by Rain, J. R.
I don’t buy it. I think she wants something else. I say, “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you did. Mary…” My voice trails off. Not because I don’t have the strength, but because I don’t want to waste time with blather. I just want to take in her fragrance. Interestingly, even as my strength wanes, my senses seemed to have heightened. Her sweet perfume awakens within me a hunger that I had shut down months ago, seemingly years ago. Mary has stepped out of her professional role and into my life, my personal life, and I am not sure what to do with her. It had been so long. So very, very long.
I swallow. I’m suddenly not sure what do with my hands. My aches and exhaustion disappear into the background. But they are still there, always there.
I wrap my brain around the situation again. Mary has come to me. Mary has come to my home when she wasn’t required to. Nobody does that anymore. Nobody except Numi. And Numi is the furthest thing from my mind right now.
“Mary,” I say again as I finally decide to lay my hand on hers. I decide to open with a joke. “What brings you here?”
Mary’s blush deepens slightly. She is not the case worker now and I like her self-consciousness even more than I like her professionalism. “I was in the neighborhood.…” She trails off and I actually laugh. She laughs, too. Two normal people enjoying wine, laughing, life. No one facing imminent death.
Except I am facing imminent death, and with each passing breath, it’s coming closer and closer. No time to play coy. No time to court her. Only us, now, in the moment.
“You wanted to see me.”
Mary downs a little too much wine. She’s nervous, but not unsure of herself. I sense that her feelings for me are real. “Yes, Jimmy. I came to see you, and only you.” Mary looks down at our now-entwined hands and I look, too. I am surprised to see—and feel—her own hand shaking slightly. This isn’t easy on her, either. How is it easy to fall in love with a dead man walking? I cannot afford sorrow, especially not from Mary. I don’t have time for sorrow.
I reach for her face with my other hand and draw her chin up and she looks deep into my eyes. We do not speak because there are no words that will change anything. Not my disease or the fragile state of my body. Words will not change the love I have for this beautiful woman who had the courage to accept her feelings for a dying man. And come to me without her notebooks or any pretense. She was here. For me.
I gently wipe away a tear that has beaded in the corner of her eye. Surprisingly, my hand is not shaking as I make the gesture. She gives me strength. As I do so, Mary leans in and her extraordinarily soft lips brush my own.
Our brushing, curious, timid lips take on more courage, and soon they press harder and harder.…
She is taking a chance kissing me, I know. There are no documented cases of AIDS being transferred through saliva, through kissing, but I know—and suspect—it is a fear for many people.
But not Mary, not now. She has no fear. Not as our lips press harder and harder.
I would not kiss her if I thought I would harm her or make her sick.
Our lips press harder. Our tongues find each other. Our hands find each other, too, exploring. I’m afraid of what she might find. Bones and flesh and emaciation.
I’m still me, I think. Still me… I think positive about my flesh. I will it to rise to love.
We kiss and explore and taste and weep, and I am not very surprised that soon I taste our salty tears, too.
Mary is lovely in sleep.
Her blond hair is now silver in the soft moonlight and spreads over her shoulders and breasts. Her blue eyes are closed and she rests her head on my pillow. I ask myself again which is more beautiful, the lovemaking or Mary asleep beside me, her hand resting on my chest.
We had been gentle, at least at first. Mary’s tenderness as she undressed me and kissed every part of my body before opening herself to me filled me again with a desire that I had never known in my life. I relive now every detail and realize it is joy that I am feeling as I envision again my mouth around her hard nipples as she cried out with pleasure. I actually ache at the memory of entering her carefully, my erection protected in not one, but two condoms. She was so fearless, so bold, and I was so careful. So very, very careful. I often checked on my wrappings. They held in place and she was safe and I held her close to my heart and soon we both orgasmed. My own briefly took me out of my body. I was in no condition to orgasm. I might have briefly died. I don’t know. But one moment I was there, and the next, I was briefly hovering above us, looking down, seeing us together, me on top and panting. Her beneath me and panting, her fingertips pressed deep in my back. My too-thin back. I could see every rib, every bone. My ass was nonexistent. I was not much of a man anymore.
The sensation only lasted a heartbeat or two, and then I was back on top of her, still inside her… very much a man.
Now I lay next to Mary—my Mary, at least for now—and I let the tears come quietly so as not to wake the delicate angel next to me. I weep because I know that I cannot handle another lovemaking session. That much I know. My next lovemaking session would kill me, but I cannot think of a better way to go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s been two days since I’ve heard from or seen Mary. Two very long and hard days.
Numi and I are at the Bean. I watch as Numi’s pen fills out the pages in his journal with his long, elegant strokes. I know he is watching me as well. He has hidden his surprise at my somewhat renewed strength. These days, I feel better. I am walking mostly on my own and I have a refreshing color to my face. At least, I think so.
We sit at our regular umbrella-covered table and this time, when the sun’s rays find my exposed flesh, I move my hand into the shade. These days, I no longer wish for death. Or treat my body recklessly. My new motto is “one more day.”
One more day with Numi.
One more day with Mary.
