The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  Philip asks, “Did the guys say something to you on your way in?”

  I shrug. “Just the usual homophobic brushoff from the typical narrow-minded Neanderthal.”

  “Who said it?”

  “It’s nothing, Philip. Forget it.” I shake my head. “I’m taking your advice and letting the small things roll off my shoulders.”

  “Who was it, Chris?” he demands, and I am frightened for the first time at the sound of my partner’s gruff tone.

  He exhales, and I can see the cogs of Philip’s thoughts tumbling and working overtime. He looks over my shoulder into the outer office. “Who was it?” he asked again, releasing short, reedy breaths.

  “Philip, don’t—”

  Philip tosses his lunch bag across the mountain of paperwork on top of his desk. He swings his office door open and flies out into the central office.

  After a few moments of reprimand, Phillip stabs a finger at Deputy Mark Samson, motioning the gym rat into the lion’s lair for a quick, painful chastisement.

  I watch Deputy Samson ambling gingerly towards Philip; I cringe, my posture stiffening at the uncomfortable sight.

  Deputy Samson and I used to be friends when my former boyfriend Russ and I first moved to Milestone County. Mark was always quite hospitable whenever I stopped into the sheriff’s station to interview him, or the sheriff himself, for a feature story I was writing for The Milestone Review.

  Mark would greet me with a chivalrous, “Hello,” and offer me one of the last remaining sugar donuts from the greasy breakfast box. But that all changed one day. Something snapped in Samson that day, and a new person emerged. I never understood why.

  As Deputy Samson enters Philip’s stuffy office, he looks away from me, as if disgusted with my presence.

  I lean up against Phillip’s overstuffed bookcase, my arms crossed over my chest.

  “Take a seat,” Philip barks at the back of Samson’s head.

  I watch as Phillip walks around his desk and takes a seat in his leather chair. He steeples his large hands in front of him and glares over at the deputy.

  “Mark, do you understand our compliance regulations regarding homophobic behavior?” Philip asks.

  Hands clenched at his side, Deputy Samson’s gazes around the room, up to the ceiling, and back to the sheriff. He nods.

  “Good.” Philip pauses. “I’m glad to hear it.” He adds: “I will not tolerate any bigotry in this work place.”

  “Yes, sir—” Samson starts to say.

  Philip snubs him. “I’m not done talking.” He stands and pushes away from the desk. He pulls the shades open and a blinding white light streams into the room. He turns around and says, “You are one of my hardest working employees, Mark. But your attitude needs to change. You will treat everyone—including Chris—with respect.” He grips the back of the chair and his knuckles turn white, his fingers digging into the leather fabric. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Deputy Samson nods.

  “Good,” Philip says. “Now back to work. I have phone calls to make.” To me: “I’ll see you at home, Christian.”

  As we leave the sheriff’s office, I can see uncertainty in the deputy’s eyes. He wipes his clammy palms on his uniform pants, turns to me, and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

  I step forward and pull up a chair across from his desk. I sit. I stare over at a crestfallen deputy. I say, softly, “Mark, I don’t know where it went wrong with us. But we used to be good friends.”

  He is cagey embarrassed, as he stares around the room to see if any of his colleagues is watching him.

  “Do you remember when I first moved to Milestone County?” I ask him.

  Mark nods. “With Russ. Yeah, like it was yesterday.”

  This is a delicate balancing act. “Do you remember I would interview you for a news story I was working on at the time. I’d get a few quotes for the article. You helped shape some of my stories back then. Do you remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your quotes were always colorful and poignant.” I pause, staring up at the stucco ceiling, as if the words were written above our heads. I remember a specific quote: “At this time, there is nothing new to report regarding Mr. Fisher’s missing chickens. I’m sure they’re dead meat by now.”

  This elicits a small laugh from Deputy Samson. “I remember that story.”

  A smile. “The south end of town was a beehive of activity for several weeks, if you remember. Everyone and his bloodhound were out looking for those chickens.”

  “I’m sure a wild animal wolfed down those dumb birds.”

