by Jane Seville
Churchill had offered him several choices of employment, for all of which he was extravagantly overqualified. Even so, the idea of working somewhere where he didn’t have to make life-or-death decisions had its appeal, at least at this stage of his life in which he was still recovering from a serious injury and adjusting to not only a new name but a new existence.
This job had been his choice. Bookstores had always been among his favorite places, and while he knew retail was hard work, surely book retail would be more pleasant than, say, electronics or cars. So far, he enjoyed the job. He was an ordinary bookseller and cashier, and the work was peaceful. His co-workers laughed when he used that word to describe it, to which he could only reply that peace was a relative term.
He’d worried that his age would set him apart from his co-workers but soon found that wasn’t the case. The sellers ran the gamut of ages from the predictable college students and young adults to forty-year-olds to one feisty retiree who wore garish pentacle jewelry and Birkenstocks to work and could tell you anything you wanted to know about Tarot cards. No one blinked an eye to find a thirty-six-year-old man working as a bookseller.
He’d spent a week in the hospital, and then another three weeks regaining his strength in an ordinary two-bedroom apartment which the Marshal’s office had thoughtfully furnished in a style Jack thought of privately as “temporary-housing chic.” He’d had thoughts of spiffing the place up a little, but every time he got close to doing so, something stopped him.
You won’t be here that long. Don’t get too comfortable.
Which could just as easily be true as not. He could be here another two weeks, or another two years. A lot of things about this situation were difficult. Not being able to do his work. Getting used to a new identity. Being separated from the man he loved. But that uncertainty… the more time went by, that was becoming the thing that kept him awake. Not knowing how long his exile would last, or if it would ever end at all.
His co-workers greeted him warmly when he finally made it to the local bar where they often gathered for drinks after shifts. He was mildly dismayed to see Geoff there. He hadn’t expected to see him here since tonight was his night off. Geoff was twenty-eight and took every opportunity to chat him up. He clearly had… motives. Geoff was a nice enough guy. Good-looking too. But Jack just couldn’t go there; not now.
It didn’t help that his co-workers were forever trying to fix him up. He hadn’t told anyone that he was gay, but somehow they all seemed to know. He avoided Geoff’s eyes and took a chair next to Gloria, his favorite co-worker. She was twenty-two and heavily Goth, and Jack had no idea why, but he adored her. “Hi, handsome,” she said as he sat down. “How’s tricks?”
“Oh, you know. Sell some books, shelve some books.”
“You’re breaking Geoff’s little heart,” she muttered.
Jack glanced over at him. “He’ll live.”
“All night he’s asking if you’re coming, when you’re coming, and now here you are and you give him the brush-off.”
“He just doesn’t give up.”
“He might if you told him you were spoken for.” Gloria knocked back a shot of something.
Jack stared. “How did you know that?” he whispered. He had never breathed so much as a syllable even suggesting that he might be attached.
She met his eyes. “I didn’t until you said that. I suspected.”
He sagged. Walked right into that one, Francisco. “Oh. Did you also suspect I’m a moron? Because I am.”
“Piffle. Sooooo,” she said, leaning closer so their conversation could be at least semi-intimate. “Who is he?”
Oh God. The words “long story” don’t even begin to cover it. “No one you know.”
“I didn’t think it was anyone I knew; I was asking who he is.”
“I… can’t really talk about it.”
Wrong answer. Jack could all but see the curiosity level jack up a few notches in her eyes. “You can’t talk about it? Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
She eyed him. “Don’t tell me he’s one of those married, closeted guys. No, wait… he’s a Baptist minister, right? And he runs one of those bullshit ex-gay re-education programs and shouts from the pulpit about the evils of the hell-bound queers. And he works for the Pat Robertson campaign.”
Jack had to chuckle at the picture she painted and its total lack of resemblance to reality. “Yep, you got it. Hit the nail on the head. But it really gets me off when he cries out to Jesus while he’s fucking me.”
Gloria laughed. “Fine, don’t tell me.”
He stared at the table, wishing for a beer. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” he said. “It’s just complicated. And it’s hard for me to talk about him or even think about him, because I can’t be with him right now.”
“How long since you’ve seen him?”
“Three months.”
Her eyes widened. “Shit.”
Jack nodded. “Seems like longer sometimes. Thinking about my time with him… I don’t know. Sometimes it doesn’t feel real, like I must have dreamed it.” He sighed. “I don’t even have a picture of him.”
“When are you going to see him again?”
He met her gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe never.”
She shook her head. “Jesus, Jack.”
Jack jerked himself out of the conversation. “I really can’t talk about this.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes sympathetic. “Whatever the hell’s going on with you, it can’t be good.”
“Hi, Jack!” Jack and Gloria both looked up, surprised. Geoff had ventured around the table and was standing over them, all puppyish enthusiasm and wide-eyed hope. Jack felt like shit. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Jack said, neutrally.
“You need a beer?”
“Buzz off, Geoff,” Gloria snapped.
