Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,40
said. “I’m not having this conversation with the president of the Lady Baptists’ Temperance Union.”
“You know perfectly well that it’s called the Bragg Baptist Church Ladies of Love.”
“That’s even worse.”
“We’re having a cake walk on Sunday.”
“It sounds like a sex workers’ guild.”
“Elien Martel, since when have sex workers ever had a cake walk?”
“They can have a cake walk. Anybody can have a cake walk.”
“Richard is a wonderful man.”
Groaning, I mashed my face against the window.
“You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“In the first place,” I said, “I am not talking to you about my relationship with Richard. Second, I am not going to a hookup at seven forty-five in the morning. Third, I am not the one who insisted on having an open relationship. And fourth, I am not talking to you about my relationship with Richard.”
“Well,” she said, “I just don’t understand why it has to be an open relationship.”
I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t scream.
Dag’s parents owned a small house in Fogmile, probably half a mile from the library where I had spent much of the day before. That half mile made a difference: this part of the neighborhood was on the bottom rung of the middle class, with sagging fences and weed-choked lawns. The houses needed touching up with paint; old but well-maintained was about the best you could say for it. Muriel stopped parallel with the ancient Ford Escort that I’d seen Dag use to pick up Mason from the support group.
“Could you wait and make sure they don’t shoot me or something, please?”
Muriel was powdering her nose. “Why would your illicit homosexual lover shoot you?”
“He’s not my—why does it matter that—Muriel, please.”
“Well. I don’t know. I really don’t feel appreciated.”
“I appreciate you.”
“You think I’m Richard’s secretary.
“No, I don’t. I’m very grateful that you’re willing to help me.”
“You think of me as your personal driver. That’s why you call me Jeeves.”
“No, no. You are an intelligent, educated professional. You have a nursing degree from the Abraham Lincoln Civil War Museum or something.”
She shut the compact with a click.
“Ok,” I said. “You’re a highly trained psychiatric nurse practitioner and you’ve got a million impressive letters after your name.” I hesitated. “LMNOP?”
She tucked the compact into a tidy purse. “I think if you were really serious about Richard,” she began.
“No,” I moaned.
“You would tell him that you didn’t want an open relationship.”
“Yes,” I said. “Ok. I will tell him that. Those exact words. Now, will you please wait and make sure they don’t shoot me?”
She sniffed.
“You’re a saint,” I said, and then I kissed her cheek, grabbed my bag, and hopped out of the car.
When I knocked on the door, a woman answered. She had to be in her sixties, and she had iron-gray hair, which I guessed was where Dag had gotten his from. Her face was guarded, and she didn’t open the screen door.
“May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Dag.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m here to see Dag. Is he home?” I glanced over my shoulder at Muriel and then back at the woman in the doorway. “Is this the right house?”
“Just a minute,” she said.
Quiet voices came through the screen door. A man said, “I heard you, Gloria, but I’m asking is he hot?” More quiet voices. “Well, I think it does matter if he’s coming to see Dagobert this early in the morning.”
The October morning was cool, but sweat prickled under my arm.
A man’s face floated into view, and I saw him just long enough that I noticed the beard and that he was probably the same age as the woman; Dag’s father, I guessed. He disappeared almost immediately.
Footsteps came toward the door, and I heard Dag’s dad say something like, “He’s very handsome.”
“Jesus, Dad,” Dag said.
“He might even be better looking than Jackson.”
“Go away,” Dag said. “Please. Can’t you do what decent parents do and just be ashamed of me and my abnormal life choices?”
“I think he’s a twink,” the dad said.
“Oh my God,” Dag said in a tone of absolute despair.
When he came to the door, he was wearing pajamas: old man pajamas, a top and a bottom in matching, hunter-green plaid. He rubbed his head. Then he rubbed his eyes. Then he said, “What are you doing here?”
“Good morning,” I said.
Muriel honked, and I waved over my shoulder as she drove off.
“Sorry it’s early. I don’t drive, and my only ride was coming into town right now.”
“And you couldn’t have texted?”
“Ok,” I said. “Sorry. I’ll just head over to the library for