Declination

by Gregory Ashe

  “Come on,” North said, touching Shaw’s shoulder. In a lower voice, he added, “We’ll talk to some of the nurses, see what they can tell us.”

  Shaw nodded.

  North should have expected it, but he was tired, and he was still off his game from what had happened with Shaw earlier. North was turning back to the elevators, already planning on tracking down a few of the nurses he knew by name, when he realized he’d made a mistake. Shaw was moving toward Taylor.

  North corrected his course, veering back toward them, but Shaw was faster. His first kick connected with the back of Taylor’s knee, and Taylor staggered and fell to his knees. Shaw’s next kick caught Taylor in the ass, not hard enough to knock him over, but enough that Taylor waved his arms, caught off balance for a second time, and he was distracted long enough for Shaw to get close and twist both arms into a painful-looking hold behind Taylor’s back.

  “Shaw,” North said, clutching a handful of Shaw’s shirt. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to know,” Shaw said, that hard voice pitched to Taylor’s ear, “what happened to Jadon.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Taylor roared. “When I get finished with you, you’re going to spend the next two years spreading your cheeks in the shower for every motherfucker who wants a turn.”

  Grabbing Shaw around the waist, North lifted him, dragging him away from Taylor. Shaw was forced to release his hold on the cop, and Taylor sagged forward, rubbing one shoulder, while Shaw kicked and struggled and clawed at North’s hands.

  “I want to know. I want to know. I want to know.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Shaw,” North said, shaking him. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

  Taylor got to his feet, staggered, and caught himself, favoring the leg that Shaw had kicked. His hand was already at his belt, dragging out a set of cuffs, and he said, “You’re under arrest. You’re both under arrest. I’m going to slap every fucking charge I can think of, and then I’m going to add some more.”

  “Cool it,” North whispered savagely in Shaw’s ear, and then he released his partner and shoved him down the hall, away from Taylor. North planted himself between the two men, stretching a hand out in each direction, warding them off. “Taylor, shut up and use your brain for a minute. You’re going to arrest him? You’re going to arrest me? Then you’re going to have to explain how my skinny-ass partner kicked you to the ground and immobilized you. And then you’re going to be the fucking laughingstock of the Metropolitan PD. So go ahead, let’s see you use those cuffs.”

  Taylor was shaking; his face was an ugly wine color, and spittle bubbled at the corner of his mouth. He glanced at Barr.

  “Looks to me like you tripped,” Barr said, his voice low and even.

  Taylor turned toward Kelso.

  Her dark face was unreadable. Then, after a long moment, she said, “Cheap linoleum can do that. Bunch up. Make it hard to keep your footing.”

  Taylor’s chest heaved with his harsh breathing. Then he snapped the cuffs back at his belt and ran a hand across his mouth.

  “Stay the fuck out of this,” Taylor said. “Poke around, and you’re really going to fuck Jadon over. Understand?”

  He didn’t wait for a response before turning and charging down the hall, catching Kelso hard enough with his shoulder to rock the big woman backward.

  “Not even a little,” North said to Barr. “What’s going on?”

  Barr cupped his hands around his mouth, considering. “He was shot once. In the chest. It’s bad, and the angle—” He blew out a breath. “Gunshot residue on his hands. It could . . . it could look like a suicide attempt.”

  “He beat the shit out of himself too?”

  Shaking his head, Barr said, “He gets beaten up. Fag bashing, something like that. He can’t take the shame of it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “The rest of us are trying to make sure it doesn’t get written up that way.” Barr wiped his hands on his trousers. “You’d better get home.”

  North nodded.

  Looking past North, Barr said, “Shaw, stay away from this. We all need to stay away from this, until Jadon’s awake and can tell us what happened.”

  “He’s no fucking help,” Shaw said under his breath.

  “As per fucking usual,” North muttered, turning back to his boyfriend. “It’s up to us.”

