The Safety of Nowhere (6 page)

Chapter Four

The following morning, Gordon came up on the porch and peeked at them through a gap in the blinds. They were naked and in bed, but they weren’t having sex. That was one thing Dinah could be grateful for. The rest was sheer disaster. She caught sight of his tear-stained face blinking at them through the window and sprang up, grabbing at her robe. “Oh shit.” She threw Malcolm his pants.

“Get dressed.” No time for please. Dinah held her robe shut at the neck and stepped barefoot onto the porch.

“Hey, buddy,” she said, sounding just about as panicked as she felt. “Remember we agreed you’d give a warning shout before you came up to the house?” The child swallowed painfully at the reproach, and Dinah wished she could take it back. It wasn’t Gordon’s fault he’d seen her with a man. And he had no idea why that might frighten her. He also didn’t need the added aggravation. That was crystal clear.

The boy was weeping. Nearly too upset to speak.

“What happened, sweetie?” Dinah sat on the bench beside the door and patted the remaining space for him.

His lumpy body slumped beside her. She waited while he sniffled, then took a swipe at his eyes with his jacket sleeve. He sighed, calming himself, but didn’t speak, and Dinah tucked her bare feet under the hem of her robe as best she could.

It was cold. She should tell him to wait, go back inside and put some clothes on. That way, she could walk him home. She had her hand poised over his knee for his attention when the door into the house pulled open and Malcolm stepped out on the porch.

“Hello,” he said.

Dinah stared at him. The blood drained from her face. Why in hell would he have come outside? It wasn’t smart, even if the kid had already seen him through the window.

“This is my friend, Gordon,” Dinah said, because she had no choice. “Gordon, this is Malcolm.”

“I don’t know Malcolm,” Gordon muttered sulkily.

“Yes you do. I introduced you, right?”

He shook his head, chin descending mutinously. “I don’t want any more new things to happen. This day is already bad.”

Dinah knew the feeling. “Some days are,” she said.

Malcolm leaned against the porch rail, haloed by midmorning light. He was back in his gray slacks and black sweater, looking very capable and willing to take charge. What he thought he would be taking charge of, she had no idea. Right now he was only making a bad situation into a potential disaster. Given that, the next best thing to do eluded her and so she followed instinct, comforting the child.

“What happened with your dad?” She turned to him, head tilted sympathetically.

Gordon stared down at his shoes. “He got mad. Really mad. We were leaving to go riding, but his motorcycle had dirt on it, and he started yelling. There were…” The tears started again. Horrible and wrenching. Dinah could do nothing but sit by him and feel awful too. In time, the crying ebbed into some wheezy, mournful sighs. She looked at Gordon’s much-loved face: bright eyes, wet cheeks, a dark patch on his T-shirt where the tears had soaked it through. “Come on,” she said. “It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside.”

She stood. He looked at her, then frowned at Malcolm. “I don’t know you,” Gordon said again.

“My name is Malcolm. I’m Dinah’s friend. ”

Reluctantly, Gordon let himself be steered into the house. He’d never been inside before. The afternoons they spent together always happened in the garden, and still, the novelty of seeing where she lived had no visible effect on him. Dinah got some tissues and a dish towel. “These are for your nose,” she said. “And this is for your face.” She took the kettle off the stove and poured hot water over instant cocoa, stirring until the powder dissolved. She mixed a little cold milk with it and set it down in front of him. “Drink this, nice and slow, okay. I’m going to get dressed so I can walk you home.” She grabbed some clothes and got dressed in the bathroom: panties, bra, jeans, fleece, socks, and done. In a few minutes she was out again.

Gordon had calmed down a little. He had his mug cupped in both hands, and he was drinking steadily in rapid sips. She strode back toward the kitchen, stopping to sit on the bench and lace up her boots.

Gordon finished with his cup.

She stood. He glowered deep into his empty mug. “Cats are bad.”

“Oh yeah?” Dinah responded casually. “I think cats are awesome.” Malcolm had taken the second chair, so Dinah sat back on the bench and leaned a little forward.

