Please, take care of yourself. I remain your loving grandson.
Riley
Riley read the letter over once and then once again. It was the best he could do. He rummaged in his desk for an envelope and stamp. He found only the stamp. He could have sworn he had a whole package of envelopes. Cole must have borrowed them.
Even though they often borrowed from each other, Riley didn't like the thought of going through Cole's desk. Still, he wouldn't feel he'd done his duty where his grandfather was concerned until the letter was on its way. The desire to get the letter downstairs on the hall table for the mailman outweighed his reluctance.
When he opened the door to Cole's room, his jaw dropped. His first thought was that Jonquil had quit. His second thought brought a grin to his face. Cole must have had an orgy. The room reeked of stale liquor, staler sweat, and cigarette smoke. He grinned at the brigade of Southern Comfort and Wild Turkey bottles on the dresser. He thought he could smell stale pot. As a rule, Cole didn't go for marijuana, and neither did he, so that left his guest, whoever she was. He picked his way carefully over discarded sneakers, dirty dishes, and soiled underwear.
Cole's rolltop desk was a mess of papers—some business,
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some personal. There was an assortment of unopened mail. Cole's checkbook, a solar calculator, and his wallet lay among the papers. Riley's shoulders knotted. Cole wouldn't leave without his wallet and checkbook. His eyes swept the room again. No, not an orgy. Trouble.
He reached for the phone then quickly replaced the receiver. Whatever trouble Cole was in, it had nothing to do with him. So that made it personal. And none of his business. He'd come here for an envelope. He'd find it and leave, closing the door behind him. If Cole wanted to talk to him, he'd be just down the hall.
With the envelope in his hand, he closed the desk drawer. In his haste to leave Cole's room he brushed against the pile of papers stacked haphazardly on the desk. They scattered in every direction. He debated a moment as to whether he should pick them up. Cole would never notice with the other mess in the room. But he'd done it, so he'd pick it up. That's when he noticed the red-and-blue-striped envelope and the return address. A letter to Cole from his grandfather. Never in a million years would he invade Cole's privacy. Not till now. The familiar envelope and what it might say taunted him until he opened it. He read it, his eyes narrowing. He replaced it calmly. Then he saw the other letter, crumpled and smoothed out and tossed on the desk. As long as he was spying, he might as well see what it was. The writing was Lacey's.
The envelope that he'd come for lay forgotten on the desk when he slammed his way out of the room. He'd used such force on the door that the lamp on the night table jiggled precariously and then toppled to the floor.
The bastard! Low-down, sneaking son of a bitch!
He paced, he stomped, he cursed. His friend. His cousin. His compadre. Bullshit!
It was ten minutes after three when the headlights of the Porsche shot through Riley's darkened bedroom. He took a deep breath and waited. He listened to Cole's footsteps in the kitchen, directly under his room. The refrigerator door opened. He'd swig half a beer or soda and leave the can in the sink. He was walking through the house now, turning off the lights as he went. That meant he wasn't drunk. No sound on the stairs, then a sound—the ninth step. They'd been aware of it since they were seventeen and creeping in past their curfew.
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He was walking down the hall. One, two, three, four. Riley snapped on a light just as Cole reached his door.
"Hey, I thought you'd be asleep by now. Sorry there was no welcoming committee for you. How'd things go?"
"Just the way I expected. The leases mean zip."
A prickle of apprehension made Cole ask, "What the hell are you doing sitting here like this? Did something happen?"
Riley got up from the chair. "I was going to ask you that same question."
"Why—oh, you mean because I'm coming in so late in the middle of the week? I was at Adam's, and time got away from us. We were talking about Jeff and what he was doing wrong and right. Riley, I—" He saw the blow coming at the same moment he realized Riley knew about Lacey. He took it full face, staggering backward.
"You son of a bitch!" Riley hissed. "You waited till I was away and then you moved right in." His fist shot out a second time, landing high on Cole's left cheekbone. Blood spurted from the gash. "Go ahead, tell me some lies, tell me you didn't bring Lacey here, you slimy bastard."
