Hound Dog & Bean (9 page)

Shit.

Bean wasn’t one of those people who left a poor animal in the backyard all day, was he? That’s what had started the problem with Brubaker in the first place, which in turn led to Bean getting punched.

H.D. peeked out the big window over the sink—after pushing aside an assortment of African violets and aloe—and perused the backyard.

He didn’t see a dog.

He
did
see a kitchen door in the corner of the room, and next to it was a dog bed leaning up against a wall. With a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming, he opened the door quietly and looked out the back. Again, no dog in sight. The yard was rectangular, with trees along the fence—redbuds maybe?—that provided a lot of privacy and a little pond, along with a boy-peeing-water fountain. He couldn’t help but laugh.

Then he remembered the nosy thing he was doing and made some quick kissing sounds before Poindexter or Bean came back to see what was keeping him. It was a noise that always attracted dogs.

Again, nothing.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

There was no dog stuck outside all day in the backyard.

H.D. carefully and silently closed the door, then headed back to the refrigerator. He knew he needed to finish what he was supposed to be doing, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know what was going on with the corgi.

He pulled the photograph off the refrigerator door and turned it over. Sure enough¸ something was written there. Just one word: “Moses.” Moses? Interesting. Especially since he’d once had a beautiful little Sheltie named Ramses. Synchronicity. Or something anyway. Ezzie would have read all kinds of shit into that.

“You okay back here?”

H.D. started so badly he nearly dropped the picture, and he scrambled to get it back on the fridge door just as Poindexter walked in.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, giving him a funny look.

“Ah.”
Just be real
, he commanded himself.
Tell the truth. Oh, what tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive. And all that shit.
“Saw the picture of the dog,” he said. “I have a thing for them.”

“Oh.” Poindexter got a far-off look on her face. Then: “That makes sense, doesn’t it? Considering what you do….” She touched the picture. “Bean lost him a long time ago. He was, like, twenty-five or something. Bean, that is. Not the dog. Moses. He loved that dog so much he hasn’t had one since.”

“Ah.” H.D. looked at the picture again. “I understand.” And he did. Isn’t that exactly why he hadn’t taken a dog on since Ramses? Some people ran right out and got a new dog. Then half the time (more than that?) were disappointed their new dog wasn’t just like the last one.

“You do?” Poindexter asked.

“I do,” he stated—no nonsense.

She gave him a sad smile. “I’m a cat person myself. But it’s the same thing, I suppose. I haven’t had a cat since Calico passed into the Summerlands.”

Summerlands….
He liked Poindexter better already.

“I suppose,” H.D. said. He thought it over for a moment; found himself going someplace way too serious and decided to make a joke of it. “After all. You’re a dyke. Dyke equals cats. Gay boys like dogs.”

“You’re gay?” she asked.

He gave her an oh-please, let’s-be-real look. “You didn’t know?”

“I never assume. It makes an…”

“… ass out of you and me,” he chorused with her.

They smiled at each other in a nice little and immediate camaraderie. H.D. liked this girl/woman better every minute. He was very suddenly happy Elaine seemed to like her. His friend had been alone for as long as he’d known her. She was not, in H.D.’s experience at least, a typical lesbian—meeting a woman and calling U-Haul the next day. And if she liked Poindexter, who gave a shit that they were a good twenty years apart in age?

Speaking of age. H.D. looked down at the picture of Bean. He did look a
lot
younger in that photograph. Maybe it was time for the man to take on a new canine companion. After all, was there a better connection for a man than man’s best friend?

No.

There wasn’t.

Not even close.

“Although lately…,” Poindexter started.

“Lately?” H.D. asked.

“Well, I’m wondering if it’s time.”

H.D. titled his head. Time for what?

“I think Bean needs someone in his life,” she replied. “And if he’s too afraid to look for a man, then why not a dog?”

“Bean is gay?”

She gave him an oh-please, let’s-be-real look. “You didn’t know?” she asked.

I hoped
, he thought, and was surprised at the thought.

Now what the
fuck
had made
that
thought pop up in his head?