  “Or they’re still clucking away along County Road 11,” I volunteer.

  Deep silence.

  I lean my elbows onto the deputy’s desk. “Look, Mark. I know you’ve been—how can I say this gently?—depressed, since your father’s suicide.”

  He scowls at me, and as his back stiffens at attention, his eyes dart around the room. “Leave my dad out of this.”

  “Mark, what I’m saying is that our friendship has been tested because of your family’s religious beliefs.” I clap my hands together to emphasis, “You’re a good, hardworking person. Everyone in this room knows it, including me. So when I see you lashing out at people or treating them differently because of the color of their skin or sexual orientation, or because they don’t share the same beliefs as you do, I think of the man I met when I first moved here: a caring, honest man. And very funny.” Pause. “Don’t succumb to your father’s hatred. You’re so much better than that.”

  I stand.

  As Mark gets up, our eyes lock, and he stares at me, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. A muscle in the corner of his mouth trembles. In a surprisingly pleasant shift in movement, he throws his arms around me and hugs me.

  He smells like sugar donuts and Cora’s bitter station coffee. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

  When Mark releases me from his vice-grip, I crunch my face into what I hope passes for an encouraging grin. “Friends?”

  Mark nods. “Definitely friends. I’m sorry. I’ll work on being nice.”

  Quickly, Deputy Samson pulls open his side desk drawer and smacks a hardcover book down in front of me.

  My latest novel: Buried Secrets.

  “Will you sign it?” he asks, handing me a Ballpoint pen.

  I smile crookedly.

  He shrugs. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  After scribbling a few words on the dedication page (For Mark: A good friend and deputy), I hand the hefty book back to him. Like an excited eight-year-old on Christmas morning, I watch Samson bury his nose between the pages of the book, reading the dedication page. He looks up at me and smiles.

  Deputy Samson’s amused expression reminds me of my childhood enthusiasm for book reading. I smile at the long ago memory.

  “I’m an idiot,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Most people don’t realize that words are like weapons,” I say. “They can cripple.”

  He hugs me again. “Thanks.”

  “Take care, Mark.”

  “You too.”

  En route, I wave to Deputy Sheriff Leslie Roland, and thank her for earlier. She waves and smiles.

  As I turn and walk outside, I hear somebody yelling my name behind me.

  It is an all-too familiar voice.

  I whirl around to see Cora Hastings, Milestone County’s main gossip source sauntering towards me with a half-filled box of fresh donuts from the local bakery.

  She is out of breath and panting when she reaches me. She thrusts the box of tempting sweets inches away from my nose. “They’re calling your name.”

  Cora Hastings, someone whom I have known for the last six years, puts a smile on my face every time I see her. When I decline a donut, she launches into her wonted soapbox spiel: “Now, Chris, you mustn’t stop eating all of life’s sweet treats. You need them to help you write your next bestseller book.”

  Trying to get a word
in edgewise when talking—or listening!—to Cora Hastings is impossible.

  “I picked up a copy of Buried Secrets last week. I still haven’t had time to settle down to read it. My husband, Jerry, is a needy sort. You understand?”

  “I, um—”

  “But this evening belongs to me. Jerry is out of town with his buddies at a pool tournament.” She sighs. “Can you imagine? Jerry holed up in a pool hall?” Her voice is animated, zippy. “The old fool doesn’t like large crowds or loud music. I told him he either better prepare himself for the night out with the guys, or stay home. I said to him: you’re in for a rude awakening, dear. And he asked me: Why? And I tried explaining to that stubborn jackass that the place was going to be crowded with college students and roaring with hip hop music.” She laughs. “Some days it feels like I’m living with The Walking Dead. Jerry is an expired stick in the mud. But I still love him.”

