Knight In Black Leather

by Gail Dayton

"Teresa." Eli made his voice go harsh, angry. Sometimes she responded to that. "Go back to--"

  She hung up. Eli swore and lifted the cell phone, wanting to throw it across the room. But he'd only have to go pick it up and probably fix something he broke, so he settled for bouncing it off the sofa cushions.

  Why hadn't she stayed where he put her? She was safe there. She'd have been fine, even given his broken bones. They would have taken care of her there. He couldn't rescue a mouse, the shape he was in now. And he refused to drag Marilyn into his problems. She didn't need to be smeared with his dirt. Teresa was on her own. He just hoped she could handle it.

  Marilyn dug her fingers hard into the back of her neck, but she couldn't get a good enough angle to ease the muscle tension already crawling up her head to create a throbbing ache. She watched her mother stump down the frozen foods aisle at the Giant Eagle and sighed. As if the day hadn't been difficult enough already, what with Eli taking that idiotic fall.

  Halfway down, Mom turned around, rattling the grocery cart in front of her. "Don't you need anything from this aisle?"

  With a sigh, Marilyn pushed her near-empty cart along to join her. "I'm just picking up a few staples. I don't need to shop much. Besides, the frozen stuff would probably melt before I get home to put it up."

  "It's cold outside."

  "But above freezing."

  "We can go by that crackerbox you live in and let you put your things up before you take me home."

  "Then your things will melt."

  Mom made a noise as she opened the freezer and snatched out a bag of frozen French fries. Then she put them back and got out a package of the store brand. Her iron gray hair was fluffed up in a tight perm all over her head and she wore her navy blue parka zipped up to the neck, though the store was warm.

  "If you want to meet Eli, Mom, just say so." Marilyn pushed the glass door the rest of the way shut as her mother moved down to the frozen vegetables.

  "So, he's still there."

  "Yes. He was still there when you called this morning, and he's still there now." Marilyn picked up a gallon of milk when they moved to the dairy section.

  "Where is he sleeping, Marilyn?" Mom hissed, as she drew up beside her. "That's what I want to know. Is he sleeping in your bed?"

  "Yes, Mom, he is. There's only one bed."

  "And where are you sleeping? In the bed with him?"

  Marilyn raised an eyebrow. "What if I was? What difference would it make?"

  "If you don't know that already--" Mom shoved her cart to the next aisle, the contents rattling and shifting.

  The headache was pounding with a vengeance now. Marilyn trailed after her mother. "Is this why you wanted me to bring you shopping?" she asked. "So you could yell at me in person?"

  "I am not yelling. I haven't raised my voice once."

  "Figuratively speaking, of course."

  Mom didn't reply.

  "Okay, you didn't yell." Marilyn gave in. "Lecture then. Don't you think I'm a little old for lectures from my mom?"

  "When people act like you are, no, I do not. What happened? What was so wrong with your life that you had to go crazy?"

  "What was--?" She stared at her mother, unable to believe what she'd just heard. "I had no life, Mother. Especially after Julie went away to school. I was rotting in that house. I had nothing. Not even myself."

  "Pfft!" Mom turned her back and moved on down the aisle, waiting by the soup cans for Marilyn to catch up. "Are you telling me you want to 'find yourself'?" She swished her hips and made fluttery motions with her hands to show her disdain.

  "Baloney. I don't buy this 'finding yourself' crap. You're right there." She grabbed Marilyn's wrist and made a face of mock surprise. "Oh, look! I found you."

  Marilyn jerked her arm free. "Just because you've spent the rest of your life after Pop died alone in that house drying up like an old prune doesn't mean I want to do the same thing. I'm a dozen years younger than you were when Pop died. It's not wrong for me to want more."

  The hurt on Mom's face almost made her sorry she'd said it. Almost.

  "I don't deserve that," Mom said. "I loved your father and I love you. I'm just worried for you."

  "I'm fine, Mom. Honest."

  "Hmph." Mom stumped off down the aisle again. She threw four or five cans of tuna in the cart, then turned back to glare at her daughter. "What if it was Julie, sleeping with some stranger? Wouldn't you talk to your daughter about doing something so crazy?"

