Left on St. Truth-Be-Well

by Amy Lane

  Carson looked at him quickly and saw the telltale tightening around his mouth and eyes. It was the same expression he’d worn when Glen had said something over dinner about Carson at least using his degree when he did stand-up, and after two weeks, Carson knew that expression now for what it was.

  It was hurt.

  “No,” he said quietly, then turned and leaned on the doorjamb. He hooked his thumbs in the cutoffs Dale was wearing and dragged him close so they stood groin to groin, their silence sober in the fading orange light.

  “No?”

  “No. I think I’ll leave some mystery before I go. New places to explore when I come back, you think?”

  Dale’s eyes brightened. “And when’s that going to be?”

  But Carson had to look away. “I don’t know. I’ve got to find someone to take up my apartment lease, and make things square with Ivan, and get a line on a job down here.” He looked back, though, found those bright, lazy blue eyes, and tried to give a promise he could make good on. “I’ll come back. I will. But I’ve lived in that city all my life. I need to go say good-bye.”

  Dale nodded, and Carson’s heart gave a slightly softer beat in his chest. He could do this, right? He could go back to Chicago and make plans to come back? He could leave everything he knew behind and move here, where he could surf every day and do gigs for the snowbirds. (He’d already looked. The city sported a couple of dinner theaters always looking for talent. He could be doing lame stand-up for the rest of his life, and no one would think the worse of him for it.)

  There was hope. He’d be back. He just had to figure out the rest, right?

  But Dale must have known he had his doubts. That night, they didn’t play in bed. They didn’t banter. Dale turned out all the lights and kissed him like good-bye wasn’t even a word. He moved inside Carson deep and hard, and when Carson clutched himself and cried out, Dale must have lost his way for a moment, and instead of pushing into Carson harder and faster, just buried his face in Carson’s neck and shivered, still thrusting, but not with purpose.

  “C’mon, baby,” Carson muttered brokenly. “You gotta finish this thing out.”

  Dale pushed himself up again and rocked forward some more, but when he finally came, it was so slowly, so powerfully, that his back arched and his head was thrown back, and he seemed to spill more than come into Carson’s body.

  As Carson held him, pushed back his sweaty hair, kissed the side of his neck, his jaw, his temple, he was pretty sure he was wearing Dale’s soul on his insides and he’d be running away with it in the morning.

  He was terrified. Nobody had ever trusted him with something that important before.

  LEAVE-TAKING was simple.

  Toby dropped Stassy off at Dale’s place, and Carson threw his stuff into Ivan’s car while the two of them said broken, melodramatic good-byes to each other.

  Carson tried to feel very superior that he and Dale were too old and too sensible for that bullshit. They’d kiss, and they’d say good-bye, and Carson would try to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. It would be that easy. No melodrama. Just two sensible people saying good-bye.

  He straightened up and felt Dale’s heat at his back. He leaned into Dale’s chest, knowing it was going to be right there, holding him up, and a part of him wondered if he had ever felt that safe in his life. Not since his father had been alive. Not since he’d been a little kid and the old man had been able to pick him up and carry him. His mom had been sort of background noise. When she’d taken off, he’d missed her a little, but he’d had his dad. But Dad—he’d been safe.

  Dale, over his back, smelling of sea and sand and a little like sweat—that was safe too.

  Dale clasped his hands around Carson’s waist and Carson petted them a little as they stood there, then tilted his head so Dale could nuzzle his jaw.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” Dale said, and Carson closed his eyes. Jesus, you’d think a guy could be a little less emotionally honest, right?

  “No you won’t. You’ll let the alligator move in. Except for the sex, it’ll be the best roommate you ever had.”

  “Stupidest joke ever.”

  “Well, you’ve heard all my best material. The new stuff needs work.”

  Dale kissed his temple. “Come back and we’ll work on it.”

  Carson turned in Dale’s arms and thought, I am the stupidest asshole on the planet. I should put Stassy on a plane and just stay here. But Ivan would kill him, and Carson knew better than to ditch stuff he was supposed to do.

