Dreamspinner Press Year Six Greatest Hits

by JD Ruskin

  Caleb walked Logan to the door. As it opened, a woman’s shrill voice called out to them.

  “Hello, Mrs. Simon,” Caleb said, poking his head through the opening. Logan observed the white-knuckled grip Caleb had on the doorframe. He peered over the top of Caleb’s head to see an elderly woman in a white blouse and a long, flower-patterned skirt standing in front of the apartment across the hall.

  “Who’s that strapping young man you’ve got with you?”

  “Come on,” Logan whispered, grabbing Caleb under the armpits and hauling him into the hall. He ignored Caleb’s yelp and continued, “Introduce me to the old bird before she starts beating us with her twenty pound purse.”

  Moisture dotted Caleb’s forehead, but there was a ghost of a smile on his face.

  “Hello, ma’am. I’m Logan Sellers.”

  The old woman shuffled across the hall. Her thick silvery-white hair was pulled back in a long braid from a fine-boned face. She was so tiny that Logan thought he’d have to kneel just to shake her hand. She saved him the trouble by squeezing his elbow in greeting. “Glad to meet you, sonny.”

  She looked at Caleb and dished out the kind of embarrassment only the ancient can get away with. “Is he your boyfriend?” She tilted her head back to look Logan over and said, “He’s quite a big fella.”

  Caleb looked down, and spots of high color appeared over his cheekbones. “He’s Marco’s replacement, not my… uh… boyfriend.”

  A twinkle shined in Mrs. Simon’s eyes as she pursed her lips. “Caleb, dear,” she said, laying a delicate hand on his arm. “Could you give me a hand with some boxes?”

  Not looking the old woman in the eye, Caleb said, “Actually, I really need to work.” He looked at Logan, his eyes wild. “Could you help her?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Caleb nodded his head vigorously. “Great. That’s great. Thanks.” He scurried back into his apartment and secured the door. Sneaky bastard.

  The old bird’s affable demeanor disappeared with the slide of the lock. “You,” she said, pointing a bony finger against Logan’s stomach. “Come with me.” She turned toward her door, not bothering to see whether he followed. He did the only thing he could. He followed.

  Logan took in the apartment. It mirrored Caleb’s, but it couldn’t be more different. Lacy cream curtains let the light soak the room. A sparse collection of antique and uncomfortable-looking furniture populated the main area. Doilies and crocheted blankets covered every available surface. He rubbed his nose as the smell of potpourri and cat hair invaded his nostrils. An enormous orange cat groomed itself on the pillow-piled sofa.

  Mrs. Simon settled herself primly on the couch, smoothing her skirt. “Have a seat, sonny.”

  Logan eyed the little paisley couch dubiously before taking a seat. The springs squealed in protest when he settled into place.

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I have a hard enough time getting that boy to come over here without you offering to do it for him. He’s too scared unless he thinks I need his help.”

  “Maybe he just don’t like cats,” Logan grumbled when the tabby came over to investigate him. He didn’t cringe away from its polka-dotted nose sniffing his arm, but it was a near thing.

  “Do you know about what happened with the radiator?” Mrs. Simon asked, reaching for the orange cat, and cuddling him in her arms. Logan was surprised she could lift the thing. It had to be part tiger.

  “Yeah, Caleb told me.”

  “Before that, his uncle used to try harder to get Caleb help, but realizing that Caleb would rather die than leave his apartment shook him to the core.” The monster in her lap began to purr like a Harley when she rubbed behind its ear. “But what his uncle doesn’t understand is it wasn’t about choice. Do you know why so many old folks die when the weather turns really hot?”

  When Logan shook his head, she continued, her voice somber. “The frailty of the body as we age is part of it but not all of it. They die because they are too afraid to open the windows. They know how dangerous the heat can be, but they are more terrified of a robber coming into their homes than they are of dying from the high temperatures. Caleb didn’t choose to die. He was just more afraid of the alternative.”

  Logan hadn’t thought of it like that, but it made a twisted sort of sense. Caleb chose to risk freezing to death instead of the possibility of burning if the radiator exploded. It would be damn terrifying to believe those his only options.

