by C. L. Stone
Or would they? Would Dr. Green want to leave his condo? And Mr. Blackbourne, his gardens?
“Won’t some mansion be a little noticeable?”
“Yes,” Mr. Buble said, but he returned to watching the library, allowing Victor to come to his own conclusion.
So not some oversized mansion. “So not downtown Charleston.”
“Together is always best,” he said. “The closer you are to the hospital and where Dr. Green lives, the less time you’ll spend on the road trying to get to each other.”
True. His heart sank at the thought. He’d hoped getting away from his parents would mean getting... away. “Can it be North Charleston?”
Mr. Buble didn’t answer, but when Victor lifted his gaze to look at him, he was leaning forward, focused entirely on the library.
It was some teenage boy. Straight black hair, white pants, black shirt, carrying a stack of books under his arm. He looked to be about thirteen or so.
Victor smirked a little, as the kid reminded him of Kota just a few years ago, carting around piles of books from the library or bookstore. “Do you know him?”
“No,” Mr. Buble said. “But I know he’ll know.”
“How can you tell?”
“Call it empathetic intuition.” He turned to Victor, the glasses catching light again and refracting, cutting his eyes almost in half. “You should talk to him.”
He was probably right. A lone man approaching a boy that age and asking a bunch of questions... It’d probably be easier if Victor did it. They could ask a librarian, but they didn’t want to alert anyone just in case Mitch still had friends here.
Victor left the car with his phone on, dialed in to Mr. Buble live on the other line, but the phone was in his pocket. They hadn’t had time to go for earpieces, and he wished he had one this time. He could use guidance on what to say. He wasn’t usually the one going in. He was a monitor guy, watching from a laptop and making sure everything was recorded.
Victor entered the library with words rolling over in his head, practicing what to ask. For a Sunday, there was a rush of people waiting in line to check out books and movies, and other library offerings. There were lots of people at the computers, and a few taking up windowed conference rooms. There was one older gentleman wearing dirty clothes taking a nap on the sofa off to the side.
Victor weaved his way through the library’s many bookshelves, slowly picking up a couple of books, pretending to care about the contents, putting them back, picking up another one. He carried two with him down rows and continued this process while keeping his eyes peeled.
Eventually, he found the boy crouched down to look at lower levels of books, seeking out the Dewey decibel, rechecking a slip of paper in his hand as if to make sure he was picking the right ones.
He’d already had a short stack of books on the floor in a neat pile beside him.
Victor smothered a short chuckle, desperate to not appear to be laughing at him. This kid was Kota all over. He knew how to handle this.
He walked quietly, not wanting to interrupt his search, and also trying to appear distracted enough for what he wanted to attempt.
In a deliberate, ungraceful move, he tripped over the stack of books, knocking them over and double stepping to catch himself.
“Oh... sorry,” he said. He coughed once to cover up any hint of this being acting and not the real deal, just in case. He smoothly reached down, picking up the furthest book that had slid across the alley between the two shelves. “So sorry.”
“Not a problem,” the kid said, although shyly. He reached out, collecting the books that had been nearby, stacking them again.
Victor put the one he’d saved on top. “Don’t tell Mitch I kicked books, okay? That nosy librarian’s been on my case lately.”
The kid’s cheeks turned red. “I don’t think he’s here.”
Victor darted his head, eyebrows up, and scanned around them. “Not in today? I didn’t see him.”
He quietly picked up the books and stood up. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Uh oh. His reaction left Victor unsettled. Victor stood next to him, lowered his tone, and leaned in a bit, whispering. “Did he... bug you, too?”
The kid’s eyes lifted to Victor’s face. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
“If he’s gone, we don’t have to worry about him,” Victor said.
“I hope he doesn’t come back,” he said. “A friend of mine used to come with me... and now he won’t anymore.”
Alarm flared through Victor. “Did he do something to him?”
“He was always asking us things.”
“Like what?”
“Everything,” he said. “Stuff we didn’t want to tell him. About our parents. Why we were here by ourselves all the time. He’d walk by so many times when I was sitting anywhere. I didn’t like coming by myself, but... I heard there’s one kid he cornered in the bathroom and was berating him for something he was doing in the stall.”
Victor made a face, and at the same time his heart was sinking. Whatever mental case this guy was, he didn’t need to be terrifying kids and cornering them.
Likely he was transferred because of complaints and was sent off.
Sent off for someone else to deal with him instead of handling the situation.
Victor nodded slowly and sighed. “Well, good he’s gone.”
“Yeah,” the kid said, and he walked off, but not before checking out the books in Victor’s hands and giving him a questioning look.
It was only then Victor realized he’d picked up a few thick romance volumes, half-nude men in tight pants and boots on the cover.
“They’re good reads,” he said quickly before the boy left the alley. He waved them around in the air. “Lots of... action...” Victor tried to come up with a better line but then the boy walked out of sight and the moment was gone.
