Here to Stay (5 page)

They sat back so the waiter could put their plates down.

“Bon appétit,” he said.

Back at Barbegazi, they wrestled the tree into its stand. Erik brought a stepladder up from the basement and Daisy brought boxes of ornaments down from the attic.

“A little mood music?” she asked.

“Sure.”

She opened a CD case. “Pop burned this for me,” she said. “It’s all the oldies.”

“I’m warning you, if Nat King Cole is on there, it’s going to be ugly.”

She slid the disc into the stereo and hit the play button, then held out her arms. “First track. Let’s get it over with.”

With the opening wail of violins, Erik’s chest constricted. “Ugly,” he said, drawing her tight against him.

“Evil,” she said against his shoulder.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

And then Erik was back in time, to a 1992 Thanksgiving at Daisy’s Pennsylvania home. La Tarasque in all its hospitable glory. He, Will, Lucky and David guests at Joe and Francine Bianco’s table. More than guests, cherished sons and daughters. Through the long weekend they ate, drank and laughed. Stayed up late and slept in. One night they decorated the Christmas tree while all the vintage holiday standards played. And for a short magic time, the shooting had been forgotten.

The weekend imprinted in Erik’s mind as the last of the great times, before he and Daisy began to spiral down into the dark.

“Fuck this fucking song,” he said.

“I never forgot,” she said, lifting her tear-stained face off his chest. “I never knew anything like it again. I didn’t decorate another tree for years.”

This tree would go undecorated for twenty-four hours. They started kissing and kissing made them spiral up into the light and back into her bed. Soft, careful touching under the covers, bringing each other around. Coming gently as falling snow and melting into deep sleep afterward, relaxed and warm and safe. Just as they had that long ago winter weekend.

They woke around four o’clock to the tone of an incoming text on Daisy’s phone.

“It’s Will,” she said, yawning against the back of her hand. She turned the screen toward Erik.

Tell Fish to put some clothes on. I’m taking him out for a beer and a beating. Not necessarily in that order.

WALKING DOWN PRINCE STREET, shoulders hunched against the wind, Erik saw Will waiting by the pub. His back and the sole of one foot were against the brick building. Bare-headed in the cold night, his breath exhaled small clouds as he looked down at his phone.

Erik met both Daisy and Will on the same day his freshman year of college. It was like being struck by lightning twice. In Daisy’s case, he sat still and let the bolt hit him because one look and he wanted her. When Will crackled onto the scene though, Erik backed away. Keeping a distance measured in equal parts distrust and fascination.

A son of New Brunswick, a quarter Native American, a uniquely talented ballet dancer and a black belt mixed martial artist on the side, William Kaeger was incapable of being ignored. Erik watched him, at a loss how to process this strange, charismatic presence. Will wasn’t a clown, he didn’t demand attention. Like Kees Justi, Will simply had a compelling gravitational force. Wherever he went or was, that was the place others wanted to be. Erik hung back and observed through curious, narrowed eyes, realizing Will knew this, yet treated it as a responsibility, not an entitlement. He was decent to everyone and demonstratively loving to those he held dear.

“What’s up, asshole,” Will said, pushing off the wall.

They shook hands and Erik waited for an accompanying touch of some kind. Will’s brand of affection was unapologetically physical. Hair ruffling, head locking, shoulder patting. Nudging, shoving, hugging. And often coupled with suggestive remarks.

Nothing about Will ever struck Erik as effeminate. Even within the context of ballet, Will’s demeanor exuded masculinity and strength. Yet he was openly bisexual and he occasionally flirted with Erik. You couldn’t call it anything else. Rather than dissecting it, looking for intentions or threats, Erik found himself teasing right back, firing innuendos and verbal side-jabs from their arsenal of inside jokes. Keeping up banter on who was checking out whose ass.

Tonight? Nothing.

Will finished texting something and slid his phone in his inside pocket. Then he looked at Erik with undisguised expectation.

“How’s it going?” Erik said.

Will raised his eyebrows.

“Swing away,” Erik said, offering one side of his jaw.

Fast as a cobra strike, Will reared up, fist curled. Erik stepped back, a little slower, forearms coming up to shield his head.

“God, you’ve gone soft,” Will said, relaxing. He opened the pub door and with a curt flick of his head, said, “After you.”

“After you.”

“Go so I can look at your ass.”

“It’s not what it used to be,” Erik said over his shoulder.

“What is?”

“Bonsoir, good evening,” the hostess said, gathering menus. “Deux?”

She seated them in a booth where they shrugged their jackets off and ordered a round.

“All right,” Will said, rolling up his shirt sleeves, showing his tattooed forearms. “Since it’s our first beer in over a decade, I propose we do this speed-dating style. No gory details. You get sixty seconds to go from our last phone call to today.”

Erik inhaled against the guilt of that long-distance argument. Friendshipicide. Twelve years and some of the things Erik said on the call still filled his chest with shame. It was a heated, top-of-the-lungs exchange that went beyond the severing of diplomatic ties into emotionally economic sanctions. Other than a brief conversation a few days ago, they hadn’t spoken since.

“Sounds fair,” Erik said.

“You go first.”

“Your idea. You go first.”

“Fine. Time me. I got a job with National Ballet of Canada. I danced in the corps for a year. In ninety-four, I got an offer from the Frankfurt Ballet and decided to get the hell out of North America.”

“Where was Lucky?”

