Drawn Together

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Skeeter didn’t seem to know what to say. “You’re hungry, right? You can’t go hungry at my place, son.”

  “Not today, thank you. I don’t feel so good.” He sipped his beer mechanically.

  “Okay, then you just sit here, and if you change your mind, you be sure and let me know, okay?”

  “Sure thing.” Rory gave him a weak smile.

  Anthony finally spoke. “Are you sure you should be drinking? Aren’t you taking pain meds?”

  “It’s only a beer. I’ll go home and sleep it off, Officer Anthony.”

  “Rory, I’m off duty. It’s okay for me to knock your head off. Do you want me to do that?”

  Rory swallowed hard. “Yeah.” His eyes glistened. “Yeah, I think I do.”

  Yamane woke up in his hotel bed, his fluffy white robe still belted at the waist. He was covered with sheets and blankets as though a loving parent had tucked him in. He had no memory of how he got there. He looked through the door that led from his hotel bedroom to the sitting area beyond. Tucker was asleep on the couch, fully clothed minus his shoes, jacket, and tie. Yamane sighed with relief that he hadn’t woken up with the man. He hadn’t known what to do with his rage, so for the second time that same day he’d gotten drunk and said to hell with it. Now there was only dehydration and regret, and he found, to his horror, his rage was still as acute as ever.

  “Yamane?” said Tucker sleepily, looking around. “If I’m going to be falling asleep here like this, I need extra clothes and a toothbrush.” He sipped at a bottle of water.

  “Call the desk. I’m sure they have toothbrushes they can send up.”

  “How long are you going to sulk here?”

  “Am I boring you?” snapped Yamane.

  “Again, don’t kill the messenger.” Tucker sighed. “What are your plans?”

  Yamane flopped next to him on the couch. “It happens I don’t have any. Unlike some people.” He lit a cigarette, wondering why nowadays he felt guilty somehow for smoking. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s probably a good idea for you to buy yourself some clothes. You seem to be lacking some basics.”

  Yamane blew out his smoke on a sigh. “I had clothes when I started this trip. I had to leave them behind, piece by piece, like a trail of bread crumbs. I was sure I had a black coat --”

  “You have a suit?” asked Tucker. “I saw a garment bag.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go out for breakfast. We’ll buy some clothes for you later today and you can think about what you want to do.”

  “Breakfast, then shopping,” Yamane repeated. Breakfast. As if his whole world hadn’t come to a grinding end. “All right.” He took a drag off his cigarette. “If I have to start over, breakfast, then shopping it is.”

  Anthony drove Rory slowly back to St. Antoine’s Parish. Rory didn’t feel so good, and frankly, he didn’t want to puke in Anthony’s truck. He was staring straight ahead and trying to think motion-free thoughts when Anthony said, “Hey, are you going to be sick or something?”

  “No, the meds wore off. I hurt.”

  “I knew you shouldn’t have left the hospital like that. They would probably have sent you home with a prescription or two.”

  “I’ll get some Tylenol; I’ll be fine.”

  “Rory, you know you don’t have to be strong all the time. Let people help you sometimes. They want to, you know?”

  “Thank you.” Rory closed his eyes. “Right now I just need sleep.”

  Anthony’s cell phone rang. “Laforge.” He spoke in monosyllables and hung up without saying good-bye.

  “Bad news?” Rory asked after a while.

  Anthony chewed his thumbnail. “I know where Yamane is.”

  Rory sat up so fast the pain in his chest exploded and he had to suck in a deep breath to keep from crying out. “Where? How did you find him?”

  “That was Rene on the phone. Apparently, he telephoned the police detective who handled your case in Long Beach. Yamane’s manager was listed as a contact number. When Rene called to tell her Amelia was dead, she told him where Yamane could be reached.”

  “I see,” said Rory, but he didn’t. Not really. He still didn’t understand why Yamane didn’t contact him. “Where?”

  “He’s staying at the Windsor Court, in New Orleans.”

