| There's a canyon
of buildings on either side of Westlake Avenue. They tower overhead, forcefully,
awesomely, as if carved from an alternate earth made of steel and glass.
We come here, Ray and I, because of the rather staggering variety of eateries
in the vicinity, which tend to be empty during the in-between hours when
we manage to fit in our lunch. |
So we're standing
on the corner of Westlake Avenue. Big buildings all around, lookin'
like what the future used to look like--back in the movies, before the
future went out of date. We come here, him and me, a lot on account
of the fact that there's places to eat and nobody in 'em. That's
about 5, which is when we eat if we eat at all, which sometimes we don't. |
| I admit that I'm not particularly
fond of this part of town, despite the impressive architecture. It's
unbearably crowded, particularly at this time of day, when the people--well,
there's really no other word for it. They swarm. There's also
a devastating sameness about them--not just in attire but in affect. |
Then again, 5:00 is a shitty
time to be downtown--what with the buildings letting out and the sidewalks
all jammed. Around us, everyone's late for something--they're running
for trains, catching buses, hailing cabs. They all look the same
to me--guys with ties, chicks in chunky heels and power suits. |
| No. It's more than that. |
Nah, there's more to it. |
| I can't pass a sky-rise without
thinking of her. All that bronze and silver and whirling, spinning
glass. The doors revolve, the cylinders defining the space they enclose.
And within them I can see softly falling snow, and dark hair, and blood.
Westlake Avenue is lined with these orbiting capsules, and outside some
of them, men in formal coats stand stiffly at attention, ready to offer
assistance. |
All the women look like Stella--Stella
now, not Stella then. Stella then hung out in jeans and sneakers.
Stella then wore her hair long and pulled back in a sloppy ponytail.
Stella then spent all her time sitting at our crappy linoleum-topped kitchen
table, surrounded by books and gnawing her pen. Stella now--well,
the pen's sterling silver, and she'd probably break her teeth if she tried. |
| Sometimes they remind me of me. |
I bet they all got silver pens,
these guys. |
| But Ray likes the restaurants here;
I should focus on that. He looks as lost as I feel--a gritty, dark
cowboy, out of his element, too naturally warm for all that cold glass
and steel. But the setting sun comes to his rescue, exploding off
the buildings and turning everything briefly orange and then gold.
Those colors are warm, and they suit him. |
It's easier to be here with Fraser--at
least I ain't the only one who sticks out like a sore thumb. Maybe
I don't fit but he don't fit either--Fraser's real, like he's the only
thing that's in color, bright red in all that black, gray and blue.
The sun turns its brights on and blinds me--shit, this whole scene gives
me a fucking headache. |
| He thrusts his hands into his jacket
pockets and turns to me. |
Or maybe I'm just hungry.
I mean, that could be it, too. |
| "So whattya say, Frase--Lenny's?"
Ray is scowling now; he's really hungry. Yet his suggestion is meant
to please me, as indeed it does. Left to his own devices, Ray would
as soon have a frankfurter on the street. Three bites and it's gone--and
Ray is ready to go, too. It's for me he eats in restaurants, knowing
I need peace and quiet to recharge. God bless him. |
"So whattya say, Frase--Lenny's?"
Fraser's looking distracted, but Lenny's'll cheer him up quick. Underneath
that starched exterior, the Mountie's got a thing for French fries.
Guy loves 'em, and no one ever guesses, but he'll eat all of his and half
of mine. Then again, he'll give me his pickle and cole slaw, so we'll
come out even like we pretty much always do. |
| Ray's looking expectant, and I realize
I haven't answered. "Yes, certainly. Lenny's would be--" |
"Yes, certainly," Fraser says quickly,
and he looks grateful--even a half smile. "Lenny's would be--" |
| And then I see her. There,
in the white coat--dear God, not possible. A delusion, a visualization.
But-- Yet-- |
And then the smile's gone, and he's
lookin' right past me, face intense, his eyes narrowing slightly and-- |
| I have to try. I must have
hope. And even this panic is a form of hope. And even this
pounding in my chest is a form of hope. If I'm running, I must be
alive. If I'm panting, I must be alive. If I'm this terrified,
I must be alive, then, mustn't I? I think it must be so. The thrill
of the chase is still thrilling. My muscles move as I ask them to.
I've run through canyons before, I've jumped off cliffs before. This
is no different. This is no different. |
--he's off, bang! running!--dodging
and weaving between the stunned suits and the power chicks with their short
skirts and leather satchels. And this is normal enough, the sort
of thing we do all the time--so I whirl and turn and I'm right behind him,
yanking my gun out of my shoulder holster. I figure it's like, you
know, the usual--terrorist monks, guys boosting a car, or maybe a pickpocket
that Fraser's spotted from four blocks away. |
| Cabs instead of caribou. Black
tar instead of white snow. Running through the canyon, cutting across
a river of traffic, the air full of noise, blaring, honking--the
cries of exotic animals. |
And he's really running, now--full
out, full-tilt, faster than me--then turning, swerving, cutting across
the street at an angle. The taxi horns blare and the SUVs slam
on the brakes. |
| Her white coat billows out behind
her. Her long, dark hair tails out behind her. Reaching out
for me. Hope swells in my chest. She's so close. Reaching
out. So close, I'm reaching out, close, reaching, my hand stretches
out and-- |
He takes the high road and I take
the low road, always and forever--and so I cross a little further down,
figuring I'll take rear flank on this one. I go up, scrambling over
the hood of a car, sliding and running and flicking the safety off my gun. |
| I grab her coat, it's soft, I've
got her-- |
Because he's stopped, he's there,
he's got her. |
| --and I turn her and look and--she's
not. It isn't her, nothing like. Her green eyes are surprised,
then confused, then frightened and dimly I can hear Ray's voice, yelling,
I think. Eyes, nose, shape of the face--all are wrong. And yet, if
I squint, I can see Victoria in her, through her. Part of me wants
to indulge this fantasy as long as I can, just let myself hold her and
stare and dream. But she's scared, struggling, throwing her purse
at me--and in her fear and hate of me she is very like Victoria. |
"FREEZE! CHICAGO PD!
DROP IT!" and I'm in a crouch, my gun aimed at her chest. Fraser's
got her, is clutching her tightly and she lets out a shriek and flings
her snazzy little black bag down onto the sidewalk. It spills open,
everything clattering out, and I half expect to see--I dunno, the Hope
diamond, or a kilo of coke, or at least a gun or something. Instead
there's a scatter of cosmetics, a wallet, a palm pilot, a set of car keys.
Maybe ten round gold tokens for the express bus. |
| Her face suddenly contorts, but
she isn't looking at me. She's looking beyond me, past me.
I turn and I see Ray, crouched and--dear God, he's got a gun, he's got
his gun out, he's going to shoot me, it's happening again, Christ, no,
please.... |
Now she's shrinking back against
a shop window and cowering and fuck me if she doesn't look terrified. Fraser's
staring at her blankly, and then his head turns slowly toward me.
His face instantly changes and he gasps, "Christ, no!" |
| And I'm braced for the pain as I
rush him. I'm braced for the sound of the shot. In the front,
this time--in my lungs or heart perhaps. Not a bad way to go, quick
and easy and symmetrical. But he doesn't fire. |
And that's my first, fat-ass cue
that something's off, because Fraser's blaspheming. And then he's
on me, grabbing my arm and twisting and shoving it down, forcing my gun
down. |
| And then the moment has passed.
The danger has passed. Ray looks angry, which means he's frightened,
and that is my fault. Behind me, I hear the sound of weeping, and that
is my fault, too. "Put the gun away," I plead quietly, "please put
the gun away. Mistake." |
The woman bursts into horrible,
ragged tears. Fraser's got this look on his face I've never seen
before--he looks sick, anguished, confused. "Put the gun away, please
put the gun away." And then the second, fat-ass cue as he swallows
and whispers, "Mistake." |
| The anger drains from his face;
he looks puzzled, confused, disappointed. I've literally led him
astray, wronged him as certainly as I've wronged the poor woman behind
me. |
Mistake? This is a mistake?