Poindexter walked to the sink and nudged the papaya peelings and the dozens of black seeds on the counter. “What’s this?” she asked

“Papaya,” he answered, maybe a little too quickly. “I sliced some for him to eat and mashed some for his eye.”

Her brows came together. “You’re gonna put papaya on his eye?”

“Yeah,” he all but snapped. He took a breath. He was acting silly.

Be real. Stop acting like you’ve done something wrong
.

But you
did
do something wrong. You snooped. Poked around in shit that was none of your fucking business
.

So what? When had that ever bothered him before? How else were you supposed to know if a person was lying or not? People weren’t like dogs after all. You could trust a dog. At least
your
dog.

“Papaya’s got a lot of antioxidants that help speed up the healing process of bruises and stuff,” H.D. explained. “And it has some kind of enzyme that helps the blood from a bruise soak back into your body.”

“Oh!” She studied the peelings. “
Really?
” She picked up a peeling. “That’s good. And it tastes pretty good too.” She winked. “A plus.”

“I saved him some to eat,” he said. “It’s not a very good papaya, but it’ll help.”

“And you’re
seriously
gonna put some on his eyes?” She looked up at him like she didn’t believe him.

“Google it,” he declared.

She held up a hand. “Cool, man. I grok.”

Grok?
Now he
knew
he liked Poindexter.

“Got some other stuff to help Bean.” H.D. went for the other bag he’d brought, this one made of brown paper with the words “The Village Herbal” printed on the side. Brown for the environment. He pulled out three small bottles and a bigger one. The small bottles were made of dark-brown glass, two of them had labels.

“What’s that?” Poindexter asked.

“Arnica and chamomile,” he remarked. “Essential oils. And witch hazel.” H.D. opened the three bottles and then carefully poured a tiny amount of two of them into the larger empty bottle. Then he added some of the witch hazel, which looked more like water than an oil. He closed them all and then shook the bottle with the mixture he had prepared. Finally, he reached for a paper towel from the roll by the sink. He motioned toward the door with a tilt of his head. “Grab the bowl of yellow mush from the fridge and follow me.”

“I
S
THIS
more olive oil?” Bean asked as H.D. carefully massaged around his eye. H.D. was being very gentle, and for that Bean was grateful.

“Damn” was the answer. “I shoulda used some of that too. Oh well.”

“Hmmm?”

“It’s witch hazel and arnica and chamomile,” H.D. said.

“Arnica? What’s that?”

“An herb. I’m using some essential oils on you….”

H.D. continued the slow, circular motions with the tips of his fingers. It felt nice, but Bean was careful not to lean into his makeshift nurse’s touch like he had earlier that day. Mara was hovering over them, of which Bean was intensely aware. He didn’t want to embarrass himself further, and that was certainly possible. He found it kind of crazy how he was responding to the simple, innocent feel of those gently massaging fingertips. Why? They weren’t bumping and grinding after all. H.D. wasn’t flirting. Not really. There had been a moment in the back of the shop…. But that wasn’t anything, surely. Just silliness. Right? Yet he’d started to get an erection. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t some thirteen-year-old boy who could get a hard-on over something as simple as a breeze brushing over his crotch. He was a man. A sexually experienced man. Could this be a simple case of it having been too long since he’d gotten laid?

Or was there something else to it?

He couldn’t deny he was attracted to H.D. Bean wasn’t sure what it was about H.D. that did it either. He wasn’t what Bean usually went for. Bean’s taste ran to the Bohemian, yes, but H.D. crossed that line somehow. It wasn’t only the dreadlocks. It was his whole manner. His speech. The clothes: not retro or punk or even beatnik, but more like some time-lost flower child. There was the shirt for one thing—it looked more like something a hippie girl would wear. White, embroidered with swoops and curls in the same color, with loose sleeves that ended somewhere between his elbows and wrist, and probably made of 100 percent cotton. His jeans were worn to near transparency and rode so low Bean wasn’t sure how he hadn’t gotten a glimpse of H.D.’s pubic hair. Did he shave or something?

Bean felt a stirring again and cursed himself. It wasn’t the thought of H.D. shaving; it was the fact that thinking about him shaving got Bean to noticing how well the slim man filled out the front of his jeans. That got him to wondering what H.D. would look like naked, and
that
got him to scolding himself all the more.

