by Sidney Bell
“The what?”
“Back of the book. List of artists. Look under B.”
Church flipped pages one-handed, unwilling to give up scratching behind Francis Bacon’s ears. When he found what he was looking for, he bent over to study the pictures.
“That’s disgusting,” he said, awe in his voice. Miller smiled.
“Are you looking at the painting of his boyfriend?”
The kid checked. “Ugh. I hope that’s not what he really looked like, or he should’ve held out for something better. Why’d you name your cat after him?”
“I don’t know.” Miller washed his hands as he considered. “I guess because he still saw value in things that’d been warped or damaged. Perfection’s overrated.”
When Church looked up, Miller tipped his head pointedly in the direction of the disfigured cat, who’d plastered himself to Church, claws gripping his threadbare T-shirt and purring loud enough to wake the dead.
“That’s because perfect’s always fake.” Church abandoned the book to rub Francis Bacon with both hands, smiling when the cat butted the underside of Church’s chin with his head. “Nothing’s ever really like that.”
Miller scooped eggs onto plates. “Even if it was real, it would still be overrated. Perfection is boring.” He set a loaded plate on the far side of the breakfast bar. “Food’s ready.”
Church didn’t move. He eyed Miller.
“You can bring him if you want,” Miller offered. He picked up his own plate and retreated farther into the kitchen, leaning against the opposite counter to eat standing up. It was as much space as he could give the kid while still being in view. After a long pause, Church came over and slid onto a stool, his arms full of wriggling cat. He had to juggle, but he managed to hold on to the fur ball while forking up eggs with one hand.
Three minutes later, he was all but licking the plate, and he didn’t protest when Miller got close enough to dump a few more slices of toast in front of him. Close enough to tell that the boy was more than a little funky-smelling, too.
The kid got more butter on the cat than he did on his toast and Miller winced at the way the boy let him lick up crumbs, but it wasn’t long before every bite was gone and the kid had the sacked-out eyes of someone a few minutes out from a long sleep.
Miller was of two minds about what should happen next. He’d already done more than most people would, a cynical voice suggested, and that part of him—the louder part, if he was honest—thought he’d done enough. No one would fault him for telling the kid to hit the road right about now. It wouldn’t cost him the title of decent guy. He’d made eggs, after all. Hadn’t called the cops. His duty was done, surely.
But his father would say it was his Christian duty to help the boy, that it was the right thing to do, and that the amount of inconvenience played no part in it.
And his mother would’ve lost her heart the moment Church brought the cat to the breakfast bar as a source of comfort.
Miller dug his fingers into his forehead. “You got someplace to go?”
The kid shrugged one bony shoulder. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Sure? You can take the couch if you want.”
“You don’t know me,” Church said, intent on the soft fur behind Francis Bacon’s ears. “I could be anyone. I could do anything to your place. You’re stupid if you let me stay here.”
“You gonna hurt my cat?”
“Fuck no.” Offense, sharp and hot, colored the words. Nonetheless, Church’s fingers remained gentle where they stroked the cat’s stubby tail.
“Well, he’s the only thing in this place that can’t be replaced. So it’s not like it’ll be the end of the world if you turn out to be a jerk.”
Church still didn’t look up. “I’m good, I said.”
“Okay.”
The kid flicked a wary glance at Miller and got to his feet, leaving Francis Bacon perched on the stool, his hands clinging for a second before finally letting go. “Yeah, I got someplace I gotta be,” he said, fake cheer loud in his voice. “I’m late already, actually.”
“All right.”
The kid backed toward the window, licking his lips, and Miller gestured to the coat hook by the door, only a few feet away from where Miller stood. “See the sheepskin one? Take it.”
Church hesitated. “You’re giving me your coat?”
“I’ve got others.”
“Sucker,” Church pointed out, and Miller laughed under his breath.
“Yeah, guess so. But you don’t have one, and it’s January. I’d have to be an asshole to let you leave like that. Take it. You can bring it back when you get another one.”
Church hesitated for a long minute, almost vibrating, eyes flicking between the coat and Miller, before suddenly darting forward, yanking the coat loose fiercely enough that he pulled the whole rack over on its side. “Sorry, thanks,” he gasped, before scrambling over the windowsill, sneakers squeaking on the damp wood. He disappeared into the night.
Miller straightened the rack, rehanging a couple of flannels and pushing his work boots against the wall. After hauling the TV back up onto the entertainment center to get it out of the way, he went to the window, shivering as he stood on carpet made damp by the kid’s wet shoes. He leaned out halfway to grab the window screen, which lay in the soaked grass outside. It only took him a minute to get it back into place, although his fingers were numb by the time he’d finished.
It occurred to him that he didn’t feel relieved that he was alone again. That was unusual enough that he went still, one hand resting on the cold glass. He took a long look around, at the dark trees lining the lot, at the bank of dark, silent houses on the next block. A dog barked in the distance. He didn’t see Church anywhere.
He closed the window. The lock wasn’t broken. Miller must not have closed it all the way the last time he latched it. He made sure it was fastened this time, although he was tempted to leave it be. Stupid, really, he thought, and headed back to bed.