  He framed Dale’s face with his hands and pulled him down for a kiss, closing his eyes and hoping he’d remember what Dale tasted like. In the kiss, Carson had it down: simple animal taste, some milk and cereal from the morning, the smell of sweat and sand.

  They pulled back and it was gone, and Carson felt a sudden pang of fear that they could lose this, lose each other so easily.

  “I’m a fuckup,” he confessed suddenly. “I’m a washed-up comedian and a shitty waiter, and what if I can’t get my shit together and come back here? It’s as happy as I’ve ever been in my life.”

  Dale reached into Carson’s pocket, his hand warm and intimate and invading, even doing something that small. He came back with Carson’s phone, held it between them, and smiled.

  “I’m a simple guy, Carson. I don’t need much. You made the cut. You get your ass back here or I’ll come get you.”

  That was actually reassuring. “Yeah?”

  “You doubt that you matter?”

  “It’s a long way to Chicago.”

  “You came down here to get a guy you felt up in a broom closet. You think I couldn’t go up there to get a guy I fell in love with?”

  Carson’s mouth went dry, and he knew his look was naked, but he couldn’t help it. “You’d better come get me,” he muttered. “You’d better. I’ll forget who I am when I’m not with you. I’m not that strong. That’s why I grope guys in broom closets and need you to tell me what to do in bed and—”

  This kiss was stronger, harder, and Carson got lost in it for a moment, long enough for Stassy to move to the other side of the car.

  “Carson, we going? We need to stop for food, man. I’m starving.”

  Carson pulled back and rested his forehead against Dale’s chest. So much for being a big bad grown-up, he thought, trying not to let his eyes burn or his breath hitch or any of that other shit.

  “I know who you are,” Dale said softly. “You’re the guy who shoved me in the bushes trying to protect a kid you felt responsible for. You’ll be fine.”

  One more kiss and Carson was in the front seat of the Element, finding his station on Pandora and listening to Carolina Liar singing “I’m Not Over.”

  He kept that song in his head all the way down the road.

  One month later

  DALE hadn’t called in two days.

  That first night in the hotel room after they’d left St. Aubrey, Carson had gone for a short run after he and Stassy called it quits on the driving. He been running through Nashville, sweating like a champion and trying really hard not to think about what Dale was doing and how much more awesome surfing was than running, when his pocket buzzed.

  “Yeah?” he panted.

  “Hey, Chicago, you better not be having sex.”

  “I’m running, smartass.”

  “I knew that, but I’m serious about the sex.”

  “I’m not running from you, asshole. I sort of like you, mostly.”

  “Who goes back to a job waiting tables?”

  “Anyone who knows his boss is leader of the mob. Don’t give me shit, I miss you enough already.”

  And that had been the beginning. Dale had called every night since.

  Carson got Stassy back to Ivan the day after they got back to Chicago. Ivan had thanked him gruffly and deposited a fuck-ton of cash in Carson’s bank account, which Carson hadn’t been expecting.

  When he’d seen the receipt, he’d written a check for the amoun
t and had a little one-on-one with Ivan.

  “You know, uhm,” he’d said tentatively, standing in Ivan’s little manager’s office rife with cigar smoke, city smoking ordinances be damned. “I don’t need this. You can have it back.”

  “Forget about it. Think of it as a deposit for the next job I need you to do.”

  Oh hell. No. Not doing this. Time to pony up. “I’m sort of thinking about moving out of the city. It was great doing you a solid, Ivan, but I’m not really going to be your go-to guy, okay?” He smacked a check down then, returning most of the money. He kept a little for expenses, but that was all.

  Ivan grunted, chewed on his cigar, looked at the check, and then regarded Carson through tiny eyes. “Nobody moves out of Chicago. You get your ass out of here, I’ll leave you alone. Until then, I call your name, you jump!”

  Carson nodded, suddenly afraid. He got off his shift that day, called a real estate agent, and started to see about subletting his apartment.

  “You’re paying way more than it’s worth,” the real estate agent said. “Where’d you make that shitty deal?”

