In the Stacks Ch. 04

Penny had draped herself protectively over Marilyn's sleeping form, pulling her tight. She loved the smell of the older woman's flesh, the feel of the warm body next to her. She would softly wake, from time to time and smell the delicate scent of Marilyn's perfume. Marilyn's sleep was hard, and Penny envied her, she always slept poorly when she was in an unfamiliar bed.

Softly, they dozed together, until the early hours in the morning. In late July, the dawn would break in Orchards about four or so in the morning, providing a slow, gentle, soft light.

A little after four, the telephone rang.

Marilyn's eyes snapped open, she felt Penny's hand pulling her tight. She leaned down, and kissed the forearm softly.

The phone rang again.

Penny groggily muttered, "what, who?"

"Phone," Marilyn said. She struggled to one side of the bed and felt around for her cane. The early morning was difficult for her, the leg with the pins in it painful, and slow to move.

"I'll get it," Penny said. She rolled quickly off the bed, buck-naked. Marilyn saw the perfect half moons of her ass as they danced out of the doorway, and down the hall.

Penny looked first in Marilyn's small, tidy office, and finding only her cellular phone charging but not ringing, went into the kitchen. There, on the wall was an avocado green phone with a dial on it. Penny picked it up and spoke grumpily into it.

"Hello," she said.

"Ma, this is Will," he said, exasperated. "I just got a phone call from the Orchards Fire department, they..."

Penny interrupted him, "This isn't Marilyn. Let me go get her."

"Who the fuck are you?" Will roared into the phone.

Penny became irritated with him and snapped, "It's Penny. Gimmie a damn minute and let me go get her."

Will was in shock, and couldn't believe what he had heard, until he heard his mother's caustic voice on the phone. "Will? What's going on?"

Marilyn woke up immediately as he related what the fire chief had told her, "a what? A fire? When? Right, right, we'll get over there right away. Okay, okay. I'll call you later. Thanks, Will, I appreciate it."

Penny cocked an eyebrow.

"They called Will as he's the emergency listing for the business. The bookstore's in flames, along with the whole strip mall." She said.

Penny gaped, and shook.

Marilyn took a deep breath, and exhaled.

Penny wrapped her arms around her, expected an onrush of emotions from Marilyn, and was somewhat puzzled when they didn't come.

"Aren't you upset?"

"I've got insurance, and my personal collection of books is safe, so I don't feel real bad," Marilyn admitted. "I'm more worried about the other businesses. That was Henry's sole source of income. I'm sure the law firm is paid up, and I know the Laundromat is a chain."

Penny gaped at her.

"Always remember girl, there are a lot of people worse off than you. I'm fortunate to have a business; most people have to work for someone else. Besides, we don't know the extent of the damage. A fire can mean any number of things. I," she paused, "want to look on the bright side."

Penny swallowed.

"Yeah, I know. I'm one of those people that has to work for someone else..."

Marilyn looked aghast, having put her foot squarely in her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said plainly. "I'm still tired. Let's quit standing around here naked and go and see what all the fuss is about, shall we?"

Penny looked at her, and smiled, "but I like seeing you naked."

"I like seeing you over my lap with your ass beet red too, girl, but I don't think you can take the cane yet," Marilyn threatened, lightly snapping the cane on the counter. She was smiling, so Penny didn't take her very seriously.

"Yes ma'am," she saluted playfully.

"Rapscallion," Marilyn said, and swatted her on the rump as Penny led the way back into the bathroom. Penny winced just a touch, for there were a couple of hard, red lines where the mark of the spatula strike had left a small welt.

Quickly they dressed, Marilyn in her stockings, garters and slip, and Penny just her skirt and top, much to Marilyn's consternation. She watched Marilyn take some heavy-duty painkillers to deal with her hip injury.

"I'm going to ask you to drive, Penny. Do take it easy on me, I'm just a little old lady you know."

"Uh, huh." Penny said.

They piled into Marilyn's Cadillac and the engine started instantly. Penny felt the power of the larger car, the throb of the powerful V8 and was unused to the automatic transmission.

Marilyn said nothing, even as the strip mall came into view, she could tell the entire mall was a total loss. She sighed deeply, remembering the children yesterday. How their little shining faces lit the storefront up.

Penny pulled outside the cordoned off police line, and Marilyn got out of the passenger's side. She turned to Penny and said with a smirk, "You know, I always wanted a driver."

