by Sarah Black
His voice was scratchy from the tube, and I could see it hurt to swallow. I put the straw up to his mouth and let him have a sip of water. “Is Granddad okay?”
“Yeah. He’s tired and upset, but he’s tough, Jesse. We were watching the TV at home and saw you get shot.”
“Did he see the pictures? Of him in Vietnam, and my dad?”
“Yeah. They made him cry a little bit, he was so proud of you. Of what you were doing. I was, too.” He closed his eyes, turned his head away. “Jesse, I have to be gone for a couple of hours. Your granddad’s gonna stay with you.”
His fingers tightened on mine. “Where are you going?”
“I thought I’d go shag that fuckhead Sammy.”
He laughed, his eyes tired, drooping shut. “Did you get the drawing I sent you?”
“Of the men you love? Yeah. It’s sitting on the kitchen table.”
“Propped up by the ceramic chicken?”
“Yep.” I reached out, ran my fingers down his face. “The three of us are just sitting on the porch, waiting for the boy we all love to come home.”
“You still have the camper?”
“It’s out behind the house.”
“Is there room for me in your Bambi?” His eyes were closed, his voice slurred. I leaned over and kissed him again and watched him breathe until I was sure he was asleep.
Out in the waiting room, The Original was looking through a large-print edition of Reader’s Digest. “This magazine,” he announced, “is twelve years old. I read the whole damn thing before I thought to look at the date.”
“He’s asleep,” I said.
“Sam’s on his way up. If you don’t mind, Lorenzo, I’m not going to watch. I’m not sure I can take much more of this drama.”
“Thank you. Now if I could only convince the other twenty-three million anticipated viewers to turn off their TVs, I think we might get some work done. Don’t these people have jobs to go to?”
“Not everybody can be a cartoonist.”
The elevator opened, and Sam stepped out. He was carrying a red shirt covered in dry-cleaner’s plastic. I took it, stripped off my T-shirt. “Hang on,” he said and reached up to my chest, put some dark-red color on the scars with a little makeup brush.
I looked down at his head, wishing I could crush his balls with my cowboy boots. But Jesse wouldn’t like it. “I can just take comfort in the fact that I will never have to set eyes on your face again, after today.”
“Is that right, Jesusboy? Oh, sorry, Maryboy.” He stood up and smiled. “We’re gonna try and play nice? For Jesse?”
The shirt was sand-washed silk, the color of old blood, and it looked good against my dark-brown skin. Between the shirt and the makeup, TV audiences everywhere would be able to see the scars in vivid living color.
We rode to the Mall in silence, in the back of a limousine. When we got backstage at the peace march, Sam morphed into my best friend, his hand on my elbow whenever somebody happened to look our way.
“I think you’re a little bit too old for all this pretty-boy fey crap you keep putting on.” Anyone looking at us would see my friendly smile, just a couple of peaceful men talking together.
“Yeah? I’m older than you, that’s true, Jesusboy. I’m smarter than you, richer than you, better-looking, more charming, and a whole hell of a lot better in bed than you. Now and forever, cupcake. You won’t ever catch up with me, no matter how fast you run.” He smiled and introduced me to too many people to remember, and I could see the curious glances thrown my way by the staff working backstage. Of course, they had all see the painting.
The comedian finished his routine, and the crowd grew quiet. Then the screen on the stage was filled with the image of Death of a Grievous Angel, and the noise from the crowd started. I waited to the count of five, then Sam gave me a little shove in the back.
I walked out across the stage. Stood at the microphone and waited for the noise to quiet. I could see that images of me were projected on screens around the mall for people who weren’t close enough to see and hear. I reached up, started unbuttoning my shirt. I held it open, showed my scarred bare chest to the world. I leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “I’m Staff Sergeant Lorenzo Maryboy.” I waited for the world to look at my chest, to look at the painting behind me, the black shrapnel and the black wings. “I wanted to let you know that my friend, the painter Jesse Clayton, is going to live. That bullet didn’t come close to touching his heart.”
I looked at them all in amazement, these strangers, screaming and crying, hugging each other, pointing up at me, with the image of my naked, crucified body behind them. I didn’t understand what had happened, the strange collective pain and triumph, but when I nodded and walked off the stage, I knew that it was something good.
I could see Sam shaking hands and hugging the organizers backstage. They all looked happy as pigs in shit. We exchanged careful nods across the open backstage, just to remind ourselves that we hated each other, then I slipped out the door and caught a cab back to the hospital.
“It’s a madhouse out there,” the cabbie said. “Too many coolers of beer among those peace marchers if you ask me. I’m their designated driver when they can’t march anymore.” He snuffled into his beard. “Hey, you hear some kid got shot? A painter or something. I’ve got a theory about that. They say it was just one, but I think there was a second shooter.”
I closed my eyes, buttoned my shirt back up, and said a prayer. Please, Jesus, just let me get the old man and Jesse back to Texas. Let me get my people home safely, and I’ll let Jesse paint as many pictures of you and of me as he wants to. I promise. You know what’s in his heart. Don’t let anybody else hurt him, and I’ll watch over him all my days, and keep him safe.
