by Liv Rancourt
The whole thing made him sick with anger and shame.
A while later, the bus drove down a narrow gravel road and into a parking lot. The group, thirty in all counting the swimmers, coaches, and chaperones, headed down a short dirt path, hemmed in on both sides by enormous evergreens so dense, they blocked out the brilliant sunshine. Then the trees ended, and the gang spilled out into a space about the size of a baseball diamond.
The view opened Russell’s heart. They were on the top of a rocky bluff, facing a narrow space between Whidbey Island and the mainland. Above their heads to the left, a high arching bridge connected the two. Forty feet below, waves ran in rags and tatters over craggy rocks designed by the devil.
A man could lose himself in those crashing waves, if ever he reached a point where he couldn’t see going on. His gut lurched, muscles clamping down at the mental image of falling, falling. Falling.
He wouldn’t let go.
Russell’s nature might lead him to groping men in dark places, but he could rise above it, even if the climb looked higher than the mountains edging the horizon. He reached deep, though exhaustion weakened him and he didn’t truly know what he was reaching for. Turning away from the temptation in the rolling waves, he vowed to keep his head high.
Back home, they had endless lakes surrounded by forests as old as time. The land was flat, and the Mississippi River rolled along, wide and brown. There were no hills, no mountains, no intoxicating salty air. He clung to the waist-high metal fence, surrendering to the roar of the water and the golden sunshine. Instead of staring out at the endless horizon, he faced his empty future and hoped he’d someday meet a woman who excited him half as much as Skip.
***
Wednesday morning, Skip jogged across the corner of the giant room, past long rows of airplane bodies waiting patiently like a flock of wingless eagles. The early morning sun made the planes on the east side of the building gleam. Men crawled along the tops, their tool belts loaded, others pushed crates of supplies between rows, and overhead, the fluorescent bulbs flattened out any shadows.
He shot a glance at the giant clock on the wall. Four minutes after. He made it to the office door, pulled his timecard out of the rack, and slammed it home seconds before he’d catch hell. A heavy clunk marked the timeclock’s shift to 6:05. Skip stuffed his card back in its slot and was halfway through a pivot to head to put his lunchbox away when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
“Mr. Carby wants to see you.” The shift foreman jerked his head toward the office.
Jamming with the band till all hours had left him with a muzzy head. Skip blinked, forced a smile and raised his lunchbox. Couldn’t be in too much trouble. “Soon as I put this away.”
“Nope.” The foreman’s thin face looked somber even when he cracked a smile, and he definitely wasn’t smiling now. “You can put it away before you come out on the floor.”
His comment let Skip take a breath through a gout of worry. If they expected him out on the floor, he wasn’t likely to get fired. He gave the man a quick salute and headed to Mr. Carby’s office.
Sliding through the door by the timecard machine, Skip paused in the foyer, where three secretaries had their desks. None of them looked up from their typing. Between the beige linoleum floor and the tan walls, the room reminded him of a bowl of oatmeal. He made sure the collar of his work shirt was straight without acting like the nerdy kid who got called to the principal’s office.
The youngest of the three secretaries was his best bet. His smile was two-thirds sincere and one-third flirt, and he rested his rump on the edge of her desk. “Hey, Loretta.”
“Well hey, Skip.” Her cheeks turned red. She always had perfectly arched brows, painted lips, and sprayed hair. Probably stayed put during sex too, not that he’d ever find out for himself.
“Mr. Carby wants to see me.”
“He does?” She lifted the handset of her phone, using the pads of her fingers instead of her long, pink-frosted nails. She dialed with a pencil, and the conversation went on long enough to make Skip’s stomach churn. He hadn’t done anything wrong, or much wrong, anyway. He’d been late to work a couple of times, maybe, but nothing more serious.
Finally, she dropped the handle back onto the base and gave him a flawless smile. “Go on in.”
Still carrying his gray metal lunchbox, Skip knocked on Mr. Carby’s door. A muffled response invited him in. He stepped in to the edge of the beige rug. Mr. Carby’s desk was oak, and he had pictures on the wall, but it was still a windowless box of oatmeal.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Sit down, Lawrence.” Mr. Carby flicked a finger at the straight-backed wooden chair across from his desk. He was a gruff man, a former army major who still kept his hair cut in a precise flat top and who still sat like he had a ramrod for a spine.
