The Red Diary

by Toni Blake

  Usually, that was all it took-that heat-but tonight, Nick hesitated. "It's not that I don't want to, honey, but ... I've had a lot of sex like that. Sex to get my mind off shit." He was trying to warn her, spare her. Ah, what a difference a week or two made. ''This will be different than that," she promised. "Better than that."

  "Why?"

  "It'll be with me."

  His smile remained tinged with sadness, but reaching across the gearshift, he hauled her against him for a kiss that trickled all the way to her toes. "You're right," he said, no longer smiling. ''This'll be different than that."

  An hour later, they rested beneath the ceiling fan.

  They still wore their clothes because things had moved fast and neither had bothered taking much off. Her dress had been pushed up, her panties pulled down, his black jeans unzipped. Something about it had reminded her of the first times they'd had sex-the frantic impatience, the skewed clothing-but it was different. Because Nick's eyes had filled with as much affection as fire. Because they'd been through so much together since then. Because she could say [ love you when they were done and mean it. He still didn't say it back, and it still didn't matter to her. She just wanted him to know.

  Now she rested her head on his chest, tracing her fingernails in gentle figure eights over his stomach. Even as they cuddled together, though, she still felt the tension in his muscles; sex. might have gotten his mind off his dad for a few minutes, but it hadn't relaxed him.

  "Nick, I know you probably don't want to discuss this, but ... have you ever talked to your dad, I mean really talked to him, about the pain he's caused you and Elaine and Davy all these years?"

  "He's always drunk." He sounded irritated, defensive. "Always?"

  He hesitated. "No, not always. But I'm not into stirring up the past. What's the point? What happened. Nothing's gonna fix it."

  ''The point is that maybe you'd feel better afterward, just to have gotten it off your chest."

  ''That's you," he said, "not me. You wanted to confront Phil when he was cheating on his wife, you tell Carolyn when you're mad at her. And that's great for you, but I see things differently. I figure why rock the boat."

  ''The boat already seems pretty shaky, Nick. What do you have to lose?"

  "Nothing he could say would make me forgive him." "Of course not, but do it for yourself. That's why I've started confronting people when I'm angry with them, to make me feel better, to get things out in the open. It's not easy, but I realized that when I keep things inside, they eat me up. Your father is eating you up inside, Nick."

  He didn't answer, but their eyes met in the darkness, and Lauren feared she'd gone a step too far.

  "Don't be sorry you confided in me, okay? I'm only trying to help. Forget I said anything."

  She sensed his somber nod more than saw it, then snuggled a little closer, wanting to make him feel loved. But twenty years was a lot to make up for, and she felt him shutting down a little, closing himself off from her in a way he hadn't for a while. When he got up to use the bathroom, she wasn't even surprised when he came out saying, "I'm gonna head home." So now it felt like their first sexual encounters in more ways than one. He was leaving her. And she supposed she should be so tough by now that it didn't catch her off guard, but it did. "Okay," she said, trying to sound strong, biting her lip in the darkness to hold back emotion as she peered up at his broad silhouette halfway across the room. She watched him move toward the bedroom door, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

  He'd already gone through it when she heard his footsteps return and opened her eyes to find him gazing down on her. He bent over, cupping her cheek in his hand. "It's not you, okay? I've just ... got some stuff to work out in my head." He lowered a short but firm kiss to her lips before turning to leave, and although Lauren shed a few tears after he'd gone, she realized they weren't for herself, but for him.

  Nick had worked on painting Lauren's privacy wall 'til lunchtime before he realized she wasn't home. He found a note on the French doors saying she had to work at the office today, taking over some of Phil's duties until they trained someone else. The door's open if you need to get inside. I hope you're feeling better today. Love, L

  Nick just shook his head, making a mental note to scold her for being so trusting as to tape a note on her door announcing it was unlocked. Of course, he meant to reprimand her for trusting other people, but as he stepped inside, the cool of the house's interior surrounding him, he reminded himself that she couldn't trust him, either.

