The Little Library

by Kim Fielding

  Leaving both Ishtar and the phone in the house and the door unlocked to make it easier on Simon, Elliott strode across the street. A few raindrops fell on him, fat and cold, as he marched up to Mike Burgess’s house. Ugly house. Ugly yard. Ugly man. Forgoing the bell, he pounded on the door with his fist.

  It took only a few seconds before the door swung open. Burgess stood just inside, cell phone in hand. He wore jeans and a Raiders T-shirt with the logo slightly peeling. “What do you want?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  Fear flickered in Burgess’s muddy brown eyes, and he took a small step backward. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You fucking son of a bitch.” Voice low and even, hands opening and closing at his sides. “You took a good thing—one of the only good things I’ve done—and you destroyed it just because you’re a small-minded, bigoted piece of shit.”

  Burgess jutted his chin and tried to shut the door, but Elliott stepped onto the threshold, blocking him. The wind was picking up, sending rain against his back.

  “You’re trespassing!” Burgess yelled shrilly. “I’m calling the police!” He lifted his phone, but Elliott batted it out of his hand, and it went flying across the entryway and onto the tile floor, where it shattered.

  Huh, said an eerily calm voice in Elliott’s head. Too bad we weren’t that coordinated when we tried to play high school sports.

  Burgess, on the other hand, wasn’t calm at all. His face bright red, he screamed at Elliott. “That’s assault! You’ve assaulted me!”

  Elliott answered in a growl. “I haven’t done anything yet. I’d like to do to you what you did to my library.” He’d never hated before. Never yearned for violence. Never been so sure that the only logical course of action was to begin swinging with his fists and to keep on going until nothing remained but blood and devastation and a cold rain to wash everything away.

  Do it, urged the voice. Our life is fucked anyway. Do it, and go out with a bang. Stop being a goddamn patsy.

  Do it because Burgess fucking deserved it. Because right this moment, he symbolized an entire world full of hatred and rejection, and while Elliott couldn’t take on the world, he could at least pound this one abhorrent face. Do it because the worst that could happen was he’d end up in prison—just like John, who Elliott should have abandoned years ago if he’d had the brains and the balls for it.

  Do it. Do it.

  “Elliott! No!”

  Elliott turned slowly and saw Simon’s truck stopped crookedly in front of Burgess’s house, the engine still rumbling and the driver’s door wide open. Simon, squinting against the pelting rain, hurried closer as fast as his bum knee allowed. Elliott was dimly aware of Burgess running more deeply into his house, yelling something incoherent the entire way. But that was of little importance. What mattered was the miracle of Simon’s sudden appearance—and the nauseating feeling as Elliott seemed to slip back into his own body.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Simon demanded as he wrapped a hand around Elliott’s fist and pushed Elliott’s hand down.

  Oh. Apparently Elliott had been about to punch Burgess.

  “He wrecked my library.” That sounded almost rational, right? Elliott tried to gesture toward the evidence of the crime, but Simon embraced him, holding him still.

  “Shit! El, you can’t— What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t hit people. You can’t— I thought—”

  Before Simon could articulate what he’d thought, Burgess came tearing back into the entryway. “I called the cops! I called the cops!”

  Elliott remained emotionally disconnected, tethered in place by Simon’s strong arms and shivering against Simon’s damp shirt. “Good. You can tell them what you did to my library.” He didn’t bother looking at Burgess while he spoke.

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  It was Simon who responded first. “Then where did you get those scratches on your hands and arms? And the splinters of wood in your hair?”

  Burgess’s hand flew to his scalp. Sure enough, several long, shallow marks ran along his forearms, and his fingernails looked torn and slightly bloody. He crossed his arms. “I was working in the garage today. He assaulted me!” He jutted his chin toward the wreckage of his phone.

  Elliott felt Simon sigh against him. “Fine,” Simon said. “We’ll let the cops sort it out.”

  Considering that Burgess had been the one to call the police, he looked less than pleased with that idea.

