Drummer Boy (6 page)

Candy laughed. “No doubt. Anyway, I don't know this Tim guy from a hole in the head, but if you do care for him and that scares you, well…all I can do is suggest you pray about it, try to work through it, and try not to hide.”

“Look, I know I'm being a bag, Candy. I'm sorry. I can't help it.”

“You're fine.” Candy leaned over and gave Jane a light hug. “I'm going to holler for the kids. Are you eating with us?”

Jane shook her head. “No, I'm going to bed.”

Candy looked sad but didn't say anything.

 

****

 

Jane tried one position, then another, and still another—to no avail. She couldn't get comfortable or drop off to sleep no matter what she did. Candy's comments, combined with Jane's own earlier concerns about Sarah—and how they actually applied to herself, too—churned through her head. Was she just being a coward? Was she guilty of thinking she had to be someone else to be worthy of love? No. “Love” was going too far. But she could at least be friends with Tim, right? He was a really sweet person. It was rude to not call him back.

She lay on her back and picked up the phone.

He answered on the first ring. “Jane.”

Just hearing his voice made her smile and feel all was a little brighter in the world. “Hey, Tim.”

 

 

 

 

8

 

Hard to believe late spring had already arrived.

How long had he known Miss Jane-amazing-Bryant? Miss Jane-beautiful-Bryant? Miss Jane-crazy-silly-funny-sweet-hyper—
Wow. You're embarrassing your own self, man. Calm down, will you?

But he couldn't stop grinning. He pulled a pair of drumsticks from his glove box and patted a soft rhythm on his thigh as he walked around the back.

The old building was spared from demolition for another year only because there still wasn't any other home for the soup kitchen. The door from the alley into the kitchen of the facility was already blocked open and a smell Tim called “orange”—a warm, sun-setting shade in his mind's eye—wafted out temptingly. Curry carrot soup. It had been Jane's idea and was now a crowd favorite.
Delicious and super nutritious.
Comforting, but a little bit spicy and surprising
.

Jane, Jane, Jane!

“A food processor did most of the work, and it's Candy's recipe,” she'd said dismissively when he and Aida, the woman who did the bulk of the cooking, thanked her for coming up with some new, inexpensive but healthy options, and for bringing the first big vat of the soup for them to try out.

He still couldn't believe how she'd sweet-talked more food donations out of merchants he'd thought were made of stone. The big block monster—though he guessed he'd have to start calling it something else in his head—near where she lived continued to give them cheese, of all things. The clients loved it.

“You're turning this place into some uptown eatery. If word gets out, there might be paying customers.”

“That's not a bad idea,” she said as if he hadn't been joking. “We could advertise that food's ready to go, and if people want to drop off a donation, that'd be great. Might de-stigmatize the place.”

“Might keep some people who really need it from coming though, too…”

“Yeah, I guess. I just wish I could do more.”

“Are you kidding? You do tons.”

“I talk a lot, get things moved from point A to point B—” Her cute little nose had wrinkled in self-derision.

Tim still remembered the electricity that bolted up his arm when he'd put his hand on her shoulder, just her
shoulder
. The encouraging words he'd been about to offer felt clumsy and silly in his mouth.

Had she felt that zing when they connected, too?

He tried to shrug off the memories and shoved his drumsticks into his back pocket.

“Tim!” Aida's booming, jolly voice—completely at odds with her four-foot, eight-inch, ninety-pounds if soaking wet frame—met him as he walked through the door. “Good to see you again.”

He grinned back at her, shaking his head. “You, too.” He found their greetings hilarious, every day the same, as if they hadn't just seen each other the day before.

“Your Jane's here already. Probably putting out chairs, though I told her not to.”

Tim's heart skipped a beat, the way it did every time he heard Jane was there, although that was almost as silly as his and Aida's greetings because Jane showed up practically every day now, too.

“Don't say ‘your' Jane. She's just a friend.”

Aida waved a heavy wooden spoon at him. “Such a kidder,” she said and laughed—literally a “ho-ho-ho”—and went back to stirring her soup.

