by T. J. Klune
“I don’t like those,” Mike says.
Sean waits.
“Okay,” Mike says. “Maybe a little bit. But we have to see what else he can do.”
“We have the Ercaf. We can see how that goes. It takes a while. You know that.”
He does know. He just hates waiting. Mike Frazier can be patient about most things, but not about this.
And then Sean says, “Besides, if I go, then you go as well.”
“Me? For what?”
“I think he called it your insomnier.”
“Busybody,” Mike mutters. “Always talking without saying anything at all.”
Sean shrugs and bumps his knee against Mike’s, and only then does Mike realize how close they are, Sean still seated in the chair, Mike towering above him. It’s intimate, quiet, the noise of the diner a dull murmur underneath the rotating fan. He thinks that for propriety’s sake, he should take another step back, but can’t find within him the will to do so. “He worries about you,” Sean says.
“Maybe he should mind his own business,” Mike counters.
“Uh-huh. And where were you this morning?”
Mike pauses. He pauses, because he’s always told himself that he never wants to lie to Sean if he can help it, that of all the people in the world, in Amorea, Sean always deserves to know the truth.
And so he says nothing at all, and hopes it’s not lying by omission. Because he doesn’t really know where he was this morning.
“Right,” Sean says. “Probably with the mistress, then?”
Mike sputters. “There’s no…. I can’t—I would never do that to—”
Sean laughs, that raspy chuckle of his crawling along Mike’s skin. Mike loves the sound of his voice, could listen to it for ages. It reminds him of the jazz records he sometimes plays, the horns and the bass husky and just sliding out of the black spinning discs, scratchy and warm. He can see Sean like that, like some kind of hepcat, a long, filtered cigarette between his lips, the smoke curling up around his face, snapping his fingers along with Dizzy Gillespie as he wails on his trumpet.
And he loves it even more now, because it’s saved him from further embarrassment, the horror probably evident on his face that there could ever be anyone else. The thought alone is enough to make him anxious.
And Sean is joking, dragging him along just a little bit, but he can’t have him thinking there’s even the tiniest bit of truth to that. He can’t have that. He won’t have that.
So Mike says, as earnestly as he can, “There won’t ever be anyone else like that.”
And Sean stops laughing, his eyes widening just ever so much as he stares up at Mike, and Mike refuses to avert his eyes, refuses to look away, because he’s learned in those pulp detective books with the dime-store covers that that’s how liars work, that they have little tells. They look away. He can’t have Sean thinking he’s lying. He’s not. Never about this.
He thinks he sees Sean’s breath hitch just the tiniest bit before he smiles that smile only for Mike. “I know,” he says. “I know that, Mike. I’m just messing with you.”
“Okay,” Mike says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
But Sean knows. He always does. He says, “You want to walk me home, big guy?” and of course Mike says yes and yes and yes.
THEY MAKE it out of the diner okay, and even though there are fewer people, they still get those knowing looks, those looks that say We know how you two are, you can’t hide from us. Oscar waves from the kitchen, a short dismissive thing, barely tearing his scowl away from Walter, who can’t quite stop from rolling his eyes at whatever invaluable life lesson Oscar’s imparting upon him.
They’re out the door and into the summer twilight without much fuss. The sky above is pastel and fire, the air cooling the barest amount. There are people lining up at the theater, waiting to pay their forty-one cents for a ticket away from Amorea for a couple of hours. There are people lounging in the park on checkered blankets, wicker baskets open between them.
It’s a normal evening here in Amorea, and except for Sean’s migraine, everything feels just fine.
Mike’s feeling a bit brave after his display in the office and crooks his elbow out toward Sean. Sean looks down at it, then back up at Mike, amusement clear on his face. Mike blushes, but that’s par for the course these days. Sean hums a little under his breath and slides his hand around Mike’s arm. Mike holds his elbow close to his body, Sean’s hand trapped against him. They do this sometimes. But it’s always been Sean who latched on first. Mike feels something loosen in his chest.
They start walking together, Sean pressed up close beside him. The top of his head comes up to Mike’s chin, and Mike can’t help but find it overwhelmingly endearing. He’s a big guy, and not just in the way that Sean always calls him. He’s bigger than most others in Amorea, but he never uses his size to intimidate. It’s not in him. It’s not how he is.
The townsfolk out and about smile at them knowingly, but aside from a greeting here and there, leave them to each other. There’s the tip of a wide-brimmed hat or a gloved hand raised, fingers wiggling slightly in their direction. But Amorea knows the evenings, these little stretches of time between the diner and home, are meant for Sean and Mike.
Sometimes they talk to each other in hushed voices, little murmurs that can’t be overheard. Other times they’re quiet, just enjoying each other’s company. Mike can do both, and he tries to follow Sean’s lead. Sean’s better at this sort of thing, and Mike still worries he’ll say something that’ll screw it all up. He’s not good with words, though he’s trying to be better.
Sean says, “I think this is my favorite part of the day.”
Mike’s not quite sure what he means. “Nightfall?” he asks.
There’s that smile. “Sometimes I think you’re willfully dense.”
