Outsiders. Part 26

"Not just them. The very barbarians the legions had fought against in the early Empire formed the core of her legions in the twilight."

Billy glanced at her. "The lesson we keep missing seems clear enough. When the barbarians come to the gate, let them in and make them welcome."

"Easy enough for you to say, you are a barbarian."

"I am not!"

"With that corn-silk mop? Celtic. Gaulish at best, half barbarian."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a Viking or anything."

"Shame. Least the Vikings were great warriors."

"What are you implying about my ancestors?"

"Gauls."

"You're calling me French! Take that back."

"I cannot be made to retreat from the truth."

"Fine, we'll duel about it later." Billy handed her a gla.s.s-wine this time, red, fitting for the theme of the night. He was still in his role as Ganymede, as Antinous to her Hadrian. After the doc.u.mentary, they diagrammed and refought the battle of Alesia, with the Gauls coming out no better. That, Joan maintained, proved her point about Billy's heritage.

"I object. I was born in Bithynia, and my ancestors are all Greeks."

"Fine, you're my Antinous? Pour me more wine."

"I live to serve you, Hadrian."

"Shall we duel?"

"The zombies await."

It became a highlight to get an e-mail from Billy, something that brought her a lift. Nothing heavy, no approaching of the border they had almost crossed that first night on the porch. It seemed easy, and fast, and affectionate. Billy never approached her without Joan's feeling better in some fashion-wiser, smarter, kinder, and braver, than she had before. She couldn't say why exactly, but it was his gift. They became friends. It happened rather formally, as the best friendships often do, with cognizance of the potential importance, n.o.bility and sacrifice that might be called upon.

They were watching Captain Swashbuckler, Billy's concession to Joan's movie choice, after a series of gladiator films he'd picked. In the beginning, he scoffed at it-the old fashioned special effects, the bombastic dialogue-but somewhere around the great sea battle, he started to watch in rapt silence. There was one particular scene that was burned into Joan's memory from first seeing the movie at twelve with her male friends, acid etched there by the first explosion of young romantic bonding ardor. The freebooter's ship the Golden Foxwas sinking, her decks awash with blood. Captain Swashbuckler stood, cutla.s.s in one hand, pistol in the other, holding the deck against the Queen's soldiers so his men might retreat. The First Mate protested, but Captain Swashbuckler pushed him into the lifeboat, calling out, "Let my death have meaning! My friend, let me die for you!"

Billy, in profile, said "I'd do that for you."

Joan swallowed, hard. "Me too."

They clinked their wine gla.s.ses together. After the first night they hung out, there had been no more scotch. The fire was a little too deep for the summer nights just yet. The friendship was formally recognized.

It was shortly after this they started talking to one another. The formal level of intimacy had been acknowledged-the potential, the desire for intimacy, if you will. Nothing heavy to start with, and usually while absorbed in other activities, they started to talk. Joan began it, talking, while blasting the head of a zombie boss into green goo.

"Scotch reminds me of my father."

Billy dove to the right, taking out a pair of lurking undead behind the crates. He rolled, came up spitting fire, and took off running back to her side. "That good or bad?"

"Both, I guess." They paused in a way station to get their body armor repaired and their guns reloaded. Joan told the story of her father sitting in the evenings, watching out the door.

"What does it taste like?" Billy asked, chambering his shotgun.

"Sadness or regret," Joan said and shrugged.

"We'll make a new memory for it."

"When?"

"When the time is right."

Billy, equally casually, started talking about his father, a man gone from his immediate life since grade school. His parents divorced, his father remarried, Billy grew up with his mom.

"Dad's all right, just like millions of other divorced and remarried dads...distant."

"How is he with you?"

"He's come around. Mom's totally cool."

And just like that, the door was opened to a new topic, one that led to many others; levels added to their intimacy. When Wednesday night came, they'd been hanging out all day, nothing special, when a real conversation sprang up. They often did, sparking naturally, then lightly and fearfully tended by both partic.i.p.ants, hesitating to put any great weight on words just yet. Billy started talking, and Joan was afraid to rupture that intimacy. The conversation lasted hours, and only later did they realize that Billy had missed Sheila's seminar.

Joan got a call about it while she was walking in the door. She snapped her cell open and tried not to sound like she was just coming in.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"You're hanging up your coat, I can hear it. So he was with you!"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Billy missed cla.s.s tonight."

"Oh, s.h.i.t. Sorry, that was my fault. I got him to talking, and we lost track of time."

"This is my own fault, I know, in a twisted way. I knew you guys would hit it off. Now I find myself missing you because you have a new friend to play with. I'm a horrible human being."

"You are the most wonderful woman who ever lived."

"You're effusive. I have no idea what that means. You've never been effusive before."

"I'm just happy."

"d.a.m.n. Can it be that simple?"

"Only if you work real hard to let it be."

Her answer was off the cuff, but got Joan to wondering. Could it be that simple? Could, at forty-two, she simply meet and simply like, with the lighting blink of affection confirmation, a twenty-four year old boy? A queer boy, a transboy. That boy. Billy. Could she let herself feel with such ease and directness? Heedlessly.