  “Someone has to help that child, and that uncle of his sure as heckfire doesn’t know how.”

  Logan snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.” It bothered him more than it should. He knew there were professionals who checked on housebound people. Maybe they’re more expensive and Klass’s a cheap bastard. Except Caleb ran his own business and, by the look of his apartment, was doing good. Whatever the reason, Caleb needed to know who his uncle was bringing in to help him. Logan wouldn’t do anything to hurt Caleb, but Klass didn’t know that.

  “Caleb’s a nice young man and would have a lot to offer someone.” She paused, giving Logan a pointed look that made his ears burn. “I imagine it won’t be long before he’s snatched up.” The unspoken challenge was clear in her voice. He stifled the urge to tell her to mind her own damn business. The idea of her working her matchmaking skills on Caleb irked him irrationally. He’d give her credit; she was a perceptive old lady. Most people were too busy gawking at his height to wonder about his orientation. She’d figured it out in a matter of seconds. That she thought he might be a potential match for Caleb surprised him, but it wasn’t like he wore a name tag reading “alcoholic ex-con.” If she knew his background, she’d likely never consider him as boyfriend material. Shaking off the thought, he offered his hand and said good-bye before heading out.

  ON THURSDAY, about a dozen people waited on the platform for the Red Line L train as Logan climbed the stairs. A double shift at the warehouse and then an hour-long anger management class had left him with a less than cheery disposition. The potent smell of piss and coffee wasn’t helping his mood. Today, the speaker had lectured them in her condescending baby voice about the body’s biochemical response to anger. It was pretty clear her idea of anger management was not yelling at the Starbucks server who’d screwed up her soy mocha latte. It was hard to worry about the threat of heart attack or stroke from chronic anger when there were more immediate dangers. Like three to five years for an assault conviction.

  Logan made his way under the wooden canopy and leaned against a metal pillar. The AA meeting he was headed for now was also court ordered like the class, but he knew he needed to go to it. That hadn’t been the case when he’d started the program in prison. He’d been thinking about making himself a better parole candidate, not about recovery. It wasn’t until he’d listened to the other cons tell their stories that he realized how close he’d come to making the pen his permanent address.

  A rumbling vibration that shook the whole platform signaled the arrival of the train. After the train ground to a halt and the doors slid open, Logan ducked his head and made his way inside. The train wasn’t packed, but there weren’t any open seats. Moving away from the doors, he latched on to a metal rail. An old man in tattered clothes grumbling in the back corner made Logan think about the cantankerous priest who had run the AA meetings in prison. Father Murphy had been in AA for more years than Logan had been alive. His direct, honest approach could slice a man to pieces, but he’d be there to help put him back together.

  The train screeched and rattled like an old-time wooden roller coaster as it pulled away from the station. Father Murphy had been the first to introduce Logan to the idea of a “higher power.” Logan hadn’t been religious growing up. He could remember his mom going to church alone, because his old man said he wouldn’t let the pompous hypocrites infect his son. Logan had supported any belief that had him eating cereal and watching cartoons on Sunday mornings instead of spending two hours in a stuffy church. A hazy blur clouded his memories
of the night he was arrested. He couldn’t say he believed in God any more now than as a kid, but he liked to think that some intangible thing had stepped in and stopped him from killing that night. The train lurched to a halt, and the conductor announced Logan’s stop.

  As Logan exited the station and headed toward Belmont Avenue, he wondered whether Stacy would be at the meeting tonight. She’d been too busy at work to make the 6:00 p.m. start time last week. He’d first met Stacy a few weeks ago at an AA meeting hosted by the prison, where volunteers agreed to help inmates transition from jail meetings to local AA meetings. She had moved to the area recently, having transferred to her company’s Chicago office, but was a veteran of AA for the past seven years. The meeting chair had prattled endlessly about the importance of selecting the right sponsor once the inmate was released. After the inmate joined a meeting, the guy recommended they find a sponsor of the same gender and socioeconomic level. He’d then called a five-minute cookie break…

  A striking woman in a power suit and four-inch heels had strutted across the room, heading straight for Logan. Without preamble she said, “I’m a lesbian and don’t want to sponsor a chick.” She then gave Logan a feral grin, her straight, white teeth gleaming. “But if you call me your fag-hag, I’ll rip your balls off.”

