Esther and Star Ch. 05

I didn't say anything.

"Text," she decided, and she walked to the kitchen. When she came back, her thumbs busily typed out a message.

"Diane, where's the bathroom?"

She pointed.

Nothing made a sound in that house until I pissed. The stream echoed deeply in the bathroom. I shook my head, cursing silently. The sound from this piss reverberated like the flow from a garden hose down a cavernous well.

And I pissed for probably a minute and a half. At one point, I even muttered, "Shit" out loud at the volume of piss coming out of me.

When I came back into the sitting area, Diane intently read something on her phone.

"What did your daughter say about me being here—if you don't mind my asking?"

"I—I didn't tell her, actually."

"Why not?"

Diane's body remained still, but her head slowly turned to me. Staring for a few seconds, she finally said, "Because this is crazy. It's crazy that you're here, and Joanne—that's her name—she would race home if she knew."

"I'll go."

Diane shook her head. "It's not that. It's that I don't understand why you won't appear for the press. That's why you're here, in this house: to avoid appearing publicly." She shook her head in wonderment. "You're a hero. Why not just...?"

I cut her off. "I'm no hero. Hell, the only reason I came back into the store was because that guy, the shooter, he—he called me 'Lucky Day.' He said, 'Keep going, Lucky Day' or something like that, and it pissed me off. I turned back because I was thinking about smacking him around. I'm an asshole."

Diane opened her mouth to respond, but I continued.

"I live with my older sister because my job doesn't pay well enough. Got furloughed in my last job before I moved here. No one else would hire me. So, there's that, and I fucked up my marriage."

"You're—!"

"She's divorcing me. I should never have married her. I did it for horrible reasons. Here's this sweet, kind Jehovah's Witness girl, and she loses her family because of me. She gets kicked out of her church because of me. She loses her own faith because of me. Her father just died a few days ago, and she never got to see or talk to him because of me."

Dine shifted uncomfortably.

I shook my head. "And I'm a fucking idiot, Diane. Dumb. I'm dumb. I never worked hard in school. Never did any studying, and I had all kinds of scholarship offers for football. I could have gone to college for free, but I was too stupid to just put in the work."

I looked at Diane. She remained still.

"Does a hero spend a month and a half in juvie during high school because he put two kids in the hospital?" I asked.

She didn't respond.

"Hero? Fuck that. Failure. I'm a failure. Failed high school. Failed marriage. Failed job. Failed fucking life. And I refuse to be called a hero and be a hypocrite, too."

I sighed.

"I hate my fucking life."

Half a minute elapsed in silence before I glanced at Diane. She was looking at the floor, in deep thought, it seemed.

I said, "I'm sorry to unload all that on you."

"Sometimes things just need to be unloaded."

We sat in silence for a long time. She checked her phone and typed out something. Then, Diane said, "Write a press release. I will make sure it gets to the Globe and the news stations. Maybe if they have your statement, they will leave you alone."

"A press release?"

"Just a statement—it doesn't have to be very long. Write a paragraph or two about the incident and tell the press about your preference to remain out of the public's eye," she explained. "I'll help you."

"Now?"

"I'm awake. You up for a little writing?" She rose from the chair and gestured for me to follow her. "Come on."

I followed her to the dining area beside her kitchen. There was a small nook with a laptop. Diane sat in the chair and turned it on, opening up some writing application.

Then, she turned to me and said, "I'm ready."

"I'll type it. You don't have to..."

"With your shoulder injury? I don't think so."

"Please, Diane. I'll be fine. I'm only moving my hands."

She shrugged, got up, and gestured for me to sit.

"How will they know it's really from me?" I asked, taking the seat.

"Leave a few details about yourself."

"Okay."

"Start by giving it a title and a date, something like 'official statement of' and put your full name and address. Then give it a date and time."

I started typing.

Diane laughed.

"What?" I asked.

"You type with your index fingers," she said, still chuckling.

"I didn't do much writing in high school."

"I guess not."

I continued.

She noted a spelling error and a missing punctuation mark. I corrected them.

"Now," Diane said, "tell the story of what happened. Start with what brought you to the bookstore and go from there."

I wrote, feeling like a high schooler again with Diane as my teacher.

