The Miracles of Ordinary Men (23 page)

II

The next morning, there's no bruise.

“I don't understand,” Lilah says, looking into the bathroom mirror. She runs her fingertips lightly over her cheek. The skin is white and smooth. “I thought you broke it. I
felt
you break it.”

Israel leans against the doorway. “Everything feels different when you and I are together.”

“But there's nothing
.
It's not even red.”

He shrugs. “I did not hit you that hard. Perhaps it only felt that way at the time.”

She thinks back to that moment, to the crack of his fist against her cheek. “Maybe.” The rest of her body is mottled and purple, so much so that the sight of her white face is disturbing. Then she remembers something else. “I bit you. Are you all right?”

He laughs. “I am — Delilah, I am more than fine.”

She peeks back into the bedroom. Even from the doorway she can see it — a stain on the pillow, murky reddish-brown. “I'm sorry,” she says again. “I can buy you new sheets, if it doesn't come out.”

“I do not want new sheets.” He smiles and runs his hand through her hair. “I will keep it. It is a good reminder.” Then he nods to her clothes, still crumpled on the floor by the bed. “Get dressed. It is still early — I thought that perhaps we could look for your brother before we both go into work.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your brother. Timothy. It is a beautiful morning. Perhaps he is out.”

“I — I can't. I have plans.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows go up. “What plans, so early in the morning?”

“I have . . . work to do. I'm so far behind. And anyway, I don't know if we could find him. I never know where he is.”

“We would find him,” he says with a certainty that unnerves her. “I think it would be . . . interesting.”

“Why?” She walks back to the bed, pulls her shirt from the floor. “Because he's homeless? Because you think he has some weird power over me?” She yanks the shirt over her head. “Look, don't talk about him like that. He's not some — he's not a travelling sideshow, for fuck's sake. And I don't — ” a sudden, painful truth, “ — I don't
want
to see him. Not today.”

“What a terrible sister you are,” Israel says softly. He comes up behind her and bites her ear, so sharp that she stops for a second and closes her eyes. “Never mind — we won't go today. We will go later. Next week.”

“Maybe.” Lilah bends and steps into her pants. “Maybe not.”

“You can't keep me from your family forever,” he says. “It is
impolite
.”
A sudden smile widens his face. “But then, perhaps I was wrong. Did he not drive you to me last night? Maybe he does not hold the power over you that I thought. Maybe Timothy's purpose for you is . . . over.”

“He's just a boy,” she says. Sweet Timothy. She smoothes the wrinkles in her shirt and tries to calm her trembling hands. “He's just — lost.”

Israel moves away from her, and tosses the duvet back over the bed with one twist of his arm. “Perhaps,” he says. “But you forget, Delilah — even lost boys have a way of being found.”

—

At the office, it's spreadsheets and telephone calls as though nothing has happened, as though nothing has changed. Halfway through the day, Penny leaves a note on Lilah's desk telling her to go and get coffee.

“You know,” Debbie says, “I don't remember him asking for it once when you were off visiting your mom. Isn't that weird? I mean, normally the man drinks enough to kill a horse.”

“Yes,” Lilah says. She flips the note through her fingers and stares at Debbie, then pulls her coat from the chair. “Do you want anything, while I'm out?”

“That's sweet of you. But I'm okay.”

Lilah nods. “All right. I'll be back, eventually.”

Outside, she walks as slowly as she can, kicking at leaves on the sidewalk as she goes. She crumples the note, and then unfolds it. Penny's writing is black and perfect, the cursive of a schoolteacher.
Kopi Luwak. One pound.
One pound, and another look from the coffee merchant, who must go home and wonder exactly what it is that Lilah does to afford one pound's worth, every week, of the most expensive coffee in the world. Maybe she's an unobtrusive
CEO
, or a film actress just about to break into the world. Or perhaps she's old money
.

Maybe she does other things entirely.