  Simon continued, his tone as pleasant as if he were discussing the weather. “Did you know simple assault is a misdemeanor? Someone like Elliott here, who doesn’t have a criminal history, he might have to pay a fine. Maybe get a few months’ probation. Which is about what someone would normally get for criminal trespassing. But vandalism can be a felony if there’s more than four hundred bucks’ worth of damage. And books are expensive, aren’t they, El?”

  Elliott made an affirmative noise.

  “Not only that,” Simon continued. “If the offenses were motivated by Elliott’s sexual orientation, they’re hate crimes. That can get you penalty enhancements. Mmm, maybe as much as three years in prison.”

  Burgess looked as if he was going to be sick, which was oddly satisfying. But Elliott was shivering in the wind and rain, his hair and clothing sticking to his skin and water running under the collar of his shirt. Simon was equally wet—more so, since he was sheltering Elliott with his bigger body—but he stood straight and seemingly unbothered.

  “I didn’t . . .” Burgess muttered. He didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

  A police car came zooming around the corner, sending up spray from a newly formed puddle. The siren was off, but the lights flashed brightly. The car stopped behind Simon’s truck, and a man and woman in uniform got out. They both looked profoundly unhappy to be venturing outside in this weather, although their faces brightened when they saw Simon.

  “Odisho!” the man called out in a friendly greeting.

  “Hey, Calvillo, Babb. We’re practically drowning here. Mind if we chat on Elliott’s porch?” He pointed across the street.

  The cops seemed agreeable, so while the male officer stepped inside Burgess’s entryway, the female cop waited for Simon to turn off his truck and shut the door. She followed them across to Elliott’s house, where Ishtar barked a few times from inside until Elliott ordered her to be quiet.

  “So what’s going on?” asked the cop whose name tag said M. Babb. She was thirtyish and nearly as tall as Elliott, her blonde hair cut short.

  “This is Elliott Thompson,” Simon said. “My boyfriend.”

  Babb’s eyebrows rose slightly, but Elliott was even more surprised—both that Simon still considered him his boyfriend and that Simon had acknowledged their relationship so easily. “Are you the one who called, Mr. Thompson?” she asked.

  “No. That was Burgess.” By now the rain was falling so heavily that it was difficult to see Burgess’s house. The street would flood soon—downpours were anathema to hardpan soil—but fortunately the water had never risen high enough to reach any houses.

  “Okay. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Elliott knew her shoulder camera was recording the entire incident. He felt no need to lie or hide the truth, so he told her everything—discovering the destroyed library, texting Simon, confronting Burgess, even slapping away his phone. Simon stood close to him, listening carefully but not speaking. Babb asked whether Elliott and Burgess had experienced any previous run-ins, and Elliott described those as well. She nodded thoughtfully, her expression nonjudgmental.

  When Elliott was done, she nodded again. “Aside from the library and its contents, was there any other damage to your property?”

  “I had a rainbow flag in my front yard. It’s gone.” He’d noticed this as they’d approached the porch.

  “Okay. You two stay put, all right? I’m gonna go talk to Calvillo.”

  “We’ll be right here,” Simon said.
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br />   They watched as she ducked her head and shoulders against the deluge and splashed across the street. She knocked on Burgess’s door, and a moment later Calvillo emerged. He and Babb ran to their car and sat inside, apparently to discuss the situation.

  Simon put his arm around Elliott’s shoulders, lending his body warmth.

  “He ruined my library,” Elliott said in a small voice.

  “I’m sorry. He’s a shit-bag. But, Jesus, El. You scared the crap out of me with that text.”

  Elliott wiped water from his face with the back of his hand. “I wanted to make sure Ish was okay in case . . .”

  “In case what? What the hell were you doing over there?” Simon waved angrily in the direction of Burgess’s house.

  “He ruined my library.” Even now, the wrecked books were nothing but soaked little heaps of paper and cardboard, and the remains of the library itself were splattered with mud and storm-tossed dead leaves.

  “That’s worth going to jail over?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing I do is worth anything.”