One more day. And with each passing day, I give thanks to whoever is around that gives a damn if I gave thanks. Even if I never see Mary again. Or hear from her again. Even if I die alone with Numi by my side, I give thanks. Mary has given me a rare and beautiful gift.
Still, say that to my aching heart. The one that has to leave her.
With renewed vigor, I reach for my latte as Numi sips his iced coffee. My notes lay in a neat stack in front of me, untouched. Every few minutes, I direct my thoughts to the murder puzzle. The answer may or may not be in my notes. But then I usually lose focus and find myself wondering when or if Mary will return to me. My mind vacillates between the two and Numi sets his book down and folds his arms.
“You’ve got to let it go, man.”
Numi knows that I am pining for her, willing her to contact me. But I will not reach out to her. No. A dead man has no right to reach out to anyone. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“I don’t have to do anything but pay taxes and die,” I say. “And my taxes are already paid.”
“She will come back or she won’t. Either way, we have a killer to find.”
Numi is eager to put this case behind us, I know. Eager to get me back on a path to rest and treatment. He was surprised and, I suspected, slightly jealous when I told him about Mary. I don’t believe he thought I had it in me. But I did. At least one last time. One last, beautiful act.
But I hope not. I hope for more. I hope for a lot more with Mary. But I have no right to hope. I have no reason to hope. Who am I to hope?
Today is cool, despite the shining sun. A soft breeze pushes the umbrella back and forth. I watch it flap and move. A young couple is sitting at the table next to us with a toddler who’s making a royal mess out of a croissant. I watch the child play and eat and make faces and destroy the croissant. Numi is watching me. I can feel the weight of his stare on me. I also feel his concern, his worry. The toddler looks at me and smiles big for no good reason. I want to smile back but my strength is suddenly gone, and so I stare at the little boy, apologizing through my eyes for not returning his smile.
She will come, I think and look away. Maybe.
I know I am behaving like a schoolboy. I know it’s silly to let my heart sing when I continue to live on borrowed time. I don’t care, really. My numbered days now have two purposes. Just a few weeks ago, I had none.
I will solve these cases, I resolve silently. Both of them. And I will love Mary.
My cell phone rings, which is a rare occurrence these days. Admittedly, I reach for it a little too excitedly, hoping beyond hope that it’s Mary. It’s not. It’s a restricted number. Deflated, I set the phone aside. I don’t have the energy for people I don’t know. With it still ringing, Numi reaches across the table and picks it up.
“Hey,” I say.
He ignores me and answers. As he listens to the caller on the other end, I inhale the smell of croissants and cigarette smoke and, most of all, the coffee. Since when did coffee smell so damn heavenly?
Since you decided you were in love, dummy, I answer myself and smile.
Numi holds my cell phone out to me. “I think you might want to take this, cowboy.”
I take it, too weak to resist. “Hello,” I say, or try to say. The croak that comes out is barely discernible.
“Booker?”
“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. I recognize the voice but my brain isn’t firing very quickly. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Detective Paul Dobbs.”
I sit up a little, or try to. Mostly, I hunch a little across the table. I hold the phone closer. The toddler has chosen this moment to make a strong, unsatisfactory statement regarding his confining high chair.
“Detective,” I say. “How can I help you?” I think I sound like myself, but who knows. Truth was, I don’t remember how I used to sound.
Dobbs hesitates. “How you feeling, Booker?”
“Sexy as hell.”
He snorts. “Always the clown.”
“You’re not calling about my health, Detective.”
“No. Not this time.”
“So what is it?” I ask, and already suspect I know the answer.
“We have another body here.”
That is the answer I suspected. Dobbs asks if I can meet him at the station. I don’t have it in me to meet at the station. I give him a lame excuse about needing to be home to keep an eye on my house cleaner. I can almost see him shake his head, and can almost feel him regretting his decision to bring me in on the case. But he agrees and we hang up.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I’ve just had two espressos and put some more Preparation H around my eyes and changed into a fresh shirt when we hear the knock on the door. I am chilled now, which is a sign of waning energy, but I hand the blanket that covers my thin body to Numi and he folds it quickly and tosses it onto my bed before answering the door.
Numi nods once at the detective, who nods in return. Men of few words. Numi has made it known that he thinks I’ve had enough excitement for one day. By “excitement,” he means us going to The Coffee Bean. My body tends to agree with him. It wants to sleep the day away, or lose itself in the chaos of my scattered mind. But I don’t have that luxury. Not with the detective in charge of Olivia’s murder showing up. Not with my brother’s killer still out there.
I ask if the detective wants a drink, praying like hell he doesn’t. And, like most of my prayers, this one goes unanswered. The detective asks what I have. I tell him Scotch. He says, “Good enough.”
I fight off a grimace as I rise from the couch. Numi doesn’t like any of this. But I make a show of being a good host. I need the detective on my side. I need him to open up to me. I need him to believe I am a capable worker. I am, in essence, putting on the show of my life.
I pour the drinks in the kitchen. I ask Numi if he wants one and he declines. Numi rarely drinks. I suspect my friend has given up the hard stuff to be ever alert for my needs. A good man. He has given up much for me. I should feel more appreciation, except I don’t. Mostly, I don’t understand how one man can love another so much.