  Logan stared slack-jawed at her as she gave him her contact information and demanded the details of his release. She claimed him like a momma cat taking in a wild cub. No amount of arguing with the woman could convince her she’d be better off helping someone else…

  While Logan completed the inmate reentry program, Stacy went scouting, explaining it was important to find the right meeting. Eventually, she settled on a gay/lesbian closed-session group that required people apply rather than just show up and that had about twenty members. Logan had followed Stacy like a good little cub.

  New Town Club hosted the AA meeting. The non-profit organization supported LGBT individuals with just about every anonymous recovery there was, from overeaters to sexual compulsives to drugs. As Logan entered the reception area, he gave the decorators credit for picking a theme and sticking to it. There were bright blue walls, a fire-red couch, a huge rainbow banner on the wall, and a dozen colorful framed pictures. He greeted the receptionist with a nod before heading for the front meeting room.

  The yellow walls of the meeting room were near blinding in their intensity. More colorful pictures decorated the walls, along with poster-sized versions of the AA “Twelve Steps” and “Twelve Traditions.” Logan turned as he heard his name called out. Stacy stepped into the room, dressed to kill as usual in a short black skirt, a snug top that enhanced her bosom, and high heels. Her dark hair was pinned in an elaborate up-do.

  The heels brought Stacy to nearly six feet. Logan bent over so Stacy could air-kiss his cheek. Lipstick lesbian. Not that Logan was stupid enough to say the words aloud. He had liked her from their first meeting and in spite of their very different backgrounds, they were well on their way to becoming friends after only a month of acquaintance. There was something about having a shared history, knowing each other’s bullshit and excuses because you’d lived them.

  Logan noticed Stacy scowling at the only other woman in the room, Kathy. A pixie blonde in her thirties, dressed in a trendy tracksuit, she was dragging blue folding chairs into place to form a circle.

  Stacy crossed her arms across her ample chest. “I don’t think I can stay if Soccer Mom is chairing.”

  Logan sighed. Members took turns running the meetings, and tonight was apparently Soccer Mom’s night. “My PO, Dabb, will be pissed if I switch groups again.”

  “She’s not even a real lesbian, but a closet-case that does nothing but whine about how her husband and forty kids don’t understand her. No shit. They don’t even know she’s in AA let alone that she prefers pussy to penises. How can they understand her?”

  Logan clenched his jaw to avoid laughing. Wagging a finger at her, he said, “No judgment,” parroting one of the meeting’s unofficial rules.

  Stacy looked stricken. “You’re right. I’m being judgmental.”

  Giving Stacy’s shoulder a squeeze, Logan said, “Hard to blame you after she spent twenty minutes talking last week about how the cat throwing up on the carpet made her want to get wasted. It sure in the hell made me want to drink after having to listen about it.”

  Stacy giggled. “It was bad, but everybody’s stressors are different. I have to remember that.” Turning toward the door she whispered, “Your boyfriend is here.”

  Jeffrey entered the room, eyes scanning until he zeroed in on Logan. He smiled as he walked, and he had one hell of a smile. He had an attractive face with big blue eyes and streaked, shoulder-length light brown hair. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, which clearly outlined the muscles of his chest and stomach. He had the kind of body that showed he worked at it.

  Jeffrey bounced on his toes, plainly waiting for Logan to say something. He kept smiling, but his expression held something that looked too much like longing to be comfortable. If he hadn’t been a recovering alcoholic, Logan might have been tempted to go for him, but combining vices was never a good idea. That and Dabb really would be pissed if Logan was thrown out of the group because the fling turned sour.

  “How’s it going, man?” Logan asked.

  “It’s great to see you,” Jeffrey said like he’d been mainlining caffeine. “Both of you.”

