Murmuration

by TJ Klune

  Daniel’s eyes widen. “Now wait just a damn minute—”

  Sean rolls his eyes, but he’s starting to smile and that’s all Mike wants. “Nah. I think we’re pretty okay here, big guy.”

  “Yeah, see?” Daniel’s edging toward the door. “Everything is pretty okay. The kid’s good, George is good, no need to get your feathers ruffled there, Giganto.”

  “George,” Mike says, ignoring Daniel. “You’ll tell me if you don’t get paid, won’t you?”

  “Sure, Mike. Right away.”

  “Good,” Mike says. “That’s real good.”

  Daniel pales slightly, sputters a little bit more, and is out the door, the little bell ringing overhead as he hurries down the sidewalk.

  “Thanks, Mike,” George says. “Sorry about this whole mess.”

  “It’s okay,” Mike says. “He’s a shifty little bastard.”

  George barks out a laugh. “I tried to get it from him, but he kept skipping out on me.”

  “Next time, you come to me first.”

  “Yeah, okay, Mike.”

  “You got a few moments this week? That sliding door is sticking again.”

  “Oh sure. Be out there tomorrow if that’s all right with you. I’ll fix it right as rain.”

  “I know,” Mike says.

  “Sorry about the ruckus,” George says to Walter, but Walter waves him off with a “Don’t worry about it.”

  People go back to their breakfasts as Walter pours George another cup of coffee. Mike sighs and sees the photos on the ground. He’s about to start cleaning it up when he sees Sean watching him with a strange look on his face.

  “You okay?” Mike asks, concerned.

  “You just….” Sean shakes his head. “You don’t see it, do you?”

  “See what?”

  Sean is moving toward Mike even before he can get the words out, and there’s a low heat curling in his stomach at the sight of him. His face is bloodied and his nose is bright red, but Sean’s got this look in his eyes, something Mike can’t quite place. It’s hot and fiery and Mike’s never seen him like this before, hips rolling like he’s slinking instead of walking.

  He stops right in front of Mike, leaving a hairsbreadth of distance between them. Mike’s hands twitch at his sides, wanting to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t, because he can’t quite be sure he’ll stop if he starts.

  When Sean speaks, his voice is low, his words for Mike only. “You come in here. You deal with all of this like you do. Like it’s nothing. You make things better wherever you go. You always do. Three years I waited for you. I told myself to take it at your pace. That you needed it. That it was the right thing to do. But I swear to god, Mike, had you done something like that three years ago, I wouldn’t have been responsible for my actions, however improper they might have been. You catch my drift?”

  Yeah, Mike’s catching his drift, all right. It makes his skin buzz and his heart thud. “That something you like?” Mike says, wondering how he made his voice sound gravelly.

  Sean’s eyes darken. “Taking charge like you did?” He laughs, a husky thing that Mike wants to swallow down. “Yeah,” and he’s mocking Mike again, but in that sweet way he does.

  “I’ll have to keep that in mind,” Mike says, gaze darting over Sean’s face.

  “Make sure you do that, big guy.” And then Sean takes a minute step back, and that little frisson of want between them dissipates, but doesn’t disappear entirely. No, Mike’s sure it’s always going to be there, because he’s always going to want Sean. He knows this, sure as he knows the sun will rise tomorrow. There will never be a time when Mike Frazier doesn’t want Sean Mellgard.

  Sean knows what’s going through Mike’s head, he has to, because he always does. His lips quirk in that smile that’s just for Mike, warm and soft, still tinged with a bit of fire. Then he winces slightly.

  “Nose?” Mike asks.

  “It’s fine,” Sean says. “Nothing a little ice won’t fix. It’ll be bruised, but that’s to be expected.”

  “It doesn’t matter much to me,” Mike says. “I’d like you even if your nose fell off.”

  “Of course you would,” Sean says. “I’m amazing. Be a sport, would you, and clean up that glass? Walter will want to save those photos if he can. You know how he is. All those memories.”

