Giftshop

Disclaimers: Billy Tallent and Tim Bayliss don't belong to me, and I'm making no money here.

Classification: Slash crossover, Homicide/Hard Core Logo, Tim Bayliss/Billy Tallent. Series; follows Marigold and Hindsight.

Rating: NC17

Spoilers: Everything. Specific Homicide references to A Model Citizen and Happy to Be Here.

Soundtrack: The Tragically Hip, Trouble at the Henhouse; the Roches, the Roches.

Summary: Tim runs into Emma Zoole.

Notes: This is another in the Marigold universe. For some specific info about Buddhist stuff mentioned in the story, check out the very bottom of this thing.

Lauren Tom, who played Emma Zoole on two episodes of Homicide, is of Chinese descent. I made Emma of Japanese descent. I wanted it to be believable that her parents practiced Pure Land Buddhism, so I cheated. No offense intended.

Thanks to my posse (Ardent, Bast, Lena, and Ramius) for enthusiastic support and encouragement. Beta thanks to Bethann, CatMoran, and Ardent.

After a glimpse

over the top

the rest of the world

becomes a giftshop

—Giftshop, the Tragically Hip

by shell

copyright 2002

I. Zazen

They say we meet again

On down the line

Where is on down the line?

How far away?

—Hammond Song, the Roches

I see her when she enters the zendo, just in time for the Sunday morning sit. She looks distracted, then startled, when she notices me. She nods briefly, but she arrives just before the bellmaster begins, so there's no time for anything more. I'm surprised at my ability to move into the flow of meditation, by the fact that her presence is only felt in a few thoughts that drift through my brain at the beginning of the sit. I catch a few glimpses of her during kinhin, and again when we bow to each other at the end. I feel a certain bemused curiosity, but not much else.

As we're putting away the mats, I approach her. Looking down, I'm struck by just how short, how tiny, she actually is. Memory's a funny thing, I guess—I didn't remember her being quite that small. Maybe it's the contrast between her and Bill. Maybe it's the enormous disruption she caused in my life seven years ago. I almost reach down to hug her, and she almost reaches up, but we settle for awkwardly shaking hands.

"Hi, Tim," she says, almost as awkward as the handshake.

"Emma—how are you? What are you up to these days?" Are you still obsessed with death? Are you still turned on by violence?

"Back to sculpting, part time anyway, but I'm mainly doing set design."

"Hey, that's great. That makes sense; you'd be good at that."

She smiles in acknowledgement. "Thanks. How about you—how long have you been in LA? I haven't seen you at sangha before—how long have you been practicing?"

"Uh, I've been in California since February of last year. I've been a Buddhist about four years, but I just started coming to this sit a couple weeks ago—I used to just come on Saturday mornings, but now I try to get here a few times a week."

"I had no idea you were in this part of the country—I figured you were still in Baltimore."

"I guess you don't read Rolling Stone," I mutter, and she looks at me a little funny. "Nothing, never mind."

She nods, puzzled, then stares up at me for a second, making some sort of decision.

"Listen, I've got to get home, but I'd really like to catch up. Are you free for lunch any time this week?"

I answer without hesitation, then wonder why I agreed so quickly. "Yeah, yeah, I could do lunch—how's Tuesday?" What harm could lunch do? It's not as if I'm attracted to her anymore, and I certainly know better than to play into her games again. And she's practicing Zen—maybe she's changed. She looks like she might have changed. I certainly have.

"Great. You know that vegetarian place around the corner? Would that work? It's close to here, but if you'd rather meet somewhere else—"

"No, here's fine. I know that place; I'm practically a regular there," I laugh awkwardly. I was never nervous around her before. Nervous around Meldrick because of her, but not with her. There's some sort of vibe I can't figure out—not attraction, although I think there's some of that on her part, but something else—and it's got me feeling decidedly uneasy.

"Okay, so, say 12:30 on Tuesday?"

"I'll be there."