Time meant less these days. It was summer magic again, the endlessness of pleasure. That was part of it-the boundaryless nature of their affection, their bond. It existed and had been acknowledged; now there was only action in the sharing of it. Happy, simple, and animal. Boyish. Billy called her up and said they should go for a bike ride, so Joan bought a bike and they did. All over the city, lingering by the water, by the lake, along the banks of the river, where they threw stones and broke gla.s.s bottles in a branch of a ruined mill. Billy threw hard at the last bottle and missed spectacularly, ricocheting it back towards his head. He had to duck, flinging up his arms, from his own missile. Joan stepped up and neatly sidearm shattered the bottle at the neck.

"Nice. You free tonight? There's a free concert on the steps of the art gallery."

"Can't. I have to meet with Carol the treasurer, whom I've been putting off to play with you."

"This is the first time you've said no to me."

"What, now you're going to pout?"

"Worse. Whine. Like an abandoned puppy beneath your window, with heartrending howls I will disrupt your meeting with Carol the treasurer."

"We'll be meeting at her place."

"Oh." Billy tossed away his last stone. "Guess I can't disrupt that. Have fun."

They'd biked back into the city in silence. Billy waved and rode off without a word. It shouldn't have mattered to Joan the way that it did.

Carol lived out in the suburbs, with a large fenced lot that included a swimming pool and a generous lawn. It made sense to have a large gathering there. Carol argued against it from the moment Joan showed up.

"Oh, no, I can't have the Michigan Memories potluck here."

"Why not? The s.p.a.ce seems perfect." Joan looked at the emerald expanse ringed with chain link fence and free of flowers. A well-controlled green s.p.a.ce. They were in Carol's kitchen while Carol boiled water for tea.

"I'll be having the sprinkler system pulled out and rerouted. The entire lawn will be trenches and pipes. Can't have anyone here," Carol said, closing the blinds.

"That's too bad. What about Barb?"

"She's going to be out of town."

"Marta?"

"Having in-laws stay."

"Oh. Where does that leave?" Joan asked foolishly.

"We could do it at your place, in the city."

"Whoa, I'm not sure I have enough room."

"Sheila said it would be perfect."

That stopped Joan in her tracks. Sheila had said her house was perfect? Suggesting it? Why in the world had her friend sold her out?

"I suppose, if Sheila said it."

Carol's ill-concealed smile of triumph told Joan that she'd given away too much. The potluck was now at her house. They hashed out some of the details, but Joan had already given ground, and wasn't listening much. Billy had ridden off without a word. That wasn't entirely unusual, but they'd only known one another for a short time, so getting to know what was usual and what wasn't for him was still in progress. Joan's upbringing and experience made her shy of conflict, and she sought to avoid it at almost all costs. Great energy was spent in handling conflicts before they came up, with maintaining a frozen dignity that kept many lesser problems at bay. Trouble was, problems were a side effect of dealing with people. Chaos and uncertainty came hard on the heels of opening up. Heels. We're back to Achilles, Joan thought.

Joan recalled how terrified she'd been when she and Sheila had disagreed for the first time. It was over something stupid, the placement of a standing lamp in their dorm room. Joan read herself to sleep every night, and used a short bedside lamp for ease. Sheila, trying to provide a better environment for both, ended up making Joan retreat into a furious silence, feeling like her habits were being questioned and set up for adjustment without her approval. Getting used to living with someone else was jarring, even combative, for the s.p.a.ce-conscious loner. Sheila, raised in a much larger and closer family, found Joan's retreat incomprehensible, and went ahead and set up the lamp. When they finally fought about it, when Joan finally exploded and spoke her mind, she started shaking like a runner after a marathon. Adrenaline coursed through her, made her angry and large and swift, ready to punch and destroy. Her relationship with Sheila was done, damaged forever now that they'd fought, so Joan started packing right in front of an incredulous Sheila. It took some time for Sheila to convince Joan that their relationship wasn't irreparably ruptured, it was a minor disagreement. Joan had to learn to fight, and more difficult still, to get over it, to learn anger and put it in her toolbox of emotions. Sheila was fluent in it, and never cruel. She led Joan along slowly.

Joan and Billy hadn't disagreed on anything. When they fought, it was about things- events, historical figures, and proper execution of a double automatic flying shot or a testudo formation-not about emotions. Fighting was then sparring, playful, enjoyable. Dominance was demonstrated, awesomeness acknowledged, and the matter at hand gotten back to, whether zombies or Romans. There had been none of that. He asked her to hang out that evening; she'd said she was busy, simple exchange between friends. He'd ridden off. No drama, no scene, just simple and done.

That was part of the relief of hanging with Billy, the simplicity of it. Ask, answer, and move on. No drama. His sunny nature never seemed to falter. At first, Joan had been waiting for the conversation, the big talk about their first night spent together, the scotch and video games. The a.n.a.lysis, the questioning: who are we and what are we doing? She didn't want that. When Billy didn't broach the subject, she felt herself relax in stages, until she took what he offered with both hands. There was simple acceptance and action, without having to explain herself. Since meeting Sheila, Joan hadn't felt so purely liked as a person without having to be anyone else. She could, for the first time in decades, come at friendship with her own nature.

