Blood In Electric Blue

by Greg F. Gifune

  Relax, he tells himself. Breathe.

  Without removing it from his coat pocket, Dignon pops open the bottle and shakes free a single pill. After working up a bit of saliva, he casually slides it onto his tongue then swallows, forcing it down.

  He looks back at the street, unable to shake the feeling that since he stepped off the bus and walked the remaining blocks to Bree’s building, someone has been following him. Maybe Kyle, he thinks. Probably, who else would be following him? None of the passing faces look familiar or seem to take particular notice of him however. Whatever’s out there watching, it’s well hidden.

  The sound of a door opening returns his attention to the building. A man stepping through from inside offers a quick smile and holds the door a moment. “Going in?”

  Dignon reaches out, takes the door. “Yes, thank you.”

  The building is as drab and unimaginative inside as it is out. Everything is an industrial tan color. Across from a bank of mailboxes is an elevator, and to its right a door leads to stairs.

  Dignon chooses the stairs.

  After climbing several flights, he finds himself in a long and shadowy hallway. The only light comes from a window at the far end of the corridor. He finds #18 and stands before it, watching the pinhole in the upper center of the door, wondering if Bree is on the other side peering out at him. A small red Christmas ribbon is fastened around the doorknob. Beyond the door he can hear a hint of music and the vague sounds of movement.

  Dignon knocks.

  The sound of movement grows closer and the door swings open.

  “Hey!” Bree welcomes him with a dazzling smile. “You find the place OK?”

  Dignon returns her smile with one of his own. “Yeah, no problem,” he says, stepping inside. He retrieves Mythical Beings in a Mortal World from his coat pocket and hands it to her. “Before we forget, here’s your book.”

  “Right, we keep forgetting that part, don’t we?” She takes it from him and rolls her eyes playfully. “Can you believe this snow?”

  “It’s still coming down pretty heavily out there.”

  “Can I get you something?” she asks, escorting him deeper into the apartment. “I just opened a bottle of Merlot, is that cool?”

  “Sure.” The apartment is immaculately clean and neat, and a fresh scent fills the air, like everything has been recently scrubbed down with an aromatic cleaner. Although a basic and not terribly inspired living space, Bree has done a lot to make it as appealing as possible. The soft music playing is a new age variety, fluid and ethereal. It emanates from the first room, a den, which is tastefully decorated to include a television, stereo, a couch, and a set of oak chairs with matching coffee table. A large bookcase packed full of books fills nearly an entire wall. A laptop computer, off and closed, sits on the coffee table amidst an array of pretty trinkets and knickknacks. The art is inexpensive but stylish, mostly reproductions of impressionistic Monet pieces. A modest but real Christmas tree stands in the corner, decorated entirely with silver tinsel and tiny white lights.

  Bree leads him through another doorway and into the kitchen, where they’re greeted by a small table and chairs, a set designed for two, which she has set with cloth napkins and placemats, affordable replicas of designer tableware and wine goblets. On the back wall, above the sink, two large windows overlook the ocean, offering a beautiful view even through the blur of falling snow. “Isn’t it great?” She indicates the windows. “The view’s what sold me on the place. There are times it’s absolutely breathtaking.”

  He can feel the Valium slowly taking hold of his system. “The whole place is beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” Bree moves to the counter for the bottle of wine. Dressed more casually than the last time he saw her, she somehow manages to still seem chic in a pair of old Levis, western style boots and a heavy pullover mauve sweater. Her hair is up, secured by a scrunchy the same color, and though her makeup is lighter than it was before, rather than diminish her natural beauty, it enhances it. She pours wine into his goblet then hands it to him. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I went with chicken,” she says. “I figured everybody likes chicken, right? Please tell me you like chicken.”

  “I like chicken.” Despite already feeling a bit groggier than he’d wanted to, he sips the wine. Bleary is preferable to panicked.

  “It’s a kind of Italian chicken salad,” she explains, pouring herself some wine before returning the bottle to the counter. “I make a dressing with olive oil and balsamic vinegar then sauté small pieces of boneless chicken in it along with garlic, minced onions and oregano. Then I serve it on a bed of fresh lettuce and top it with grated cheese and more of the dressing. It’s easy to make and it’s so good.”

  “Sounds great,” he says, and then realizing he’s still grinning, lets his smile fade.

  “It’s already done it’s just cooling in the fridge. I serve it cold. Should only be a few more minutes, OK?” She motions to the chairs. “Have a seat.”

  He sees her notice the Band-Aid on his finger, her stare lingering on it longer than seems necessary. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask him about it. He lowers himself into one of the kitchen chairs and she remains leaned against the counter. Out of habit, he looks around for a dog or cat. “Do you have any pets?”

  “No, I wish I did, I love animals, but with all the moving around I do it’s not conducive to having one. They need a solid base, a home, the same way kids do. Otherwise it’s not fair to them.”

  Dignon can tell she speaks from experience, and he remembers her discussing her transient childhood the last time they’d met. “I have a cat,” he tells her. “I’ve had him for years. Seems like forever, can’t imagine life without him.”