Cole tasted blood, and his front teeth felt loose. "You don't understand, it wasn't what you—" He saw the kick coming, tried to move, but it caught him in the groin. He doubled over as Riley's foot shot out a second time, getting him in the side of the head. Cole fell over, the breath knocked out of him, as he waited for the kick to the ribs he knew was coming. The pain shot through his entire body. He barely felt the kick to his shoulder and the side of his neck. Riley reached down and clutched Cole's suit jacket in both of his hands as he heaved him to his feet. Cole watched through half-closed eyes as Riley drew his fist backward.
"You don't look so bad, you bastard. A broken nose and another black eye won't hurt you. I could smash those front teeth of yours without trying."
"Then do it—why don't you kill me while you're at it!" Cole shouted.
"Because I'd go to jail, and you aren't worth it." He steadied Cole on his wobbling feet and let his fist smash into Cole's face. He laughed when he heard the crunch of Cole's nose breaking. The open gash and rapidly swelling eye made him laugh harder. "You and I are finished, Cole. You ever come near me or speak to me again, and I'll kill you. You got that?"
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Cole could barely see, and he knew he was going to black out any second. He tried to stand and couldn't. He reached for Riley's desk chair to pull himself erect. Wave after wave of dizziness washed over him. He knew he had broken ribs. He fought to get the words past his swollen tongue and the blood in his mouth. "Yeah," he gasped, "I got it. But the next time, if there is one, I'll kill you. You got thatV
"You and what army?" Riley sneered. He reached for Cole's arm and dragged him into the hallway. "Get the fucking hell out of my room and don't ever come back." He shoved him with his hands and then raised his leg to kick him in the small of the back. Cole literally flew down the hallway. He couldn't capture any balance and he tumbled down the stairs.
Riley stood at the top of the railing, a bitter, hateful look on his face. "If you think I'm going to call an ambulance, think again. You can lie there and die for all I care."
Cole wondered if he would die. He'd never been in so much pain. He could barely see, and his face felt three times its normal size. He couldn't walk, that much he knew. He'd have to crawl. He left a trail of blood and curses as he made his way to the kitchen and out to the courtyard. His trousers were in shreds, his hands raw and bleeding, his jacket hanging on strips along his arms. It took him four tries before he could open the door of the Porsche, and another five tries before he got himself into the bucket seat.
He drove like a blind man across the fields, going by instinct more than sight until he reached Jarvis land, his high beams lighting the way. When he saw the ranch, he leaned on the horn all the way in. When he saw the lights spread all over the house, he let go and took his foot off the gas pedal and the clutch at the same time. He fell across the horn.
It seemed like hours before he heard Adam's shout. "Jeff, help me!" He felt two pairs of arms carrying him.
"What the hell happened?" Adam shouted in the bright light of the kitchen. "What's the other guy look like? Who did this, Cole? You're in pretty bad shape. I'm taking you to the hospital!"
"No! You can fix me up. Tape my ribs. Don't worry about my nose, it's been broken before."
"Your face needs stitches. Can you see?"
"I can see your ugly face; what more do you want?" Cole shot back.
"Jeff, go upstairs and get the medicine kit." The boy's eyes
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"Nothing. I didn't lay a finger on him. I just took it. I deserved it. Will you tape my goddamn ribs and stop asking questions?"
"It was over some chick, right?" Jeff chirped.
"Yeah," Cole muttered.
"You let your very own cousin whip your ass like this over a fluffball? I don't believe it! Old Adam here has been telling me what superjocks you guys are, and now this?" There was disgust in the boy's face.
"How'd you feel if I'd died and someone brought you the news? Would that make me more of a man in your eyes?" Cole gasped.
The boy shuffled his feet, refusing to meet Cole's eyes.