  “Elliott.” Simon sounded stern, an echo of what must have been his cop-voice coloring the name.

  They didn’t say anything for a minute or two. Elliott sighed. “Thanks for coming over right away.”

  “Of course! I love you, remember?”

  “Is your leg okay?”

  Simon shook the leg slightly as if testing it. “Yeah, it’s fine. But it’s my heart you really should be worried about. You nearly gave me a heart attack today.”

  That was . . . interesting. Simon was a brave man. He’d faced gun-wielding bad guys, irate homophobic neighbors, and a horde of rejecting family members, all with calm and dignity. But what frightened him was believing Elliott might be in danger. Elliott truly didn’t deserve him. If such a good man cared about him, though, loved him, didn’t that suggest there was something valuable about Elliott? Something of worth?

  Babb and Calvillo got out of their car—reluctantly—and hurried back into Burgess’s house. They weren’t there for long, and when they left, they headed for Elliott’s porch.

  “Good to see you, man,” Calvillo said, patting Simon’s shoulder. “How’s the knee?”

  “Recovering.”

  “When are you gonna rejoin us?”

  “I’m heading to the Parks Department instead. Ranger.”

  Both cops seemed interested in that, but after a few moments of chatter, Babb steered them back to the matter at hand. “So, Mr. Thompson. Your story and Burgess’s are pretty close, although he keeps insisting your library violated some kind of imaginary city codes.” She shook her head. “Anyway, he’s willing to forget you broke his phone if you forget he damaged your property. That’s up to you, of course. We’ll arrest him if you really want us to.”

  Elliott shook his head. “No.” All the anger had left him, flames doused by the rainstorm.

  “Good choice. Just stay away from him, okay? We’ve made it very clear that if he even thinks about entering your property without your permission, he’s going to find himself bunking in jail.”

  “Very clear,” Calvillo added gleefully. He was short but looked as if he spent a lot of time lifting weights.

  “Thank you,” said Elliott.

  And apparently that settled it, because both cops turned their attention back to Simon. “So, um, you guys are a thing, huh?” Calvillo asked.

  Simon answered simply. “Yes.”

  “That’s cool.”

  The smile that spread across Simon’s face was enough to warm Elliott’s heart. “Do you want to come inside and dry off? Have some coffee, maybe?”

  They spent a half hour together, the four of them. Calvillo ended up sitting on the floor with Ishtar mostly in his lap, and he laughed at how she was getting fur all over his uniform. Babb was interested in some of Elliott’s books. Both cops got the rundown on Simon’s surgeries and rehab, plus his future career plans, and they told him some of the department’s recent gossip. They seemed ready to stay all afternoon, but a call to assist at an accident scene came in. So after a round of handshaking and promises to get together later, they left.

  “You’re still damp,” Simon said as soon as they were gone. “I’m gonna park the truck in the driveway. Go change into something dry before you catch a cold.”

  “Colds are caused by viruses, not by being wet,” Elliott said. But he took a quick hot shower and then put on flannel lounging pants and his old Bulldogs sweatshirt. He emerged from the bedroom with a T-shirt and pair of sweats he hoped would fit Simon and found him in the kitchen, heating a can of soup. Ishtar was supervising.

  “Sit,” said Simon, pointing at a chair.

  “Are you talking to me or the dog?”

  Simon shot him a look.

  So Elliott and Simon had soup and a sandwich, and then they curled up together on the couch and watched the storm rage. The weather was still miserable. The library was still ruined. But in Elliott’s warm, dry living room, with his dog at his feet and Simon pressed against him, even a tempest felt survivable.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Simon stayed. They didn’t talk about their future or his family or even Mike fucking Burgess and his library-ruining ways. They watched movies and petted the dog and ate popcorn, and then, when the rain had subsided to a drizzle, they climbed into bed. They didn’t make love—Elliott didn’t have the energy for it. But they held each other all night, and in some ways that was even better.