Fraser made a mistake? Wow--holy shit. I can see why he's so
miserable, being as he probably hasn't made a mistake since 1974. |
| I can't bear to look at him, or
her, and so I turn and busy myself with collecting her belongings together.
I've done a terrible thing, made a horrible error. I've accosted
an innocent woman, put her in danger, made her cry. "I'm so sorry.
My mistake." |
He's on his knees now, and he's
deadly pale, staring at the ground and collecting the bric-a-brac from
the chick's handbag. "My mistake," he's saying over and over, and
his hands are shaking as he reaches for her compact. "I'm so sorry.
My mistake." |
| I pick up her car keys; they're
heavy in my hands. Powder compact. Into the bag. Lipstick.
Into the bag. Above me, the sound of sobs. Such a near miss--Ray
could have shot her, could have shot me. I've endangered an innocent
woman's life--and why? Chasing a dream? I fumble her
wallet and it flips open. Margaret Saunders. Dear Margaret,
I am so very sorry. |
The word is freaking me out.
On Fraser's mouth, it's a worse blasphemy than "Christ." And if it's
true, if Fraser's made a mistake, I've practically pistol-whipped
some poor lady for no good reason. Pulled a gun on a crowded street
and aimed it at one of the citizens I'm supposed to be trying to protect.
Bad, bad juju--and a public relations nightmare, at the very least. |
| Ray's boots step forward.
He's apologizing to her. He's apologizing, although he's done nothing
wrong. My fault; a moment of weakness. If I'm honest, more
than a moment. This loneliness is my weakness. "We thought
you were..." Dear Ray. Trying to explain. "You resemble somebody
we want." |
I flick my safety on and quickly
reholster my gun. "I'm sorry," I say, raising my empty hands and
trying to look as non-threatening as possible. She ain't buying,
though--she's looking at me like I'm some kind of nutcase--but what else
can I do? "You...we thought you were...you resemble somebody we want." |
| Dear God. Does he know what
he's saying? Does he know, or has he just put his finger on
the matter in that odd, instinctive way he has? Ray's instincts,
his intuitions-- what he calls his "hunches" in that offhand, self-deprecating
way--never cease to astound me. It's a talent he has--reading people,
seeing through them, and then moving with unerring grace toward the mark.
I take the high road, he takes the low road, but he's always in Scotland
afore me, grinning and impatient. |
At my feet, still gettin' the lady's
stuff together, Fraser flinches--and okay, so maybe it's not true, but
you'd think he'd cut me some slack for a lie considering that he got me
into this mess in the first place. And it's gotta be at least partly
true, I figure, even though I'm flipping through my own personal mental
mug-shot book and I ain't coming up with a suspect of this description.
Female, mid-thirties, brunette, slim, olive-skinned--real long, thick hair,
all corkscrewing and wild like that. |
| I'm dumb, numb--but he's already
there and smoothly taking control. All I can do is offer Margaret
her purse. And the way she looks down at me, on me, makes her seem
very like Victoria, my dearest mistake. |
Fraser's still on his knees, but
now he's clutching the bag in his hands like an offering and staring at
her. "My mistake," he says softly, like it's a prayer or something.
"My mistake." I wish he'd quit it. |
| And when I blink and refocus, it
isn't Victoria at all, but just poor red-eyed Margaret Saunders.
And that look on her face isn't sneering pity but fear--fear of me. I can't
explain, I haven't the words to explain, but I can apologize. |
He extends the bag to her and she
takes a nervous step forward and snatches it from his hand before skittering
back again. "I'm so, so sorry," he says, and I can't stand seein'
him like this, so--so--shocked and penitent and off-kilter. |
| "Listen, really," Ray says smoothly,
taking control, knowing I'm not in control, "I'm sorry, lady. Is
there anything we can do to--" Margaret looks at him and then at
me, and then, quite sensibly, flees. From her perspective, we are
undoubtedly lunatics. Fair enough. |
"Listen, really--I'm sorry, lady,"
I say again. "Is there anything we can do to--" I'm trying
to force myself to fess up my name and badge number, but she just takes
another step back. She eyes Fraser, then she eyes me--and then she
runs for it, away down the street. |
| "Shit," Ray groans. "That
was a fuck-up." A fuck-up indeed, a dangerous lapse of judgment. |
"Shit," I sigh, rubbing my eyes
with the heels of my hands. "That was a fuck-up." |
| I've been ambushed by my own desires.
They've seized me, reasserting themselves with a vengeance. I'm a
danger to myself. I'm a danger to Ray. I'm endangering others--and
for what? What do I need so badly? Why do I still feel compelled
to get up and chase that white coat? |
Fraser's still on his knees, but
now his head has turned--he's watching her run away, watching her back
disappear, that wild hair flying behind her. I watch him for
a moment and he's looking like he's having trouble getting his Mountie
face on, a thing I never seen him have a problem with before. |
| She hates me. She's
always hated me. Maybe I need her to hate me. |
Finally, he takes a deep breath
and slowly gets up to his feet. |
| "Fraser." Ray's voice is oddly gentle.
"What the hell was that? |
"Fraser," I ask him, tryin' for
casual. "What the hell was that? |
| And that's precisely the right question,
of course. Again, Ray's in Scotland before me; again, he's gone straight
to the mark. What answer can I give him? Ray, I'm so empty
inside. I'll take hate, love, anything. |
Slowly his head turns from where
she's disappeared, and he looks at me. He's still corpse-pale, but
he tries on a smile. He isn't really one for smiling anyway, but
this--this one is godawful. Thin, fake, and all wrong. |
| I try to tell him. I try to
be honest; he deserves my honesty, my fealty. "That was a very sad
and pathetic spectacle, Ray." |
"That," Fraser says finally, in
a voice as dead as he looks, "was a very sad and pathetic spectacle, Ray." |
| He frowns at me, waits, look like
he wants me to say more. But there's nothing more I can say right
now. |
Now what the hell does he mean by
that? I keep my mouth shut, but he looks away, like he's said all
he's gonna say. |
| Something will have to change.
Something will have to give. |
And so basically, that was the last
normal day we ever had. |
| It's a problem,
but I can't seem to solve it. It's like a puzzle, except some of
the pieces appear to be missing. Or maybe I just can't manage to
put them together. Maybe it's me, some sort of intellectual or emotional
deficiency on my part. Again and again I try to start from basic
premises, from what I know for sure, little as that is. That's what
logic indicates, and yet, this situation seems to defy all logic. |
It's drivin'
me nuts. He's different somehow. Two weeks worth of different--two
weeks of him sort of quiet and caved in on himself. Like his insides
have collapsed. Something's brewing, but I don't know what it is
and I can't seem to find the right place and time to ask him about it.
We barely manage to get ourselves lunch each day, never mind some decent
place for a real conversation. |
| My--susceptibility--is a problem.
Ignoring it has ceased to help, and in fact, seems to leave me and the
people around me unacceptably vulnerable to danger. So perhaps it's
time to--give in to my yearnings. I am nearly forty years old, after
all. Not a child. And yet, in this, I am a child, I think.
Utterly inexperienced, particularly in this context. |
Still, though, I try to like--check
in with him whenever I can. "Hey Frase, you okay?" He always
looks a bit surprised, like he's forgotten who he is and where he is.
Then he answers, always the same. "Yes, certainly, Ray." Insert
nervous gesture--sometimes he rubs his eyebrow, sometimes he tugs his right
ear a bit. "I'm fine." |
| Ray could help me. If I only
knew how to ask. |
Yeah yeah, right right. Fine
and dandy. |
| I know he would help. I know
he's concerned about me--he asks me if I'm all right about three times
a day. I never know what to say, how to start. So I'm
both grateful and nervous when he finally corners me. |
Finally, you know, I can't take
it no more and I take the best chance I got. I'm droppin' him off
outside the Consulate, and he's reaching for the handle, about to get out,
when I reach across and grab his arm. |
| His long fingers dig into my arm.