She pays for the coffee and walks out of the store, the coffee tucked deep into her purse. She dawdles on the way back to the office — sits on this bench, and then that one, and smiles at every person who passes her on the street. Penny would fire her for this, but Penny can't touch her now. Penny, who deals in ordered, civilized disciplinary hearings, and underhanded bitchiness. A woman who oversees office politics, and knows nothing of the currency of souls.

She turns the corner, close to the office, and there's a figure up ahead. Israel. He doesn't see her. He walks with purpose, with that even stride she knows so well. Israel, walking down toward the water.

She ducks into a side street and runs to the beach. Her purse slaps against her side and her goddamned heels are loud on the sidewalk. She runs, and she wonders at the same time why
she's running, why
it matters. How
she could possibly know that Timothy will be down there, waiting.

But he is. Sitting on a wooden bench and staring out to sea, his shoulders bony beneath another sweatshirt that isn't his own. She sobs mid-step and keeps running. Then she reaches the bench, and her hand on his shoulder is firm. Insistent.

“Timmy,” she says, breathing hard. “You have to go.”

He blinks. His eyes are red and puffy. “Lilah. I didn't think you'd come back.”

Israel will be here in minutes. Seconds. “I know, sweetie.” I know. I know. “You have to get up. You have to go.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

“Tim.” She holds his face between her hands and kisses his nose, his cheek, his eyes. How could she have been angry? “Tim. Listen to me. Someone's coming. You need to get away from here. Now.”

He stands. He moves so slowly. “I don't hate you,” he says.

She shakes her head so hard that tears fly off her cheeks. “I don't hate you. I'll never
hate you.” It is so hard to breathe. Any minute now and he'll be around the corner, her lover, with power in his hands and darkness in his heart. “Run,
Timmy.
Please
.”

And he goes, down along the water and then back up the alleyway from which she's just emerged. Gone.

She whirls around to watch the other street. Seconds later, there he is, emerging from the intersection like a magician. He crosses the street at the end and walks up to her, his hands in his pockets.

“Delilah.”

She nods, and tries to make it look as though she hasn't just been running. Her legs shake with the effort of it all. “Hello.”

“Shouldn't you be at work?”

“Shouldn't
you
be at work?”

His eyebrows go up. “Perhaps I am. And you are . . . doing what, exactly?”

“Here,” and she digs for the packet of coffee and tosses it at him so that, surprised, he must bring his hands up to catch it. “Running errands.”

“You sound displeased.”

She's so angry, or terrified, or both. “Why would I be displeased? Isn't this what every girl dreams of — fetching things for a man, like a dog?”

He laughs. He doesn't touch her. “I forget,” he says softly, “how delightful you are. All of you.”

“What?”

“Timothy was here,” he says. “Yes?”

“I haven't seen him. I told you — I like being by the water.”

“You are hiding
him from me,” he says and smiles. “How sweet. But — surely you must know this, Delilah, by now — unnecessary. Haven't I said this before? If I want Timothy, I will find him. Perhaps I already have. I found you,
didn't I?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She balls her fists to stem the sudden flush of terror. Then she nods to the coffee in his hand. “Anyway — you have it now. I'm going back to work.” She starts back in the direction of the office. Israel doesn't say anything. He doesn't follow. She risks one glance back when she reaches the corner of the street. He stands in the same spot, staring at her, and as she watches he tosses the coffee in one hand, up and down, his fingers fast and sure and catching it, every time.

—

The next day, the last day, she finds Timothy on Beach Avenue. He's playing chess with a man in a pinstriped suit. The man's name is Bob.

“Just Bob,” he says. “Nothing else.” His hair is dark, flecked with grey, and gold-rimmed glasses swing from his breast pocket, an unsteady pendulum.

He is a good chess player, but not as good as Timothy. In fifteen minutes — ten moves, fifteen, Lilah's not sure — Timothy has the black king cornered. He shoots furtive glances at her when he thinks she isn't looking.

Bob surrenders with a smile, then nods to her. “He's good, your brother.”

“I know,” she says. She doesn't ask how he knows who she is. She reaches over to move Timothy's hat and ruffle his hair, and then remembers.
Bald.
He flinches at the approach of her hand and so she pulls away slowly, tries to make it look natural.

