All My Colors

by David Quantick

  She looked into his eyes.

  “And not just your face,” said Sara.

  “No?” said Todd.

  “No,” said Sara. “It’s written all over you.”

  * * *

  Sara was in the kitchen making coffee when Todd walked in. He wrapped his robe around him, vaguely noticing that the belt required more tightening than before.

  “There he is,” said Sara brightly. “The great man. Does the great man want coffee?”

  “Yes please,” said Todd, and almost exclaimed. It had been a long time since the “p” word had left his lips.

  “Todd Milstead is at home to Mr. Manners,” said Sara. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  She handed him a mug of coffee.

  “I feel different, you know,” said Todd.

  “You do?” Sara said.

  “Yeah,” said Todd. Maybe it’s getting laid, said the voice inside him. Todd chose to ignore it.

  “A lot of things have happened lately…” he began. Like you stole someone’s book, and your own hands made you poop at your desk, and you hired a detective to follow Janis, oh, and something ate Billy, said the voice. (Todd chose to continue ignoring it.)

  “I know they have,” said Sara. “But we’re going to sweep all that under the carpet for now.”

  Easier said than done, said the voice.

  * * *

  That night, as they rested after what Todd reckoned was certainly the most sex, as well as the best sex, he’d ever had, he felt it was safe to ask the one question that could safely be asked.

  “I hate to bring it up,” he said, “but—”

  “Terry,” said Sara. “I guess you have a right to know.”

  “I don’t, but thank you,” said Todd, and almost bit his lip at this latest burst of niceness.

  “I came home the other night,” said Sara in the rhythmic tones of someone who had been rehearsing a speech in the car and wanted to get all the details right, “and I found Terry in the front room, packing his bags. Which was kind of odd, because nobody packs in the front room. I mean, that’s what bedrooms are for, right? That’s where the closets are.”

  She stopped. “Jesus, I’m rambling already,” she said.

  “Take your time,” said the new, improved, patient-like-a-saint Todd.

  “I asked him if he was going on a trip, but I knew he wasn’t, because he’d just got back from one,” Sara continued. “He didn’t say anything at first, just carried on folding shirts. I’ll say one thing for Terry, that man can fold clothes like a laundress. If ever the business goes under, he could—I’m rambling again.”

  She took a sip of Todd’s coffee and looked out the window for a moment.

  “He put the shirts in the suitcase and closed the lid. Then he stood up, and he said, ‘I’m leaving you, Sara.’ I asked him why, and he said, ‘There’s someone else.’ At first I thought he meant you, but the way he wasn’t catching my eye, I realized, he meant he was seeing someone else.”

  “Oh, the irony,” Todd said.

  “Right,” said Sara. “Here I am, wondering if I’m about to be hauled over the coals, when Terry gets up and spills his own beans. By now, I’m so surprised I don’t know what to say. I mean, Terry? He was okay when I met him but he’s let himself go.”

  “So who is it?” said Todd. “Do I know her?”

  “The lucky lady?” said Sara. “You’ll have seen her, all right. You may have even spoken to her. Not that you’ll remember.” For the first time, there was a note of bitterness in her voice.

  She turned to Todd. “It’s one of his checkout girls,” she said. “She’s twenty, Todd. She’s twenty and she’s pregnant.”

  “Jesus,” he said, in disbelief.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” said Sara. “He won’t tell me her name, in case, I dunno, I go into the store where she works and start screaming. Like I would do that to a child. A child who’s…” Sara began to weep.

  “It’s okay,” Todd said, and put his arm around her. Part of his mind was calculating that this was the most time he had gone without being a dick since high school.

  Sara began to sob properly now.

  “He’s forty-eight,” she said. “He’s old enough to be her dad. He’s old enough to be the baby’s granddad. He told me he didn’t want kids.”

  “The bastard,” said Todd, and was surprised to find that he meant it.

  “She’s got him by the balls,” said Sara. “He isn’t going to know what hit him.”