  Mike nods as Sean walks back into the kitchen, already yelling at Walter about being a victim of workplace violence, that he’s going to need some time off and such. Walter’s yelling back that if Sean thinks he’s going to get a vacation out of this, he’d better have another thought coming. Mike smiles quietly to himself as he turns and crouches down to where the photographs have fallen off the wall.

  Three photos were broken in the scuffle, two small ones and a bigger one.

  The first of the smaller ones shows snow falling around Amorea, people laughing and smiling as they sled down the aptly named Thrill Hill, which is on the north end of town. Scarves are frozen in time trailing behind the necks they were wrapped around, and there is happiness on just about everyone’s face. Snow days are the best days in Amorea, and Mike can’t wait until they come again. He and Sean could bundle up together in front of a fire, a blanket stretched over the two of them, drinking hot cocoa spiced with a bit of rum, listening to Bing Crosby sing about a silent night.

  The second photo is the Amorea Women’s Club and their annual bake sale, which goes toward Willy’s salary and the upkeep of Amorea’s streets. Mrs. Richardson is standing in front of a table covered in perfectly baked treats, her little minions gathered behind her.

  He’s about to reach for the third photo when Willy comes in, huffing like he’s run the few blocks from his office to the diner. He’s looking around wildly like he expects there to be a shootout going on right in front of him.

  “Ah, calm down, you old fart,” Happy says from the lunch counter. “It’s done and over with. Mike took care of things.”

  “That true, Mike?” Willy says, wiping his brow.

  “Sure enough,” Mike says. “Just an argument. It’s all been sorted. How about you head on over and see if Walter’s got some of those hash browns you like so much?”

  Willy nods. “Don’t mind if I do. Since you took care of things and all.” He hitches up his pants and steps around Mike before heading toward the counter. Happy pats the stool next to him and starts shooting the shit even before Willy takes a seat. One of the girls stops in front of him, pouring him a cup of coffee before hollering back to Walter that they need some browns fired up and salted.

  It’s the usual.

  And aside from the little skirmish before, everything has been usual.

  And so maybe that’s why Mike’s not thinking much about anything when he picks up that last photo. Maybe his mind is still lost in that snowy day, the fireplace warm, and Sean even warmer against him. And maybe Sean’s whispering in his ear I like it when you take charge, you catch my drift?

  Yeah, Mike catches that drift. He catches it pretty damn well.

  So his head isn’t all the way in the game. He’s not thinking about mountains (though they are at the back of his mind, because of the snow—association and all), and he’s not thinking about the weird dreams he’s been having, or about the man at the end of his bed. He’s not thinking about starlings and how they murmur. He’s thinking about how Sean will taste, how he will look spread out under Mike, skin aglow from the firelight, saying Mike’s name in a low and breathy voice.

  He pricks his finger on a shard of glass as he reaches for the last photo.

  He hisses and brings the finger up his mouth, trying to suck the pain away.

  He’s annoyed with himself that he’d do something so careless.

  That’s when he sees it.

  He thinks, Huh. Well. Would you look at that.

  Because he might not have noticed, being lost in the snow like he’s been, had he not pricked his finger.

  The last photograph. It’s broken, hanging partway out of the
frame, the bottom part of the photo torn just a little. The photo itself is unremarkable. There’s Happy and Calvin and Donald and Sean, and they’re sitting side by side, mugging for the camera. Mike’s not in it, because it’s before Mike’s time. Sean said it was taken a few months before Mike came to Amorea, and when Mike asked if Walter had taken it, Sean got a funny little look on his face. He said, “I think so. Funny, I can’t quite remember. Who else would have taken it?”

  Who else would have taken it?

  They were at the park, sitting in front of the fountain. Even though it’s in black and white, Mike can see the sky is clear and blue, the water reflecting the sunlight in little bursts of color, the grass behind them the brightest green. It’s the perfect summer day.

  But that’s not what catches his eye.

  He knows this already.

  He’s seen this already. All of this.

  What catches his eye is how the photo is folded on the left side, like part of the picture is missing.

  And how funny is that, Mike thinks. That something could be missing.

