CHAPTER 11
“You fell on the ice?”
Stephen nodded. His mother was reaching for the bandages on his face. He pulled away. He didn’t want her touching him.
“You should sue that supermarket,” his father said. “For negligence. They should have cleared that sidewalk.”
“It was just an accident,” said Stephen. “I slipped is all. I should have been more careful.”
“Why didn’t you call us from the hospital?” Mrs. Darby asked her son.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” said Stephen. “Besides, I’m fine.”
“A broken nose and thirty-six stitches is not fine,” said his mother. “You should have called.”
Stephen was sitting on the sofa in his parents’ house. He almost wished he’d just stayed at the hospital. At least there the nurses hadn’t kept asking him what had happened. They’d taken his story about falling on the sidewalk at the supermarket at face value, not even asking how he’d managed to drive himself to the emergency room with one eye almost totally shut and hands covered in blood. They’d simply stitched him up and sent him on his way.
He was relieved at their lack of interest. He’d had enough trouble getting out of the Paris Cinema without incident. Hearing his calls for help, several people had discovered him lying on the floor in the hallway. They’d been helpful, offering to take him to the hospital, but he had refused. He just wanted to be away from there, away from the memory of what had occurred. As soon as he could, he’d retreated to his car.
“That must have been a huge patch of ice,” his brother said. “You look like shit.” Alan was standing in the doorway, eating directly from a carton of ice cream he’d snagged from the fridge. Mrs. Darby looked at him.
“Stop swearing,” she said. “And get a dish.”
“I think I should just go home and sleep for a while,” said Stephen. “The hospital gave me some pain pills. I’ll take a couple of those.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” his mother told him. “We’ll put you in your old room.”
Stephen started to protest, but his mother simply took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet. He knew better than to fight with her when she was like this, so he allowed her to lead him down the hallway to the bedroom he had shared with Alan for most of his life.
Little had changed in the room since first Alan and then Stephen had left it for college. Their twin beds still sat on either side of a shared bedside table. Posters of sports and music figures fifteen years out of fashion adorned the walls. Even the books on the bookshelf remained the same.
“It’s like a museum in here,” Stephen said as his mother gently pushed him onto his old bed.
“Take off your shoes,” she said.
He bent to untie the laces, his head throbbing so badly he almost blacked out. He almost asked his mother to do it for him, but he knew she would enjoy it too much. Willing the pain away, he pulled his shoes off and then collapsed onto the bed.
“Give me the pills,” his mother ordered. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Stephen took the plastic bottle from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. His mother left the room. Forcing himself to sit up, he pulled back the bedspread and got into bed, not bothering to remove his clothes. He’d at least changed before coming over to tell his parents about his alleged accident, throwing the blood-spattered T-shirt and jeans into the trash in the garage. He couldn’t stand even to look at them, and after handling them, he’d washed his hands repeatedly, convinced there was blood staining his skin.
He couldn’t decide which was worse, his nose or his mouth. They’d injected something into his lips to make them numb while they sewed them up, and he guessed its effects were lingering, because there was only a dull ache there. One of his teeth seemed loose, too, but the doctor who had examined him thought perhaps it would be fine if he just left it alone. But his nose, his nose definitely hurt. Protected by a metal splint and crisscrossed with white tape, it looked like the nose of a hockey player after a particularly nasty fight.
He tried not to think about what had happened. As far as he was concerned, he really had slipped on some ice outside the A&P and landed on his face. The reality was too dreadful to recall. Every time he relived even a second of it, he felt a terrible churning in his stomach. No, he had not been beaten up. He had fallen. On the ice. Outside the A&P.
His mother returned with his pills and a glass of water. Taking them from her, he gratefully swallowed the two little blue tablets, following them with a long drink.
“It says you should take them with food,” his mother said. “I’ll get you something.”
She left again. Stephen waited for her to return. He could feel the pills in his stomach, swirling around. How long would it take them to kick in? He wanted to sleep, to sleep and to forget everything.
His mother came back with a bowl, which she handed to him.
“It’s applesauce,” she said.