I leave the meditation room and head over to the hospice for my shift. I no longer speak for the dead, but I try to listen to the dying. Bill doesn't understand why I don't find something "less fucking depressing" to do with my time, but he doesn't argue with me about it, not anymore. When I first told him my plans, he accused me of trying once again to torture myself, the way I did when I took care of George, but I managed to convince him that this is different. Don't get me wrong—it's really fucking hard, sometimes even harder than dealing with George was, but that's because I actually care about the people I'm caring for.

In any case, the six months I looked after George taught me some useful skills. Yeah, I already knew about bedside commodes and bedbaths, thanks to the hospice workers I contacted when George was dying. They showed me a lot, and they used to praise me for how well I took care of my uncle. They never saw me as anything other than a caring nephew, and neither George nor I said a word to disabuse them of that notion. By the end, I think I even half believed it myself.

At any rate, I'm spending a lot of time at the Zen Center these days—more than I do at my paid job, between shifts at the hospice, time on the cushion, and sessions with my therapist. I'm working on tonglen, breathing in suffering and breathing out compassion; it's more a Tibetan practice than the Soto Zen that first drew me to Buddhism, but I've opened to a broader practice than I was after I got shot. I've opened to a lot of things, especially since the last time I saw Emma Zoole.

I was still fighting the idea of seeing a therapist when I started volunteering at the hospice a month ago, despite the promise I made to Bill; I met Scott there, where he also volunteers. His main work is with the families of hospice patients, but when I asked, he agreed to take me on as a client. His own Buddhist practice so informs his work that he sees some clients, including me, at the Zen Center rather than his office downtown. He's the one who suggested tonglen. It sounded completely impossible at first, but I agreed to try it, and it seems to be helping, at least some of the time.

My focus in tonglen lately has been the physical pain of the hospice patients and the emotional pain of their families. One of the patients, a woman named Lily, has end-stage ovarian cancer. She's only 56 years old, but she's has been practicing for twenty-five years, doing tonglen for the last five or six. She's amazing. I'll be seeing her today, and the thought makes me smile, because the truth is, I think I get a lot more comfort out of our encounters than she does. She flirts with me, and I tell her about what's going on in my life, and then we sit together. Sometimes she talks about what she's feeling or thinking—plans for her funeral, problems with her medication, her frustration at not being able to ski anymore—but usually she wants to know what's going on in my life. She says it's distracting. She's easy to talk to, even easier than Scott.

Today she's tired, and in more pain than I've seen before, but she still manages to get me talking about running into Emma, who she's never met. Then we get into the sound of the bell, and she says she wants it rung when she's dying, so it can be the last thing she hears, and I make a note to talk to the other volunteers. She falls asleep after that, and I head out to the nurses station to see if anyone needs any help, which it turns out they do—they usually save some of the tougher transfers for when I'm around, claiming my height makes me extra useful. I've done this sort of thing before, so it's not like I mind. After an hour or so of helping transfer, lift, and turn people, I'm on my way back home.

Jenifur's performing tonight at a benefit for Jen's latest favorite cause, I think for VH1 Save the Music. Bill invites me to come along, but I tell him I'd rather spend a quiet night at home.

"Liar. You just want to watch the Lakers," he says with a grin.

"That's right, a quiet night, at home, watching the Lakers. You got a problem with that?"

"No, no problem," he answers. "Just that I wish I weren't stuck going to some stupid benefit. I'd rather be at home, watching you watch the Lakers."

"At least you're not missing the Canucks. I'll still be here when you get back. You can watch me then."

"Watch you doing what, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know, I'll think of something."

"If you don't, I will."

"You don't mind, do you?" I ask.

"What, that you're not coming with me? No, of course not, freak." He kisses me. "Just wish I could stay home with you. Bet I could distract you from the game."

"The game doesn't start for another couple hours, you know. What time do you have to be at the benefit?"

"They're sending a limo. Should get here in an hour."