Penny rolled her eyes at her and gave her a scathing glance.

Marilyn smirked and promptly walked up to a small white car with a single red light on it, magnetically attached. There was a man leaning up against it, watching the fire, the firefighters, and talking to a senior female police officer.

Penny stood behind her, and looked at the huge blaze, the entire strip mall was on fire.

"Arson," she said simply.

Marilyn turned her head, and Penny explained to her:

"There's no other answer. The buildings are burning evenly, the odds of multiple sites like that starting at once are incredible."

A dark, coarse voice addressed them.

"That's an interesting deduction."

Marilyn turned back, as the man, talking to the police officer opened addressed them. She walked forward another step and said, "Marilyn Marshall, the bookstore is, or was, mine. This is my personal secretary, Penny."

Penny had no idea she had such skills, and accepted the promotion in stride.

"Well, Penny, you've got a good eye," he said, shaking Marilyn, then Penny's hand. "It is indeed arson. Probably gasoline, it is one of the most common flammables used in the starting of fires. It's open and shut, we've already caught the perpetrator. My name is Carson Wallis, I'm Clark Counties Chief Fire Examiner."

"Oh? That's fast work," Marilyn then inquired, "Who?

"Henry Sparling." He said.

"Henry?" Both women gasped.

"We found him drunk, in the field behind the bar, across the street, unconscious. He had an empty can of gas next to him." He gestured with his cigarette toward a patrol car with a person in the back, pressed against the glass of the passenger's side. "I doubt if he's anything close to sober.

Marilyn's eyes were sad, and filled with shame. She felt awful, the way that she had treated him, and knew, deep inside, she was somehow responsible. She lurched on her cane, and slowly walked toward the panda car.

Henry's back pressed against the passenger's side door, his head was shaking, and she could see he was almost convulsing. He was bare-chested, and had a horizontal red mark a few inches wide about mid-back, below a long, old scar that stretched from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. She wondered if he was going go vomit, and went over to the driver's rear side window and crouched down, balancing on her cane.

"Henry?" She whispered.

He raised his head. His face was stained with mud, and dirt, and he had a small cut on his chin. His eyes saw nothing but the fire, and tears streamed down his face. He was a mere shadow of his arrogant self.

"Marilyn, is that you?" He whispered. She could smell the mix of bile and alcohol on his system, as well as the pungent smell of gasoline, presumably from his pants.

"I'm here Henry, it's going to be all right," She said.

"No! No, it's not, Marilyn. The restaurant was all I had, I have nothing now, nothing!" He screamed, "they think I did it, but I was drunk, Marilyn, I couldn't have done it, don't you understand, I, I..."

Henry started to cry, and shudder uncontrollably, his eyes not fixed on Marilyn, but on the fire itself. She smelled the rank smell of urine, and realized that Henry's bladder and bowels had loosened themselves in the back of the Police Car.

She stared at him for a few moments and then shook her head, and stood erect. Carson was talking with animated gestures to Penny, and the Policewoman was approaching her.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, we can't have you talking to the suspect." She said politely.

"That's okay, officer," Marilyn looked down at her name badge, "Schantez. We're friends, I suspect he'll need an attorney." Marilyn said.

"His wife was called, she said she would call his attorney."

Marilyn looked at her and then asked in a quiet tone, "Where did you find him?"

"At the bar, across the street. Drunk, in the field, like Carson said. We found him pretty much by accident, really. One of the firefighters spotted him as they were cutting through the back roadway."

Dawn was breaking, and Marilyn finally took the scene in full. The strip mall was a complete, total loss. Flames became embers by this point, between the water damage, and the fire damage, everyone would have to start over. She bit at her lip for a moment, and then stared at the figure in the car.

To think that Henry, who always joked with her, always hit on her, always wanted to be opening doors for her did this, was unconscionable. She started to weep slowly, quietly, stoically.

When Penny turned back toward her and saw those tears, it was as if a knife stabbed into her. She rushed to Marilyn and hugged her tightly. Marilyn could only hug her with one arm, feeling very frail, and very old.

"Penny, take me home," she said, finally.

Penny nodded and eased her into the Caddy. Marilyn held in one hand, the business card of the officer, and as they pulled into the driveway, let loose with a long, hard cry.

Penny, too, sobbed, and managed to get them both into the house where they collapsed hard on the bed together, holding each other, and crying. Slowly when the tears faded, Marilyn realized something.