We think we've achieved standing, that age and experience give us perspective, distance, even wisdom. Sometimes. What Joan hadn't factored in was the emotion of it. You can be the best educated person in the world, have the finest incisive mind, a preternatural facility for organizing and shifting information, making new connections, a.n.a.lyzing facts, and still be dumber than a box of hammers about emotion. No matter how well we know, we still have to feel. The h.o.m.o sapiens paradox, apes with yearning toward Heaven.

Joan surfaced from this reverie to find Carol still talking.

"So we'll have the planning meeting on Thursday and get the phone tree working. That gives a few weeks until the event, but we can pull it off."

"Right," Joan said, nodding at whatever Carol had said, hoping she hadn't just signed away her immortal soul.

"I can get the tables and chairs ordered, but I'll have to look at the s.p.a.ce. Is tomorrow afternoon all right with you?"

Carol was looking at her intently, expectantly.

"Sure." It was after Joan had agreed, only when she saw the look of surprise and pleasure on Carol's face, that she realized what had happened. Carol hadn't been expecting it to work. She'd just invited herself over to Joan's house tomorrow. Oh, p.i.s.s. This was what came of not focusing, not keeping her guard up.

"How was your date?" Carol asked, looking down at her agenda.

"Everything I hoped it would be."

Joan got home at nine, not late, but the sun was inching away over the backyard fence. Most of the time, Joan adored the view from the second floor of her sprawling Victorian. Joan loved the long narrow yard facing west, a sunset court, meant for sitting in the unruly garden in the dusk hours as the sunlight bled off, lighting candles and talking while the wine poured. Pity she'd never done that here. Oh, Cody and she had had a few dinner parties, but Joan was remanded to the kitchen for most of those. She hadn't entertained here on her own, though she'd owned the house before Cody came along, and after she left. She'd need to be more of an extrovert to host.

Now Billy would throw a great party, Joan thought. It would be pleasant, even fun, to be working the kitchen if she knew he was greeting the guests, making the best use of his golden retriever personality to make everyone feel at home. They would balance one another. Joan liked that he was so unlike her in personality, that he kept his pain hidden under both artful and natural optimism. She'd watched him, questioning the ability of any person to be so happy, but he never cracked, never offered her bitterness or regret. He kept his comments on other people to the positive or neutral, a sign of character not learned but inborn. Naturally, this made Joan fascinated with the edges of his cheerfulness, where it might start to fray, where she'd be able to glimpse the other emotions well concealed around this one.

Joan wandered out into the backyard with her laptop. She opened it, idly, while trying to picture fifty people in her backyard. Would the tables even work? Maybe round tables, not the long rectangular ones. They could get five of them in here; as long as they stayed out of the garden it would be doable. Not a lot of s.p.a.ce, but perhaps. Joan wasn't expecting an e-mail, but was hoping for one. Electricity ran through her hands, up her arms. He had written.

Hadrian, We need a brooding urban vigilante night. Midnight Avenger in 3-D. You have to see the fight scenes in 3-D or it isn't Midnight Avenger. As you turned down my last request, this isn't a request. Midnight Avenger shows at, what else, midnight at the Regal. I'll see you there.

Antinous Nothing about this afternoon other than the confidence he'd see her later. Joan knew she'd go as soon as she read the e-mail. A midnight superhero movie? Who else would she do this with? Who else would know enough to ask her to go?

She drove up from the back parking lot, partly from habit, partly to see if he were waiting outside the theater. He wasn't. It was ten minutes to midnight, and the front of the theater was crawling with people Billy's age, eighty to ninety percent male, the film's target audience. She would have to wade through them to see if he were in the lobby. If on her own, she'd turn the car around right now.

Joan strode determinedly through the crowd, refusing to be intimidated away from the film, even though every male eye that bothered to follow her did so with a faint puzzlement as if she was entirely out of her environment. This was their realm, their hour, their subject, their entertainment. What was a middle-aged woman doing here? For that is what she was.

He was in the lobby, standing under the Midnight Avengers' six-foot-high scowl in a banner ad. Joan hadn't paid any attention to his height before. He was one of those people always slouching, leaning, perching, draping, and never standing up straight. She was five eight; he was maybe five foot five. Yet, he was one of those people remembered as taller. Looking at him now, leaning casually, not scanning the crowd with anxiety but looking around, meeting eyes when they cast his way; he looked fearless. He turned and smiled right at her.

"Here's your stub and your 3-D gla.s.ses. Popcorn?"

"No, thanks. You were pretty sure I'd show, buying me a ticket?"

"I'm pretty sure in general."

They took seats in the back, slouching in the chairs. Billy had his canvas sneakers on again, and they were unlaced. It bothered Joan less now. She put her 3-D gla.s.ses on.

"How was the meeting with Carol the treasurer?" Billy asked, scooping a handful of popcorn from the tub.

"Disaster. I was suckered into having the Michigan Memories event at my place."

"Michigan," Billy said evenly, looking at the screen.