  Chapter 5

  SHAW BOUNCED as the GTO went over a pothole; the humid night air streamed past him like a black river, and the south city lights seemed to bob and dip on that dark flow. Shaw blinked until the lights steadied. He leaned his head back. Images came together in a collage: Jadon cornering Shaw in the hallway outside Matty’s apartment; Jadon kissing Shaw after dinner at Zia’s and tasting like bolognese; Jadon sitting next to Shaw on the couch, laughing when Shaw suggested they both try probiotic suppositories. The rush of air dried Shaw’s eyes, and they kept drifting closed. He could see Jadon in the dark, tortured and then shot in the chest and bleeding out, and then Shaw’s eyes would open again and take in the swim and dart of the sodium lamps.

  North’s hand ruffled his hair; his skin seemed the same temperature as the night, as though it were the wind caressing Shaw, and only the calluses on North’s palm told differently. The rasp of that rough skin became another hypnotic part of the drive: the rush of the wind, Shaw’s eyelids drifting closed, the bricolage of nightmare and memory, the light scrape of calluses. Then the GTO slowed, and the wind died, and the soft whine of Britney Spears emerged from the radio. Shaw looked around and realized they were back in Benton Park, turning onto Gravois, the orange-and-white Save-a-Lot sign gleaming like a brass tack against the dull parade of streetlights.

  “Stay here,” North said when he stopped the car in front of the Borealis office.

  “He didn’t try to kill himself,” Shaw said.

  “Just stay here.”

  “No.” Shaw fumbled with the buckle. “No, it’s not—nobody’s up there, North. I’ll be fine. Nobody’s waiting for me.” Although, that wasn’t quite true. Jadon was waiting up there, in the dark, tortured and shot in the chest and bleeding out. Waiting for Shaw.

  North’s hand scooped a sheaf of Shaw’s hair that had fallen loose from the bun, and he pushed it back, his thumb tracing Shaw’s cheekbone like he wanted to catch a tear.

  “I said stay here.”

  After a moment, Shaw nodded.

  When North came back, the Löwchen was tucked under one arm, his little lion face peering this way and that, sniffing the air. In his other hand North carried a canvas bag; Shaw could see a mixture of clothes and toiletries.

  “I’m not—”

  Before Shaw could finish, the canvas bag landed in his lap, followed by the Löwchen. The puppy looked up at Shaw, sniffed, and immediately began to bark.

  “Be quiet,” North said.

  The puppy continued to yip, squaring off with Shaw, his little paws braced as though he meant to charge.

  “Dogs don’t work that way.”

  “That’s why dogs are annoying,” North said, scooping up the puppy and bringing him to eye level. The Löwchen gave a final yip, snuffled at North’s nose, and whimpered. “No more barking.”

  The puppy snuffled at his nose again.

  “And no kisses,” North said, pulling the dog back slightly so that the pink tongue caught only air.

  Then he set the Löwchen in his lap, started the GTO, and pulled away from the curb. They took the surface streets now, driving west on Gravois and then Chippewa, turning down a tree-lined street where North rented half of a duplex. The ground-floor unit had light blue paint and a recently renovated kitchen; when North flipped on the lights, it was too bright, like the hospital. He must have seen this on Shaw’s face because he took a second glance and then turned off everything except the light over the sink.

  After setting down the Löwchen, North opened the fridge and removed a Schlafly’s. He opened the be
er and drank the first two gulps over the sink, staring out the window. What was he seeing, Shaw wondered. His own faint reflection in the glass? The alley lit by the buzzing security light? Maybe nothing. Maybe he was just drinking a beer.

  “I want one,” Shaw said. He was feeling reckless; he wanted to hurt someone, even if it was only himself.

  Taking another sip, North shook his head. He was still staring out over the sink.

  “I do. I want one.”

  “You want me to get the bucket now? Or do you want to spend the night on the bathroom floor?”

  “I can drink one beer, North.”

  “No, baby, you can’t.”

  “I’m a grown man. I can have a beer if I want one.”

  North spun around; the light over the sink caught him from behind, sending most of his face into shadow, but Shaw had known him for eight years. Shaw could make out the tinge of red in his cheeks; he was familiar with the narrowing of North’s eyes.

