Knight In Black Leather

by Gail Dayton

  "Can you reach the brake?" She shook off the wistfulness.

  "Let's see." He reached down and found the lever without having to lean too far. "Though I don't know what good it's going to do if it won't hold."

  "Maybe I didn't set it right." Marilyn watched him work it a time or two. "It sure does seem to be in a bad place for somebody in a wheelchair to work it."

  Eli shrugged. "It's a rental. And it's not the top of the line. I didn't see any sense getting one of those self-propelled things. I still have one or two parts that work, myself, even if the chair has problems."

  Marilyn shot him a sharp glance, but he didn't seem to be referring to anything other than his unbroken arm and leg. His attention was on the wheelchair as he rolled it back and forth short distances using his still functional limbs.

  "How did you manage to--?" She stopped to rephrase. He didn't break his own bones.

  He looked up at her. "How did I--?"

  "How did they manage to break your arm and leg on opposite sides? I'd have thought they'd both be on the same side."

  "They did the arm before I went down and the leg they did after." Eli's matter-of-fact tone told of a world he knew intimately, and sent cold chills down Marilyn's spine.

  Not because she was afraid of him. She'd never have brought him home if that were true. Knowing that he was accustomed to such violence, that it was routine and perhaps even expected made her want to wrap him up in her arms for comfort. Whether his or hers, she didn't know.

  He glanced up at her when she didn't speak. "I put my arm up in front of my face when they first came at me," he said, apparently believing she wanted further explanation. "That's when they broke it. I heard the snap. When I went down, I rolled on that side to protect it, and they got the leg."

  Marilyn reached for bright-and-cheery again. "So, are you ready for the return trip?"

  Eli still watched her, his eyes searching her face, but for what, she hadn't a clue. After a second, his lips twitched into a brief smile. "Sure. Why not?"

  He set the brake better than she had, because the chair didn't budge as they hauled him out of it. The exit maneuver required as much or more contact than getting him into the wheelchair. They practiced both directions one more time before moving him back into the chair.

  This last time, his overworked leg gave way. Marilyn had to grab him with both arms and barely managed to steer his fall into the chair. Her feet slipped and she fell on top of him, her face bouncing off his stomach, her arms draped over his legs as she slipped down between them.

  Eli gasped, obviously biting back the swear words he wanted to use. She found it endearing, the way he tried to censor his language around her and managed, except when under extreme stress. She was surprised he didn't cut loose now. But maybe pain bothered him less than fucking helplessness.

  Marilyn scrambled up, trying to be careful of his casts, his bruises. "Are you okay? I am so sorry."

  "Not your fault." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We probably should've quit two trips back." He braced himself to scoot more securely into the chair. Marilyn wanted to help, but before she could see where to safely touch him, the job was done.

  "But then," he went on, "if we'd quit sooner, I wouldn't have got the thrill of your face in my lap. I'm just sorry I didn't get to enjoy it more."

  Marilyn smacked the back of his head. "Keep it up, mister and you'll really be sorry."

  "Why is that?" He grinned his wicked grin at her.

  "I might actually take you up on one of your offers."

  "I'd never be sorry for that."

  The sincerity in his voice made her shiver anew. He was quite an act. She ruffled up his hair in another almost-smack and walked away.

  "What do you want for supper?" She opened the freezer to see what was available for melting. "We have chicken and--" She turned a package over. "Chicken."

  "Chicken sounds good."

  The grin in his voice warmed her. She couldn't let herself get used to it, though. Eventually--sooner rather than later--he would be gone, back to his old life. She didn't need any more holes in hers.

  Five

  ***

  Marilyn did bring flowers home from her class and presented them to Eli. He knew she was teasing, paying him back for all the teasing he'd done, but it still got to him. Nobody ever gave him flowers before. Nobody had ever done a dozen of the things for him that Marilyn had. He tried not to let that matter, but it did.