Chapter Thirteen
JESSE was out of the ICU in a week. The sound of his scream when they pulled out the chest tube was the final straw for the old man, who took himself off to a hotel and slept for eighteen hours.
I walked over half of DC, looking for a grocery store that carried fresh strawberries, because Jesse said he wanted some, and when I got back to his room, he was talking to Sam. “Yeah? He did? No way, Sammy, I don’t believe he threatened you.” I washed the strawberries in the sink, pulled the container of Greek yogurt from the bag. “It’s on YouTube? I’ll take a look. No. No, not yet, Sam, just….” I held my hand out for the phone, but he turned away. “I’ve got to go. Listen, just tell anybody who asks that I’m going back to Marathon for a while to recuperate. I’m not up for any reporters. A couple of months, then we’ll see.” He paused again, then, “I don’t care! Sam, I just…. No. Not now.”
“Jesse, hang up the phone.”
He closed the phone, scooted up in bed, and I pulled the table over in front of him. “Sam says you threatened to crush his balls with your cowboy boots.”
“Did I? I can’t remember. I’d hate to get anything on my new boots.”
“He also said you tried to fire him.”
“Well, actually, I told him I’d take my shirt off in front of God and the world, and if I did, he had to get out of your life. So it was really more of a bargain.”
“What did he say?”
“Something like, ‘Fine, cowboy. Take him. He’s yours.’”
Jesse gave me a slow grin. I thought he was starting to look like himself again. “Sounds like the testosterone was flying! I’m sorry I missed that. But that wasn’t much of a bargain for you.”
“Because you were already mine? Eat your strawberries. I don’t know what’s with this town, you can’t find decent strawberries. Don’t they know Mexico is working night and day to grow strawberries for America?”
“Did you really take off your shirt at the march?”
“Jesse, it was red silk, the color of blood, and the fuckhead put some of that blush powder on the scars before I went out, so everyone could see them better. They wanted to haul a cross up on stage and hang me up, but I said no. That’s a line even I wouldn’t c
ross.”
Jesse giggled, lifted the cover from the Greek yogurt. “This is good. It’s my favorite kind. They don’t have it in Alpine, though.”
“I bet you miss having all your shops when you’re down in Marathon. Jesse, I’ll take you back to San Francisco if that’s where you want to go.” I closed my eyes. “Wait. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean we can go together if you would like to.” I rubbed hard over my forehead. “I don’t mean to keep treating you like you’re a child.”
He looked up then, and his blue eyes were clear and pretty, no clouds, no pain. “I need to go home to Texas, if that’s okay with you. Are you gonna get mad if I say I need to start painting again?”
I shook my head. “Here’s the way it’s gonna be between you and me. You paint whatever you want. You’ve got blanket permission from this point to paint whatever parts of me you want to paint. I suspect that will get old pretty damn quick, and you can move on to some other target.”
“What do you get in exchange?”
I took a strawberry. It tasted like cardboard. “I want us to try again. Try and love each other, now that we know each other a little better. Because it’s not really something I have any control over, loving you.”
He scooped up another spoonful of yogurt. “Is there something about my getting shot in the chest that caused you to not be mad at me anymore?”
“No. I had stopped being mad at you some time ago. I was settling into misery, missing you, and loving you, but too proud to go find you and beg you to come home. Give me another chance to love you. Pride is easier to get over than mad, at least for a marine.”
“Oh. I thought it was one of those deals where you thought I was dead and suddenly realized you had loved me all along.” I tossed the strawberries in the trash. “Hey, can you get me a computer? I want to watch you strip on YouTube. Sammy said there had already been six million hits. My shooting has had seventeen million hits.”
“Sammy’s tracking your YouTube hits? The Original is going down to talk to the police today. Have you seen anybody?”
He shook his head. “They just looked at the painting, figured that must be the cause. I wonder if anybody gave them all the hate mail?”
“What hate mail?”
“Sammy’s got it, I think. My experience has been that the people I paint are usually the maddest at me, but sometimes I get mail. Usually when people write me hate mail, they start out by calling me a degenerate fag. Usually there’s something about sodomy, and a promise of jail time if there is any justice in the world, but this time the hate mail has been totally different. The whole gay element has been missing.”
“That’s good news. You must have forgotten to paint the rainbow on my ass.” Blue eyes rolled in my direction. “Of course, I would think it’s a downside that one of them actually tried to go through with it this time. Has Sam called the police or given them the letters or anything like that?”
“I don’t think so.”
I picked up the phone, called The Original. “The fuckhead had a bunch of hate mail, collected since the painting went public. He hasn’t given it to the police.”
“Oh, great. That’s brilliant. I’ll tell the cops. Have you seen the magazine? I got a copy for us to take home. We can put it in the drawer with the family Bible and Jesse’s baby teeth.” He hesitated. “Lorenzo, Sadie still hasn’t called. Let’s try not to bring it up unless he asks, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later. Can we plan on driving home? I’m gonna rent us a car with a big backseat. I think we’re gonna be out of here in three days.”