  “Cora—”

  “Oh, Chris! I forgot to tell ya.” She slams the donut box shut and leans forward, grabbing my arm to emphasis her new revelation. “Melissa Dickinson, the woman who moved next door to us last year, is packing up and moving back to Seattle to be closer to her elderly mother. I guess Melissa’s mom, Judith, has taken ill and is being moved into an assisted living community. The woman is ninety-seven! Can you believe people live that long?” She barely pauses for a breath. “If I ever get that old and senile, pull the plug. I don’t want to live that long. It becomes such a burden for your family members to see you in failing health.” She waves a hand, as if proclaiming her sixty-plus years on the earth. “No, no, no. I don’t want to trouble anybody else with my senility.”

  This makes me smile, but briefly, and I feel something clenching sharply my insides.

  Cora slaps me on the arm. “Sure I can’t get you to take a donut for the road?” She pauses and tilts her head to the side. “You look tired, Chris. Are you feeling all right?”

  I nod.

  She wags a finger at me. “I know that look,” she says. “Something’s up. What is it?”

  I am quiet. Then I say, “Deputy Samson and I didn’t get off on the right foot earlier. But everything seems to be fine now.”

  Cora stares up at me. “What happened? What did that muscle head say to you?”

  I wink at her dogged persistence. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  She pats my cheek.

  The quiet tenderness in her eyes provokes me to say, “Everyone should have a friend like you, Cora.”

  She blushes. Which, for Cora Hastings, is a rare event.

  “Can I have a hug?” I ask.

  She holds the box of donuts out to the side; we embrace.

  She whispers into my ear, “Don’t worry about Deputy Samson.” She pulls away from me, stares in my puzzled gaze, and flicks my chin with her thumb. “If push comes to shove, I’ll fix his wagon.”

  I toss my head back and stare up into the overcast sky, chuckling. “You’re one of a kind, Cora.”

  Chapter 3

  Fifteen minutes later, a mile and a half from the police station, I reach Pickard Street by foot and stare across the street at my former house. A place filled with the happy memories of five years. The face of my ex-boyfriend, Russ, flickers in my mind like a restored old photograph coming into focus. My heart collapses in my chest. I lean up against a sagging spruce.

  I see Russ and me sitting at the breakfast table, our hands intertwined, our minds deep in thought; Russ reads the morning paper; I puzzle over Sudoku.

  Every morning, without fail, he would rise an hour earlier than me and serve me coffee—or tea—in bed. I stare up at the second floor of the now-unkempt house, and see Russ standing in the doorway of our bedroom, holding two mugs and smiling. Most days, all year round, he would sleep naked. Which was the case early on in the first year of our relationship: I recall a particular morning when Russ baked French toast, served the warm bread with hot maple syrup, butter, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. We’d eat it propped up in bed, staring out the bay window, into the dazzling light of morning.

  We’d make love soon thereafter and Russ would shower and brush his teeth before any bout of lovemaking. He’d smell of sandalwood soap.

  My gaze turns to the front of the house, the property now home to a family of four: Mom, Dad, and two young girls.

  The children’s toys in the front yard are blanketed in snow, which remind me of buried spirits. I jam my hands into my pockets.

  I turn to leave when quick movement from the house next door draws me back to my former past.

  Standing on the stoop of the porch in the adjacent yard is a tall, dark-haired woman. Janice Hicks. She sweeps a fine dust of snow from her porch steps. From where I stand fifty feet away, she reminds me of my former self, someone I barely know anymore.

  Last year, I came close to pressing charges against Janice’s son, Bret, for animal cruelty and drug abuse, loud music, and underage drinking. While Janice was out of town on work-related issues, Bret broke into my house, inebriated and stoned, smashing glass in the front door, and attempting to apologize for his unruly, out of control behavior.

  Things took a surprisingly lucky turn for Bret and me: I got Bret to apologize to his then dog, Darth Vader, and me.

  But when Janice learned of the incident, she avoided me at all cost, calling me, “A messed up man with his own adult problems.” I recall her pointing an accusatory finger at me a year ago. Over the hedgerows separating the two properties, she screamed, her voice in an ugly state of duress, “You didn’t handle the situation like an adult, Christian! Calling the sheriff on an eighteen-year-old boy is cowardly. Bret is only a boy, doing boy things. You should have talked to me first.”

