Hanging Loose (11 page)

“But being drug dealer to the stars is not something I’m crazy about. It’s so…”

“
Pulp Fiction
?” I joked lamely.

“Pathetic. I’d known for some time about Adelle doing it. The way she did it had this strange charm. It was absurd, if you think about it, but somehow it worked. She’d always done everything her own way. For me, it feels like I’m playing at being someone I’m not.”

I stared out the window at the endless ocean for a while before opening my mouth.

“What did you do before?”

Jez considered my question for a moment. “I moved out when I was eighteen. Went to college for a few years before dropping out. Traveled up and down the coast, stayed in San Francisco for a while. Even spent some time in the desert with a friend. I did odd jobs. I make a pretty good bartender, as you know.” He seemed to relax fractionally.

“Have you ever had a dream job?”

Jez glanced at me hesitantly.

“What?” I prodded. “Tell me.”

He groaned. “I can’t. You already think I’m some beach cliché.”

“I do not!” I protested. Well, maybe a little.

“I always thought it would be cool to a run surf shop.” He shot me a quick glance. “Probably only because Rob used to work in one, and I liked hanging out with him.”

“That actually sounds pretty cool. Have you thought about really doing it?”

“Do you know how to run a business?” he asked. “I don’t.”

“What you do now is sort of a business.” The moment I said it, I wished there was Backspace in real life. Shit. The mood skunked up again. Jez stared out the window, and I kicked myself.

“You said you had something to tell me.” I grasped at straws. “That it all might change soon.”

For a moment I thought Jez wouldn’t answer, but then he spoke. “It’s Scoot. He and his girlfriend, Janelle, are planning to set up a medical marijuana collective.”

I turned this news over in my head. “That’s good, right?” I asked hopefully.

“It’s not so simple. There’s a lot of work to be done. They’re still struggling to find financing. I offered to take out a mortgage on the house, but Scoot flat refused.”

“So then what are they gonna do?”

“Scoot will find a way. He’s smart. I’ll help with the renovation as much as I can. I’m handy enough.”

“I can help too.”

“Someone needs to look after Arthur,” he said.

We drove in silence for a long while. Jez kept his eyes on the road. I stared out at the ocean. The vastness of it made me feel insignificant; it was here long before humans learned to use tools, and it would be here long after we polluted ourselves out of existence, bearing impassive witness to all our sound and fury. It was both humbling and reassuring. My thoughts sloshed around randomly, and the words simply rolled out of my mouth.

“I didn’t realize Arthur was doing chemo.” I was still staring at the water.

This break in the silence must have startled Jez, because his answer took a while to come. “He isn’t.”

I whipped head around. “What!”

“It wasn’t too advanced when they diagnosed it. If he were young and otherwise healthy… But at his age, it would’ve just been needless torture.”

“But…”

“It was his decision, and I support it.”

I suspected Jez was right, but I hated feeling so helpless. “He’s gonna get worse.”

“He’s got prescription painkillers, and I’ll keep him in weed-laced bliss as long as I can.”

“It won’t be enough forever.”

“I know.” Jez sighed. “Eventually he’ll have to go to the hospital. They’ll pump him full of the ‘good drugs’ there,” he added bitterly.

Nothing else was said for the rest of the drive.

* * *

Seemingly things were back as before, but not exactly. We shared a bed whether we messed around or not. That closeness of shared body heat and tangled limbs was just as good, if not better, than the sex. However, during the days Jez was tense, on the go, his mind somewhere else. Whenever I asked how things were going, all he said was “fine” and unzipped my jeans. I know it was a distraction, but I preferred it to fighting.

Those times we tumbled onto the bed, sofa, and one time even onto the hard floor of the minibus and got each other off with feverish efficiency. Every kiss, every caress, every sweat-slicked plunge into pleasure was an evasion. After, spent and tired, we had the excuse to fall asleep and avert words again. Fucking the tension out of our systems got us through.

Jasper must have gotten the money, though, because the plans for the collective went ahead. I saw the place once, early on. It was a gutted former retail space in Hollywood. It needed a lot of work. From then on, Jez spent most of his time helping Scoot and Doug with the renovation. I offered to help, but somebody needed to look after Arthur.

