Hoarded to Death (A Jamie Brodie Mystery) (13 page)

"You could if you wanted to. There's nothing on my desk that you shouldn't see." I gestured at his books and papers. "You hiding something in there?"

"What?
No!
That's not the point!"

"Well then, what
is
the point? 'Cause I fail to see one. But then I am a
moron
, according to you."

He straightened up and actually growled, then turned and stomped out of the room.

"Ha! I knew it! There is no point!"

He yelled back up the stairs. "Go fuck yourself!"

And then I made the big mistake. "Well, I guess I'll have to since I'm not allowed to fuck you!"

Silence.

Uh-oh.

I tiptoed to the door of the bedroom and looked out. Pete was frozen on the landing, his head down and his fists clenched.
Shit
. I said weakly, "Sorry, babe. Sorry."

He turned around and looked up at me, and I was shocked at his expression. He wasn't angry. I'd never seen such pain on his face. I sucked in a breath. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry." I had no idea what I was apologizing for, but I'd obviously done something very bad.

He didn't say anything. He turned and walked back into the kitchen. I heard him take a lid off a pot and start stirring something.

I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. "Pete..."

He held out his hand, index finger up. Stop.

I stopped.

We spent the rest of the day in silence.

When we lay down in bed that night, I tried to start the conversation. "Pete..."

He said, "Is that what you really want?"

It took me a second, but then I knew what he was talking about. "If I said no, it would be a lie. I'm used to a more equitable give and take in the bedroom."

He didn't say anything for a minute. I started again. "Pete..."

He said, "Will you leave me because of that?"

"No. I won’t. But I’m still hoping to change your mind one of these days."

He was quiet again. I couldn't clearly see his facial expression in the dark room. Third time's the charm. "Pete, I am so sorry for what I said. I can't apologize enough. That was completely uncalled for. Will you forgive me? Please?"

He was still quiet for a moment, then he said, "Yeah."

Relief washed through me. I whispered, "Thank you."

He said quietly, "I can't do that."

That?
Oh. "You never have?"

More silence for a minute. Then, "Once. I didn't like it."

"Okay." I paused. Should I try? Maybe not, but I did anyway. "I think I could make it good for you."

He said, "You have a lot more experience than me."

That took me aback. Pete was five years older than me. "I do?"

"Yeah."

"How do you figure that?"

"You've had more relationships than I have. I've only dated you and Luke. I was single for a long time, and I didn't...I didn't look for or get much action when I was single."

"You weren't out. You were afraid of getting caught."

"Yeah. That was part of it."

Hmm
. "Was it Luke that...was it him you didn't like it with?"

"No." Abruptly.

Well, okay. Clearly no more was forthcoming in that line of questioning. "So he was fine with only bottoming."

"Yeah. We didn’t do it that often."

Great
. I sighed inwardly.

He hadn't been looking at me this whole time, but now I sensed more, than saw Pete's head turn toward me. "You're not fine with it."

I shrugged, although I doubted he could see it. "No, but if it's the price of admission, then I'll pay it."

"Admission to what?"

"Admission to a relationship with you. That's a Dan Savage term. He says that most of us will never meet a person who's truly the one. Most people will be a .75 or a .85 and we'll have to round up to one. The amount you have to round up, the other .25 or .15 or whatever, is the price of admission. It's what you have to do, or to give up, to round that person up to one and be in a relationship with him."

"Huh." He looked up at the ceiling again. "How much are you having to round up?"

Oh, jeez
. "I don't know. I guess .10 is about right."

Pete said quietly, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. It's just who you are. I'm sure as hell not perfect. I know you're having to round up to one, too."

He turned his head toward me again. "Not really."

Shit. Put the pressure on me, why dontcha?
"Yeah, you are. You just haven't figured out how yet."

He huffed a soft laugh. "Maybe."

"Definitely. One of these days when we're in our fifties or sixties, you'll say to me, 'You know, I've always hated the way you...' and then we'll know."

"Heh. If you say so." His voice got softer. "I like thinking that we'll still be together in our fifties and sixties."

