Murmuration Page 7

  “Do you love him?” Oscar asks, and Mike can barely keep up.

  “Who?” he asks.

  “Don’t play me for a fool, son,” Oscar says, clearly agitated. “You ain’t got enough time for that. Life is too goddamn short for uncertainty and bullshit. You hear me?”

  “Oscar,” Mike says, trying not to reel from thinking yes, I love him, more than anything. “Where’s this coming from?”

  “I don’t know,” Oscar says, and only then does Mike see the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I really don’t know. Everything was fine, and then I saw this dress in the window of the wimmin-folk shop when I was going on my lunch-break walk and it was in my head, Mikey. It was in my head and I remembered her saying, ‘I’d like to wear that, I think. It’s fancy, and I’m not always fancy, but I’d like to wear that.’” He takes in this great, shuddering breath, like he’s about to cry, and that, out of everything, is what surprises Mike the most. Not the mountains. Not this stacked honey who doesn’t exist anymore, but the fact that Oscar, the great and terribly wonderful Oscar, is choking back a sob.

  “Hey,” Mike says, alarmed. He’s halfway out of his chair and reaching for Oscar before he even realizes he’s moving. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

  “Her name,” Oscar says. “You have to know her name.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mike says. “Anything. You know that. Anything, Oscar.”

  “That boy,” Oscar says as Mike puts a hand on his shoulder. Oscar’s skin is overwarm, even through the material of his shirt. His pulse is jumping erratically under the skin of his throat. “That boy of yours.”

  “Sean,” Mike says, crouching down next to him. He’s sure Oscar is on his way to a heart attack, sure that the grimace on his face is from pain shooting through his arm. Mike’s two seconds away from tearing inside to call the operator to get emergency services on the line to send an ambulance when he’s hit with a realization that should be impossible.

  Amorea doesn’t have an ambulance.

  Amorea doesn’t have a hospital.

  Because no one gets sick here. Not seriously.

  Not like Oscar, whose breathing is labored, who’s lying back in Mike’s patio chair, clutching his arm to his chest, mouth open and panting.

  “Sean,” Oscar says again. “You listen to me about him. Are you listening?”

  Mike says, “Yes,” because he doesn’t know what else to do. Everything is tits up, and he’s not sure how to stop it.

  “You love him,” Oscar says, “with everything you have. Because one day, there may come a time when he’s not there no more. And you won’t even remember him. No matter how hard you try, you won’t remember him no more because he’ll be taken from you when you least expect it. So you love him, you hear me? With all you got.”

  Mike says, “Yeah,” and he says, “Okay,” because he will. He does. He might not say it ever, he might not even really allow himself to think it, but he does. He gave his heart away to a green-eyed boy the day he stepped into the diner, whether he knew it then or not. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Sean owns a piece of him that will never belong to anyone else. Mike knows this as surely as he knows there’s nothing he can do for Oscar now, because there’s nothing in Amorea that could help him.

  “What’s happening?” Mike asks, voice hoarse. “What is this? Oscar, what’s going on?”

  “Would have liked,” Oscar says, eyes sliding lazy and unfocused, “to have seen those mountains. With her. Did I tell you her name yet?”

  “No, no you didn’t. Oscar, just breathe, okay? I’ll figure this out. I just need you to breathe.”

  Oscar chuckles. “Ain’t no breathing here,” he says. “Not anymore. Can feel it. There’s a thing—” He cuts off as his eyes bulge from his head, staring into nothing. “Holy shit, what is this? What the hell is this?”

  “What?” Mike asks, gripping his shoulder tightly. “What do you see?”

  “Mikey,” Oscar breathes. “The birds. Oh my god, the birds. How they murmur.”

  And Mike thinks of clouds spinning above his head.

  Oscar cries, “I’ll tell ya! I’ll tell ya her goddamn name, fo sho! Ain’t got time for all your honky-tonk boolshit. You’ll see! You’ll see! Her name was Nadine, and she was my African queen. She was stacked. And she was a honey. She was a dolly. Ain’t never been anyone like her. Ain’t never will be anyone like her. She’s—”

  His voice dies.