  "Yes, of course I would. I'd make sure I met the boy--man--whatever. But if I couldn't talk her out of it, I'd have to let it go. She's eighteen. It's her life now. Just like my life is mine. It's not up to me. Just like it's not up to you to decide what's right for me."

  "Right is right and wrong is wrong, and you letting that man live in your apartment and sleep in your bed is wrong. Just plain wrong."

  "Why? He's only sleeping there. He's in a wheelchair, for crying out loud. What do you want me to do? Throw him out on the street?" Marilyn put up a hand. "No, don't answer that. Your nagging is just going to finish ruining what's left of the day, so why don't you drop it, okay?"

  "Hmph." Mom started off again. "I'm sorry if spending time with me 'ruins your day.' Some daughters enjoy spending time with their mothers."

  "Some mothers let their daughters make their own decisions," Marilyn retorted, fed up.

  "Well, some daughters don't make stupid decisions."

  Marilyn just rolled her eyes. Mom had to get the last word in, no matter what, so she might as well let her. She fell back, waiting till Mom got out of earshot before moving on.

  Eli fretted around the apartment another half hour, alternately worrying about Teresa and wishing she hadn't called. At least she couldn't get to Pete. He had no doubt she loved the boy. Much as she was able. He also had no doubt that she'd turn Pete over to the bad guys at the first whiff of funny smoke or the first raised fist. She'd never known any different, didn't understand how wrong it was. But Pete was safe. That was the important thing.

  He couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't settle. He wheeled his stupid chair in a circuit around the four walls of Marilyn's tiny apartment, circling the furniture crowded in the center like a lone Indian around the wagon train in an old movie. Finally, he snatched his phone off the sofa and hit his one speed-dial number.

  "Fitzgerald here." The old man's cigarette rasp sounded wonderful to Eli.

  "Hey, Fitz. It's me. Everything okay on your end?"

  "This kid's driving me crazy, so I guess we're about as okay as we're gonna get. You'll be up to get him soon, right?"

  Eli laughed, familiar with Fitz's theory that kids were supposed to drive adults crazy, and it was the quiet ones you had to worry about. Eli had been a quiet one when he'd arrived at Harvey Fitzgerald's garage eight years ago. "Not right away, but I'll be up as soon as I can."

  "Trouble?" Fitz lowered his voice.

  "A different kind of trouble. I got my arm broken, and my leg. I'm not going anywhere for a while."

  "You need me to come get you?"

  The instant offer eased some of Eli's worry. "No. I got somebody looking after things."

  "They looking after you?"

  He laughed. "Yeah, Fitz. They're looking after me. Lookin' real good."

  Fitz snorted. "Mighta known there was a woman involved."

  "Who said anything about a woman?"

  "It's not what you say. It's how you say it. There's a woman involved all right."

  "She's a good person. A civilian." Meaning Marilyn had never been caught up in the war that was life on the streets. "Is Pete around? Let me talk to him." Eli needed to change the subject.

  "He's around someplace. Under something, or inside something. I'll go drag him out."

  Eli heard the rattle as Fitz laid the receiver of the antique rotary dial phone on the equally antique vinyl-topped desk in his office, and heard the old man's gravelly voice shouting in the distance for Pete to come to the phone. Seconds late
r, the phone rattled again.

  "Eli?" The sound of Pete's breathless voice eased something in Eli's chest he hadn't known was tight.

  "Yeah, it's me, squirt. How ya doin'?"

  "Okay, I guess. When are you coming to get me?"

  "Not right away. I broke my leg. Can't drive the Harley too good that way."

  "Shaunte Wilkins broke his leg last year. He painted his crutches red."

  "Broke my arm too. I can't do crutches. All I'm driving now is a wheelchair." Eli had hoped by spreading the news out it wouldn't sound quite so bad, but he didn't think it worked, given the way Pete got real quiet on the other end of the phone.

  "I'm okay, Pete." Eli hurried to reassure him. "I got casts and a nice lady looking after me. You should see me try to eat with the wrong hand. Food fallin' off my fork and stuff."

  "Was it him?" Pete asked in a small voice. "The guy that scared Mom? Flash?"

