I lie his hand down again, and when I'm looking into my lap, fiddling with the antibiotic syringe, I ask, “Are your injuries recent?”
After a small pause, he says, “Fairly.”
So I'm right. He sounds detached, and when I look back up, I find him staring at the wall ahead of us.
I put my hand on his wrist. “I have to give you a shot in the wound, because I think you might have some bone fragments floating around in there. That means you have a greater chance of infection.”
He shrugs again, his face caught somewhere between stoic and irritated. “Okay.”
“When you get home, you might need a cast or something.”
He snorts, as if to say, Yeah right.
I make quick work of the injection, and when I'm finished, I set the syringe to the side and start applying bandages. I'm starting with something that has some sticky to it, so while it's soft over the wound, it adheres to the skin around it, keeping out germs and water. It seems to take me forever to get that on. He can't help me by holding his fingers straight, and when I ease his arm up, with his elbow on the table, the hand flops forward. He stiffens again.
I'm not much for awkward moments, so I decide to be straightforward. “This makes you uncomfortable, huh?”
He screws his face up, looking at me like I'm slow. “I can't feel it.”
I flit a glance at him. “That's not what I mean.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him working his jaw, and I wonder if I've crossed a line. Then I remember him saying, “I'm sorry that this happened to you,” last night before I went to sleep. I didn't want his pity, and maybe he doesn't want my prodding either, but we're stuck together for at least another day, so tough titties.
“I'm saying you feel awkward about it. You don't like being injured.”
“Would you?” His mouth draws tight.
“I wouldn't,” I say. “I'm sure almost no one would.” I wrap my way around the hand a few more times as I think about my own screwed up state. “No one wants to be anything less than strong and capable. Vulnerable means you have to trust other people. If you're anything like me, you don't like that one bit.”
“Damn straight,” he mutters, and I smile a little.
“May I ask what happened?”
“You can ask,” he tells me. His mouth is pulled into a smirk, but it looks strained.
“And if I ask, will you tell?”
He mulls that over, then he says, “Maybe we can make a trade.”
Oh, crap. I guess I walked right into this. I tie the gauze off and keep my poker face on, hoping he'll forget I asked.
“Keep that elevated. I'll be back with some ice.” I saunter off, remembering as I approach the refrigerator that I have my own wound to attend to. I guess he'll have to do that.
When I get back, he's getting to his feet, opening an alcohol towelette as he moves. “It's your turn.”
While he cleans the small spot on my shoulder, I pick at the place mat and think about how weird it is to be here without Jesus and David. How weird it is that they’re both dead. Then I think about the last week I spent with them, in Mazatlán, at Jesus’s favorite costal mansion, and I feel nauseated.
It’s really good that Evan breaks the silence. “Does anyone else know about this place?” he asks.
“I'm not sure. It's a big secret that Jesus was gay, and apparently he's been with David for quite a while. They’d been together about a year when I left, and since David was here today, I have to assume they were still together when you shot Jesus. This place was built the year before I met Jesus, and as far as I know, the only other people who know it’s here are the three guys who built it.”
“So we need to get moving,” he sighs.
“No. Jesus killed them.”
“Oh.”
I heave my breath out. “Right. So Jesus brought me in to help him with some things, and of course David, but I'd be surprised if anyone else knew.”
“How sure are you about that?”
“I don't know.” I freeze. “Why?”
“Just wondering.” Something cold trails across the wound on my shoulder. I feel his breath on me, and I can tell he's not just wondering. There's a reason that he asked. I'm opening my mouth to ask him what that reason is, when abruptly he squeezes my shoulder. “All done.” And that's the end of it.
18
Cross
I CAN’T DECIDE if my sixth sense, doom and gloom paranoia bullshit is a headache coming on, or something more. I guess for the first time ever, I hope it’s a headache. I take a seat at the table and watch as Merri cleans up the first aid stuff. I should be helping her, but my neck feels so tight, I want to do whatever I can to try to relax.