  His voice dies off because one second he’s hollering to the night about Nadine the African Queen, and the next he disappears. One second he’s there, writhing in Mike’s patio chair, skin fever-hot, and the next he’s gone.

  Mike stumbles forward onto his knees, the support of Oscar’s shoulder gone. His face hits the side of the chair, nose against the armrest, which digs painfully into his face. He’s not quite sure what’s just happened, his mind misfiring, unable to reconcile the fact that Oscar was there and now he’s not. He existed until he didn’t.

  He says, “Oscar?” in a voice he barely recognizes as his own. It trembles. It’s uncertain.

  All he hears is the call of the bird. The flickering hiss of the Tiki torches.

  He thinks, Maybe I just hallucinated this whole thing. Maybe I just got drunk and Oscar already went home and here I am, stumbling over furniture near the middle of the night. I’m drunk and busted my nose over nothing.

  Except Oscar’s cigar is still sitting there on the table.

  It’s burning, the tip glowing orange.

  The smoke is still curling up.

  Mike is a rational man. He thinks from a rational place. He understands rational things.

  Nothing about this is rational.

  Because he knows Occam’s razor. He knows that the simplest explanation is the best.

  It’s simple, really.

  Either he’s so drunk for the first time in his life that he hallucinated an entire conversation with someone who wasn’t there.

  Or Oscar Johnson disappeared in front of him.

  He thinks, I am a rational man. I come from a rational place.

  But that little voice says, Are you? Do you? If you come from a rational place as a rational man, Mike, then go to the mountains. Right now. Go to the mountains. Get up, pound pavement and go to the—

  The thought never finishes because an alarm starts to bray, louder than anything he’s ever heard. He slams his hand over his ears and it hurts, everything hurts, and he thinks he hears voices above the alarm, voices shouting out in warning, but he can’t be sure. He wants Oscar. He wants to get to the mountains. He wants Sean. He wants Sean. He wants—

  VII

  IT’S A beautiful Friday morning when Mike Frazier opens his eyes, his alarm ringing in his ear. It’s louder than normal and sounds a little different, but he’s probably just tired. He hits the button on the top with a groan, and the clock falls silent.

  His head is a little stuffy today. He must have drunk an extra beer at poker night last night without even realizing it. It happens, sometimes. He’s allowed to indulge.

  Nothing a hot shower and an even hotter cup of coffee won’t fix.

  Martin’s tail is flicking back and forth as Mike pulls himself out of bed.

  It’s not until he’s in the shower that he remembers what tomorrow is. He doesn’t even try to hide the smile. There’s no one there to see it, after all.

  THERE’S A spring in his step, to be sure, as he walks down the sidewalk. He’s wearing his usual jeans and shirt, but he’s got a button-up over the tee, a blue one that Sean likes on him. Says it makes him look handsome, brings out his eyes. Sean laughed when Mike flushed and averted his eyes, saying, “Take the compliment, big guy. Trust me on that one.”

  He’s in the door, the bell ringing overhead, before he stops and grins at the sight.

  Donald, Calvin, and Happy are all there, groaning as they sit at the lunch counter, heads in their hands. Happy looks the worst, a little green around the gills, skin pale and smudg
es of black under his eyes.

  Sean is there too, standing in front of them, hands on the counter, a look of gleeful amusement on his face. He glances up toward the door at the sound of the bell, the smile on his face softening to the one he only has for Mike. Mike’s heart does the little dance in his chest that it always does.

  People call out to Mike in greeting from the booths as he heads for the counter. He nods at them, knowing Sean hasn’t looked away. He’s at the counter, standing next to Donald, by the time he looks back up, meeting Sean’s gaze.

  “Hey,” he says softly.

  “Hey,” Sean says. “I’ll be honest. I was expecting you to look a little like these sad sacks here when you walked in. I’m a little disappointed.”

  “Really,” Mike says, leaning forward just a little.

  Sean’s lips quirk. “A little.”

  “You wound me.”

  “Do I?” Sean says, eyes dancing.

