Slow Burn (13 page)

“Reva, I've hardly been stumbling through life doing nothing.”

“No, you haven't. You've done well, done just about everything you wanted to do. But you've been doing it alone.”

“Reva, my Friday nights tend to be just fine.”

“Yeah, I know. An Anglo one week, a Hispanic the next. A model, a woman judge, a bartender, an attorney. No one could ever accuse you of having any prejudices. But where's your home, David? Where are those Saturday afternoons you should be spending with your son at Little League? It's as if you gave up all those things when you gave up Spencer Montgomery. I just don't want to see you tangled up like that again, David. Time has passed, but we haven't changed what we are, and the Montgomerys sure as hell haven't changed what they are!”

He found himself bolting to his feet. “Sly is the second most decent human being I know, Reva. Second only to Michael MacCloud. And how you can forget that—”

“I haven't!” Reva told him earnestly. “Honestly, you know I love Sly! I just love you more, David.”

He sat, staring at her. “I get to go to Little League with my nephew, Reva.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I'm as happy as a damned lark,” he told her.

Reva stared at him. “Have it your way,” she said, turning to leave. “But bear in mind, when you wind up ready to beat your head against the wall again, I won't hesitate to say I told you so! And if her folks get in on it, don't expect me to bail you out of jail again!”

She left. What an exit line.

It wasn't that Spencer had really done anything so horrible. Except that…

Cuban males were known for being jealous. Possessive. And he had been in love with Spencer.

All the kids knew they were an item. A hot item. He felt as if he were living just for the moments when he could see her. Not that he didn't keep up with the other things that were important. He owed it to Sly and the memory of Michael MacCloud, to get good grades. Michael had passed away the year before, after having spent the last fifteen years of his life trying to make America the land of promise for his grandchildren. David had to watch after his little sister. He was all Reva had left, and he was determined that the courts weren't going to put her in a home somewhere. Plus he was a Big Brother to an orphaned kid who had made it over from Cuba on a raft.

He'd started junior college, too, while he waited for Spencer to graduate. Their relationship had grown from that day at Sly's. Movies every Friday. The beach on weekends. Picnics with the others. He'd almost begun to believe that all men
had
been created equal in America. He'd been to Spencer's house for dinner, and her parents had been cordial enough, though once he'd heard her mother refer to him as “that refugee Spencer brought home.” He hadn't let that bother him. He knew that Sly liked him, believed in him. And anyway, only Spencer really mattered; she was the one he was in love with.

And for over a year the love between them was deep and passionate.

They had some tempestuous times, of course, Spencer taunting him about looking at Terry-Sue, him ready to chew her out over a boy she might have teased in the hallway. But the fights just made their time alone more important, all of it stolen time, illicit time. Time they had to create. Once it was a tourist hotel on North Miami Beach. Once it was the beach itself, when the sun was setting and the tide was ebbing and the world looked glorious in shades of russet and crimson and gold.

When Michael died, David had only survived because he had Spencer at his side. He'd thought he needed to get away from her, from everyone, to be alone. But it turned out that he'd needed Spencer more than ever that night, and he'd made love to her more passionately than ever before, almost furiously. She'd understood his love for Michael, though she hadn't really understood what it meant to be alone in the world. He'd been an infant when his mother died, a child when he'd left the only home he'd ever known, waving a gun and escaping with his sister. He'd been only eight when Michael MacCloud had gently broken the news that his father had died in the Cuban prison where he'd spent his last months writing pamphlets on liberty. And now Michael was gone, as well. David was alone. Alone with a sister to protect. True, he had cousins and aunts and uncles who meant well, but they weren't
close.
They didn't count. He had to make a living. He had to keep Reva with him; he couldn't let the two of them be separated.

He knew about hard work. He'd been working as long as he could remember. And he loved Spencer, needed Spencer, but she had never once known what it was like to be adrift and afraid in the world. Spencer was cherished by her parents, adored by Sly, protected by all of them. Money and security wrapped her from head to toe.

Perhaps he had built his first wall against her when Michael had been laid to rest. Maybe he had even begun building the wall that night when he had held her so heatedly.

But the breakup came when her parents brought down a houseguest from Rhode Island. Bradford Damon.

He was Spencer's age. Anglo. Rich as Croesus. He'd spent his life learning to sail—with golf as an extra on the side. His grades weren't stupendous, but he'd won entry into an Ivy League school following his father's large donation to the university.

At first he and Spencer had joked about Bradford. She'd moaned about having to entertain him, and she'd apologized profusely each time she had to break a date with David to see that Bradford made his way around all right.

He'd had a job at the school then, pulling scenery for the theater department. After work one Friday, he'd gone to her house at nine to pick her up. In no uncertain terms, Spencer's mother had turned him away from the door. “She will not be home tonight. She's gone to the dance at the club with Brad, and they will not be back until well past midnight. It's a private affair this evening, David. I'll thank you not to go there and cause trouble.”

He hadn't caused any trouble yet that he knew about. But he did go over to the club, staying on the fringes of the party, watching from the park that flanked the club. Spencer was indeed there with Bradford Damon. And Bradford wasn't really such a sorry specimen. He was tall, lean, blond, lanky. He wore an expensive suit very well.

It seemed as if he was dancing right on top of Spencer, and he laughed a hell of a lot. Worse, Spencer laughed, too.