  He knocks aside a piece of glass as he reaches for the photo. The frame is a lost cause. Walter will have to buy new ones. Maybe even get Daniel to chip in for the cost.

  Mike is careful not to get blood from his finger on the photo. That just wouldn’t do, now, would it?

  The picture comes loose as he tugs on it.

  Yes, it’s definitely folded.

  And so he does what anyone would do when confronted by something as unexpected as a folded picture.

  He unfolds it.

  The order is this:

  Happy is on one end. Next to him is Calvin. Then Donald. Then Sean. All of them have their arms crossed over their chests. They look happy. He knows these people. Loves them even. These are his people, and he would do anything for them. Especially Sean.

  But that’s not what he focuses on.

  Instead, he’s focused on the woman standing next to Sean, who was folded away behind the picture.

  He’s never seen her before.

  He doesn’t know what that means.

  He understands the concept, sure that there have to be people out there that he doesn’t know.

  But he doesn’t understand how there can be someone with his people who he’s never seen before.

  His skin feels chilled.

  She’s beautiful in a way that’s exotic and new. She’s wearing a long flowing dress. Mike thinks it might be red or orange, with little white flowers. Her hair is hidden under a wrap that’s the same design as on her dress.

  She has dark skin, like cocoa, and her teeth are little white flashes in a pretty smile. She has her hands at her sides and she’s wearing a bracelet on her right arm, something large and gaudy, but it somehow fits with the rest of her. She has a twinkle in her dark eyes, a spark of mischief, and Mike thinks he should like to know someone who could be playful with a look like that. And he wonders then, who is taking the photo, because whoever it is is the reason she’s got that look on her face. Like she’s smiling for someone she loves. Sean’s not smiling like that. He doesn’t have his just-for-Mike smile on. But he knows it for what it is. He’s seen it before.

  She looks regal, Mike thinks. Like some kind of queen.

  Stacked, a voice whispers. That dolly sure is stacked, that’s fo sho!

  Mike says, “Here I was, trying to act like I was this cool cat, but she wasn’t taking any of it. Like she thought it was just a bit.”

  “What was that?”

  He snaps his head up.

  For a moment, he forgot where he was. Strange how that seems to happen to him.

  He’s in the diner.

  It’s loud. People are laughing.

  He’s crouched down, hunched over the photo in his hands.

  His finger’s a little sore.

  Walter’s standing above him, head cocked, a funny little smile on his face, like Mike has amused him somehow.

  “What?” Mike croaks out.

  “You were saying something,” Walter says. “About a cool cat, and that some woman wasn’t taking it. That you were faking or something.”

  Mike shakes his head. “I… I don’t know. I’m not….”

  “Into women?” Walter says. “I know. Which is why I thought that was weird.”

  “No,” Mike says. “I can be. I’m just not. Not now.”

  “Because of Sean.”

  Yes. Because of Sean. But Mike doesn’t say that out loud. Instead he says, “You take all the photos here, right?”

  “Yeah,” Walter says, smooth as all get out. Mike knows Walter is letting him deflect, but that’s okay. He doesn’t push, which is why Mike likes him. He’s thinking about Christine, the African Queen, but that’s not quite right and he doesn’t know why. “Yeah, all those photos you see up there belong to me. Something I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Walter repeats.

  “Why do you take all the photos?”

  “Because,” Walter says slowly, like he’s speaking through a mouthful of treacle. “Because… I. Because I… I can. I can. Because I can. Because I can.” His brow is furrowed, like he doesn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

  “Okay, okay,” Mike says, not wanting to upset him until he can ask. He hears birds too, but he’s ignoring them even as he thinks about starlings, starlings, starlings. He knows they’re murmuring, but he can’t focus on that now. It’s this strange unreality that’s sweeping over him because he’s holding a photo that shows someone he doesn’t know and therefore shouldn’t exist in front of a man whose frown is getting deeper as he says, “Because I can,” again.

  “That’s good,” Mike says, and god, how he wants to go to them mountains. “You take this one?”

