy.”

“That’s the second time you’ve compared me to a dog.”

“Sorry. What I meant to say was Rory is a friendly name.”

“Yes, that’s true. It’s not my real first name, you know.” He turned around and walked backward along the sidewalk, looking back every now and again to make sure there was nothing in his way. “It’s just what I’m called.”

“What is your real first name?” asked Yamane.

“Aren’t you just perishing with curiosity?” teased Rory, spinning back around with his hands in his pockets.

Yamane studied the man walking a few steps ahead. He was currently dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt with his classic French blue button-down over it, untucked. He had a very American look, Yamane thought, like a Kennedy playing football on the lawn at 16 Z. A. Maxfield

Hyannis Port in a Life magazine photograph. His hair was a rich auburn red, and he had a smattering of light freckles over his skin, which was surprisingly not fair, but a creamy milk tea color.

The artist in Yamane observed the line of his jaw, the sweep of his cheekbones, and his dark lashes, which made shadows under his eyes when he closed them. There was a teasing airiness to Rory now, Yamane noticed, an unconsciously flirtatious southern charm that was attracting the attention of every woman they passed. Even the way he walked amounted to a kind of swagger that inevitably made people take a second look, and he occupied a great deal more space than he actually physically needed.

“You’re a very large person, aren’t you?” said Yamane casually.

“Um, well I guess at six feet two, I am tall.” At five feet six, Yamane felt dwarfed by him. “But you are an American kind of tall.

Larger than your space, if you know what I mean.”

“Freakishly large,” Rory teased.

Yamane rolled his eyes. “You seem to need a large space bubble.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Rory seriously. “But I do know I don’t much care for small places anymore.”

“Really?” said Yamane.

Rory slowed down. “You saw our big hurricane on the news where you lived in Japan, yeah? Katrina?”

Yamane nodded.

“When I realized how bad it was going to be, I went and picked up my grandparents, who live in the boondocks, and brought them to my mom’s house in New Orleans.”

“But, didn’t --” Yamane began.

Rory rolled his eyes. “In retrospect, New Orleans wasn’t a good choice, no. I was living in Baton Rouge, but my mother and stepfather were out of town. It’s a good thing I got my grandparents because their home was destroyed by high winds when the roof ripped off. But then the levee broke. We had to get up to the attic while the water was rising higher and then break through the roof to wait for help. Now I can’t stand small spaces. I’m not too partial to the smell of mold, either.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, well, everybody’s got a story, don’t they?” He kicked an abandoned cigarette butt into the bushes with his foot.

“Yes.” Yamane stopped at the door of Gladstone’s, a fish restaurant on the water. “I wanted to try this restaurant.”

“I am completely at your mercy.”

Yamane was quiet while Rory took care of getting a table for them.

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“Is there something the matter?” he asked when he and Yamane were seated at a table on the patio.

Yamane shook his head. “I was just making a picture in my head of what it would be like to be trapped in an attic with water rising.” He sighed. “Force of habit.” He took a sketch pad, a pencil, and a Copic multiliner out of his messenger bag and began to draw idly.

The waiter came by and Yamane stopped his work to look at the menu. “I’ll have the Dungeness crab, a bowl of clam chowder, and a Heineken, please,” he said.

The waiter looked at Rory.

“Could I please have a moment?” he asked. When the waiter was gone, he turned to Yamane. “Is it all right if I order a beer?”

“You don’t have to ask me; just order what you want. Is this a totally new experience for you?”

“What, eating in a restaurant or being taken out by a guy?” asked Rory.

“Please, if anything on the menu looks good to you just order it.” Yamane looked around as if sharing a secret. “My publisher is paying for this.”

“Even so,” said Rory. His cheeks reddened. “All right.” When the waiter returned, Rory ordered a grilled fish dish and a Corona. As soon as they got their beers, Yamane carefully poured his into a chilled glass and Rory squeezed a lime wedge through the neck of his beer and drank it from the bottle. Just then Yamane saw a server carrying a large platter to another table and stopped him.

“What are those?” he asked, referring to the large plate of what looked like potato chips covered in some kind of toppings.

“These?” asked the waiter. “These are smothered chips; homemade potato crisps covered in blue cheese, bacon, and chives. Would you like me to bring you some?”

“Yes. Please. Make it instead of the clam chowder.” He picked up his sketch pad and started to work again.

“Chips, no chowder it is. I’ll be right back.” He moved on.

“Somebody likes junk food.” Rory smiled.

“Have you ever had homemade potato chips?” asked Yamane.

“Yamane, I’m from the South. We fry our Thanksgiving turkeys down there.” Yamane stared at him. For a long moment neither of them said anything.

Finally, Rory broke the silence. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, you just called me Yamane. It” -- his drawing hand stilled -- “it seemed strange.

For a second I felt very Japanese and brittle.”

“Perhaps I should call you Ran-sensei,” Rory teased, starting up a patter of informational tidbits about the Anime Expo.

18 Z. A. Maxfield

Yamane continued to listen as he sketched. Rory seemed to be one of those people who abhorred the vacuum caused by a conversational lull. He was an enthusiastic speaker and a naturally funny person. Yamane enjoyed his company. As he sketched, imagining the scene in which Rory and his grandparents burst through the roof of their house in a hurricane, he wondered how Rory could be so cheerful.

The waiter came, bringing the enormous platter of chips. “Don’t look now,” said Rory,

“but I believe the food police are hot on your trail.”

“That makes you an accomplice. Quick, let’s get rid of the evidence.” He smiled.

Rory stopped, his chip halfway to his mouth.

“What?”

Rory sat back in his chair. He bit the chip and chewed slowly. “You smiled,” he said, picking up his beer and shaking the lime around in the amber liquid. “You don’t seem to do that often. It’s quite…”