Love Is the Drug

by K. E. Saxon

  “Hey, sport, you did better than I did, then, the first time I saw that movie.”

  This, clearly, made the kid feel better because he grinned. “Really—did you cry like a little baby or somethin’?”

  “Yeah. And that was the least of it. I wouldn’t even sleep in my own bed for a week afterward.”

  Luke cackled and pointed at him. “You were a chicken!”

  Jason grinned at Luke, but his eyes were drawn back to the front door when Julie stepped out onto the porch. His chest filled with a height of happiness he’d never experienced—ever—before. God, she was beautiful. He couldn’t wait to hold her, have her body pressed against him again.

  He felt strange. Good, but strange. It was as if he’d been operating on backup-power for two weeks and now he was juiced with rocket fuel or something. Maybe this is what people meant when they said they didn’t feel complete without their mate?

  “Hi Jason,” she said and leaned against the railing.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Julie wrapped her hand around Jason’s palm as they stood together at the white storm door of the 1950’s blue-shuttered bungalow. It was one of those cute little houses where the door faced the driveway, not the street, and behind them on the cement porch were two Adirondack rockers and several clay pots filled with bright red geraniums.

  She knew she was feeding his misconception about the state of their relationship by taking his hand, but at this moment what he needed most was her support. She would deal with the other later—after the interview.

  “She does know you’re coming, right?” she asked after the second round of knocking went unanswered.

  He glanced down at her and then back up at the door. He was fidgety. “No.”

  Julie dropped his hand and stepped back. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” He glanced behind him. “There’s a car in the drive. I’m going to give it one more go and then I’ll leave the photos for her and we can get the hell out of here.”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “Yes? Who’s there?” The voice that came from just the other side of the door sounded a bit frightened.

  Jason’s shoulders visibly tensed. “Jason Jörgensen, ma’am.”

  “Jason?” The door swung open and in the doorway stood a very sweet-looking septuagenarian. Her gray hair was cut in a short bob and her eyeglasses were metal framed ovals. She wore sharply creased lavender slacks and a deep purple knit top with kittens appliquéd on the front. Her lipstick was dark pink and her mascaraed eyes were the same shape and color as Jason’s.

  Julie liked her on sight.

  “Come in, come in,” the older woman said. She kept her gaze on Jason. Her cheeks lost a bit of color and it looked to Julie like she wanted to say more, but didn’t know how to phrase it.

  When she opened the storm door for them to enter and Sweet Honesty, her mother’s favorite fragrance, wafted like a spring breeze into Julie’s consciousness—through her heart and through her very being—the affection was cemented for life.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t call first—let you know we were coming,” Julie felt compelled to say—she gave Jason a quick, shame-on-you glance and then settled a more pleasant one on their hostess.

  “This is my wife, Julie,” Jason said.

  Julie nearly swallowed her tongue. She shot him a wild-eyed look. Then, she plastered a smile on her face and held out her hand in greeting to the older woman. “Hello, Mrs. Dillon,” she said. The woman’s hand was warm, soft,—almost fragile. “I hope we aren’t keeping you from something?”

  “Oh no, my dear. Nothing that can’t wait. I was only going to the grocery store.” She escorted them into a small living room. The walls were paneled in dark wood and the furniture was old—maybe seventies or eighties vintage—but well taken care of. It reminded Julie of the furniture in her own living room.

  “Would you like something to drink? I just made a fresh batch of iced tea.” Mrs. Dillon looked from one to the other of them. When Jason just stood there like a stoic, clam-jawed, with his arms crossed over his chest, Julie answered her. “Yes, ma’am. That sounds real nice.” She stepped closer to Jason and put her arm around his waist. “We’re both a little thirsty after that drive.” She pinched him. “Aren’t we, Jason?”

  He leveled a glare at her, but said, “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Mrs. Dillon fluttered her hands. “Sit down you two. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  “Where are the photos?” Julie said the minute the woman was out of earshot.

