May in December (5 page)

Bruce smirked. “In the fifties, they didn’t have to lock the doors.”

Gail lifted a huge white bag. “I thought you probably hadn’t eaten yet, so I bought us Chinese food from Foo-fo-u.”

Bruce reached for the food so Gail could remove her coat. “That joint’s still open? Hell, that’s where we had our first date.”

“You remembered that? It was over twenty-six years ago.” Gail tossed her coat across a hallway chair. “And they say men are not nostalgic.”

“More than likely, my sentimentality is caused by my gay gene.”

They made their way into the kitchen. Gail eyed the packed boxes with approval. “Boy, you have been busy,” she said as she skimmed her gaze over a couple of open boxes. “Looks like progress in the making.”

“By the way…” Bruce pulled back a closed box to reveal an unopened package holding a cheap plastic punch bowl with a matching dipper and cups. “This is from our wedding. It’s never been used, and the tag reads it came from your Aunt Doris. Do you want it?”

Gail glared at the offending package. “Honey, if I didn’t want it then, then I sure as hell don’t want it now. Besides, I can afford better.”

They sat the Chinese take-out containers on the table and spread a dozen packets of sauces in the middle of the feast. Both grabbed a pair of chopsticks and began to chow down. The corgis waited patiently by their feet, hoping for a dropped morsel or two.

“Where’s your husband?” Bruce asked.

“He’s out of the country on business again. Which is okay, as he needs to get all his stuff out of the way so he will be free for the wedding—”

Ding-ding-ding dong…

Gail sighed. “It never fails. Sit down to dinner and either the damn cell phone rings or the doorbell chimes.”

Bruce rose from his chair and trotted to the front door. When he opened it, a snow-and-blood-covered Jorry stood shivering in a thin retro T-shirt jersey with a faded picture of the music group Styx on it.

Stunned, Bruce grabbed Jorry’s arm, jerked him inside, and slammed the door closed. He gingerly touched the swelling under Jorry’s left eye. “What happened?”

“I-I’m sorry. Not thinking straight.” Jorry’s words came out slow and slurred. “I can’t say, except I need your help to patch my head up. I can’t reach it. I’d have gone to my friend Tabitha’s, but she’s on a date tonight and…”

Gail padded down the hall to the door, followed by her prancing doggy entourage. “Jorry Nelson. Look at you. Whoa. That’s a lot of blood.”

“Hi, Mrs. Windom. Yeah, I know, right?” Jorry glanced down at himself and tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. He touched the side of his head and winced.

“Well, don’t stand there.” Gail nudged Bruce. “Go play doctor and get the boy fixed.” Though her tone sounded playful, Bruce knew by experience she was hiding behind humor to keep from panicking.

Bruce led Jorry to the bathroom and made him sit on the closed toilet seat while he rummaged through a drawer of bandages, gauze, medical tape, and hydrogen peroxide. He wet a washcloth and turned back to his patient to apply the cold compress to the oozing, bloody swelling on the back of Jorry’s head.

“Ow. It hurts.”

Bruce eased up a bit and stuck two fingers in front of Jorry’s eyes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Thirteen, and they’re all your middle finger.”

“Funny.” Relieved at the attempt of a joke, Bruce repositioned the wet cloth. “You’re gonna have a hell of a headache come morning. Head wounds tend to bleed heavy, and it seems to me like you could use a few stitches.” Bruce rinsed the bloody cloth. “Are you sure you can’t tell me what happened?”

Jorry was pale and seemed downright scared.

Bruce finished cleaning the wound and bandaged it the best he could, though his imagination was getting the best of him. Why couldn’t Jorry tell him? Didn’t Jorry trust him enough? “I urge you to go to the hospital.”

“As much as I want to donate my A-negative blood, I can’t.”

“That didn’t make sense. I’ll drive you there.” Bruce turned to leave, and Jorry caught his hand and held it tight.

“No. You don’t get it. I’m paid by day under the table. I have no health insurance, and I sure don’t have the extra money to cover the cost.”

Bruce threw the bloody, wet washcloth in the sink. “I’ll pay. Let’s get this wound checked out by a professional.”

“My brain may hurt”—Jorry dropped his head into his hands—“but I can think clear enough to say you are not paying for me. I don’t need a hospital.”

“I insist you stop badgering the man.” Gail entered the crowded bathroom, scowled at Bruce, and laid out a guest towel. “If he doesn’t want to go, you can’t make him. He’s an adult. It’s his choice.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Windom.”