  “Oh god,” Happy moans. “Do you have to flirt right now? I’m already sick as a dog. You’re making it worse!”

  Sean rolls his eyes, but doesn’t lose Mike’s smile. “You brought this on yourself, gentlemen,” he says. “Now I suggest you drink your coffee while I see about those eggs. Those runny, runny eggs.”

  Donald and Calvin whimper while Happy puts his head down on the counter. Sean winks at Mike and turns toward the kitchen.

  “How do you look like you do?” Donald complains, glaring at Mike. “You drank almost as much as we did!”

  “Moderation, boys,” Mike says, wanting to wait for Sean before he goes to his usual booth. “It’s all about moderation.”

  “Stop smiling,” Calvin said. “It’s disgusting to be smiling that much this early.”

  “He can’t,” Happy groans without looking up. “That’s his I’m-within-seven-feet-of-Sean smile. It doesn’t go away no matter how much you want it to.”

  “I happen to think it’s a nice smile,” Sean says, coming back carrying plates loaded with eggs, several rashers of bacon, and a pile of hash browns, crisped around the edges. “And I’m working on getting it up to ten feet, so you all hush and eat slowly.”

  “Yessir,” they mutter, slowly picking up their forks and tucking in.

  Sean looks around the diner to make sure no one’s flagging him down before he focuses again on Mike. “You feeling any worse for wear there, big guy?” he asks.

  Mike shrugs. “A little headache,” he admits.

  “That right,” Sean says. “Seems to me you boys went a little overboard last night.”

  “We had to,” Happy says through a mouthful of eggs. “We were celebratin’.”

  “Oh?” Sean asks, though he’s still watching Mike, who has suddenly found something very interesting on the counter to stare at. “And what were you celebrating?”

  “That Mike finally manned up and decided to ask you out on a proper date,” Donald says. Then, “Oh shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that.”

  Mike sighs.

  “Really,” Sean says, and that gleeful tone is back. Mike looks up and halfheartedly glares at him. “Is that so?”

  “Oh yeah,” Calvin says. “We’ve been listening to him wax on about you for years. ’Bout time he decided to do something about it.”

  “I need new friends,” Mike mutters.

  “Heard that,” a voice calls from the kitchen.

  Sean rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t hungover either,” he says to Mike. “Though he looked a little peaked when he came in this morning.”

  Walter, the owner of the diner, peers out from the kitchen doorway, spatula in hand, a smile on his face. “Hey,” he says. “I celebrated right along with them. It’s just that Mike and I are real men and can hold our liquor better than the little boys. Ain’t that right, Mike?”

  And for a split second, Mike’s hit with something horrendous, like the worst déjà vu he’s ever felt in his life. It bowls over him, and then it’s gone. Mike shakes his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.

  “You okay?” Sean asks, the concern clear in his voice. There’s the briefest of hesitations, but then his hand is on top of Mike’s, thumb brushing against his skin.

  “Yeah,” Mike says, forcing a smile back on his face. “Just… yeah. I’m fine. A little slow on the uptake, I guess.”

  Sean cocks his head while Walter waves the spatula and heads back into the kitchen. “Take a seat, big guy,” Sean says. “I’ll bring you a cup of joe and something good to eat.”

  “Maybe a little company too?” Mike asks. “I think that might be my favorite thing.”

  “Is it?” Sean asks, once again smiling. “I may just have to do something about that, then.”

  “Oh good lord,” Happy mutters. “How can they be getting worse?”

  “We just have to accept it,” Calvin says. “It’s our faults, really. All of us. We pushed for this.”

  “And this is our reward,” Donald says, sounding particularly aggrieved. “Mike making heart eyes at his fella while we have to sit here and watch. It’s unconstitutional is what it is.”

  “Idiots,” Mike says, but even he can hear the fondness in his own voice.

  He moves toward his booth, nodding at the others in the diner, saying Good morning and Nice to see you and Why yes, I’ve still got copies of the new Philip Marlowe, of course I do, but you better hurry, they’re selling fast!