  Jason uncrossed his arms and unfurled the rolled-up manila envelope in his hand. “Here.”

  Julie nodded and led Jason over to the sofa. After they were both seated, she said, “I know this is hard for you—I do—but you can’t just sit here without talking to her, okay? That wasn’t the point of this trip, remember?”

  Jason didn’t answer—his eyes were glued to something across the room. Julie followed the line of his gaze.

  “That’s him, isn’t it?” he said.

  * * *

  It was a military photograph of a young man. He was in his dress uniform—white peaked cap and midnight blue coat with red trim. There were other photos as well. School photographs, it looked like, from elementary on up to high school. Only the latter gave any indication of the hoodlum the boy had become. Jason felt Julie’s hand settle around his again and, as it had been doing each time she’d done it since they left the farmhouse on this godforsaken journey, the tightness, the unbearable tension in his chest lessened.

  “Yes, it must be,” she answered softly. “Good lord, Jason, he looks just like you. I didn’t expect that.”

  The anxious feeling built again at her words. Moisture, hot and damp, formed under his arms, in his palms. “I don’t think so.” Then a rough bark of pained laughter exploded from his throat. “My mom did always say I looked like my dad, though. ‘ Course, I thought she meant Gabe.”

  Julie’s hand wrapped around his cheek and she forced him to look at her. “She thought she was talking about Gabe, too, Jason.”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “First and foremost, because you and Gabe look a lot alike, too. But also, because Gabe let me read your mom’s diary. And I know you read it, as well, so you should know this.” She squeezed his hand. “Yeah, maybe it was wishful thinking on her part—but it makes sense to me: She and Gabe had been trying to get pregnant for months. There was much more likelihood that Gabe fathered you.”

  Jason’s jaw clenched.

  She stroked her fingers across his cheek. “Yes, she stuck her head in the sand, and yes she should have told Gabe, maybe even you, too at some point, but as a woman I can totally see why she didn’t.”

  This pissed Jason off. He straightened and pushed her hand back into her lap. “Yeah—and why’s that?”

  “Jason.” She took his hand again and wouldn’t let it go. “Because she was ashamed of her helplessness, scared that she would be judged, mortified by what happened to her. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, I’m sure.” Julie ran her tongue over her lower lip and tucked her hair behind her ear. “She just wanted it to all go away, not think about it. She wanted to believe you were her husband’s child. Don’t you see?”

  * * *

  Before Julie could get an answer from Jason, Mrs. Dillon walked back into the living room. “My, I am sorry this took so long,” she said. “I had to wash a few glasses first—me and my old age! I forgot to turn the dishwasher on this morning.” She held a tray of glasses filled with iced tea in her hands, but Julie noticed instantly that the older woman’s eyes were damp and red-rimmed. Clearly, this wasn’t an easy meeting for her, either. Julie nudged Jason in the side. When he gave her a blank look, she said, “I believe Mrs. Dillon needs some help with that tray.”

  Jason’s cheek got a tick in it, but he rose to his feet and strode the three steps over to the older woman.

  “Oh, no, dear that’s—”

  He took the tra
y from her. “Where would you like this, ma’am?” His voice was strained, like he wanted to yell something, but was just barely keeping himself from it.

  Mrs. Dillon’s hands fluttered first to her hair and then down to her sides. “On the coffee table, is fine.”

  After Jason put the tray down and settled in his previous position next to Julie, Julie said, “We were just looking at your photos, Mrs. Dillon. Is that your son?”

  Mrs. Dillon looked in the direction of the photos and then back at Julie. “Yes. That’s my Will.” She bent down and handed each of them a glass and then settled into the sky-blue velvet upholstered chair next to the matching floral-printed sofa.

  Neither Jason nor Mrs. Dillon said anything further. The only sound, the ticking of the cuckoo clock. Julie decided she’d have to be the one to get the ball rolling. She sat forward and clasped her hands together over her knees. “You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”

  “No, dear, I’m not. Once Mr. Jörgensen contacted me, came to see me last Spring,”—Jason sat up, sat forward—“told me his suspicions, and I confirmed them with a DNA test—well, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d meet my gr—his son.”