Tim walked through the kitchen into the hall-like room where they served the food. Long tables sat in rows, blue plastic chairs at almost every spot.

“You're not supposed to be putting out chairs,” he said, restraining himself from touching her in greeting.

Jane grinned up at him. “Well, when the boss is off slacking, the minions have to carry the burden.”

“Ha—nice. I always wanted minions.”

Jane swatted him. “There's quite a line gathering already, and Marcy and Layla can't make it today.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“OK. I'll serve. You greet. Maybe Alphie will hang around and help clean up after.”

“Sounds good.”

They went to the entrance together.
Like it's our home and we're receiving company
, Tim thought.

“Are you all right?” Jane asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“You just turned pink.”

“Ah, it's nothing.” He turned the deadbolt and pushed the doors open.

Spring sunlight bounced through the doorway, brightening the clean but faded lino, making the whole room a cheerier version of its normally tired self.

Jane chatted away, directing a few new faces to the buffet line and greeting familiars by name.

“Heya, Tim,” said a man with a low gravelly voice.

Tim recognized the distinct tone right away. “Alph! Good to see you.”
Note to self
, Tim muttered in his head,
you spend too much time with Aida
. He whipped the pair of drumsticks out of his back pocket.

Alphie's pinched-with-worry face relaxed for just a second, and he flashed a rare smile. “Man, you remembered.”

“Of course I did. Us drummers got to stick together.”

Alphie rolled his eyes, but almost cracked another smile. “That's a sad joke, man. Don't let Jane hear it—she'll roast you.”

“Let me hear what?” Jane called, but then she was off talking to someone else.

Somewhere, sometime in his careful, slightly paranoid travels and collecting and accumulating, Alphie had landed his hands on a practice pad.

“Come look what I got,” he'd said last week after lunch was done and the dishes were cleaned. Alphie had taken to helping with clean up and was surprisingly efficient and fluid in the kitchen, not as jumpy and scared as usual. “You'll like it.”

Tim had followed him and had been surprised. “You drum?”

“When I was a kid.”

“Well, hey, I'll bring you some sticks.”

“Sure,” Alphie had said, unlocking his shopping buggy from the streetlamp pole that he always chained it to. Sooner or later, Tim figured, someone would come and complain that having it there broke some bylaw or another, but so far so good.

Now, seeing Alphie's ice-blue eyes light up with interest, Tim was relieved he'd remembered the drumsticks. He was about to push his luck and see if Alphie wanted to lay down a beat, but the white noise of mellow chatting behind them suddenly changed.

“Not drunk—only hadda couple.” A tall, burly man with a long, straggly beard pointed a belligerent finger at Robert, a slightly whiny regular, who must've made the offensive accusation. The man staggered a little, cursing under his breath, and let loose a wet-sounding belch.

Tim jogged across the room, but Jane was already beside the man.

“Let's get you seated,” she said. “Then I'll grab you something to eat, OK?”

The man, still grumbling, complied, following the gentle pressure on his elbow as Jane guided him. He was about to sit when his face went a nasty pale shade.

Tim had been this route a few times and grabbed a garbage can—too late.

The man threw up a foul, sour-smelling mess down the front of his jacket and onto the floor.

The room went still, and Tim realized that this was probably where he lost Jane. Why hadn't he manned up and asked her out on an actual date or something? Cleaning up puke was the antithesis of romance. He thought of Natalie and looked up, expecting to see a similar expression of absolute distaste on Jane's face. Though, to be honest, it took a lot less than vomit to offend Natalie. He blinked.

Jane had whipped a mismatched pair of latex gloves—one huge and one small—out of her hip pocket. In a quiet, conversational tone, she asked the man if she could please take his jacket.

“I'll give it back,” she promised. “I just want to clean it for you. I hate throwing up. It feels awful doesn't it?”

The man's eyes had a dull sheen—not embarrassment, but a sort of resigned hopelessness that made Tim's stomach clench.