"That's the plan, right?"

He sighed. "Yeah. That's the plan."

"Okay." I lay back down, on my right side facing Pete, and put my hand on his chest. He reached out and pulled me closer, tucking my head under his chin.

Neither one of us said anything more. But neither one of us fell asleep for a while.

As well as I knew Pete, I didn't know a lot about his past. It just never seemed to come up. I did know that he'd grown up in the desert, in that enormous dry space east of the San Gabriel Mountains from LA. He said it was one of the reasons he liked living close to the ocean. He'd been born and raised in Barstow. His parents had divorced when he was ten, and his dad had moved to Lancaster, on the opposite side of the vast Edwards Air Force Base from Barstow. Pete and his brother and sister had remained with their mother until Pete was 14. At that point Pete and his brother had moved in with their dad; mom and sis stayed in Barstow. Pete had never talked much about why that had happened, but I got the impression that it had something to do with his being gay.

Pete wasn't as close to his dad and brother as I was to mine, but they got along okay and talked on the phone occasionally. I'd met Pete's dad a few times; he was a tall, thin, laconic guy, quiet but watchful. I could easily imagine him as a cowboy in a previous era. Pete's brother, Steve, was two years older than Pete, divorced, and living in Alamogordo, New Mexico. He'd graduated from Cal Tech and did something mysterious for the federal government.

Pete had no contact with his mother or sister at all. I never knew why.

I was about to find out.

The next morning, Christmas Eve day, we drove out to Lancaster to Pete’s dad’s place. Pete’s brother was in from New Mexico, and we were going to spend the early part of the day with Pete’s family, then come home and have our own Christmas together, just the two of us. Then, tomorrow, we’d drive down to Oceanside for Christmas with my family.

The day started out cold, but it would warm up enough to grill, which was the plan. We were responsible for the veggies, which we’d just gotten at the farmers’ market on Saturday and were sliced, ready to grill, in a cooler in the back of the Jeep. I was a little apprehensive. I hadn’t seen Pete’s dad or brother since Pete and I had gotten back together, and I hadn’t seen them enough at all in the past to have any idea what they thought of me. Pete wasn’t worried. “They like you fine. Better than Luke, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. When I told my dad I was seeing you again, he complimented me on my good sense.”

I laughed. “What did he have against Luke?”

Pete shrugged. “He never said anything directly. Maybe you can ask him.”

I doubted that.

The day went better than I thought it would, though. When we got to the house, Steve was just finishing up the breakfast dishes. We went out back, where Pete’s dad was cleaning and sharpening his garden tools for the winter. He shook my hand and slapped Pete on the back. “Hey, guys. Pull up a bench.”

I looked around. The lawnmower, electric trimmer, and various other tools were lying on the patio. “Can we help?”

“Nah. Just getting everything set for a couple months’ rest. It’s my Christmas Eve routine.”

“Yeah.” Pete grinned. “Ever since I can remember.”

“Cool.” I sat back and watched Pete and his dad interact. They weren’t entirely relaxed with each other. There was an underlying sense that was hard to describe…like they were tiptoeing around something. In a while, Steve came out and we all fell into conversation, which continued as it got to be noon and Steve started the grill. We cooked outside, but ate inside. It was warm in the sun, but the sun was on the far side of the house now, and it was getting a little nippy.

I helped Pete’s dad clean the kitchen while Pete and Steve went into the TV room to hang out. When we joined them, Pete was telling about our experience with the Clean My Hoard show.

We talked about that for a while, and I ended up telling them all about the Book of Kells and the pages we’d found. Steve was impressed. “I’ve seen that book, when I went to Ireland. Stood in line for two hours to get in. It was worth it, though. Amazing to think of something that old.”

Pete’s dad asked, “Do you really think what you found is from that book?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll find out in a couple of weeks. One of the curators from the exhibit is coming over from Dublin to examine it.”

“If it’s authentic, what will happen to it?”

“I’m not sure. Legally it belongs to my ex-sister-in-law. So I’d think she would make an arrangement to sell it to Trinity College.”