“What’s your tale, nightingale?” Mike says, and Sean laughs at him for that. God, how that makes Mike happy.
“What’s my tale?” Sean says. “Yeah. You know what I’m talking about, you wet rag.”
“Me?” Mike says, shocked.
“You.”
Mike… doesn’t know what to do with that. He knows what he’d like to do with that, but he doesn’t know how. Maybe it wouldn’t be right, here in the open where anyone could cast an eyeball on them, but he wants to press Sean up against the side of the nearest building, bodies together, and just bury his face in Sean’s neck, breathing him in and breathing him in and breathing him in.
Instead he says, “You’re my favorite part of the day too,” and hopes that it’s enough.
It is. From the slow-blooming smile on Sean’s face, it is, because for some reason, some goddamn reason Mike doesn’t understand, he’s always enough for Sean.
Sean tightens his grip on Mike’s elbow and tilts his head until it’s laying on Mike’s shoulder, and they take their time walking back to Sean’s house. Because they’ve got it. They’ve got all the time in the world.
THE FIRST stars are coming out by the time they stand at Sean’s door. Mike lives a couple of streets down and over, and he’s looking forward to the walk home, given that he’ll have some time to think about what to do to take the next step with Sean. It needs to be something special. Something just for him, so that there will be no misunderstanding about what Mike wants.
But that’s for later.
Now, now is about standing in front of Sean’s little bungalow, trying to find the words to say I miss you when we’re not together and I think I might be in love with you and Let’s do this forever and for always without actually saying the words.
Mike has opened his mouth to say something when Sean says, “Did you hurt yourself?”
Mike snaps his mouth shut. Then, “What?”
“Your wrist,” he says, trailing his fingers down Mike’s arm. “You keep scratching at it.”
“Oh,” Mike says. “No. I’m not hurt. Just itches, I guess.” Truth is, he wasn’t even aware he was scratching his
wrist again.
He startles, just a little, when Sean grasps his hand and pulls it up toward his face. He wants to laugh at the look on Sean’s face, the studious expression, like he’s going to find the problem right here, right now.
He starts to say, What’s your diagnosis, Dr. Mellgard? because he’s in a good mood and nothing is wrong and everything is fine.
But the words dry up in his mouth when he feels warm breath against him, and Sean’s eyes are on his as he presses the tenderest of kisses to his wrist. Mike swallows thickly at the scrape of Sean’s lips, how they rest against him for one and two and three before he pulls away. He feels branded. He feels marked, like he’s been given a promise tattooed on his skin.
Sean looks amused again, as he often does with Mike. “You okay there, big guy?” he says.
Mike just nods, not trusting himself to speak. His face has to be a flaming red right now, and he hopes his beard is doing enough to cover most of it up. He knows it’s not.
“Good,” Sean says and finally lets go of Mike’s wrist. “You have poker night tomorrow with the boys?”
Mike nods again.
There it is. The smile just for him. “I’ll see you in the morning, then? No mistress, right?”
Mike finds his voice. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yes. You’ll see me in the morning. I won’t miss it. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Sean laughs and it’s all Mike can do to stop himself from taking him into his arms right then and there. He thinks, Well, there’s nothing stopping me, but the kiss on the wrist was enough for now. He wants to do this right. He always wants to do right by Sean.
“I know,” Sean says. “I’m just trying to rattle your cage.”
Mike mock scowls at him and says, “Right-o,” but then smiles to show he’s in on the joke too.
“You know what’s funny?” Sean says, pushing open the door and taking a step inside.
“What’s that?”
Sean looks over his shoulder back at Mike. “Migraine’s gone.”
“Good,” Mike says. “The meds must be working fine.”
“The meds,” Sean says. “That must be it. Yeah.” He winks at Mike and closes the door.
And if Mike stands there on the porch for a few minutes looking a little awed?
Well.
That’s his business and no one else’s.
conditional statements
IV
HE’S IN his bed, hands behind his head, Martin purring like a rusty old motor on his chest, when he hears a voice coming from the kitchen.
It says, “—it’s like you’re not even trying, Julienne, Jesus fucking Christ, don’t you see what’s happening here? He’s—”
And then it’s gone.
Mike Frazier can be called many things. A nice guy, a good friend. A pillar of the community. He’s well-liked, even loved by some people. He’s kind, courteous, and respectful.
But Mike Frazier is also human, and he’s heard a voice in the dark in what should be his empty house.
There’s a buzzing in his ears as gooseflesh prickles along his arms. Martin acts like nothing has happened at all, and that should give Mike pause, should tell him that maybe he was dozing and partway into a dream, but then he hears another voice, this one distinctly female, and it’s angry when it says, “—know what I’m doing. I always know what I’m doing. You can’t expect it to be flawless all the time, there are limits—”
It too cuts off.
Mike is awake.
He knows he’s awake.
This isn’t a dream.
He pushes Martin off his chest, much to Martin’s great, growly displeasure. He pulls the blanket off himself, sliding out of bed wearing loose-fitting cotton pajama bottoms that are getting a little short at the ankles. He stands in his darkened room, trying to keep his breathing even and calm, and just waits.