Geoff’s face fell immediately. It was almost comic. “I just… uh, sorry.” He slunk back around the table, chancing one more glance at Jack.
“That was uncalled for,” Jack said, quietly, although he was secretly grateful.
“He’ll live.”
~~~~~
Megan sat in Jack’s living room, the lights off, waiting for him to come home. I should just walk up to the guy, or wait ’til he’s home and ring the damn bell. I’ll probably give him a heart attack.
All of which was true, but the stealth mode was hard to give up, especially now, and part of her wanted to see how he’d react.
The keys turned in the lock and the door swung open, Jack silhouetted from the dim light from the streetlamps outside. He had a messenger bag over his shoulder and a scarf wrapped around his throat.
Megan reached over to the lamp at her side and clicked it on.
Jack didn’t make a noise or waste a movement. Fast, almost too fast for her to see, he had a gun out from somewhere and he was around in a tight circle, the gun up and pointed at her. She grinned. “Good. You’ve been staying sharp, I see.”
He sagged, breath whooshing out of his chest in a rush. He lowered the gun. “Jesus Christ, Megan!”
“Of course if I’d really been a bad guy I wouldn’t have turned on the light; I would have just shot you.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you’re not a bad guy, then,” Jack said, slipping the gun back into his bag. He tossed it aside and crossed the room to embrace her. She hugged him back, reassured by how solid he felt in her arms. “Goddamn, I’m glad to see you.”
“Me too. I would have been here sooner, but I’ve been… a little busy.”
He pulled back and she saw his eyes flick all over her face. “Your surgeon did a good job,” he said. “Your scars are barely noticeable.”
“Yeah, well even barely noticeable is a bit of a liability for me. Do you think they’ll keep fading?”
“Sure.” He turned her face to one side and palpated her most visible scar, a vertical line near her ear. “This one might never go away compl
etely. Are you using any creams or vitamins? I can recommend something.”
“Yeah, I’m using every product known to man.”
“That’s all you can do, then. Make sure you drink lots of water all the time. Hydrated skin heals better and minimizes scar tissue formation.” He smiled. “Feels weird to be giving medical advice. These days, the only advice I give is which mystery writer a customer should read next.” He put down his messenger bag and unwound his scarf. “I guess Churchill must have told you where I am.”
“Yep.”
“How’d you get him to do that?”
“A good blow job is very persuasive.” She busted out laughing at the stunned expression on Jack’s face. “I’m kidding. I wrangled an appointment to the Marshal’s office as a special consultant on anti-assassination tactics.”
“And what does this consultant job entail?”
“It entails me coming to Witsec once in awhile and saying smart things. Oh, and having access to their database.”
“Nice.” He was making coffee. “So….”
“I haven’t seen him,” she said, her voice quiet with understanding.
He nodded, quickly. “Sure, whatever.”
“Jack, it’s all right to want some news. It’s been three months.” She sat down on his couch. “All I can tell you is that as of two days ago he was alive and all right. He texts me once a week, just to let me know he isn’t dead.”
He came into the living room and handed her a cup of coffee. “Well, that’s something.”
“He’s pretty deep underground. I don’t know how he’s doing with his plan, whatever his plan entails.”
“I thought he might have told you more than he told me.”
“No, not really. Just the goal. Get the brothers off your back.”
“I wish I could do that myself. I hate that he’s out there endangering himself for my sake.”
“I know you do. But we both have to let him do this. It’s a way to—”
“Atone,” Jack finished.
She nodded. “Yeah. Atone.” She cocked her head, watching Jack’s profile. “Jack… are you all right?”
He sighed, fidgeting with his coffee cup. “Compared to what?”
“You’re having doubts, aren’t you?”
“No!” he said, too quickly.
Megan cleared her throat, proceeding cautiously. “Is that ‘no’ meaning ‘yes’?”
Jack started to deny it again, then hesitated. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, quietly. “I guess it’s just that… well, a lot of things that weren’t important then are starting to seem important.”
“Such as?” She thought she knew, but she wanted to hear it from him.
He snorted. “Oh, nothing significant. Just little things, like that he’s killed people. A lot of people.”
“Bad people.”
“That makes it right? What if somebody decided I was bad? Plenty of people would think so, because I’m gay. That would make it okay for them to kill me?”
“There’s a difference between judging someone bad because they raped a five-year-old and judging that someone’s bad because he’s gay.”
“Is there?” Jack sat back. “Do you know what his final job was?”
She nodded. “An art dealer who was laundering pieces looted by the Nazis.”
“Right. That guy probably never hurt anyone in his life; not physically, anyway. He was an art dealer. Did he deserve to die?”
“You know, it wasn’t D who thought he deserved it. He didn’t hire himself for the job, you know.”
“No. But he sure as hell judged the guy bad enough to take the job and cash the check.” Jack rubbed his face with one hand. “None of this mattered… then. Now all I can think about is whether it was real.”
“You’re not sure it was real?”