I reach for him, and he sticks his hand down my sweats. Ten minutes later he's inside me; a few minutes after that I'm coming hard, Bill following right behind me, with plenty of time to share the shower he needs before he heads out to the benefit. There's no time to even think about Emma Zoole.

I fall asleep on the couch during the pregame show, but I wake up in time for most of the game. When Bill gets home, he distracts me from Sports Center. We both sleep very well.

II. Dukkha

Instructions from a manual

Could not have been much more plain

The blues are still required

The blues are still required again

—Springtime in Vienna, the Tragically Hip

Bill's been a little stressed since the night of the benefit, so I don't mention seeing Emma. At least, that's the rationalization I come up with—for some reason, I just don't feel like telling him. On Tuesday he heads off to rehearsal around 10, so I'm alone until it's time to meet her for lunch. I do some yoga and try to sit, but I'm restless this morning—nervous, I guess. I don't know why.

We both show up at 12:25, and this time it seems more awkward not to hug, so we do. I even kiss her cheek, surprised by its softness, used to the feel of Bill's stubble. I remember our brief relationship as being filled with physical spontaneity, but it strikes me now that our difference in size means any form of physical contact needs to be a mutual decision.

She's wearing low-heeled shoes, and she's dressed in a pale yellow and green sweater and tan trousers, no black at all, wearing minimal make-up. She's luminously beautiful, but it doesn't seem to affect me, and I relax, at least a little.

We're seated quickly, passing the time with small talk until our lunch orders are in.

"So, you're a Buddhist and a vegetarian—you've changed, Tim."

I nod. "So have you. I suppose you're going to tell me you don't sleep in a coffin anymore."

She laughs. "No, I left that in Baltimore."

"When did you leave?"

"Spring of '95."

"Well, you look wonderful—really, Emma, you're even more beautiful than I remembered. More centered—it's a good look for you."

"You're looking pretty damned beautiful and centered yourself." She reaches across the table for my hand. I give hers a brief squeeze, then go for my water.

"So, did Andy make the trip to California with you?" The question comes out harsher than I expected, but she just shakes her head.

"No, I've been on my own, more or less, these past few years." I can tell she's hiding something, but I let it go. I'm not a detective anymore.

The waiter arrives with our food, and we each take a few bites before she speaks again.

"I've thought about you a lot, you know. I was pretty stupid back when we met—had a lot of self-destructive ideas I thought made me a better artist, more on the edge. It was stupid. I was stupid," she repeats quietly.

"Yeah, you were." I shrug. "So was I, for that matter."

"Breaking up with you because you wouldn't fight with me—that was really stupid."

"It didn't make a lot of sense, but feelings don't always make sense." Jesus—I sound like a fucking therapist, and not even like a good one; more like the department shrink than Scott.

"No, they don't." A pause, then, "Are you seeing anyone? Because, you know, you really do look terrific."

"You look good, too, Emma—you always did—but I am seeing someone. Living with them, actually." I smile to myself, remembering this morning.

"You're living with someone?" She's staring at me, but I can't read her expression.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm sorry—"

"No, it's all right. I know what you mean. Frank—that's my old partner; I don't know if you ever met him—he used to say I was unlucky in love. My lieutenant just said I was unlucky, period."

"But you're lucky now. You look happy, Tim," she says wistfully.

"I am. Happy and lucky, both." I'm smiling again, probably looking like an idiot, but I don't give a fuck.

"So tell me about this love of yours. What's her name? Does it go as well with Bayliss as Zoole did?"

"Uh, Bayliss and Boisy—that sounds pretty good, I guess."

"What's she do? I bet she's a cop. Someone who understands you."

I smile and shake my head. "No, he's not a cop. His name is Bill, and he's a musician."

"Things do change," she murmurs to herself, then looks up again. "Just don't try to tell me you knew you were gay when we were together, because I know better. I know how you reacted when those two drag queens were checking your ass out at the gallery. Although maybe you were protesting too much?"

