by G. B. Gordon
Jack pulls his wallet out and digs for a dog-eared receipt.
The man shuffling in from the back is ancient. Not a hair on his head except for the ample tufts of white growing out of his ears. Pale, eyebrow-less eyes, huge behind glasses like Coke-bottle bottoms.
“Can I do for you, son?” His voice could use some lubrication.
“Hi,” Jack says, holding out the receipt. “This is a long shot, but if it’s still here . . .”
The man ignores the outstretched hand. Instead he cranes his turtle-skin neck to inspect Margaret, then Jack. “Damn,” he says. “You did come back.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d have expected you sooner.”
Jack lets his arm sink. “You remember me?”
“Remember the pair of you.” The man taps his knuckles against the side of his head. “Steel trap.”
Jack swallows hard. The question he doesn’t ask is hanging so thick in the air that it’s hard to breathe.
The old man holds up one finger, then disappears again into the other room. Jack looks at me with such a what-the-fuck expression on his face that I burst out laughing.
When the old man comes back, he’s carrying a large, rectangular case, and Jack puts a hand out to steady himself against the counter.
The man sets the case down next to the till and opens it, then turns it so we can see the contents. It’s a saxophone all right. A gleaming, bronze-colored piece of art, with black mother-of-pearl inlaid keys, and engraved with leaves or flowers, the maker’s name and initials, and the letters SX90R Vintage.
Jack reaches for, but doesn’t touch it. “Why did you keep it?” he asks. “I sold it to you outright. And even if it had been collateral, it would have been yours to sell long ago.”
The old man tilts his head. “I got the impression it was very important to you, and that you would be back for it. Took you long enough.”
“You’re a bleeding heart.” Jack isn’t falling for it.
The old man smiles a sly little smile that is not without sympathy. “I might also have thought you’d pay more for it than anyone else. It being a sentimental possession and all.”
I can practically hear Jack’s teeth grind against each other. “How much?”
“Six.”
“Grand?”
The old man nods.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I go to stand in front of Jack facing him and screw up my eyebrows to catch his attention. “Told you it was a waste of time. Let’s go.”
It takes him only a second to catch on, and when I tug at his shoulder to pull him with me to the door, he follows my lead with a big show of reluctance. “It’s used,” he throws over his shoulder.
“It comes in a nice case,” the man says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s smiling anymore.
I don’t look back to check his face. If he figures out I care, the game is up, so I keep dragging Jack toward the door.
“Five and a half,” the old man says.
I glance at Jack, who mouths, Three.
“Margaret,” I call, “we’re leaving.” She’s standing in front of the jewelry display, fascinated, I’d bet any amount, with the refracted light on the faceted stones. She’s completely ignoring me, which plays nicely into my hands. I don’t know how low we can get the price—hell, I don’t even know what the thing is worth—but I do know how to bargain.
“I hung on to it for you for two and a half years,” the man says. “I could have sold it a few times. But I knew you’d want to have it.”
I don’t let go of Jack’s shoulder. “Come on, Margaret, it’s late. I’d like to get some dinner before midnight.” I have no idea if she’s aware of the game we’re playing, but she plays along like a pro, deaf to my call.
“Fine, five thousand, but that’s my last offer.”
Jack half turns from under my hand. “Three.” His voice would be a hell of a Louis Armstrong imitation.
“I could have sold it for three almost the minute I got it.”
“It’s all I have,” Jack says, and his voice is possibly even more broken than before.
The man hesitates. This is where we win or lose it.
“And it’s twice what you paid for it,” Jack adds.
“He’s trying to quadruple the price?” I put as much incredulity in my voice as I can manage without hamming it. “Hell, I call double a pretty cushy margin. But some people don’t know when to stop.”
“That price would ruin anyone. I’m telling you, I can’t sell it for three. My reputation would be shot.”
“He’s not going for it, Jack. Come on. We’ll find another one.”
“You won’t. Not for that price. But maybe I could sell it without the case for three.”
