The Hush

  “Hey, Jack, thanks for coming.” Johnny knocked on the wall behind his shoulder. “Leon!” he called. “Two more.”

  Leon took his time. When the beers came, he didn’t look at Jack. “You want two more after these, you come inside. Not him. You.”

  When he was gone, Johnny said, “It’s outsiders in general. Don’t take it personally.”

  “It’s hard not to. Look at this.”

  Johnny looked from one table to the next, then down the hill to where old men sat in the shade of a pecan tree, drinking clear liquor from glass jars. “People here have known each other a long time. They’ll get used to you.”

  “Why come here at all?”

  “You know why.”

  Jack did, and felt his anger fade. Johnny could never be himself in town. He was Johnny Merrimon, the kid who’d lost his sister and saved the girl and found all those dead bodies. Jack had tried before to imagine that life. He couldn’t. “Why am I here, Johnny? It’s a weekday. I have work.”

  “I met with Leslie Green. I need to know if she’ll help me.” Jack looked away, and his neck flushed. “I don’t like that look.”

  “She won’t help.”

  “She seemed interested.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But—”

  “We saw William Boyd the other day.”

  “Is that right?”

  Johnny stayed cool, and Jack couldn’t meet his eyes. “Thirty million dollars, man. Why didn’t you tell me he’d offered that kind of money?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Fifty million. A hundred. I won’t sell.”

  “Then you’re stupid, insane, or both. Sell the land. Buy another piece somewhere else.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  “Thirty million dollars, Johnny. How could you not tell me that?”

  Johnny studied the bottle in his hand, then shrugged as any thirteen-year-old boy might. “I didn’t think you’d help me if you knew.”

  “Well, shit.” The rest of Jack’s anger slipped away. “Boyd offered me money if I convince you to sell.”

  “Is that right?”

  “The firm doesn’t want me to represent you. They’ll fire me if I do, and blackball me even if I quit. It’s why Leslie won’t help you. Boyd offered her money, too.”

  “How much?”

  “Two million, plus business for the firm at New York rates. I’d be a rainmaker. They might even make me a partner.”

  “Two million dollars? Maybe you should take it.”

  “Don’t screw with me, Johnny.”

  “Money. Job security.”

  “Don’t forget the corner office.”

  The sarcasm was sharp, but Johnny didn’t react to it. He moved to the edge of the porch, looked off toward the Hush. “I have two weeks to answer the appeal.”

  “I know,” Jack said.

  “What happens if I don’t have a lawyer?”

  “You’ll probably lose.”

  Johnny scuffed a boot on the dusty ground. He wore jeans, a faded T-shirt. In spite of the drinking, he was far from drunk. “Will you help me?”

  Jack could barely meet his eyes. Johnny had always been the first to sacrifice, to see the path, the first to reluctant manhood. When Jack had failed as a friend, Johnny was the first to smile the reckless smile and, ultimately, forgive. He’d been more father than Jack’s father, more brother than any brother God had seen fit to give. In every way that mattered, Johnny Merrimon had defined Jack’s childhood. But Jack had clawed his way through poverty, deformity, the ruin inflicted by his crazy parents. He’d worked, unceasing, for a decade, and was two weeks into the only career he’d ever wanted. The partners would ruin that if Jack helped his friend. Even if he started his own practice, they could undercut his fees, poach clients, undermine his efforts in a thousand ways. The only question was one of reach. Could Jack make a go in Charlotte or Raleigh? He didn’t want to. He didn’t want any of this.

  “Jack?”

  Johnny kept his voice level, but need deepened his eyes like a long illness. Jack could help him, yes. He could sacrifice his career, his prospects. And if it were that simple, he would. The larger problem was that Jack wanted Johnny to sell. Something was wrong in the Hush, and it wrapped his best friend in a blanket of want. That was the sickness Jack saw, that addiction. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

  The words came as a whisper, but Johnny heard them.

  “Hey, man. Sure. I get it. You’ve worked hard. You’re successful.”

