Spider Season (37 page)

“But if you’d known,” he said, “you would have been gone just the same. She told me how you left her cold, without so much as a good-bye.”

“I was scared, Lance.”

“She told me she loved you, man.”

“I was running. Running from a life I couldn’t live. Running from myself mostly.”

He smiled with faint derision and shook his head slightly.

“Sounds like something a writer would say.”

“Look, I’ve made plenty of mistakes. I know that. But you weren’t one of them. You might not believe that, but that’s how I feel. You’re my son. Do you have any idea what that means to me?”

He dropped his eyes, shuffled his feet.

“I got to get going,” he said. “I want to be across the border in a couple of hours.”

“Try not to stop until you’re well out of L.A. Avoid surveillance cameras if you can. If you have to get gas, pay cash, no credit cards.”

“Yeah, I know the drill.”

Still, we stood there, no more than two feet separating us. But we were men, a father and son who didn’t know how to communicate or reach out or touch, like so many fathers and sons. The gap between us might as well have been a mile, a continent.

Lance finally broke the silence.

“Take it easy, man.”

He crossed the patio and disappeared around the side of the house. I glanced over a last time to make sure Holt hadn’t moved. He hadn’t.

As I followed the same path Lance had taken, I heard him start the big engine on his Harley. When I got to the street he was rolling quietly toward Nichols Canyon Road, keeping his throttle low. I saw his brake light briefly flash. Only when he’d turned the corner and started up the hill did he hit the gas and set the dogs to barking again.

THIRTY-FIVE

It was nearly nine when I pulled the Metro into the driveway. As I climbed out, I saw a figure sitting on the darkened porch.

Maurice, I thought, waiting for me to make dinner plans. But as I climbed from the car and the man stood, I saw that it was Ismael. He came down the steps as I approached up the front walk. We didn’t say a word, just walked into each other’s arms and held on.

“I don’t deserve another chance,” I said. “Not after what I did.”

“Without forgiveness, Benjamin, love is impossible. Because none of us is perfect.”

“You have so much faith, Ismael.”

“My life is based on faith. It’s taken a different form, but I haven’t lost it.”

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You could do so much better than me.”

He disengaged from me and took my face in his hands, looking into my eyes.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to decide that?” The self-assurance in his voice surprised me. “I’m not as naïve as you think, Benjamin. When you give up nearly forty years of your life to a religion based on fear and guilt, and finally come to realize the truth, and decide to break free and start over, you’re not weaker for it, but stronger.”

“I never thought of you as weak, Ismael. Quite the opposite. You have to believe that.”

He took my hand and led me up the drive.

“We have some unfinished business,” he said.

*   *   *

Upstairs, in the muted light of a window, we kissed the way millions of other men do who understand what love is and have the freedom to express it with another man.

We undressed slowly, taking our time as we rediscovered each other in a different way. How two people relate physically, how and where they touch each other, the balance of tenderness and passion, the pleasure they take but also give unselfishly, can reveal a multitude about their true feelings for each other, about the depth of their intimacy. In those first minutes back together, Ismael and I bridged the last gap between us, crossed the final barrier. It was our souls connecting, not just our bodies.

When it came time to make love, I rolled a condom onto him, lubed him properly, and lay back on the bed, waiting. He was hesitant at first but let me show him the way. I guided him deep inside me, helping him explore another man in a way he never had. As we fell into rhythm with each other, I watched the play of sensation and emotion on his face as he watched mine, the incomparable beauty of one person’s love for another, two people letting go and joining, all at once.

Afterward, we lay naked and entwined on the bed. I told him about my reunion with Lance, what I’d learned about his life in Mexico, although I never mentioned where we’d met or what had happened to Jason Holt. I hoped I’d never have to, that Holt’s body would be discovered and the cause of death attributed to an accident, the way Lance had arranged it to appear. I hoped that would be the end of it, for everyone’s sake, including Maurice. But you never know.

“He’s on his way to Mexico?” Ismael asked.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “He’s probably approaching the border, if he planned to cross at Tijuana. Maybe he’s already across, knowing how fast a Harley can move on the open road.”

“How soon are you going down to see him?”

“Down to Mexico?”

“You’re planning to follow him, aren’t you? To meet his wife? To meet your granddaughter?”

I turned my eyes to the ceiling, silent.

“Benjamin, he’s your son, your flesh and blood.” Ismael reached over, took hold of my chin, forced me to meet his eyes. “Are you listening?”

I tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let me.

“I figure I’ll try to contact him at some point,” I said, hoping that would end it.

But Ismael wouldn’t give it up.

“You’re afraid to go down, aren’t you?”

“You’re saying I should go now?”

“If you wait, the distance will only grow wider. The days and weeks will stretch into years.”

I shifted my eyes uneasily.

“You’re frightened of the responsibility,” he said, “frightened that it might not work out.”

“My life is littered with things that didn’t work out.”

“So you’re giving up? Is that what you’ll do when we hit our first bump in the road?”

“We’ve already hit some of those,” I said. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“We’re a couple now, Benjamin. Now is when it starts to mean something, right?” His eyes stayed on mine. He wouldn’t let me escape. “If you don’t take the risk, you’ll never know what might have been. You’ll be haunted by questions and regrets the rest of your life. What’s keeping you here?”

I placed my hand on his chest. “You don’t know?”

“I’ll go with you. I’m on a leave of absence from work. My passport’s in the car. I’ve got my credit card. I can buy whatever I need down there.”

“Go, right this minute?”

“Right this minute, before something gets in the way, before it’s too late.”

“And you’ll go with me?”

He laughed lightly, as if it was a silly question.

“Of course I’ll go with you.”