He's looking at me across the front seat of the car--and he's right, as
always. The car is as good a place as any, and better than most. |
The car ain't perfect, but it's
as good a place as any, and more private than most. Better than the
station or our booth in the diner or under the Ice Queen's nose, right? |
| I wait for his question, and try
to form my own. "Frase," he says, his voice nearly a whisper.
"Really, man--are you okay?" |
"Frase," I say quietly, trying to
tell him--now. Here. Talk now, talk here. I ask him if he's okay, and keep
my fingers crossed. |
| I understand his tone of voice;
it is meant to promote and encourage confidentiality between us. I'm grateful
for it. I love him for it. "Yes, I'm fine, really," I assure
him. |
He looks at me and says, "Yes, I'm
fine, really,"--and damn, if I don't want to pop him one. But wait--he's
letting go of the door handle, he's sitting back in his seat. |
| How to put this? For God's
sake, I'm nearly forty years old--why does everything have to be so bloody
difficult? |
He's got that constipated look that
means he's trying to figure out how to say something embarrassing.
Paydirt. |
| "I've just been...thinking," I manage,
as if that weren't startlingly obvious to anyone, let alone someone as
strikingly perceptive as Ray. |
"I've just been...thinking," he
says, and it takes everything I got to keep my face neutral. Yeah,
Frase, I got that part already. |
| "Um," I continue, and that's good,
that's highly articulate, a prize utterance. Eloquence incarnate. |
He falters, and I'm like--trying
to send him the vibe. C'mon, c'mon, attaboy, you can do it... |
| I steel myself and claw into the
moment with my nails. Ridiculous to let myself be defeated. This
is my friend, my best friend, and he's kindly offered me his ear. |
I gotta say, though, when he spits
it out it ain't nothing like I've been expecting. I don't think my
face stayed in neutral--I think I upshifted into drive, there. |
| "I wondered if I could ask you...well,
about women." |
"I wondered if I could ask you...well,
about women." |
| Ray looks--well, shocked.
Nearly comically so. "Women?" he repeats, and it's funny, really,
but his sudden lack of balance helps me to find my own. |
Women?! Fraser wants
to ask me about women? Fraser wants to ask me about
women? "Women?" I blurt, but he's nodding--he's confident again. |
| "Yes, " I confess. "I find--I'm
not sure how to proceed." |
"Yes," Fraser replies. "I
find--I'm not sure how to proceed." |
| Ray shifts uncomfortably in his
seat. "Uh--go on?" |
Proceed. Women. Um.
Uh. "Go on?" |
| "Well." I seem to have a ridiculous
number of questions. "For one thing. Where--do you go about
meeting them?" |
He coughs a little, into his fist,
but he's doing great, doing fine. "Well. For one thing. Where--do
you go about meeting them?" |
| He stares at me for a second and
then suddenly he's grinning, gripping the wheel in his hands and letting
his spiky, blond head hang forward. The back of his neck is flushed. |
All right, just fuck neutral, because
the answer to this is so preposterous, this whole situation is just
so fuckin' preposterous, that I'm never gonna make it through with a straight
face anyway. |
| When he looks up, his blue eyes
are sparkling, laughing, and I'm already smiling in anticipation. |
I look down and grin, mainly to
pause for the timing. Timing is everything in comedy, so they say. |
| "Sixth grade," Ray says, and then
he falls back against the seat, loose and lanky and hooting with laughter.
My smile widens. |
Then I fix him with my eyes.
"Sixth grade," I tell him, and it's all the funnier cause it's God's honest
truth, and he knows it. |
| He presses his hand to his belly
and says, "Seriously, Fraser-- I'm the wrong person to ask." |
"Seriously, Fraser," I say, when
I can breathe again, "I'm the wrong person to ask." |
| "But surely," I object, still smiling,
"you've pursued someone since Stella." |
He smiles and shakes his head.
"But surely you're pursued someone since Stella." |
| Oh dear. I've said something
wrong, something tactless. |
Suddenly I don't feel much like
laughing no more. |
| Ray winces a little , then shifts
in his seat to cover it up. "Yeah, sure, maybe I've pursued one or
two people, but not like that makes me an expert or anything." |
This is dangerous territory, thin
fuckin' ice. "Yeah, sure, maybe I've pursued one or two people,"
I hedge, "but not like that makes me an expert or anything." |
| "I'm not looking for expertise,"
I say quickly, feeling embarrassed. "I'm simply looking for...suggestions." |
Fraser's red-faced now--fuck, I'm
fucking this up. He asks me for advice, but what advice have I got? |
| "Yeah, well, I don't think I have
any," Ray mumbles. |
I'm the wrong guy for this, I got
nothing, I tell him. |
| I nod slowly, and try to think of
a way to apologize without compounding my error. |
He nods and looks away, and god,
I feel like a shit. The guy cracks himself open like a lobster, and
I give him grief. |
| He's squirming uncomfortably now,
and I can see he's thinking hard, too. Of course, he'll get there
first; Ray always does. |
Maybe I could remember that this
is supposed to be about him? Maybe the whole world doesn't
revolve around me? Ya think? |
| "So, I mean, you're thinkin' about--maybe
getting a girl?" |
"So, I mean, you're thinkin' about--maybe
getting a girl?" |
| "Yes. I...have been thinking
about it." |
He nods--god almighty, he's really
thinking about it. |
| Ray looks away, out his window.
"Anyone in particular?" |
I look away, I can't look at him,
somehow. "Anyone in particular?" |
| "No," I explain to the back
his head. "That's part of the problem." |
He tells me no, and somehow that
makes things better. |
| "So, you're just thinking like--generally,
then, huh?" |
"So, you're just thinking like--generally,
then, huh?" |
| "Yes, exactly," I say, grateful
that he's understood. "And I'm--rather out of my depth, here, in
more ways than one." |
"Yes, exactly," Fraser says quickly.
"And I'm--rather out of my depth, here, in more ways than one." |
| He turns back at that, and now he's
frowning, seeking clarification. |
I'm not sure what he means.
"What ways?" I ask, turning around. |
| "Well, Chicago for one. American
girls. It's all...quite different." This feels like a pose,
like a lie, and I hasten to explain. "Not that I have a great reservoir
of experience to draw from in any case." |
"Well, Chicago for one. American
girls. It's all...quite different." He looks rueful for a second,
mouth twisting wryly. "Not that I have a great reservoir of experience
to draw from in any case." |
| He smiles faintly. "Yeah,
I get that." |
I wonder if that was hard to say. |
| "I thought perhaps...you might help
me negotiate..." I seem to have run out of words unexpectedly,
unfortunately. |
"I thought perhaps...you might help
me negotiate..." Fraser waves his hand around and I think: the car?
Chicago? Life? |
| But Ray fills the gap in my sentences.
"Yeah, okay, sure. I'll negotiate whatever you want--treaties, whatever."
