A Cup Full of Midnight

by Jaden Terrell

  “Not bad for an old guy,” he panted, pulling the towel from around his neck to wipe away sweat.

  “Thanks.” I didn’t have a towel, so I pulled up the collar of my T-shirt and wiped my face with that. The sweat was already beginning to evaporate, and the chill air made my skin feel clammy. “You recognize this place?”

  Byron looked around reflexively. “Sure. I been here a few times.”

  “With johns?”

  He gave me a narrow look. “Sometimes. Why?”

  “You remember a john named Moreland?”

  “I don’t know. How many guys you know’ll tell a hustler their names?”

  “Not many. But I bet you remember this guy. He’s about five-ten, skinny, wears glasses, got a little pencil mustache.”

  He laughed. “Half the johns in the city.”

  “This one’s a little different. You almost cut his dick off.”

  “Oh. That perv.”

  “So you did cut him.”

  He gave an angry shrug. “So? It was an accident. He didn’t press charges.”

  “He’s still not. But it wasn’t an accident. He says you stabbed him for no reason.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “What’d he do? Try to stiff you?”

  “Tried to stiff me all right, but not the way you mean.” He kicked at the base of a tree. It was about the diameter of his arm and grew out of the side of the island, jutting almost straight out over the water. “We dealt for a blowjob. Then he decides he wants more.” He tested the trunk for strength, then stepped out onto it and balanced there. Bounced on the balls of his feet, as if on a diving board. “I don’t do that shit, man.”

  “Not even with Razor?”

  “Razor never touched me.”

  “The hell he didn’t.”

  “Seriously.” He gave a self-conscious little laugh. “He said I was too beautiful just to fuck.”

  “Yeah. That Razor—he was a real do-gooder.”

  He shrugged. “He liked to look. To watch me while I worked out, took a shower, whatever. I don’t know why he didn’t want to screw. He said something about the sweetness of anticipation, whatever that means. I got no problem with that. But hey, he paid the bills. He wanted to do me, I would’ve let him. At least I’d’ve gotten something for it. But this guy . . . Moreland . . .” He stomped at the branch, lost his balance, windmilled, and recovered. “Stupid son of a bitch. I say no, and he tries to make me.”

  “Not so smart,” I said.

  “Damn straight. Little weasel like him. Like I couldn’t take him.”

  “Why’d you use the knife, then?”

  He bounced on the trunk again, lightly this time. “I wasn’t thinking, I guess. It was like—” He stopped suddenly.

  “Like?”

  “Nothing, man. I just got scared, is all.”

  I could have finished his sentence for him. It was like when my mother’s boyfriend . . . like when my uncle . . . like when my stepdad . . . I’d heard it a thousand times, and it never got any easier to listen to.

  “You ever get scared of Razor like that?” I asked.

  “No.” He walked heel-to-toe halfway out the trunk of the tree and bounced again. Good balance. If it had been Paulie, I’d have called him back in, but what the hell? The water was shallow, and the worst that could happen would be he’d fall in and I’d have to haul him out. “Like I said, he hardly touched me. He was nice to me. He gave me things. Let me drive his car.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying the wrong thing.

  He answered my silence anyway. “I’m not stupid. I know he wasn’t a saint. But there was something about him. Nobody messed with him.”

  “Somebody killed him.”

  “Yeah. Well.” He stared out over the pond. “The world is full of messed-up people.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I was halfway home to change clothes and feed the horses when my cell phone chirped. It was Elisha.

  “I hope it’s not a bad time,” she said.

  “It just got a lot better.”

  “Flatterer. I wanted to thank you again for dinner the other night. I had a good time.”

  “Me too.”

  “And I was wondering . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “You were wondering?”

  “How you feel about chicken curry.”

  I smiled, even though she couldn’t see it. “I live for chicken curry. You have a place in mind?”

  There was a brief silence. Then she said, “I was thinking of eating in. I make a mean Kerala chicken.”

  “She cooks?” I said. “Be still my heart.”