Jack doesn’t look at him. He looks at the saxophone. His eyes are pits that swallow the light, his face empty. Like someone saying his last farewells at a funeral. Then he shoves both hands into his pockets and abruptly strides toward the door. If he’s acting, he’s absolutely selling it. He’s breaking my heart.
He’s yanking the door open when the old man yells after him. “Three thousand and a show. And if I did business like that every day, I’d be ruined by now. Ruined.”
Jack stops dead, lets go of the door. “What show?” he asks without turning.
“You come back tomorrow morning at ten, and you play in front of the store for two hours, telling everyone who asks how great a business this is.”
Now Jack does look at the man. He walks back to the counter and holds out his hand. “You have a deal.”
They shake, and Jack leaves without another word. This time Margaret is right on his heels, and so am I. We make it around the corner before Jack’s legs give out. He leans against a brick wall, breathing hard, half laughing, half crying. “You need to know that I want to hug you hard,” he says, his eyes shining. “That was a thing of sheer beauty. Remind me to never try to bargain against you.”
“Years of yard sales finally paying off.”
Laughter wins. “I love you,” he says, then bites his lip. “Sorry, not trying to put you on the spot. It slipped out. If it’s too awkward, I’ll never mention it again.”
Amazing, wonderful man. Is there anything in his power he wouldn’t do for those he loves? Anything he wouldn’t deny himself for them?
I’m gonna have to make sure he doesn’t have to. “It’s not awkward.”
“Not?”
“No. You can say it again.”
He grins. “I love you.”
“I like that. Can we get dinner now?”
Jack had never felt so light in his life. He finally understood the whole floating-on-cloud-nine thing. Standing here, on a somewhat cool October morning, playing the saxophone—his saxophone—didn’t seem like work. It seemed like the best gig in the world. Well, after sneaking into Mark’s bed last night. The memory brought last night’s heat back.
He’d left Margaret and Mark at the greasy spoon where they’d had breakfast, which, in his case, had consisted of a cup of coffee, because he’d been too nervous to eat anything. Mawmaw had given the Keilwerth to him one Christmas, and it was connected to her like few other things, and he hadn’t been sure what it would be like to play it again.
So he’d asked for this time alone, to feel his way through the jumble of memories and emotions without being watched, without having to keep up a facade. He hadn’t been able to explain that, but whether Mark understood or not, he hadn’t commented. He’d merely nodded and asked Margaret if she wanted another cocoa.
Quite a few people stopped to listen for a while, some even left money on the narrow ledge under the shop window, looking puzzled that he didn’t have a bowl or a hat out.
The Keilwerth felt like an extension of his body, even after more than two years. A trifle underused maybe, but still as familiar as breathing, its sound reverberating through his body, every note building a song of joy, powerful and all-encompassing.
He was free. Free o
f Deaver’s ghost, free to play, free to love. He closed his eyes and let the sax proclaim his exultation.
Not a week later on a quiet, rainy Wednesday, Jack was sitting in his office, feet on the desk, eyes on the store. He’d finished the health insurance application, and was on his second coffee and the sports page of the paper, when a message popped up on his phone. He pulled it closer, eyes still half on the Falcons’ results, when he did a double take. The message was from Margaret. Margaret. Messaging him. The hell?
She’d sent him a picture of a modern loft apartment, all white and iron and huge.
Are you planning to move out? he typed, trying not to feel ridiculous for messaging someone in the same house. He was too happy about how much she was making this written—or rather visual—communications thing her own.
Up was her reply.
He took his feet off the desk and sat straight. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered under his breath.
You want to move into the attic?
Yes. There was a brief pause, then she sent the cover image of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. Underneath it, she typed, Up=Margaret Down=Jackson+Mark.
Jack’s heart started pounding. You want Mark to move in with us?
Yes
“Christ on a cracker.” Have you sent any of this to Mark?
No
Good. Don’t. I’ll talk to him, okay?