Victor sighed and shook his head. Smooth one.
Still, he basically answered what they needed to know. It’s likely there was some truth to what the kid knew. It wasn’t just their own intuition that Mitch might be nosy. He was likely a problem.
♥♥♥
He returned to the car where Mr. Buble had been waiting for him.
Victor placed the two checked-out books onto the center console. He couldn’t just leave the books on the shelf and walk away without checking out.
But he did catch the boy eyeballing the romance section before he left the building. He’d chuckled at that. Open-minded and willing to give it a shot at least.
Mr. Buble eyeballed his picks quickly and motioned to them. “Should I set those aside for you to bring back later this week?”
“I can swing by later,” Victor said, dismissive of the books. “But you heard all of it?”
Mr. Buble nodded. “Always get a second opinion,” he said, reciting a commonly used phrase among Academy people. Always seek someone else outside of the Academy who might know the situation more. It’ll usually save a team time as they can ask instead of putting themselves at risk by observing in person.
“So now we just send him a better job offer to a position where he won’t work with people?” Victor asked.
“He seems to target teenage boys,” Mr. Buble said. “It could be some repressed homosexual frustrations. But I’m not a psychiatrist.” He remained still, except for his eyes that were keenly aware of anyone in the lot they were in and the library, following individuals for a short time before checking the next one. “Ideally he’d seek a therapist and be moved to a different job.”
“How likely is getting him to see a therapist?” he asked.
No answer. Mr. Buble only frowned. It seemed unlikely.
Victor wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t often they were able to get certain people into a therapist that could actually help them and make things better. People like Mitch, who had grown up in an era when going to see a therapist was considered something only crazy people did and resisted with
fervor.
So they were left with removing him from potentially dangerous situations. “What’s an option for a librarian who has already been transferred once?” Victor asked.
“Reference library,” he said. “In a college perhaps.”
It wouldn’t be far off his current path. Some people didn’t work well with others but they still needed to work to take care of themselves. Getting them fired usually only left them angrier and it spiraled out of control until they lashed out. A different type of job, maybe in a different location, could lead to a better life for the individual in question.
True social engineering worked best when everyone was satisfied with the end result.
“So next step is finding the job.”
“Next step can be done on the way to look at housing options,” he said. “I have a small collection to do a drive by of while you look for reference librarian job opportunities.” He looked over at Victor. “Are you ready to face the changes ahead? Do we continue?”
It was nice he offered him a choice. While Victor was tired, he was eager to make use of the better part of the day and keep going. “I’m ready when you are.”
As they left the parking lot, Mr. Buble said quietly, “Inertia is an answer. So is following your passions. Which is best?”
Victor wasn’t sure if he really wanted an answer to his strange questions. It didn’t matter. It left Victor to consider the meaning behind it.
Despite how the others had felt about Mr. Buble earlier, being wary of him, Mr. Buble didn’t seem like he’d be any trouble. He shouldn’t be, given he was in the Academy. However, there was something different about Mr. Buble, where he shared experience and wisdom and did so without judging Victor or making Victor feel like he was just being told what to do.
He didn’t fear asking him questions. He didn’t fear telling him what he was thinking.
Mr. Buble didn’t seem too bad. Maybe they had nothing to worry about.
Dolce
(Sweet)
Sang
That evening, I fell onto the chilled surface of the waterbed. There was a way to warm it, but I didn’t look to change the setting. I might have to get re-used to sleeping in a bed by myself. It was odd how quickly I had gotten used to someone, usually Nathan, sleeping next to me in the bed. Without one of them, I experienced a sort of loneliness that seemed so strange.
A small collection of boxes cluttered Nathan’s living room. We were going to make it look like donations to take somewhere to anyone looking in. The boxes contained what we thought might be important. Clothes. Anything sentimental.
However, Nathan had a lot of stuff. And identifying importance and boxing took time. There was some debate whether to take general household items like cooking pans and cleaning supplies, but Nathan suggested eventually to leave everything that wasn’t his personally. “We don’t want him coming to ask where things are all the time.”
I’d fallen asleep on the couch right at sunset and Nathan shooed me out. I hadn’t taken any coffee, but I was already done. My brain was still sorting stuff as I was getting myself into bed.
I woke again only when the door to Mr. Griffin’s bedroom opened. Victor poked his head in. I hadn’t heard him return.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
He came in, closed the door, and padded over to the bed. “Can I join you?”
Technically, I was sleeping in this room because Nathan thought if Mr. Buble was going to pop in, we probably should play this how Kota suggested, until we learned a schedule. But I suspected this late, Mr. Buble was at home or heading in that direction.
In the dark, I could barely see the outline of his face. Instead of answering him, I moved over on the bed, although the ripple of me moving in the water had the bed rolling just a little.