  “What about—” Todd hesitated. “What about your future?” he said.

  “He says he’ll see me right,” said Sara. “And I believe him. He’s got enough money to do that, and to look after the kid. I mean—”

  “I know what you mean,” said Todd.

  Sara stood up straight and looked into Todd’s eyes.

  “So you see,” she said, “I’m not after a sugar daddy. I’m not after your millions, Todd Milstead. I just want you.”

  She smiled.

  “Stranger things have happened,” she said.

  “I guess so,” said Todd. For a moment, though, he couldn’t think of any. He embraced her.

  “Stick with me, kid,” he said in a voice that sounded quite like Humphrey Bogart’s, “You’ll be okay.”

  Todd believed it, too.

  * * *

  Sara wouldn’t move in with Todd, even though there was room now that Janis had moved out (a U-Haul had been and gone with all her things, although Todd had no memory of this happening). She didn’t want Todd coming to her house, either, because Terry was still fussing in and out, living out of suitcases in a hotel somewhere, before finding a permanent place for himself and his future child bride to live. So Todd found himself in a strange state of suspended bachelorhood, where Sara would stay over, and leave again, and come back, and stay over, and leave again.

  Days passed, and turned into weeks. Nothing much happened. It was the quiet time.

  * * *

  Behm called.

  “Mr. Milstead, I think I’m wasting your money here,” he said. “There’s nothing.”

  “Okay,” said Todd.

  “Do you want me to continue?”

  Todd shrugged, then remembered he was on the phone. “I don’t know,” he said. Sara was coming over in a half hour. He hadn’t even thought of Janis, he realized.

  “I was hoping for a more decisive reply,” said Behm.

  “Where are we financially?” said Todd.

  “Well, I haven’t spent all your money yet if that’s what you mean,” said Behm.

  “I guess that is what I mean,” said Todd. He laughed. “Okay, keep going until the check’s spent.”

  “Sure thing,” said Behm, and hung up.

  * * *

  Two more manuscripts came back in the post. Todd was about to throw them away unopened when Sara said, “At least read the letters.”

  Todd opened the packets, read the letters and ripped them up.

  “Okay then,” said Sara.

  “Nothing I haven’t read before,” explained Todd.

  “Can I at least look at what you wrote?” said Sara.

  Todd took her by the shoulders.

  “You know in On the Waterfront when the guy says he could have been a contender?” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Sara. “Are you going to tell me you’re that guy?”

  “I wish,” said Todd. He stole a glance at the manuscripts lying on the counter top. “I’m the guy who couldn’t have been a contender. Which is fine.”

  “Really?” said Sara.

  “I am,” said Todd. He kissed her. “I’m a lover, not a writer,” he said. Sara laughed, and kissed him back.

  * * *

  Later that night, just to be sure, Todd took all the manuscripts out back and burned them on a small bonfire. After a moment’s thought, he went inside and brought out everything he could find that he’d written, and threw that on the fire too.

  Todd watched the pile of p
aper and card set light and topple to one side, a burning tower of failure.

  “We’re gonna need a bigger bonfire,” he said, and set about looking for more wood.

  * * *

  Janis’s lawyer called.

  “This is Kevin Coughlan,” he said. “I need you to come into my office and sign some papers to begin the process.”

  Todd thought “the process” sounded a little bit medical. He supposed it was in a way, the extraction of a person from a marriage, or the severing of two conjoined twins. He was about to say yes when he remembered his conversation with Behm.

  “I need a little more time,” he said.

  “Time for what?” said Coughlan. “Mrs. Milstead is very anxious to conclude matters.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” said Todd and put the phone down.

  * * *

  Billy called. At least, it could have been Billy. It could have been anyone, really. Or anything. The sound coming from the telephone receiver was like something swallowing. Or, Todd thought, being swallowed.

  “I saw Terry today,” said Sara.

  “You okay?” Todd asked. “I guess,” she said. “He says he’s going to sign the house over to me, as well as make good with the alimony.”

