Once inside, Reid locked the door behind them and went around turning on lights, leaving Elias standing in the parlor in a gradually-brightening display. When Reid returned, Elias stood there, still in his coat and hat. Reid smiled. “Make yourself comfortable, Elias.”
Elias looked at Reid for a long moment, then took off the outer shell of his clothes, which Reid took from him and hung on the hook of an oak hall tree by the front door. Reid could sense something heavy in one of the coat’s pockets, but he couldn’t figure out what it was with Elias standing there, watching him.
Shorn of his outerwear, Elias appeared to Reid somehow… diminished, undersized, more boy than man, his head large on his thin shoulders. Elias wore a faded, threadbare pair of denims and an equally-old chambray work shirt, as well as a pair of scuffed leather boots that looked like hand-me-downs from some much larger man.
Reid forced his attention away from the boy and shrugged out of his jacket. “I know it’s late, but… well, would you like something to eat, perhaps? A sandwich, or something more substantial…?”
At the mention of food, Elias relaxed. “I would, actually. I’m starving. Thank you, Reid.”
Reid smiled his answer and stepped into his kitchen to see what—if anything— he might actually have in the icebox. There was—as befitted a confirmed bachelor—nothing too exotic; he had eggs and the last bit of ham (courtesy of Olivia’s husband, Henry) he’d been saving for breakfast. These he took out. He cracked a half-dozen eggs into a bowl, added some milk and bits of chopped ham, started stirring it all together in a cast-iron pan.
He heard a noise behind him, turned to see Elias standing there in the doorway. So young, Reid thought. He is so young. Too young, perhaps to have found himself in whatever situation this is. There was an innocence to him, but that innocence, Reid could tell, was beginning to yield to a kind of hard-won experience. He smiled at the boy.
Elias smiled back. “Can I help? he asked.
“Well, actually… yes,” Reid answered. “You can set the table.” He pointed out plates and cups and flatware and tended the eggs while Elias assembled a service for two and went with it into the dining room. Reid pulled out a glass bowl from an open shelf above the stove and used the spatula to put the eggs and ham into it.
—
They ate at the table in a not-uncomfortable silence. Reid, for his part, was—sadly—used to such a silence, but there was a difference in this, a kind of comfortable companionship. Elias made quick work of the meal, but Reid noted his efforts at civility and tact, wondered where he had learned them. For all of his rough appearance, there was something about the boy that hinted at a certain level of education.
While Elias ate, Reid took the opportunity to study him. He could see in the boy the habits and demeanor of country life, but even among such people—and Reid understood enough about himself to know that he, too, was not too far removed from them—the vagaries of inheritance and blood came together at times to produce someone possessed of a startling and uncommon beauty, and Elias seemed to be one of those lucky few. Reid smiled; swap out the denim and chambray for a tuxedo and a silk shirt, shave off the patchy beard, pomade those black curls down to his head, and Elias would not be out of place in a Fifth Avenue mansion or a Parisian salon.
With half of the plate uneaten, Elias paused, put down the fork, patted his mouth with the napkin, looked at Reid and smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve… well, I haven’t…”
Reid smiled in return. “It’s fine. I understand.”
—
As they ate, the clock struck eleven… and, from Reid, this brought forth a surprising yawn. He’d been up since before dawn, trying to get to the hospital in time for the birth. He tried to stifle the yawn, could not, found himself smiling at Elias. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s… well, it’s been a day.”
Elias, too, gave into a yawn. “Yes, it has,” he echoed.
“Are you finished eating?”
“I am. I… Reid, I can’t thank you enough for this.”
“Well, it looked like you could use a home-cooked meal, Elias. It’s not exactly Delmonico’s, but…”
Elias chuckled. “It was perfect.”
Reid stood, collected the plates, took them into the kitchen and set them in the sink basin; he was too tired to attend to them now. He went back into the dining room; Elias sat there, at the table, hands clasped, looking into the distance.
“You… you must be tired, Elias,” he said.
“I… I am. I…” He stopped, turned to face Reid.
Reid stared at him and could not stop. There was something there, he thought, or perhaps he only wanted there to be, some sort of shared understanding. He shook his head, trying to dispel such thoughts, trying to consign them to fatigue or… or… well, wishful thinking. That which, but for the newness of this, could have been.
“I can… well… I have a spare bedroom. It belonged to my niece. You’re welcome to use it for tonight.”
“I would like that, Reid. I… I wanted to say… well, ‘thank you,’ of course, and…”
Another something curdled the air between them; again, Reid shook his head. He stood. “I can… well, if you want to follow me?”