  He was always in perpetual motion. Hands fluttering, toes tapping, mouth masticating a piece of gum. Logan had been shocked to learn Jeffrey wasn’t a current or ex-smoker like so many of the members. Jeffrey was just a bundle of nervous energy. Booze had been the only thing to tame his constant jitters.

  Jeffrey hadn’t propositioned him, but he’d made his interest clear and Logan wondered what it would be like to be the focus of that much energy. Father Murphy had told Logan not to fuck anything but his right hand for the first year after prison, which had been seriously disturbing coming out of an eighty-year-old priest’s mouth. Messy relationships ranked as one of the top reasons alkies ended up going back to the bottle. Maybe I should go for it, Logan thought as he watched Jeffrey make the rounds, greeting arriving members and looking over his shoulder at Logan every few steps. I’d be less likely to hit on Caleb that way.

  More guys, mostly in their forties and fifties entered the meeting room and took a seat in the circle of chairs. Soccer Mom stood at the podium, arranging sheets of paper and encouraging people to enjoy the cookies on the snack table.

  “He wants you bad,” Stacy said as they both watched Jeffrey take a seat across from where they stood.

  “How do you know that? Did he pass you a note during study hall?” Logan pulled Stacy over to the chairs and took a seat. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I got enough shit to deal with.”

  “He’s just looking for some fun, not to get you in a tux.” Stacy gave him an assessing look. “You got someone else wanting to rock your world?”

  Logan felt his face flush. Against his will, the memory surfaced like a burst of sunlight in his head: Caleb’s sweet smile and bright green eyes.

  Stacy’s blue eyes widened as if drawing the story from Logan’s head telepathically. “You do! Who is it? Someone from work?”

  Ignoring her, Logan leaned back on his chair as Soccer Mom recited the opening prayer with about half the members saying it with her. Another member took over and started reciting the “Twelve Traditions and Promises.” Logan let the now familiar words soak in, trying to get into the inner headspace he’d heard so much about.

  A bony elbow to his ribs interrupted his attempt at enlightenment.

  “I’m your sponsor. You have to confide in me,” Stacy whined.

  “I’m not talking to you about Caleb, so you can forget it.”

  Soccer Mom gave Logan the stink-eye, making him feel like he was back in high school. He snuck a peek at the suddenly quiet Stacy. Her grin was blinding. “So the guy you’re dating has a name. Caleb,” she s
aid, drawing out the syllables like a snotty teenager.

  “I’m not dating him. He’s housebound and I deliver stuff to his apartment a couple a times a week.”

  Her grin faltered. “Is he disabled?”

  Logan didn’t like thinking of Caleb like that. “No, he’s real smart and he makes web pages.”

  Stacy bit her bottom lip. “Not porn sites, right? He hasn’t asked to take your picture?”

  “What?”

  Her grin reappearing, she said, “You don’t want to end up on Jerkme.com.”

  Logan realized the rest of the room had gone quiet. Too quiet. Reluctantly, he looked away from Stacy and at the rest of the members.

  A grizzled man in his sixties said, “I’d pay to see that.”

  “Now I’m not judging,” said a preppy-looking guy Logan thought was named Mark. “But there’s a lot of substance abuse in the porn industry. Aren’t you worried being in that environment will affect your recovery?”

  Stacy muttered, “Sorry.”

  Logan took a deep breath. Soccer Mom would never sign his court voucher if he strangled Mark with his too-skinny tie. “I’m not a porn star.” He ignored several murmurs of disappointment. “I just work for a guy who makes websites.”

  “Is he also the star of the site?” That was Jeffrey. The asshole.

  “No, dammit. He….” Logan’s brain overloaded as an image of Caleb looking sweet and coy in front of his laptop as he trailed his fingers down his too-tight shirt pushed its way into his head. Shifting in his chair, he continued, “He makes normal sites for local businesses like Meng’s Market.”

  “I love that place,” someone said as if it freaking mattered.

  Logan was saved by Kathy, and he resolved to never think of her as Soccer Mom again. “I think we should get started with tonight’s discussion. Hopefully, you completed your regret, resentments, and… uh… sex inventories for tonight.”