  “She cooks. But he’s expected to bring the wine.”

  I stopped to buy flowers, then pulled into J. Barleycorn’s and picked up a bottle of Shakespeare’s Love, a fruity white wine the manager assured me was a perfect complement to Indian cuisine. Then home to take care of the horses, check in on Jay, and drive to Elisha’s split-level brick house a few miles from the high school. A warm light glowed from behind wispy curtains the color of saffron, and an array of security lights flared to life as I eased the Silverado into the driveway.

  Elisha met me at the door. She was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a red turtleneck with white rhinestone snowflakes at the neck and cuffs. Her hair was damp, wispy across her forehead, the sides swept loosely into a silver clip that freed the rest to tumble down her back. I felt better, seeing her.

  When she saw the flowers, she flashed a smile and clapped her hands like a child. “Christmas roses! I didn’t think men did things like this anymore.”

  “I aim to please.”

  She kissed my cheek, and I smelled her shampoo, a sweetly exotic scent like jungle flowers and vanilla. It mixed well with the ambient aroma of simmering spices. “This is a good start. Come in. I’ll put these on the table.”

  I followed her into the kitchen, where she gave me a wooden spoon and instructions to stir the curry while she poured wine and tended to the roses.

  “They say there’s a language of flowers,” she said. “What do these mean?”

  “I thought you might know,” I said.

  “Sorry.” She smiled. “French and Italian. A soupçon of Latin. But no flower.”

  “No interest?”

  “Not much opportunity.” She opened a blond wood cabinet and took out two long-stemmed glasses. “My ex-husband wasn’t much of a romantic.”

  Sensitive territory. A make or break moment?

  I asked, “How long were you married?”

  “Six years.” She uncorked the wine and poured us each a glass. “But he checked out long before that.”

  “You tried to make it work.”

  “Too stubborn to quit.” She took the spoon from me, tasted the sauce, and tipped the spoon toward me, her other hand held beneath to catch the drips. “Does this taste right to you?”

  “Just about perfect.”

  She shot me an impish grin. “Just about?”

  I put my hands on her hips and pulled her close. She didn’t pull away. “Delectable,” I said. “Elixir of the gods. Spiced ambrosia. How’s that?”

  “Getting there.” She pecked my chin with her lips and slipped out of my arms, blushing. “I’m being too forward. This is going too fast.”

  “It’s the curry.” I turned away to hide my erection, annoyed with myself for rushing things. “They say hot foods do that.”

  “I’m too comfortable with you,” she said. “And not comfortable enough. You make my brain all fizzy. Maybe it’s your aftershave.”

  My brain was feeling pretty fizzy, too. “I’ll change it, if you want.”

  She brushed the back of my hand with her fingertips. “Don’t you dare.”

  She transferred the curry into a serving dish and carried it to the table, where a tossed salad and a loaf of King’s Hawaiian Bread were already waiting.

  The curry was delicious, the wine light and sweet. I tried not to gorge. Elisha ate with gusto. She e
ither exercised a lot, or she had a good metabolism.

  She refused to let me help clean up. “There’s nothing to do,” she said. “Everything just goes in the dishwasher. Anyway, I’d rather talk. I have thirty student journals to read, but I can put it off for about an hour. Do you have to go right away?”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  We sat on the couch like a couple of awkward teenagers, thighs touching, my arm draped across the back of the sofa behind her shoulders. Close enough to feel the heat of each other’s skin. Wanting.

  Holding back.

  She talked about school, her students, the ones she delighted in, and the ones she cried over at night. She talked about PTA meetings and empty supply cabinets, dress codes and anti-drug programs. We talked about Josh, his poetry, his artwork.

  “You know him pretty well,” I said. “You read his writing, you know how he thinks.”

  “A little. But I can’t discuss specifics with you. Not without his parents’ permission.”

  “I know that. I just need a general impression. If someone said he was part of something—something bad—would you believe it?”

  She laid a hand on my arm. “You’re not looking for a general impression. What’s this about?”