  That night, Eli lay in the bed next to Marilyn, eyes open in the dark, staring at the ceiling. He ached with exhaustion, though he hadn't done anything all day but move in and out of the wheelchair. The dull pain in his broken bones kept him awake. The warmth of Marilyn's body beside his had nothing to do with his sleepless state. It was the pain, not his excruciating awareness of just how close, how soft she was. He let a breath sigh out through his nose and wondered how much it would hurt to turn on his side.

  "Eli?" Marilyn's voice came softer than a whisper. "Are you all right?"

  He was rock hard with wanting her and knew he'd never have what he wanted. He slid a hand down to hide his condition in case she could see in the dark. "I'm fine."

  "Do you need a pill?" The bed rocked as she moved, rustling as she turned to face him.

  "I'm fine. Go back to sleep." It wasn't the ache in his bones that had him staring into the dark. There was a limit to how long he could lie to himself.

  "I wasn't asleep. Are you sure you don't want a pain pill? What about an aspirin?"

  "I don't need anything Marilyn. I'm just fine." Eli bunched the pillow under his head and peered through the darkness at her. He could just see the lighter oval of her face on the pillow next to him. "Why aren't you asleep? I thought you were tired."

  "I was. I am." She sighed, tucking her hand under her cheek in a gesture that made him ache all the more. "But the minute I got into bed, my mind started whirling with a zillion and a half things. Are you sure you feel all right? How are your bones?"

  "They ache, but it's nothing I can't handle. I've been worse. I don't like to take pills I don't have to."

  "Me neither. I wish I could do something for you. What can I do?"

  He didn't dare ask for what he really wanted. "Talk to me," he said instead. "Distract me from my aches and pains. Tell me a few of those zillion and one things inside your head. Let me get to know Marilyn Ballard."

  "You already know everything worth knowing. I'm not a very interesting person. Besides, it's your turn. Tell me about Eli Court."

  His gut twisted into a whole series of knots. She didn't want to know. Not all of it. Not the truth. "Nothing to tell."

  "Of course there is. You didn't just spring into existence full grown. You had to have parents at some point in time. Tell me about them."

  He heard her move, turned his head to see her echoing his position, flat on her back with only her head turned as she watched him. He could probably tell her some of the truth.

  "Yeah, I had parents. Sophie and Carl. Mom was eighteen when I was born. Dad was older, a lot older. He was one of her high school teachers. They waited till she graduated to even date, but he got fired anyway. He got a new job in Scranton. That's where I was born."

  "Do they still live in Scranton?"

  "Mom does." He thought she still did, anyway. He didn't like talking about her, about what happened. Didn't even like to think about it. He'd never told anyone what had happened.

  He'd tried once, but the words had piled up like cars in a freeway wreck, refusing to come out. They felt stiff now, reluctant, but not impossible. Because it was Marilyn listening?

  Her hand bridged the gap between them, sliding through the sheets, though she wasn't even looking at him. Eli laced his fingers through hers and held on tight.

  "My dad died when I was ten," he said. "He was almost fifty when I was born and almost sixty when he had his heart attack. Mom wasn't even thirty yet. She was lost without him." He'd been lost too, without his father's warm, s
olid, smiling presence.

  Carl Court had been the anchor of their lives, the one who held everything together and looked after them all. He'd drawn Eli into the male confederacy of Taking Care of Sophie. She was fragile and dependent, the kind of woman who needed someone to lean on. When her support was taken away, she leaned on Eli.

  He didn't mind it. Looking after Mom made him feel closer to his dad. Back in those dark days when the world suddenly stopped making sense, Eli could almost see his father's wink, hear him say "Your mother needs us men," whenever he would do something for her, like take out the trash without being asked, or cook supper for them, or breakfast, or lunch. He'd done most of the cooking, after Dad.

  Marilyn squeezed his hand, bringing him back to the present. "You must have missed him terribly, a little boy without his father."

  "I did okay. Mom needed me." He didn't want to talk about this stuff anymore. "What about your dad? Is he still around? Or is it just your Mom?"

  "He died when Julie--my daughter, remember?--was a baby. We were all grown, even Joey. Not like you. It must have been so hard, being just ten. But you and your mom had each other, right? Just the two of you? No brothers or sisters?"