  “Just hang on a second, Johnny. Let me think about it a little more. I didn’t mean to sound so—”

  “No, man. Really. I understand.” The pain was in his friend. Abandonment. Betrayal. “I’ll get us two more beers. Sit tight.” Johnny brushed past Jack, and was inside for a long time. When he came back, a smile was carved on his face, the same hollowness in his eyes. “Here we go. Cold beers. All good.”

  “Johnny, man, listen. I have debts. Law school was over ninety grand—”

  “I said don’t sweat it.” Johnny clinked his bottle against Jack’s. “They need music here, don’t you think?” He put the bottle down, couldn’t meet Jack’s gaze. “Sit tight, all right.”

  “Johnny…”

  “I’m going to talk to Leon about some music.”

  Johnny’s chair scraped grooves in the dirt. He stood and turned, but not before Jack saw the redness in his eyes, the sudden, bone-deep paleness under the tan.

  Shit.

  He drank beer, but didn’t taste it.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  * * *

  The next hour was brutal. They drank beer, pretended; but Jack’s words were a wound between them. Johnny never met his eyes, never looked at his face for more than a second, and, for Jack, that second ached. They’d been friends since first grade, and in all the blackness of that childhood, Johnny had never lost faith or the fire inside. In fact, if Jack had to pick one word to describe his friend, it would be burning. Even as a boy, he’d burned. Passion, conviction, certainty.

  “Listen, Johnny. Let me think about it.”

  Johnny shook his head, watched the kid with the horseshoes. “I’ll figure something out. Don’t sweat it.”

  “It’s just that there are a lot of moving parts.…”

  Johnny stood to get more beer. “I said don’t sweat it.”

  When he came back, the beer sat untouched for a long time. Night was falling. A skin of mist hung on the river. “Listen, Johnny.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. You should probably go.”

  “I didn’t. I don’t—”

  “I’ll see you in a few days. It’s fine. Thanks for coming.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Jack stood. He wanted a look, a nod, anything to stitch up the wound.

  But Johnny had nothing.

  * * *

  In town, Jack went to his favorite restaurant and ate a steak that tasted like wood. The wine lacked appeal, as well. So did the pie, the port, the pretty girl who brought the check. When Jack got home, the stairs tilted and his key didn’t want to fit the lock. Inside, he kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket at a hook and missed. He replayed the conversation in his mind, the seemingly surreal seconds when his mouth had opened and he’d told his best friend, No, I can’t help you, I’m sorry.

  Johnny’s eyes had never been so bloodshot and bright.

  Did he go inside to hide actual tears?

  It wasn’t possible.

  Not Johnny.

  Pulling off his tie, Jack crossed to the kitchen and played his messages. One was a solicitation. The other was from Leslie. “About today,” she said. “We need to talk. Call me when you get this.”

  It was 9:17. Early enough. Jack found her number on the call log and dialed it. She answered on the first ring. “You’re home, good. I’m coming over.”

  “Leslie—”

  “I’m two minutes away.”

&
nbsp; In the end, it was more like twenty, which gave Jack time to get out of the rumpled suit and into jeans and a T-shirt. Short sleeves showcased the stunted arm, so he rarely wore them around others, but a spark of resentment burned somewhere low in his chest. Johnny was the rock of his life, and Jack had just crapped all over him. Part of that was Leslie’s fault. If she wanted to argue, he’d go there, bad arm and all.

  He didn’t expect her to smell so good.

  “Hey, Jack. Thanks for this.” In the hall, yellow light made her seem small and very soft. She wore heels under a skirt that fit just right. The spill of her hair made him dizzy. “You don’t mind, do you?” She raised a bottle of tequila and two limes. “I feel as if I owe you an apology. I could have handled things better, softened the partners somehow.” She dipped her chin, indicating the room beyond. “May I come in?”

  Jack mumbled something and she took the room as if she owned it, putting the tequila on the counter, finding glasses, making small talk as she sliced limes and repeated herself with the same, dizzying smile. “I was asking about salt.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Jack stuttered into motion. “Here.” He opened a cabinet, handed her the salt.