  He would finish painting her house this afternoon.

  Which was good, he thought as he used the bathroom, because it'd been a hell of a job to complete by himself. Yet it would seem strange not to be here every day, not to have her so near. Now he regretted leaving last night, although at the time, it'd seemed the only sensible thing to do. He was no fun to be around when he was in a bad mood.

  Lauren's advice about confronting his dad kept swirling in his brain. That was the problem with his profession, he decided as he made his way to the kitchen, too much time to think. Too much time to regret things. Too much time to let anger build inside.

  But Lauren's words-your father is eating you up inside-had echoed in his head until he'd realized it was true. It had always been true, since the day his mother had died. And he guessed he'd spent a lot of years trying to place the blame elsewhere, or at least spread it around, but the other truth was, the way their lives had turned out wasn't really Henry's fault. Nick had spent his whole life believing that if they'd just retained their ownership in Double A Construction things would've returned to normal, his dad would've gotten on his feet again, they'd have been prosperous and happy-but damn it, it just wasn't true. He'd sat in his spare bedroom last night in the dark, staring out over the black ocean until that had finally become clear to him.

  When something brushed against his ankle, he bent down to scratch Izzy behind the ear, then helped himself to a cold glass of water. When he'd told Lauren about Davy, it had felt good to get it out in the open, even if he'd thought better of it later. And once those vulnerable feelings had passed, once he'd seen that it didn't change how Lauren felt about him. he couldn't deny that having it out there between them wasn't bad. How was it that this woman he'd spent most of his life resenting had the ability to make things so apparent to him?

  He added some ice to his cooler, then headed back toward the door she'd left open for him. As his fingers curled around the doorknob, though, he paused. This is the last day of the job, probably the last time you'll be here when she isn't. If you want to read her journal, if you want to help her live out one more fantasy, this is your last chance. Nick wanted that. He wanted it as badly as he ever had, maybe even more now that his feelings for Lauren had gone so far past resentment into ... caring. He wanted to see her eyes heat when he brought a piece of fantasy into their sex; he wanted to know she thought they shared something mystical and marvelous because of it. He wanted her to keep on loving him. He somehow feared he was risking that love by giving up the red diary, but he took a deep breath and turned the knob, his strength-in that area, anyway-intact.

  A harsh ocean breeze lifted Nick's hair as he knocked on door eight of the Sea Shanties apartments; looked like a storm was blowing in with the sunset. It was Friday night, so who knew if his dad would be home. In fact, now that be thought about it, his father was probably drinking up at the bait shop with the other old guys there. Nick remembered meeting them all once and thinking it was the perfect job for his dad, a bunch of senior alcoholics sitting around lamenting their lives while they sold worms and minnows to the locals.

  As he turned to go, he decided it was for the best-he shouldn't have come here anyway. Maybe he'd drive by Lauren's; he still hadn't seen her today. He wanted to know what she thought of the paint job now that it was complete, and he also wanted to tell her he was sorry for being such a shit last night.

  He'd nearly made it out of the breezeway that led to the pockmarked pa
rking lot when he heard the door click open behind him. "Somebody there?" a grizzled old voice asked.

  He considered not stopping; his dad would never know the difference. But hell-why not just do this? Maybe Lauren was right, maybe it would take a load off him. That was why he'd decided to come, wasn't it?

  "It's me, Dad," he said, approaching the door again. His father wore the same blue work pants as always, and a dingy white T-shirt clung to his belly. "Nicky," he said, glazed eyes brightening. "Come in, come in."

  Nick stepped into the low-ceilinged apartment, the acrid smell of mildew biting into him. An old TV he recognized from his teenage years sat in one comer, blaring out a game show, and an open can of beer and bag of pretzels rested on the laminate circa 1960 coffee table. Swinging his gaze to the adjoining kitchen area, he noted the row of pills on the table, which had grown since his last visit. Elaine had mentioned the heart specialist prescribing a couple more. "Been taking your pills?"

  John looked at them, too. "Mostly. Your sister keeps a pretty tight watch on me these days."