I smile my thanks at him, but his brow is creasing; he's frowning. |
Then again, it doesn't matter what
he means. He wants my help with any or all of those? He'll
get it. Treaties, whatever. What bugs me is that he wants
help. That--worries me. |
| He knows me far too well, I think. |
That worries me very much. |
| My first task
was to come to terms with Chicago. If I were even going to entertain
thoughts of marriage, I had to reconcile myself to the idea of making Chicago
my home. And of course it was, had become so--had welcomed me, a
stranger, with all due warmth. And yet, of course, I had been resisting
the idea on some level, refusing to settle in, to make a real home or life
for myself. |
All in all,
that didn't get us much further, except that now I know what's on his mind--sort
of. A woman, Fraser wants a woman. Which I guess I can understand,
except well--really thinking about it, I could maybe list a couple of things
he needs more, or maybe just first. Like maybe moving out of his
office. Getting a place of his own with a sofa and a TV. A
place to hang his hat. |
| To my relief, this proved easier
than I expected. After some consideration, I realized that I didn't
actually mind the idea. There was Ray, of course, and Chicago had
a number of other amenities which I tend to take for granted unless I'm
particularly focused on them--international cuisine, cultural variety,
dry cleaning. There were, I realized, several neighborhoods where
I could see myself living. |
I always sort of wondered why he
never bothered to find himself another place. It seemed like he was
sending a message--I'm not here, I'm not staying, don't get too used
to me or anything. I got used to him anyway, though, so that
didn't work. Maybe his old place was such a pit that he figured the
office was better. Or maybe he just wants to sleep on Canadian soil, as
close to home as he can get. |
| So that part was easy enough.
Much harder to find a suitable someone to share that life with. |
Still, if he's thinking about getting
a girlfriend--well, he must be thinking about staying, right? |
| Chicago is full of women, and yet
it sometimes seems that there are no women here at all. I've tried
to school my attention, to note more specifically the faces, voices, and
smiles of the women I encounter each day. And yet, none of them--
They don't-- |
What's funny is, now that I know
he's thinking about girls, I can see the small, shy doubletakes he's making.
I mean, I watch him pretty closely, but I never woulda seen it if he hadn't
told me what he did. But now that I know what to look for--I can
see it. |
| I can't see-- |
He's looking. |
| I can't picture-- |
He's imagining, lingering. |
| It seems impossible that-- |
Thinking over the possibilities. |
| The world is empty, bereft--worse
so now that I've bothered to notice. |
The world is his banquet table,
his smorgasbord, his fuckin' oyster. |
| I've never felt so alone. |
I'm happy for him. Really. |
| Again and again, my mind returns
to Victoria. What did she have that I wanted so badly? Was
it her dark good looks that attracted me? Her brains? Her courage?
Her steeliness? |
Sometimes I play this game with
myself where I try to anticipate who the girl's gonna be. Does he
like 'em tall? short? blond? brunette? bodacious? slinky?
wholesome? nasty? |
| It's hopeless. I don't know.
It was, perhaps, a fluke. |
I'm just dyin' to know what
type is his type. |
| And then it occurs to me that perhaps
I'm looking at this the wrong way. I've been selfishly focused on
what I want, and that's probably the wrong question to ask. Perhaps
the correct question is--is there anyone who wants me? |
Cause face it, Benton Fraser can
have his pick. I've seen it a million times--the glassy look, the
sudden smile. They all go down like ninepins--thud, thud, thud.
It's a show, I'm tellin' ya; I think they call it "universal appeal." |
| Put that way, the answer is obvious. |
Wish I had half a pound of that. |
| Next time I'm
at the station, I approach her with my hat in my hand. She looks
up and shows me the most sensational smile. The warmth of that smile,
the joy in her face, simply crushes my reservations. Or at least
dents them. Well, nearly. Almost. |
"Vecchio,"
Welsh calls, and I look up from my desk. He's standing in the doorway
of his office, tapping his watch. I look up at the clock--fuck, nearly
4:30, and Welsh wants me to see Wilson before 5:00, and plus we haven't
even had lunch yet. Typical. |
| Really, though, her smile is quite
sensational. |
I sigh and look around for Fraser. |
| "Yes," Francesca whispers creamily,
"oh, yes, yes, yes. Whenever. I'm ready. Any time you
say--any night this week." |
Hell, Frannie's got him. Great,
now I gotta stage the Battle of Normandy on top of everything. First--a
beachhead. |
| Ulp--this week? |
Or should that be bitch-head? |
| Yes. Yes. No retreating
now--indeed, it must be this week! |
"Frrrrrraser!" I call, rolling my
rrrrs, announcing my approach. |
| I hear Ray call my name and glance
over. He's striding over, determined to stage my rescue. I
have to do this quickly, or I won't do it at all. |
Ollie, ollie, oxen free. Eeeeeverybody
out of the pool. You don't have to go home, Frannie, but you can't
stay here. |
| "How about tonight?" I suggest--and
then I clutch her arm, because she seems like she's about to fall over. |
"Frase, I need you--we gotta go
talk to Wilson about what he mighta seen over at the Country Kitchen--" |
| "Tonight?" Francesca repeats breathlessly.
"Tonight. Oh yeah. Sure. Yeah." |
He shoots a look at me, then he's
grabbing Frannie, who lookin' kinda sick, really. |
| Ray is nearly upon us now, and so
I murmur, "Perhaps I'll....pick you up about eight?" I barely get
the words out. |
"Hey, what's goin' on--she okay?"
I look at Frannie, who's maybe gonna throw up or something. "You
okay?" |
| "Eight," Francesca repeats.
"Right." And then she gasps, "Oh god, I gotta do my hair, gotta get
a dress, gotta--" |
Frannie ignores me, so what else
is new. "Eight. Right. Oh god, I gotta do my hair, gotta get a dress,
gotta--" |
| She turns and bolts out of the bullpen.
I turn my attention to Ray and put on my blandest look, hoping it will
deter questions. |
Frannie takes off like a bat outta
hell, which is fine by me. Fraser gives me his blank face, like I'm
a moron or something. |
| It doesn't, alas. "What the
hell was that all about?" |
"What the hell was that all about?"
I demand. |
| From far away I hear Francesca shriek,
and I grit my teeth. |
Something squeaks in the other room--sets
my teeth on edge. |
| "Nothing important," I assure him,
and of course in the grander scheme of things that is true. "Was
there something you wanted to see me about?" |
"Nothing important," Fraser says
mildly, and bang, he's on the offense, calm as you please. "Was there something
you wanted to see me about?" |
| His curiosity is warring with his
desire to get on with his duties, and thankfully, Ray is first and foremost
a policeman. "Yeah," he admits, scratching his head. "Come
with me on this Wilson thing?" |
And yeah, of course there is--I
want him to go with me to interview Wilson, cause the guy's a scumbag and
that makes me angry, and when I'm angry, I miss stuff. "Yeah. Come
with me on this Wilson thing?" |
| "Of course," I say, and off we go. |
"Of course," he says, and off we
go. |
| Mr. Bartholemew
Wilson really does strike me as a most unconscionable liar. I can
see Ray starting to twitch with anger. He looks very like a jungle
cat flicking his tail. |
So we go to
see Wilson, who really is a scumbucket and a half. He didn't see
nothing, he didn't hear nothing, he don't know nothing, and still he keeps
us till it's past six o'clock. |
| Ray wheels on me as soon as we're
in the car. "You don't believe that guy, do you?" |
I gotta know what Fraser thinks
of this--he didn't buy that geezer's story, right? |
| "No," I assure him. |
He smiles a little at the question.
"No." |
| "Well, thank God," Ray mutters and
turns on the engine. "Okay, so I'm thinking subpeona. I'm thinking,
shake his cage, see what comes crawling out." He glances at me and
I nod; I approve. |
Well thank God for small miracles.
If we both think it, then it must be true. "Okay, so I'm thinking
subpeona. I'm thinking, shake his cage, see what comes crawling out."
I shove into drive and pull out. |
| Ray looks relieved, then cracks
his neck. "I'm also thinking lunch, you thinking lunch?" |
Fraser's nodding; he approves.
Greatness. Now if we could just get some freakin' lunch. |
| I glance at my watch--it's nearly
half-past six. "It's nearly dinner time, actually." And I have
a dinner to arrange. |
To my surprise, Fraser ixnays lunch.