Steve said, “I hope she can do that. I bet the Catholic Church will try to get their hands on it somehow, though.”

Pete glared. “The fucking Catholics can’t have it.”

His vehemence surprised me a bit, but I said, “I agree. And I don’t think Jennifer will let it go to them.”

Steve started to say something else, but Pete’s dad turned the conversation back to reality TV shows, and I temporarily forgot about Pete’s reaction.

It was a pleasant visit and I enjoyed it thoroughly. I thanked Pete’s dad. He said, “Any time. Don’t be a stranger.”

Pete was still a little quieter than usual as we were leaving. When we got in the car, I turned to him. "I didn't know you felt so strongly about the Catholics."

He glanced at me, frowning. "You're no fan of them."

"Well, no." My dad’s family had all been Presbyterians; the Brodies had been Protestant since the Scottish Reformation in 1560. There was no love lost between the Presbyterians and the Catholics.  “And I agree that the manuscript belongs at Trinity College. But there doesn't have to be a bidding war; Jennifer can just refuse to sell it to anyone else."

Pete was still glowering a little. "They'll find some way to weasel it out of her if they can. They'll even claim that it belongs to them, and that she has to hand it over. She could end up in court. They wouldn't mind bankrupting her to get their hands on it."

"Well, we'll just make sure that doesn't happen. Why don't I call Neil?" Neil Anderson was one of my dad’s buddies from his Vietnam days, and he was a lawyer. A very good one.

Pete nodded. "That's probably a good idea." But he still wasn't happy.

I was concerned. Pete was the most easy-going guy I'd ever known. He'd never had a reaction like this to anything. I didn't know whether I should pursue it, then I decided to try. If he didn't want to tell me, he'd say so.

"So what is it with you and the Catholics?"

He glanced over at me, then turned his attention back to the traffic in front of us. "Wait until we're home."

So I did. When we got inside, Pete went straight to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He drank while I went upstairs and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. I padded back downstairs, barefoot. Pete was just cracking open his second beer. Wow. He never drank this fast. I uncapped my first one and followed him down to the living room. I sat down on the sofa; he sat perpendicular to me on the love seat. He was looking at his feet, his lips pursed. I was starting to be afraid of what I might hear. He took another long drink and started talking.

"I never told you the reason I went to live with my dad."

"No, you didn't. I got the impression it had something to do with your being gay."

"Partly, yeah. Indirectly. But that wasn't the primary reason." He opened his mouth to continue, then stopped and thought for a minute. Then he turned to me. "How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

Why were we talking about sex again?
"You mean, when I first had anal?"

"Yeah."

"I was eighteen. With Ethan."

He nodded. "Do you know how old I was?"

"I have no idea."

He looked back at his feet again. "I was fourteen."

Oh my God
. "Fourteen?
Anal?
"

"Yeah."

Pete’s words from last night came back to me.
“Once. I didn’t like it.”
The picture suddenly came together in my head.
Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit
. "It was a
priest
."

"Yep." Pete took another long drink and drained his bottle. "Want another one?"

"Uh...no, not yet."

"Well, I do." He got up and went upstairs. I was frozen in place, horrified. I remembered the first conversation we’d had about sex when we’d started dating the first time, more than four years ago now. It was our third date. We were at a pizza place in Westwood, just talking and eating and laughing and getting to know each other better. It was getting to the point that we were going to start sleeping together; neither one of us had mentioned it yet, but we both knew it was coming. Pete had leaned across the table, so no one else would hear. “There’s something you need to know about me.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I don’t bottom. Ever.”

That was okay with me, at the time. I’d figured that I could eventually change his mind. I’d still been thinking that way last night.

My chest felt tight. I thought I might have to get my inhaler.

Pete returned to the love seat, rested his forearms on his thighs and let his beer bottle dangle between his knees. “You know, when you go through a Ph.D. program in psych, you have to go through analysis while you’re doing it. I’ve worked through a lot of this, actually. My therapist says that it’s okay to maintain some anger about what happened, as long as I don’t let it overwhelm my other emotions.” He looked up at me. “I think I’ve been able to do that.”