“Jorry, go ahead and strip your clothes off and wash up a bit. Bruce will get you something to wear, and I’ll throw your shirt and jeans in the washer.” When Bruce hesitated, Gail folded her hefty arms over her breasts. “Now would be a nice time.”

“Yes,
dear
.” Bruce hurried down the hallway, both annoyed and relieved at his ex for taking control. Gingersnap and Snickerdoodle clamored behind him.

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that sarcasm,” Gail hollered after him. “Sheesh. The way he talks back to me sometimes makes me wonder if he values my friendship.” The last comment was directed to Jorry, yet Bruce overheard it. The words didn’t bother him. He heard the wink in her voice.

Bruce returned with a silk pajama top and drawstring flannel bottoms. It was all he could find because he slept in the nude. Both items would be extremely baggy on Jorry, but it was the best Bruce could do. He returned to the bathroom.

Jorry stood with a towel wrapped around his waist. Bruce tried not to stare at the protruding ribs and collarbones. They exchanged clothing, and Jorry promised to meet back in the kitchen.

“Do you think he remembers where the kitchen is?” asked Gail as they walked down the hallway.

“I’m confident. He practically grew up here when Kelley and Kerri were around.”

“By the way, does he live with another person?”

Bruce scratched his head. At this point, he couldn’t think of anything but Jorry’s well-being and how he’d gotten into such a state. “I don’t remember him mentioning a roommate.”

Gail glanced out the window. “It’s not snowing bad, but still, I don’t think he should drive home tonight, especially if he lives alone.”

“You’re right.”

Gail shook her head. “Come again?”

“I said you were right.” Bruce watched a shit-eating grin spread across his ex-wife’s face.

“Hallelujah! We’re entering the season of miracles.”

Jorry ambled into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” asked Bruce. “We have plenty of Chinese food.” He reached in the cupboard, pulled out a plate, and handed it to Jorry.

Jorry blinked at the plate. “You still have my favorite plate.”

Bruce and Gail examined their own plates. “It’s all the same pattern,” Bruce said.

“No. This one has a chip.” Jorry raised the plate in question and pointed. “See? Nobody loves a chipped plate, but I always felt its imperfections were like me. So if I wanted it, maybe good karma would come and someone would want me, despite the chips in my life.”

Bruce had never heard anything so profound.

“Oh, that’s sweet.” Gail straightened out the plate and placed a healthy portion of sweet-and-sour shrimp on it. “Do you have anyone special in your life?”

“No. But I’m hoping.” Jorry smiled shyly at Bruce and ducked his head to eat.

Bruce’s stomach flipped.
Was that a sideways glance my way? Or am I seeing what I want to see? And when did I want Jorry to see me in that special way? Oh, I’ve never been good at the relationship game. Robert, tell—show me what to do.

While the three of them ate, Gail chatted on about wedding stuff. Gingersnap and Snickerdoodle doted their attention on Jorry, watching every movement he made.

“I see you’ve made fast friends.” Bruce nodded toward the corgis. “They like you.”

“It shows my pups have good taste.” Gail winked. “That, and you probably smell like doggy treats from your job.”

Jorry frowned.

Bruce helped himself to more crab rangoon. “I think Gail should bring her dogs to where you work so they can receive the pampered touch by your hand.”

“No! E-r-r-r, I mean, no.”

Bruce was taken aback by the frightened tone of Jorry’s first “no.” “But why? Dogs love you.”

“I-I lost my job tonight.”

“What happened?” Bruce asked.

“I’d rather not say, other than the manager is a prick and the owner a two-faced, manipulating asshole.” Jorry dipped his head in apology. “Sorry, Mrs. Windom.”

Gail sat back in her chair. “I don’t have virgin ears. Fuck, I don’t have a virgin mouth either, so no offense.”

Bruce placed his chopsticks down on his plate. “So you don’t have a job now?”

“No.”

“With the holidays on the horizon, that sucks.” Gail brightened. “However, you’re in luck. Come by the resort on Monday. Wear your best clothes, and we’ll see about getting you a job.”

“I can’t accept a job from you.” Jorry clasped his hands in his lap, his thin face flushed. “I don’t have a diploma.”

“Do you have a driver’s license and a social security number?” Bruce stroked his beard in thought.

“Yes.”