I look at him, and he's starin' at his watch, the window, anywhere but
my face. |
| I've given something away, and now
that his work is done, he'll have it out of me. "Spill it," he demands,
and I suppose I'd better. |
"All right, spill it," I say, looking
quick between him and the road. "What're you looking so antsy about suddenly?" |
| "I have a...well. A date,
I suppose you'd--" |
"I have a...well. A date,
I suppose you'd--" |
| Suddenly the car lurches to the
right, the tires squealing in protest. Dear God. He'll kill
us. I clutch at the dashboard. |
Date. Eight. Hairdo.
New dress. Christ. I'm off the road and on the grass divider
before my head stops spinning. |
| He stops short, shifts the car into
park. "Are you out of your freakin' mind?" he yells and that's
the last clear idea he articulates. |
"Are you out of your freakin' mind?"
I yell. "Why the hell would you-- You could have-- She is--
You don't-- How could--" |
| "Ray? Ray? Ray?" I had no idea he'd
be this upset. "Ray?" |
"Ray?" Fraser is pale, embarrassed,
trying to reach me I think. |
| I duck away as he waves his arms
in the air so that he doesn't smack me in the face by accident. |
I realize I'm flapping my arms like
some kinda demented bird, and grab the wheel tightly. |
| "Why?" Ray wails finally--now, he's
banging his head against the wheel. |
"Why?" I ask him, letting my head
fall forward on the dash. "Why, why, why?" |
| Carefully, I raise my hand
and drop it gently on the curve of his bowed back. He flinches and
turns his head to look at me. |
I feel his hand on my back--goddammit,
I've made this about me again, haven't I? But hell if it doesn't
feel
like it's about me. |
| I try to explain; Ray deserves
an explanation. "She's... fond of me, I think." |
"She's fond of me," Fraser confesses,
like that's some big secret or something. |
| "So?" Ray looks agonized, exasperated.
"So she's fond of you! I'm fond of you! Vecchio's--"
I clamp my hand to my ears; for God's sake, he just doesn't understand! |
"So?" God, I can't fuckin'
believe this. He could have anyone. "So she's fond of you!
I'm fond of you! Vecchio's fond of you! Everybody's
fucking fond of you!" |
| It isn't enough anymore, this fondness.
I'm tired of being the stray cat everybody feeds. A novelty item, amusing
but disposable. And Francesca Vecchio's attentions have been...persistent. |
I can't believe it--the Mountie's
covered his ears, looked away, tuned me out. I smack the steering
wheel so hard that for a second I think I've broken my goddammed,
motherfucking hand. |
| Right now, that seems more precious
than gold. |
"I think I'm going to kill you,"
I tell him. |
| I don't think I've ever fully appreciated--Ray
touches my shoulder. |
He doesn't answer and I sigh, reach
over, tap his shoulder. |
| And as I turn to look at him, I
have the strangest wish. |
He turns to look at me, and, man,
his eyes are so sad. |
| I wish Ray Kowalski had a sister. |
God, I'm sorry, Fraser. I'm
such a pain in the ass. |
| "Okay," Ray says quietly; he's calm
now. "You want Frannie, I'll do my bit to help." |
"Okay." I'm throwing in the
towel, making my apologies. "You want Frannie, I'll do my bit." |
| He starts the car again, and I feel
my heart pounding in my chest. Put into words, it seems wrong, patently
untrue. |
I shift back into drive and roll
us back onto the parkway. I have a plan now, at least I can do something
positive. |
| You want Frannie. Except
I don't want Frannie. But I want to want her, and maybe that
is enough. |
And really, Frannie's not bad.
She's pretty, she's got a good body, plus she's warm and she's got a big
heart. |
| I mean, that might be enough. |
You know what they say--big heart,
big mouth. |
| God, get a grip on yourself, Benton!
It's just a date! |
Man, I hope he knows what he's doing. |
| My date with
Francesca....clarifies things. She does, I admit, look staggeringly
lovely as she opens the door. She's put her hair up, swept it off
her face and neck into a graceful pile pinned to the top of her head.
This serves to emphasize her huge, dark eyes, which are fixed on me and
are warm, warm, so warm. |
I take advantage
of my wheel-less state and go for a walk. Fraser walks all the time,
and look at him--he's in better shape than I've ever been. I let
myself wander around the city, not thinking where I'm going, and I'm halfway
to the Gold Coast before I realize what I'm doing and switch directions
abruptly. |
| I am, I realize, really quite fond
of Francesca Vecchio. |
You can't go home again, boyo--best
to remember that. |
| She steps back carefully in her
pale pink dress and welcomes me into the hallway. A glance around
reveals no one else about, but I can hear the shuffle of feet, and the
muttered "shush!" as Mother Vecchio hushes someone or ones huddling in
the kitchen. |
So I let myself drift in another
direction, and really, the city's different on foot--warmer, realer.
This is Fraser's city, I realize--this is how he experiences it.
Not from the window of a car but on foot, where you can really see people's
faces and hear music and smell--well. |
| She asks me if I would like a drink,
and I thank her and decline. It's only when I notice her curious
gaze, the way her dark eyes keep shifting downward, that I remember to
give her the corsage I'm holding. She opens the cardboard box and
brightens at the sight of the flowers. As I watch, she takes a deep
breath and thanks me with a gravity that's not at all natural to her. |
It's dark and I cross into the park,
disregarding the signs that tell me it closes at dusk. Screw that,
I'm a cop, and plus it's a stupid idea, closing a park. Even Fraser,
law and order guy that he is, breaks this law--he can't get his head around
the idea that they can close the damn park at night. The park's pretty
at night--still and empty, 'cept for the occasional rat. And me. |
| She's trying. I'm trying too. |
No, ho, wait, spoke too soon. |
| I explain to her about the dinner
reservations I've made and she nods and fetches her wrap. She smiles
at me when she sees Ray's car parked outside, and the smile blossoms when
I open the door for her and help her inside. |
There's a guy sitting on a bench,
looking over at the pond. He looks up as I approach down the path, and
tenses a little, so I try to make my walk say, "Hey, I'm not a serial killer."
I see he gets it, he nods and relaxes back a bit. |
| Ray was, of course, right as always;
having the car helps a good deal. |
Course, any good serial killer
would know the walk too, but whatever. |
| And if our conversation at dinner
is slow, stilted--well, that at least gives me time to think. I stare
at her across the table and try to project myself into this future.
She is a beautiful woman with a good heart. I like her family very
much; her brother is my dear friend. She would care for me, I think--she
would make a lovely home, she would feed me, literally and otherwise.
And I--- |
As I get closer to the bench I change
my walk again, just to see what happens. He stiffens, he shifts,
he looks--and hell, I've got him if I want him. Do I want him?
Is that why I came here? Maybe yes and maybe no, I guess. Now
that I'm closer I can see what I'm dealing with--not bad, not bad at all.
Sandy brown hair, longish, sorta flopping over his face. Decent body.
Kind face. |
| And I-- |
"Heya," I call in greeting. |
| I would-- |
"Hey yourself," he replies. |
| Well, certainly I would protect
her. That's one thing. I would work for her, put myself at
her service and-- |
Nice voice. "Whatcha doing,
just hanging out?" I stop in front of him, jam my hands into the
pocket'o'my coat. |
| Well, perhaps I could....um... |
His eyes shift away. "Yeah." |
| Christ! Why can't I put
myself into this picture? |
"Mind if I sit?" |
| Think. Think. I would
come home to her at night, I would provide for her needs, father her children
and try to care for them-- |
He shrugs, slides over a bit, making
room for me on the bench. Still, our shoulders brush and I feel that
old tingle. |
| Our children, I mean, of course. |
To my surprise, he turns to me and
cuts to the chase. |
| But you don't love her.
You know you don't love her.
You don't want her--listen to yourself.
You're thinking of this as work. |
"We can't," he says, and at least
he looks sad about it. "There's a regular patrol here--cops--we're
sure to get caught." |
| Well, of course it's work--it's
all work in the end. |
I nod and glance down at my watch.
9:14. |
| In the end--perhaps. But
this is the first date. |
"Next sweep's not for sixteen minutes,"
I explain. |
| "Fraser?" I blink; it
suddenly occurs to me that her mouth has been moving for some time now.