  “What did you say?” said Todd.

  “I said, all right then,” said Sara.

  “All right then,” said Todd.

  * * *

  Mike called.

  “Hey, Todd!” he cried, almost delighted, when Todd picked up. “Long time, no speak.”

  “I’ve been busy,” said Todd, not unpleasantly.

  If Mike caught the unexpected tone of not-unpleasantness in Todd’s voice, he was careful not to mention it.

  “I heard. Buddy, you have been through the mill,” he said. “Listen, Joe and I were talking. We understand that you might not want to revive the old literary soirees like we used to have, but it would be…”

  Mike was clearly searching for the right word.

  “Good to see you,” he concluded.

  Todd thought for a minute.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay what?” said Mike.

  “Come over,” said Todd. “Saturday night.”

  “Really?” said Mike.

  “You and Joe,” said Todd and then, for the hell of it, “And Billy.”

  “We haven’t seen Billy for quite a while,” said Mike.

  I’ll bet, thought Todd.

  “You sure about this, Todd?” said Mike.

  “Saturday night, seven P.M.,” Todd said. “It’ll be just like old times.”

  * * *

  “Wow,” said Sara when he told her that night. “I guess you want me to rustle up a delicious selection of buffet foods.”

  “No,” said Todd. “We can buy some chips and dips, and get some booze. Not too much though.”

  Sara gave him a weird look, half approval, half appraisal.

  “Are you quite yourself?” she asked.

  “And maybe some rat poison,” said Todd. “Watch the ungrateful motherfuckers puke their guts up.”

  “That’s the Todd I know and love,” said Sara.

  * * *

  The funny thing was, Todd thought later, that he was quite himself. Maybe not spending every night mired in whiskey was helping. Maybe the weight loss—which seemed to have settled on the good side of healthy—was contributing to his sense of wellbeing as well as his actual wellbeing. Perhaps it was the ending of his marriage (although there were some loose ends there), or the start of something new with Sara. Quite possibly it was all of these things. All Todd knew was that things had changed, and for the better.

  He ran the tap and filled a glass with water.

  “To the future!” he said.

  “That better be vodka,” said Sara, and went back to her list.

  * * *

  No more manuscripts came back. Todd went out in the yard and swept up the ash where his writing career had been. It didn’t take long.

  * * *

  Mike called again, to check that Saturday night was still on. He still didn’t quite seem to believe Todd when Todd said it was.

  * * *

  Behm called again.

  “Has the money gone?” said Todd.

  “It’s not that,” said Behm. “Mr. Milstead, I’ve been following that lady for weeks now and she’s done nothing more exciting than visit her sister.”

  There was silence on Todd’s end of the line.

  “Mr. Milstead?” said Behm.

  “Janis doesn’t have a sister,” Todd said.

  “I guess we’re still on then,” said Behm.

  * * *

  There was a knock at the door, and then the bell rang; the person at the door wanted to make really sure that their presence was being registered.

  Todd opened the door. Mike was standing there. He looked both nervous and eager.

  “I don’t have any candy for you,” said Todd.

  “What?” said Mike.

  “You look like a kid trick or treating,” said Todd. “Where’s Joe?”

  Mike looked briefly uncomfortable.

  “He couldn’t make it,” he said.

  “I forgive him,” said Todd, “I guess. Say, those flowers for me?”

  Mike was clutching a small bunch of flowers, wrapped in cellophane.

  “These are for you,” Mike said to Sara.

  “Thanks, Mike,” said Sara. “I’ll go put them in something.”

  Mike stood in the hallway, looking expectant.

  “This way,” said Todd, pushing him into the lounge.

  * * *

  “Will you relax?” Todd said. “Sit back in the seat or something. You’re making me feel like someone died and you came to tell me.”

  Mike’s smile was a rictus.

  “Sorry, Todd,” he said. “It’s just been a while.”

  “He’s not used to you being polite,” Sara said. “Insult him. Call him a fucking jackass or something.”

