Worth a Thousand Words (7 page)

Devon and Mrs. Simpson made their way silently up the well -maintained stairs. Mrs. Simpson always took care to set her feet on the neat metal treads at the front of each stair. She glanced back at Devon once, when she reached the second landing, and smiled a thin old lady smile at him.

Devon nodded, and that seemed to be enough. Mrs. Simpson turned back around, continuing up the stairs. When they reached the uppermost landing, Devon hesitated. Mrs. Simpson smacked his arm.

“You leave that boy alone for right now. Come in here and make your phone call, and you can make up with him after he’s had time to cool down a little. You’re lucky you didn’t pull that stunt on somebody with a temper to match yours, or things could have gotten really ugly.”

A bitter taste flooded Devon’s mouth, and he turned away from Adrien’s door. “I know. I—maybe I ought to see somebody. About my temper… my buddy Rose is always telling me I outta go see one of the docs up at the VA.”

Mrs. Simpson eyed him through narrowed eyes. Then she turned back to her door, pulled out an enormous ring of keys on an old fashioned janitor’s round ring. Selecting one attached to a tiny rainbow with the PFLAG emblem on it she spoke as she efficiently unlocked the door.

“Hmmm. Well, I know my Harold needed to talk to somebody after he got back from Korea. The VA wasn’t what it is now, but we had a good pastor, and he helped some. You might try listening to this girl, this Rose.”

Laughter bubbled up inside Devon as he watched Mrs. Simpson push open her door. “Ah, Rose is a guy. Michael Rose… he was a soldier—”

“—Oh, you’re friends with Michael? He’s a dear boy. Well, I like you better already. You’d be best off taking his advice, you know. That boy across the hall is a keeper, and if you screw up with him you’ll regret it for the rest of your life—Betsy, down girl. Down. Stay.”

As she spoke, an enormous shaggy behemoth of an animal came snarling down the short hallway from the living room. Devon began to back out into the hall, wondering if Adrien would let him in after all or at least call the police to collect his remains. Mrs. Simpson caught his wrist.

“No, don’t run. I’ll never stop her taking a wee nibble of you if you run. Just stand very still, and let her sniff you.”

The crafty old woman was well protected, because Devon wasn’t sure if even a direct hit from a fifty caliber weapon would stop the gigantic thing lumbering up to him. He froze in place, feeling his balls try to crawl up into his abdominal cavity for protection.

Mrs. Simpson let loose with a bright, tinkling laugh. Her faded blue eyes sparkled. “Yes, not that you need to worry about it. She won’t bite you now unless I tell her to, or you do something threatening to me.”

Aye Dios , forget his Abuelita. This woman was exactly like his madre. Only Mrs. Simpson was a generation older, and a good deal scarier than Rosario Soto. His madre would never let a big wolf-eating dog get at him. Devon wasn’t entirely certain Mrs. Simpson wouldn’t let her slavering beast have a mouthful of him, however.

“ Si, I mean, yes ma’am. I am strictly on my best behaviooooo-ooor.” The end of Devon’s sentence went noticeably awry as Mrs. Simpson’s dog stuck a wet, snuffling nose into his crotch. The beast rolled its eyes up toward him as it sniffed hungrily. Well, maybe the dog wasn’t checking him for edible—er, bits—but he couldn’t help feeling like the latest chef’s special on a four-star doggie restaurant’s menu. The beast nudged up against his balls, and Devon began to pray in earnest. Then the creature’s tail started to wag, and the monster’s hindquarters curved around to make a neat half-crescent with the rest of its body. Devon choked. Betsy, who in an uncanny quirk of fate shared the same moniker as his beloved Jeep was hung like a prize-winning bull.

Catherine Marie Simpson speared him with another of her gimlet glares. “Young man, do I seem addled to you?”

Devon cracked a rueful grin and answered without moving. “No ma’am. You seem more likely to serve me my private bits with a spoon if I should even suggest such a thing.”