  “You guys must be close. What’s his name?”

  “Mr. Tibbs.”

  “Sidney Poitier fan, huh?”

  “A lot of people miss that.”

  “I’m a movie buff. I especially like the older Hollywood films.”

  “Me too. In the Heat of the Night is one of my favorites.”

  Bree’s eyes widen as she takes a swallow of wine, and then in her best Poitier voice says: “They call me Mister Tibbs!”

  They both laugh. It is genuine and Dignon feels warmth move through him as his body and mind relax. His usual self-consciousness is weakening. “Thanks for inviting me,” he says softly. “You know, for lunch and all.”

  Bree purses her lips as if to prevent herself from laughing.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing, you’re just sweet, that’s all. Haven’t you ever been invited to lunch by someone before?”

  “Not in a long time.”

  “Well believe it or not I don’t normally invite men I don’t know over to my apartment. But I do normally follow my instincts, and from the moment I met you they told me you were a nice guy and someone I had no reason to fear or worry about. I just felt this immediate…I don’t know…connection, I guess. You seemed like an old friend instead of someone I’d just met.” She gently moves her glass in a small circular motion. The wine swirls about within. “So am I right? Are you as sweet as you seem?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “See? Instincts always pay off. Everything happens for a reason.”

  “Like fate?”

  She nods. “I don’t believe in coincidences really. I suppose they do occur from time to time, but more often than not, I think things happen exactly as they’re meant to. I was meant to lose my book, you were meant to find it. And because of that, we were meant to meet. It’s that simple.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I know it’s easy to write off that kind of belief system as wishful thinking. It certainly makes for a far more interesting world if everything has meaning, right? Otherwise there’s no point to any of this, it’s all just random. I can’t imagine a world with no purpose, a life with no meaning. That’d be an awfully cruel joke, don’t you think?”

  “There’s too much beauty in the world for it to be
random.”

  Bree seems to weigh his response before further exploring it. “You’re a deep guy, Dignon. I bet you see and feel lots of things most people don’t even notice.”

  Warmth spreads across his cheeks. “Sometimes.”

  “I’m the same way. I can be really sensitive. Some days it’s overwhelming, you know?”

  He does know. He nods, sips his wine.

  They’re quiet a while.

  Just as he expected an apartment far more transient in nature, Dignon also expected one of his usual inept and anxious conversations to take place once he got there. But neither is the case. In fact, he cannot remember the last time he was this relaxed in a new environment or situation with someone he doesn’t know. Still, the ease with which Bree moves and speaks and interacts with him results in mixed feelings. He is pleased yet uncertain. Can or should he trust her? Why is she being so nice to him?

  “I didn’t mean to get all heavy and serious,” Bree says suddenly, pushing away from the counter. “I can be such a bore sometimes.”

  “Not at all, it’s kind of nice to have a real conversation for a change.”

  She finishes her wine and places the goblet on the table, the expression on her face indicating further thought on the subject. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” With a quick spin she finds the refrigerator door, pulls it open and removes two bowls of salad from the top shelf. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  They sit across from each other and eat their salads in relative quiet. When they speak, it is small-talk. Music plays softly from the other room, wind whistles beyond the walls and occasional sounds of other people and things in the building filter through.

  “Delicious,” Dignon tells her.

  “Glad you like it.” Bree pours them each more wine. “So tell me about yourself.”

  He searches his mind, tries to remember their prior conversation at the coffee shop and what he’s already told her. “There’s not a lot to tell really.”

  “Do you have any family?”

  “One sister, she lives here in town. You?”

  “I’m an only child. I don’t see a whole lot of my parents these days. They’re retired and live in Miami now.” Bree munches lettuce. “It must be nice to have a sister.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They’re dead,” he says, immediately wishing he’d phrased it more delicately.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, they’ve been gone a long time. My father died fifteen years ago and my mother before that.”

  “That must’ve been awful for you.”

  Dignon delays the inevitable by taking another bite of salad. “Not as bad as you might think. I never knew my mother and my father and I weren’t close.”

  “What a shame.” She puts her fork down, sits back a bit in her chair. “I’ve always gotten along reasonably well with my parents. I suppose I’m lucky.”

  “You are. My father hated me.”

  “Hate’s a strong word.”

  He musters a polite smile. Something tells him to go on, to let her in, to tell her things he has told no one else, things he rarely even allows himself to think about. He feels uncannily relaxed. “When my mother died my father fell apart. She was everything to him. Her death destroyed him and he never recovered. He hated life, hated God and hated the world and everyone in it. But most of all, he hated me.”

  “How could he hate his own child?”

  “He blamed me for my mother’s death.”

  “Why in the world would he blame you?”

  With his cloth napkin, Dignon carefully wipes salad dressing from the corner of his mouth. “Because I’m the one who killed her.”

