by G. B. Gordon
“No, thanks. It’s fine. What do I owe you?”
“Two seventy-nine.”
I dig out my wallet. “Thanks for helping me out.” At last my thought-to-speech translator is kicking in. Now that I’m leaving. Great. Does Jack expect a handshake? I try to avoid them where I can, but I suddenly want to know what this man’s hand feels like, so I offer my own. Jack grasps it and holds it for a heartbeat longer than usual before letting go. Brief enough, though, to make me wonder whether there’s been any purpose in that or if I’m imagining things.
Tell him what happened with you on Sunday. No, now is not the time. I’m almost out the door, or should be, anyway. Jack was nice to open up the store for me, but he’ll want to get back to whatever he was doing. He certainly doesn’t want a lengthy explanation of that shutdown over dinner on Sunday. He’s being kind not mentioning it. Like he didn’t notice.
Jack tilts his head to the side, half a question. I’ve been staring into space again, haven’t I? Say good night, Mark.
His gaze strays to the poster still hanging on the corkboard. He comes around the counter and tears it off. “I’ve been thinking about music,” he says. Then, after a deep inhale, “Want to come by and listen to some jazz and blues? Or, wait, have you ever seen Blues Harp?”
I shake my head.
“Crossroads, though. No wait, you’re more into jazz, right?” Jack’s crooked smile promises the same connection we had when we talked after the concert. I thought I’d blown that up over that tongue-tied dinner, that and any chance of ever getting it back. A reprieve, then? Second chance? What if it happens again? You’re close to it. You can feel it hovering. The voice has a point. It’s like someone holding out a dark coat for me to slip into. Or a straitjacket.
“I’ve seen Crossroads. Good movie.” I take the chance. “I’d like that. Music, I mean. Or a movie. I’ll bring Bird if you haven’t seen it.”
Jack’s eyes light up like fireworks over a midnight pond. “I’d like that very much. Is that the Eastwood one? About Charlie Parker?”
I nod.
“I haven’t seen it yet, but I’d like to. How about Saturday evening. Sevenish? If Margaret’s up for it, we could have some finger food while watching the movie?” He sounds breathless. Or maybe that’s a projection.
I have an estate sale lined up for Saturday morning, but I should be long back by then. “Saturday works.”
That crooked smile slowly tilts up the corner of Jack’s mouth. “I reckon we have a date, then,” he drawls.
I have to curl my hand into a fist. Makuakāne rule number one: Absolutely no touching strangers! And while Jack isn’t a stranger exactly, I’m sure Dad would have deemed it highly inappropriate for me to touch my finger to that tilted corner of Jack’s lips.
I grab the pack of sugar off the counter, briefly dare to meet Jack’s eyes. “We have a date.”
Jack blinked when Margaret crouched in front of him and said, “Jackson.” It was rare that she came into the store proper, especially on a Saturday. She didn’t like running into customers. How long had he been kneeling here, holding that blasted bag of sugar instead of restocking the shelf?
“I’m fine, love.”
“Margaret.” But she reached out and almost touched him before she pulled her hand back. That too was rare. She was doing more of that lately, though. Making an effort to connect with him in a way he’d recognize; like, even. She’d always been concerned with his wishes in her way, but initiating exchanges like this was a recent thing. Yeah, having a place to call home was doing her good.
Moved by her concern, but also a little ashamed that he’d made her worry about him, he set the last two sugar packs on the shelf and tore up the cardboard box as he rose. “I swear, I’m all right. Just lost in thought.” And more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He hadn’t had a fucking date since . . . he couldn’t remember. College? Not since he and Margaret had been on the run at least.
Unexpected, too. After Mark’s sudden exit the night of their dinner, he’d been almost sure he’d seen the last of him. He didn’t know what had gone wrong that night, but something had. Unless it had been about something else? Whatever Mark had been so distracted about in the first place, maybe?
Margaret held out her watch to him, and he got the message to lock the door so she could do the day’s tally.