  “Ivan O’Leary got it for me. I thought it was a great deal!”

  “Not since he owns the building. Jesus, kid, he’s reaming you dry. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Dale was unsurprised. “You got flunky written all over you, Carson. You gotta get out of there, or you’ll be running drugs and laundering cash next.”

  “I’m not that easy!” Carson protested. He was lying in his little bed in the corner of his studio, looking out at the skyline lit against the darkness. He was letting his hand drift restlessly against his chest, toy with his nipples, slip under the waistband of his boxers and fool around down there. They weren’t having phone sex, per se, but just hearing Dale’s voice made him want to be touched.

  “You are. The right guy tells you what to do, and you do it. You’re just lucky you found the right guy before Ivan claimed you for good.”

  That thought killed Carson’s libido right quick. “What am I gonna do?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

  “Care to clue me in?”

  “You done saying good-bye to your city yet, Carson?”

  “I want to show it to you. Grant Park is something special. It’s got that big shiny bean, and the look out to the lake. The fountain’s going and it’s gorgeous.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “Then you’d be wrong, asshole. I just… I mean, I just want you to see it, is that so bad? I grew up here. I love it. Don’t you want to see it?”

  “I want to see you.”

  “Yeah, well, I want to see you too.”

  They rang off after that, and Carson stood up restlessly. He walked to his window and looked out, still proud of the view even now that he knew Ivan owned the building. He wasn’t in The Loop, which was too bad, but this place at Near Northside had a pretty good view. Of course, the adage went that there were no bad views of Chicago, and he tended to believe it. From the tenth floor of a fourteen-story building, he could make out landmarks: the Mies van der Rohe buildings, which were his favorites; that monstrosity with the diamond face that almost killed pedestrians with icefall ever year; the one with the sides curved that was meant to cut the wind. He loved them all. He picked them out, tracing their outlines against the glass. It was late April, so it was still chilly at night, and he could feel the chill against his finger and on his feet as he stood there in his boxer shorts.

  If he closed his eyes, he could imagine Dale at his back, pulling him against a hard chest, and he could imagine feeling safe.

  The next morning he called Bridget, and they had lunch walking along the river by Wacker and State, across from Marina City. It was cold enough to need a jacket, and he had to smile because Bridget’s scarf was a Degas print with a yellow background, and she wore it with style. Bridget O’Shaughnessy, petite, redheaded, green-eyed with an elfin little sliver of a face, always wore originality with panache.

  “Thanks for the dog, Carson,” she said, biting into her Chicago-style dog with the onions and the tomatoes and the relish and the celery salt. Who didn’t love their dogs that way? “Why are we here?”

  Carson took a bite of his own and chewed. “So, how’s the kids?”

  “Ungrateful and not nearly as much fun as you. And before you ask, the husband isn’t doing so well. The winters ’bout kill him here. What’s up? It’s not Mother’s Day, and you usually save your voluntary emotional contact for Mother’s Day, my birthday, and the holidays. What’s doing?”

  Carson cringed, feeling a little guilty, and decided to spill so she didn’t bring up any of his other shortcomings. “I’m thinking of moving to Florida.”

  Bridget swallowed a bite of dog and smiled at him, wiping the corners of her mouth delicately with a napkin. “Yeah? What’s her name?”

  “His name is Dale.”

  Her eyebrows went up, but nothing else happened. “Yeah? Can he keep you straight?”

  Carson tried not to spit out his dog. “Not if he’s a he, Bridget—”

  “Don’t be a smartass. I mean, can he keep you from fucking up? Because I’ve got to tell you, you made it through college, baby, but you’ve been a little lost ever since.”

  Carson looked out around them, at the green river, the wide street, the buildings.

  “I know where I’ve been. I’ve been right here,” he said, thinking that the Cubs were playing and he should be there, but he was tired of getting his heart broken.

  Bridget finished her dog, and she crumpled the paper in her hand with her napkin, then turned to Carson and straightened his leather jacket and adjusted his scarf around his neck. “A city isn’t a life, baby. I love you. Go to Florida. Me and Mister’ll come visit you in the winter.”

