The Turning Season Read online

  She giggles. “So do you.”

  The band plunges into some weird techno piece with a throbbing beat, and Ryan holds his arm out to Rain, a questioning look on his face. She nods and they head to the dance floor, where they instantly begin energetic gyrations. It might be my imagination that the other two blondes wear envious expressions as they watch them go.

  Celeste’s attention has been caught by something else. She pokes one of her friends and nods at a table a few yards away. I can read her lips as she asks, Who’s that? But I can’t hear what the girl shouts to her over the pulse of the music. I follow Celeste’s gaze to see who looks so interesting.

  He’s pretty easy to pick out. He’s a long, lean guy resting his long, lean body against the table, his back to it, his elbows on the edge. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, cowboy boots, and a leather belt with a big buckle in the shape of a longhorn bull. His hair is as black as Alonzo’s, but straight, a little shaggy, and his face has that fallen-angel beauty that instantly lets you know he’s trouble. You can almost see the sad little clattering shells of broken hearts trailing behind him and curled around his ankles in a forlorn heap.

  Just the type Celeste likes.

  There are two others at the table with him, people I vaguely recognize. One’s a local guy, kind of a troublemaker. He owns a junkyard off of 159 on the opposite side of town, and he’s always being cited for some kind of property-law infraction. He’s not as handsome as the stranger, but they look enough alike that I guess they might be brothers. The woman at the table, I think, is the junker’s wife. She’s dressed in a black shirt that’s as low-cut and clingy as mine, she’s wearing a lot of makeup, and she doesn’t look happy to be here. I can sympathize.

  From Celeste’s expression, I think she’s trying to figure out a way to introduce herself to the new guy, but it’s a little too early in the evening for her to simply walk up and ask him to dance. I wouldn’t bet against that happening within the hour, though. Right now, she just watches him for a few meditative moments while she sips at her beer. Then she sets the glass on the table and heads to the dance floor, the other blondes in her wake.

  I finish up the French fries, watch the dancers, drink the last of my water, and wish I was at home by myself with my dog and my DVDs. When the next song is equally loud and has an even heavier beat, I stand up and head toward the door for some cool air and a break from the sensory overload. No one who knows me will be surprised that I have briefly left the scene.

  I step outside and take a deep breath. The scents of asphalt, diesel fuel, and back-alley trash clog the air, but I still perk up a little just at the contrast. Why did I let Celeste talk me into this? If we had brought my car to the Square, I could just drive home now. Surely Ryan or Rain or perhaps the handsome stranger would take Celeste home. Surely there is no reason for me to spend another minute in this place, in this town. In fact, at the moment I can’t think of a reason I’d ever need to come into the city of Quinville again.

  “Hey,” says a man’s voice behind me, and I spin around, electrified with a moment of terror. The bulky shadow moves into the light and I recognize Joe the bouncer.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

  I give a shaky laugh and pat my throat. “I didn’t mean to overreact. I just didn’t realize you were here.”

  “Till the place closes,” he says. “Two A.M.”

  “God, I hope I’m gone long before that.” My voice is glum. I wouldn’t be surprised if Celeste plans to stay till every light in the Square goes out.

  “You’re not having a good time?” he asks.

  “I’m not much of a party girl,” I confess. “I don’t really like bars. I only came here tonight because—well—I mean, you have to get out of the house sometime.”

  He nods, like that’s a reasonable statement. “I like bars, but the dark, smoky, quiet kinds. You know, where you sit and have a beer and talk to someone. Maybe play darts or watch the ball game.”

  “So if you don’t like places like Arabesque, why are you working here?”

  He shrugs and perches on the edge of his high stool. I have the distinct feeling he sits so he doesn’t seem like such a large and menacing presence, which makes me warm to him even more. Although, of course, he might just be tired.

  “Needed a job and this was a job I could do,” he says.