  In two quick strides, North crossed to the kitchen table. He pushed Shaw into a seat and slammed the beer down in front of him; suds slopped out, splattering the table and running down the brown glass.

  “Drink it.”

  “I want my own beer.”

  “Sure, baby. As many as you want. But drink this one first.”

  Shaw pulled his hair loose and let it spill over his shoulders, not quite able to pick up the bottle yet. “He didn’t try to kill himself.”

  With two fingers, North parted the curtain of chestnut hair and met Shaw’s gaze. “Drink.”

  “Jadon wouldn’t try to kill himself.”

  Shadows made North’s eyes so dark they might have been purple instead of their usual pale ice. He picked up the bottle and said, “Should I get a funnel?”

  “I don’t know why you think you’re so funny.”

  “I’ll get a funnel.”

  With a glare, Shaw took the Schlafly. It felt half empty; North had picked at the label as he drank, and now a long strip was peeled away.

  “It doesn’t say how many calories it has. You ripped off that part of the label.”

  “Shaw. Baby. You are really testing me tonight.”

  Shaw tried to set his glare to death-ray, and then he tipped the bottle back and drank. He hated beer. He hated all of it, and he hated this one in particular because it tasted like someone had left an orange at the bottom of a Bud Lite for a year or two. But he drank it, and when he lowered the bottle, North was already coming back from the refrigerator.

  He slapped another bottle down on the table; condensation gathered like seed pearls. North opened his hand, gestured.

  “Tell me you don’t want to drink another.”

  “I want to. I just can’t open it.”

  “It’s already open.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just tell me you don’t want to drink it.”

  Raising his chin, Shaw set the bottle to his lips and drank. He had to stop a few times for breath—and to keep from throwing up—but he managed to drain the bottle. As he set it down, North came back from the fridge, his steps heavy enough that the floor shook under Shaw’s feet.

  “Tell me you’re acting stupid. Tell me you know you shouldn’t drink this beer. Tell me you’re . . . Jesus, Shaw, I don’t even know.”

  “I just . . . I just need a minute.”

  “Tell me this is about Jadon. Tell me you’re hurt, tell me you’re upset, tell me you don’t want to feel that way anymore. Tell me anything, and I’ll pour this one down the sink and we can figure this out, together.”

  “It kind of tastes like Diet Slice. It’s not bad. But just a minute. I just need a minute.”

  The back of North’s hand, cool, brushed Shaw’s forehead, but his voice was hard. “Drink up, baby. No time outs. And, for the record, I don’t think they’ve made Diet Slice since the 80s.”

  Shaw didn’t feel right. He felt a little sloshy, like parts of him were floating in the Schlafly and maybe getting a little pickled. The light framing North had gotten blurry, and a minor earthquake was picking up behind Shaw’s right eye. His stomach gave a tremendous flop, and Shaw belched without meaning too.

  But he put the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. And then another. And then another. And somehow, he drained it to the bottom, but when he went to put the bottle down, he fumbled it, and it slipped, rolled along the table, and fell. When it hit the kitchen tile, it shattered, and brown glass shot across the room. In the weak light, the shards glinted like a new constellation.

  North was coming back with another bottle, not even trying to step around the glass, just crunching piece after piece underfoot. He set it down hard again, slopping more beer across the table, a little foam sliding down the Schlafly’s neck.

  “Stop it, all right? Stop this shit. Right now, Shaw.”

  Shaw swiped at the bottle, almost tipped it over, spilled more beer, and managed, barely, to save the bottle from falling. He met North’s gaze, although it was hard because everything had gotten swimmy. North’s eyes narrowed, and red traced a sharp vee along his cheekbones.

  “I just . . . I just . . .”

  But Shaw had forgotten what he was going to say. He had forgotten everything except North’s hands on his knees, forcing his legs open, and Matty’s mouth on him down there, and the Slasher’s hand around Shaw’s throat, and dark waves crashing over him, pounding down on him, driving him down to the bottom of the sea, and even there, in that deepest, coldest blackness, Shaw could see Jadon, beaten and broken, Jadon alone, Jadon dying alone.