“I don’t know what to think!” he exclaimed. “Sometimes I wake up and for a minute I’m sure I must have dreamed it all. Did it really happen? Does he even exist? If I told anybody in my life now they’d never believe me. I wouldn’t believe me, either.”
“It was real, Jack.”
“I know it was. I’ve got the scars to prove it. That’s not even the scary part.” He didn’t go on.
“You’re not sure what you felt was real,” Megan said, quietly.
“It felt real at the time. It was just him and me against the world. Not in some Kerouac, misunderstood way but a very real, bullet-ridden way, and everything was polarized and refracted and it had to be one way or no way. I had to love him so I wouldn’t fear him. I had to make him love me or he’d desert me.”
“Is that how it was?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “I don’t want it to be, but I’m afraid it might be. And now everything we went through, even the good stuff, the talking and the sex and the protecting, it all feels tainted by some nebulous truth that I’m not even sure exists.”
“You’re overanalyzing this.”
“Oh, you think?” he snapped. “That is my special gift.” He dropped his hands, and she saw how tired he was. Tired of thinking about this. “Sometimes I have this secret shameful little hope that he just never comes back. Then I won’t have to find out. I’ll be able to just keep those months we had together in my head, and look back and remember him without having a reality to mess it up. I’m terrified of him coming back after doing God knows what to make me safe and finding out that what I felt wasn’t real, or even worse, that it was real but it isn’t enough to keep us together. I’d almost rather never see him again than get him back and lose him the way everybody else in the world loses relationships. Break up like regular people. We’re not supposed to be like that. We’re supposed to die in a hail of bullets or part tragically and pine forever. We’re not supposed to reunite only to split up over money or intimacy issues or sexual boredom or whatever else splits people up.” He slumped in his chair, his eyes falling closed. “What I had with D was the most intense, most exciting, most passionate connection I’ve ever had with another person in my life. But I’m afraid that if we try for anything more permanent, we’ll lose it.” He glanced at her. “God, made quite a speech, didn’t I? Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. Everything you said, it’s all valid. Those are all legitimate concerns. But of all those words, only two really matter.”
“What?”
“’I’m afraid.’”
He nodded, sighing. “Yeah.”
“You just have to ask yourself if you’re going to let that fear win. It’d feel awful to lose him in some mundane way, or find out that what you had wasn’t what you thought it was. But I have to think it’d feel worse never to try.”
He rolled his head on the chair cushion to look at her. “You’re right, of course. Like I could ever just give up on it now because it’s scary. Isn’t it always scary?”
“Oh, yeah.” Megan sat up straighter. “I have to be on my way, Jack.”
“So soon?” he said, frowning.
“Never a dull moment.” She got up. “But I’m glad to find you well and safe. I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
He stood up and walked her to the door. “Can you pass something else along?”
“If I’m able.”
“Tell him… tell him to meet me on Christmas Day. I can’t see my family, I have nothing else to do. Tell him I just need to see him, even if it’s only for a few hours. Tell him I begged and got down on my hands and knees and made a shameful spectacle of myself.”
She smiled. “Meet you where?”
Jack looked away. “He’ll know where.”
She nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell him.”
~~~~~
December 25, 2006
~~~~~
Jack’s stomach was in knots as he drove through Redding after six-plus hours on the road from Portland. He could have flown, but given travel times and security procedures it was almost quicker to drive the near seven hours that would bring hi
m from his home in Portland to the house his dreams still placed him in.
He’d round the corner and he would or would not see a car in the driveway. Even if you don’t see a car, he could still be there. He could have hidden the car. He could have taken a cab. He could have dropped in from the sky.
He rounded the corner. No car in the driveway.
It was almost noon. He might arrive later. If he’d ever gotten Jack’s message at all, or if he had any intention of honoring his request. Jack thought the chances of D showing up here were no better than even, if that. But it wasn’t like he couldn’t show up himself; if there was even the remotest chance, he had to be here.
He parked his car in the driveway and just sat there for a minute. The place looked the same, if a bit overgrown. All that gardening for nothing.
He got out and went around to the little chink under the foundation where they’d hidden a spare key. It was there. Jack went to the front door and took a breath, then unlocked it and stepped into the surreality of memories that had started to feel disjointed from too much handling.
For all the time he’d spent looking back on his time here, actually seeing the place again was… odd. He’d misremembered a few details that now felt more real in the incorrect recollection than here in reality. He set down his overnight bag (optimistically packed) and stood there, the stale air filling his lungs.
He went into the kitchen. Coffeepot, kitchen table, patio doors. The backyard, unkempt and forlorn. He saw his own shadow learning to shoot, learning to fight, that day that D had smelled the sun on him. They’d cleaned the kitchen before leaving; nothing remained of their time except possibly fingerprints, although Jack wouldn’t have put it past D to have wiped the place down like a crime scene.
He steeled himself and went to the bedroom.
The bed had been slept in. He would have bet money on it. He’d made the bed himself before they left, with his usual anal-retentive precision. Someone had made it, but it was crooked and a little disheveled-looking. He would not have left it like this.