  Carson smiled. “Be snowbirds?”

  “Exactly. Don’t worry. You’re still Jimmy’s kid, and I still love you.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It’ll be an adventure. You’re always good with those. Remember when you took the bus to New York when you were in high school? You wanted to see Chris Rock, and he wasn’t coming here that year.”

  “Yeah, he was damned good too.”

  “Well, you know what you’re doing when it’s a people, Carson. If you’ve got a people there in Florida, it’s a good choice. Let me know when you’re leaving, I’ll come see you off.”

  She kissed his cheek again and clicked off toward her job in the John Hancock building where she worked as a buyer for Neiman Marcus. It was a twelve-block walk, but she’d be there in fifteen minutes at the rate she was going in those high-heeled boots.

  Carson watched her go and felt his chest thump a little. If he wasn’t afraid of owing Ivan already, he’d borrow his SUV, take it back to his dad’s little house in the suburbs, and tool around and remember those brief years when Bridget had been home and his dad had been happy.

  But he didn’t really need to, he thought, leaning against the bridge rail and looking into the murky water. Sometimes the locks would let out a burp and there’d be an ominous bubble and blork from the bottom, but he figured that was the price you paid when you reversed a river’s course. Sometimes there was a little resistance, that was all, but just like shipping all of Chicago’s muck down to St. Louis to be made into Budweiser, the result was a clean Lake Michigan and a cleaner Chicago.

  Maybe shipping Carson to Florida would result in a cleaner Carson, right?

  Or maybe it would just result in Carson getting laid regularly by someone he not only could stand on a day-to-day basis but craved like potato chips and pizza, except more often, and less fattening.

  Maybe he just wanted to be with Dale, and it really was that simple.

  “Ivan,” he said, braving the office again that night before work. “I want out of my lease.”

  “So you figured that out, did you?”

  “It was a low thing to do. Forget owing me a solid, just let me get the hell out of Chicago.”

  Ivan shr
ugged, the fine brown wool of his bespoke suit barely rippling. “You really want to go, you’ll go. You don’t need my blessing.”

  “I need my fucking deposit, Ivan. I gotta ship my stuff down and buy a bus ticket. You ever think of that?”

  “Hey, I gave you money—”

  “I don’t like your strings!”

  “I think you’re wasting a prime opportunity here.” Ivan wrinkled his whole butcher’s block face and swallowed some more of his cigar, and don’t think that didn’t make Carson queasy as all hell. “I need someone to drop off a suitcase in Jersey. I think you could be the guy.”

  “I think I’m not doing you any more favors, and the next time I leave the state, it’s gonna be Florida, that’s what I think.”

  Ivan shrugged again. “We’ll see. You’re still working here in two weeks, it’s gonna be Jersey. If you’re gone by then, it can be anywhere the fuck you want.”

  Carson turned resolutely on his heel and figured he’d be shipping his stuff and buying a bus ticket by the end of the week. “Florida,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “I’m gonna be in Florida, on a fucking surfboard, beating the fucking gators over the head until they get out of my fucking way.”

  He came out of the office, tying his apron around his waist and wondering if Dale would forgive him for blowing someone to get bus fare, when Maria tagged him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Carson, there’s a guy over on table 22. Says you’re the only one he wants to wait on him.”

  Carson’s heart jumped into his throat. “He alone?”

  “Naw, but the other guy was asking after Stassy. I told him Stassy worked tomorrow, and he looked real disappointed.”

  Carson’s whole body started to vibrate, his stomach cold with Christmas and first snowfall and the first flower of spring and his first wave with a board under his feet and his first stand-up gig, all at the same time.

  “Hey, Maria, you first off tonight?”

  “Yeah, why? You want to change shifts?”

  Maria was a dark-haired bosomy girl with two kids and a mustache. She always needed the money.

  “Yeah,” he said. He didn’t tell her she could have all his shifts for the next two weeks of the schedule and any shifts he had coming after that. He was going to Florida.