  On Tuesday morning, Simon woke up early and, while Elliott was still meandering blearily around the kitchen, cleaned up the mess in the front yard. When Simon came inside, he kissed Elliott on the cheek and told him to relax. “I’m taking Ishtar for a walk. We’ll stop by my house so I can grab a change of clothes.”

  Ishtar, of course, started dancing as soon as she heard the w word, and she pranced out the front door with Simon, not even sparing a glance for the abandoned Elliott.

  Actually, Elliott didn’t mind staying home. He felt as if he were recovering from an illness—weak and wobbly, his brain unreliable in its focus. Nevertheless, he managed to clean up the breakfast dishes and shower and shave and then grade a few student assignments. Accurately, he hoped. He didn’t like looking out the front window at the absence of his library—the jagged stump like a rotten tooth—so he sat in the kitchen and looked out back instead. The sky was steel colored, but the ground had dried.

  He was beginning to wonder whether Simon had abandoned him and kidnapped his dog when the two of them returned. Ishtar tracked muddy footprints over the wood floors, but Simon remained in the entryway, smiling. “Get your shoes and coat.”

  “Why?”

  Simon didn’t answer. He just stood there with a sneaky, slightly infuriating little grin that somehow felt like a warm embrace. Because of that, Elliott didn’t put much effort into his glare, and he obeyed quickly.

  Wherever they were going, it involved Ishtar. She got to ride in the back seat of Simon’s truck, which clearly made this a red-letter day for her. She lounged across the bench seat happily, sometimes moving forward to poke her nose at Simon’s or Elliott’s shoulder. “We need to get her a doggy seat belt,” said Simon after they’d gone a few blocks. “Safer.”

  “Is that where we’re going? The pet store?” Elliott wouldn’t mind that. It would be a fun little outing.

  “Nope.”

  Since Simon was obviously not going to divulge his plans—and he looked damn smug about it too—Elliott changed his conversational tack. “You’re growing your beard back.” He’d noticed at some point the previous day but hadn’t mentioned it.

  Simon ran a palm over the stubble. “Yeah. You mind?”

  “I like your beard. I like you clean-shaven. I like you any way I can get you.”

  “Yeah?” Simon glanced away from the road long enough to flash him a smile. “That’s a good thing to know.”

  “You handled that thing yesterday really well. Handled me, I mean. Burgess too.” />
  “That used to be my job. Someone took a shot at me only once, so that’s a pretty good track record.”

  Elliott shuddered. “What if that bullet had hit you somewhere else? What if—”

  “What if, what if. Look, if I hadn’t been shot, I wouldn’t have been walking past your house. I wouldn’t have known about your library, and we would’ve never met. I’d take a bullet a dozen times over if it meant meeting you.”

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Elliott muttered. He took Simon’s hand in his.

  After several minutes of driving, it became clear they were heading for the foothills. “Columbia?” asked Elliott.

  “Nope.”

  The fall had been wet enough that the rolling hills past Oakdale were beginning to turn green. They made a pretty sight beneath the sky, which had lightened to an ashy shade. If Elliott had possessed any artistic talent, he might have painted this landscape. Or hell, sap that he was, he’d paint Simon standing tall and strong with happiness shining from his eyes.

  “Babb and Calvillo didn’t freak out,” said Simon as he rounded a curve. Oak trees grew here, branches now mostly bare, cows standing around their trunks.

  “Well, I probably wasn’t the scariest bad guy they’ve ever faced.”

  Simon poked Elliott’s leg. “About me, I mean. About us.”

  “Did you expect them to?”

  “I don’t know. Neither of them ever struck me as a bigot, but I guess at some level I sort of expect everyone to reject me. Except you.”

  “Not everyone will.”

  “Yeah.” Then Simon’s expression brightened. “Miri’s been texting me a lot. I guess she’s been doing covert efforts on my behalf. A lot of our cousins are on my side, she says. She’s working on my parents.”

  “Will she win them over?”

  Simon shrugged. “One of those books I borrowed from you had advice on coming out to family. I’ve known for a long time that I’m gay, but Mom and Dad had to suddenly confront it head-on. I’m supposed to give them time.”