"Penny for your thoughts?" |
It takes him a minute but then he
gets it, I see him getting it. He's quick--I like that in a casual
fuck. "Sixteen minutes?" |
| "I was thinking," I blurt, "that
a life of service is a wonderful thing." |
I grin at him. "Fifteen, if
you keep on yammering." |
| She frowns, then nods, then tries
on a smile, indulging me. |
He looks around quickly and then
slips to his knees. |
| I am still so alone. |
God I need this--connection. |
| And this won't stop you chasing
white coats. This isn't what you were looking for. This isn't
what you wanted. |
He sucks me quickly, expertly, and
my head lolls backwards. I look at the sky, gasp, feel my balls tighten.
Need, want this explosion. |
| And in a flash I know what I wanted
from Victoria, and the thought is--obscene. |
It's not everything, but it's maybe
enough. This is enough. This is--god. Enough. |
| I bring Francesca
home and walk her to the door. She looks up at me expectantly;
she wants me to kiss her. But I don't think I can. I
feel desire within me, coiled like a poisonous snake, but I've learned
something tonight. |
I don't expect
to see him again that night, but I do. He knocks, I open the door,
and I see everything right there on his face. Which means, you know,
that I really see nothing--it's that nothing look on him that's really
something. |
| My desire is--not for this. |
See, the thing you gotta understand
about Fraser-- |
| She kisses me anyway, as I knew
she would. And if I were normal, I'd be flushed with heat;
if I were normal, I wouldn't feel so ice cold. If I were normal,
I might presume upon Francesca. Take liberties, cup her soft breast
in my hand, pull her close to me. |
Well, okay, maybe there's more than
one thing. But one of the things you got to understand about Fraser
is that he's hot inside. Inside, he's red. Whereas most people
think he's hot outside, in the more conventional sense, and plus he's got
all that red serge on. |
| I don't, of course. |
Wrong-o. |
| When she pulls her face away, she
smiles--but I know she knows. I see pity in her eyes, and affection
too, an affection we share. She smiles at me and I smile back.
I care for her. And I know she cares for me. |
Outside, he's blue. Ignore
the stupid uniform and Fraser's blue--cool, controlled. Fraser's
got himself trained to be calm, rational, distanced, polite. He's
good at it too, cause it's not phony, it's what he believes in. |
| But I've killed something tonight,
without even trying. |
But the inside, the red side, that's
what Fraser is. |
| There used to be something else
in her eyes, something that's now gone. Heat, perhaps. Or hope,
or lust. Whatever it was, I've killed it. And I shouldn't be
surprised. The law of nature is kill or be killed, and Francesca
isn't a killer. |
Scratch the surface and you get
the real story--Benton Fraser, a hundred and eighty pounds of pure fucking
will, raw energy, and sheer drive. And see, I get this, mainly
because I've always been a major fan of John Lennon's. |
| I am, of course. |
Lemme back up. |
| And so was Victoria, my darling
Victoria, my dearest mistake, twice made. She nearly killed me in
Canada, she nearly killed me in Chicago. Did I want her to kill me?
Almost certainly, I think. Even now I'm chasing her, hoping to find
her, and find her armed. |
Lennon, if you don't know, was a
seriously violent fuck. Probably kicked his bassist to death--Stuart
Sutcliff, not that prick George Harrison. Beat his wife, drank, drugged,
half killed himself even before that fruitcake Mark Chapman took his shot. |
| Francesca touches my arm, asks me
if I'd like to come in for ice cream or a cup of tea. I thank her,
but no--I should go, I should return Ray's car to him. She nods,
and smiles, and in that moment I do want her--or rather, I want
to want her, and ice cream, and tea, and children, and all those sane,
normal things. I want to want them, so badly that I ache. |
Now a lot of people can't handle
this--it upsets them, ruins the image. But it makes sense to me.
'Course the guy was a peacenick--Give Peace A Chance, All You Need
Is Love, Imagine. Way I figure it, you only crave peace like that
if you ain't got any. It's McCartney, essentially a poofter, who
writes Helter-Skelter--ooh, tough guy, I'm so scared. Bite me. |
| I duck my head and kiss her cheek
before heading down the steps to the car. She stands in the pool
of porch light, watching me go, then lifts her arm and waves. I wave
back, and then slide into Ray's car, which smells like--his sweat, his
hair gel, the cigarettes he sneaks when he's distressed. |
So see, Fraser's just like Lennon,
or that's how I see it anyway. The guy's so into order because he's
disordered. Follows rules cause he ain't got any of his own.
We all want what we haven't got, and Fraser's no different, I think.
See what he shows you, and you know what he ain't. |
| I drive slowly to Ray's apartment,
park the GTO in his usual spot, and go upstairs to bring him the keys. |
So when I see him there, on the
other side of the door, wearing that nothing look that's all control-- |
| I knock and he answers. |
I get the picture. |
| He's just out of the shower, I think--hair
still damp, still wet behind the ears. He's surprised to see me,
I think, but still he greets me. |
"Hey. You're back."
Fraser, perfectly calm, more calm than he's been in weeks, it seems.
Bad news--must be, gotta be. |
| "I just wanted to return the keys
to your automobile," I explain, and offer them to him. "And to thank
you." |
"I just wanted to return the keys
to your automobile. And to thank you." Oh boy.
Automobile, not car. |
| Ray frowns and absently rubs the
towel over his hair. "So how'd it go? Or shouldn't I ask?" |
He's gone polysyllabic. Nuh-uh,
not good. "So how'd it go? Or shouldn't I ask?" |
| "It went very well, I think.
A most enjoyable evening." |
"It went very well, I think.
A most enjoyable evening." |
| Ray looks skeptical. "Uh-huh.
Well, that's good. You wanna come in?" He jerks his head toward
the living room. |
Most enjoyable. Riiight.
That's why you look so fuckin' happy, buddy--I hear the song in your heart.
"You wanna come in?" |
| "No, I think I'd better be getting
back. I have several important tasks to oversee in the morning." |
"No, I think I'd better be getting
back. I have several important tasks to oversee in the morning." |
| He seems disappointed, but I'm hardly
fit company at the moment. My thoughts are whirling, spinning, violent. |
Worse and worse, but what can I
do? No way I can break through this; he's nearly a machine, he's
so locked down. |
| "Yeah, okay. Maybe tomorrow
afternoon? I could maybe use you then." |
"Yeah, okay. Maybe tomorrow
afternoon? I could maybe use you then." |
| Of course I'll meet him. Work
is all that makes sense to me now. |
That gets me a smile.
"Why, certainly, Ray. I'd be delighted." |
| The afternoon
turns out to be most invigorating. Ray needs to investigate a list
of delivery companies patronized by the mendacious Mr. Wilson. All
is well at the first and second establishments we visit, but the third--it's
like stumbling into a den of wild animals. They look up, their eyes
flash, and suddenly the air is full of machine-gun fire. |
Fuck, I'm sorry
I asked! Wilson's papers throw us a list of delivery companies, and
so we go to check them out, right? First one, check, family business,
no problem. Second one, old, established, everything in order.
Third one--it's like a fucking prison movie in there, three guys and a
stolen van, and every one of them a hard-ass felon. |
| I dive left, Ray dives right,
and then I'm on the floor, hands and knees, my palms scraped. My
heart is pumping wildly, and I scuttle across the floor and take cover
behind a wall of filing cabinets. |
They reach down, they come up, and
they're spraying the air with bullets. Fraser's a red blur, and I
dive sideways myself, and just in time, cause the wall behind me is suddenly
full of little holes. |
| I crouch and peer out on the other
side. They're looking around the room, looking for Ray and me, waving
their guns wildly. |
Hell hell hell hell. I've
lost Fraser, but hey! I've found a two by four. Mr. Two-By-Four,
you are my new best friend. |
| Cautiously, nervously, they split
up, triangulating outwards. The one who is coming toward me is slow,
lazy. I can handle him easily. |
I tuck the board under my arm and
shimmy under the huge metal desk. I see feet coming, and I calculate
all the angles before making my move. |
| As I watch, Ray springs out from
underneath the desk and takes out the thug closest to him with a two by
four. The board makes a most satisfying sound, and that gives me
an idea. |
HOLY COW, he makes it! It's
up, up, it's away, over the fence, this is a goner, folks, this is a grand
slam, a home run, and the crowd goes willllllllllllld! Ko-wal-ski!
