Red Leaves

The word abruptly swept away all my defenses, all my efforts to keep my fears in check. The dam broke, and I felt myself hurling forward on a rush of boiling dread, every dark aspect of the last few days now rising before me, demanding to be heard.

'Something wrong, boss?' Neil asked.

I looked into his hugely caring eyes and felt that I had no one else to go to. But even then, I had no idea where to begin. There was too much boiling within me now, too much hissing steam. I could barely sort one troubling doubt from another. And so I drew in a quick breath, trying to center myself and concentrate on the most immediate matter before me. Which surely, I decided, was Keith.

'I'd like to ask you something, Neil,' I began tentatively.

'Anything,' Neil said softly.

I walked to the front of the shop, turned out the CLOSED sign and locked the door.

Neil suddenly looked frightened. 'You're going to fire me.' His voice edged into panic. 'Please don't, Eric. I'll correct whatever it is. I need this job. My mother, you know. Medicine. I—'

'It's not about the job,' I assured him. 'You do a great job.'

He looked as if he were about to faint. 'I know it wasn't a great summer, businesswise, but...'

'It has nothing to do with the shop,' I said. I stopped and drew in a fortifying breath. 'It's about Keith.'

Neil's face grew very still.

I could find no alternative to simply leaping in. 'What do you know about him?'

'Know about him?' Neil asked, clearly a little baffled by the curious urgency he heard in my voice.

'About his life.'

'Not very much, I guess,' Neil answered. 'He talks about music, sometimes. What bands he likes, that sort of thing.'

'Has he ever talked about girls?' I asked.

'No.'

'How about friends? He doesn't seem to have any friends.'

Neil shrugged. 'He's never mentioned anyone.'

'Okay,' I said. 'How about the people he delivers to. Have you ever heard any complaints?'

'What kind of complaints?'

'Anything about him, anything he did that seemed ... strange.'

Neil shook his head violently. 'Absolutely not, Eric. Never!'

I looked at him pointedly. 'You're sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

I nodded. 'Okay,' I said. 'I just thought he might have come to you. I mean if—'

'If what?'

'If he had any ... problems he wouldn't know how to deal with.'

'What kind of problems?' Neil asked. He looked genuinely baffled. 'I mean, he wouldn't talk to me about girls, right?'

'I guess not.'

He looked at me curiously. 'It bothers you, doesn't it? That Keith doesn't have a girlfriend?'

I nodded. 'Maybe a little. Meredith says it does, but I'm not so sure. I mean, what if he doesn't have a girlfriend. He's just a kid. That doesn't mean he's—'

'Gay?'

'No,' I said. 'Not just that.'

Neil heard the awkwardness in my voice, the sense of trying to weasel out of the truth. 'Do you think Keith's gay?'

'I've thought about it,' I admitted.

'Why? Has he said anything?'

'No,' I answered. 'But he seems angry all the time.'

'What does that have to do with being gay?' Neil asked.

'Nothing.'

No one had ever looked at me the way Neil did now, with a mixture of pain and disappointment. 'Yeah, okay,' he said softly.

'What?'

He didn't answer.

'What, Neil?'

Neil laughed dryly. 'It just seems like you thought maybe if Keith was gay, he'd have to be angry. Hate himself, you know, that sort of thing. A lot of people have that idea. That a gay guy would have to hate himself.'

I started to speak, but Neil lifted his hand and silenced me.

'It's okay,' he said. 'I know you don't believe that.'

'No, I don't,' I told him. 'Really, Neil, I don't.'

'It's okay, Eric,' Neil repeated. 'Really. It is.' He smiled gently. 'Anyway, I hope everything works out all right for everyone,' he said quietly. 'Especially for Keith.'

He turned back toward the front of the shop.

'Neil,' I said. 'I didn't mean to...'

He didn't bother to look back. 'I'm fine' was all he said.

***

For the rest of the day, customers came and went. Neil kept himself busy and seemed determined to keep his distance from me.

At five the color of the air began to change, and by six, when I prepared to lock up, it had taken on a golden glow.

The phone rang.

'Eric's Frame and Photo.'

'Eric, they're coming here again,' Meredith told me.

'Who?'

'The police. They're coming to the house again.'

'Don't panic,' I said. 'They were there before, remember?'

I heard the fearful catch in her breath. 'This time they have a search warrant,' she said. 'Come home.'

PART III

You stop now. You take a sip of coffee. You are halfway through the story you intend to tell. You realize that you have reached the moment when the lines you thought ran parallel begin to intersect. You know that from hens on the telling will become more difficult. You will need to speak in measured tones, make the right connections. Nothing should blur, and nothing should be avoided. Particularly the responsibilities, the consequences.

You want to describe how the history of one family stained another, as if the colors from one photograph bled onto another in an accidental double exposure. You want to expose this process, but instead you stare out at the rain, watching people as they stand beneath their soaked umbrellas, and consider not what happened, but how it might have been avoided, what you could have done to stop it, or at least to change it in a way that would have allowed lives to go on, find balance, reach the high wisdom that only the fallen know.

But the wheels of your mind begin to spin. You can feel them spinning, but there is nothing to do but wait until they find traction. Then, without warning, they do, and you understand that all you can do is go on, start at exactly where you left off.

FOURTEEN

Come home.

I often repeat the words in my mind. I recall Meredith's caught breath each time I repeat them, hear the icy