  “Ah. Nice digs. Ran Yamane is no man’s cheap squeeze.” He closed his eyes again. This was beginning to feel like the end. “Can you take me?”

  “Sure,” said Anthony. “If you want to put yourself through that.”

  “I think I need to.”

  “I see. All right then.”

  “All right then,” echoed Rory.

  The Windsor Court Hotel was in the business district by Riverfront Park. Anthony and Rory walked into the spacious lobby, their sneakered feet squelching a little on the green marble floors.

  “Wow,” said Anthony. “I don’t feel quite like I belong.”

  “Me neither. Although I’m not at all surprised.”

  “Now what?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rory looked around. This was certainly the type of hotel Yamane was likely to stay in.

  “I’ll try the desk. This can be classified as police business. We’re here to let him know there’s no longer any danger from Amelia.”

  “Well. Yeah, okay. Are we pretending he wouldn’t have seen that on television?” Rory was tired and in pain and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Yamane was up to. He watched Anthony as he walked up to the elegant wood reservation desk. The lobby was enormous, supported by pillars, but open in a way that made it seem like there were private, secluded places to sit and reflect. He’d turned to look around at the whole of the lobby, which made his head spin, when Anthony returned.

  “You okay? Do you want to sit down?”

  “No. I just made myself dizzy looking around. Did you find anything out?”

  “Yeah, he apparently has a suite on the third floor. Number three-oh-two. What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll go up, I guess.” Rory headed for the hallway with its bank of elevators.

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.” Anthony tried to make himself at home in one of the gilt- footed chairs.

  Rory kept walking. He felt exhausted, everything hurt, and he was all out of any kind of patience. Emotionally, he was numb, as he had been since he’d realized Amelia was dead and his family was safe. The terror that had fueled his race across the country had dissipated, leaving him starved for the sight of Yamane’s face. He pushed the button for the third floor.

  The elevator doors opened, and he moved silently on the thickly carpeted floor until he found room 302. He knocked, but heard no sound and got no answer. He knocked again, louder this time, wondering if Yamane was asleep or in the shower. Rory still got no answer. His disappointment was a palpable thing; he couldn’t hide it. Everything he’d done had led him to this moment, and the door stayed solidly closed against him.

  Rory reached out to knock again but put his hand on the door instead, then turned to leave. He walked back to the elevators and pushed the button, waiting for whichever one came first. The light on the left elevator lit up, opening for Rory to enter. He was pushing

  the Lobby button when the other elevator arrived on the same floor, and he distinctly heard Yamane’s voice, saying, “Wait, I have to find the key.”

  Rory’s hand shot out, stopping the door. He intended to exit the elevator when he saw Yamane, uncharacteristically clad in a charcoal-colored business suit, with another man, also wearing a suit. Yamane held three or four shopping bags, and his companion held more, and they were talking animatedly as they walked toward the room. Yamane looked so different in a suit, Rory thought, that Rory might not have known him except for his voice and that wonderful hair. It was currently caught up in a high kind of ponytail, half-up, and half- down, in a careless sort of way that made Rory want to touch it so badly he bit his lip to keep from calling out. As the men walked away from him, the familiari
ty they shared and the way they spoke with one another told Rory everything he needed to know. Yamane had moved on.

  The chime on the elevator was ringing, signaling that it wanted to close its doors, so Rory dropped his hand and allowed them to move. His eyes locked with Yamane’s just as the doors slid shut.

  * * *

  “Shit!” Yamane dropped his bags and ran for the elevator, jabbing the button viciously. “Where the hell are the stairs?”

  “Over there.” Tucker pointed out the exit sign. He ran after Yamane. “Think. Don’t run after him. What will you do when you catch him? What are you prepared to say?”

  “Did you see his face?” said Yamane, taking the stairs down two at a time with Tucker chasing him.

  “Yes, I did. Please stop and think.” Tucker caught Yamane by the shoulders.

  “I need to go.” He tried to break free from Tucker’s strong grip. “I can’t… Did you see his face?”

