I took a deep breath. “My name is Katherine Cassidy. I’m with the National Museum in Washington and I had several messages to call José—”
“You said you were a friend of his?”
“Yes.” My heart was pounding as I stammered, “Why?”
The woman sighed. “I’m not really supposed to do this, but—” She hesitated. “José passed away a few weeks ago.”
I slumped back into my chair as she went on, “He had a heart attack—”
“A heart attack! But he couldn’t—he’s so young!”
“I know. I’m sorry.” The woman’s voice broke slightly. “I really am. It was a terrible thing, very unexpected. We’re all really going to miss him around here…”
“Yes,” I whispered. I wanted to ask more but suddenly I felt sick. “Th-thank you, thank you very much. I’ll call somebody—I mean I’ll call one of our friends…”
I hung up. For a moment I clung to the edge of my desk. Then it was too much, on top of cognac and a nearly sleepless night and everything else that had happened. I stumbled out of my office and down the hall, and fled into the ladies’ room. I thought I’d throw up—I wanted to throw up—but I didn’t. Instead I started choking with sobs, so violently that Laurie came running in from her cubicle around the corner.
“Katherine! What is it—”
She put her arm around me and I shook my head. “Here,” she said in a softer voice, and turned on the tap. “Get some cold water on you—you’re so hot! Is it heatstroke?”
“I’m okay—I’m okay,” I gasped. “I just had some bad news—a friend of mine—a friend of mine died.”
“Oh, Katherine—”
“I’ll be all right. It’s just—just so sudden,” I said, and gulped back a sob.
Laurie nodded, her eyes wide with pity. “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to get Dylan?”
I shook my head. “N-no. It’s—it’s not anyone he knows, and tomorrow’s his birthday and I don’t want to upset him. I’ll be okay, really. But thanks.”
I stood over the sink with the cold water running, until finally I stopped crying. Then I went back to my office, hoping to hide until lunchtime.
But Dylan was already there. “Sweeney, I’m so sorry,” he murmured, hugging me. “Who was it?”
“Just a—well, an old friend of mine. From school—from the Divine, I mean. I hadn’t even seen him in a year or so, but we talked all the time, and he left me all these messages early in the month but I kept putting off calling him back. And then I—”
I bit my lip, trying to keep the tears back. “I called him this morning. To tell him about us. And someone at the Beacon told me he had a heart attack.”
“Your friend Baby Joe?” Dismay flickered across Dylan’s face as he made the connection.
I nodded. “Yeah. Oh god. I don’t even know who to call—I mean, his family was from here, but I never met them or anything…”
“It’s okay, Sweeney. It’ll all be okay.” Dylan soothed me, stroking my head. “Don’t worry…”
I tried not to laugh bitterly. Yeah, death sucks, man; but what the fuck does a kid like you know about it?
But that was just mean. I looked up and could see how confused he looked, and also a little worried: was he doing this right, was this how you behaved when one of your girlfriend’s friends died?
“I’ll be okay,” I said, and tried to sound like I meant it. “It’s just so—unexpected. And I feel so fucking guilty. He left me all these messages, and I just blew him off. Because of—”
Because of you. I fought back the nasty thought, and ended, “Because I—I just didn’t feel like talking. And now—he’s dead.”
“How could he have a heart attack? I mean, if he’s your age?”
I moved away from him. “I don’t know. I—well, I don’t know, that’s all.”
For the first time, I thought of Haseclass="underline" how had he died, really? That insane letter he’d sent to Baby Joe, about seeing Angelica bathing in a creek in Virginia; and the next thing I knew, he’d drowned.
What had Baby Joe been up to when he died?
I leaned against my desk. “You know,” I said slowly, “I think I’m going to leave early today I feel pretty awful—” I smiled ruefully. “No offense—it’s just, you know, I’m kind of hung over and now this.”
“It’s okay.” Dylan ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t showered that morning, and had dressed hastily, in wrinkled khakis and a blue cotton shirt that had seen better weeks. In the close hot room he still smelled like the smoke and beer from Kelly’s. “I’d go too, but I told Laurie I’d help her with stuff downstairs.”
“Okay.” I felt relieved. I needed to be alone for a few hours, if nothing else just to sleep and take a cold shower. “Hey—”
I linked my hands behind his neck and kissed his chin. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? I mean about last night?”
He frowned. “Last night? Last night?—oh, you mean that.” He grinned. “Hell no. Have you?”
“Hell no.” I pulled his face closer to mine and kissed him, his skin rough and hot where he hadn’t shaved. “Never…”
Dylan half turned and reached for the door, closed and locked it. He turned back and gently pushed me until I was sitting on my desk. We made love with most of our clothes on, until the whole room smelled like sex and afterhours. When he came he bit my shoulder to keep from crying out, so hard he left a small bruise there beneath the silk. For a long time we sat on my desk curled in each other’s arms, our hearts pounding, and when I drew away from him I knew that somehow things had changed. I knew that this was it: that there was no turning back now, for myself or Dylan. His skin and blood and memory were branded into me as surely as that little bruise on my shoulder, but I knew that none of those things would ever fade. He was mine now, he had always been mine, and nothing on earth would ever take him away from me.
“Sweeney,” he whispered. “I love you so much. I always have.”
“I know,” I said, and gently pushed the long damp hair from his face. “I love you too, Dylan.”
I left, not caring that my blouse was soaked with sweat as I walked unsteadily down the long curving marble stairs; not caring that I looked dazed and maybe even a little nuts, like someone who’s survived a terrible accident; someone who had just watched everything she owned in the whole world go up in flames except what she loved most; someone who had seen all that, and just walked away with bruises.
I went home and took a cold shower and slept naked on our bed with the fan turned on me. When I woke it was after six o’clock—I could hear Dylan downstairs in the kitchen, watching the local news—and I felt much better. I had decided I’d call the Beacon again next week, after Dylan’s birthday, to get the whole story I could try to contact Annie Harmon, but that might be difficult. She was an up-and-coming star of sorts, and it seemed tacky to get in touch now, after such a long hiatus. Still, I figured if I got my nerve up, I could get her number from whoever had taken over Baby Joe’s column.
And then there was Angelica, of course. The next day was Dylan’s birthday, and while we’d made our own plans, he seemed to take it for granted that his mother was going to show up sometime. Maybe a few days late.
“But she’ll call over at Dvorkin’s,” he’d assured me. “She gets caught up in her work, but she’ll call.”
“I hope so,” I said. He still refused to let me buy him anything, and his wardrobe was looking pretty shabby. “You need some new clothes.”