CHRISTMAS CODA 60 (and a fun puzzle for you to do!)

 

 

Michael and Len from REQUIEM FOR MR. BUSYBODY

 

The smell of coffee infiltrated my dreams.

My nose twitched.

Coffee and…pastries.

And, more faintly, aftershave.

I opened my eyes. That warm, spicy scent that meant Len had let himself into my apartment, poked his head in briefly, and then retreated to the kitchen to let me sleep my fill.

I had not been sleeping well lately, and Len knew it. A week ago Nico Tzara had been sentenced for Second Degree Manslaughter. Five to fifteen years.  He’d be out of prison before he turned forty.

Which would probably have made Maurice happy because, despite what he’d told me and his niece and even Nico, Maurice never had changed his will. Never had cut Nico out. Which I’d have bet Nico knew, but the prosecution had not been able to prove that to the jury’s satisfaction. Had not been able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Nico hadn’t accidentally killed Maurice.

So. Five to fifteen.  

It was hard not to be angry. Hard not to want…something.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Per Len. He had always been better at accepting the limitations of the justice system. But then he was a cop. He believed in God. And he hadn’t known Maurice.

I sighed, shoved back the blankets.

One of the things I liked about Len—and really, there were too many to count—was that he understood I needed time in the morning. Time and space.

 

 

By the time I wheeled into the kitchen, the coffee was ready and Len was sitting at the table eating warm walnut povitica and reading the Times.  

“Morning,” I said, pausing beside his chair.

He kissed me, tasting pleasantly of coffee and cinnamon, and said, “Merry Christmas.”

I grimaced. “Bah humbug.”

“You are a bad humbug,” he agreed. “Unless elves broken in last night and set that Christmas tree up.”

“Ha. The tree is for you, man.” I wheeled over to the counter and set about fixing my coffee.

“It snowed again last night.”

“Ugh.” I never liked snow, and I liked it even less now, snow tires notwithstanding. “How was work?”

Len’s sigh was heartfelt. “What I would like most for Christmas is for people to stop killing each other for one day.”

I threw him a sympathetic look, finished dousing my coffee in cream and sugar—a holiday treat; I usually took it black—and wheeled to the table. I took a big swallow and felt promptly better as all that sugar and caffeine hit my system. “At least you have today off. In theory.”

“In theory.” Len handed me a plate with pastry. “Bad night?” His shrewd brown eyes were soft with concern.

I shrugged, tore a piece of bread off. “Yeah. But that was as much about the new book as anything. It’s hard to turn my brain off right now.”

“Sure.” I didn’t fool Len.

I was excited about the new project though, an account of the 1943 Christmas Day murders in Bolt, Montana, and the subsequent manhunt and shootout. One of the principals had been James Jameson, a young newspaper reporter who later went on to win a Pulitzer prize. Jameson had come out as gay in the 1960s, at a time when it was not an easy thing to do. I thought he was a fascinating character and I only wished I’d had the opportunity to interview him.

Len said, “I know it’s not what you wanted, but fifteen years in Rikers is no picnic.”

“If he gets fifteen.” I met his eyes. “Sorry. Just not brimming with the milk of human kindness today.”

“Hey. You lost someone you loved. You’re allowed to be angry and sad and all the rest of it.”

“Maybe.” My smiled felt lopsided. “So much for my belief in criminal reform.”

“It’s a little different in this case.” He held his hand out and I clasped it, squeezed it, smiled. Len really was one of the good guys and I’d been wondering for the last seven months what I’d done to get so lucky.

We smiled at each other for a moment, then Len’s expression changed, grew…well, had it been anyone else, I’d have said he looked nervous.

“So. Listen,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t know if this is the right time or not, but I’ve been thinking a lot about this, about us.” He nodded at the cozy kitchen and crumb-covered table. There was a plaster gnome with red-glowing eyes in the center of the table, which was my half-assed effort at holiday décor; I think the gnome was actually intended as a Halloween decoration, given the manic glow of his beady little eyes.

“Okay,” I said a little uneasily. The sudden hectic color in Len’s face was alarming—and his eyes matched the gnome for manic glow.

“I don’t want to—things are good and I don’t want to-to jeopardize that.”

Suddenly his fingers felt ice cold. I squeezed his hand again, more in comfort than understanding.

“Things are good,” I agreed. I probably sounded a little insistent because I was afraid there was about to be a but.

“But,” Len said.

My heart flinched. I said warily, “But?”

“What if we moved in together?”

It took me a couple of swallows to get that lump of dry bread down. “I…”

“I know you’re probably not—I know you’re probably happy with this and it’s more than I expected, more than I thought we’d have—but I love you and I would like.” He swallowed the rest of it.

“You would like?” I repeated automatically. Meanwhile my brain was racing, trying to think this through. If I said no, would it be the end of everything? Did I want to say no? If I said yes, what then? Did I want to say yes?

No. I did not. The idea terrified me.

Nearly as much as the idea of losing Len.

“More,” he said huskily. “I would like more time with you. More of you.”

I was equally husky, but trying for humor. “I think—don’t you think that might be too much of a good thing?”

“No.”

We were silent for a few moments, still holding hands, still watching each other.

Len said, “Are you afraid of the idea?”

I could have dodged the question, denied, delayed, but we’d come through too much, Len and I. “Yes,” I admitted.

“Me too.” I started to laugh and he finished hastily, “Not at the idea of living with you.”

Of what then? But I didn’t have to ask because I knew. Same thing as me. That if it didn’t work out, we’d lose what we had, and what we had meant everything to me.

Len said, “Seven months. I’m over here as much as I’m home.”

True. I thought it over. “Your cat doesn’t like me.”

Len said seriously, “He doesn’t know you.”

I nodded absently. “Are you thinking you’d move in here or I’d move in with you?”

“Neither. I was thinking we’d find a new place. Together.”

Ours. Our home.

It scared me. I can’t deny it. I had everything exactly as I wanted, as I needed. I was safe right where I was.

But was safety what it was all about? Was being safe the point of being alive?

Len’s solemn face slowly creased into a smile. “You haven’t turned me down yet, Michael.”

“No. Because I love you too. But what if—”

What if it doesn’t work out? What if we aren’t happy? What if someone gets hurt? What if…

What if we are happy? What if we are truly, honestly, happy?

I wasn't religious, but it turned out I did have an idea of heaven.

No guarantees in this life. We’d both learned that the hard way.

Len said softly, “What if--?”

Leap of faith. Sometimes you jump and you break your back. Sometimes you jump and someone is waiting to catch you, someone with a tender smile and love in his eyes.

I said, equally soft, “What if I say yes?”

We caught each other.

AND SOMETHING ELSE FOR YOU THIS MORNING!

SamSpayed has contributed a little jigsaw puzzle of the Requiem for Mr. Busybody cover. Just click this link and then choose PLAY AS (I picked 66--I don't know if it matters). It's quick and fun and relaxing. :-)