He went to flick on the porch light, and couldn’t resist throwing a glance down the empty street. Way too early. The door closed with a clack of the old lock when he pulled it shut, and the hallway suddenly seemed a lot darker for it.
What the hell did he think he was doing? There was a reason he hadn’t had any dates. Dates were some serious lead-up to a relationship, and he didn’t have room in his life for serious. It meant questions he couldn’t answer.
It took an effort to shrug that thought off, but he managed. After all, things had a habit of sorting themselves out if given a bit of space. For example, casual was an option. Sometimes. Not often, because he didn’t like to leave Margaret alone, but he’d grabbed an opportunity now and then with no ill effect.
A movie and some music. That wasn’t too serious, was it?
He tried another shrug, shaking the tension out of his shoulders. He could keep it casual.
He’d just popped the sliders in the oven to warm them up, when the doorbell rang. As he bent to wipe his hands on his pants, he remembered, barely in time, that he was wearing his black chinos for the occasion. He grabbed a towel to get rid of the grease and crumbs and tossed it on the counter on his way to the door.
Mark was in stylishly rumpled gray linen pants, an orange T-shirt, and the ubiquitous sandals. Even in the heat he somehow always managed to pull off stylish, as if he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot, and Jack briefly wondered what he did for a living.
“Hey, c’mon in.”
Mark took the step up into the hallway, but didn’t pass through. Instead, he held out a DVD of Bird. “I bring gifts.”
He stood so close in the tight space that Jack could see a pulse beating at his throat.
“A gift? No, you can’t give that away.”
“I’ve seen it a number of times, and it’ll be more fun watching it with you.”
Fuck. Casual, Jack. Keep it casual. He took the DVD.
“Sweet. Okay. Well, let me just close the door and we can get started.” He was too aware of Mark following him to the kitchen. Thankfully Mark took up his perch in the doorway like he had the last time he’d joined them for dinner. The kitchen was too small to work in if someone else was standing around. Especially if that someone was lanky sex on legs.
“I’ve made us sliders. And peach cobbler. Mostly for Margaret. She likes it in individual bowls. Sorry about all the peaches. It’s a pity we don’t have a grill, but I think they’ll be okay out of the oven. The sliders, I mean.” He was talking too much.
Mark’s gaze had been moving around the kitchen, over the cabinets, the stove, the floor even.
Shit, he was boring the poor man to tears. But when he stopped talking, Mark glanced back at him and said, “I quite like sliders from the oven. There used to be a place in Port Angeles that did that. Quite good. Not with lettuce or tomato, of course.”
“No. Of course.” Surprised that Mark had actually listened, he was thrown for a loop.
The sliders would need a few more minutes, then he could swap them for the cobbler dishes. He’d precooked the peaches this morning. And now he seriously needed to stop staring at Mark and watch what he was doing or half his topping would end up on the counter instead of sprinkled over the peaches. Maybe he’d be able to pull the plug on the rampant babbling his brain was putting out too.
He managed to balance the sliders on a plate without mishap, and ushered Mark into the sitting room with a theatrical bow and an “After you.”
Margaret was nowhere to be seen. She’d seemed okay with not having dinner at the big table, so hopefully she was just busy. He set the pl
ate down and went to peek into the office where he found her still hunched over the books, headphones on, tapping a beat on the desk with her pencil. All good, then.
He went back to where Mark was perched somewhat stiffly between the pillows on the couch.
“Chuck them on the floor if they’re in your way. There’s sweet tea in the pitcher. Or I can get you a glass of water if you prefer.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them back out and picked up the DVD case. “Do you want to watch it while we eat or after?”
Idiot, the watching-while-eating was the whole point of not having a sit-down dinner.
“Watching while we eat is good,” Mark said in that slow, low cadence that so easily slipped under Jack’s skin. “And sweet tea sounds perfect.”
