by Kim Fielding
“No problem. I have the week off. I’ll be busy tomorrow, though. Moving back into my loft.”
“Thursday’s fine. You know, that guy… your boyfriend?”
“Qay?”
“Him. He saved your life.”
Jeremy nodded. “I know.” He’d tried to thank Qay for it, but Qay refused to discuss it. Even raising the topic of that afternoon was enough to send Qay heading for a panic attack, so Jeremy had let it drop.
“I had some reservations about him when you brought him to McDonald’s. He looks… a little rough, you know? But damn, he came through for you.”
“He did.”
Later Rhoda met him for dinner, with Parker since he was still visiting, and the three of them had a nice meal. But Jeremy was distracted, thinking of Qay taking the bus home from work in the drizzle and eating alone in his basement. Don’t hover, he lectured himself. Give him some space to think. Maybe by tomorrow Qay would decide that moving in was a good idea. If nothing else, Jeremy could give him the cell and that way they could stay in touch more easily. A text message now and then went a long way.
After Rhoda dropped him off at the Marriott, Jeremy began to pack up his belongings. He hadn’t salvaged much stuff from his trashed apartment, but in the interim, his possessions seemed to have multiplied exponentially. He was going to have to put a lot of them into plastic shopping bags, which wasn’t ideal. It didn’t help that he had only one hand.
When he moved an untidy pile of T-shirts and uncovered a small object, he smiled and picked it up. It was a very ordinary seed cone, the three-pronged bracts sticking out past the scales. Qay had picked it up during one of their walks and smilingly asked what tree it came from. Jeremy told him it was from a Douglas fir, and Qay had tucked the cone into his pocket. Jeremy had no idea how the thing ended up in his hotel room.
He was still examining the cone when his phone rang. He glanced hopefully at the screen, but instead of Qay’s number, he saw a 620 area code. “Mom?” he asked when he answered.
Her response was equally uncertain, her voice raspy from a lifetime of smoking. “Jeremy?”
Jeremy wasn’t exactly estranged from his parents. He called them on Mother’s Day and Christmas, they called him on his birthday. They didn’t really have much to talk about. He wasn’t interested in the latest gossip from Bailey Springs; they sure as hell didn’t want to hear about the men he dated. He’d last seen them over ten years earlier at his grandmother’s funeral.
“What’s up, Mom?”
“I ran into Betty Ostermeyer at the market today, and she said her son saw you on the Internet. Did you get shot?”
Oh, holy Christ. “Yeah, Mom. But I’m—”
“I thought you said you’re not a policeman anymore.”
His parents had never approved of that career choice. They said it was a waste of his college degree and that he ought to be working in a lab somewhere or maybe teaching. “At least you could do those forensics things, like on CSI,” his mother had said. He’d tried to explain that he wanted to help people who needed it the most, but neither of them had been convinced.
Now, he sighed. “I’m not. I’m the chief park ranger. This had nothing to do with my job.”
“Betty Ostermeyer said you were taken hostage by a drug lord!”
“That’s not quite true. And the gunshot wasn’t life-threatening. I’m fine.”
She was silent for a moment, then sniffed. “Crime is very bad in those big cities.” For her, big city meant anyplace with more than two stoplights. Dodge City was a teeming metropolis.
“Portland is safe. This was a fluke, and it won’t happen again.”
“Well… I hope you’re being careful.”
“I am.”
Another silence, this time longer. He could picture her sitting at the kitchen table, a cigarette and ashtray in front of her. Had they ever replaced that ancient corded phone that hung on the kitchen wall? Its cord was permanently tangled, but his mother used to straighten the kinks while she talked.
“Jeremy? Do you think you might come visit sometime? It’s been so long. I’m sure you’re busy, but your father’s been sick, and….”
Jeremy cleared his throat and wished he had a hand free to rub his temple. “I’m sorry to hear about Dad, but I don’t know when I can get away. I have this week off because of the injury. I’m going to have a lot of work to catch up on.”
“But you’re really okay? You’re healthy? You don’t have that… that disease?”
