The Light Between Us

A Light in the Dark-4

Sheriff Erickson arrives ten minutes later. He looks dapper even in his wet Oxford raincoat and frizzy hair. I had managed to half-carry Bret into the living room where he sits propped up in one of my wing chairs by the window like a marionette doll. His head sloped to the side, eyes closed, he snores.

The air in my house is thick with the smell of m*******a.

Sheriff Erickson examines the dazed youth. And it is the first time under the lamplight that I notice two dimples etched deep on either side of the sheriff’s cheeks. I feel lightheaded and my face feels flushed.

He waves a veiny hand at Bret Hicks. “This is your drunk stranger?” He winks at me.

I pull my bathrobe closed, feeling as if I’ve exposed enough to the sheriff tonight. I feel embarrassed that I called him. “That didn’t come out right when I said it on the phone.” I grow quiet.

Philip stands next to me and I can smell Irish soap and a sweet scent of earth and sweat on his skin. I quiver when he plops a hand on my shoulder. It feels faintly familiar, but it is not.

I say, “I think he came over to apologize.”

Philip makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “He picked a bad time to do it, in his state of mind. What did he say?” He wipes his damp skin with the heel of his hand. He pulls out a white handkerchief from the front of his coat pocket, and pats his face. I notice the handkerchief is monogrammed with the initials PE in the bottom corner.

Philip Erickson.

He sees me staring at him.

I turn and look over at Bret snoring to the heavens. “Sorry, but he scared the bejesus out of me.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry? That’s it?”

I nod.

He scratches his nose, places his hands on his hips and eyes Bret incredulously. “i***t kid.”

“i***t is one word for it.”

We grow calm like a married couple, contemplating the rest of our lives. We stare at my neighbor as though he might wake up any minute. I imagine the sight of the sheriff scaring him stupid.

I bring a hand to my mouth to mask a childish grin.

Philip notices and nudges me in the side playfully as though our teacher has caught us passing a note in the back row. “What’s so funny?”

I wave him off jokingly, saying, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks for calling me tonight.” And that is all he says, until a few minutes later, when thunder crashes through the sky, “Are you going to press charges?”

I am quiet. Rain needles the windows.

I think of glass breaking and feet stumbling up the stairs to my bedroom. A dark figure invading my house, and a mumbling, stuttering voice asking for an apology. Then I say, “I’m thinking about it.”

His screwed up expression becomes one of concern. His eyes are wide and curious. “It’s not much to think about.”

I wave him into the kitchen. “Follow me. I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

Over tea and a half-eaten box of Oreos, Sheriff Erickson and I sit at my kitchen table. He dunks one of his cookies too long and is surprised that part of the cookie is missing when he pulls it out of the dark liquid.

“This is a sign,” he tells me.

I stare at Philip over the rim of my mug, a blank expression on his face.

He gazes into his cup, as if looking for answers. “I’ve lost a lot of my life, Chris.” The words fly out of Philip’s mouth like an exploding grenade.

I set the mug down in front of me and fold my arms across my chest. My brows pull together in question. “I don’t understand.”

He grabs me with his stare. His voice cracks. He turns away, but I see his eyes fill with tears. He loses control of the other half of the cookie and it plops and splashes into the dregs of his cup.

Then I know exactly what he is trying to say.

Until now, I was unclear about the sheriff’s sexuality. Do I fight the urges or embrace them?

We sit in painful silence for what feels like hours.

I finally say, reaching across the small space for another Oreo even though I am not hungry, “These past two years of my life have been lonely too.”

He lifts his head.

We stare at each other. I watch the resilient law-and-order man in front of me turn soft, like a rose losing its petals. He wipes his eyes with the end of his thick index finger. Then, before I realize what he is doing, the sheriff reaches between us and brushes my tear-stained face with a gentle stroke of his hand. It is like the time in the IGA when the sheriff reached across me for an apple, his hand slightly bumping into mine, innocently. Or was it?