  “My dad contacted you last Spring?”

  Mrs. Dillon blinked at Jason. “Why, yes. He didn’t tell you?”

  Julie grabbed hold of Jason’s fist and soothed it with her hand. “No, Mrs. Dillon, he didn’t. I’m curious: How did he find you?”

  “I believe he found me through a detective agency, or something, my dear.”

  “But why did he think you had anything to do with me?” Jason said. His voice was hard.

  Mrs. Dillon moistened her lips with her tongue. She cleared her throat and fidgeted with the small fat-hoop earring in her ear. “There’s a diary I believe?” When Julie nodded, she dropped her hand onto the arm of the chair, running it back and forth as she continued, “There was an entry in it which said that…that she thought she recognized the voice—that it sounded very similar to the neighbor boy from the apartment building down the street who’d helped her change her tire a few weeks before.”

  Jason leapt to his feet. “Your son was a real sicko, lady.”

  The older woman flinched. Her mouth opened as if she would say something, but no words came out.

  “Jason!” Julie said. She grabbed for his hand to try to pull him back down to the sofa, but he jerked away from her.

  “No, no, my dear. He has a right to say that—feel that way. After what my Will did—who could blame him?”

  Jason crossed his arms over his chest. “How could you allow your son to join a gang? Be such a menace? Violate women?” The last, was said at a near shout.

  Mrs. Dillon’s eyes filled with tears and her face crumpled. “I didn’t know…His father—my husband—left me, left us, when Will was fifteen. No notice. Just up and left. And he didn’t send the child support he was supposed to—” She looked at Julie. “In those days—well, it wasn’t like it is now. A man could get away with that sort of thing.” She turned her eyes back to Jason. “I worked hard just to keep food on the table. I didn’t have any skills to speak of, so the only job I could get was the graveyard shift at a donut shop and a part-time job as a telemarketer during the day.”

  “Cry me a river, lady.”

  At that moment, Julie thought she might actually strangle Jason. There was no excuse. No excuse for being so mean. But then she saw the tortured look in his eyes and her anger vanished, replaced once again with heart-felt remorse for all that he was going through.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Dillon seemed to understand as well because she quietly continued on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I knew Will was angry. His whole personality changed. During that time, he became belligerent, stopped washing his hair, got his nose pierced, quit the football team. His grades—He was always a straight ‘A’ student—plummeted. I—I just wasn’t there to see what he was getting himself into.” She gave Julie a pleading look. “I did try to talk to him—tried so hard to get him to open up and just tell me what it was that was bothering him.” She sighed. “Of course, I knew what it was that was bothering him, but I thought if I could get him to talk to me about it, he might actually listen when I told him it wasn’t his fault that his father left, that he wouldn’t return any of Will’s phone calls.” She sat forward, her hands clasped together like a supplicant. “And Will did say in the card that he only committed one crime before he quit the gang. I believe that.”

  “How convenient for you,” Jason said.

  Julie didn’t know how to calm him—get control of the situation again—so she rose to her feet and did the only thing that she knew to do—the only thing that had, thus far, seemed to help him: she put her arm around his waist and stood with him. He was so stiff, his body like a petrified tree trunk, but after a couple of seconds she felt him relax a bit. “Jason allowed me to read your letter—and the card from your son as well.” She glanced up at Jason and then back to Mrs. Dillon. “I believe your son, too.”

  This, she knew instantly, did not go over well with Jason. She could actually feel the heat of his anger rise out of him through his pores and permeate his shirt. He walked out of her embrace and strode over to the wall where the pictures hung.