  "No. Just me and Mom. She had a hard time after Dad died." How did they get back on this subject? He looked away, up at the ceiling again.

  "How's she doing now? I mean, it's been--what?--fifteen years? I bet she's hell-on-wheels."

  Eli shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

  "Why not?"

  "I haven't seen her lately." He could sense Marilyn's confusion, but felt no urge to clear it away. And yet he couldn't seem to shut up. "She was fine last time I saw her."

  "When was that?"

  "When I was thirteen." He looked at her without turning his head, not wanting her to know he watched.

  She stared at him. She didn't look shocked, but he knew she was. Her fingers tightened around his and he clutched them back. "Since you were-- What happened, Eli? When you were thirteen?"

  "She got married again when I was twelve." He kept his voice flat and unemotional, remembering that time from the distance of who he was now. "Stan and I didn't get along. We fought constantly. Twenty-four/seven. It was a few months after my birthday, early spring. I don't remember what I did, but he was mad about something. We had this big fight, worst fight ever. And he kicked me out. Told me to get my stuff and get out. So I did. I've never been back."

  "He what?" Marilyn sat straight up in the bed, outrage bristling all over her. "You were just thirteen years old. What was he thinking? What was your mother thinking? Didn't she stop him? Didn't she say anything?"

  Nothing had ever felt better than Marilyn's outrage. Eli lay there, holding her hand tight, soaking it all in. It didn't change a thing. It shouldn't make any difference. But it did.

  He couldn't let her know that, though. He wanted things from her other than pity. So he shrugged. "What was there for her to say?"

  "No, for one thing. 'You're not kicking a thirteen-year-old child out of his home,' for another. She didn't object at all?"

  Eli shrugged again, basking in the heat of her righteous anger. "No big deal. I'm here now, aren't I?" He tugged on her hand, pulling her down again to lie beside him.

  Reluctantly she came, lying on her side facing him, her eyes dark in the pale shadow of her face. "How?" she asked as she tucked his hand beneath her cheek. "How did you survive?"

  "I managed."

  "Yes, but how?"

  He shook his head. "There are ways. Doesn't matter now. I don't want to talk about it." He never would, if he had his way. About this, he intended to.

  "I can't believe your mother let it happen." She still sounded indignant, clutching his hand to her as if somehow she could protect his thirteen-year-old self.

  Eli wanted to laugh out loud, despite the pain still carried in the memory. "She needed him more than she needed me." That pain had the strength to dredge up old hurt, old, powerful anger, but it was familiar. He knew how to handle it.

  "I don't care what she needed," Marilyn snapped. "She's your mother. It's the mother's job to look after the child, not the other way round. I just-- I--" She sputtered to a halt. "I want to call her up and tell her just what I think. I want to chew her into little pieces."

  He did laugh then. "You're so tough. Relax, woman. I'm twenty-five. Not thirteen."

  Marilyn lay silent a moment, watching him. "I want to hug you," she said finally, "but I'm afraid I'll hurt something."

  "Do it anyway." He tugged at her hands clasped around his, wanting that hug, wanting her arms around him more than he'd wanted anything before in his life--anything he could have. He wouldn't let himself want things he couldn't have. This had nothing to do with sex, or very little, and everything to do with her delightful outrage. Probably more than that besides, but Eli refused to think about that.

  He tugged again, gently. "Come on, Marilyn. You know you want to. One little hug. What can it hurt?"

  "That's what worries me." Her half-stifled mutter made him laugh.

  "You won't hurt me and I already promised not to bite unless you ask. Come on. Take a little risk." He pulled her hands all the way to his side of the bed when she suddenly rolled up onto her elbow.

  "Oh, all right," she grumbled, leaning toward him. "I don't know what the big deal is about a hug anyway."

  "True. You've had your arms around me all day. No big deal."