We showered and dressed quickly, and threw some essentials together. Since we both had passports, getting visas in Mexico wouldn’t be a problem. All it would take would be some cash for the
mordida,
slipped secretly to the clerk when we handed in our applications for new ones, claiming ours had been lost or stolen.

As I locked up the apartment, a siren wailed down near the boulevard. I froze, my key still in the door. Ismael noticed.

“What’s wrong, Benjamin?”

I listened to the siren. It seemed to be turning south, away from us, instead of coming up the hill toward the house.

“Nothing,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

Below, at the house, I knocked on the kitchen door. Through a window, I could see Maurice in the living room, sitting with the cats. Candles were burning, and I could hear Billie Holiday on his old turntable. He got up slowly and shuffled through the kitchen and opened the door. The aroma of incense wafted out.

He perked up at the sight of us. “Benjamin! Ismael! What a nice surprise, seeing you together.”

He asked us in, suggesting we go out for dinner. After declining, I explained about Lance and told Maurice about our plans. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Oh, Benjamin, this is the best news I could ever ask for!”

I told him we were leaving immediately in Ismael’s dependable Toyota. I’d parked the Metro in the garage, and handed Maurice the keys.

“Will you be all right, Maurice? Here by yourself?”

“You’ve known me a long time, Benjamin. I’m having a rough spell, but you didn’t really think I’d fall apart and become helpless, did you?”

I laughed. “If I did, I deserve to be punished.”

Maurice winked. “I’ll leave that to Ismael. He seems to know how to handle you. Anyway, I still have some wonderful friends left. I won’t be alone. And with Fred gone, I’ll have more time to devote to the gay marriage campaign. We’re planning a big rally for November, just before the election. There’s always something to do, Benjamin—something positive and important.”

While I loaded my bags into Ismael’s car, Maurice fixed us a Thermos of hot coffee. He brought it out to the street, where he hugged Ismael and said good-bye. Then it was my turn. We held each other for a minute or two. I promised I’d stay in touch along the road.

“I love you as if you were my own son,” Maurice said. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

As Ismael drove off, I looked back to see Maurice waving with one hand and wiping away tears with the other.

*   *   *

Over the next few hours, sitting on the passenger side, I dozed. I woke to find us speeding across the Arizona desert, through hundreds of miles of cities, suburbs, and small towns, then through arid forests of rugged yucca and towering saguaro. Just before dawn, the gas and fast-food stops and cheap motels appeared more often along the highway, neon and fluorescent bright in the darkness.

Just as dawn was breaking, the border checkpoint at Nogales came into view. We passed through without a hitch; all the inspection was being done on the other side, where hundreds of cars were lined up, going north, filled with Mexicans showing their papers to cross legally as day workers, before returning that night.

We stopped to fill the tank on the Mexican side, where the gas was cheaper. Ismael chatted in Spanish with the attendant, and purchased a travel map of Mexico. I took over the driving as we left Nogales behind, taking a two-lane highway into the vast Sonoran desert. Ahead of us, an old pickup lurched and belched its way south. In the bed were crates of chickens and two small children. One of them, a wide-eyed, dark-skinned girl, waved at me with a gap-toothed grin.

As I waved back, my cell phone rang. I glanced at my caller ID. It was Judith Zeitler. Until that moment, I’d completely forgotten about
Jerry Rivers Live.

“Judith,” I said.

“Benjamin, didn’t you get my message asking you to call?”

“I’m sorry. Things have been hectic.”

“I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s about
Jerry Rivers Live
. They’ve scratched you from the schedule. When I tell you why, you’re not going to be very happy.”

“Try me.”

“You’ve been replaced by Alexandra Templeton. Her new book has gotten really hot. They want her on right away.”

I smiled at the irony.

“But she doesn’t have video,” I said.

“You’re angry, aren’t you?”

“No, Judith, I’m not angry. I’m completely okay with it.”

“Seriously?”

“Templeton’s book deserves the exposure. It’s a lot more important than mine. If I were the producer of
Jerry Rivers Live,
I’d book her too.”

“I’m afraid your publisher’s canceled the new printing.”

“I understand.”

She suddenly brightened. “There’s always the West Hollywood Book Fair!”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to miss the book fair, Judith. Give them my apologies, will you?”

“But why?”

“I’m taking a vacation, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Our signal broke up, and I closed my phone and set it aside. The pickup turned off onto a side road, raising dust, and the little girl waved to me again. I waved back and continued on the highway. As the miles passed, my thoughts drifted to Templeton and her best-selling book. To my surprise, I felt no envy or bitterness but only happiness for her. I realized that in these last few hours a sense of peace had settled over me, unlike I’d ever known.

In the east, the sun was rising, flooding the flat landscape of sagebrush and cactus with golden light. Ismael shifted in his seat to get more comfortable, and took my hand in his. Before long he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder.

I understood now that I’d never fully escape my past, the history that I carried in my blood and in the darker recesses of my heart. When I’d been a young reporter, Harry Brofsky had told me that the past is always with us, always infused in the present, shaping who we are and what we do, holding us back in some ways even as it pushes us ahead in others. In facing what was behind me, I thought, and embracing it, perhaps I’d find a way to finally move forward, whatever the future might hold.

And so I drove on, with Ismael beside me, in search of my son, my family, myself.

ALSO BY JOHN MORGAN WILSON

THE BENJAMIN JUSTICE NOVELS

Simple Justice

Revision of Justice

Justice at Risk

The Limits of Justice

Blind Eye

Moth and Flame

Rhapsody in Blood

WITH PETER DUCHIN

Blue Moon

Good Morning, Heartache

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

SPIDER SEASON
. Copyright © 2008 by John Morgan Wilson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

The excerpts quoted from Benjamin Justice’s autobiography are from
Simple Justice,
by John Morgan Wilson. Copyright © 1996 by John Morgan Wilson. Reprinted by permission.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data