  Mrs. Dillon’s gaze followed Jason, slid over the photographs, and then settled on the one with Will in his USMC dress uniform. “He joined the Marines when he was seventeen and just graduated from high school. Lord, it must’ve only been a few months after he….” She cleared her throat. “Well…for weeks before, that’s all he talked about. He wanted to be somebody, he said, do the right thing, make a difference in the world.” Her gaze turned to Julie. “And he did, too. He turned his life around. Excelled.” She took in a deep breath and released it. “It wasn’t until I got the card that I understood his real torment.” Her eyes lifted to Jason’s profile. “If he hadn’t been killed the next day—if he’d survived and returned home—I think—I pray—he would have admitted his guilt to the authorities. Taken his punishment, as he should have done at the time.”

  Jason whipped around to face her. “Really? Well you know what I think? I think he was scared shitless—”

  “Jason!”

  “—that he was about to get killed—Hell! His card even said he was!—so he was doing his damndest to cleanse his black soul before he went to meet his maker.”

  Julie took a few steps toward the older woman, who, at this point was clearly holding on to her composure by the thinnest of threads. “I’m sorry, Mrs.—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize to her!” He jabbed his finger at her. “DON’T YOU DARE!” He turned his finger on Mrs. Dillon. “She knew all these years that that rapist had committed a crime and she didn’t do a damned thing about it. Didn’t even try to find out what it was he’d done.”

  “Jas—”

  “He’s right. I didn’t.” Mrs. Dillon got up and took a tissue from the box on the end table, then sniffled and dabbed at her eyes and nose. “I didn’t want to know.” She looked at Julie. “At first, of course, after I received it, I was still grieving his death and looked upon the card as a cherished last communication from my son.” Her face crumpled. “As well as some strange premonition of the bombing that took place the day after he wrote it.” She wept into the tissue for only a brief moment before resolutely pulling herself together and facing him again.

  Jason barreled past Julie and swiped up the manila envelope from the coffee table. He thrust it at Mrs. Dillon. “Here. Here are the photos you requested, plus video of the place. The letter and card you sent are in there as well.”

  He turned to Julie. “As far as I’m concerned, this interview—this whole business—is over. Let’s go.” Jason didn’t wait for her reply, just raced out, letting the storm door slam behind him.

  Julie turned to Mrs. Dillon. “I’m sorry. This is very hard for him. On so many levels.”

  Mrs. Dillon collapsed into the chair. Her voice trembled when she said, “He looks so muc
h like my Will. Acts like him, too. And his voice…when I opened the door…I thought for a minute it was Will standing there.”

  “That’s not something Jason will want to hear. I’m sorry.”

  The older woman looked directly at her then and Julie saw the heartbreak in her eyes, in her pained expression. “He did a vicious—horrible—thing, my Will,” Mrs. Dillon said. “But he wasn’t a vicious or horrible person. He committed a crime, but his whole life—before and after—he was a good boy.” She shook her head and looked down at her hands. “And I know—I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I just can’t seem to help it.” She clasped her hands tight in her lap and took in a deep breath. “I’m glad that boy’s alive—glad he’s here—glad there’s something of my son alive in the world today.” Mrs. Dillon covered her mouth and began to softly weep.

  Julie crouched down and took the woman’s other hand. “I’m glad Jason’s in this world, too, Mrs. Dillon.” The lady held tight to Julie’s hand, as if it were a lifeline.

  The sound of the Vette’s engine firing up penetrated the walls of the house, followed by a much louder roar when Jason pushed on the gas.

  Mrs. Dillon sniffled and scrubbed at her cheek with her wrinkled fingertips. “You’d better go, my dear. Your husband’s getting antsy.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  She patted Julie’s hand. “I’ll be just fine—don’t you worry about me.”

  Julie knew he wouldn’t leave without her, no matter the implied threat he was sending her and she wasn’t about to just abandon this poor woman. Not without first making sure she’d be okay.

  Julie slipped the piece of paper from her back jeans pocket and handed it to Mrs. Dillon. “This is my home phone number. Call me anytime.”

  “I don’t know…your man didn’t seem very keen on having any further contact with me.”

  “This isn’t Jason’s number, it’s mine. And if Gabe and I have anything to say about it, Jason is going to want to see you again.”