  I lean against the brick wall of the building, which still holds heat from the day’s unexpectedly high temperatures. Now Joe and I are face-to-face and both of us are in enough light that we can see each other’s expressions. “I wouldn’t think being a bouncer at a dance club would pay enough to cover the rent,” I say.

  “No,” he acknowledges. “I do some other part-time stuff. A buddy of mine runs a trucking company, so I drive some routes when he needs help. Over the summer I worked a few hours on the night shift at Home Depot.”

  It all sounds kind of aimless, not to say shiftless, but he strikes me as a generally more solid type. “You ever give any thought to a more permanent kind of job?” I ask.

  He grins. “Well, yeah. All the time. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  I laugh. “What did you do before you moved to Quinville?”

  “I was a cop up in Joliet.”

  That widens my eyes because that certainly seems like a nice, upstanding sort of career. “Why’d you quit?” I have a terrible thought. “Or—” Get fired. “Never mind.”

  “They didn’t kick me out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I liked being a cop. Maybe I was a little too idealistic at the beginning, but I thought we were doing some good. I liked going to the high schools, talking to the kids. I didn’t like being the first one on the scene at car accidents and murder scenes, but I figured that was part of the job.”

  Clearly there’s a major “but” coming. I wait.

  He shrugs again. “My partner shot and killed a guy. He was shooting at us, it was self-defense, my partner was cleared of wrongdoing and back on the job right away. But I—” Joe shakes his head. “I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take aim with my gun and kill a human being. And when you’re a cop, you have to be prepared to take a life. So I turned in my badge.”

  The story makes me like him even more. I’m all in favor of less killing, but there doesn’t seem to be a way to say that that doesn’t sound hokey. “And why’d you leave Joliet for Quinville?”

  “Well, there wasn’t a reason to stay in Joliet anymore,” he replies.The way he says it makes me think something besides the job had gone sour. A relationship, maybe. “And my buddy said I could drive for him till I figured out what else to do, so Quinville seemed as good a place as any.”

  “And has it been?”

  His round face creases into an expression of equivocation. “I guess it could be,” he says. “But so far I kind of feel like I’m just marking time.”

  I can understand that. I’m familiar with the sensation of being poised on the edge of tomorrow, always anticipating the big event that will give shape and meaning to the following days. “Yeah, but you know what they say. Life is what happens while you’re waiting for life to happen.”

  He wrinkles his nose in dissent. “I always thought that was kind of dumb.”

  I laugh. “Well, my point is, you shouldn’t waste too much time, or it will all be gone before you’ve accomplished anything.”

  “Thanks for the cheerful thought.”

  “Yeah, you can see why I’m not exactly the type of person to be hanging out at bars frittering my time away.”

  “So what about you?” he asks. “What brought you to Quinville? Or were you born here?”

  The true story would pop the eyes right out of his head, but I can tell a well-honed variant. “Nope, I grew up in Barrington. Kind of a ritzy suburb outside of Chicago. My dad was an
art dealer and he was always going to little small-town art gallery openings, trying to find the next, I don’t know, Thomas Hart Benton or John Singer Sargent. And a few years ago, he went to a gallery in Champaign and met an artist named Cooper Blair, and he loved his stuff. So my dad started repping him, and our families became friends. Cooper lived with Janet, who ran a veterinary clinic off of Highway W. I used to spend summers working with her, and then I took classes, and then I took over the business when Janet decided to retire.” I shake my head, as if I’m still surprised by the vagaries of life. “I mean, I never would have thought I’d be happy living out in the middle of nowhere, but I find the life suits me.”

  “You don’t miss the big city?”

  “Well, Barrington’s pretty far out from downtown Chicago. It’s not like I was down at the Loop every night, anyway.”

  “Do you go back much? Visit your family?”

  “My parents are both dead.”

  His face instantly changes. “Aw, I’m sorry to hear that. That must be tough.”