—
Elias followed him upstairs; Reid turned the doorknob of Olivia’s old room, let the door swing open, fumbled around for the light, turned it on. It was much as Olivia had left it, the room of a young woman of a certain age, neat and tidy. Reid had had no cause to be in this room for some time and could smell a certain mustiness of disuse in the air, but the room was certainly serviceable, for all that.
“There’s… well, if you’d like to freshen up,” Reid offered, turning back into the hallway, turning on the light of the bathroom across the hall.
“A bath would be lovely…” Elias started. “I haven’t… well, you could probably tell.”
Reid chuckled. “No, no… no worse than me at the end of a particularly exhausting day. I’ll get some towels while you… well…”
He went to a closet, pulled out some laundered towels, smelled them… a bit in need of a freshening, but still presentable. He could hear the sounds of Elias in the bathroom, of a bath being drawn. He stepped into his room, rifled through a drawer until he came up with a set of pajamas; the boy would swim in them, but they would have to do for the night.
As quietly as he could, Reid crept downstairs, went over to the hall tree, went to Elias’ jacket, went through the pockets. In the right one, his hand closed around a cold metallic object whose contours he recognized, even without seeing them.
He withdrew the thing, the gun, from its pocket. He had some familiarity with guns; no one who lived in the country went without a basic knowledge of firearms. The gun was a .38, common enough, readily available. He checked the chamber; it was loaded with six bullets.
Despite his familiarity, he still hated guns, hated what they represented. As far as he could tell, the gun had never been fired.
He replaced the gun, gathered the towels and pajamas under an arm, went back upstairs.
—
The door to the bathroom was still closed; he leaned his head against the painted wooden slab, could hear the sounds of water. He rapped on the door. “It’s me, Elias. I’ve got some towels. And something for you to sleep in.”
Elias’ voice—muffled with the closed door—was understandable enough. “I… oh…” he said. “It’s… well, it’s unlocked, Reid.”
Reid took a breath, opened the door. A cloud of steam, thick and hot, settled over him, and he smiled. There was nothing so delightful as a hot bath, he knew. He himself had enjoyed such an indulgence, more often than might be thought proper, at the end of many an exhausting day.
The steam cleared enough so that Reid could see Elias there, seated on the edge of the tub, one hand playing with the jet of water from the faucet. Elias was dressed only in a pair of cotton undershorts gone gray with age and grime; the rest of his clothing lay folded, neatly, on the closed lid of the toilet.
It took Reid a few moments to understand what he was seeing. What he had thought at first to be shadows on Elias’ thin torso turned out to be the sickly, sallow remains of bruises, seemingly of various different ages, some new, some old. There were scars there, as well, writing their terrible topography into flesh that should never have had to bear witness to such things.
Elias turned, and the two men—for now, with this, Reid could think of him only as an equal—stared at each other. Reid mumbled something, set the towels and the pajamas on the white porcelain sink, and fled.
—
He went to his bedroom, closed the door behind him, went to his bed, sat heavily upon it. His heart was pounding, again, from agitation more than anything. This thing, this terrible thing, this new thing… it changed everything. Its existence frightened him, more than anything, knowing that such violence was possible. Where had it come from? he wondered. Who had done this thing to the boy?
It was obvious, now, why Elias had chosen to flee, had seen this as his only tenable means of escape. It had been an act of desperation, more than anything, Reid understood.
He thought, as he sat there—unable to will himself to get undressed and ready for bed—of his own childhood. His parents had been there for him as much as they could have been; he knew that, in many ways, he and what he was had confounded them. They understood him as well as they’d been able. All in all, though, he had never had to submit to this kind of treatment; his parents had never, as far as he could remember, laid their hands on him in this manner. His childhood had been happy enough, despite his self-imposed isolation, despite his loneliness. He had been allowed, within limits, to think what he wanted to think, to do what he wanted to do, to read what he wanted to read.
Only with effort did he rouse himself, did he undress and slip underneath the seductive coziness of the quilts.
He willed himself to relax; sleep eluded him. His mind went where it would, unstoppable, went to the sight of the slight boy, there, in the bathroom, pale and vulnerable. His mind went to the many unsaid things that had hovered there, this evening, unthinkable things that nevertheless were thought, were entertained, were turned around, were weighed and judged.
In the morning, of course, the boy would be gone, would slip into the blue light of an unfolding dawn, would steal away silently, like a wraith, like a ghost.
But did he want the boy to leave?