  “Do you like tequila?” She didn’t wait for an answer, holding up the bottle instead. “Fortaleza. The best. A friend introduced me to it years ago. Do you know how to do this?” She took a glass and a lime, then licked her hand, poured salt, and showed him how to do it. “Yes. Damn.” She clacked the glass on the bar. “Now you.” She filled the other glass, and Jack did what she told him to do. Salt. Tequila. Lime. It burned going down, but she poured another. “To the lawyers,” she said; and Jack drank.

  It happened a few more times, and she did a lot of talking. Nothing about Johnny or William Boyd or even the firm. She touched his bad arm without flinching. She flipped her hair twice, watched him with those impossible eyes and showed a scar on her hip where she’d brushed against fire coral on a free dive off Cabo. Jack struggled, but she was magnetic: the skin, the laugh, the curve of her thigh as she sat beside him, then rose from the sofa to pour another round of shots. Before he knew it, it was midnight and he was blurry and her face was close to his. Jack had never had luck with women. Part of it was the arm and the discomfort born of doubt, and part was born of his mother, who lived in a trailer and saw the devil in all things, including the two of her sons. Blame, too, could be leveled on Jack’s father, who’d whelped his boys on honor, effort, and pride, and who was a convict now, ten years into a two-decade stretch. Jack had loved a bright-eyed girl once, but she was a laugh, a twinkle, a sprite; and she’d never cared for him at all. From that hard start, he’d learned to turn inward and run deep.

  “Here.” Leslie handed him a glass and a lime, and put fingers on his leg. “Go ahead.” She smiled as Jack licked salt and grimaced. “Now drink. Now lime.” His eyes watered, but she was clapping and laughing, and the sound was music after all the lonesome years. “My turn.” A pink tongue touched salt, then she drank, and drew up her legs and curled her perfect toes. The effect was vertiginous. She was soft and small, more smiling girl than partner and boss. “Tell me about Jack Cross.” A flush painted her cheeks. One eye was lost in the shadows, but the other gleamed. “College in three years, law school in two. Top of his class.”

  “Number two,” Jack corrected.

  “Number two. Still impressive.”

  Her leg was against his. He was drunk and it was dark and he was swimming. “Is this about Johnny?”

  “It’s about us,” she said. “Don’t even say the name.” It was a lie, but as soft as everything else. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Tell me we’re friends.”

  “I think … I don’t…”

  The room tilted again, and she was on his lap and kissing him. He smelled tequila and lime and whatever shampoo God had designed to make men weak. “Leslie—”

  “Shhh.” The shirt came off, and she was bare-skinned beneath it, as pale and perfect as every dream Jack had ever had. “Just tell me we’re friends.” She kissed him long, moving her hips. “Say we’re friends and that friends help friends.”

  Words passed his lips, but Jack didn’t pay attention or care. How long? he thought. And in the question of willing women, the answer came as always, and the answer was never. This was the first breast, the first real kiss.

  “Bedroom,” she said, and Jack carried her with the good arm.

  “This is about us, right? Just us?”

  “Hush,” she told him. “No words.”

  And that sounded good to Jack: forgetfulness and velvet skin, devolution and the long fall. “No words,” he said, but in the storm of what followed, he heard Johnny’s name not once but twice. It was an exhalation, a prayer; and it was light as sugar on her lips.

  * * *

  When Jack woke, it was to pale light and pain behind his eyes. It was six o’clock, the bed beside him empty. He knew a moment’s blankness before memories of the night marched across him in waves: the rush of blood and joy, the awkwardness of inexperience. He saw Leslie, above him, the suspicion of her eyes beneath a waterfall of hair. She’d moved as he’d imagined women might, careful and knowing, then harder, needful, rampant. He thought of all the years he’d been alone, and then of bridges crossed. For a moment he was happy. Then he saw Johnny’s face at the bar, heard his name on Leslie’s lips.