"No, I wasn't—and I'm not gay, strictly speaking. I'm not strictly heterosexual, either, as it turns out, although I suppose the labels don't really matter. But I didn't admit being bisexual, not even to myself, until a few years ago."

"What happened? In my experience, you don't go from being, say, a meat and potatoes eating, heterosexual, repressed, redneck cop to a bisexual, Buddhist vegetarian without something major happening."

I shrug. "A lot of things happened. Some big, some not so big. I saw one too many hate crimes. I got shot. My partner retired. My lieutenant was killed. I fell in love."

"You were never in love with me, were you?"

"No, I guess I wasn't."

We eat in silence for a minute or two, and then she asks me what I've been up to.

"Well, I retired from Homicide a couple years ago."

"You're really not a cop any more? I find that hard to believe—your job seemed like it was everything to you."

"I guess I'd just seen too many dead bodies."

"So what kind of work are you doing now? I assume a Baltimore PD pension's not enough to live on out here."

"I work part time in executive protection—being a bodyguard, essentially. That's how I met Bill. Other than that, I've been doing some volunteering at the Zen Center's Hospice program." And a lot of meditation and therapy.

"What, was this Bill guy working as a bodyguard, too?"

I laugh. "No, I was assigned to protect him. See, Bill Boisy's his given name, but most people know him as Billy Tallent, the guitarist for Jenifur."

"Your lover is the guitarist for Jenifur?" she asks incredulously.

"Yeah."

"So that's why you muttered something about Rolling Stone the other day?"

"He was on the cover last month."

She shakes her head, admiringly, I think, but she doesn't say anything.

"Did something happen to you?" I ask finally. "What changed you from the death-obsessed artist I knew back in Balto?"

She smiles a little, looking down at her plate, then meets my eyes. "Yeah, something happened. I had a baby."

I sit back in my chair, stunned, unsure what I'm seeing in her expression.

"What? Wait a minute—a baby?" I repeat inanely. "When?"

"August 15, 1995."

"August, 19—that's almost seven years ago."

"Yeah, almost. Would you like to see a picture?" I nod dumbly. She fumbles through her purse until she finds an envelope, but she doesn't hand it to me yet.

"He's going to be tall, I think," she says quietly. "Like his father." I take the envelope with nerveless fingers and start to look through the photographs. Holy shit.

"What's his name?" I ask, staring at a picture of the boy with his mother at Disneyland. He's smiling, and despite the dark hair, the Asian features, the picture reminds me inescapably of my sister when she was little.

"Sam. His name is Samuel Timothy Zoole." Samuel Timothy. Timothy. Jesus fucking christ.

"Jesus, Emma—why? Why the fuck didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know, at first—didn't know if you were the father, or Andy. And I was scared."

My cell rings—great, just great. It's Bill, though, so I excuse myself and answer it.

"Hey, Bill, what's up?" I ask in a fair approximation of my normal voice. It doesn't fool him.

"What's wrong?"

"Uh, nothing I can talk about right now."

"You're with someone? Where are you?"

"I'm just having lunch with a friend from the Zen Center."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing. Listen, Bill, I really can't talk right now, but it's just lunch with a friend, okay?

Where did Emma go? I turned away for a minute, and now she's gone. Her purse is still here, though, and the photographs, so she must still be in the restaurant.

"Yeah, okay," he says reluctantly. "Call me when you can."

"I will. I love you, Bill." And I do, I really do. I try to hold on to that thought.

"Love you too. I'll, uh, let you get back to it. Bye."

I put away my phone and look around again for Emma, only to see her maneuvering through the aisles back to our table. I sigh in relief as she reaches her chair.

"Sorry, Tim—I had to pee, you know, and you were on the phone. You didn't think I left, did you?"

"No, no, of course not," I lie. "Now, you were saying, about why you never told me—" and I can't quite finish, can't quite say, why you never told me I had a son, because it's so unreal, so unbelievable, even with the pictures still sitting in front of me. I shuffle through them again, waiting for her to answer me.