“In New York. We finally split up because I…” Will trailed off and touched his brow with his left hand. It was missing the ring and pinky fingers that were blown off in the shooting. He wore his heavy gold wedding band on his index finger.

Erik gently cleared his throat. “Because no details.”

“Right. So I was in Germany the next four years and that’s where I had my spectacular mental breakdown. No details. I got my shit together, headed to London for a spell. Then my dad started having some health issues, ended up having heart surgery and—”

“Time out,” Erik said. “Is he all right?”

Will smiled. “All good. I took some time off to be with him and did some teaching workshops with New Brunswick Ballet Theater. They offered me a principal contract and I decided to take it. I started seeing Lucky again. We did the long distance thing. Then Daisy came up to audition and the company made her an offer. The girls moved up here in ninety-nine. Luck and I got married in two thousand. We had Jack. We had Sara. Number three to be determined. I went over to the theater to do a little work. I looked up and saw your ugly face. The end.”

The waitress delivered their beers and they drank. Will shook his wrist out and looked at his watch. “Go.”

“I left Lancaster. Sulked for a few months then went back to finish my degree at SUNY Geneseo. I stayed there about four years after I graduated. Worked at the Playhouse. Cobbled an existence from a bunch of little jobs. Perfected the art of shutting down. Then I had my spectacular breakdown. I think a year going into it and a year coming out of it. In ninety-seven I got a job at SUNY Brockport. Moved there. Met a woman. Dated her two years. Got married…”

“No details.”

“Marriage fell apart. I got divorced. I headed to Lancaster and saw Kees. I picked up the phone and made a long overdue call. I bought a plane ticket. I showed my ugly face so everyone could smack the shit out of it. I ordered a beer. The end.”

“All right then.”

They sat in awkward silence, drumming fingers and spoons, avoiding eyes.

“Did I apologize for that phone call?” Erik asked.

Will shrugged one shoulder.

Erik forced himself to be still. “I’m sorry.”

Will ran his three-fingered hand through his hair. In college, it had been an impressive mane, falling below his shoulders. He shaved it down to the scalp after the shooting. Now it was a short and shaggy cut that framed the strong T of his nose and eyebrows, and the slanting accents of his cheekbones. Erik could stand in a bar and take numbers as long as Will wasn’t anywhere near.

Now Will smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dude,” he said. “I got so much to say, I’m kind of paralyzed. I don’t know where the fuck to even start.”

“I hear you.”

Silence. Will drained the rest of his beer and plonked the glass back onto the table. “Jesus, if this actually were a date, I wouldn’t call you again.”

Erik killed his own draft. “Wouldn’t blame you.”

The waitress came over. “Une autre tournée, messieurs?”

“La même chose,” Will said, sliding the glasses toward her. “Merci.”

Erik echoed his thanks to her back. “Tournée. Does that mean a round?”

Will nodded, his fingers fidgeting around the table. Which was odd. Will was, in Erik’s memory, preternaturally composed.

“I quit smoking,” Will said, taking a deep breath and linking his hands on the tabletop. “Never mind the nicotine addiction. It’s crazy how dependent I got on that bit of business to occupy my hands. I’ve never had to pay this much attention to holding still before.”

“I’m thinking this conversation might be easier if we had a cord of wood to split and stack.”

Will laughed. “Too bad I already have my winter supply laid in.”

“Where are you and Lucky living now?”

“We’re west of the city.” He turned a placemat over. “You got a pen? You must. You always had a pen.”

Erik had a pen and Will grinned as it was handed over. “I always had smokes, you always had a pen.”

“What do you carry now?”

“Fucking gum. It’s pathetic. Merci,” he said to the waitress who set down the next round. He drank as he sketched a quick map of Saint John, putting his house and Daisy’s house into perspective. “We love the place but it’s small. And with this third kid coming we really need to think of moving. I’d rather do it before the baby comes than after.”

“What’s parenthood been like?”

Three slow chuckles in Will’s chest. “Dude, that’s not small talk. We’d need a camping trip to discuss parenthood.”

Which was fine with Erik, who had severe fertility issues and wasn’t yet ready to talk about them. He fished around for a topic and finally asked, “Do you miss dancing? Performing, I mean.”

Two years earlier, Will and Daisy retired as principal dancers with New Brunswick Ballet and took up reins as co-artistic directors.

“I do,” Will said slowly, as if taking the admission for a test drive. “But it was time.”

“How so?”

Will reached behind to touch the left side of his back. “Scar tissue from the bullet wound, for one thing,” he said. “Didn’t bother me until I turned thirty, then every other day it seemed my back was giving me grief.” He held up his maimed hand, flexed it back and rotated it around. “But more than my back it was this. Sounds fucked for a dancer, right? But all the compensating for my lost fingers over the years was doing a number on my wrist. Bad tendonitis. It started to affect my ability to partner safely. I came close to dropping Daisy in a performance one night and I knew I’d have to make a decision soon. So I made it before anyone else could. You know—leave the party while you’re still having a good time?”

“But you miss it.”

Will nodded. “It was a good party. Sometimes I’ll be in rehearsal or watching a performance from the wings and I feel a bone-deep envy I’m not doing it anymore. But in other ways, I’m glad to be out. I can indulge my carb addiction. I wake up in the morning without my first thought being whether or not I can plié. Things like that.”

“You like running a company?”

“I like running this one. And I like running it with Daisy.”