  He put the bottle to his mouth. He managed two swallows, and then all the beer surged back up, and Shaw turned his head and puked. From a certain amount of detached distance, he noticed that the volume and projection of the puke was pretty damn impressive; he managed to hit the wall, and it wasn’t just a trickle. But it also hurt like hell, cramping his insides, making him feel like he was turning inside out, and Shaw heard the second bottle break, and then the blossom of yeasty, citrusy beer mingled with the puke.

  “For the love of fuck,” North said when the fountain of vomit ended. Then he grabbed Shaw, hucked him over his shoulder, and stomped to the bathroom.

  They got there just in time, and Shaw spent what felt like the next century vomiting into the toilet.

  For most of that time, North perched on the edge of the tub, holding Shaw’s hair, rubbing his back, and swearing a blue streak. When the worst of the heaves ended, North wetted a washcloth and wiped Shaw’s face. The texture of the cotton cloth felt like sandpaper against Shaw’s flushed skin and puffy lips; he kept turning his face, trying to pull away, until North got a hand around his neck and locked his head in place.

  “You puke again,” North said, “and you’re cleaning yourself up.”

  “Ok,” Shaw whispered. His eyes were stinging now, and he wanted to close them, but even through the Schlafly haze, he knew the very least of his punishment was that he had to keep his eyes open for this part.

  “I ought to make you clean up the puke out there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’d just do a fucking terrible job of it, though.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that fucking broken bottle. Two of them. All over my kitchen.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a fucking dog that lives here, you know. A puppy. What if glass got in his bowl?”

  As North had probably known, that broke the last barrier, and Shaw started to cry. But to Shaw’s surprise, North didn’t wrap him in a hug, didn’t pull him close, didn’t run warm fingers through Shaw’s hair. He just squatted there, the wet cloth limp in one hand, staring at Shaw while Shaw sobbed. After a while, the crying eased, and North tossed the cloth in the tub and wiped his hands on his jeans.

  Then he said, “Baby, what’s going on with you?”

  “I don’t know.” Shaw wiped his face on his sleeve. “I don’t know. Everything got fucked up. I’m fucked up. I
didn’t want you to know how fucked up I am.”

  “Shaw. Shaw. Look at me, sweetheart. I’ve known you since you were eighteen years old. I know perfectly well how fucked up you are. Remember when you tried to make your own underwear? You were buying dead rabbits online. It was a fucking nightmare, like some Stephen King shit.”

  “I wasn’t buying dead rabbits,” Shaw said, wiping his face again and hiccuping. “I was buying pelts. I was just buying pelts. I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—oh North, what if glass got in his bowl and he died?” Another wail built in Shaw’s throat, and he couldn’t stifle it.

  With a sigh, North caught Shaw under the arms and got him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s put you to bed.”

  Shaw crashed into a wall, the sofa, and a bookcase before North looped an arm around him and walked him into the bedroom. North slipped off Shaw’s shoes, stripped him out of his shirt, and got him into bed.

  “You won’t let him die, will you, North? You won’t let him eat glass. He shouldn’t have to eat glass and die just because I’m a selfish asshole.”

  The mattress sagged as North sat next to Shaw, filling his nose with the smell of Irish Spring soap. The rough pad of North’s thumb ran along Shaw’s temple.

  “You’re not a selfish asshole, although you’re sure doing a great impression of one.” He sighed, but his thumb didn’t stop its slow movement. “And I have no fucking idea what’s going on with you.”

  “You won’t let him eat glass and die?”

  “What do you care? You’re allergic.”

  “North!”

  North laughed, his thumb still brushing softly at Shaw’s temple. “No. I won’t let him eat glass and die. I might kill him myself, but I won’t let him eat glass and die.”

  “Thanks, North.”

  Only the creak of the springs as North shifted his weight on the bed.

  “Thanks. Thank you, North. Thank you.”

  “Ok, baby.”

  “You have to say you’re welcome.”

  “You’re welcome, Shaw.”