Jack popped the DVD in the laptop and filled their glasses, then took one over to Margaret and set it down within her reach but out of her way. She had started a new page and was in the process of penciling in a table, carefully measuring the distances with a ruler. When they’d first started the store, Jack had brought her a preprinted ledger, but the lines interfered with how she did things, and it had ended up torn to pieces. Now he always got her notebooks with unlined pages, too grateful that she did the books in the first place to quibble. He hated doing it. To him there was something almost petty in the precision it took. So if she enjoyed it, all the kudos to her. She was certainly good at it. She rarely made a mistake, and if she did, she went over her own work enough times to catch it.
He was stalling, and he didn’t know why. He’d wanted Mark here. Still did. He could sure use a little dallying in his life.
Margaret had yet to acknowledge either his presence or the tea by her side, so he left her to her lines.
Mark was staring at the splash screen, the plate in front of him untouched.
“Sorry.” Jack waved in the direction of the office. “I just wanted to make sure . . . She’ll join us for dessert, I expect.”
“Of course. Shall we?”
For a second Jack didn’t know where to sit, but the rocking chair wasn’t really an option, unless he wanted to upset Margaret royally. So he sank onto the couch cushions next to Mark, trying to be casual about it. Still, putting an arm out over the backrest seemed a bit much, so he ended up with his hands between his knees until he remembered the clicker and dove for it like the lifeline it was to bring the laptop signal up on the TV screen.
He didn’t follow the movie closely at first, too busy not getting caught as he cataloged every inch of Mark’s body, the narrow feet and long toes, legs, fingers—everything long and narrow about him, though the definition to his legs and ass spoke of some sort of workout. Running, maybe? No wonder he hadn’t caught any of the movie so far, though gradually the music was pulling him in.
It had never failed him. Had never failed to anchor him. Music. There was too little of it in his life now. That was the reason he was feeling so unbalanced. Nothing else.
Margaret came in halfway through and curled up in her chair with a bowl of the peach cobbler. Her presence made him relax. He might be a teenager on the inside tonight, but he was emphatically not going to start anything with his sister in the room. He leaned back to enjoy the movie, let the rhythm beat in his blood and make him tap his feet, in sync with Mark’s fingers tapping against his own legs or wrist.
He only nodded absentmindedly when Margaret finished her bowl and went upstairs, leaving the two of them in a bubble of sound, and something else, no less powerful for being inaudible.
Mark blinked hard when the credits rolled, and Jack took a deep breath. “Wow, that was—” he started at the same time as Mark said, “You can really tell—” They both stopped at the same time as well. Their accord wasn’t special in any way; it was the sort of thing people did when they’d just experienced something together, and yet, it kicked something loose inside Jack. For a moment he felt close to Mark in a way he never had to anyone.
He laughed around the lump in his throat. “You first.”
“Eastwood,” Mark said. “You can tell his love for the music, and his appreciation of Parker.”
“Yeah. Fantastic music, fantastic movie. Reminded me of Honkytonk Man a bit. He gets it, doesn’t he? How people leave all the crap of their lives in the music?” He’d been going to say more, but out loud like that what he’d already said cut a tad too close to home. He couldn’t anymore. His music was gone. Left behind in a pawnshop in Idaho.
Mark nodded. But before he could reply, Jack tried to move things into a different direction.
“So, is music also work for you or just a hobby?”
“Hobby. Work is costume design for Wolf’s Landing.”
That explained the clothes thing. “Cool. So, you’re behind the look of the show?”
Mark’s laugh was a surprised bark. “Sorry. That was funnier on the inside.”
Good to know the man could laugh, even if he didn’t smile.
“Yes and no, I guess,” Mark went on. “It’s a collaborative vision. I’m only one part of that.” He took a deep breath, but let it out again without saying anything else. He was watching Jack so intently that Jack felt his eyebrows go up.
“Yeees?”
Mark’s fingers played with the bracelets on his wrists, twisting them round and round, but his eyes stayed on Jack. “You don’t want to get me started on the stuff I love to do. I might never stop.”
“But I do. Honestly. I want to know. It sounds creative, and fascinating, and all kinds of things.”