  “I can’t go into it. I’m sorry.” I held her gaze, but it took some doing.

  “He’s a good kid,” she said at last. “It’s not in him to hurt anyone but himself. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  The knot in my gut loosened a hair. “I think so.”

  “There’s no one more vulnerable than a Goth kid. I always worry about them, because when you’re smart, sensitive, and disillusioned, the world can get pretty harsh.”

  “I think Josh’s friends were beyond Goth. Goths are stylers, right?”

  “Mostly. But there are fringe groups. Can I do anything to help him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her hand slid down my arm. I turned my palm to meet it so we ended up with our fingers entwined. After a moment, she leaned her head against my shoulder and said, “We’ve talked about my life ad nauseum. It’s your turn to spill.”

  I told her about Paulie, skimmed the details of my work. Took a chance and invited her to the Christmas party Jay had planned for Dylan. Told myself I didn’t care if she accepted and grinned like a schoolboy when she said yes.

  An hour later, she tilted her head up and pulled mine forward for a long, deep kiss that tasted of wine and spices and left us both breathing hard. She rocked back, away from me, and searched my face with her eyes. “Are you going to be mad if we stop now?”

  “I’m a big boy,” I said. “I can wait.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .” She looked down at her lap, fiddled with the hem of her sweater.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” I said. “I’m glad you did.”

  “It’s been a long time since I was with anyone. I’m not sure what the rules are anymore.”

  I cupped my hand under her chin and tipped her head up. “No rules. Let’s just take it as it comes.”

  “You’re sweet.” Her eyes filled. “And I’m ruining everything.”

  “Not even close. It’s not a good time for me either, to tell you the truth.”

  “My husband . . .” Her hands worked at the hem of her sweater, twisted, clutched. “Ex-husband. He wasn’t sweet at all.”

  “I’m not him,” I said.

  “Neither was he,” she said. “At first.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was late when I got home, but Jay met me in the front hallway. “You have a message from a Miss Aleta.”

  He followed me into the kitchen, where I replayed the voice-mail message. “Hello, Mr. McKean. You’ll be pleased to know the judge set bail for Laurel O’Brien.”

  “Laurel O’Brien,” Jay said. “That’s the girl who confessed, right? What’s going on?”

  I set the receiver gently in its cradle and said, “Absinthe’s out.”

  She would have been safer inside.

  Elisha and I, Fabulous Greg and his partner, and three gay couples I didn’t know gathered at the house for an early celebration. A contingency, in case Dylan didn’t make it until Christmas. Nothing sadder than a stack of presents that would never be opened.

  I took the pup outside for a quick pee. Then Jay and I helped Dylan dress, eased him back onto the bed, and played with the controls until we found a comfortable angle for him.

  “I feel like Barbie,” Dylan groused. “Where are my red pumps?”

  At six, we all gathered around Dylan’s bed in the living room. Jay had set up a refreshment table and piled gifts under the tree. “Looks like Santa came early,” he said, passing out red felt stockings stuffed with Silly Putty, bubbles, Duncan yo-yo’s, and a variety of inexpensive puzzles and toys. Kid stuff. We were old enough to appreciate it.

  Elisha pulled a plastic wand from a bottle of bubbles. “I haven’t done this since I was a little girl,” she said, and blew a stream of bubbles my way. One settled on my shoulder, and she poked it with a lacquered fingernail. I felt a heat, low in my belly.

  It was understood that the contents of the packages were unimportant. An incense holder and a bundle of incense, three T-shirts with X-rated slogans, a wine and fruit basket with a signed photo of Divine, and a plastic singing fish mounted on a plaque that said Billy Bob Bass.

  Dylan rested his hand on the neck of the wine bottle and looked around at the offerings. “Nothing from Straight,” he said. I hadn’t expected him to notice, but he seemed genuinely hurt. “Still haven’t learned to love me, huh?”

  “I couldn’t wrap it,” I said. “It’s not that kind of gift.” I left the room and came back with a fishbowl, where a blood-red beta with a navy-streaked tail drifted above a layer of electric blue gravel.