For fuck’s sake. She wasn’t stupid—she knew the name perfectly well. “I’m HIV-negative. Other than some bumps and scrapes from last week’s adventure, I’m the picture of good health.” He wanted to tell her about Qay—that he’d found someone to love, someone who loved him. That things were still uncertain between them, but Jeremy was hoping for a happy ending. That their entire community had misjudged Keith Moore, had failed him. That Keith had struggled through hell to transform into the man Jeremy now loved.
But she would neither understand nor accept any of that, so he didn’t bother.
He sighed again. “How about you, Mom? How’s it going?”
“I keep busy. I can’t garden this time of year, of course, but I have my shows. Oh! Do you remember Mildred Walker? Your grandmother played cards with her.”
“Um… I guess.”
“Well, she died not too long ago. But before she did, her son Stephen retired early and came back from Kansas City to take care of her. Stephen’s a good ten years older than you. I don’t think you know him.”
“I don’t think so,” Jeremy replied as patiently as possible. He didn’t care about Stephen Walker or anyone else in Bailey Springs.
“Well anyway, she died but he stayed. And do you know what he did? He took up with a mechanic from Laupner! Moved in with him and everything. That man in Laupner was divorced twice and has grown sons and all. Tsk. I guess you can never tell.”
So the point of this story was that his hometown had spawned another practicing homosexual—as had, apparently, the neighboring town. “Did the world end? Has Bailey Springs and/or Laupner been inundated with hellfire and brimstone?”
She clucked her tongue again. “I saw Stephen Walker the other day. Fay’s Boutique was having a fancy do for the holidays. Cookies, mulled cider. It was very nice. And he was there to talk about some of his paintings—he’s an artist, you know—and I suppose to sell them. His… well, that mechanic was there too. All dressed up. They looked really happy.”
This time Jeremy paused before responding. “That’s nice, Mom,” he finally said.
“It is. Well, I’ll let you go. Take care of yourself, Jeremy.”
“You too.”
For a long time after the call ended, Jeremy just stood there, holding the phone.
RHODA ARRIVED early Wednesday morning, towing Parker and Ptolemy in her wake. The first thing she did when Jeremy opened the door was hand him a large cup of P-Town coffee. “I can’t carry things if my hand is full,” he grumbled. And then he showed his true feelings by sniffing the aroma deeply. It smelled great.
“That’s why I brought help. Ptolemy’s on the clock, but Parker’s slave labor.”
“And I get an excuse to wear my butchest outfit,” said Ptolemy, who sported combat boots, baggy jeans, a sweatshirt, a plaid hunting jacket, and a gray bandana tied across his forehead.
“I appreciate it, guys.” Coffee in hand, Jeremy watched as everyone else hefted his stuff and carried it away. He did a final check to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, left a hefty tip for the pleasant housekeeping staff, and closed the door firmly behind him.
“Checking out, Chief?” asked the young man at the desk.
“Yeah, you’re finally getting rid of me.”
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay.”
Jeremy grinned. “If my home is ever trashed again by drug dealers who subsequently kidnap and shoot me, I won’t think of staying anywhere but here.” When he got a chance, he
’d probably write to the corporation and commend the staff, who’d treated him well.
Rhoda and her crew piled all of Jeremy’s crap into the back of the SUV. Then Rhoda and Parker climbed into her Mini. “Do you want me to drive?” Ptolemy asked, eyeing Jeremy’s splinted fingers.
“I’ve gotta get back in the saddle eventually. May as well be today. The doc said it’s okay.”
In truth, driving was a bit of a challenge, and his shoulder ached a little when he moved the wheel. It was a short trip, though. He didn’t even shudder when he reached the parking garage.
“I would have been so terrified,” Ptolemy said, looking around the space.
“It happened too fast. I was plenty scared when I woke up tied to that post, though.”
“But now you’re cucumber cool.”
He shrugged, which caused a subtle wince. “It’s over with. He’s dead, I’m not. I’m moving on.”
Ptolemy shook his head. “Most folks can’t move on so quickly from something that bad. It makes an impression, you know? Like a footprint in wet cement.”