“Some bad cat got dirt on my daddy’s motorcycle. You could tell it was a cat because it left its dirty feet marks on the seat. Daddy said it was the neighbor’s cat, and he was really mad. He screamed at her over the fence that if he saw that cat back on his property, he’d wring its neck. The lady next door got upset.” Gordon gave Dinah a worried look. “What’s wring its neck?”

“Kill it with his hands.”
Rocco, you’re a fucking psychopath.
The story clearly wasn’t over, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to know more.

“The lady’s boyfriend came out of the house, and Daddy and him started shouting. Julie pulled me back inside, but the fighting gotted worse and she told me that I should go back home.” There were tears now, but no more sobbing, just a child’s stoic resignation, which was somehow so much worse. “We didn’t go have fun the way he said.”

She wasn’t sure what she should tell him. Assuming she could explain what a rageaholic was—a testosterone-poisoned shithead—the man in question was the poor kid’s father, and Gordon wanted more than anything to love him. What should she do? Point out all the ways the man was flawed?

“Hey. Do you really think the cat was bad?” She squatted by his chair and watched him struggle with the question.

“He made my daddy mad, and then I had to go back home.”

“But…” Dinah sighed.

“Would it have made you mad?” That was Malcolm’s low, calm voice. She thought Gordon would turn away from him, but he was too far gone to care about his stranger rule. “What if it was your motorcycle?” Malcolm asked with gentle curiosity. “Would paw prints somewhere make you too mad to go have fun with your father?”

Gordon’s face went still. Something monumental seemed to click in place. He hunched down in his chair, his hands curled on his thighs, his floppy feet turned inward, and he seemed to give up trying to excuse his daddy. Which left him with nothing to do but hurt.

“Come on,” Dinah said. Cindy would be better at consoling him. She hoped so anyway. “Let’s get you home.”

“Where are you going?” Malcolm’s tone was flawlessly polite, but there was something else behind the question. It made her stop a second to consider him over Gordon’s head.

“Up the hill.” He looked dissatisfied with that. “It’ll take me less than forty minutes.” His gaze went to the floor, displeased. “Just make yourself at home,” she said and they were out the door.

MALCOLM KNEW THAT he was not himself. There could be no confusion on that point. After long days of nothingness, he’d reemerged into another world. In the company of one beautiful woman who lavished him with her solicitude and warmth. Such trust, such caring. It was humbling.

That, or something else in the transition had unsettled him. His consciousness was misaligned, his spirit rotating around a different axis. The spinning made him dizzy, off-balance, which meant he couldn’t trust his mind.

He couldn’t trust his heart.

Where had she gone? He didn’t like her absence or the thought of her out in the world with all its dangers. Out of his sight. Beyond the sphere of his protection. He didn’t like it. In fact, he wasn’t certain he could stand it. There was a pounding in his veins like some primordial instinct, telling him to go out after Dinah and bring her home again.

It was the dizziness. He should ignore it, let it pass. Doubtless, he was just the victim of an internal mirage. He wasn’t mystically connected to her. That was illusion. They hadn’t bonded. This nagging sense of destiny was a residue of shock and illness. A side effect of being tilted, spinning in this new direction.

To find his focal point he looked around him. The house she lived in was a shrine. Pictures and reminders of the smiling white-haired man seemed to inhabit every corner, every surface. Dinah had made certain no one could mistake her solitude for availability. He should remember that.

Like all his brethren, Malcolm had a profound respect for grief. For loyalty and loss. She was alone, but not alone. And he was with her now, which didn’t mean he could have her.

And still he found his gaze drawn constantly back to the door.

“Are you in danger?”

“No more than usual.”

That’s what she’d said. He hadn’t understood her then. He understood her now, and it was unacceptable. That deranged man the boy had spoken of might very well be coming for his son. Malcolm fixed his gaze on the door and warned the unmet stranger not to put his hands on her. The image made a wave of fury rise into his throat. The blood under his skin felt hot, and he was dangerously close to opening the door and charging after her.

“We’re safe enough, if you stay out of sight.”

She’d asked him to stay hidden, and he’d already disobeyed her once. It would upset her if she found him striding up that hill. And so he made himself stay in his chair. They were in the Outlands, the very place where hatred for Backusians had begun. He’d made the choice to emigrate to Earth, and so the dangerous hostility, as unanticipated as it was, was something he could withstand for himself. That she might bear the brunt of that ill feeling was unacceptable. He wanted to protect her, not expose her more than she already was.