Mrs. Simpson gave a short, decisive nod. “We’re starting to understand one another. Splendid!”
A rough laugh spilled from Devon’s mouth, and that sealed the deal for Betsy. He stood on his hind paws, rested his front ones on Devon’s shoulders and licked ferociously. Devon thought he might need an extra-large bath sheet to get all the way dry again.
Mrs. Simpson tsked at Betsy the well-hung, and the black colored monster thumped back down to the floor. “Oh, he likes you. I am impressed. First Adrien chose you and now Betsy’s given you the face-slobber stamp of approval. It says something about you, Devon Soto, that those two pure souls would give you their favor.”
She snapped her little fingers at Betsy, and the dog followed her docilely into the kitchen. Mrs. Simpson unzipped her coat, carefully unwound her brightly patterned blue and green knit scarf from around her throat and turned, thrusting them both at Devon.
“Hang these up in the coat closet, please. The door’s right there—the whole apartment is a little mirror of Adrien’s place. Hang yours up as well, and then you can come in here to use the phone.”
Devon nearly snapped to attention at the commanding tone in her voice. Catching himself, he substituted a polite nod, took the proffered items and hung them in the closet. There were exactly two empty hangers. Devon wondered if Mrs. Simpson didn’t get many visitors.
When he returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Simpson was putting an old black and white cow teakettle on the stove. She cast a sly grin his way, winking as she did so.
“Ridiculous thing, I know, but the silly cow makes me laugh every time I put my tea on. The only thing that might make it better would be if the sound could somehow be a moo rather than a whistle when the water boiled.”
Devon laughed out loud. Mrs. Simpson winked at him again, and then pointed to the corner behind him, just to one side of the door. Turning, Devon saw the sleek cordless phone hanging on the wall.
“Go on and call Michael. If he’s not expecting to have to get you so soon, it may take him a bit to extricate himself from whatever, or whoever he’s doing.”
Devon decided choking on his tongue was definitely a viable option. “Ah… yes, ma’am. Right away.”
Mrs. Simpson gave a very dirty sounding chuckle, pulling open the smooth surface of the pine cabinet in front of her to reveal a virtual army of mugs with quirky sayings. She cackled a little, getting down one with two obviously male unicorns fucking under a bright rainbow, and another of a wizened old woman with bright red hair pluckily raising a flawlessly penciled on eyebrow and saying, “Of course it’s my hair color. I paid for it!”
Snatching up the handset to the phone, Devon prayed Rose would be available immediately. If he stayed here much longer, Mrs. Simpson and her man-and-wolf eating dog were liable to adopt him. He’d picked up on the subtly possessive way they’d both started eyeing him since he walked into the kitchen. Aye, Dios. The next step after that would be her meeting his madre, and if that should ever happen? His life would be utterly meddled in at every turn. He’d try running, but Mrs. Simpson would probably just sic Betsy on him.
The phone rang once, twice, three times, and then, just before the fourth ring sent the call to voicemail, Rose picked up with an irritated sounding huff. Devon tried to slow his racing heart down and speak at a normal pace.
“Rose. Thank god. Come get me. Now. I’m at Mrs. Simpson’s apartment. I’ll explain when you get here.”
Rose growled at him. “Sarge, you’re damn lucky I owe you for Kandahar, or I’d tell you to fuck off. I know Adrien, and whatever you did wrong was a fucking doozy. Yeah, you’ll be explaining. I’ll be there in about an hour and forty-five minutes—it’ll take that long to get back to town, get your Jeep and get back over to Adrien’s place. Don’t piss Catherine Marie off or she’ll let that damn wolf killer of hers eat your nuts.”
Devon swallowed. “I am well aware of that particular variable, Rose. Just—thanks.”
A weighted silence filled the line, and then Rose’s voice came back. “Ask Catherine Marie if she’ll make me some cocoa. I’ll see you in a bit, Sarge. Bye.” Rose didn’t wait for Devon’s response, and he stood for a moment with the phone to his ear before he finally hung it up.
Mrs. Simpson gestured him into the dining room. Her kitchen didn’t have a table for people, instead having a doggy feeding station with a small sized table with built in bowls at two different levels. As one stood at ankle biter level, and one nearly thigh high, Devon assumed the contraption was for her two dogs.
Devon took the cup of aromatic black tea Mrs.