Skip dropped into the chair, resting his lunchbox on his lap in case he needed it to protect himself from the firing squad.
“What happened this weekend?” Mr. Carby said, drilling into Skip with his US Army mien.
Skip had no idea what he was talking about. “This weekend?”
“I put out a notice saying everyone was expected to pull at least twelve hours of overtime.”
Damn. “Sorry, Mr. Carby. I had two shows on Saturday and on Sunday I had to visit my mother.”
“Right. Your mother. You know, your foreman told me you’re frequently late, and you often come to work looking like you haven’t been to bed yet. He also said you took yesterday off to visit your mother.” Mr. Carby shuffled the papers on his desk, slashing Skip with razor-sharp glances. “I was so impressed with your devotion, I called Firland. It seems your mother’s stable, and they don’t have visiting hours on Tuesdays.”
The silence in Skip’s non-answer echoed between them. He had no defense. He’d lied about needing the day off so he could see Russell.
Russell, who hadn’t wanted to hang out with him in the daylight.
Mr. Carby let the silence tick tock with a scowl that had Skip gulping.
“Thank you for not trying to bullshit your way out of this, son,” he finally said. “You’ve got one more chance, Lawrence.” Mr. Carby raised an index finger. “One more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next time I post a notice about overtime, I expect your fanny in here unless it’s your mother’s funeral.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get out there and stop wasting my time.”
Skip cleared the oatmeal office fast enough to break the sound barrier, pretty sure that after his mother’s funeral, he wouldn’t worry about going back to Boeing ever again. Then he smacked himself for even beginning to think something good could come from his mother’s death.
He loved Mom more than any other person on earth. She’d done everything for him, worked at all kinds of trashy jobs so they’d have a decent apartment and he’d be able to take music lessons. Heck, he was probably the reason she had tuberculosis in the first place. She was so wore down when the bugs got her, she couldn’t fight it off. Still couldn’t, even with the fancy new drugs they pumped into her. Every time he visited, she was thinner, and these days, every time she coughed, she brought up blood.
He moved with sound-barrier speed all the way to the assembly floor, promising himself he’d get his act together. As much as he might hate it, he needed the Boeing job. Getting fired would destroy the rest of his life.
Chapter 9
After the show, Skip headed down to the Square, in no mood for any trouble. He parked his car and had gone about half a block when a pair of cops burst out of a quiet little restaurant. He shuffle-stepped to keep from running into the first cop, until his progress was halted by a hand grabbing his shirt.
“Well, look who’s here,” the officer said. “Skip Johansen. Last time I saw you, you were keeping time with your lawyer. Are you looking to make more work for him?”
Skip jerked out of Officer Murphy’s grasp. “Just going to get a drink at the
tavern.”
“Is that all?” The cop puffed up like a bulldog. His partner leaned against the building with crossed arms and a grin.
“Yep.” Using more words would get him in trouble, and Lord knows he could get arrested for hanging out on the wrong block. Lou claimed Murphy secretly carried a torch for Skip, and he abused him rather than admit to it.
“Maybe I should arrest you right now for engaging in lewd behavior.”
Skips fought to stay calm, which was tough with irritation taking a shortcut through his belly, heading straight for anger. Don’t give him any ammunition. “I’m just walking.”
Murphy leaned into him, and his partner laughed. “I saw the swing in your hips. Maybe you’re trying to attract the wrong kind of attention.”
“What are you watching my hips for, Officer?” Skip shifted his weight toward the cop, releasing any remaining grip on his common sense. “Maybe you’re the one who should be arrested for lewd behavior.”
“You wanna come downtown, Johansen?” His voice dropping to nearly a growl, Officer Murphy gripped Skip’s elbow.
His partner pulled Murphy’s hand off Skip. “Come on, Murph. We don’t have time. We got three more pickups before midnight.”
Murphy took a big step and planted his index finger in Skip’s chest. “Next time, faggot.”