  "No. Hell, no." It might have been, Eli conceded to himself. But Flash didn't do it personally, so Eli could say no without lying. Eli didn't lie to Pete, but that didn't mean he had to know every detail. He was only nine. "I had an accident, okay?" He'd accidentally run into those guys, right?

  "On the Harley?"

  "I'm fine. The Harley's fine too. Getting better every day. Marilyn--she's the lady I'm staying with--she'll take a piece out of me if I don't do what the doctors said."

  "I thought you said she was nice." Pete's suspicious tone made Eli laugh.

  "She is. She only gets mad at me when I do something stupid."

  "Like what?"

  "Like try to walk on my broken leg. Something that will make it take longer to heal."

  Eli could almost hear Pete thinking through the phone.

  "You get mad at me when I do stuff like that," Pete said.

  "That's because I like you."

  "So when are you coming to get me?"

  Eli sighed. The kid had a one-track mind. "I'll probably get a walking cast in another couple of weeks, but it'll be two or three weeks after that before I get my arm back. I need both hands for the Harley. And two good legs."

  "And I'll live with you then. Right? You and me and Mom."

  The hope in Pete's voice gave Eli a stomach ache. "It depends." He'd always hated those words when he was a kid. Before Stan. He hadn't been a kid any more after. "Your mom's not doing so good right now. She may need some space to get her head straight again. Fitz is a good guy."

  "I want to stay with you, Eli. Please?"

  Eli's stomach ached worse. "You don't want to stay with me. I move around too much. What kind of life is that for a kid?"

  "I do want to. Please, Eli. Please?" Pete wasn't quite crying, but he was right on the edge. It made Eli feel like some kind of monster.

  "Okay, okay, I'll think about it. No promises. It depends on what's going on with your mom. It depends on a lot of stuff."

  "Promise?"

  "I promise to think about it. That's all." He couldn't take care of a kid. He knew less about it than Teresa did, and she didn't know much.

  "I'm a good cook," Pete offered. "I cook supper for me and Mom all the time. And I won't get in your way--"

  "I said I'd think about it." Eli had to stop his son's attempts to make himself seem lovable. He felt as close to tears as Pete sounded, and he didn't do tears. "I'll think real hard. But you gotta give my bones time to heal up first. Okay?"

  He heard only sniffles through the phone.

  "You gotta say something, squirt. I can't hear your head rattle when you shake it."

  "Okay."

  "All right, then." Eli felt marginally better. He hoped he got through to Pete. "You do what Fitz tells you, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "And if you need anything, or if you just want to talk, you got the number. You know how to call collect, right?"

  "Right." Pete sounded sulky now.

  "Let me hear it. What's the number?"

  Pete rattled off the number to Eli's cell phone, still sulking. "You sure you got a broken arm and broken leg?"

  "Hey, I'm the one sitting here in the wheelchair. You don't believe me? Want me to send you a picture to prove it?"

  "Yeah." But Pete laughed. It was so great how kids could go from tears to pouting to laughing so quick.

  "I'll do it, then. You call if you need me. For anything. Got it?"

  "Yeah." Pete paused half a minute. "You promise, Eli? You'll think real, real, real hard?"

  "I promise. And you know if I promise, I'm gonna do it. I never broke a promise I made yet, did I?"

  "No."

  "Okay, then. Take care of yourself, squirt."

  "Get well fast, Eli. Real fast."

  "I will. Promise." Eli broke the connection without saying goodbye.

  They never said goodbye when they talked, he and Pete. That way, the conversation really never ended. Just got interrupted from time to time.

  Pete wanted to live with him. The thought made Eli cold all the way to his broken bones, made him snag the throw off Marilyn's sofa and wrap it around his shoulders. But the blanket did nothing to warm him.

  He couldn't take care of Pete. No kid should be anywhere around him. Bad rubbed off.

  He'd seen it happen, and he didn't want anything of his rubbing off on Pete. It was bad enough the kid inherited his genes. He didn't need anything else from a father like Eli.

  The wheelchair trapped him. He needed to get out, feel the icy wind in his face as the motorcycle raced up and down the steep hills in and around Pittsburgh. But the best he could do was circle round and round the apartment, his thoughts circling right along with him.

  Teresa needed him. Pete needed him. And he couldn't do anything for either one of them. He was stuck. Helpless. Practically immobile.