There’s nothing aside from the creak of the settling house. No voices. No footsteps. No movement in the house.
For a moment, there’s a flash of regret that he doesn’t have a pistol, but the very idea of needing something so vulgar in Amorea makes him uneasy. Pistols are for Marlowe and for the silver screen. Not for their little town.
Instead, he opens the closet door as quietly as he can and reaches toward the back for the old wooden Slugger he hasn’t touched in years. He has to dig for it, but keeps an ear trained toward the rest of the house. His finger brushes wood, and he wraps his hand around the ash handle. He pulls it from the closet, comforted by its weight.
Martin stares at him as if he’s the most perplexing thing to have ever existed. And the stupidest.
And he might be, since he moves toward the bedroom door, trying to think of who could have possibly broken into his house, what they could possibly hope to get from him. Mike’s a man of simple means. He doesn’t have many things. The only thing of any value is probably his book collection, or the wooden console radio in the living room, something he splurged on to listen to the serials.
But despite any fear he might feel, he’s also offended. He’s offended that someone would even think of entering his home uninvited, whether or not for nefarious purposes. He’s offended that something like this could happen in Amorea. He knows the people here, and chances are he’s going to know who it is in his house, and that offends him. There’s a little voice in the back of his head, buried deep, deep, deep that whispers, What if it’s an outsider? What if it’s a stranger? but the thought is preposterous, because there are no strangers in Amorea. And if there were, he’d have met them by now and they wouldn’t be strangers anymore.
No. It’s someone he knows. It has to be.
And that offends him.
He won’t hit them with his bat. He’s not a violent person. He’ll scare them, sure, whoever it is, this man and woman. Maybe it’s someone playing a joke, but until he knows that for sure, he’ll just brandish the bat and puff himself up real big. It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.
He opens the bedroom door quietly.
The hallway is empty.
He steps out of his room.
He thinks, kitchen, kitchen, kitchen.
He avoids that one spot in the hall where the floorboards under the carpet always squeak. He’s been meaning to fix that. It bothers him.
The door to the spare bedroom is open.
It’s empty too.
As is the bathroom.
There’s bland art hanging on the wall, a bowl of fruit, a sailboat on an open sea. He doesn’t remember where he got them, but he’s always had them. He doesn’t even really like them, but can’t seem to find the will to take them down.
The hallway leads to the living room. The kitchen is off to the left. The front door is to the right. There’s an aluminum-framed sliding glass door at the rear of the kitchen that leads to the small fenced backyard. Sometimes they have barbeques out there. Burgers and beer and everyone is happy.
The radio sits where it always has, next to the bookcase, heavy and silent and dark.
In the living room is his Barcalounger chair. Sean teases him that it’s his old-man chair because he takes naps in it while listening to his radio on Saturdays. There’s a small couch next to it that Mike will sometimes stare at, wondering how it would feel to lie on it with Sean on his chest, their voices quiet as they whisper little nothings to each other while the jazz plays low in the background. Sometimes he imagines it’s snowing and there is a fire in the fireplace, a heavy wool blanket covering them, and they live together. They come home to each other. He thinks about that a lot.
There’s no one in the kitchen.
The sliding door is closed.
The front door is closed.
He says, “What the hell.”
He’s at the front door. Opens it. There’s no one there. There’s no one on the streets, and why would there be? It’s after eleven and everyone is at home. There’s lights on in some of the houses on the street, but most are dark.
He shuts the door.
He thinks about locking it for the first time.
He doesn’t.
He’s at the sliding door. He’s in the backyard, the concrete of the patio warm under his feet. There’s nothing back here, no one hopping over the fence. He can hear a dog barking in the distance; it sounds like Rex, who belongs to Harvey Beckman, and Rex is loud, louder than a dog his size has any right to be.
But that’s it.
Aside from Rex and the stars and moon above, there’s nothing there.
He turns back to the house.
His feet whisper across the patio.
He starts to slide the aluminum door shut.
He stops.
He stops, because on his kitchen table sits a tiny bird, bathed in moonlight.
It’s barely moving, just little minute flicks of its wings, head cocked as it stares up at him.
Its neck is violet, its chest an emerald green flecked with white specks. Its wing tips are a mix of violet and green and brown.
He’s never seen a bird like this before.
He knows that for a fact.
And yet.
“Common starling,” Mike Frazier says in a rather breathless voice.
He doesn’t know how he knows this, but he does. And there’s something about—
Time slows down around him as the tiny bird spreads its wings. Its feet slip slightly on the table as it pushes forward, wings pumping up and down. It lifts from the table, shooting forward, in line with Mike’s chest in a matter of seconds. He’s dropping the bat and moving to the side even before he knows what he’s doing. He can hear the bird’s wings as it flies by him. The tip of one brushes against his shoulder and then the bird is out the sliding door and Mike can’t breathe because all he can hear is the thunderous flap of wings, which is impossible because it was just one bird.
He turns toward the door. Every single part of him feels heavy.
The moonlight fades. The stars blink and disappear.
But not because they’ve gone out.
No. Because they’re blocked out.