Arthur wasn’t doing well. He was going downhill fast. He was old and frail before—that was nothing new. Maybe it was that the mischievous spark that had left his eyes. Also, he got busy getting rid of stuff. There was no day when I went to see him that he wasn’t sorting through the closet or the kitchen or who knows what. I had to take several trips to Goodwill with boxes of discarded junk. I knew what he was doing, and I would’ve done the same in his place, but I didn’t have to like it.

“How’s Arthur?” Jez asked one night. He’d just gotten home and looked worn out.

“He’s pretty good,” I lied. “I was just over there. We had dinner.” Arthur had been picking on his food with little interest, but I was going to keep that detail to myself.

“I should go over to say hello.”

“He’s probably in bed already. How about tomorrow before you leave?”

Jez nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Hey, what do you think of these?” I asked, putting a plate of still-warm cookies in front of him.

Between Jez being strained and distant and Arthur preparing to die, I poured all my frustration and anxiety into baking. Yeah, I know. It was so Martha Stewart, but there was a good reason for it—Jez had never mastered more than basic cookies and brownies. Arthur must have gotten pretty bored of them by then, not that he ever complained. I found in me an unexpected knack for making sweet things. Despite what I’d first naively thought, you didn’t simply throw pot into the mix. It had to be made into “cannabutter” first. Then you could use it for anything that required butter.

Jez took a cautious first bite. “Mmm… I wasn’t expecting lemon, but it’s good. What are the lumpy bits?”

“Oatmeal. I know it sounds weird, but when I found the recipe online there was a great photo with it. I decided to give it a try.”

“I like it.” Jez reached for another one.

“Don’t eat too many. They are for Arthur,” I warned him.

Jez put the cookie down and leaned back wearily in the chair. “It sucked watching Adelle fade away. She was always so tough and strong when I was a kid. It felt so wrong seeing her fragile like that. I’m sorry for dumping Arthur on you.”

“That’s okay. Really. We can’t always have it easy, right? Anyway, I like spending time with him; he has great stories.” I tried to lighten up the mood.

Jez pushed himself up and yawned. “I’m so damn tired. I’m off to bed.”

* * *

One late afternoon, I stood at the door of Arthur’s apartment with a plate of chocolate macaroons. The bittersweet voice of Billie Holiday singing about the moon and lost love drifted from inside.

It felt wrong to knock, so I tried the door. It was open. I let myself in to find Arthur in the unlit room, slumped on the sofa with a tattered old photo album in his lap. I sat next to him, wordlessly placing the plate on the coffee table. He gave me a feeble smile. After a moment, I tugged the album away, and he didn’t object.

They were old, yellowed photographs of Arthur and another man. It looked like they were snapped at a camping trip. They were both so impossibly young. Arthur’s hair was thick and dark, his eyes bright and impish. The other man had tousled light hair and a lean, muscular body. His face was plain, but something about it—probably the way he smiled, the guileless way he gazed into the camera—made him captivating. I traced his features with a light finger.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“An old ghost. His name was David. I’ve avoided looking at these pictures for so long, but I can’t evade any longer.” Arthur looked around like he was surprised to find himself in that crowded little room. “I don’t know what to do. It feels wrong to throw them away, but once I’m gone, they won’t mean anything to anyone.”

“I’ll keep them.” I volunteered without having to think about it.

“They are just a bunch of strangers to you.”

“I’ll make up stories about them. Racy ones,” I added, and that at last elicited a small smile.

I looked back down at the photos. “Arthur, what happened?” Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but I thought he might want to unburden himself.

He hesitated for only a second. “We were young and stupid. Well, I was. I wasn’t ready to settle down, not with one person. There was too much out there. So many things to try, thrills to have. I tried to make him see it my way, but he wouldn’t. So he left me.” He stopped and stared into the dim light of the room.

When I thought that was all to it, he spoke again. “Deep in my heart I always knew we would end up back together again; it was meant to be. But then he died. He was young, not even forty yet. I’ve never met anyone like him again. It was such a long time ago, but the hole in my life never got any smaller.”