It wasn’t like the kid was going to come back.
* * *
Except that he did, a couple of weeks later. A knock pulled Miller out of bed around two in the morning, and he was thick with sleep, confused and disoriented in the dark living room, so he jumped half out of his skin when he saw the figure at the window. It took a few seconds to recognize the backlit skinny body and the shape of the ridiculous hair, and a few seconds more for his heart to stop pounding.
He opened the window with fingers made clumsy by adrenaline, flinching from the vicious bite in the air. “You couldn’t have knocked on the door, kid?”
Church was crouched on the other side next to the discarded screen. He was huddling in the sheepskin coat, braced against the sleet.
Church peered past him at the door and made a face. “Didn’t think of it.” He knelt there, shivering in the darkness, not looking at Miller. The boy wouldn’t be here if he had another option, but he had too much pride to ask.
The whole thing kind of pissed Miller off, but it was also kind of a relief. He’d given more than a few spare moments’ thought over the last couple weeks as to whether his would-be burglar had been able to find another meal. Or a place to stay. Nice to know that the kid was still alive, at least. But given the temperature outside, there was a chance he wouldn’t be by morning if Miller didn’t let him in. At the very least he might lose a couple fingers, and Miller had enough guilt to last him a lifetime already.
So he sighed. “Come on, then.”
The kid clambered in, making a mess of the carpet—again, Miller thought with irritation. He shivered, because it was damn cold, and shut the window behind them. “Kick your shoes onto the tile, will you? I’ll get you a towel.”
Church didn’t move. “I’m still not gonna let you fuck me.”
“Good for you. An
d while we’re on the subject? Skinny, loudmouthed, underage boys don’t really do it for me. Stop bringing it up, okay? It’s gross.”
The kid squinted in consideration, then started toeing his sneakers off. “Whatever.”
Before Miller went to the linen closet, he turned the heat up, listening until he heard the furnace kick on. When he got back, Church was standing barefoot in the middle of the room, teeth chattering, hair dripping, lips pale. His wet coat—Miller’s wet coat—and his grimy shoes had been dumped in a puddle on the tile entryway, and the kid was trembling and pathetic in his sopping T-shirt and torn jeans. He looked like a damn urchin, which probably wasn’t far from the truth, and Miller rubbed the heels of his hands against his gritty eyes.
“You want a hot shower? It’s down the hall. Try not to break anything, okay?”
“You’re mad.”
“No. Yes. No, I’m tired.”
“Because I’m here.”
He closed his eyes for a second. “No.”
“I know what mad looks like.”
“I’m not—All right, yes, I am mad, but not at you. You don’t have to be scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything.”
“That makes you stupid, not brave,” Miller said wearily, and that was way harsher than he’d normally let himself speak to someone, but he was out of patience. Besides, it actually made the kid relax. “I had a bad day, that’s all. Come on.”
“Oh.” Church followed him down the hallway, keeping a little distance between them. “What happened?”
“Family stuff.” Miller gestured with one arm so Church knew where the bathroom was. “The door locks. Spare towels are on the rack.” He wanted to go back to bed, but he forced himself not to take it out on the kid, who made Miller feel like an entitled asshole for being angry about his own drama. At least he hadn’t spent the past few hours trying to sleep in the snow. “You hungry?”
Church gave him an embarrassed, grateful sort of smile, and Miller nodded. “Eggs okay?”
“Whatever works for you, dude.”
“Whatever works for you, dude,” Miller mimicked under his breath, which had Church grinning. Miller headed back to the kitchen before realizing the kid would need clean clothes when he was done. He grabbed a few things and dumped them on the floor outside of the bathroom. He knocked and called, “I left some stuff out here for you.”
Church called back something unintelligible, but Miller didn’t ask him to repeat it. He returned to the kitchen to cook.
His head began to hurt again.
The shower started, the water rumbling in the pipes behind the wall, and by the time the eggs were done, the kid was back in the living room, clean and scrubbed and red-cheeked, Miller’s pajama pants and T-shirt hanging off his narrow frame. Francis Bacon purred in his arms. He looked downright cheerful as he climbed up onto the stool.
“He was waiting for me in the hallway.” Church gave Miller a sly grin. “He likes me better than you. It’s probably because I have better hair.”
And for some godforsaken reason, that had Miller laughing. No one in their right mind could think the kid was serious, not with the gravity-defying tribble he wore on his head, but despite the stupidity of the joke, Miller laughed hard enough that his stomach started to ache, and the kid sat there grinning at him like a jerk.
When the fit passed, Miller flicked a piece of ham at him, which Church caught and fed to Francis Bacon.
“So what kind?” Church asked.
“What kind of what?”
“You said family stuff. What kind?”
“The kind that isn’t fun to hear about.” Miller tried to sound quelling. He didn’t want to talk about it.
“Is it personal?”
So much for that idea. “Is there another kind of family stuff?”
“I dunno. You gonna tell me?”
“No.”
“Why not? Is it a secret? Were you hatched in a lab or something weird like that?”
“You were hatched in a lab,” Miller retorted. He shook his head at himself, lips twitching. “And I’m not weird. It’s none of your business.”