Ko-wal-ski! |
| When my attacker turns nervously
at the sound of Ray's blow, I step out from behind the file cabinets and
straighten my hat. Perhaps he senses my presence, because he turns
and stabs the gun in my direction, as if wielding a bayonet. |
Bang, down, like a sack of potatoes,
and I've got his big gun off him before he hits the ground. I spin,
covering the room with it, and fuck me if Fraser isn't standing there,
totally unarmed, having a polite chat with a guy carrying a machine gun. |
| "If you would kindly give me the
gun." |
God, I hate when he does that. |
| He looks confused, and for a moment
I think he's going to open fire. Quite an exciting thought.
However, I don't give him a moment--I simply reach out, sieze the barrel,
yank it out of his sweaty hands, and clobber him with it. |
Fraser's smiling, and then he's
got the gun and he's lifting and BAM! he just nails the sucker like he's
playing whack-a-mole. Guy goes down, and now Fraser's doing this precise
little military move, revolving the gun and unloading it. |
| I unload the weapon and put it down.
Ray's got a machine gun trained on the third perpetrator, who turns to
flee. |
Fraser's fine, so I turn my gun
on Guy Number Three, who considers the new odds here and runs for it. |
| I love the chase. The thrill
of the chase is still thrilling. |
And he's off!--Fraser's off, after
him--and so off I go, too. |
| He's the youngest and most fit of
the three, which is just as well--no fun otherwise. I'm perhaps ten
feet behind him when I burst out through the back door, and that fact tells
me that I'm faster than he is. Ah, but he's clever--good boy, he's
going up the fire escape, moving vertically. Points for thinking
outside the proverbial box. |
When I get to the door I have to
stop myself from blinking--cause they're gone, poof, like a magic trick.
Now Fraser's fast but he ain't that fast, not speed of light fast.
But I can't think to where he's gone--until I hear a clang and look up.
The Third Guy's two flights up, on the roof, and Fraser's right behind
him. |
| I like that in a perpetrator. |
Catchin' up, too. |
| I climb quickly and then step onto
the roof. He's there, just a boy, really, standing unsteadily and
pointing his gun. But I am rock steady. I smile a bit,
and walk toward him, hand extended. |
I cross the alley and crane my neck
to see if I can see something. Yeah, I barely can--I can see a bit
of red serge, Fraser's arm, then a bit of dirty white jumpsuit. I'm
steelin' myself to go up there when-- |
| He's unnerved, because he doesn't
understand. I. Don't. Care. |
Oh my God. Oh god no oh jeezuz
no--no, no, no, no-- |
| He fires then, and I dodge and weave
and rush him. He tightens his finger on the trigger even as I force
the barrel down, spraying the tar-paper roof with bullets. They're
bouncing, ricocheting, and they could strike either him or me--it's anyone's
game, really. We lurch from side to side, bullets flying all around
us, and then I realize that we're quite near the edge and-- |
The air is suddenly full of gunfire,
and I race for the fire escape, leaping onto the first rung and scrambling
upwards. Christ, and Fraser's unarmed, let him be okay, God, if you
can hear me, God, please please please. Just--take care of him, God,
make him bulletproof, God, don't let him be hurt or (killed) or nothing
like that, 'cause I just won't survive it. |
| Oh yes. Do it. |
I freeze, clutching the ladder,
as they-- |
| ---I shove us over it. |
Oh Jesus.... |
| The free-fall is fucking fantastic!
The scream in my ears is fucking fantastic! And even the smash, the
jolt, as we bang into the awning and then roll, crash hard to the ground,
is fucking fantastic! The world is spinning and I've dislocated my
shoulder and I might throw up but who gives a good goddamn?! |
They blur past me, they're falling,
I hear screaming, and then they're hitting the awning and pulling it with
them to the ground. I stare at them, I can't move, I can't breathe,
they're not moving. And then Fraser does move--he lifts his
head and rolls onto his back and clutches his stomach in pain-- |
| I'm alive. I'm really alive. |
No. No. |
| God, I feel wonderful. |
I think he's laughing. |
| Suddenly Ray is looming above me,
spiky yellow hair framed by blue sky. He looks frightened, and when
he touches my face; his hands are absolutely freezing. "Fraser...?" |
Way to go, God! I race down
the ladder and drop to my knees beside him--man, he's laughing all right.
His face is flushed and he's breathing like a freight train. "Fraser...?" |
| I smile at him. "Hello, Ray."
The light shines through his hair, and the edges gleam gold. |
His smile is absolutely glorious--god,
it's like he's high or something. "Hello, Ray." |
| He looks like an angel. "Fraser,
tell me you're all right." |
"Fraser, tell me you're all right,"
I beg him. |
| "I'm fine." I know that telling
him isn't enough, and so I take a deep breath and sit up. The
world around me looks bright, and new, and beautiful. "But I suppose
we ought to check on our friend there." |
"I'm fine," Fraser says, and then
he's sitting up, looking happy as a clam. Guy falls off a building,
no problem, doesn't even bother to say ouch. "But I suppose we ought
to check on our friend there." |
| With Ray's attention momentarily
distracted, I grab my elbow and shove my shoulder back into place.
It hurts like the dickens, and I see stars, but only for a moment.
The pain fades into a dull ache. |
A look at "our friend" tells me
he hasn't come through this as well as Fraser. He's breathing, but
I can already see that one of his legs is broken. God knows what
kind of internal damage he might have. |
| Ray turns back to me, concern creasing
his fine features. "I'll call an ambulance." |
I look back at Fraser--he's sweating
a little, but he seems pretty much okay. "I'll call an ambulance." |
| "Yes," I agree. "I think that
would be wise." I look over at the young man and see that his leg
is badly broken. That's a pity indeed. "Poor man. It's
important to know how to fall." |
"Yes. I think that would be
wise." He's coming off of it now, returning to his normal self.
He looks at the other guy and sighs. "Poor man. It's important
to know how to fall." |
| I know better
than to argue with Ray when he looks at me like this--and so I let the
doctors examine me. I'm bruised, yes, and my shoulder is turning
black, but I'm otherwise fine and the doctors pronounce me good to go.
Ray's still edgy, I see, so I decide to be as agreeable as possible.
It's the least I can do, since I worried him so. |
The doctors
cart them all away--the two concussions inside, and Jello Boy, out here
on the sidewalk. Just because I'm a stubborn bastard, I insist
the docs take a hard look at Fraser--and damn if he ain't all bruised up
under there. Plus black around the armpits means dislocated shoulder--I
ain't blind or stupid or nothin'. |
| So I find myself accepting his offer
of dinner and television at his apartment. I suspect he wants to
keep an eye on me, but that's all right--there'll be nothing to see.
In any case, I enjoy Ray's company immensely, so it's hardly a punishment. |
They let him go and I tell him he's
coming to my place tonight. We're gonna chill the fuck out, order
a pizza, rest our weary bones. Plus that way I can keep an eye on
him, in case he starts speaking in tongues or nodding out into a coma. |
| We stop by the Consulate so that
I can check on Dief and change my clothes. Ray dogs my every step--I
really must have scared him this afternoon, and for that I am sorry. |
Fraser wants to stop by the Consulate
to check on the wolf and wash up, which is fine but I ain't lettin' him
out of my sight. Thank God, he doesn't argue with me about it. |
| I should have considered his feelings.