“Well,” says Bob. He fumbles the chess set into a box as he speaks. “Time for me to get back to work. You have a good day now, Timothy. Miss,” and he nods to her, then gets up and walks down the street.

“He seems nice,” she says, watching Bob's dwindling pinstriped back.

Timothy nods, stares at the ground. “I've discovered a lot of nice people,” he says. “Here. On the street.” His fingers, clumsy and awkward in gloves, thread around and around the hat that sits in his lap. A red woollen toque, a ridiculous pompom.

Deep breath. “About before.”

He rocks on the ground and says nothing.

“I'm okay,” she says. Even though he won't believe her.

Still nothing. He rocks, and she notices two rips in the back of his jacket. Between them, flashes of skin. He's so pale. “Tim.” She takes a deep breath. “You need to go away for a while.”

Now he looks up, confused. “What?”

“I want you to be safe. There are — there are bad people out here too.” Someone looking for you, a dark man in a trench coat and smooth leather shoes. “If you've found someone who can help you, you need to go there, to be with them. Please,
Timmy. Is there somewhere you can go?”

“Yes,” he says. His voice is very small. “But I won't see you.”

“Even if it means I can't see you anymore.” Especially then. “I can't keep doing this, Timmy. Wondering if you're safe.” Another deep breath. “And you can't keep waiting here for me, because I'm not good for you.”

“What? No.” Timothy shakes his head. His lips are white and cracked — he runs his tongue across them, then across his chin, like some chalky lizard. “You are. You're what keeps me
here
.”

“Exactly. You deserve so much more than this, Timmy.”

“Why are you hurting so much?” he whispers. “It's not your fault.”

“Isn't it?” She's led the Devil right to him. The shards of her life will kill him now, if he gets close enough.

“Sometimes things are bigger than you,” Timothy says. “Maybe what's happening to me — maybe you're not supposed to understand, Lilah. Maybe there's nothing you can do.” He takes her hand. A miracle. “I think even God would tell you that it's too much. Whatever you're doing, whatever it is that's making you feel so guilty. It's too much.”

“I don't suppose God would listen to me,” she says. “Not now.”

“God always listens,” he says. “He just doesn't answer all the time.”

“Does God listen to you?” she asks, her voice low. “Does He speak to you, Timmy?”

“I don't understand what He says,” he tells her. An answer, and not. “I don't understand what God wants me to do.”

She pulls his hand close to her heart. “Me neither,” she whispers.

“No one's safe,” he says. “None of us.”

“
Please
,
Timmy. Is there somewhere you can go?”

“Yes,” he says. He sits up. “I know the address. I can give it to you.”

Lilah shakes her head. Could he find it, Israel Riviera, locked somewhere in her mind? Could he bring it out of her, just as he brought out the story of her brother? “Don't tell me. I'll come and find you, when it's safe.” She does not say when
safe
might be.

“Are you sure?” he says.

“I'm sure.” She squeezes his hand.

Timothy looks at the ground. “I love you.”

She pulls his head close and kisses his cheek. “I love
you
,”
she whispers.

Timothy stands, shakes off her hand, and walks down the street. Lilah sits rigid on the bench and watches him go. At any moment now, Israel will swoop down on Timothy and crush him into dust with one wave of his hand. Any moment.

But nothing happens. A thin boy walks to the edge of the street, then disappears around a corner. She hears no scuffle, no cry for help, nothing. There is no sound. There is no wind. There is no sign to show her that Timothy will keep walking, that he will go to his new home, that he will be safe — nothing but the knowledge now that he is passing into the hands of someone else. Even the birds are silent.

—

“You don't have to keep coming all this way.” Roberta is ashamed. “I don't like it.”

“It's fine, Mom,” Lilah says. “Really.” She smoothes the sheets by her mother's hand. “And anyway, I was thinking. I might come to Victoria for a while.”

Roberta shakes her head vehemently. “You can't leave. What about Timothy?”