“Great.” Gail clapped her hands, and the dogs started barking. “That’s all I need. I already know you’re a good worker and can follow directions.” The buzzer on the dryer sounded, and she rose to retrieve the load of clothes. “Besides, my dogs love you, and they’re a wonderful judge of character.”

Jorry watched Gail leave the room. He turned back to Bruce with hesitant hope in his eyes. “Was she serious?”

“Yeah. When she wants to be.” Bruce wiped his mouth on a holiday-print paper towel. “Which isn’t often.”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s charity case.”

“And you won’t be.” Gail reentered the room with Jorry’s folded clothes and handed them to him. “You will receive a paycheck for every honest week of work.”

“And I can offer you some extra cash if you help me with the rest of my move.” Bruce stood up with a handful of empty Chinese take-out cartons and headed for the trash can. “You know, packing, lifting, and stuff like that.”

“I accept. On both accounts.” Jorry’s eyes teared up, and it seemed like he yawned to cover up the evidence.

“Sleepy?”

“Yes.” Jorry shifted in his chair. “I think it’s time to change into my clothes and go to my car.”

“Look at me,” Bruce ordered Jorry. Jorry did as told, and Bruce scrutinized his hazel eyes, feeling warm breath whisper across his cheek. The effect was intoxicating, and he exhaled quickly to collect his spiraling thoughts. “Gail, what do you think?”

Gail bent forward and stared into Jorry’s eyes. “Hmmm.”

“What?” asked Jorry.

“Your pupils seem to be okay, so I don’t think you have a concussion,” Bruce said.

Gail agreed. “Still, we don’t think you should drive home. Is there a roommate we should call?”

“No, I live by myself.” Jorry started to stand. “I can make it to my car and sleep—“

One step away from his chair, his body began to sway. Bruce leaped to his side and placed a steadying hand on a slender shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

“But my car is—”

“Is what?”

Jorry sighed. “Never mind.” He rested his head on Bruce’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Are you for sure it won’t be an inconvenience?”

“You’ll take my bed; it’s closer to the bathroom. I’ll sleep on the davenport in the living room.”

Gail gathered the rest of the dirty dishes and headed to the sink. “Actually, I think you should sleep in the same room as Jorry in case he wakes up and needs you.”

Bruce nodded. Though he was pretty sure his ex was meddling, this time he had to agree. He would sleep better knowing Jorry was close to him. “You have a point there.” He turned his head; his nose brushed against the soft, dark strands of Jorry’s hair. “Sound good?”

“I guess. I don’t want to put you out.”

“No problem. I have a chaise chair in the bedroom. All I need is to swipe a few blankets from the linen closet, toss the clothes pile off the top of the chaise, and we’ll be in business.”

“And on that note, I’m heading for home.” Gail hustled into the hall and put on her coat, her dogs at her heels. “Take special care of this one, Bruce,” she called from the foyer. “I think he needs it.”

Chapter Four

Out of the hundreds of lengthy sleepless nights I’ve had, this one’s proving to be one of the longest.

Bruce lay on the chaise, staring up at the ceiling—or what he could see of it from the eerie red numbers glowing from the alarm clock sitting on top of the bureau.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he scratched at his beard, flipped heavily on his right side, and drew his mother’s patchwork quilt over his ear.

I’ve got to sleep. Tomorrow is a heavy day of packing and donating
. He could already feel his muscles ache in protest of another weekend of abuse.
This is crazy. I’ve got no time to lie here and count sheep.

But count he did.

He counted the sounds of passing vehicles outside. He estimated how many boxes it would take to pack up the rest of the kitchen and the laundry room. He tallied up all the odd jobs he wanted to get done at work before the official ski season began. He even added up each and every breath he could hear from the other side of the room.

This was the first time in over seventeen years he’d heard someone else’s breathing in his bedroom other than Robert’s. It was weird, heartbreaking, but refreshing at the same time.

Bruce twisted to his left side and focused in on the dark shadow of the bed. He could barely make out Jorry. If it wasn’t for the occasional twitch of his legs, Bruce might have mistaken the small lump for a pillow.

Jorry was an oddity at best. He always had been. He was the most memorable of all the friends Kelley and Kerri had brought home. It was a shame he’d had such a rough time growing up, but maybe now that Jorry was back in Bruce’s life, Bruce could help him, take care of him, sort of like Bruce Wayne did with Dick Grayson.