She smelled wonderful, and her body touched mine in places—her shoulder grazed mu uninjured one as she pointed to a word on the screen. Her hand moved mine off the tracking pad to correct a mistake herself. At some point, when she seemed satisfied with my progress, she rose and placed a hand on my back.

I let a relaxed sigh slip out, and Diane said, "Oh, did I hurt you?"

I glanced up at her. "No. Not at all. Helped me relax." I resumed writing.

She replaced her hand.

I typed a few more words, finishing the sentences and beginning a new one. Her hand slid to the back of my neck.

She said, "Wrong 'there.' You want the t-h-e-i-r their."

I deleted.

Diane began rubbing my neck. Her thumb slid up one side, her index and middle finger the other. Up and down she rubbed.

I didn't finish typing the word.

The way she stroked my neck brought to my mind the image of her fingers on my cock, and I began growing hard.

"E-I-R," she advised.

I didn't type.

"Are you alright?"

"That feels really, really good," I said.

"I'll stop."

"Please, Diane," I said, "don't."

She stopped. "If you wish for me to continue, you need to finish this statement," she explained, her tone shifting to motherly insistence.

I wrote.

She made suggestions, gently touching me from time to time.

An hour later, it was done. I logged into my email and mailed it from there, and then Diane had me call the Boston Globe. They transferred me around a few times before I reached some editor, told them who I was, and mentioned the email.

The editor had me resend it to her specific email address, which I did.

It was done.

"Good," Diane said. "Now, take a shower. You smell like the hospital," she said. "I'll fix you something to eat. You need your strength."

"Where should I...?"

"Come on," she said.

She led me upstairs and down a short hallway to her bedroom. Through the door, we went into the master bath.

She said, "Joanne's shower is too tight a fit for you. There are towels and washcloths in the cabinet there." She pointed, and then she swept past me and bent over to turn on the water.

Her bathrobe obscured the fine details, but it could not hide the wonderful shapeliness of her backside. Tanned, fit calves poked down beneath the robe's lower hem.

Diane felt the water and adjusted the valve. Rising, she said, "There. That's good and warm for you."

"Diane, can you...uh...?" I gestured toward the sling.

"Do you need to wear it in the shower?"

"No."

"It won't aggravate the injury?"

"No, there's a bandage."

She helped me out of the sling, and then she carefully removed my shirt.

When I dropped it to the floor and faced her, she was staring at my chest, blinking. I saw the rise and fall of her throat as she swallowed, and she said, "Let me see your shoulder."

I turned around.

Her hands—both of them—fell on my naked waist. I felt her warm breath on the skin of my neck.

"We shouldn't get this wet," she declared. "Wait here."

A minute later, she returned. She covered the bandage in cellophane, and then she secured it in place with white medical tape.

"My head going to be okay getting wet?" I asked.

"Sit there—on the toilet. Let me see."

I did as she asked.

She drew close. Her fingertips gingerly nestled into my hair. She stopped. She didn't say anything.

I turned and looked up at her.

Her eyes had gone red. Her lips curled inside her mouth, and she sniffed. She stepped back from me, and she covered her mouth with her hand. Shaking her head, she uttered, "I'm sorry, I—I didn't realize how..." She didn't finish. Instead, she looked directly at me and said, "You almost died! I mean, I knew, but I didn't really know until...a half an inch, and the bullet, it..."

"I'm okay, though," I said.

She walked toward me purposefully. Her hand clasped the back of my neck and she drew my face towards hers. She kissed me on the lips and held it.

When she broke away, she said, "I'll put some petroleum jelly over the stitches, but don't wash your hair." Then, Diane leaned over me and sniffed my head. "Fine. Your hair smells fine anyways, so it won't matter."

Wiping her eyes, she opened the cupboard, took out a little tub and she spread some vaseline very gently over the stitches on my head.

"How do you like your eggs?" she asked.

"However you like to make them," I said.

She nodded. "Bacon?"

"Only if it's no trouble."

"Toast?"

I nodded. "Butter, no jelly, please."

"Fine," she said. Then, she glanced at my shorts. "Can you get the rest?"

I looked down at my shorts and then back up to her. "Off? Yes. Back on? May need some help with the button."

She nodded. "Holler for me if you need anything," she said and walked out, leaving the door open.

"Thank you!" I called to her. Then, I showered.

A few minutes later, I called for her.

She came up.

Peering around the shower curtain, I said, "I...uh...can't really reach my left arm. Do you mind?"