Penny was still there. She was still strong, still the same, bright shining Penny that she had come to rely upon. It was, in some ways a blow to Marilyn's ego, to need, or want help, yet Penny was there.

Softly, she reached out with her hand and pulled Penny even tighter, and softly kissed her forehead. Penny returned the kiss, and soon their intimacy resumed, not a sexual intimacy, but a sensual intimacy. A long, tender, gentle cuddling. Softly, they fell asleep, and this time, neither one awoke when the phone rang.

Will grunted, and took a long, hefty drink from his Venti Frappachino. Chris looked at him, worried.

"No answer," Will said.

"Could they still be at the store?" Chris said.

"I don't know," Will muttered. He dialed the store's number and got an error message saying the call, 'could not be completed' as dialed.

"Store's phone is down," Will said to Chris.

"Shit." Chris said. He pulled out a fine-ground nail buff and started to shine up his nails.

Will watched him for a moment, sitting there in the middle of a starbucks. They settled next to a window, people watching on the busy street and chatting. It seemed like Chris had everything in his bag, which most everyone jokingly referred to as, 'his purse'.

Will on the other hand, crammed his pockets full of crap, and even in the July Chicago afternoon wore a jacket. He hated being cold, and swore every winter to move to Texas.

After much fumbling and self-groping, he produced his PDA, an antiquated Handspring Visor. He snapped the network card in, and pulled the replacement stylus out of its slot.

"Going to write that letter after all, huh?" Chris asked, now pushing the cuticle back with an orange stick.

Will shrugged, "I've got to get it outta me, Chris. It's killing me."

"I can hear that. Oh my, hunk alert at three o'clock." Chris said, swishing his nails toward Will.

Will turned his head just enough to see that Chris had indeed spotted a more than attractive young man. Stripped to the waist, t-shirt in hand, jogging along the side of the road. His tanned, muscular body poured down with sweat. He moved fluidly and had a good pace. Will stared for a moment or two, just to get the image in his head, and then turned back to the PDA.

"So why again, are you marrying me?" Will muttered.

"Oh stop it," Chris said. "There's only one reason to marry, you big lug. Just because I'm going to be a married woman doesn't mean I'm blind you know."

Will cocked an eyebrow at him and grunted, tapping out the start of his email to his mother with the on-screen keyboard. Graffiti, the language of the handspring visor was as foreign to him as masculinity was to Chris. His nostrils reeled at the scent of the clear nail polish Chris pulled out and started to coat each finger with.

Will tapped away, and then was distracted once again as Chris swung his fingers wildly, fanning them, hoping to make them dry quicker.

"Well what do you have now?" Chris asked, impatiently.

"Dear Ma. I'm sorry to hear about the bookstore, I hope the damage isn't very bad. If you need help rebuilding you can always call on me and Chris and we'll help however we can."

"I believe that would be, 'Chris and I'" Chris said.

"Yeah whatever." Will grumbled.

"You really don't want to do this, do you?"

"I do and I don't? I mean she knows, she has to know. Hell I've been living with you for over twenty fucking years."

Chris swished his fresh, still wet nails against his breast and said, "Darlin, you mean that by living with me, you're queer by implication! I am wounded, sir!"

Will was unamused as Chris made the best use of his dramatic training.

"I was thinking more that I never had a girlfriend for more than a couple weeks."

"You were just waiting for the right one to come along, and here I am. Your princess charming," Chris beamed.

Will's stoic visage finally broke and he cracked a smile to one corner.

"I love you, you know that?" Will said.

Chris snaked his hand over, and took the stylus away from Will. Softly he held the bigger man's hands.

"That's why I want to marry you. You're a good man, Will Marshall."

Will felt uncomfortable and opened his mouth to object.

Chris put his finger on Will's moustache.

"Shush, you. I don't want to hear how fat you think you are, how thin you think your hair is getting or how short you think your dick is."

Will growled at him.

"I'm serious, dammit," Chris said in a perfect Mae West. "Some things we do in our lives are about love, not about the hunk of the month."

"You don't ever turn it off, do you?" Will said.

Chris sighed deeply, and then over dramatacised Will's voice, in a near perfect impression, down to the sulk, the shoulder drooping and the grunt.

"Well it beats wandering about looking like someone tried to use a shovel as a suppository." He sounded like a cross between Lieutenant Worf and Seto Kiaba.