  He takes in the photos on the walls, as he always does, the memories belonging to him and everyone else in Amorea. He’s got his favorite, and it’s a little biased, sure, but it’s one where he and Sean are sitting side by side on the dock at the large pond in the dark, feet hanging off, toes in the water. Their shoulders are brushing together and Sean’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something Mike had said. And Mike? Well. If there was ever any doubt how he feels about Sean, one would only have to point at that photo and say, “Look. See? This is what Sean means to Mike Frazier.”

  The adoration is clear on his face, frozen in time from that day by the pond. He’s looking at Sean like he’s the greatest thing in the world. Walter was proud of that photo, capturing that moment, yelling over at them afterward with a big grin on his face, saying, Wait till you guys see this one! I know exactly where it’s gonna go. It’s gonna be perfect.

  And it was. It is. Perfect. Walter’s not the best photographer, more a lover of the art than actually good at it, but he caught something with that photo.

  He even hung it right above Mike’s booth, knowing how much Mike likes to look at it, even if Mike can never actually say those words out loud.

  He’s still staring at the photo when he feels a hand trail along his shoulder. He lets himself lean into it, just a little bit.

  A cup of steaming hot coffee is placed on the table before him.

  “That was a good day,” Sean says. Mike looks up at him, only to see him gazing at the photo of the two of them. “That was the day I knew, I think.”

  “Knew what?” Mike asks as Sean’s fingers curl into the hair on the back of his head.

  “That I’d fight for you,” Sean says, and Mike feels a little chill at that.

  Things haven’t always been like this between them, this slow, sweet curl of molasses that holds them together. Sure, Mike was knocked for a loop that first day he walked into the diner, unable to look away from Sean. He wasn’t expecting someone like Sean to ever exist in the world, at least not around him. He was rather breathless and intimidated, but Sean was kind and laughed like he didn’t care who could hear him. It made him look impossibly young, and therein lay the problem.

  Because no matter how much Mike could spin it, no matter how much Sean would growl at him, there were still thirteen years separating them. Not to mention that on that first day, a week after Mike moved to Amorea, Sean was twenty years old. It seemed wrong, somehow. Mike was sure it would set the tongues wagging in town, and he didn’t want to bring that down on Sean. He also knew that Sean should be with someone his own age, someone who could give him eve
rything he could ask for. Sure, there were only a handful of people around Sean’s age in Amorea, but they’d be a better fit for him, wouldn’t they? And who was Mike to stand in the way of that?

  No one. He was no one. Not really.

  And it led to the one true fight they’ve ever really had. Mike began to pull himself away from… whatever they were doing, and Sean was having none of it. It didn’t take long for him to come busting into Bookworm, his bright eyes narrowed, jaw set.

  Mike hadn’t been into the diner in days, had been hiding if he was being honest with himself. He’d thought maybe some distance would do them both some good, no matter how much it hurt. Sean would see, he told himself. Sean would see that Mike wasn’t good enough for him.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Sean said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike said, keeping his voice devoid of anything so as to sound like he was already bored of the conversation. He wasn’t proud of it, but it was what it was. He continued to build a display without even so much as a glance in Sean’s direction.

  “Like hell you don’t, Mike Frazier,” Sean snapped, taking a step forward. “I’m not stupid, so don’t you dare treat me like I am.”

  Mike might have winced at that, because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Sean was probably the smartest person he’d ever met. He could certainly talk circles around Mike on most things. He knew the names of the birds in the sky. The trees around Amorea. He could recite poetry and mathematical equations. He could speak Latin and would read everything he could get his hands on. There were times he’d come into Bookworm and pull a book randomly off the shelf before curling up into one of the overstuffed sofas Mike had pressed up against the wall. Mike would watch him for hours, the sun filtering in through the window dappling Sean’s skin with little fractals of light. Those were the days when things felt lazy and slow, and more than anything, Mike wanted to kneel beside the sofa and take the book from Sean’s hand. He’d cup Sean’s face, rubbing his thumbs over Sean’s cheekbones and the anticipation would hurt so good that he’d revel in it.