Numi takes a seat on the couch so that I can have the benefit of the overstuffed chair where I can prop up my arms and sit up straight. As I finish making the drink, I see that my hands are shaking badly. I take a swig from my own stiff drink, pause, collect myself, and then head into the living room with the drinks.
I will my hands to be steady as I hand the detective his drink.
“Thanks,” he says. “You look better.”
I’m surprised to hear him say this. I feel like a total wreck, but a little lovemaking goes a long way, apparently. “I am better,” I lie.
“So what’s the prognosis these days?”
“You mean am I going to live or die?”
He drinks uncomfortably from his drink. “Well, I assume you are going to live.”
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?” I say, quoting my favorite book. “But it’s still too early to tell.”
“Or maybe you’re putting on a song and dance for me,” he says.
Numi’s eyes flash and I shake my head slightly, willing him to relax.
I say, “Or maybe that, too.”
He doesn’t say anything. He is absorbing this news. He looks at me from over his drink. Then he briefly looks at Numi and then back at me.
“This case is important to you, isn’t it?”
“More than you know.”
“I suspect I know.”
I don’t beg him to help me. I don’t plead with him to keep me in the loop. I just sit there and look at him and wait. Finally, he nods.
“I’m going to assume you are getting better, Booker. I’m going to assume you are not feigning getting better so that I don’t dump you from the case.”
“He said feigning,” says Numi, grinning.
“Must be fancy detective speak,” I say.
Dobbs shakes his head. “If you two clowns are done, let’s get down to business.”
And we do. Dobbs tosses another file onto the coffee table. I take another strong draw of my Scotch for good measure and reach for the manila folder. I flip past the scribbled notes and over to the black-and-white crime scene photos.
Despite myself, I gasp.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Same MO,” Dobbs is saying as I gaze down at the overweight Latino boy. He looks to be around fourteen and his neck is slit and his lips have been obviously maneuvered to an upward position. The ground around him has been cleared in a circle as before. His arms have been positioned out and up. If he’d been standing, he’d be pointing towards the heavens. The boy’s mouth is open and stuffed messily with something white and creamy.
Sweet Jesus.
A combination of revulsion and horror racks me and I find myself rocking in the chair. Rocking and running my fingers through my hair.
Yes, I have seen a lot of murder victims—and many of my missing person cases turn into murder cases—but I am not prepared for this. It hits too close to home, and the horror of discovering my little brother had been murdered in a similar fashion sweeps through me. I feel myself shutting down. I feel myself wanting to leave this miserable fucking world once and for all.
No, I think as I rock and now hold my arms. No. Not until this motherfucker is found.
“What’s in his mouth?” I hear myself ask after a few minutes.
“A piece of cheesecake,” Dobbs answers with a professionalism I am trying to match. But I sense his own horror. And this is coming from an LAPD homicide detective. A guy who eats donuts while reading homicide case files.
“When was he found?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Time of death?”
“Only a few hours before he was found.”
Two days ago, this boy had been alive and well. Two days ago, this boy might have been on his way to a Dodgers game with his own older brother, only to have his world torn apart, even as his throat had been torn apart.
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
“Who found him?” I ask. I know the info is in the report, but I can
’t take my eyes off the horrific picture. My voice doesn’t sound my own.
“Hikers. Not far from the main path. Like with Olivia…”
“And my brother.”
“Yes, your brother. I’ve been looking into your brother’s case, Booker.”
“And?”
“I think you’re right. They’re related.”
Numi makes a noncommittal sound that could have been a snort. To the uninitiated, it could have been a cough. I knew, however, it was Numi’s way of saying, “No shit, Sherlock.”
Dobbs looks over at my friend, who is sitting back on the couch with his eyes half-closed. Numi could have been asleep, or disinterested. He is neither, I know. He is hearing everything, digesting everything, making sense of everything.
Dobbs looks back at me after giving Numi a hard look. Numi gives no indication of seeing him, although I knew he had. Dobbs says, “Look, Booker, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before. I never said I wasn’t a stubborn ass.”
I nod. I am anxious now. Being anxious means I will soon have trouble breathing again and I cannot allow this to happen. Not now, not in front of Detective Dobbs.
“Please excuse me,” I say. I avoid Numi’s raised eyebrows—his indication of concern—and command my feet to take me into the bathroom.
Once there, I drink from the faucet. I urinate into a toilet that seems to be on rollers. I mostly miss. At least my kidneys are functioning, working hard now to rid my body of the toxic liquids I’ve just ingested. I wet a washcloth and wipe my face, careful not to touch any of the Preparation H. Then I focus on my breathing, aware that I’ve been in here too long already. I close my eyes and envision my lungs as healthy and alive, open and calmly inhaling and exhaling. Thirty seconds of this seems to help. I wipe my sweaty face one last time, and then open the door to find Numi waiting outside, casually leaning a muscular shoulder against the door frame.
“You okay, cowboy?” he asks. I’m suddenly aware of the many, many times he has asked me this very same question.
I’m also aware that mostly no one else asks.
