The Death of Israel Leventhal

by Boom Baumgartner

  "If it's any consolation," she said, her eyes searching his face, "I thought there was a chance you could survive."

  "It might have been, but you brought George into this. You used my death to get rid of Charles Hastings." Who ironically was the same person, Israel almost added, but she didn't know that. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. "So, I think you know where that leaves us."

  Swallowing, Jaime nodded.

  Chapter Thirteen

  George had never had a home. Not since his mother's, and she long ago moved up to Aberdeen, where she informed him the cold would kill her. Soon, hopefully, she said. He chose not to say anything to her when she declared that.

  His mother's house was still in his name. His real name. He could have gone there. His own home in LA was under a name he only used for legitimate dealings. He could have gone there. But instead, he flew to Chicago. He did not think about why, and actively avoided his thoughts on the matter as he fell into Izzy's bed across from the broken mirror.

  He toyed with an imaginary box of cigarettes in his pockets as he drifted in and out of sleep, the void feeling like a welcome escape when before it was a reminder of what he no longer had. The ghosts did not bother him, even as his mother flickered in and out of doorways.

  The sun had gone across the bedroom floor at least twice since George got there. When he was hungry, he found crackers in the cupboard. When he was lonely, the ghosts were there. When the silence was too much, he pulled out his phone and put on Vasthi Buryan. When he listened to her solo album so many times that it felt like silence, a knock on a door came.

  At first, George did not think it was real. But it was persistent. As persistent as Izzy's spector in his dreams.

  After the third set of knocking, George got up and went to the door. Through the peephole, he saw Izzy as undeniably as he saw him on Browning and Vine.

  Izzy must have seen the shadow of George's footsteps, because he stopped his hand mid-knock. "George?"

  George opened the door.

  *~*~*

  "Look, can I come in?"

  "It's your flat," George murmured as turned around, and walked inside. The faint music Israel had heard when the door opened became fuller as he entered the hallway, and he didn't recognize it. It was a soft, delicate voice. The sort of thing Israel usually associated with Lillith Fair.

  "Traveling north, traveling north just to find you", the voice sang.

  "You done doing whatever you need to do?" George asked, sitting down at an armchair. Israel noted there was a box of opened cigarette paper next to his elbow. Israel stopped in the doorway uncomfortably.

  "Yeah, I am."

  "Good, good."

  The woman's sorrowful tune moved in between them, filling the silence that Israel could not. When he could take George's gaze no longer, he turned his head away. "Look, really, is neither of us going to say it?"

  "What?"

  He bowed his head and looked at his feet. "I'm not here because you are someone I work with from time to time, George."

  George frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "We were friends."

  "We're we?"

  "Yes, damnnit. And as long as you keep ignoring this," Israel gestured from George to himself, "I'm going to do the same, and whatever this weird thing we became is… it's just going to get worse."

  "I'm not going to say it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, you bastard," George slammed his hands down on the square edges of Israel's modern arm chair, "you offed yourself, and I thought you were dead. I went mad."

  "I was trying to protect you."

  "You made sure I'd get killed, is what you did. Charles thought I was the one after him."

  "No, I didn't." Israel stamped his foot, and yelled right back. "I didn't know you would go for revenge."

  "How could you not? I know you're blind about anything that isn't digging up bodies, but there was no way you could have missed… how I…"

  Israel froze. George's gaze was locked on him, and he couldn't look away even though every muscle in his body begged him to flee. "Look, how could I have known if you never said anything?"

  "How was I supposed to say it?" George said quietly.

  "That's where this is, then? I won't say it because I need to hear it from you first, and you won't say it because you need me to say it first?"

  The two stared at each other. Time slowed between them, and the world beneath their feet no longer moved. Israel couldn't know for how long because time was nonexistent in that moment. It resumed when George stood up the same time Israel took a step toward him.