Applesauce. The sick food of his childhood, the cure-all for everything from fevers to measles, earaches to broken bones. It was the only time his mother ever gave it to the boys. He associated it with pain and nausea, but also with the comfort of being taken care of. And she had sprinkled cinnamon on top.
He spooned some of the applesauce past his battered lips. It tasted odd, metallic, most likely a by-product of the anesthetic and medication he’d been given. But it was sweet enough for him to stomach, and he swallowed eagerly. Just as it had in childhood, it calmed his stomach, made him feel as if everything would be all right in a couple of days.
“Now get some rest,” his mother told him. “When you wake up, I’ll make you some dinner.”
Stephen nodded. His mother left, shutting the bedroom door behind her. Alone in his old room, he almost felt okay. And really, he wasn’t that badly hurt. In time, everything would heal, and no one had to know that he had really been beaten by a man whom he wouldn’t let come in his ass.
He put the bowl of applesauce down, suddenly feeling as if he might vomit. He hadn’t told the nurses or doctors about his ass, about the pain that burned there. He couldn’t. Why had he done it? Why had he let someone do that to him in the first place? It was stupid, he knew it, foolish to let someone fuck him without a rubber.
Even more disturbing to him were his reasons for being at the theater in the first place. He had never gone there before, but he had wondered about it, wondered what went on inside the dark place where men congregated. He could imagine, and he wanted to know.
Then there was Greg. He had called, left messages that Stephen had been unable to return. Several times he had picked up the phone, intending to dial the number he had written on the pad beside the phone. But each time he had hung up and instead turned to his computer, finding release in the faceless rooms in which he felt most at home.
But always Greg had been in the back of his mind. Stephen liked him. He was attracted to him. He knew he should pick up the phone and call, suggest dinner or a movie. But he knew, too, that he wouldn’t do it. Greg was not a onetime event; he was someone Stephen could see himself being with. And that couldn’t happen. Not now. Not when his life was so complicated.
Still, the need to touch someone else had become overwhelming, and he’d found himself pulling into the Paris Cinema parking lot and going inside, where he knew men were waiting for him. Then he’d found one, one who seemed willing to give him what he wanted, to connect with him momentarily without the need for knowing names or even faces. Without complications.
That in itself had been enough for him to let down his guard. And for a time it had been much as it was in his chat room fantasies, at least until he’d realized what the man intended to do to him. Then he’d tried to stop it, and it had all fallen apart.
That’s what he got, he told himself, for not being content with what he had. It’s what happened to bad little boys who strayed from the path. He’d wandered into the forbidden woods and come face to face with the wolf itself, the vicious beast disguised as a woodsman. He had failed to see the sharp teeth and wicked eyes, too enchanted to notice the claws ripping his flesh.
It didn’t matter now. It was all over, and he would never again go in search of what he didn’t need. He would change. He would make his life as safe as it could possibly be, protect himself from harm in whatever way he had to. No one would ever hurt him again.
He slept then, drugged into oblivion. He did not dream, and when he felt someone shaking him, he only reluctantly rose up through the dark clouds of sleep and opened his eyes. His mother had returned, and she was not alone.
“Stephen?” she said. “Stephen, wake up. Someone is here to see you.”
As his sight cleared, Stephen saw that the figure he’d taken to be his father or brother was instead someone unknown to him, a figure in a blue uniform and hat.
“Mr. Darby?” the officer said. “I’m Officer Chenoweth. Could I speak to you for a minute?”
Stephen looked at his mother, as if she were somehow the reason for the policeman’s presence in his room. She looked back blankly, her eyes worried.
“Sure,” Stephen said groggily. “Just let me get up.”
“You can stay there, sir,” Officer Chenoweth said. “Mrs. Darby, would you mind leaving us alone?”
“Stephen?” Mrs. Darby said. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine, Mom,” said Stephen. “I’m sure Officer Chenoweth just has to ask me some questions about the accident.”
Mrs. Darby nodded, eyeing the policeman suspiciously as she left the room. When she was gone, the officer looked at Stephen.
“Those are some nasty injuries,” he said.
“How did you find me?” Stephen asked him.
“The hospital gave me your address,” Officer Chenoweth told him. “I was knocking on your door and your father saw me. He told me you were here.”