  Walter takes the photo from Mike and stares down at it. He’s sweating for reasons Mike doesn’t understand. He’s always liked Walter, really he has. Since the first day he came into the diner and met Sean, there’s always been Walter around somewhere. He’s young, maybe a couple of years older than Sean, and Mike wonders how he got the diner, when he opened it, if it was gifted to him or—

  Headache. He’s starting to get another headache.

  Walter suddenly smiles. “Yeah, I took this. I remember it. Before you got here. Maybe five, six months. We were out at the fountain, can’t really remember what for. Probably for an Amorea Women’s Club something or other. Always seems to be that way.”

  Mike thinks of a man smoking a cigar in the dark saying fo sho and Landine, the African Queen, and that’s still not right. It’s not, it’s close, but no cigar, and he laughs to himself about that because there was a cigar, and it was left burning on the patio table after….

  After—

  “What about the woman?” Mike asks.

  “What woman?”

  “The woman in the photo. Next to Sean.”

  “Oh yeah.” Walter holds the photo closer to his face like it’ll give him the answer. “The woman.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t… huh. I really couldn’t say.”

  “But you knew her. All of you did.”

  “Now wait a minute. Just because she’s—”

  “How many people are there in Amorea, Walter?”

  That stops him. Then, “One hundred and twenty-six.”

  “And you know all of them.”

  “Yeah, yes. So do you, Mike. Why, it’s the greatest little town there is!”

  Mike thinks, Is it? Is it really? Because what are we comparing it to?

  Out loud, he says, “If you know everyone, why don’t you know her?”

  “Gosh, Mike. I couldn’t say. You know how it is.”

  No, Mike doesn’t know, and that’s the problem. There’s something wrong here, and he doesn’t know what it is. “She knows you,” he says. “Look how she’s looking at you. Walter, she knows you. In fact, I would even go so far as to say she loves you a little bit.”

  Walter laughs. “Mike, y
ou feeling okay? You look a little peaked.”

  And yeah, maybe Mike’s not feeling so well. Maybe his stomach is rolling and his head is pounding because he’s almost there. He can see it in his head. He sees a man sitting at nightfall, a dark man, smoking a cigar, the smoke curling up around his head. He can hear him too, and it’s not a voice he can ever remember hearing before, but he knows it.

  He says, “Mikey’s got jokes now. Ba-zing, folks. Come one, come all, listen to the funny man, sure as shit, fo sho!”

  Walter says, “I… don’t understand? You okay there, Mike?”

  Someone used to call me Mikey, he thinks.

  Someone used to call me Mikey and we’d sit outside and it’d smell like cigar smoke, fo sho.

  There’s a pain in his head, just like a loose tooth.

  He looks back down at the photo.

  He wants to push, but something is telling him not to. Not yet.

  Because that loose-tooth pain is getting deliciously worse, and he’s worrying at it, poking it with a metaphorical tongue, but the photo in his hand feels like it’s already slipping. Not from his grasp; no, he’s clutching it so tightly that it’s starting to wrinkle. It is slipping, though, like he’s being pulled one way and it’s being pulled another.

  Walter’s still staring down at him, and there’s something almost like fear in his eyes. Mike doesn’t know what he can possibly be afraid of, unless it’s Mike himself. And yeah, Mike’s acting a little weird, a little off his rocker, and yeah, he’s showing Walter a photo that Walter says he took but can’t remember everyone in.

  He prods that pain. Just a little bit.

  He could ask Sean, couldn’t he? He could ask Sean because the woman is standing right next to him in the photo. Sean would know. Sean wouldn’t be looking at him with the cow-dumb expression Walter’s got on his face. It pisses Mike off a little bit, if he’s being honest with himself. To the point where he has to stop himself from reaching out and gripping Walter’s shoulders and shaking him until his head snaps back and forth while demanding to know why Walter doesn’t remember, why Walter doesn’t know who this woman is.

  The loose-tooth pain throbs in his head.

  He stands. His knees pop and his body feels the heaviest it’s ever been.