  Cautiously, George stretched out his hand and Israel took it, and placed his cheek on it. From beneath his eyelashes, Israel looked up at George, noting the breath hitch in the other man's throat.

  Then George lifted his other hand and placed it on Israel's other cheek. Israel had never imagined what George's fingers would feel like on the delicate skin of his face, but he wished he had. They were soft, and he tried to focus on that rather than his heart beating faster and faster as George looked him in the eye.

  Universes lay between them as they moved toward one another at lightspeed. The kiss was light, tentative, and not at all unwelcome, to Israel's surprise.

  George pulled back, his breath ghosting across Israel's lips, his eyes flickering across Israel's face.

  Israel rested his forehead against George's. "Okay, fine. You don't need to say it."

  Epilogue

  Israel and George had changed identities three times by the time they found themselves in Northern Colorado for no other reason than no would expect them to go there. They were walking through a small park after dinner, still talking about the subject George had broached at the Nepalese restaurant.

  "It's not that I don't understand, George. But how will we make money?" Israel asked, annoyance plain in his voice.

  "We?" George smiled, wanting to grab Israel's hand, but they were stuffed in his pockets to ward off the cold.

  "Yes. We. You are asking me to quit gravedigging, too. So what will we do for money?"

  "Surely you have a bank account. Can't you live off your compound interest?"

  "What?"

  "Izzy… do you not...?"

  Israel glared at him.

  "No one taught you had to save money? No wonder your flat is so bloody expensive."

  "I can…" Israel sighed. "Could afford it." How on Earth did George go so long between jobs?

  "So you didn't own it?"

  "No." Israel was offended by the very idea. "What if I had to leave quickly?"

  "Right." George laughed.

  "What?"

  "I just think we have our work cut out for us as a couple."

  "What work? Because apparently, it's not gravedigging."

  "Did you like doing it that much?"

  Izzy stopped, and buried his head into his scarf. "Well, no."

  George turned to face him. "The void is too hard for me to keep out anymore, and it's too dangerous for us to be in anymore anyway. I say we find a nice faraway mountain in Germany to live on, and change our names to Gunther and Giles. Then you can make snide comments about our relationship to the townspeople because I don't understand the language."

  Izzy rolled his eyes. "Are you still upset that I did that in Istanbul?"

  "A ha!" George nudged him with his shoulder. "I knew that you did."

  "You were being an ass." Israel stalked past him to a park bench and sat down.

  "Probably." George joined him. "Us Brits aren't known for being particularly conscientious tourists."

  For a moment, the two were silent. George had been used to that when they were friends. But now they were somewhere new, and he felt like the quiet meant something entirely different now.

  "It's a bit soon to live together," Izzy finally said.

  George leaned back. "We've known each other eight years, Izzy."

  "That's not fair. I didn't like you for two of t
hose."

  "Aye, me either." George grinned at Izzy. "So six years."

  "Only three of those were as friends."

  "You're right. Three years. I'm moving far too fast," George said sarcastically.

  Izzy sighed, and leaned his head on George's shoulder. "No, it's fine. You're right. I just…"

  "Yeah, I know, mate."

  Izzy jerked away from George. "George, if we're… in a whatever this is... do you think you could maybe not call me 'mate?'"

  "Sure thing, darling."

  "Definitely not 'darling'."

  "All right, love."

  "Izzy is fine," he said primly.

  George chuckled, and watched the leaves go by, listening to the strange scuttling noise they made as they scraped across the cement. Izzy also watched, his thoughts trailing to something George could not guess.

  "Fine." Izzy took out a hand from his pocket, and looped it through George's arm. "We'll do it your way. But we are not Gunther and Giles."

  FIN

  About the Author

  Influenced from a young age by greats like David Bowie, Boom likes to add a little bit of glam to everything she does, from playing the ukulele to writing novels. When she’s not turning out stories about witchcraft and werewolves, she is a staff writer for ScienceFiction.com. You can find her other musings at LovingTheAlien.net.

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