“I have friends who care about me. That makes a difference.”
“Yeah, I suppose it does. Still, you have to find peace for yourself.”
Jeremy was going to ask what that meant, but just then Rhoda walked into the garage with Parker. She’d left her car at P-Town and they’d walked over, bringing a box of pastries this time. Everyone but Jeremy grabbed armfuls of stuff. He led the parade up the stairs with his coffee in hand and put it down to unlock the door.
Everyone oohed and aahed over the revamped kitchen, which really looked great. They approved of the new fixtures and tile in the bathroom too. Their only complaint involved the walls, which were stark and white. Jeremy thought about the magazine pictures Qay had taped up in his apartment and smiled. “I’ll decorate eventually,” he said.
Then the furniture began to arrive. Jeremy’s friends tried to be sneaky about admiring the burly guys who dragged everything up the stairs, but the delivery guys definitely noticed. There was excessive bicep flexing. Somehow Parker took charge of furniture placement, which was fine with Jeremy. He didn’t care how stuff was arranged, since after he and Qay picked out some rugs, the contents of the living room would be moved around anyway.
Eventually everything was in place, the preening deliverymen were gone, and Rhoda and her crew had to leave. “Thanks for everything, guys,” Jeremy said.
Rhoda patted his arm. “You owe us a big dinner when your fancy-schmancy kitchen’s ready to go and your hand is back in service.”
“Done.” He walked them out and waved as they descended the steps. Then he closed the door and looked around.
He was home. It was damn good to be out of the hotel and back in his own space. But right now, that space felt empty—and not because of the bare walls and rugless floors.
He put away his clothing, then made a long list—again—of everything he needed to buy. Some of those things could wait, like a new TV and speaker system, while others were more urgent. His cupboards were literally bare. And he needed a few things just to get through the day: bedding, towels, toilet paper, a few pantry basics.
A shop not far away on Hawthorne sold high-end linens, and at first he considered going there. But parking would be a bitch, and if he walked, he’d have a hard time dragging his purchases home one-handed. So he trotted down to his SUV and drove to the mall, where he was able to buy some of the needed items. He stopped for groceries on the way back. It took several trips up and down the stairs to unload everything, but at least he was getting some exercise.
Jeremy put away the groceries and threw his newly purchased sheets into the new washing machine. By then he was ravenous. All he’d eaten that day was a P-Town croissant and, at the mall, a hot dog on a stick. But his shoulder throbbed and his head felt heavy, so he decided to lie down on the bare mattress for a short nap.
It was well past three when he woke up, the low sun casting long shadows through his uncurtained windows. At least it wasn’t raining. His shoulder was a bit better and his head clear, but his stomach had decided it was never going to be fed and had turned itself inside-out in protest. He chugged some milk from the carton—hey, no glasses!—but that didn’t help much.
Then an idea struck him.
He threw the sheets in the dryer, awkwardly put on his stupid loafers, and slipped into his jacket. Then he ran down the stairs, grinning the whole way.
HE LIKED to watch the traffic move around the streets near Qay’s workplace. Lots of trucks rumbled by, and sometimes a train rattled past on the nearby tracks. That reminded him of Qay’s brother, Kevin, and he wondered whether Qay could see or hear trains without anxiety overcoming him.
A steady stream of people was emerging from the local businesses by the time Jeremy arrived, but he knew Qay didn’t get off until five, so he waited. But darkness fell, the stream reduced to a slow trickle, and still no sign of Qay. Jeremy checked his phone. Five fifteen.
Heavy dread settled in his chest, although he couldn’t say why. Maybe because the place where he’d been tortured was only a few blocks away. He jiggled his legs as restlessly as Qay and waited.
At a little past five thirty, Jeremy got out of the SUV and trudged to the factory entrance. The door was unlocked, but when he stepped inside, the place was quiet, with only a few workers still there. “Can I help you, sir?” The uniformed security guard looked nothing like the one who’d been with Davis, but still Jeremy shivered slightly.