  “Mike, you’re a fucking jackass,” said Todd, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  In truth, nobody’s heart was in it. The evening went by in fits and starts. Conversations went into cul-de-sacs. There wasn’t enough booze (there wasn’t any whiskey, to Mike’s distress). The absence of Janis and the substitution of Sara, who clearly had no intention of spending the evening in the kitchen, reduced the flow of both conversation and snacks. Billy’s absence, while a relief in some ways—as Mike would say to Joe a few days later, it changed the air in the room.

  And then there was Todd. Only a lunatic would say that they preferred Todd the way he used to be, cawing and carping and mocking and holding forth, but this new Todd—he was unsettling the way he seemed to be listening to what people were saying, rather than waiting until they’d finished speaking so he could jump in with a sarcastic putdown or a prepared witticism. Todd seemed interested in Mike but—if they were honest—he also seemed to be appraising him, like tonight was a test. A test of what, nobody knew.

  When eleven came and Sara started yawning, everybody was relieved to take it as a cue to head on home.

  * * *

  “That went well, I think,” said Todd as he helped Sara clear the bowls of snack food and the beer cans from the lounge.

  * * *

  “That was weird,” Mike said to Joe the next day, when they went for a beer together.

  * * *

  “That was amazing,” said Sara lying in bed and stroking Todd’s chest.

  * * *

  Billy Cairns didn’t say anything. How could he? There was no longer any part of Billy capable of speaking.

  * * *

  “Where are we going?” said Sara as Todd opened the Volvo’s passenger door for her.

  “I just feel like going for a drive,” said Todd.

  “I see the holiday mood is continuing,” Sara teased. Todd smiled back, a little tensely. A holiday was something that couldn’t last.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Sara said,
as Todd got in the car.

  “I was just thinking about an old joke,” Todd said, starting the engine and pulling out into the road.

  “And now Todd Milstead is telling jokes,” said Sara. “Wonders will never cease.”

  “Guy goes to Hell,” said Todd, “and Satan shows him two fields, both full of shit. Like four feet deep in actual shit.”

  “Charming.”

  “One field of shit is full of people standing on their heads, and in the other, all the people are also in shit but they’re standing up and drinking coffee and eating donuts.”

  “I don’t think that’s in Dante.”

  “And Satan says to the guy, which field would you like to go in? And the guy’s not dumb, he says, the field where everyone is standing up, drinking coffee and eating donuts.”

  “Reasonable.”

  “In the blink of an eye, the guy finds himself in that field. And he’s just about to say hi to his neighbor when Satan grabs a loud hailer and shouts, ‘THAT’S IT, FOLKS! COFFEE BREAK’S OVER!’”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, they were driving into town when Todd had an idea.

  “I’ve never bought you anything,” he said.

  “You bought me dinner,” said Sara. “And a few cocktails.”

  “Come on,” said Todd, and turned into a side street.

  “Wow,” said Sara. “I haven’t been here in a long time. Is that old fraud still running the place?”

  “Sure is,” said Todd. He parked opposite Legolas Books and got out.

  “I guess by now anybody else would have torched the place for the insurance,” Sara said as they crossed the road to the store.

  The bell tinkled behind them as they went in, giving Timothy time to put away the calculator he was using to add up the previous week’s sales and to instead pick up a slim volume of Carlos Castaneda.

  “Hey, pilgrim!” he greeted Todd. “I see you brought a friend.”

  “Morning, Timothy,” said Todd, moving off immediately toward the shelves.

  “And how can I help a beautiful lady on a beautiful day?” asked Timothy, whose interest in ladies, beautiful or otherwise, was largely confined to photographs of them in specialist European publications.

  “I have no idea why I’m here,” said Sara. “But it certainly is a pleasure to be inside this marvelously quaint old store.”

  Fuck you, thought Timothy, who was no stranger to sarcasm with a smile. “Why, thank you,” he said. “’Tis a small thing, but all mine own. To quote the poet.”