  “I saw it.” Tucker pulled Yamane into his arms. “I saw it. But you said he’s not gay! How long is he going to want to live in the South as half of a mixed-race gay couple? Think, Yamane, and let him go.” Yamane collapsed against Tucker. After some time, they walked up the stairs and gathered Yamane’s shopping bags.

  “I’m going home,” Yamane told him.

  Tucker nodded sadly. “Yeah. I figured.”

  Rory returned to the lobby to find Anthony deep in conversation with a lovely woman about art, which he clearly knew nothing about. She was teaching him, and he seemed to be enjoying learning, so Rory hung back a bit until she moved on.

  “Let’s go.” He moved out from behind a column.

  “Want to talk about it?” Anthony finally ventured.

  “Not really,” said Rory. “He moved on.”

  “You want to go back to Euphonia’s or…”

  “Yes, I’d like to go to my grandparents’ home. The truck is there.” He thought, but did not say, that it wasn’t his truck, and wondered how he’d give it back.

  “At least you have the rest of summer before school starts again. Euphonia said you would be a teaching assistant in the fall.”

  “Yes.” Rory knew that soon the day would come when he’d feel the pain he was piling up somewhere now.

  “That’ll be something.”

  “Yeah. Something,” echoed Rory. His heart was like a stone in his chest, getting heavier and heavier by the second.

  “Look, I’m really sorry. I know that Yamane meant something to you, and I can’t tell you…”

  “Then don’t,” said Rory curtly. “Don’t tell me. As soon as I’ve got the blood washed off my grandmère’s porch this never happened.”

  “No one will hear it from me.”

  “It’s not about that; I’m not ashamed of loving him. I just don’t want everyone to know I’m such an idiot.”

  Yancy’s Pharmacy came into view as Rory and Anthony drove through the town, past the first of St. Antoine’s Parish’s two stoplights, and then the second, until they were no longer downtown. Any minute now, he’d be home. Anthony’s truck pulled into the long driveway to Rory’s grandparents’ house. Rory could see his Grandmère Euphonia, standing there on the porch with her hands folded demurely in front of her. As usual, she was waiting for him. Even today, her sixth sense where he was concerned worked perfectly. The car hadn’t even stopped yet when he leaped out, raced up the stairs, and threw himself into her arms.

  32

  Rory woke in the guest room that was typically his at his grandparents’ home with his mouth dry and his eyes red and sticky from crying. He allowed himself that much grief, at least, but vowed with the first warm rays of the sun he would suck it up and just move on. He placed all the things he’d removed from Yamane’s wallet, along with his cell phone and passport, into a large envelope for Anthony to return to him at the Windsor Court Hotel. Anthony stopped by early, saying very little, but did what he asked. It was over.

  In no time, Grandmère caught Rory in a swirling vortex of chores and errands that kept him busy for the first few days after his arrival. Preparations for returning to Baton Rouge for school in the beginning of August required some effort on his part as well. Rory’s summer days drifted slowly by, regardless, as they do when the weather is sweltering hot, and Rory spent the long, quiet evenings in a screened patio off the kitchen reading and talking quietly with his Grandmère Euphonia and his irascible Grandpère Claude. It seemed they talked about anything and everything with the glaring, unmistakable omission of his trip to Long Beach, Yamane, or the events that led up to a woman’s demise on their front porch.

  For Rory, this was not unexpected. He was convinced that his grandparents understood the missing two weeks and what they had cost him. His grandmère, in particular, missed nothing where he was concerned. He saw her watching him sometimes with sad eyes. Whether her pity was for his loss or his sins, he didn’t have the courage to ask. It was enough for Rory to know that they loved him, would always love him, no matter what foolish things he’d done. Rory acknowledged this in the nucleus of every cell of his body, and when he felt grief, he leaned into the comfort of that love.

  Later that day, Rory ambled down Center Street, thinking he might like a sandwich or a root beer float when the patrol car cruised up and crawled alongside him, its window sliding down. He slowed down and looked inside to find Anthony waving for him to stop.