  * * *

  A while later, the salads finished and their wine glasses refilled, they retire to the den. Dignon sits on the couch. Rather than opting for the chair, Bree sits next to him with complete nonchalance. He feels childlike in her presence, transported back to a more innocent time when a girl sitting close caused nervous perspiration or embarrassed uncertainty. The emotional reaction is the same, but physically he remains calm and at ease.

  Bree asks many questions. Dignon does his best to answer them honestly. He explains his mother died from a massive hemorrhage while delivering him, and though Bree is quite sympathetic, she strikes him as oddly fascinated as well. She seems particularly interested in how this event affected his family life from that point forward. Dignon paints an accurately dark but rather broad picture of those years, refraining from fully revealing the extent to which his father had sometimes gone.

  “My God,” she says. “To grow up like that, with your own father blaming you for what happened while already having to deal with the realities of losing your mother during childbirth in the first place, it’s—I mean, I—I can’t even imagine what that must’ve been like for you. Your childhood must’ve been horribly unhappy.”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  “But surely you came to understand your mother’s death wasn’t your doing?”

  “When I got older I understood it better, but it is what it is, as they say.”

  “Was your father abusive in other ways, Dignon?”

  He gazes down into his Merlot. “Look, I—why don’t we talk about something else, OK?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Her hand rests on his. “I know we don’t know each other very well yet, but I want you to know it’s all right. Personally, I’ve always found it easier to confide in someone I don’t know that well. Maybe it’s a condition of the way I live, with all the moving around, who knows? But I’ve found it’s sometimes easier and can lead to a deeper relationship because of the trust factor. I don’t want to pry or to make you feel pressured, but I want you to know you can talk to me, you’re safe here with me and I’d never dishonor your trust. Not ever. OK?”

  “OK.” Her touch is warm and soft. Dignon wants to collapse into the cushions, to fall against her and return her touch with his own. Instead, he embraces his newfound calm and lets his inhibitions go. “After Willie graduated high school she moved out, went to work and got her own place. The last two years I lived alone with my father are a blur. By then his drinking had gotten so bad he’d fall a lot, and I used to find him passed out all over the house. Soon as I could, I moved to New York City with my girlfriend at the time, Lisa.”

  Bree removes her hand and crosses her legs. “That must’ve been exciting, I love New York.”

  “It was. I’d never been anywhere, and Manhattan was like going to another planet. But I loved it, and besides, it was where Lisa needed to be. She wanted to be an actress and star on Broadway. That was her dream. In high school she was in the theater club and acted in all the plays. It was all she ever talked about, one day being a famous actress.”

  “Was she any good?”

  “She was talented. Everybody thought she’d make it. She always wanted to live and study in New York, so I went with her.”

  “What did you want to do with yourself back then?”

  Dignon has not allowed himself to think of this for years. When it comes to him, like some dusty trinket found in the back of a dark closet, it takes him a moment to process it. “I wanted to be a teacher.”

  “I work with a lot of teachers. It’s a noble profession.”

  “I never did very well in school. The only class I liked was English and I loved to read—I still do—so I thought maybe I could be an English teacher. For a while I even thought about being a playwright. I’d write the plays and Lisa could star in them. Stupid, I know.”

  “Why is it stupid?”

  “Just dreams, that’s all.”

  “Sometimes that’s all we have.”

  “Well back in reality the plan was to get jobs, then Lisa would take acting classes and I’d enroll in college. She’d become a professional actress and I’d be a teacher and we’d live happily ever after. Never came anywhere near it, though. My father died a few weeks after I moved. Willie f
ound him. He got drunk and fell down the stairs one night, broke his neck. Coroner said he’d already been dead a week or more when she found him. The mailman got suspicious when his mail started piling up day after day, so Willie went to check on him.” He looks beyond Bree, as if seeing those faraway days unfolding before him, projected on the far wall. “I didn’t want to come home for his funeral, but I couldn’t leave Willie to do everything alone so I came back for a couple days and helped her straighten things out. The house was a rental, there was just his old car and the few possessions he had. Willie handled getting rid of all that and I went back to New York. Few weeks later she sent me a check for half of what she got for everything. My inheritance was about two hundred bucks. Whatever she couldn’t sell she donated to Good Will.” He notices Bree’s violet eyes watching him. They’re so beautiful they freeze him a moment. “Lisa and I had jobs by then. She was waitressing and I got hired at a bookstore. She started her acting classes and I was just starting to look into schools when it all went bad.”

  “What happened?”

  “She fell in love with her acting coach and that was that.”

  “She left you?”

  “Took her stuff and moved in with him. We’d been together since our sophomore year in high school and she walked away like it was nothing, like we barely knew each other and all the time we’d spent together hadn’t meant a thing. I headed back home a few days later. I never saw or spoke to Lisa again.”

  “Whatever happened to her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never tried to find out?”

  “I thought about it a few times over the years but never did.” He sips his wine. “I had a lot of problems. I can’t really blame her for what she did.”

  “Sure you can.”

  He smiles, watches her do the same. “Yeah, I guess I can.”

  “So you moved back here.”

  “And I’ve been here ever since. I had a few different jobs then finally landed the delivery position with Tech Metropolis.”