There was more shifting in Bean’s jeans and he sucked in a breath—
Jeez. Get your mind out of the gutter. This guy is helping and you’re thinking about his dick! What’s wrong with you?
—and made a distinct effort to think of something else.
“What are these oils supposed to do?” he asked.

“Well,” H.D. said, dabbing a little more of the solution below Bean’s left eye. “Arnica helps get rid of the swelling with a black eye, and it'll help the muscles around your eye, too. You start using this stuff right after you get a black eye and it'll keep the black and blue from getting black and bluer. And the witch hazel and chamomile makes it hurt less and gets the skin back to its regular color. Just put this shit on two or three times a day and you'll get better lickety-split.”

“And you Googled all this.” It was a statement and not a question.

“I knew most of it,” H.D. said. “This lady I used to live with taught me.”

“Lady?” Poindexter asked, breaking in.

Bean opened his eyes in time to see the man nodding.
Damn.
Dean had been certain H.D. was gay.
What straight man wears a shirt like that?

“I thought you just said you were gay,” Poindexter went on.

“I am,” he said very matter-of-factly. He paused. “Oh!” H.D. started to laugh. “Not
that
kind of lady.
This
lady was old.
Really
old.
Like in her nineties or something. Shit, she coulda been a hundred for all I know. She… helped me out once. I wound up living with her a while—helped her out, you know? Returning the favor?—and she taught me shit. How to get rid of a cold, cures for dry, cracked feet, help with arthritis.” He flexed his hands to illustrate. “Witchy lady, really.”

“Witchy?” Poindexter arched a brow.

H.D. gave another nod. “She even thought she could cast spells. Of course, she couldn’t. But that didn’t mean her old wise-woman’s ways weren’t worth their while.” He screwed the lid on his bottle, put it aside, and turned to Poindexter. “Papaya?”

“Yes, doctor,” she said and handed him the small container of mashed fruit.

He flashed her a grin and took it from her, then went down on his knees in front of Bean. H.D. began to smear the weird-looking stuff around Bean’s eye. He jumped for a second, let out a small cry of surprise—“Ow. Cool!”—only to have H.D. tell him it would help and should make it feel better. Bean was surprised at how quickly the fruit really did help. Bean peeked out at H.D. despite the papaya—he couldn’t help it—and saw H.D. was looking at him. That sweet face. That mane of blond dreadlocks and how he wanted to touch them. See what they felt like.

It was at that very moment Bean saw, really saw, how beautiful the younger man’s eyes were.

For Christmas last year, Bean and his father had bought his mother a blue topaz necklace. It had consisted of seven stones, and when Bean had seen the piece at the local New Age store, he knew it was his mother’s. Knew it. He called his father, and they met that evening, right before the store closed, so they could look at it together. The central stone was as large as a silver dollar, and each pair after that was only slightly smaller than the pair before. It was not a necklace just any woman could wear—but his mother? They both knew she could not only carry it off, but would look spectacular wearing it. It would be perfect for a huge charity function she was sponsoring in January. The color was some amazing marriage of tropical seas and glacial ice. Breathtaking. Simply breathtaking.

That was the blue of H.D.’s eyes. That sense-shattering color, circled by the tiniest outline of an almost green. There were hazel stars there as well, what might have been called an imperfection, but instead made them completely captivating. Bean had never seen eyes like them. His mouth parted slightly, and somehow he managed to suppress a sigh.

Breathtaking.

And then those eyes—surrounded by amazing long lashes the color of sunshine—widened slightly. “What?” their owner asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

Bean felt his face heat up. He was staring! But even that knowledge, and the embarrassment, was not enough to make him stop.

“You okay, mister coffee man?”

Bean swallowed hard and managed a single nod. “Sorry,” he whispered, and was finally able to look away.

H.D.
TOOK
the plastic spoon he’d found in one of the kitchen drawers and scooped out some of the papaya he’d mashed. He then had Bean “Tilt your head back a bit, man” and placed the yellow-orange pulp in the hollow under the injured man’s eyes.