Her fingers ran down the glass again, but silently.
“Even with all his problems,” she said softly, “he was good to me—he cares about me. That’s what scares me. He must be in trouble. It would have to be something serious for him not to be here.”
“He’s been telling everyone it was business.”
She gave a miserable look. Covered her face. Exposed it. “Yes, he sold. Once in a while. Only to get his own stash. I know it’s wrong, and I’m sure in some part of his brain he does too. But he felt he had no choice. He was broke, and he wouldn’t give him more than pennies. I tried to help him, but most of the time he wouldn’t take anything from me—not unless he was hurting really bad. He’s the one who suffers . . . the way he lives—a hole over a hairdresser’s.”
She looked out at the landscaped yard.
“It’s not like he sold to little kids or anything like that. Just to junkies, and they’d have to get it one way or the other. . . . It’s the heroin. All this talk about crack, and heroin goes on eating people up.”
She began to cry.
I patted her shoulder.
“So many times I offered to have him come live with me. To try another program. He said he was beyond hope and didn’t want to drag me down. Didn’t want treatment—he liked junk, it was his lover, he’d never give it up. But still he was always there for me. If I called him to talk about something, he’d always listen. Even if he was stoned, he’d try. Sitting there, pretending to be normal—he’d be here now if he wasn’t in some kind of major trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
She squeezed her hands together. “The people he hung out with.”
“Who are they?”
“That’s the thing, I don’t know. He made a point about shielding me. Whenever I came over, he rushed around, cleaning up, putting his kit away. Lately, he didn’t even want me over at his place—too depressing, he said. So we had coffee in restaurants. He’d come in looking half dead, trying so hard to act okay. I know he sounds like just another stupid junkie, but he really is a wonderful brother.”
I nodded, thinking of Puck’s dinner date with Ken, how an addict might have viewed the sudden appearance of a wealthy half brother. Yet he hadn’t shown up.
“Milo’s not going to call the police in Taos or anything like that, is he? I don’t want to put him in any more danger.”
“No,” I said. “Milo’s main concern is you.”
“Yes, I can’t believe all he’s done. You, too. And now Ken.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I must bring it out in people, like a wounded bird. Puck told me that, once. That he’d always seen me as wounded. I didn’t like that. I wanted him to perceive me as strong.”
“You are strong.”
She spread her fingers on the glass. Looked through the tabletop, studying the pattern of the bricks. “Milo told me, you know. About being gay. It shocked me. . . . Now I understand the position you were in. I really put you in the middle. I’m sorry.”
“It was one of those things that couldn’t be helped.”
She shook her head. “I’d never have suspected it. A big, burly guy like that—that’s stupid, of course, but still, it was the last thing I’d have guessed. It must be so hard for him. The job.”
“How did finding out affect you?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you feel about his being gay?”
“How do I feel about it? Well . . . I’m certainly glad I know the truth now.”
She looked away.
“Anything else?” I said.
“I guess—on a selfish level—I guess I’m disappointed.”
She shook her head.
“Maybe it was just a stupid crush, but it sure—I mean, the feelings are still there. How can you kill feelings, right?”
I nodded.
She stood and walked up and down the patio.
“He and I both do this,” she said. “Pace when we’re nervous. We found out when we were at the hotel. All of a sudden, we started doing it simultaneously; it was a riot.”