  To which I was flabbergasted. I always thought Janice was the more levelheaded of the two.

  I guess you never know who people really are.

  I watch Janice Hicks sweeping the last layer of snow from the bottom step. I turn and follow the narrow sidewalk to the corner of Loran and Quinn Street, and take off at a brisk pace towards home.

  Chapter 4

  On the way to my new home on Sunder Lane, on the south end of town, I wander along Route 9 and notice an “Open” sign for Antiques & Lore posted on the shoulder of the road.

  I step out into the crosswalk and walk in the direction of a two-way road leading to one of Phillip’s favorite Sunday morning outings. It is the answer to the last minute items on my Christmas shopping list.

  I trudge through ankle-high snowdrifts to the store’s front door, brush snow and ice from the bottom of my boots, and pull the shop door open. As I step into the stuffy shop, the sound of electric wind chimes from a loudspeaker announces my presence. The pungent smells of eucalyptus and tea tree potpourri in the air prickle my nostrils.

  I stifle a sneeze, as the owner, a fiftyish woman and our closest friend, Claire Rosen, emerges into the room from around the corner. She is dressed in an all-black, floor-length muumuu—roomy enough for two adult bodies. Her smile is warm and welcoming.

  “Unconventional” is the best word to describe Claire. She’s more like a clairvoyant and gypsy than a typical middle-aged suburbanite.

  Her sayings always make me smile. “When I die, make sure I am buried with my Magic Eight Ball and incense candles.”

  But today she is not in a joking mood. The expression on her pasty face tells me she is preoccupied with something much heavier than candles and body oils.

  “Are you feeling all right, Claire?” I ask. “You look awfully pale.”

  She reaches out for my hand, pulling me through the maze of metal racks of potpourri and assorted loose-leafed tea tins into her aromatic, cluttered office.

  “We’ve got to be real quiet,” she whispers.

  Curiosity piqued, I stand erect and as mute as the ventriloquist doll in the shop’s front window.

  She leans in to me, her breath infused with the scent of anise. “I’m keeping an eye on a customer,” she says, nearly tugging me into her string of beady neck
laces along her bosomy chest. “He’s been here almost an hour, and he doesn’t seem to be interested in anything but…browsing.”

  “You do have quite a lot of stuff to browse,” I say.

  She shakes her head, and her waxy jowls jiggle like Jell-O. “He’s not a regular.”

  I turn to close the door, but Claire steps in front of me and jams a thick hand on the threshold. She shakes her head.

  I step closer to her. “Claire, if you’re really concerned, maybe you should call the police.”

  She places a jewelry-encrusted hand on her cocked hip, leans her weight on her right leg, and stares up at me, grinning. “Maybe I’m just overreacting.”

  “Why don’t we go take a look?” I motion her out the door. “Just in case.”

  We step out into the outer room and we walk casually toward the front counter. While Claire concerns herself with a bevy of edible body paints, I look up at the mirror behind the counter, and glance at the young man in the back of the shop. He browses in the gift and wrapping paper aisle. He seems harmless so I turn my attention back to Claire. “I stopped in today to pick it up,” I tell her.

  Claire grins.

  I reciprocate her smile as if to say: Don’t worry. Everything is fine with the young unfamiliar customer in the backroom.

  “He is going to love it,” Claire says to me. She twirls, spins around, dances, and disappears behind a doorway strung up with silvery-white beads.

  I take this time to shift my gaze up to the mirror, nonchalantly. I do not see the young boy. Slowly, I turn around to glimpse the fifty percent off sale rack behind me: a box of tarot cards, Ouija board, and a hodgepodge of flavor-scented lead-free candles fill the shelves. A sheath of writing pens catches my eye.

  “Do not miss out on those nice-looking writing pens,” Claire says. “They write smoothly and feel feathery between your fingers.”

  I smile. “I’m tempted. But I’ll wait.”

  Over the top of the shelf, I notice the adolescent boy staring my way, his face hidden under the bill of a baseball cap. He lurks in the shadows near Milestone County’s local artwork and picture frames.