  "She loves you," Nick said, without quite meaning to. His father nodded, but seemed unwilling to meet

  Nick's eyes. It was, he thought, almost as if he'd just said, I don't love you.

  "Listen, Dad, I'm here because I have something to say, something to ask you." He had no idea how to start this, hadn't even thought through it, damn it, and he should've. "So I may as well get right to it."

  His father looked appropriately worried, almost as if he suspected what was coming. Maybe, Nick thought, he knew he couldn't live the rest of his life without one of his children calling him on what'd happened in the garage that afternoon. Maybe he knew his day of reckoning had finally come.

  "I need you to tell me why," Nick said. "Why?"

  His breath went shallow. "Why did you hit Davy with the baseball bat?"

  A shadow of shame passed over his father's eyes, and he suddenly looked smaller than he had just a moment ago.

  And hearing himself say the words, ask the question, utter the truth that hadn't been spoken between them in twenty years, made him bolder, and angrier, and just as disbelieving as he'd ever been. He clenched his fists. ''What the hell made you do such a thing? Your own son, Dad! A little boy. You hit him with a fucking baseball bat, for God's sake. Why did you do it?" His father didn't draw his eyes away, but he wore the expression of a doomed man, his breath ragged. his face lining with new creases.

  "Just tell me, Dad," he said more softly. ''Tell me what happened. What you were thinking. I've wondered for twenty years why you would hurt Davy, and I need to know."

  The old man took on the look of a frightened, cornered animal, and Nick half expected him to bolt from the room, leave him standing there alone, when finally he blurted, "You left it out."

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  "You left out your baseball bat. I told you to put it away. Every night I told you to put it away, but I walked into the garage that night, stepped on the damn thing, and nearly broke my neck."

  Nick squinted. He knew he'd left the bat out. He'd always left the bat out; it had been one of many constant arguments between them at the time. "For that you hit Davy?" It made no sense, which hardly surprised him, yet he asked anyway.

  "I. never meant to hit him." His father vehemently shook his head, tears beginning to flow down his cheeks. "He was a good boy, Davy. I never meant to hurt him. Never meant to hurt Davy. Not ever."

  Nick stood shaking his head, too, bewildered. ''Then why, Dad? Why the hell did you do it?"

  His father's lips trembled as he drew in a deep breath, then he returned his gaze to Nick's, his eyes wide and unspeakably sad. "When I heard him walk into the garage behind me ... " his father stopped, swallowed nervously, then took a deep breath " ... I thought he was you."

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was like a blow to the stomach. Nick couldn't breathe.

  His father stood crying, explaining, but Nick couldn't quite hear, absorb, think.

  "I didn't know what I was doing, son. I was angry, upset, out of my head. I didn't think, I didn't plan, I just ... did it. And then, and then .. ."

  Nick heard his own whispered words. "You thought it was me." Me you were hitting, me you wanted to hurt, me you didn't love. Davy was innocent. And I was guilty. It was meant for me.

  "Please forgive me, please understand, I wasn't in my right mind, I was just striking out at the nearest thing. I never thought about what I was doing, was just in a rage, just ... "

  The words faded off, and somewhere along the way, his father had dropped to his knees, his face covered with tears. Nick felt out of place, out of time, like the moment didn't quite exist, like his body wasn't his own. He couldn't be here anymore, couldn't stand to look at this groveling man one more second. He'd heard all he needed to, all he could bear to. He turned and walked out.

  Long, quick strides led him down the breezeway, out into a pouring rain he hardly felt. He'd ridden his motorcycle, but wouldn't have bothered with the helmet except he had no place to carry it otherwise. He was tempted to knock it to the broken asphalt and speed off, but even now, he remembered it'd been expensive and that the Armstrong's had learned not to waste things, not to throw things away, that money was precious and tight.

  A minute later, he flew down the road with no thought for the speed limit, barely aware he'd pulled out in front of a car other than the dim memory of a horn sounding as he'd left the Sea Shanties' parking lot. The hard rain bit into his bare arms like tiny pellets, yet he ignored it, racing down the shiny slick road toward nowhere.