Simpson proffered to him, carrying it into the dining room. He sat his unicorn mug on the table, sniffing at it curiously. The tea smelled of roses. It also smelled enticing enough to earn a stomach rumble as he automatically pulled out a chair for Mrs. Simpson. She smiled, sitting gracefully as she placed a plate of the cookies she’d sworn he wouldn’t get on the table.
Once Devon seated himself as well, Mrs. Simpson offered him the cut crystal sugar bowl from the center of the table. Devon declined. She reached over then, pulling a flat silver case from the window ledge. She gave him a sharp edged smile as she opened the case to pull out a utilitarian looking business card. Laying the card on the table in front of Devon, she softened her smile infinitesimally.
“I think, knowing Michael, we have at least half an hour to an hour before he gets here. Let’s chat.”
Glancing down at the card, Devon froze. In neat little block letters, it read:

Catherine Marie Simpson, Phd
Specializing in family systems theory and Post Traumatic Stress Disorders
Phone (315)555-0100 Fax (315)555-0101

Shit. Mierda. Double damn fucking shit. He was so going to be eviscerated. Either the dog or the woman would get him long before Rose arrived to do an extraction. Devon slumped in his chair as he evaluated which would be less painful. He couldn’t bring himself to run, not knowing Adrien would probably hear Betsy eating him on the landing. He heaved out a lungful of strangely heavy air.

“Rose—um, Michael said to ask if you could make him some cocoa when he gets here.”
Catherine Marie Simpson sat quietly, hands folded in front of her and head tilted slightly in a listening stance.
“He told me it would take about an hour and fortyfive minutes for him to get here.” He slid a glance from under his lashes at the devious old woman.
She smiled at him, reaching over to gently pat the back of his hand where it rested in front of his tea cup.
Devon caved. “Okay, fine. I’ll chat with you.”
Mrs. Simpson gave him a teensy, close-mouthed smile. “Excellent. Let’s start with what happened earlier.”
Betsy came over, crawled under the sleekly Scandinavian dining room table and flopped down on top of Devon’s feet. The solid weight of him steadied Devon. He drew in a shaking breath, silently telling himself to man-up. “Alright.”

The jaunty ringing of his house phone roused him from his fitful nap. Adrien considered getting up to answer, and then figured he’d wait for the answering machine to pick up. He didn’t care how much his friends laughed at his Goodwill finds, they were so old they were retro, and in Adrien’s book that made them cool. Plus, he liked being able to screen his calls even when he couldn’t see the number display. Benji’s light tenor came pouring out of the little speaker.

“Bitch, you better be up and ready when I get there. I get off work in like, twenty minutes. So I should be at your place in half an hour. Please don’t use all the hot water.”

Adrien winced at that particular request in light of his wanton hot water wasting earlier. Then he remembered how quickly the water reheated since the owner had installed the new water heater last month. The man had done the installation himself, with much banging of pipes and inventive swearing. It had been almost funny, considering the owner was also a licensed plumber and one would assume well qualified to do the upgrade.

Shrugging, Adrien climbed out of bed for the… second? No, the third time that day. Ugh. He stank of Drakkar and sex, and right now the scents were just pissing him off. He quickly made his way into the bathroom and got the shower running. Kicking the rug straight, he made a mental note to go get one of those non-slip thingies the next day.

Adrien eyed his hairy legs. He was going to the party tonight as Maid Marian. The dress did come all the way to his ankles. He could probably get away with only shaving to just above his ankles, but that would feel odd under his tights when—then he remembered. He wasn’t going back to work. Not anytime soon. Fine, he’d only shave to the bottom of his calves then. Arming himself with a fresh disposable razor and his favorite foaming body wash, Adrien stepped into the shower to bravely do battle with the hair on his lower legs.

Twenty minutes and two razor cuts from when he’d slipped while standing on one leg later, Adrien was squeaky clean and freshly shaven. Jaw, underarms, lower legs up to the knee—he’d gotten carried away—and groin. The groin wasn’t strictly necessary, but it felt nice when he shaved there, and he planned to use any and every means at his disposal to bolster his mood after the day he’d had. If he expected Benji to have time to help him with the crown and makeup, he’d better have everything else on by the time his friend arrived.