Okay
He pushed all ten fingers through his hair. His brain tried to go in a million different directions at once. Hope, excitement, panic, wonder . . .
His phone screen had gone dark, but he couldn’t stop staring at it. Here he’d been waiting for an opportunity to sound out Margaret’s feelings about Mark maybe moving in, and she was miles ahead of him, giving him space he hadn’t known how to ask for, and making space for herself. Well, she’d been miles ahead of him on the Mark front for a while, hadn’t she? But this? When had she planned all this? How?
He felt like banging his head on the desk for being so dense. He’d been trying to protect her, but it seemed he needed to ease up on that a bit, give his own expectations a shake. Mark was right: Margaret was capable of way more than he’d given her credit for.
Mark. How the hell was he going to bring this up without putting Mark on the spot by suggesting something he might not want? Yet. Or ever. He’d been pretty cool about the I-love-you slip. But he hadn’t said it back. Which was okay. Jack wouldn’t want to hear it if Mark didn’t mean it. But it made the moving-in proposition a bit tricky.
Breathe, Jack.
Chin in hand, he allowed himself a brief daydream of having Mark around every day, then sternly called himself to order. Greed wasn’t a deadly sin for nothing. His life was so much better now than he’d ever thought it would be. He could be perfectly content like this. He stared at his phone. Not that Margaret would let it go. And if she wanted this too . . .
In the end, because Mark also preferred written messages for important things, Jack simply forwarded him the whole dialog.
Then he spent the rest of the day checking his phone between customers for an answer. Mark was probably busy. He hadn’t seen it yet, nothing more. But with every passing hour the silence felt more like a no. Which was fine. He was good. If Margaret really wanted to move upstairs, renovations would likely take him at least until the end of the fall, anyway. He’d just wanted to know what Mark thought about the idea in general. A preliminary survey, so to speak. Any answer would help.
Only at that point did it occur to him that he hadn’t actually asked a question.
So, he texted. What do you think about Margaret’s plans?
He locked up and went to pack the orders for the next day, while Margaret did the day’s tally.
Mark’s answer came about half an hour later. She’ll still be in the same house. She’ll be perfectly fine. I haven’t been in your attic, though. I expect there’s some work to be done? Want any help?
Jack nearly banged his head against the door in frustration. Way to go and comment on exactly the half of the dialog that he didn’t need a decision on. That part was all Margaret’s.
Yeah, it needs to be completely insulated. Another pair of hands certainly couldn’t hurt. Thanks.
He tried to come up with the words to ask the question he really wanted to ask, but they all sounded either lame or pushy. He’d have to play it by ear. Now that the idea was floating around, it was bound to come up in conversation. Please, let it come up in conversation.
Mark had spent a few nights on the cot, but he hadn’t left so much as a toothbrush. Couldn’t he at least leave a fucking toothbrush? A razor? Damn, it was tough not to be greedy, not to want it all right now. Mark here, barefoot in his kitchen, naked in his bed, every day? Jack sighed.
Mark was trying. He’d been pretty bummed about his inability to sleep in the same bed as Jack. Maybe he needed Jack to back off a bit. He could do that. He could be patient.
Margaret stuck with her decision to move upstairs, so Jack bought a huge book about home renovations, and he and Mark set to work on the attic every weekend. While they were busy with insulation, flooring, drywall, and ceiling tiles, Margaret picked out colors and decorations she liked. It kept her happily occupied until they were ready to start on the décor, which involved Mark sewing curtains and throw-pillow cases, and Jack stringing lights and helping Margaret hang prisms. Mark had found a small crystal chandelier on one of his antique market hunts, and Jack had had the hardest time prying it away from Margaret long enough to clean it. If it hadn’t had so many sharp edges, she would probably have taken it to bed with her.
