Part 100 (2/2)
Which meant no, of course. Perry didn't sleep on things. He decided to do things. Sometimes he decided wrong, but he'd never had trouble deciding.
That night, Lester rubbed her back, the way he always did when she came back from the road, using the hand-cream she kept on her end-table. His hands had once been so *strong*, mechanic's hands, stubby-fingered pistons he could drive tirelessly into the knots in her back. Now they smoothed and petted, a rub, not a ma.s.sage. Every time she came home, it was gentler, somehow more loving. But she missed her ma.s.sages. Sometimes she thought she should tell him not to bother anymore, but she was afraid of what it would mean to end this ritual -- and how many more rituals would end in its wake.
It was the briefest backrub yet and then he slid under the covers with her. She held him for a long time, spooning him from behind, her face in the nape of his neck, kissing his collar bone the way he liked, and he moaned softly.
”I love you, Suzanne,” he said.
”What brought that on?”
”It's just good to have you home,” he said.
”You seem to have been taking pretty good care of yourself while I was away, getting in some Perry time.”
”I took him to Musso and Frank,” he said. ”I ate like a pig.”
”And you paid the price, didn't you?”
”Yeah. For days.”
”Serves you right. That Perry is *such* a bad influence on my boy.”
”I'll miss him.”
”You think he'll go, then?”
”You know he will.”
”Oh, honey.”
”Some wounds don't heal,” he said. ”I guess.”
”I'm sure it's not that,” Suzanne said. ”He loves you. I bet this is the best week he's had in years.”
”So why wouldn't he want to stay?” Lester's voice came out in the petulant near-sob she had only ever heard when he was in extreme physical pain. It was a voice she heard more and more often lately.
”Maybe he's just afraid of himself. He's been on the run for a long time. You have to ask yourself, what's he running from? It seems to me that he's spent his whole life trying to avoid having to look himself in the eye.”
Lester sighed and she squeezed him tight. ”How'd we get so screwed up?”
”Oh, baby,” she said, ”we're not screwed up. We're just people who want to do things, big things. Any time you want to make a difference, you face the possibility that you'll, you know, make a difference. It's a consequence of doing things with consequences.”
”Gak,” he said. ”You always get so Zen-koan when you're on the road.”
”Gives me time to reflect. Were you reading?”
”Was I reading? Suzanne, I read your posts whenever I feel lonely. It's kind of like having you home with me.”
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