It was sheer agony for Cole to talk, but he had the feeling that something good could come of this beating if he said just one thing that got through to the kid. "I took this beating because I did something wrong. I committed the cardinal sin of betrayal. I deserve every broken bone, every bruise, and every scar I'm left with. Go to bed and think about it."
The look of uncertainty on the boy's face made Adam squeeze his shoulder. He'd understood. Jeff muttered a good night and left the room. Cole saw him turn to look over his shoulder. He gave a halfhearted wave that Cole tried to return.
"Thanks," Adam said quietly.
"Your reward for patching me up."
"He could have killed you, you know."
Cole tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. "He said he didn't want to go to jail, or he would have. He kicked me down the stairs and said he wasn't calling the ambulance."
"Jesus!"
"Adam, swear to me this won't affect your friendship with Riley."
"Sure. Look, this is the best I can do. I'll put some ice on your face, and I think you better sleep on the couch. I'll
>
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snooze on the chair—you know, sort of baby-sit you." He thought Cole would protest, but he didn't.
While Adam was ministering to Cole, Riley was standing under a freezing cold shower. He'd almost killed his cousin. He should be feeling something—satisfaction or remorse—at the brutal beating, but he just felt numb. He knew he had the capability to kill if he had to. Cole was no lightweight himself. In a match, with the odds even, it would be tough to see who came out numero uno. Not that he gave a damn either way now.
In bed, knowing there would be no sleep, Riley wondered what it was Cole had tried to tell him. He knew, no matter what the reason, if someone had attacked him the way he'd attacked Cole, he would have fought back. He winced. His Japanese thinking told him Cole was the better man for suffering the beating, justified or not. He ran the fight through his mind again and again. Physically he'd been beating Cole, bi't mentally it was himself he was whipping.
It was over and done with. Behind him now, like so many other things in his life. He had to move forward and not dwell in the past. If only he could find a magical way to do that, he'd have it made. No shortcuts, no miracle cures. You paid your dues and took your chances.
He slept fitfully, dreaming he was being buried alive, by Cole, with cherry blossoms. Everyone was laughing happily at his burial. Cole was the only one who wasn't laughing.
UiUUU CHAPTER TEN »)}»)»
Julie played a game with herself. The same game she'd been playing every day since the answering machine from Cary was delivered. When she got home from work, she wouldn't allow herself to look in the direction of the living room table where the machine was hooked up to see whether or not the red light was winking. She prolonged the moment of discovery by hanging up her coat, going through the mail, then shedding
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her work clothes in favor of sweats and slippers. Next she'd walk to the kitchen with her eyes closed, more or less feeling her way. The Mr. Coffee was plugged in, coffee measured. Two cups. The half-and-half and the mug that said she was "Born to Shop" were at the ready. In the beginning she'd been able to measure the actual drips and count the seconds until the water gurgled into a steady stream.
Today she miscalculated by one drip. The last one sizzled on the hot metal. Her coffee ready, she walked slowly to the living room. She set it carefully on a Budweiser coaster on the coffee table.
Now she could look. The tiny red light blinked invitingly. Somehow she'd known there would be a call today. Cary had been calling every Tuesday and Thursday, never when she was home, but in the middle of the day. He always gave the time before he hung up. Either he didn't trust himself to talk to her or he couldn't call in the evening because Amelia was home. She wondered, not for the first time, how he accounted for the calls when the telephone bill arrived. Maybe he called from a phone booth.
The first time she'd come home after the machine was hooked up, she'd almost fainted when she saw the red light. That time it had been a carpet-cleaning service saying they would call back at a more convenient time. So far they hadn't.
She liked the messages. She looked forward to them. She was starting to live for them, for God's sake. By three o'clock she'd have herself in a tizzy of excitement that today there would be a call. She was thirty-nine years old and mentally sick, she told herself.
Her heart thumped wildly while she rewound the message tape. Cary's voice came off crisp and clear, just like the others she'd transferred to a small recorder she kept by her bed. Late at night she played the messages back. By now she had quite a collection. She always had a smile on her face when she fell asleep.