Despite all the homemaking they were doing for his sister, Jack hadn’t asked Mark about moving in. He was happy with the way things were now. Or at least happy enough. Or at least . . . Fine, so he was scared of losing Mark if he got too impatient. That didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize a good thing when he had it. And he had Mark on the weekends, and on weekdays he was only a text away. So, mindful of the old adage that you didn’t change a winning horse, he kept his peace. Until one sunny Sunday morning in October, a stranger’s bed at a flea market brought the topic up.
They were strolling through the busy lanes between stalls, and Jack was keeping a close eye on Margaret, but so far she seemed okay, happy even. Her ASD assessment the week before had opened up support options for both her and him that Jack was feeling more and more positive about.
For now she was fascinated with a display of colorful wind toys, while Mark had sauntered ahead to hunt through a couple of clothing racks. Jack managed to keep them both in sight until they rejoined him. At the end of the lane, part of the parking lot had been cordoned off for furniture displays. They were meandering through the landscape of vintage goods, when Mark suddenly stopped dead. Jack nearly mashed his nose on his spine. “What?”
Mark groped for his arm and pulled him forward. He was staring at the most gigantic bed Jack had ever seen. The headboard must have been at least six feet high and looked more like a bookcase into which a bed had been pushed. Or were those two beds?
“I wonder if we could fit it into the bed of the truck,” Mark murmured.
“It comes apart,” a guy said, coming toward them. “If you can fit the headboard in, you’re good. The beds themselves are a twin each.” He paused, and when neither Mark nor Jack said anything he offered, “If not, I can deliver within a reasonable distance.”
“Never mind the truck,” Jack said, only half to the sales guy, then turned to Mark. “It won’t even fit in your apartment. Where do you want to put that thing?”
Mark seemed dazed, like he was sleepwalking. “Your room,” he said. Then he blinked. “Sorry.” He twirled one index finger against his temple. “Daydreaming.”
Jack’s throat was suddenly dry. He turned to the sales guy. “Sorry, we’re going to need a minute here.”
“Take your time. Gimme a holler when you’re ready.”
Jack did an automatic scan for Margaret, who was perched on
one of the chairs, earbuds in. He looked back at Mark. “What are you saying?”
Mark eyed the bed again, then shrugged. “It’s two beds. Two completely separate frames. They can be pushed together or pulled apart against that headboard as needed. Seemed perfect there for a second. But you’re right, it’s huge.”
Jack impatiently waved his own argument aside. The size suddenly seemed much less ridiculous. “You mean you’d be able to sleep in one, even if I was in the other?”
“I don’t see why not. Unless you snore,” he added carefully.
“No. That is, I don’t think I do. You haven’t complained yet.”
They stared at each other for a minute. Then Jack asked, as neutrally as he could. “Would this be for the weekends, or are you thinking of moving?”
Mark tore his gaze away from the bed. “Would you want me to move?”
“Hell yeah.” It came out as a throaty whisper.
Mark laughed. “Good. Me too.” He grew serious again. “I can’t promise you that there won’t be any . . . hitches.”
“I don’t care.”
Mark grazed Jack’s cheekbone with his knuckles. “You,” he said, and it almost sounded like I love you.
He turned back toward the bed. “That still leaves the fact that it’s too big for your room as well, though. At least if you want to fit anything else in there, like your dresser or nightstand.”
Jack wiped that argument out of the air too. “Margaret’s room next door is empty now. We’ll take the wall down.”
“Aww, yisss!” Jack had been pressing his nose against the shop window between serving customers for most of the day. He doubted anyone else in the universe had ever waited for the delivery of two twin mattresses quite this badly. It seemed only fitting to record the moment for posterity, so he snapped a picture of the van through the window and sent it to Mark.
The bed monster had been parked in the back hallway for the past two weeks, solidly blocking the passage there. Mark had spent those two weeks on the cot in Jack’s room to test if same-room sleeping on a continuous basis was possible or not. The victorious verdict was, Jack did not snore and mutual sleep had been possible, although Jack was a bit dubious as to how much sleep Mark had gotten on the narrow cot.