  I nod and don’t answer. Because of course it’s tough. I still miss my father every day; he was such a large, powerful presence in my life. Smart and forceful and utterly determined. Once he set his sights on something, he invariably achieved it. He’s the one who convinced Janet to open the clinic here—he picked out the property, he paid for it, he helped furnish it. He believed that our small circle of shape-shifting friends needed a haven, a place where they could come for rest and healing, and he was going to see that place built if he had to put it together with his own hands.

  Well. He really thought I needed a refuge. I was in my hormone-fueled teens then, and taking on bigger and wilder shapes every few days, and he was deeply afraid for me. Barrington isn’t downtown Chicago, that’s true, but it’s a highly developed urban setting, and it’s hard to hide an elephant on your back lawn. He was happy enough to found a clinic for the shape-shifting community at large, but he would not rest until he built a place where I could live in safety. I think the first time I ever saw him relax was the day Janet officially opened her doors to clients.

  “So, no brothers or sisters, either?” Joe is asking.

  I shake my head. “No. I have a couple of cousins, but they don’t live in Barrington anymore. So I haven’t been back to Chicago in—maybe five years? Wow, long time.” I focus on him. “How about you? Family in Joliet?”

  He nods. “Couple of brothers, both married, both have kids. My dad’s dead, my mom’s remarried, everybody seems pretty happy.”

  I resettle myself against the brick, trying to get more comfortable. “Sometimes that makes it harder,” I remark. “When everyone else seems to be doing great, and you’re the only one who’s still trying to figure it out.”

  That makes him grin. “Yeah, and my younger brother was always the screwup. I was always the one who got it right the first time. But now I’m just—” Joe spreads his hands to indicate his incomplete life. “And he’s got the great job and the great kids.”

  “Great wife?” I ask.

  The grin grows wider. “Nah, she’s a ballbuster. But he seems to like her, so I guess that’s all that matters.”

  “So you go up for birthdays, holidays, that sort of thing?”

  “Yeah, or football games or whatever. We’re tight.”

  I’m trying to think of a polite way to ask if he’s made any friends in Quinville—because, if he’s lived here a year and he hasn’t, he’s a pretty lost soul—when the music changes from some mournful Coldplay number to the grinding rev-up of “Footloose.” I almost squeal.

  “I love this song,” I say. He’s a total stranger and I’m standing outside on the sidewalk, but I can’t keep my feet still. I’m practically dancing in front of the bouncer in the doorway of Arabesque.

  But he doesn’t think I’m a dork, or if he does, he’s one, too, because he’s raised his hands and is making syncopated gestures along with the chorus. He’s grinning broadly and mouthing the words along with the band. I’ve actually started singing, though I’m keeping my voice low, but I’ve shoved myself wholly away from the wall and now I’m starting to act out the lyrics and shake my ass a little more. He pushes up from the stool and gets his feet and shoulders into it, and pretty soon there’s no way to pretend we’re not dancing together, right here in front of the club. Celeste would die if she saw me, but I’m having too much fun to stop.

  The song comes to its abrupt crescendoing conclusion and we both freeze in exaggerated poses, then burst out laughing. “Hey, that was fun,” he says. “Sitting out here, I never get to dance.”

  “You like to dance? Most guys hate it.”

  “I always think I don’t till the music starts.”

  “That’s how I feel!” We’re twins, I think, just like Ryan and Celeste.

  We both have our heads cocked toward the door, half hoping the band members will play another beat-driven tune, but it seems “Footloose” is how they ended their set. We can hear the distorted sound of the lead singer promising to be back in a few minutes, and then a Beyonce song starts issuing from the speakers inside. Joe makes a face.

  “This isn’t my kind of music.”

  Before I can answer, the door opens and people start streaming out into the night. Most of them are smokers, their cigarettes between their lips before they’re even out of the building. Quinville passed a no-smoking ordinance a couple years ago, and people are still complaining, but it doesn’t seem to have hurt business here in the Square.