"This is Cary Assante from Austin, Texas, calling." The warm chuckle in the voice always made Julie smile. "I was going to recite a poem for you today, but when I rehearsed it, I felt rather silly. It wasn't my poem to begin with, but something I read in the Miranda Evening News. They have this page devoted to what they call the Poet's Corner. Just so you won't be disappointed, here's this little old ditty. Roses are
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red. Violets are blue. Guess who is missing you? I do miss you, Julie. I think of you more often than I should. That has to mean something. I've been dreaming of you these past few days. That has to mean something, too. There are times when I wish I could walk around a corner and bump into you. I'd scoop you up and whirl you around, all the while saying Julie, Julie, Julie in my best Cary Grant voice. We'd link arms and head to some dimly lit lounge, where we'd sip wine and talk for hours.
"Amelia senses something is wrong. I can feel it in her attitude toward me. I've been toying with the idea of talking to her about the feelings I seem to have for you. I think she'd understand—or she'd try to understand. I probably never will say anything though. I never thought of myself as a coward, but I guess I am. I cannot hurt Amelia, but by not hurting Amelia, I am hurting myself, and you, too. It's five forty-five. You'll be home from work soon. I'll think about you listening to this message. I wish I could see you, Julie. I wish that more than anything in the world."
The machine whirred and then stopped. Julie turned it off. The abrupt silence in the room made her blink.
Right now, this very second, he was probably thinking of her. He wanted to see her more than anything in the world. The only thing stopping him was Amelia. Amelia stood between them. For one split second Julie wished Amelia were dead. "No. I didn't mean that. Please, God, I didn't mean that. There's something wrong with me. I would never wish death on anyone. Forgive me. I didn't mean it." What was happening to her?
She'd never written that intended thank you note to Amelia and Cary. Tonight she would do it if it killed her. After she listened to the tape ten more times.
It occurred to her suddenly that she could leave a message for Cary on the machine. Something simple. But if she did that, she would be perpetuating whatever this was between Cary and herself. She could also turn
off the machine. Unplug it. Pack it in the box it came in and put it on a shelf in the closet. She could throw it away so she wouldn't be tempted to hook it up again.
She wished she had a close friend, a real confidante. Someone who would listen objectively and not judge or condemn.
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Julie beat her fists into the soft pillows on the sofa. Amelia was a kind, warm, wonderful person. "I adore you, Amelia, but I think I'm falling in love with your husband." She beat at the tangerine pillows till she was exhausted. She didn't feel any better. She felt worse.
Julie sat up in bed watching the tail end of the eleven o'clock news. She pressed the remote control, and the newscaster was cut off in midsentence. She grimaced. She didn't like men who blow-dried their hair. She also wondered what shade of tint he used.
The notepad was propped up on a thick magazine resting on her knees. Whatever came off the top of her head was going to be it. She'd procrastinated long enough. When she was finished, she read it back to herself. Then she read it back aloud. She sniffed. It would have to do.
Dear Amelia and Cary,
Please excuse my tardiness in not sending this note sooner.
I want you to know I will treasure the bracelet. I wear it every day and have received many compliments. I truly appreciate your thoughtfulness.
It was more than kind of you, Amelia, to arrange for the birthday cake at the Lion's Rock. It has been many years since I had a real birthday cake, complete with candles.
I hope you and Cary are both well and not suffering from the flu, like most of us New Yorkers. My office was virtually empty last week. I'm keeping my fingers crossed it doesn't strike me down.
I'm looking forward to seeing both of you should you come to New York, as Cary indicated you might.
Affectionately, Julie
What she should do now was drop a note to Thad and Billie. Or she could take the Eastern shuttle after work tomorrow and pop in for one of her surprise visits. She knew she'd be welcome. She could spend the night and catch the first shuttle back in the morning and still be in time for work.
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