He sighed. “I’m looking forward to that.”
Jesse was out in the hall, trying to sweet-talk a nurse into bringing him a laptop. He didn’t have any slippers, only the little blue foam slippers the hospital had given him. Sam had brought his luggage from the hotel where he had been staying, but it was just an overnight bag. I bought him a pair of Scooby-Doo pajamas in the gift shop. He was happy to see that his good boots had escaped any real damage.
The nurse wouldn’t let him on to the computer, for which I was very grateful, and we both settled down for a nap. I slept in the big recliner in his room, scooted over next to the bed, so we could hold hands. When I woke up it was late, and he was talking to his granddad, sitting on the other side of the bed.
“So they’re gonna keep looking, but they don’t have anything really to go on. They did say they called the FBI when they got the threatening mail, because hate crimes and mail are federal jurisdiction or something. I didn’t follow it all. But there will be people looking out for you, Jesse.”
“Okay.”
“Son… I can’t help but notice you’re in a good mood. Like you aren’t really bothered at all about this person with a gun.”
Jesse was quiet a moment, and I got the feeling he was looking over at me. “I know this isn’t what it’s really about, but I didn’t know what to do to get him to talk to me, not to mention being willing to give us another chance.” He was whispering, so I kept my eyes closed. “So I’m just going to take this as a gift from the Virgin. I said I’d take any punishment she wanted to give me, if we could just have another chance. That little one, you remember, near Santa Elena Canyon? Where I prayed after Gran died. ”
He sighed. “This is your penance? Jesse, are you telling me you think some nut job shot you because the Virgin of Guadalupe sent…. I need to get you boys home. You don’t have any idea how miserable Lorenzo was with you gone. I was worried he….”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just believe me, he missed you as much as you missed him. But we need to get all this settled. I don’t think I can take too much more.”
“Granddad, Sadie hasn’t called me. Is she still in Marathon? She hasn’t left?”
“Far as I know, she’s still there.” They were quiet for a moment.
“Okay. It’s okay.”
I yawned and stretched, then moved the recliner to upright. “That is one comfortable chair. But I still miss the couches out in the studio.”
Jesse perked up at that. “I had Miguel and his father put extra cushioning in them, then reupholster them in that green velvet. It was the first thing I did when I got home.”
“I thought you dragged them home from the antique shop.”
“Well, I did, via Miguel’s shop. He was the class behind me in school.”
“I thought that green velvet was in good shape for two old couches coming out of an antique store. Where’s the rest of your furniture?”
“Sammy’s apartment. Well, my apartment too.”
I walked over to the window, pulled the blinds up. “Jesse, you told me you weren’t living together.”
He sat up on the side of the bed, his hand pressed hard against the bullet wound in his chest. He got up and walked over to me. “Why does this still hurt so much every time I move?”
“You’ve got a broken bone in your chest. The bullet hit a rib, remember?”
“Oh, right. I had forgotten.” He slid his arm around my waist. “Yes, you did ask me, but what you really wanted to know was if we were sleeping together. And I said no, because we weren’t. Aren’t. You have no idea what the real estate market is like in San Francisco!” He put his other arm around my waist. “You know, you’re just the tiniest bit controlling, Mary. Do you think you can work on that? Because you’re not my platoon leader.”
The Original stood up. “I wonder if there is any place in this town you can get a decent steak? If I have to look at another can of soup heated up in the microwave, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Jesse leaned against me, put his head on my arm.
“Let’s get you back in bed, tiger. I don’t think you’re ready to hunt down a steak house, are you?”
“Maybe not. You go, have some ribs, okay? Will you bring me back a couple of ribs? And some potato salad. And while you’re gone, I’m going to call Sam and have him come over and we can talk about our business. About ending our busine
ss. Okay? And I’m telling you so you don’t go all Devil Dog on him and threaten to crush his balls with your boots again.”
“That is a total fabrication, just so you know.”
“I think you’re just mad at him because you don’t want to be mad at me anymore, but you’ve still got some mad to use up.”
“Maybe so. I forget sometimes how smart you are.” I helped him back to bed, then leaned over and kissed him. He looked up at me, his face filled with so much sweetness, eyes like the ocean, looking at me like I was the sun. I had to kiss him again, harder, just to keep the feelings from exploding out of my chest, and I kept on kissing him until The Original cleared his throat and said it was time to go.
WE REPAIRED to a barbecue joint recommended by the security guard the Million Man peace march organizers had hired to keep the reporters out of Jesse’s room. It was a little strip mall joint, with paper plates, but the smell coming out from the back had both of us sighing and settling back in the vinyl booth. The Original ordered us a couple of beers.
“Son, you’ve about got yourself worn out. You’ve been busy making sure I slept and Jesse slept, maybe you’ve forgotten to sleep yourself.”
“I just want to get out of here before something else happens. I’ve been in plenty of situations where people were shooting at me or my men, but I always had a gun so I could shoot back. I don’t know this place. I can’t get a feel for the way people move. At least in Marathon we’ll be able to see them coming.”
“You think there’s still some danger, then.”