But the closed door was hard.

A distraction. That was what he needed—some way to pass the time until he had her back again.

The game they’d played came instantly to mind. Loveplay. He rose, retrieved the pink box she’d hastily kicked underneath the bed, and smiled at the wash of lacy hearts and cherubs festooned all around the word. The sexual artifacts of Earth always amused him. Even in his current agitated state, the object piqued his interest. He opened up the box again. There was a paddle in it. Malcolm slapped it hard against his hand. Not bad. Lightweight. A nice, large surface. Good for play, rather than pain. He picked the box of cards up, choosing one at random.

A police officer has pulled you over in the middle of the night. You are desperate not to get a ticket. Ask the officer in question if he’s willing to devise another means of punishment.

Sex and power. Across the galaxy the concepts were all much the same. He entertained the thought of Dinah begging his indulgence before he slid the card back in the box.

“What’s wring its neck?”

“Kill it with his hands.”

It was eleven thirty now. But what time had it been when she’d left? He scooped the dice into his hand. Tossed them on the table.
Kiss
said the first die.
Feet
said the second. Gladly, but he doubted that would please her much. A quick spin of the dial had him entering her from behind. That he knew she liked. When he picked the pink box up to read what had been written on the back, something shifted under the false bottom and he turned it back upright to find out what it was. Malcolm pried the cardboard insert out. Beneath he found a cache of cards. What cards? Why here? Had they been condemned or just overused?

Malcolm gathered them all up and started reading. He was near the end when Dinah opened the door.

“Were you the one who tucked these out of sight?” He held the cards up, looking to resolve the mystery.

Dinah didn’t answer him. Her cheeks were red. Her hair was wild. She was absolutely beautiful and visibly upset. He straightened, staring once more at the door—the outside world that had offended her.

She went straight to the stove and picked the kettle up. “Fuck.” She slammed it down again. “Why do I forget to fill this thing?” She grabbed a dish towel, lifted up the lid, and poured water inside before setting it back on the stove. “It’s cold out there.” True perhaps, but by no means did that explain her agitation. “Do you want tea?”

Malcolm nodded. Set the cards aside.

He watched her, desperate to be busy, that was clear. When had he seen her sit, except when eating? Had he ever? She opened up the fridge and started pulling out containers. Her movements were brisk, economical, precise. Perversely he imagined trying to stop her. If he put himself in the way of this frantic activity, what would she do? Stab him, or go mad?

For the moment, it was safer to observe.

She pulled some leafy greens into a bowl, adding this and that until she seemed to have the mixture just the way she wanted it, at which point Dinah set a plate at the two settings and began slicing up bread. She’d put a pot onto the stove, and now she lifted off the lid and gave the hidden contents a quick stir. The fragrance from the heated dish was pleasantly hearty. He thought of the lasagna waiting for the man who’d died. It would have been a good life while it lasted.

“You’ll eat with me, won’t you?” He nodded his assent. Dinah ladled soup into two bowls and set the salad on the table. She sat. “I’m starved,” she said and blew into her spoon, pausing only to dish up some salad, digging into that as well. After a few minutes she breathed a sigh and seemed to come back to herself. Her agitated gaze landed on Malcolm, and her brow wrinkled with consternation. He’d been too busy watching her to make much progress with his plate. At last, she took note of the cards beside him.

“Are you cheating again?”

“I found these tucked away inside the bottom of the box.”

Dinah wiped her hands and looked at them. She seemed perplexed for just a minute, and then her thoughts cleared, and she tucked the cards back precisely where he’d found them. “No anal,” she explained. “I took all the ‘pirate claims your booty’ out, along with anything remotely butt related, so Cy knew better than to get ideas.”

Malcolm took the time to chew his salad, swallowing carefully. “No anal,” he repeated.

“That’s what I said.”

He laughed a little. Then he laughed a lot.

“Ha-ha,” she echoed placidly. “Do your best to make it sound amazing if you want. I’m not about to fall for it.”