She hesitated.

"I'll face away from you," I offered. I turned, holding the sudsy washcloth behind my back for her.

She took it from me.

I slipped back behind the curtain and waited.

The curtain rings slid open behind me. A beat elapsed. What, I wondered, was she doing?

"Diane?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Here." She soaped all around my arm and under it. Then, she handed the cloth back to me.

"Thanks," I said.

She left, and I finished.

I was able to dry myself pretty well with the towel. I pulled my underwear on, but I could not button my shorts or my pull on my shirt.

I called for her again.

When she arrived at the threshold, I said, "I'm sorry, Diane. You're being really nice, and I'm taking you from your sleep. I should just go."

"It's not a problem and don't go. I just finished making your breakfast."

"Okay. My shirt—I can't get it on. And I can't button my shorts. Oh, and the plastic over my shoulder."

She approached and turned me around. Digging a fingernail under the tape, she quickly ripped the cellophane water shield from my shoulder.

My shorts slid down to my feet.

Diane turned me around. She knelt, and I watched her eyes glance at the bulge of my briefs before she pulled my shorts over it. Her fingers fastened the button, and then she pulled up my zipper.

After helping me with my shirt and sling, we went downstairs together. She made me scrambled eggs with bacon and buttered toast. I washed it down with water and thanked her.

I remained silent as she gathered up the dishes and rinsed them. Diane seemed to be thinking hard about something.

She closed the dishwasher door, put her hands on the countertop, and looked directly into my eyes. "This is going to seem awfully forward, and I don't want you to get the wrong idea, but will you sleep in my room tonight?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

She explained, "I haven't been able to sleep, and the house is totally empty. I'm terrified of every sound I hear, and I can't stop thinking about...about how I should be dead right now."

She drew a faltering breath. Her voice cracked when she said, "I know. I should have let Joanne skip her meet and come home, but I didn't want to be selfish. Now, I think I need to be. I'm exhausted, and if you're there with me..."

She didn't finish. She was weeping.

I rose. "Sure, Diane. Yes, I'll...I'm glad to help." I walked over to her, and she hugged me close and began crying on my good shoulder.

Haltingly, she said, "I'm sorry to ask this of you. I'm not usually this emotional, and I don't like being some damsel in distress."

"Come on," I said, and I walked her up the stairs.

I sat on her bed while she excused herself to the bathroom, unsure as to how this was going to work.

She emerged, newly composed, a few minutes later, still in her bathrobe, but she had brushed her hair and her face looked freshly washed. When she saw me sitting in the same place, she asked if I needed help with anything.

Gesturing to the floor, I asked, "Where do you want me?"

"Not the floor. Dear, me, no. With your injury? No. I meant in bed, beside me."

"Oh," I said. Pointing at my clothes, I asked, "Wearing this? Sleep like this?"

"Will that be comfortable?"

"I wouldn't mind having my shirt off, but if that's..."

"Fine," she interjected. Then, less anxiously, she said, "That would be fine. Let me help you."

As in the shower, she helped remove my sling and then my shirt. She moved to replace the sling, but I waved it off. "It's sore enough that I won't move it around. I'm not worried."

"If you think so." She folded my shirt and set it and my sling on the nightstand. "Anything else?"

"I'll leave my shorts on," I said.

"Yes, I think that would be appropriate."

She pulled the comforter and sheet down and gestured for me to climb in. I did, lying on my back. I stopped her from pulling the bedding back over my body. "I'll get too hot," I said.

"Very well." Diane rose beside me, put her hands on her hips and said, "I want you to be comfortable, but please do try and stay on this side of the bed. It wouldn't be proper for us to be touching."

"Okay."

She nodded, moving around to her side. She stopped for a moment as if thinking. then, she said, "I—I apologize for mentioning these things. I am grateful to you, and I can already sense that I feel safer with you here. I just—I don't want you to get the wrong idea about me. I'm old enough to be your mother, but we're...friends, aren't we? Just friends?"

Before I could respond, she added, "New friends?"

"Yeah."

"I asked you to be here so that I don't feel alone and afraid."

"Uh-huh," I said, shifting my ass in the bed. Even though I had slept for almost twelve hours during the day in my shorts and underwear, at that moment, they felt very uncomfortable compared to my usual loose basketball shorts and nothing else.