“I don’t understand,” Stephen said. “Why would the hospital call the police just because I fell on some ice? I don’t plan on suing the store or anything, if that’s what they’re worried about.”
“The hospital didn’t call us,” said Officer Chenoweth. “We called the hospital.”
Stephen looked at him, still not comprehending. “About me?”
“About an attack on someone at the Paris Cinema,” the officer answered. “They called and said a man had been beaten by another patron and left, refusing medical attention. In such cases we routinely call the hospitals to see if anyone has come into the emergency rooms with injuries that might fit the description. Yours did.”
Stephen shut his eyes, not knowing what to say next. Could he get into trouble for not reporting the incident? He didn’t see how. It was his choice to leave, and he hadn’t started the fight. But the police didn’t know that. If he admitted to being the one who was attacked, there would be a lot of other questions he would be expected to answer.
“I wish I could help,” he said. “But I just slipped on some ice.”
“You weren’t at the Paris Cinema?” Officer Chenoweth asked.
Stephen shook his head. “I don’t even know what it is,” he said.
The policeman nodded. “It’s an adult bookstore,” he said. “You’re certain you’ve never been there?”
“I think I’d remember something like that,” Stephen said. “Especially if someone clocked me while I was in it.”
“Okay then,” Officer Chenoweth said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was hoping you were the guy.”
“Why’s that?” Stephen asked.
“Because we think we have the guy who beat him up,” the officer said. “Someone saw him driving away and got his license plate number. We ran it and got a name and address.”
“You caught the guy?” Stephen said, forgetting that just moments ago he had denied all knowledge of the incident.
“We’re talking to him now. But the only one who saw him was the victim, and without a positive ID, we can’t do anything.”
Stephen almost blurted out the truth, stopping himself as the door opened and his mother looked in. Seeing her face, he gritted his teeth.
“I almost wish I was your man,” he said to Officer Chenoweth. “This guy sounds like a real jerk.”
Officer Chenoweth nodded again. “Thank you anyway,” he said. “I hope you’re feeling better soon. Watch out for that ice.”
“Will do,” Stephen said as the policeman left, walking by Mrs. Darby and saying, “I can let myself out, ma’am. Sorry for the intrusion.”
“What did he want?” Mrs. Darby inquired of her son.
“He thought I might know something about a crime he’s investigating.”
“Crime?” his mother parroted. “What would you know about a crime?”
“Nothing, Mom,” Stephen said. “He had me confused with somebody else.”
“I should say so,” Mrs. Darby said, coming to sit beside him on the bed. “You and your brother were never a bit of trouble.”
She put the back of her hand on Stephen’s head, the way she had when he was little and she wanted to see if he had a fever. Her skin was cool and dry, like paper.
“You need to sleep some more,” she said, as if she could somehow sense this by touching him. “That officer shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
Stephen said nothing. He was thinking about what Officer Chenoweth had told him. Had they really located the man who had attacked him? What if he had agreed to identify him? He wasn’t sure he would even be able to recognize him. He’d only seen him in the light for a short time, and even then he’d been trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He remembered short brown hair, a muscular build, rough hands. He remembered the way the man’s cock had felt entering him, the way his voice had sounded in his ear. And he remembered the crack of bone against bone.
None of these memories would serve him well in a lineup. He could hardly tell the police that he didn’t recognize his attacker because he’d met him in the dark, had seen him mostly from the back. He certainly couldn’t ask them to have the suspects drop their pants and show their cocks.
He imagined the questions they would ask him. What were you doing there? Why did he attack you? Do you frequently let strangers fuck you in seedy porn theaters, Mr. Darby, and don’t you think maybe you were asking for it when you let him stick his dick up your ass? Don’t you think that maybe men who let other men fuck them in the ass deserve to get smacked around a little when they change their minds?
No, he couldn’t face questions like that. He had been right to lie to the policeman. Besides, if anyone should decide whether or not this man was prosecuted, it should be him. He, after all, was the one with the broken face.
His mother was stroking his hair, rubbing his forehead and humming. He closed his eyes and pushed all the troubling thoughts from his mind. She would take care of him. She would make him feel better. Everything would be all right again. He just needed to sleep.