“Tim, could you grab some paper towels and spray cleaner?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He practically ran to the cleaning cupboard. When he returned, Jane had the man's jacket folded in on itself in a neat pile, and she'd wiped his face and beard with a napkin.

She left Tim to cleaning the floor.

“Are you all right to walk, maybe get some fresh air?”

The man nodded.

“Alphie, would you mind getting us a coffee, a bottle of water, some buttered rolls—and maybe a bit of cheese?”

Tim and Alphie found Jane and the man—Bill, she introduced him as—sitting in the sun on the cement steps in front of the hall.

Bill shook his head at the water but took the coffee.

Jane tucked his water, the sandwich baggy of buns and cheese, and two oranges and an apple that Alphie had also brought, into a navy messenger bag that Tim hadn't even noticed the man was carrying.

“Try to drink the water later, if you're up to it,” Jane said. “And please come back for lunch another day.”

Bill grunted and heaved himself up to his feet.

“You don't need to leave yet,” Jane said. “It's a nice afternoon to just take it easy.”

But the guy was already in motion. He turned back at the bottom of the stairs. “My coat.”

“I'm going to take it to the Laundromat. We're done here about two o'clock. Can you meet me here three-ish?”

Bill scratched at his chin and then nodded.

Jane hopped up, gently pulling off the loose glove protecting her damaged hand. Then she snapped off the fitted one from her right hand. She twisted the gloves into a ball, tossed them into a trash bin wired to the stairs' handrail, and dusted off her bottom.

“Well, let's see how Aida's doing. She probably could use help.”

Tim shook his head.

“What?” Jane's voice was almost alarmed.

“You're amazing.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Well, yes, yes, I am. Thanks for noticing.”

“I'm serious.”

“Me, too,” she said and then laughed and clapped his shoulder as they headed back inside.

He shook his head again, feeling his heart beat spike.

“I wouldn't have cleaned up that old drunk's puke,” Alphie muttered behind them.

Jane stopped and turned. “Oh, come on. Everyone throws up sometimes. Think how bad that would feel, throwing up in place you just mustered up the courage to go to for a first time, in front of a bunch of people you don't know.”

“He didn't feel bad. He didn't even apologize. Disgusting,” Aphie groused.

Jane frowned, but her voice was soft. “I'm sure this is just one more incident in a long list he feels badly about. A person gets numb to survive. And sure, it's unfortunate it happened in the dining room, but it was what it was.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And by the way,” Jane added, resting her hand on Alphie's shoulder, too, so she was holding both Tim and him. “Thanks for thinking to bring fruit. His body could use the vitamin C.”

Jealousy surged through Tim. Well, actually, not jealousy exactly. He didn't begrudge Alphie the affection, but he wanted to believe the way Jane touched him was something more than the friendly gesture she extended to Alphie.

“You are deluded, man,” he muttered to himself. “Seriously deluded. What do you have to offer someone like Jane?”

 

 

 

 

9

 

Jane tapped her foot nervously and surveyed the hallway, as Heber, the landlord, knocked on the door to apartment 203. The building was immaculate and smelled very lightly of a lemon cleaner. There was a sound of movement in the apartment, but no one came to the door. The landlord knocked again.

Jane ran through the details Heber had given over the phone. Stacking washer and dryer in closet off bathroom. Fresh paint and new laminate flooring throughout. Utilities, plus Wi-Fi and basic cable included—

“Sorry, just a second. I'll be right there.” The voice that came from somewhere behind the door was muffled, but Jane would've recognized it anywhere. Tim. She was looking at Tim's apartment? Where was he moving?

The door opened and Tim was there, pulling a tank top over his washboard abs. He hadn't noticed her standing behind Heber yet, and Jane couldn't help gawking. My, the boy was built nicely. And now maybe she understood a bit about why he was self-conscious of his tattoos. The left half of his body was mostly clear, but his right side, chest to hip, back and shoulder, plus a complete sleeve, was covered in dark, violent images—pictures that were hard to reconcile with the Tim she knew.