Church rolled his eyes. “C’mon. Tell me. You want to, I can tell. Bitch about it already.”
“No. Stop being nosy.” Miller wasn’t sure why he wasn’t more annoyed. The kid was annoying. Everything about this was annoying, but maybe Miller was weird after all, because it wasn’t bugging him that much.
“Why? I’m a stranger. I’m not going to tell on you if you say something bad. Is your family messed up?” Church’s eyes lit up. “Were your parents cousins or something?”
“I am not inbred, although your glee at the idea is duly noted.”
Church studied him closely. “Maybe that’s why people are mean all the time.”
“Because of inbreeding?” Miller asked, perplexed.
“Because when people are nice like you, it makes them unhappy.”
“Not always.”
“You’re unhappy.”
Miller started to deny it, then stopped. “I’m not that nice,” he said finally. “I’m sort of a jerk sometimes.”
Church snorted. “Who isn’t? Look, what else have we got to talk about? Spit it out, dude.”
Since the kid clearly wasn’t going to stop bugging him until he caved, Miller explained. At first the words came out cramped and self-conscious, because Miller rarely talked to anyone but Shelby about serious stuff. It got easier, though, because Church asked questions and prodded for details and made ridiculous faces when he disapproved of something, and it soon stopped feeling like the kid was doing him a favor. Soon, Miller also stopped feeling like he had to minimize his upset so as not to make the kid uncomfortable. He just talked.
It was Sunday, which meant he’d spent half the morning at St. Benedict’s listening to a priest run on about a God Miller didn’t believe in. He’d felt sick because his father, sitting beside him, had been tense with rage over Shelby’s latest rebellion—this time, her refusal to make Em attend church with the family.
Afterward, Miller had picked up Shelby’s shift at the store because the last thing anyone needed was for her and Gus Quinn to spend more time together. That meant Miller had to listen to his father slam things around the office and mutter about disloyalty and sin for hours. When his father had calmed down, he’d squeezed Miller’s arm and said stiffly, “I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about you, Miller. You’re a good boy, always have been. I don’t say it enough, but I’m proud of you.”
Which had made Miller feel about two inches tall, since he agreed with Shelby that Em should be able to make up her own mind about what religion she would subscribe to—if any. Faith was meaningless if you only had it because your parents had brainwashed you into it. If Em came to it on her own, Shelby said, it would matter.
Miller understood that his dad was worried for Em and only wanted the best for her, but as someone who’d come to resent any mention of God due to the way he’d been force-fed the topic over the years, Miller appreciated that Shelby was capable of putting her daughter’s right to individuality ahead of her own needs and beliefs as a mother.
That did not mean Miller had any intention of saying so.
He’d done what he could to smooth things over, and by now Miller had plenty of practice. He’d called Shelby and spent an hour on the phone listening to her rant while he tried to figure out why the shipping database was off by more than a hundred bucks. When her temper had run out, he’d gone through the same act he had with his father, soothing and suggesting forgiveness. By the time he left work to find his truck’s battery was dead, he’d had a pounding headache and a bad mood of his own.
“Then I showed up and dragged you out of bed,” Church said.
“Then you showed up,” Miller replied, but
the words lacked bite. The kid wiped up congealing egg on one finger and let Francis Bacon lick it off, which was disgusting, but Miller didn’t say anything because a story that should have taken a couple minutes had run on for nearly forty, and in addition to being exhausted, he felt strangely better. His headache was gone. “You done eating?”
“Yup.”
Miller did the dishes before grabbing some blankets and stuff from the closet. “I have to get up at seven. My cat better be here.”
“Or what?” Church sneered, but Miller hit him in the face with the pillow and the kid laughed. They made up the couch together, and Miller got the light once Church was snuggled up under the blankets so that only a mass of tangled black hair showed. Francis Bacon was under there somewhere, purring like a fiend.
Miller headed down the hall to his own room in the darkness, but paused when he heard a small voice from under the pile of blankets.
“Miller?”
“Yes?”
There was a brief pause. “Thanks.”
Miller cleared his throat. “Yeah, no problem. Go to sleep.”
* * *
Over the next year, Church slept on his sofa two or three times a week. Miller taught the kid to love hockey, to turn wood on a lathe, and to use the front door instead of the window. In return for all of this, Church made Miller talk.
It turned out to be a fairly good exchange in the long run, Miller decided.
He wasn’t sure when charity and guilt became friendship, but it wasn’t as long as he liked to tell himself.
Chapter Four
2016
On Friday, Miller drove out to Woodbury Residential Treatment Center to pick up Church. There was a loading/unloading zone in front of the main building, but Miller wasn’t sure if he had to go in and sign for the kid or something. In fact, as he drove over a speed bump, peering at the front doors, the only thing he knew for certain was that the sprawl of buildings didn’t look anything like a residence, no matter what the name of the place was.
Miller guided the truck into a parking spot and turned off the ignition. He was nearly ten minutes early and glad of it, needing a moment to settle his stomach. He had an ugly apology to make, but that didn’t bother him as much as the idea that Church might try to apologize as well. That would be insufferable.