"I don't either sound that way," Will blurted.

"Only when you're worried, or scared, or in this case, both."

"That bad?" Will offered.

Chris nodded.

Chris pulled Will's hand back, and softly stroked it in both hands.

"You've been biting your nails again, dammit. Will what am I going to do with you?"

Will at this point realized he was being a bit of an ass and lowered his head over his frappachino, sucking at the open top of the dome lid. A white trickle of whipped cream came across his moustache, as he made an obnoxious sucking sound.

"That was this morning," Chris said.

"Yeah, so?" Will said.

"We're in public," Chris said.

"Like that ever stopped you," Will countered.

"Humph. Pick on the queen, why don't you? I'll get you for that, Will." In the flash of an eye, a different color polish was out, and two of Will's fingers became coated in a beautiful crimson red.

"God dammit," Will roared in mock ferocity, drawing stares from the tables around them.

"And here I am, all out of polish remover. Oh me, oh my. I guess you'll have to wear it. I always knew I should have been a beautician."

Will reached out with the pained hand to grab for him.

Chris admonished, "Now now, they're wet. You don't want to smudge, do you?" Will grumbled as Chris quickly painted the rest of the hand's nails. "I'll have the other one now, thank you."

Will begrudgingly handed over the other hand for similar treatment. "You know I've got to go to work tomorrow. This all has to be off by then," he declared.

"Philistine, destroy my art just to fit in with the dress code. It's not like they aren't throwing you a bachelor party. Did you even say you were getting married to another guy?"

"Oh I think they know," Will said. His office walls were pasted of pictures of him and Chris, at various festivals, with friends, working in charity organizations. His screen saver was a countdown to the day they would get married, and his computer wallpaper was a picture of Chris in a tuxedo, with purple painted nails, accepting an amateur theater award.

"Uh, huh. You probably gave me some safe name, like, 'Betsy' or 'Marylou'"

"Nope. I said you and I were going to Canada because the laws were Machiavellian, and that our fearless leader was a hate-mongering bigot who was more than happy to tread upon the basic civil rights of sexual minorities."

"As a good dyke friend of mine once said," Chris chimed in, "Bush is for licking, not for voting."

Will smiled broadly, and fanned his nails in a crude but passable imitation of his boyfriend. His Mae West needed a great deal of work, but he chimed in nonetheless, "and darling, isn't it the truth."

Chris threw back his head and laughed, a squealing, high-pitched peal, which earned him a growling, 'faggot' from someone in line.

Will's eyes saw red, and he glanced around, glaring. Other than the nails, he would have looked utterly ferocious.

"Oh don't you worry, I've got my mace," Chris said. "I'll protect you from those big, bad breeders."

Will was still a bit on the paranoid side, but relaxed. He would be the first one to say that Chris's effeminate nature could get on anybody's nerves, but also Chris proved a valuable point, wherever he went. Life was meant to be lived, and to have fun with.

Will pawed for his cell phone with the hand whose nails were dry. He flipped the speed-dial and rang his mother's house again. Still, no answer. He went back to the PDA and resumed typing the letter to his mother.

He got it into a good working draft, and was using a spelling checker on it. A sickening, splatting sound hit the window, where a huge glob of spittle began to drip down. Chris scooted back in his chair, and they both heard an anonymous voice say, "Queers," in a derogatory tone.

Will growled again, but with the passing circulation of people, there was no way that he could know who did it. He watched Chris become very quiet, and write in a small moleskin notebook. His face still had the fear from the first gay bashing so many years ago. No matter what Will did, that fear had never, ever, gone away.

Finally, Will decided that he would include what just happened in his letter. He never would, nor did he want to become, the writer his mother was. Yet, there was a part of him that said it was important to document these events.

He asked Chris if he wanted anything more to eat, and smiled when Chris said he had to watch his, 'girlish figure'.

Will came back with a thick slab of chocolate cake and another frappachino. He knew Chris would end up mooching at least half off the plate. To counter this, he gave Chris the PDA and asked him to read it.

Chris had to take his time with reading things, but once read, had nearly total recall, the result of training as his years as a thespian. "Did you really have to put that last bit in?" He asked.

"I want her to see what we face. I've read her work. She thinks that gays run around and have anonymous sex in the backs of bars like Queer as Folk. We've had a monogamous relationship pretty much from the beginning."