  After that, Jack went back to sleep.

  It was a fitful rest, and when he finally went to work, his finger hesitated over the button for Leslie’s floor. She’d given a gift but qualified it with another man’s name. That twisted Jack up in unexpected ways.

  He’d never hated his friend before.

  In his office on the seventh floor, Jack counted on work to smooth out the day. He kept the door closed and powered through the sweats and dry mouth and nausea. Every so often, he looked at his phone and at the door.

  By afternoon the hangover, too, was a memory, and he considered making the trip down. He wanted to see her eyes, and wondered if she would smile. Maybe they could have dinner. Maybe he’d imagined the name on her lips.

  “Pitiful,” he said, but couldn’t shake the feel of her. He worked until eight, hoping she might appear, then went home, angry at her and at his own stupidity.

  If she was thinking of anyone, it was Johnny.

  Nevertheless, he paced the apartment. He couldn’t eat, didn’t want to sleep. His thoughts raced back and forth.

  He let his best friend down.

  She said Johnny’s name.

  Leslie’s text came at midnight.

  Are you awake?

  Jack thought for a moment. Barely, he typed. Worked late.

  Thanks for last night.

  Something inside Jack broke, relief maybe, or need. All he knew was the flutter. Would you like to come over?

  A minute passed, and then three. The response was a single word: Sure.

  Their time that night was different from the last. They didn’t drink. She left a light burning. For Jack, it was everything he’d hoped it would be. She was a vision, and patient. She didn’t say Johnny’s name. “Why are you with me?” he asked.

  The clock read two, and she lay in the spill of a single lamp so that light gilded the curves and shadow-stroked the hollow places. “You’re a young man,” she said. “Young men have lots of energy.”

  “Don’t joke.”

  “It’s just sex. I happen to enjoy it.”

  “But why me? I’m not particularly handsome. There’s … you know.”

  He shifted the bad arm. She laughed and touched his leg. “Would you rather I leave?”

  “No.”

  “Then convince me to stay.”

  She rose to her knees and Jack, again, was lost. An hour later, they stood at the door. She wore the same heels and a dress shirt, barely buttoned. Jack was physically exhausted. “Can I drive you home?” he asked.

  “Such a gentleman, but no. I’m fine.”

  She kissed him, and Jack took her arm be
fore she could turn away. “I need to know this isn’t about Johnny or the case or William Boyd.”

  “You can ask that even now?”

  She meant the bed, the scratches, the ruined sheets.

  “Tell me it’s not about the money.”

  She arched an eyebrow, and even that was perfect. “Would you screw me again if I said it was?” She smiled a lawyer’s smile because she knew the answer. “Don’t look so troubled. We can both get what we want.” She took his hand and slipped it into her shirt. “You’re happy, I’m happy.” Jack looked away, but she cupped his chin. “This doesn’t have to be complicated.”

  But for Jack it was.

  She was a user and a taker, and the stink of that guilt was on his skin, too.

  * * *

  The next morning was a Saturday, so he stayed in bed until eight, then took a walk. Afterwards, he showered and spent time at the office. Leslie called twice, but he didn’t answer. On Sunday morning he worked again, and didn’t see Leslie. Early Monday he went out for breakfast. Even at seven o’clock, the diner was packed and buzzing with excitement. People crowded the tables; they leaned over newspapers and whispered, bright-eyed. One man said, “A billion dollars. Jesus.”

  He was swollen-faced and unshaven. A man beside him wore a John Deere cap and had so much grease under his nails, it looked as if he’d been digging in a tar pit. “How much is a billion?” he said.

  “A thousand million,” the fat man said, and a boy dressed for baseball mouthed the words as if he were fake-singing in church.

  A thousand million dollars …

  At the table beside Jack’s, an old lady held glasses on her nose as her husband leaned close to see the paper. Similar scenes repeated across the crowded room: housewives in expensive clothes, a state trooper at the counter.

  Jack waited for his waitress, then asked about the excitement.