Skip stood still, breathing hard, hands loose at his sides. The cops took off, cocky as a pair of fighters in the ring. Murphy brayed at something his partner said, and Skip waited till they turned onto Washington Street to flip them the bird.
Fear replaced anger, and his hands still shook when he got to the tavern. Instead of ordering his usual beer, he went for a double bourbon on the rocks. It took every drop to block the damned cop from his mind.
“Hey there, big Daddy.”
A soft, husky voice spoke right in Skip’s ear, followed by a hand on his ass and warm breath nuzzling his neck.
“Lou,” Skip said, smirking into his ice cubes. The crowd of men at the tavern sheltered him, even though the recent memories of being here with Russell scraped like sandpaper on his balls.
“Where’s your new boyfriend?” Lou asked. He was a slight man, dark haired, with a small mouth and eyes a shade wider than Skip found attractive.
“Boyfriend?”
“Demetrio’s telling people you were here with a date, and Bobby Lundquist busted the two of you making out back by the bathroom.” Lou slid onto the barstool next to Skip. “Made me jealous, lover boy.”
“Aw...” Skip rubbed at a small puddle on the glossy wood bar. After getting lectured by Mr. Carby and blown off by Russell, Lou’s outrageous flirting felt good.
“But that’s all right, isn’t it? I want my Lawrence to be happy.” Lou blew a raspberry kiss in Skip’s direction. All around, men talked and laughed, and the radio played a Tommy Dorsey tune.
“Slip me the word, cuz. What else did you hear?” There wasn’t much to tell, but right then, Skip needed the reminder.
Lou raised a fist. “Number one”—his index finger went up—“I heard he’s some kind of Ivy Leaguer.”
Skip nodded.
“Number two”—two fingers up—“I heard he was all man, a real bull.”
Skip didn’t even try to fight the cocky grin.
“And number three”—Lou put up a third finger and made a little moue with his lips—“I heard you looked real gone on him.”
Skip ran his hands through his hair. He arched his back. Looked anywhere but at Lou. “Shit.” No secrets here. This damned crowd saw and reported every little detail.
He and Russell had had fun. More than fun. Heck, things had been terrific until the morning on the ferry.
“Lawrence Johansen, you are my closest friend.” For once, Lou muffled all traces of his nelly guise. “When’s the last time you gave the ol’ Johnson a workout? Hmm?”
“Shut up, Lou.” The part of his anatomy in question stirred, as if acknowledging the attention. “We won’t have much chance to work anything out.”
“Oh honey, it only takes fifteen minutes.” Lou’s smile was so innocently naughty, Skip had to smile back.
“Where’s he from, anyway?” Lou asked.
“Minnesota...Michigan...some Midwest M state.”
“And do you and Mr. Midwest any other dates planned?”
“Says he’s not my type.” Skip stared at the crowd, avoiding anyone’s gaze. He’d played his hand with Russell and been left with a pair of twos.
Lou tapped his lips with his index finger. When he looked up again, he had a swing in his hips, and a sly, feminine smile. “Maybe you need to make him a little jealous. What if Lulu came to see you play?”
“Aw, sweetheart.” Skip patted Lou’s cheek, affection warring with exasperation. “If you wanna come to a show, let me know and I’ll get you a ticket, but I’m not sure it’s worth trying to make Russ jealous. He’s...” Skip stumbled over a visual of Russell in the soft glow of the stage lights, trim hair, broad shoulders, strong jaw. “No dice.”
“Funny, the boys made it sound like he was as snowed as you.”
“You know how I am. I fall fast and bounce faster.” Skip puffed his lips out with a heavy exhale, avoiding Lou’s gaze. “I would bet most of the fellows here tonight go home to their wives or girlfriends and lie about where they’ve been.” The more he thought about it, he knew he was right. “And I understand lying when you have to, but not to me.” He crossed his arms, sinking into himself. “Not to my face. Don’t tell me you don’t like having your dick sucked when I still have the taste in my mouth.”
Lou didn’t say anything, offering silence as consolation.