  A few of them are couples who have come outside to argue or make out. Celeste and the good-looking stranger are among them, already holding hands. She passes so close to me I could touch her on the cheek, but either she doesn’t see me or she pretends she doesn’t. They slip around the corner of the building where the smell of trash might be stronger but the shadows are deeper. I’m thinking maybe I can convince Ryan to give me a ride to my car so I can go home now; it’s looking like Celeste might appreciate having me out of the way come closing time.

  “I guess I should go back in,” I say to Joe. “My friends might be wondering where I am.”

  He nods. “If you wanted, you could give me your address,” he says, his voice so offhand he’s clearly making an effort to keep it that way. “In case I have time to bring Jezebel out to see you.”

  “Sure,” I say, smiling to show I’d welcome a visit from him—and his dog. “Take 159 to W, go right on W, and stay on that about eight miles. There’s an abandoned red barn on the left side of the road and a stone wall on the right side. I’m right past the stone wall.”

  He’s not writing it down but he’s nodding at each landmark like he’s committing it to memory. “Oh, hey, I think I’ve been down that way a few times to go hunting,” he says.

  I can’t stop my expression of horror. “Hunting? You shoot things? You won’t kill a person but you’ll take a gun and kill an animal?”

  He looks both chagrined and a little defensive. “Bowhunting. Not guns. And I don’t hunt anything I can’t eat. And if we don’t thin the deer population, it gets out of control—”

  “Since we’ve killed off so many of their natural predators,” I rattle off. “I know. But still.”

  He heaves a sigh. “So I guess you don’t eat meat. Maybe you’re a vegan.”

  Now I’m the one who looks defensive. “I eat meat. Sometimes.”

  “And you don’t think that’s hypocritical? That you’ll eat meat if someone else has done the killing?”

  “It’s kind of like you and the cop thing,” I answer. “I know someone has to do it, but I don’t want it to be me.”

  “Well, don’t hold it against me,” he says.

  I don’t know you well enough to care is one option for a reply. But I don’t say it and, anyway, it’s not quite true. I mean, I don’t know him, but I like him well enough to think it would be nice to care. “G
ive me a little time to get over the shock.”

  “You probably do stuff that I’d think was gross, too,” he says hopefully.

  Now I laugh. “Yeah, like neutering dogs and cats and looking up their butts with scopes.”

  “Ew! Yuck! That is totally gross,” he responds. “But I don’t hold it against you.”

  “It’s not the same thing! I’m saving lives and you’re taking them.”

  “I’d be saving lives if everyone was starving and the only food they had was the meat I brought home.”

  This makes me laugh. “I get the feeling you’re the kind of guy who can argue all day about something,” I say. “Am I right?”

  “Kind of. I told you. Brothers. You can’t ever give in, man. You can’t ever admit you’re wrong.”

  I want to say Sounds exhausting, but before I can get the words out, there’s a terrific clatter from the back alley. Metal trash cans rattle and clang together, and then comes the high, unnerving sound of a man’s voice raised in sharp pain. I jerk around to stare in that direction, as do all the people loosely gathered in front of the club. Joe’s on his feet, his hand going to his belt. He carries a gun? I think a little numbly, but no, it turns out he’s holding something that looks like a two-way radio. The expression on his amiable face is suddenly alert and focused, and he’s gathered his big body from relaxed to ready in the space of a heartbeat.

  “Stay here,” he says, a command that’s loud enough to include everyone in the immediate vicinity, and then he takes off in a cautious run for the alley. He’s staying close to the building, as if hoping its bulk and shadows will protect him from violence, and I have a weird, fake-memory flashback of seeing him approach another crime scene in just such a grim and careful fashion. Dressed as a cop. Weapon in his hand. Death around the corner.

  There’s another noise explosion, more metal trash cans being kicked or battered, and then a shape staggers out from behind the building. It’s just one guy, but he looks off, somehow, like he’s drunk or disoriented. One hand is pressed to his cheek, one to his chest, and the only way to describe his gait is reeling. As Joe steps up to intercept him, I recognize him as the junker’s good-looking brother.