He kissed Spencer, and it sure as hell looked as if Spencer kissed him back.

That was enough. David left the party, but he walked the streets half the night.

After midnight, he went to Spencer's house. He stood beneath her window, gathering a few pebbles to throw at it to get her attention. He froze when he heard laughter. Spencer's. A man's.

He threw a pebble at her window. Hard. A second later she looked down. She was pale, her hair a golden cloud around her face. She was wearing a robe, but one that seemed to emphasize the roundness of her breasts and the curve of her hips. She stared at him with shock. “David!”

Then he heard the sirens. He was still staring at her when the police came to arrest him.

If she protested, he never knew anything about it. The next thing he did know, he was behind bars. Being taunted by nasty-looking men of all colors, men with no front teeth and needle marks down their arms.

Sly got him out.

And the next day Spencer appeared at his house, pushing his door open to rush in. “David! David, I'm so sorry!”

“Go to hell, Spencer.”

She stood dead still, staring at him. “David, I didn't have anything to do with what happened. I didn't even know until this morning!”

“Yeah. Right.” He was ready to kill her. He wanted to wind his hands around her perfect throat and throttle her. “You were kind of busy last night, weren't you? Just how is Bradford Damon, Spencer? Are blond boys different?”

She inhaled in a rush and started to slap him. But caught her hand and sighed, suddenly very, very tired. “Go home, Spencer.”

Her blue eyes sparkled feverishly, her perfect white teeth clenched. “Damn you. You have no right—”

“I haven't got many rights, Spencer, but one of them is to have a girl who won't cheat on me.”

“I didn't cheat on you.”

“I saw you with him, Spencer.”

Her cheeks colored, and she didn't deny anything. Maybe that was what hurt the most.

“¡Puta!”
he said softly. Whore. Rich whore, but whore nevertheless.

“Cubano! Refugee!” she lashed out.

He reached for her suddenly and drew her into his arms. Then he kissed her. Deeply, hungrily. Jealously.

Maybe she thought then that things were going to be all right, that she could play with her parents' choice and have him, too. But he was incensed. He was never quite sure he could call what he did to her that day making love, but he'd never known a greater anguish. The whole time he touched her, he wondered just what Bradford Damon had done with her. She cried out at one point, but she clung to him and never protested. Yet at the end, he was not appeased. The anguish, the restlessness, grew. He stood up and walked away, looking out the window in the small room in the very small house that Michael MacCloud had managed to buy for them.

“I'm sure my parents never meant what happened, David.”

“What about you, Spencer? Did
you
mean it?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm not sure I do, either.” He walked around her like a caged cat. “All I know is that you're a little lackey to your folks, and they're just a pair of rich bigots.”

She gasped, quickly rising, and grabbing her strewn clothing. She dressed quickly, angrily, lashing out at him. “How dare you? How dare you say such things about my parents? It's not a crime to be born with money.”

“Well, even if it isn't illegal, it
is
immoral to lie and cheat and hurt others just because you were born with more than they have.”

“I told you, they didn't mean—”

“And what about you, Spencer? Did you
mean
to sleep with their little houseguest?”

Again she didn't deny the charge. She stood up and walked over to him and slapped him hard.

He stared at her, afraid to move. He wanted to hold her, because he was afraid that if he didn't, he would never see her again, but he was shaking with rage and misery and humiliation. “I guess we've both been screwed real good, honey, haven't we?” he asked her softly.

She gasped. “You bastard!” she hissed.

Finally he simply lifted her out of his way and left the house. His own house. He left her standing there.

That afternoon he learned she'd left the state.

Numbed, he went about doing the same thing himself. He methodically saw to his sister's college arrangements and made sure that his aunt would help Reva move into a dorm. And when he was assured that his sister would be all right, he made his final move to make certain he couldn't possibly spend his time trying to find Spencer, beating his head against a wall, trying to make things right.

He signed up for the United States Army.

 

His intercom was buzzing. He started, then pushed the button.

Reva spoke to him. “Pick up line one, David. It's Sly, and he sounds upset.

He picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Sly?”

“She's gone, David. She's out of here.”

“All right, I'll—”

“No, no, you don't understand! She isn't just headed out to lunch or to get her hair cut, or even to take the afternoon off!”

“Sly, you've got to tell me what you're talking about.”

“She's gone to the airport! Her flight leaves in less than an hour.”

“What?”

“She bought a ticket for home. Newport via Boston.”

David's fingers tightened around the receiver. “Then she'll be with her folks,” he said lightly. “She'll be fine.”

“You can't be sure! You know Spencer. She didn't run home to see them. She ran out to avoid being here for the weekend!”

“Sly, I'll follow her to the airport, but she'll be okay in Rhode Island,” he said. But his argument was weak, and he knew it. He already knew he was on his way to follow her.

“I don't know!” Sly exclaimed. “Damn, boy, I just don't want her alone. I don't like to ask this of you, but David…please, follow her.”

David winced, his fingers gripping the receiver so tightly that they went white.

Sly spoke again. “For the love of God, David, I'm begging you. I've just got this feeling…. Follow her, please?”

He couldn't talk for at least thirty seconds. Then he let out a pent-up breath. “Yeah, Sly. Yeah. I'll follow her.”

He hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment.

Damn her! She'd gone and done it again.