Victor fell in next to me and as he did, there was a slight bubble that formed in the middle. It threatened to roll us both off the sides of the bed.
He opened his arm up. “If we get in the middle together, that makes the bubble go to the sides.”
We rolled into each other, and my knee knocked up against his thigh.
“Oof,” Victor said, shifting a bit.
“Sorry.”
The bubble shifted until it was like the bed was trying to push us together.
He readjusted by doing a thing where his leg hooked over my knees. I had my arms crossed over my chest but we were pressing into each other.
“How’d you know how to fix the bubble?” I asked
“Luke and I figured it out one day sleeping in the bed like this,” Victor said. He paused. “Well not exactly like this.”
I giggled at the thought.
“How was your day?” he asked.
“I’m sleepy after yesterday,” I said, and then closed my lips when I realized everything he had been through, the night he’d been through on his own, leaving his parents. “How are you?”
He was quiet for a minute. I couldn’t see his eyes. Had the usual spark of fire returned at all? It was too dark to tell.
“I thought I’d feel better about this,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” I said. There wasn’t much more to say. I knew what he meant. Leaving wasn’t easy. Being afraid they’ll come after you. Maybe a bit of fear of the unknown. It was all there, under the surface. Always making you second-guess decisions.
Silence fell between us. Part of me waited, with anticipation, for him to mention anything about last night, if he meant what he said, if he remembered at all.
“Are we ready to move?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t think of anything else to bring along. Did we find somewhere to go?”
“We looked at some places,” he said.
Again silence, and as it was dark and I couldn’t even tell if he was looking at me, I closed my eyes. Maybe he was tired enough to just sleep.
There was a slight movement, and his lips pressed to my forehead, remaining there. His breath warmed my skin and sent a light fluttery feeling to my heart.
“Where do you want to live?” his soft lips traced at my forehead as he whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said quietly.
“Mr. Buble suggested somewhere downtown, close to the Academy hospital.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
He pulled his head back a bit, and I opened my eyes. I still couldn’t see very well but he kept close. “I feel weird about the idea of running into my parents.”
Oh. Living so close, it was highly likely they would. “It’s weird to think I might have to go back and make absolutely sure I’m not leaving anything important. I’ll have to see my sister. Maybe my mother... stepmother...” Despite what happened, it was still hard to think of her as not my real mother. And every time I remembered, it was like it’d happened to someone else.
The shape of his mouth moved, frowning. “My mom’s really mad. My dad would probably make a scene. Maybe I shouldn’t worry about it, but I really don’t want to bump into them. I never want to see them again.”
Maybe for him it was different. Even while I didn’t like the idea of disturbing my sister or my stepmother, I still understood I couldn’t ignore them forever. It felt wrong to do so, too. Even Kota let me know on occasion he was looking after them to make sure bills were paid on time and they were at least comfortable.
I pressed a hand over his heart. “Is there a way to approach them first? Clear a bit of air? Won’t we live here for a while?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe he wasn’t sure how to make this work. It could be he could never make things right with his parents. Mine didn’t really want me, they wanted to hide me. His parents wanted to own him, control his life, and when they couldn’t control him, they tossed him out.
I was worried I’d said the wrong thing, that he was angry at them and didn’t want to try to get along. Maybe it was too soon. Should I stop talking about it?
Except as he held me, his
fingers gently found their way to my rib cage at my back. He felt them, like he would keys at the piano, and then, gently, he tapped out some unheard melody, a slow methodic song only he was imagining and I felt through his movements.
His world might be changing, but he was still Victor. He was music and kindness and a strong desire to make things better. No matter what, it was still him. I wanted to believe that, at least.
He sighed and drew me into him. “I just want to be near you. I don’t really care where we live. I’d live in a box if we had to.”
“I don’t think Kota would let us live in a box,” I said.
He chuckled softly. He kissed my forehead, lingered again, and whispered, “I would. With you.”
My hand was still over his heart, and very softly, I gripped, pressing the cotton of the shirt to his chest, as if holding to his beating heart would somehow calm mine.
His lips remained and eventually drew down, until he was kissing my cheek, and then my lips.
I returned the kiss, with a partially open mouth and I loosely moved an arm around his neck.
The leg he’d hooked around my knees drew me in tighter. The hand at my back, the one playing a melody, it intensified, and then swapped from tapping to rubbing at my rib cage.
My fingers massaged the back of his neck, until I felt the silver band, the heart shield he wore around his neck, a gift from his mother. Despite what he’d said about being afraid to see them again, he still wore it. I hadn’t noticed it under the shirt.
He broke the kiss when he noticed me feeling the chain. He released me with one hand to fish the Celtic heart shield out from under his shirt. “I don’t know why I hang on to this.” He gripped it, like he was going to rip it off his neck.
I didn’t want him to throw it away if he liked it. I placed a hand on his, over the shield, and he paused.
“Why did you always wear it?” I asked.