“I’m looking for Qay Hill,” Jeremy said.
The guard frowned slightly. “Hang on.” Then he turned and bellowed, “Hey, Stuart! Come here!”
A scrawny man appeared from around the corner. He couldn’t have been past his twenties yet, but his greasy hair was already receding. He had a pointy chin and a red, pointy nose. “Whatta ya want?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes at Jeremy.
This must be Stuart. Jeremy wanted to kick his skinny ass for the way he treated Qay, but managed to sound civil. “I’m looking for Qay.”
Stuart’s eyes widened for a second; then his lips curled into a smirk. “You’re the boyfriend.” He said it in the singsongy voice of a schoolyard bully.
“Yes, Stuart, I am. Which of us are you jealous of?” Jeremy smiled sweetly.
It was fun to watch Stuart’s face turn red and his smirk morph into a snarl. He started to say something beginning with f—either fuck or faggot, Jeremy guessed—but then apparently thought better of it. “I don’t know where your boyfriend is, but when you see him, you can tell him his ass is fired. If he’s too stupid to figure that out for himself.”
Jeremy’s blood ran cold. “Why is he fired?”
“Because the asshole hasn’t shown his face since before Thanksgiving, that’s why.” An evil glee lit Stuart’s features. “And you didn’t know! I’ll bet he’s—”
Whatever else Stuart had to say, Jeremy didn’t hear it through the rushing in his ears. He turned on his heel and dashed out the door, down the steps, and to his SUV. He dialed Qay’s landline and let the phone ring a dozen times before he gave up.
He tried to drive carefully and within some semblance of the speed limit but didn’t succeed. He crossed over the river in record time. Predictably, he couldn’t find a parking spot near Qay’s house. He circled the area several times, getting increasingly agitated, until he finally found a place two blocks away. As soon as the engine was off, he leaped from the vehicle and ran down the sidewalk.
Although he rang Qay’s doorbell several times, nobody answered. So Jeremy trotted up the front stairs and rang the bell belonging to the first-floor tenant. A lady in her early thirties answered; a little kid peeked out from behind her legs.
Jeremy tried not to look like a serial killer. “Hi. I’m a friend of Qay’s. Um, he’s your downstairs neighbor. I haven’t heard from him in a couple days and I’m a little”—a lot—“worried. Have you seen him?”
“Yesterday. He, uh, looked—” She stopped
and glanced down at the child. “You stay the night with him sometimes, don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
She nodded slightly. “How about if I just let you in?”
A small bit of relief shot through him. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Meet me by the door.”
So he trotted back to the basement door, and shortly after he got there, she had it open and stood there without the kid.
“Thank you so much,” Jeremy said.
“Sure. Just make sure you shut it when you go. I hope he’s okay.” She cast a worried look down the stairs before heading back to her own apartment.
When Jeremy reached the bottom of the stairs, he knocked. It was a cop knock, loud and imperious, but nobody answered. After hesitating for a moment, he tried the knob, which turned easily.
The apartment reeked of alcohol and vomit.
Qay slumped on the couch, unmoving, and for a heart-stopping moment, Jeremy thought he was dead. But then Qay slowly lifted his head, brushed his greasy hair from his face, and looked at Jeremy. Even from across the room, Jeremy could tell his eyes were red and shadowed, a stark contrast to his too-pale skin. “Go away,” Qay said quietly.
Jeremy didn’t go away, although he remained rooted in place for several moments. Finally he moved closer. “What the fuck, Qay?”
“Go away.”
Jeremy looked around. The books and knickknacks were in disarray, and empty bottles littered the floor and the kitchenette countertop. He walked a few steps to pick up the nearest one and examine the label. “Great taste in wine, babe.”
In a monotone, Qay said, “What’s the word? Thunderbird.”
“How drunk are you right now?”
“Not very. Ran out hours ago.” Qay lifted his chin. “Wanna be a pal and get me some more?”
“Jesus Christ.” Jeremy tossed the bottle onto the armchair and stepped nearer to Qay. He crouched to bring himself to Qay’s level. “What the hell happened?”