  “Hey, Anthony.” Rory waited for him to get out of the car and come to the sidewalk. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much, as usual. We’re going to have to send you off on another trip if we want anything exciting to happen in this town again.” He popped the trunk of the vehicle and said, “Here. I’ve got something in the back for you.”

  He returned, carrying Yamane’s coat, encased in a plastic dry-cleaning sleeve with the tags from the cleaner still attached. The garment, so unique, brought back such powerful memories Rory had to swallow hard before he could speak.

  “Keep it.”

  “The cleaners had a time getting it nice like this.”

  “Isn’t it evidence or something?”

  “Sort of. But we just thought…you might want it.”

  Rory absently touched his chest. “No, thank you.” Rory didn’t know what to do with his memories of Yamane; he didn’t want anything physical to remind him. “I’m just going to get a float. Want one?”

  Anthony looked over at the A&W. “Sure.” He put the coat back in the trunk. “Let me lock up the car and I’ll meet you there.”

  Rory smiled. The A&W was only a half block away. The patrol car would be visible from there, and except for three mafiosos coming to town and Rory getting shot by Yamane’s stalker, there had never been a crime in St. Antoine’s Parish. Still, he thought, there were probably weapons in the car Anthony was required to lock up, for protocol. He walked across the street by himself and purchased two floats.

  “Thanks,” Anthony said when Rory came out of the restaurant and handed him a cup that was already dripping with condensation from the heat. “Rory, you’re looking pale. Doesn’t Mr. Claude have you outside planting pumpkins or harvesting dope or something? You look like a consumptive northerner.”

  Rory had indeed been bagging up dope for the cancer survivors’ poker game that evening, though he didn’t mention it. He thought it might still be a sore spot with law enforcement. “You’re looking fit as well.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just hate to see you all washed-out looking.”

  “I understand. I’m fine.”

  “Tell Miss Euphonia I’d like to drop by later. If she sees the patrol car driving up, she doesn’t need to call the lawyer again, okay?” He got up to leave.

  “Will do.” Rory absently looked down Center Street. “Nice to see you,” he called as an afterthought.

  “Well,” said Miss Euphonia, as though she were seeing a particular type of fungus for the first time. “To what do we owe the pleasure, Deputy Laforge?”

  Rory stood
behind her, sleepily taking in the scene.

  “Didn’t Rory tell you I would be stopping by? This isn’t business, Miss Euphonia, and I hope you understand that what we did last Friday night was…”

  “I understand, Anthony.” She headed back to the kitchen but shot him a look over her shoulder. “I do not have to like it.”

  “Understood.”

  Rory came forward. “I forgot you were coming, I must have dozed off.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea now, but…” He looked behind him when Rory heard a scrabbling sound on the porch. “Oh, shoot,” said Anthony, taking off at a dead run. He almost tripped over a cardboard box on the porch. After a few minutes, Anthony returned, looking triumphant with a yellow Lab puppy in his arms.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a dog, Rory,” said Anthony, as though he were stupid. “I can see it’s a dog.” Rory bit his lip.

  “I brought it for you.” Anthony handed the puppy to Rory, and it immediately started chewing on his sleeve. “I thought it might be, you know, good to have something to look after.”

  “I don’t want something to look after.” Rory tried to hand it back. “You don’t like it?”

  “Well, of course I like it, I just don’t…” He looked at the puppy so ardently shredding his shirtsleeve and fell in love.

  “What’re you going to name him?”

  “Daiki,” said Rory, without giving it any thought. “Although, if you thought Miss Euphonia was mad at you before, you better not stick around here too long.”

  “Ah…” Anthony took a quick look at the house. “Gotcha. Hey, uh, puppies eat, they need water…” He was backing toward the patrol car. “They poo, you know. And that one will probably chew everything in sight for about two years.” He jumped into the driver’s seat and took off down the long drive.

  “Coward,” said Rory under his breath. To the dog, he said, “He’s a coward, isn’t he? Yes, he is, Daiki.”