He's my partner. |
I think he's sorry about it.
Well, he damn well oughta be. |
| I pack a few things and then reach
for my jacket--which hurts. Ray sees it, but he just rolls his eyes
and says nothing. |
He changes into jeans and a shirt,
wincing a little as he puts on his jacket. Well, gee. Why am
I not surprised? |
| I lock up the Consulate, and we
return to the car. Ray drives us home, and he must feel better, because
he's humming softly. |
The car feels like halfway home,
and my spirits lift. I look across and Fraser's there, banged up
but okay, and that helps, too. |
| Upstairs, in his apartment, Ray
orders a pizza and then goes to change his own clothes. I drift to
the television and flip it on. |
I order us a pizza and then go off
to wash and change my clothes. In the living room, I can hear Fraser
flipping channels. |
| He calls to me from the bedroom,
his voice oddly muffled. "Anything good on?" |
"Hey--anything good on?" I
yell to him as I pull a clean t-shirt on over my head. |
| I consider the question as
I search. "No. Not really." |
It takes him a moment to answer.
"No. Not really." |
| He's smiling as he wanders out of
the bedroom,, and he takes the remote control from my hand. He flips
his glasses onto his face and stands there, majestic, working his way up
from 02. |
I grin to myself--god only knows
what that means. I go collect the remote control so I can see for
myself. Maybe Fraser can jump off buildings, but I'm still king of
the remote in my own house. |
| Ray stops at 19 and gives a little
exhalation of delight. I glance at the television and see John Lennon. |
Hey! John Lennon: Behind
The Music--a two hour special, yet. Nothing on--well, what does he
know? |
| The man was a wifebeater and a heroin
addict. Hardly a role model. |
Triumphantly, I throw down the remote
control. Case closed. |
| Still, it makes Ray happy, so we
sit down on the sofa to watch it. Three slices of pizza later and
I'm full and surprisingly groggy. |
We sprawl out to watch it, and when
the pizza comes I drag it over to the television, so I don't have to miss
nothing. |
| Lennon's reedy voice keeps lulling
me nearly to sleep--I keep catching myself, though once I was nearly napping
on Ray's shoulder. |
But Fraser's nodding in and out--and
that ain't good, not yet, not so early. He keeps sliding onto my
shoulder, and then snapping awake. |
| I awake again to find the room quiet,
and Ray glaring at me. |
Sighing, I flick the television
off, and give Fraser a shove. |
| "You can't sleep yet, Fraser." |
"You can't sleep yet, Fraser." |
| "Yes, I know," I admit guiltily. |
He looks embarrassed. "Yes,
I know." |
| "I need you awake to see if your
brain's working right." |
"I need you awake to see if your
brain's working right." |
| "Yes. I know. I'm sorry." |
"Yes. I know. I'm sorry." |
| Ray looks at me thoughtfully and
I feel terribly guilty. He's my partner, and I've been such a burden
to him. |
I stare at him and consider the
problem. TV's putting him to sleep--I need to keep his brain engaged
for a while. |
| Suddenly he quirks a smile, snaps
his fingers, and gets up. He disappears into the bedroom, and I sit
up, my interest piqued. |
Wait--I got it. If it's still
there. I think she left it--now where did I see it? Closet.
Bedroom closet. Top shelf. Dusty but useable. |
| He returns carrying a battered game
of Scrabble. |
Scrabble. So okay. Let's
see what he's got. |
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Maybe it's
the couch, but I wake up the next day earlier than he does. The couch
is narrow, and I'm more than a bit cramped, but all and all I'm glad it's
me out here instead of him. |
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I dislocated my shoulder once, and
I know he'll be feeling it this morning, whether he shows it or not.
Bastard thing hurts like a motherfucker. |
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I try to stretch out, but I'm jammed
into too small a space. It's time for wakey-wakey, so I heave myself
up to my feet and stretch and then I feel better. |
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I go for a pee and that helps, too.
I peek into my room on the way back, and yeah, Fraser's still zonked out,
one arm draped across his chest. At least he looks comfortable. |
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I glance at the clock on my way
to the kitchen--it's just a little past seven, so I can give him another
half-hour or so. I set the coffee going--cause I can't even make
it out for coffee before coffee--and then pad over to the kitchen table
as the warm, coffee smell fills the room. |
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Now this is where I freak out. |
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I'm--like--a hundred percent sure
that we left the Scrabble board as it was at the end of the game.
Full, and with all those dumb words on it: laicize, genera, antic.
Except now, the center of the board has been cleared away--except for two
words. |
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HELP BENTON. Or maybe it's
BENTON, HELP! Either way I don't like it, I really don't like
it, not least of which because I can't for the life of me figure out how
it got there. I mean, yeah, sure, Fraser could've maybe gotten up
in the middle of the night and spelled his own name out, wanting to see
it in lights or something. But that don't strike me as likely.
And then why--HELP? HELP isn't a bad word per se, a good four letter
one and nine points--plus it's on a double letter for the H which brings
it up to thirteen. In fact, wait--BENTON is on the center star,
which means double word, so the whole thing actually comes out to twenty-nine--not
bad at all, really. Though of course it would have taken two turns
to get down. |
| I dream
of my father. At least I think it's a dream. He's standing
in the snow, wearing his casual uniform, the mountains of the North ranging
behind him. He looks oddly worried, almost imploring. His lips
are moving, though I hear no sound, which is strange. Normally I
can't not hear him, even
when I don't
want to hear him. But now he looks like
he's trying to tell me something urgent, something very important indeed.
"Dad, I can't hear you," I say, and I step closer to him, hand cupping
my ear. Snow crunches under my boots. "Dad? Dad, I'm
sorry. I can't hear you. I can't--" |
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Which doesn't at all answer the
question of how it got there, or what the fuck it means. HELP BENTON
or BENTON, HELP!--either way it's scaring the pants offa me. I've
never been much for that oujia board crap, or the Psychic Friends' Network,
but somehow--like--I'm sure this ain't coming from Frase or me. And
that's freaky---freaky, freaky, freaky. I mean, I know Fraser's good
and all, but he's gonna be really overworked if he has to start being Supercop
in both this world and the next. And if it's the other way--the HELP
BENTON way--well, how the royal fuck am I supposed to do that? I
reach out, and pick his name off the board. It puts me into a panic
just seein' it there. |
| When I wake up, I can't remember
where I am for a moment. Oddly, it's my nose that provides the answer:
this bed smells like Ray, ergo it's Ray's bed. I realize that I can
really stretch out on this gigantic mattress, and so I take advantage of
the opportunity and do. It feels good to move my sore muscles, and
just as I'm enjoying that sensation, my nose reports in with further information.
Ray's making coffee. I've never been a coffee drinker, but then again,
I've never smelled freshly brewed coffee first thing in the morning.
It does smell most delicious. Perhaps I should have a cup, in the
spirit of things. I get out of bed and rub carefully at my shoulder,
which still aches badly. Perhaps a hot shower will help. |
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I pick through the letters, now
piled in one corner of the box, and pull out an O and a W. HOW? I
spell out, hooking onto the H from HELP. Cause that's the question,
ain't it, either way--"how can he help you?" or "how can I help him?
In fact, now that I'm thinking about it, I got another question--so I search
through the letters till I find the other H and then add that and a Y onto
the board, too. There. That's about all I can do at the minute,
unless I'm gonna call a medium or something, which I ain't gonna do quite
yet. There's a little noise, now, from the bedroom--Fraser's up,
I guess. Part of me wants to tell him about this, but a bigger part
of me don't, so I guess I'll keep my big mouth shut for the moment. |
| Ray's standing by the kitchen table,
looking tired and a little lost. I presume he hasn't had his coffee
yet. Ray doesn't do very well until he's had his morning cup of coffee.
"Ray? Do you mind if I use your shower?" |
|
Wh |