  He'd done that after they'd come from the hospital, too, he recalled. Davy had still been there, but they'd gone home to get some sleep. Nick had opened the car door and, without a word to anyone, he'd just started running through the balmy Florida night, down the street, out onto the main road. He must've run for miles without ever stopping, ever slowing down, without even knowing why. He'd returned to the house very late, having walked the whole way back. It'd been quiet, his father and Elaine asleep, and no one had ever asked him about it.

  No one ever asked anyone anything in their house and, because of it, Nick had spent twenty years not knowing he'd been the real target, not knowing Davy had only been an innocent bystander. Davy had saved

  Nick's life by walking into that garage. And he'd lost Davy's by not putting away a baseball bat.

  The bright lights of a liquor store lit the wet night and lured him impulsively into the empty lot Place looked like a shit-hole; no wonder he'd never even noticed it before, no wonder no one else was buying booze here tonight. I bet Davy's noticed it. I bet I could ask him about it tomorrow, could say, "Hey, you know that little liquor store on Alt 19, yellow sign, red letters?" and Davy would say, "Yeah," without missing a beat.

  He stepped in from the rain, soaked to the skin, took his helmet off and caught sight of a redhead in her mid-thirties behind the counter, eyeing him. Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" came from a radio to her right, its wrenching notes slicing into Nick when he needed it least. The woman lifted a cigarette to her lips and gave him a doubtful look. "No night to be out on your Harley, cowboy."

  He didn't answer, just headed to the shelves, out of her sight, and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Plunking it on the counter, he reached for his wallet and threw a soggy twenty down beside it. Smoke mixed with the musky scent of her perfume as she rang up the sale.

  She pressed his change into his palm, slowly, deliberately. He noticed long, red, killer nails. "You okay?" she asked.

  He reluctantly raised his eyes to hers, wondering how broken he looked, wondering if he'd been crying and if it showed, or if it just looked like rain running down his face. "Fine."

  "You don't look fine, sugar." She tilted her head, flashing suggestive green eyes. "You need some company? Besides that bottle, I mean?"

  His mind flashed on what he'd told Lauren just last night, about having sex to dull the pain. Sometimes it was like this, an availa
ble woman when he was hurting inside, someone nameless, faceless, someplace to spill himself, then walk away. Other times it was a little less tragic-some girl he knew, no specific pain other than the general one that always lived inside

  him, something to do, someplace to be, something to take him away from reality for a little while.

  He kept his eyes locked on the redhead the whole time, and she probably figured he was considering the offer. Yet he never answered, finally just picking up the thin brown bag and walking out the door.

  He sat down on his bike, uncapped the whiskey, and took a long drink. It scalded his throat and warmed him deep inside. the heat spreading through his chest, arms, gut. Heat ... that's always how he thought of what he and Lauren shared when they were gazing at each other, wanting each other, having each other. This heat was so much emptier.

  "Sugar." He looked up to see the redhead peeking out the door. "Come in from out of the rain."

  "Can't," he said. Then he looked at the bottle in his hand, and lowered it to the cracked wet blacktop. After shoving his helmet back on, he revved the bike and took off again, headed toward Lauren's and leaving the Jack behind as the victim of another impulsive decision. Turning to Lauren was a better alternative than turning to booze like his father always had. The redhead was right; he needed company. Just not hers.

  He sped all the way to Bayview Drive, even ran a red light when he saw nothing coming. The rain pummeled him, but he didn't feel it anymore. When he reached

  Lauren's doorstep, he leaned on the doorbell until he heard her scurrying to answer.

  Her jaw dropped when she saw him; he could only imagine what he looked like by now. Her beautiful lips trembled. "What's wrong, Nick? What happened?"

  He swallowed back the lump in his throat, but his voice came out broken. "He thought it was me."

  "What?"

  It was a struggle to speak. "When he hit Davy, he thought it was me. Meant it to be me."