“It is. It’s also expenses and production schedules, reading scripts, and coordinating with the requirements of sets and props and stunt people.” That last bit about stunt people came after another deep breath. There was a story there, but Jack didn’t want to interrupt him before he got to the interesting parts of his job.
Mark was staring into space now. “But it’s also pulling together everything everyone wants for the show into a cohesive whole, but still keeping a distinct style for each actor, and for where they are in their plot and development. Sometimes you’re searching for such a specific piece, you want to tear your hair out, especially since it can’t cost anything. Garage sales and such are great. People throw out the most amazing shit. And you look at it, you touch it, and you know. This. This is perfect.”
He’d abandoned his bracelets and was holding out an imaginary piece of whatever to Jack with such reverence that Jack could all but see what he was holding, what fabric he was testing between his thumb and index. He made Jack want to be a part of that passion that was running like a current in his body and making his eyes come alive.
He reached out, whether to feel the mirage or the physical body in front of his, he couldn’t have said, but the second he touched Mark’s hands, Mark recoiled as if a grenade had exploded in his lap.
Fuck. The man was downright shocked, retreating back into the armrest as far as possible. Had he gotten Mark’s signals all wrong, then? He should say something. Apologize. Mark looked like he was trying to form words as well, and Jack really, really didn’t want to hear them.
“Jack.”
Nonono. He couldn’t possible have gotten his wires crossed that badly, could he?
“I’ve been debating with myself whether to bring it up. Where this is going, and whether that means I should mention it.”
Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it.
“I’m autistic.”
“Oh, thank God.” It was out before he could stop himself. The relief too profound.
“Uhm . . .”
“Shit. That came out wrong. I’m so sorry. But I—I thought you were going to say you’re straight. I’m an—”
“No.” Another bark of a laugh. “Hell, no. I simply don’t like to be touched.”
“Oh.” Jack swallowed hard. “I see.” Talk about being brought up short. It made sense. In a way. Didn’t it? Reminded him of a thought he’d had before. He might figure it out when his brain worked again. And figure out what that left. Ju
st friends, then? That wasn’t so bad, was it? It was a lot more than he’d had before Mark rained into his store. Yeah, he could do that.
He almost laughed out loud. Casual, eh? Joke’s on you, Jack. Fuck, he needed time to think this through.
Mark was jerking on his bracelets hard enough to redden the skin of his wrists. Jack had to fight the impulse to stop him. Whether he was distressed about Jack’s touch or his own reaction to it or both—probably both—it was high time to steer this wreck of a boat back into calmer waters. So he did what he always did with a problem, he shrugged it off and laughed in its face.
“I’m really sorry. I do get it, you know. My mother couldn’t touch jack.” Bad choice of words. Apt, but bad. Hilarious, though. Hysterical? He swallowed the laugh, almost choking on it, and coughed to clear his throat.
“Margaret’s got a thing about it too. She’s her mama up one side and down the other. Some people like touch, some don’t. All there’s to it.” There was more to it than mere liking, of course, but maybe that would help put the man at ease. “Was that why you suddenly disappeared Sunday? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. You did everything right. It was,” Mark was speaking even more slowly than he usually did, visibly still fighting for words, “too much input.”
Jack nodded. He remembered now, that odd feeling of familiarity he’d had when they first met. Something in how Mark had moved his head, the way he’d aimed his gaze above Jack’s shoulder. Mark didn’t look at him in the same way Margaret didn’t look at him. The same jumping focus that stayed away from his face. But unlike Margaret, Mark’s focus only strayed temporarily. Maybe that was why Jack hadn’t made the connection earlier. Or rather, he had, briefly, but had dismissed it as imagined.
Mark got up and started pacing. “When I was a kid I was way,” he air-quoted, “‘weirder.’ What people saw was that I zoned out, that I couldn’t concentrate, that I would scream sometimes if someone touched me. If I didn’t expect it.” He stopped in front of the window. Did he see anything in the dark, or was he drawing comfort from the prisms, like Margaret did?