Russell had pushed him away easy enough. Time to wake up and smell the coffee. “My boss rattled my cage at work this morning, so I shouldn’t run around town all night anyway.”
Pulling an old-fashioned pocket watch from his trouser pocket, Lou examined it with wide eyes. “It’s midnight, darling.”
“You’re right.” Skip downed the rest of his beer. “I should go.”
“Sure.” Lou scooted off his stool and planted a wet kiss on Skip’s cheek. “You’re the most, big Daddy. I hope Mr. Midwest realizes what he’s missing.”
Skip snorted a wry laugh. “Me too.” Whenever possible, Skip avoided men who couldn’t look him in the eye, though God help him, he wasn’t sure Russell would make it possible.
***
Without Susie’s constant chatter in his ear, Russell found he had time to think, and more often than not, his thoughts turned to a certain trumpet player.
Skip had a gift, Russell decided, and it had nothing to do with his horn. He asked the kind of questions Russell didn’t like to answer, and he didn’t lie. On Friday night, the final notes of a soaring trumpet solo brought a rumble of applause from the sold-out crowd. Well, Russell hadn’t caught him in a lie yet, and only a decent man could play with that much heart.
The show went well. Most of the girls had spent the afternoon giving swimming lessons to poor children, so they were tired, but they had perfect timing and crisp cadences. Russell watched from the end of the front row, a spot that gave him a good view of the pool and the band. Not that he watched the musicians.
For once, the air felt like August, muggy and hot enough to force Russell to unbutton his blazer. At the end of the closing number, he followed the line of girls up the path to the locker. There wasn’t much chatter. Twelve shows in ten days had taken their toll. The air smelled swampy, and all Russell wanted was a quick shower and a long sleep.
Although if the chance came to talk to Skip, he’d take it. After their last meeting, Russell had been ashamed of himself, though in the early morning hours, a realization had come over him. Why not? He’d only be in town for another week. If Skip showed an interest, what was the harm? Russell would have the rest of his life to live the way he should. Missing out on even a minute with Skip would be a damned shame.
A man got only so many chances for love, and though it was wron
g, he didn’t want to waste this one.
Even Aunt Maude seemed tired. After a perfunctory post-show conference, she retired to the bus, leaving Russell with some time to kill. A few of the girls had come out of the locker, but rather than deal with the crowd of them, he headed down the path along the lake shore. He had a vague idea about walking until he heard Aunt Maude’s whistle, then jogged back to catch the bus.
It almost worked, except on the jog back, he came across Ryker, Susie, Annette, and Skip. He tried to keep to the shadows, but his cousin spied him.
“Hey, Russell, we’re going dancing. Do you want to come?” Excitement carried Annette’s voice half an octave higher than normal.
Russell had no choice but to slow down. “I don’t think”—he shot a quick glance from Annette to Susie and back—“that I’m in the mood tonight.”
Susie’s smile had always seemed so full of light and fun, but now it looked like something painted on a doll. Ryker kept a protective arm around her shoulder, though Russell certainly had no intention of carrying her off.
“I see.” Annette shot him an apologetic glance, then smiled up at Skip. Aunt Maude blew her whistle again. “We should go, Susie. We’ll see you boys later.”
The girls burst into nervous giggles before they’d gone six feet, and Ryker melted away into the darkness. Russell should have headed for the bus, but he couldn’t get his feet to move. This was his chance.
“Good show tonight,” he said, desperate to bridge the gap between them. Skip chewed on his lower lip, eyes on the water.
“I suppose I owe you an apology.” The words burst out, surprising Russell in their sincerity. He’d been reliving their conversation on the ferry all week. If they never said another word to each other, at least he’d know he’d owned up to his mistake.
Skip exhaled, licked his lips, and shoved his hands into his pockets. His trumpet case sat on the damp earth at his feet. “I suppose I shouldn’t have surprised you.”
“Nah...” Russell scratched at the back of his head. The conversation he wanted to have couldn’t happen in public. And he did want to have it. The certainty surprised him as much as the apology had. “I’m only here for a few more days, and, well, I know you’re busy tonight, but maybe we could have a drink another time.”