"Are you all set, then? May I turn out the light?"

I nodded.

She shut off the lamp on her nightstand, and then I heard her slip out of her bathrobe and climb under the sheets beside me.

I shifted my ass again, still lying on my back. My eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

Neither of us made a sound for what felt like minutes. I barely heard Diane breathing, and I tried to keep my breathing as silent as possible.

When she finally spoke, it was a whisper. "Will you tell me why you came back into the store? I know what you said before, but tell me again."

I sighed, thinking. "I was pissed at him calling me 'Lucky Day' or whatever, so I looked back. I thought I saw guns through the glass on the front doors, and when I double-checked, I heard the first shot."

"But, why would you charge a man with two guns? You—you talked about how you hated your life...did you want to die?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"I don't know. Sometimes...sometimes I make choices after thinking about them. Other times, my body just goes. It just takes over—like it already knows exactly what to do. The bookstore was one of those times when I didn't think about it."

"Were you afraid?"

"No. If I had any feeling, it was anger."

"Anger? Really?"

"Yeah, I mean—you see these school shooters, mall shooters, whatever, on the news, and I guess it just pisses me off. They're cowards. That's how I felt when I knew he had guns, when I heard the first shot. It was like I was offended and..."

I didn't finish the thought, but Diane wanted me to. "And what?"

I shifted in the bed again before finishing, "And you were in there."

She didn't say anything.

I tried to explain. "You know I've never been a reader, but that store and your help...you kind of opened my eyes and changed me. You never judged me for being an idiot, and..."

"You are not an idiot. You're growing. You're a learner."

"Thanks for saying that," I said, turning my face towards hers.

She rolled on her side toward me.

I continued, "Anyways, it made me angry to think this guy was turning this place that helped me into a place of fear, and it pissed me off to think that you might be in danger."

Diane's voice faltered when she next spoke. "He was going to kill me first."

"Did you know him? Wasn't he an employee or something?"

"He used to be, but I never really knew him," Diane whispered, sniffing quietly. "I wish I knew why he picked me."

"Wrong place, wrong time. Had to be."

She sighed. "That's what everyone tells me, but I keep wracking my mind to remember if I had ever been unkind to him."

"No way, Diane. It was just a bad coincidence."

Her voice was on the verge of sobbing when she muttered, "I suppose so."

I wasn't sure what to say. Nothing was coming to me other than a kind of alert in my mind, flashing and telling me I needed to say something soon.

My head was empty, but my hand moved, sliding under the sheets until it found her hand. I held it, rubbing occasionally with my thumb and squeezing it.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for saving my life."

"You're welcome," I responded, second-guessing my words as they came out.

"And thank you for being here with me. I didn't know I needed you until you came."

"I'm glad to be here...," I said, swallowing, "...with you."

The shorts continued to bother me, and I didn't like being on my back. I scooted my ass a bit, seeking a better position.

Diane must have noticed. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No," I said, "no, I like being here. It's just...my shorts. I'm not used to...forget it. I'm okay."

"You want to take them off? Do you want my permission to sleep in your underwear?"

"It's fine."

"You may. I don't mind."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

I began to unbutton them, but one-handed in the dark is no simple thing.

Diane sat up. "Here, let me help you with those."

"No, I can..."

"Let me do it, please," she said. She crawled near, and I could make out a blue or purple spaghetti-strap nightgown. It shined, and I guessed it was made of satin.

She sat on her knees beside me. Her hands found my belly. "Oh, my goodness, you're warm."

I felt her fingers search and find the button. She unfastened it quickly, and then, together—I with one hand and Diane with two—we tugged them down my thighs to my knees. She dragged them the rest of the way off my feet, and then, reaching across me, placed them on the nightstand over my shirt and sling.

Resuming her seated position next to me, she asked, "Better?"

"Much, yes."

"How is your shoulder feeling?" Diane asked, and her hand slid across my chest, coming to rest a few inches short of the bandage.

I drew in a breath. Her fingers were so delicate, her touch so soothing. "Still sore, but I'm okay."

Her hand moved back to my chest. "And your head? How is it?"

I felt the hand rise away, and then I saw it approach my face. Her palm cradled my cheek before her fingers delved into my hair near, but not touching the stitches.

It felt so good that I forgot her question.

Her fingers stopped. "Am I hurting you?"

"No."