Somewhere out there, the sun was setting, and the warm light cast striped shadows through the blinds.

Arthur sounded distant. “I stopped believing in religion and any higher power a long time ago, but I keep hoping I’ll see him again soon.”

There was nothing to say. I wouldn’t insult Arthur with some stock banality. So I nudged the plate of macaroons closer. I took one too—I needed a little consciousness altering at that moment too. Arthur took one of my hands in his. We sat in the slowly darkening room in silence for a long, long time, watching ghosts chase each other in the shadows. His breathing slowed, and his head rolled back. I carefully disentangled myself and left him there, sleeping in the dusky room.

When I got back a few hours later with dinner, the lights were on, and the old guy was puttering about. He looked a little better, and I knew he was making an effort for me. I set up plates for two on the kitchen table. Jez was out—I barely saw him these days—and I wanted to make sure Arthur ate. His appetite had been flagging.

We had our dinner in comfortable silence. There was something I wanted to ask him, but I was worried that poking at old memories might get him back into a funky mood. Then again, he barely had a toehold in the present whether I asked or not.

“Arthur, how did you meet Adelle?”

His eyes lost focus, searching back through time, but his expression brightened. “I first saw Ada in the RKO Commissary. She was giving hell to some rube who was getting fresh with her. What a firecracker! She had a look and spirit enough for three. Talented too. She could’ve been famous, but she was too wild, always doing her own thing. I remember, at one time she was up for a screen test for a role that could’ve made her, but instead she took off to Paris with some guy she’d fallen in love with. She came back alone six months later, but if you thought she’d be crushed, you’d be disappointed. Adelle just laughed and went on. If I were into women, I would’ve asked her to marry me. I think I may have anyway. As is, she was my best friend.”

“She sounds like one of a kind.”

“Yeah, she was a wild card, but she was no flake. She could keep a secret like nobody.” Arthur chuckled. “To this day, nobody knows who Jesse’s grandfather is. Oh, there were rumors about a dozen film stars, a few of the studio heads, and a writer or two—all married, of course—but she never told, not even me.”

We spent the rest of the night with his reminiscing about his old studio days and my providing the attentive audience, till Arthur tired. It cheered him up.

Chapter Thirteen

Jez was still out when I went to bed that night, but I woke up relieved when he and his cold feet crawled under the covers next to me, sometime in the wee hours.

I had uneasy dreams that vanished the moment I opened my eyes. Jez was still fast asleep, so I stole out of bed to put the coffee on. Arthur’s photos made me think of my own. I had absconded with one small album when I left Indiana. I dug it out and was in the living room, flipping through it, when Jez slipped next to me on the sofa, handing me a cup of coffee.

“Who’s that?” he asked when we got to the last page.

“That’s Jenny.”

“You didn’t tell me she was hot.”

“I thought you weren’t into chicks.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m not blind!”

“I got lucky,” I explained. “She had no idea what a knockout she was. Jenny thought she was plain.”

“Must be a Midwest thing.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

There were a couple of brand-new pictures on the coffee table too. They came in the mail from Ginny. I picked them up. One was of Jez with his surfboard and fake tattoo and another of the two of us asleep, arms strewn across each other. Intimate. I had to admit it: Ginny was good. She plucked those moments out of time with a deft precision. It made me ache to recapture them. Well, as my grandma used to say, if wishes were horses…

I dropped the pictures back on the table, took Jez’s cup out of his hands, and set it next to them. A wisp of a smile played on his lips as he eyed me, waiting for my next move. I chose to kiss it off. I pressed him into the cushions, leaving no doubt about my intentions. I slid my hand into the seat of his shorts, and he tilted his hips up to give easier access. I cupped his ass and squeezed. The sudden flashback to Professor Henwood and his baritone voice was unexpected but excusable under the circumstances.

“Callipygian,” I blurted out.

“What?” Jez looked at me with befuddled arousal.

“Cal-ee-pidge-ee-an,” I enunciated with care. “Having shapely buttocks. It’s in the dictionary, if you don’t believe me.”

“Well, as long as you’re not calling me a pigeon.” He laughed.