I close my eyes. But when I open them again Philip’s face is in mine, and the taste of his sweet cinnamon tea breath finds my mouth. I do not pull away when his lips graze mine. He lingers long enough to lose his balance and stumble out of his chair. I try to break his fall, but he is rock solid and I cannot hold on to him.

We fall to the floor and he tumbles beside me. But I think that is his plan.

Something awakens in my fleeting thoughts of the sheriff and his newfound freedom, and I crawl on the floor with him. His fingers find the opening to my bathrobe, and they fumble along the belt, loosening it. I shrug the robe off. I lay over him, now bare-chested, as if I am going to do push-ups, and I reach down and pop open buttons on his dress shirt, revealing a firm structure of muscle and sinew beneath. I notice a tattoo of a thorny rose encircling his upper right arm. He grips the back of my neck and pulls me into him.

His tongue tastes savory. Our erections grind into each other beneath the fabric of our clothes. Shortly, we are naked and rolling across the hardwood floor. En route, we slam into the bar island where I stash expensive liquor for when company visits.

Like now, two years later.

Now Philip is on top of me, and the weight across my chest feels right.

He nuzzles into my neck with his moist lips. I release strange noises from my mouth, mostly out of a hankering for Philip as he traces the map of my body with his tongue.

When he comes up for air, he gazes into my eyes. “Ten years is too long to pretend.” He kisses me.

Without thinking, I whisper, “I like this.”

“Me too.”

I freeze. Close my eyes. A chill in the air prickles the ends of my curled toes.

I hear him say, “We could stay here forever.”

I shake my head. “At least for another few minutes.”

To my dismay, he heaves himself off me.

I grunt. “Did I say something wrong?”

As he bends down and grabs his crumpled uniform, I check out his chiseled butt. He disappears around the corner to the bathroom.

When he comes back to the kitchen a few minutes later, he is fully clothed. As am I, wrapped tightly in my blue bathrobe, sitting crossed-legged at the table. “I reheated your tea,” I tell him.

But he walks around the table, and at first I think he is heading for the front door. He stops and looks down at me, leaning against the back of the chair for support. His face is hard to read.

Shrugging, I sip from the steaming mug.

He looks around the room, deep in thought.

I cross and uncross my legs and say, fiddling with a loose thread on my robe, “Was it a mistake? It seemed right.” My voice sounds shaky. I do not make eye contact with him.

He comes around to my side and kneels in front of me.

I look down at him. His skewed smile is refreshing. He takes my hand in his. His touch is smooth, warm, kind.

“I haven’t been living for the past ten years, Chris. It’s time we did something about that.” His hands crawl up my legs to my knees, and stop. “I’m not getting any younger.”

He shifts between my legs and drops his head into my lap, as if he has passed out, and I have the urge to bury both of my curious hands in his full head of hair and tell him…what?

But he lifts his head and stares at me with his hypnotizing blue eyes. “Do you remember when we first met?”

Like it was yesterday. I nod shyly.

He pulls himself up to his knees and his gaze reminds me of the time when Russ lured me from across the dance club into his arms. And stayed for two years.

Philip pulls me back to him. “This may be too much to bear right now, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you the day you signed your book for me at the local bookshop.”

I recall the first year Russ and I moved to Milestone County from Dayton, Ohio, Russ’s home state. I had seen Sheriff Erickson in the crowd during my lecture on the uncertain future of books and the rapid rise of e-books. But at the time, I thought Philip was just a voracious reader.

His revelation floors me. My eyes fall to my trembling hands in my lap.

“Chris?” His voice is strangled with regret.

Or is it loneliness?

But before I have time to respond, movement from the living room rattles me out of the moment. I lift my head to see Bret Hicks staggering into view.

Philip turns his head to my night visitor.

Bret mumbles, pointing a finger our way, “I c-came to say…s-sorry.” He grips the back of a kitchen chair to keep from falling. “I’ve been, um, uh—” A burp bubbles up in his throat. “A r-real jerk.” He wags a hand at me. “S-sorry, Christ.”

Philip turns to me and shakes his head. He uses the edge of the kitchen table to get up.

I stand and go over to Bret. I tuck my shoulder under his arm and help him out my back door to his front porch.