  Marilyn realized she had made it into a big deal all by herself, by hesitating and holding back. If she'd just hugged him spontaneously, the way she'd wanted, neither one of them would have thought anything about it. Now, much as she tried to think of that abandoned child he once was, Marilyn could only see the man Eli was now.

  Reminding herself that a dozen years ago, when he'd been a child, she had been a housewife and mother, Marilyn put her hand on the far side of the bed, past his shoulder. The cast on his arm bumped her ribs as she leaned closer. She brushed her cheek against his, hoping she could get away with no more than that, but Eli's good arm clamped down on her shoulders, bringing her into abrupt, close contact.

  She couldn't help it. She hugged him back, tight, breathing in his male scent, savoring the sandpaper of his jaw, the strength in his one arm. She'd forgotten how she needed this.

  "I'm glad you survived," she whispered in his ear just before she pushed away and retreated to her own side of the bed.

  "Me, too." His reply came so soft she almost didn't hear it.

  "Your turn," he said, reclaiming his grip on her hand. "Tell me about you and your brother. What's the worst thing you ever did when you were kids?"

  The moment was over. Marilyn recognized it with relief and let him turn the conversation. She wanted to know more, know everything about him, but she'd heard things beneath the flat words he'd spoken. He needed the break. So did she. She could carry the conversational weight a while. There would be other nights. She hoped. Or maybe she didn't.

  "The worst thing?" She brought Eli's hand back up under her chin where he was safe. "Maybe when we put grasshoppers in our sister's beds. Or maybe--"

  "You have sisters? You never said you had sisters."

  "Two. They're a fair bit older than Joey and me. Six and seven years."

  She talked until silence told her Eli slept. Marilyn thought about him and the awful story he'd told for another minute more, before she lost the battle and joined him in sleep.

  The next evening, Marilyn and Joey drove over to the youth center to retrieve the long scarf she'd left behind and Eli's motorcycle, then to the fleabag motel where Eli had been staying and checked him out. It bothered her to see the kind of place he was apparently used to. She tried not to snoop through his belongings too much as they packed them up, but it was impossible not to snoop at all. Eli's wardrobe ran heavily to black T-shirts and faded jeans, also generally black, just enough of them to fill the saddlebags he apparently carried on his Harley.

  She wanted to mother him. At least, that's what she tried
to tell herself as she carried his things downstairs and waited for Joey to pull up on the motorcycle so they could head back to the apartment together. But if she wanted to be honest--which she didn't particularly--motherly wasn't the best way to describe how she felt about Eli. And that was the whole problem.

  Eli was anxious to get his things back. Not so much the clothes, which he mostly couldn't wear, or even his Harley, since he couldn't ride it just now. But he didn't particularly want anyone to know what he was so anxious to have back in his possession, so he had to wait.

  The next time Marilyn went in the bathroom, Eli dug his cell phone out of his bag and turned it on to check for messages. Fortunately no one had called. He debated turning it back off. He didn't want it ringing at some awkward time and disturbing Marilyn, but he had made promises.

  And any promise he made he would keep, no matter what. That's why he didn't make many of them. He left the phone on, tucking it unobtrusively into a basket of magazines. He would recharge it at night, and if it rang, he'd tell Marilyn what he had to. Though he didn't know what he would do if a call did come in, helpless as he was. He hated it.

  If not for that, he might have started to enjoy the routine of life at Marilyn's house over the next couple of weeks. Lying side by side in bed at night, connected only by their clasped hands and the words drifting through the darkness. Waking up next to her in the morning. Sitting across from her at meals. Listening to her rustle around in the bathroom, thinking about what she was doing in there. But he couldn't abide being so dependent on her.

  Even after endless practice, he still needed help to get in and out of the wheelchair. He was better at it, but he couldn't do it alone. He couldn't feed himself without spilling half the meal because he was so thoroughly right-handed, and that arm was in a cast. He couldn't even dress himself in anything with buttons or zippers, which eliminated most of his wardrobe. He wore old knit shorts he kept for sleeping because he could get them on himself, and he didn't bother with a T-shirt because those first days it hurt too much to even try putting one on.