  Eli threw off the blanket, managing to keep from tangling it in his wheels before it reached the couch. He picked up the remote, hoping the news could distract him with somebody else's problems instead of his own.

  Seven

  ***

  Marilyn's head was pounding like it had a jackhammer and three or four woodpeckers running around loose inside. She folded her arms on the dining table, laid her aching head on them and closed her eyes. She didn't have the energy to do anything more. She heard the squeak of Eli's wheels as he moved around the apartment but didn't look up. That required effort.

  "You feeling all right?" he asked from the kitchen.

  "My head is killing me." She sat up in her chair and dropped her head forward, stretching her neck. "Just talking to Mom on the phone stresses me out. Spending that much time with her in person is about to explode my brain."

  "Why do you?" Eli wheeled back to the table and set a bottle of aspirin in front of her.

  "Oh, bless you. I needed those." She took two tablets, washing them down with lukewarm coffee. "Why do I spend time with Mom?"

  "Yeah. Want me to warm that up?" He pointed at her cup.

  "No, thanks. I've had plenty of stimulation, I think." Marilyn pushed the cup across the table.

  Eli collected it and took it to the kitchen to join the others beside the sink. He was trying to be helpful, and succeeding. She would miss that when he was gone.

  "Because she's my mother." Marilyn dropped her head to one side this time. That felt good too. "I do love her, even if she drives me crazy. I drive her crazy too, so we're even."

  Eli's wheelchair squeaked again and she could tell he was coming closer, even with her eyes closed. Still, she startled when he touched her shoulder. "Lean back a little," he said.

  "Why? What are you doing?" But she leaned back even as she asked.

  "As long as I'm not ravishing you, why should you care?" He brushed her hair forward over her shoulders and slid a hand onto the back of her neck, above the loose collar of her sweater. Then he started to rub the tension-tight muscles of her neck, digging in hard, the way she liked it.

  Marilyn moaned. "Oh, that feels good."

  "Anytime," he said. "Anything you want. The offer's
open."

  "Eli." Then she sighed. "I really wish you would stop. You should know by now that you're not going to scare me off. You can't shock me. And we both know you don't mean it--"

  "Do we?" His thumb dug hard into her shoulder muscles, moving from one side to the other and back again, and she groaned. "What makes you so sure? 'Cause I'm not. In fact, I'm pretty damn sure I do mean it."

  Marilyn pulled away from his magic hand--what could he do with two of them?--and turned to stare at him. "You couldn't possibly."

  "Why not? Because I'm some piece of shit scraped up off the street that you tracked in here without meaning to? No, wait--that's why you want to think I don't mean it." He shoved his wheelchair back, away from her.

  Hurt and angry in equal proportions, she grabbed the chair and hauled it back. "Have I ever said or done anything that would even hint that I thought of you like that?"

  "Yeah. Just now." He didn't back down. He leaned forward, getting in her face, eyes blazing blue. "You think I'm a joke."

  She didn't back down either. "Oh, for--the idea is a joke, Eli. Not you. I'm fourteen years older than you. I have an eighteen-year-old daughter, for heaven's sake. What could you possibly want with me?"

  "This." His good hand whipped around her neck and before she knew what he was doing, he was kissing her, mouth open, tongue plunging deep.

  Worse, she was kissing him back the same way. Her mouth had opened the instant his lips touched hers. Her tongue slid along his and followed back into his mouth when he retreated. It made her shiver and quake, feel things she hadn't felt in years--maybe not ever. His mouth knew how to tempt, how to tease and tantalize. He was a genius at kissing. It had been so long, she wasn't sure she remembered, but it hadn't been like this before, had it? Wanting like this?

  Her whole body burned as old nerve endings came alive again, demanding their due. Her hands wavered in mid-air, not sure what to do with themselves, until they floated downward. One landed on the bare hairy knee of his unbroken leg and curved around it, stroking him, satisfying the urge. The other landed on a plaster cast and shocked her back into herself.

  Marilyn jerked away. She stumbled to her feet and across the room, one hand rising to touch her well-kissed mouth. She hummed all over, desire sizzling just under her skin, protesting at being cut off from what it wanted, needed, would die without. "That was a mistake," she said, unable to quite achieve the firm tone she wanted.