  Dylan’s eyes misted, and his sudden smile reminded me of Paulie’s. “Aw, Straight, I knew you cared.”

  Jay set the bowl on the end table so Dylan could see it from the bed. “Look at this haul,” he said. “You must have been an awfully good boy this year, Dyl.”

  “That’s a myth, you know,” Dylan said. “It’s all bullshit.”

  “No!” Jay raised his eyebrows and covered his mouth in mock surprise. “No Santa?”

  “Not that part.” Dylan’s voice was a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Not that part. The part about the good little boys and girls. Truth is . . . Santa doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Truth is,” Jay said softly, “Santa only sees the good things.”

  Dylan leaned back into the pillow and closed his eyes. Guilt? Regret? “Nice trick,” he said. “If you can manage it.”

  “We’ll let you get some rest.” Jay motioned to the other guests, who filed out of the room, pausing only long enough to squeeze Dylan’s hand or shoulder and wish him a merry Christmas.

  I sent Elisha ahead and stayed behind to place Luca on Dylan’s lap and clear the gifts off the bed. He stroked the puppy’s head, and the pup curled against his body and licked his hand. “Feels weird,” he said. “Like being at your own funeral.”

  “I don’t think they meant it that way.”

  “I know. It’s all right. Damn waste to wait until I’m dead, right?” His gaze went to the door, where Jay had vanished. “I should have stayed with him, shouldn’t I?”

  “Twenty-twenty hindsight,” I said. “But yeah. You should have.”

  He gave a rattling laugh. “That’s what I like about you, Straight. No bullshit.”

  “Hey, you got a chance to make it up to him.” I poured a cup of eggnog from the refreshment table and offered him a sip. “Not everybody gets that much.”

  He swallowed, coughed, and dabbed at his lips with the sleeve of his pajama shirt. “How? By letting him watch me die?”

  “By letting him help you. It means a lot to him.”

  “Yeah? What’s that called? Killing me with kindness?”

  “It’s called forgiveness, Jackass.”

 
; He smiled at the epithet. “So, Jay-o’s forgiven me, has he? For dumping him, or for killing him?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “And you?”

  “I don’t have anything to forgive you for, Dylan.”

  He looked away. “Yeah. Right.”

  “But for what it’s worth, if Jay’s okay with you, there’s no reason for me not to be.”

  He looked away, toward the fishbowl. “Thanks, Straight. You’re a pal. Now I can die in peace, knowing you and I are on good terms.”

  “Fuck you too,” I said, but we both smiled.

  Later, with Dylan asleep and the others in the kitchen sipping Long Island Teas and talking politics, Elisha and I scraped the remains of strawberry crepes and vegetarian pigs-in-blankets into the disposal, piled the soiled dishes in the sink, and filled the basin with suds. She glanced around and plucked a dish towel from a hook by the sink. Tossed it to me.

  “I’ll wash, you dry,” she said.

  Snippets of conversation from the other room drifted into the kitchen as we worked.

  “It was nice of you to do this,” Elisha said.

  “I’d like to take the credit, but it was Jay’s idea.”

  “Still.” She flicked suds in my direction. I dodged, snapped her rear with the towel.

  We laughed, made small talk punctuated by companionable silence. Our fingers touched as she handed me the dripping plates. Pulled away. A ballet of heat and electricity, skin against skin.

  As I put away the last of the dishes, she busied herself with something behind my back, came up beside me and snaked an arm around my waist. “Look what I found.” She dangled a sprig of mistletoe over her head and batted her eyes.

  I kissed her, gently at first, then harder. My arms went around her and she clasped her hands at the small of my back, pulling me closer, the zipper of my jeans pressed against her belly.

  “God, you smell good,” she said. She nuzzled my neck. “What is that?”

  “Patchouli,” I mumbled. Maria had given it to me.

  I pushed that thought from my mind and slid my right hand forward, stroked the curve of Elisha’s breast with my thumb. She shifted toward my touch and arched into my palm, her breath catching in her throat.