"I'm sorry, Tim. I should have told you. I almost called you so many times, the first few weeks after I found out I was pregnant, but I didn't know who the father was, not for sure. And Andy—when I finally told him, he went ballistic."

"He hit you? That son of a bitch hit you again?" Just like that, I'm furious, although nowhere near what I felt the last time Emma and I talked about Andy Moranis, second-rate county cop and first-grade prick.

"Not again, no—he'd never hit me before, not really. But this time, he did more than just shove me around a little. He beat me up, and it scared me. For the first time, it was real, and it wasn't just about me. I had to think about the baby."

"So that's when you left?"

She nods. "I wanted to call you, but I was so scared of Andy, of what he might do, that I just packed up one night he was working the night shift and started driving. I didn't stop until I got to Texas; that's where I lived until a couple years ago."

"Okay, fine, so you couldn't call me before you left. That doesn't explain why you never called, Emma. You had to have realized—jesus, he doesn't look anything like that dink. He looks like me."

The image of Billie with her father flashes through my mind, the way she smiles like him, the way her eyes are his. I have a son. This six year old boy, whose name is Sam, is my son. And she knew—his middle name is Timothy. She knew. And suddenly I want to hit her, to shake her, and the urge is so strong I can feel my hands coming up from the table, but then I take a breath and put them back down.

"You're right," she says, looking down. "I'm so sorry, Tim. The minute I saw his face, I knew he was yours, and I should have called you then, but I was afraid—afraid of how you'd react, afraid Andy had contacted you—"

"You know something, Emma? That's bullshit. You had to know I'd never tell him where you were—"

She looks up again, tears in her eyes. "You're right. I knew you'd never do anything like that. It was just—I was so scared, the whole time I was pregnant, and then the labor, it was the toughest thing I've ever done, but then I had this baby in my arms, my son, and he was so beautiful. . . . All of a sudden, it was real, and I could tell he wasn't Andy's, but I didn't even care anymore. I know it was wrong not to call you, but all I could think about was how the hell I was going to do it. Learning to be a mom, that consumed me."

Her gaze hasn't left mine. She sounds sincere, but I don't believe her. Why should I?

"I told myself I'd call you soon, as soon as I got settled, as soon as Sam was nursing well, as soon as he was sleeping through the night. Then I thought I'd wait until I went back to work, or until he wasn't nursing anymore—I know it was wrong, but I didn't know how you'd react. I was scared, and it was easier to just keep putting it off, to keep living my life, our lives."

"What'd you tell him? What did you tell my son about his father, huh, Emma?"

She flinches a little, but she doesn't back down.

"I told him his father was a police officer, a good man. I told him his father was killed in the line of duty."

"He thinks I'm dead?"

"I know it was the coward's way out, Tim. When I saw you the other night, I knew I had to tell you, both of you, no matter how scared I was." She looks down again. "I like to think I would have contacted you eventually anyway. I'd like to think I'm a decent enough human being that I wouldn't keep the two of you from getting to know each other, that sooner or later I'd have found the balls to contact you. I guess we'll never know."

"No, we sure as hell won't." I sit back, take a sip of water, trying to take this all in, trying to breathe. "Jesus, Emma."

She smiles sadly. "This has got to be one hell of a shock."

"You could say that." I flip through the pictures again, pausing at the one I keep coming back to, a boy and his mother at Disneyland. "Can I keep these?"

She nods. "Of course."

"What's next? Have you told him? When can I see him?" And panic hits. She wouldn't have told me if she weren't going to let me see him. She wouldn't be that cruel. She's changed. She has to have changed.

"I don't know. I haven't told him yet—I've got to figure out how I'm going to do that first, before anything else."

"Promise me one thing then, huh? Promise me you're not going to go back to Texas or off to Alaska or something. Promise me you won't take my son away from me before I've had a chance to meet him."

She winces at the bitterness in my voice, then meets my eyes. "I promise, Tim. As soon as I figure out how to tell him, how to handle all of this, you'll be a part of Sam's life, if that's what you want."

"That's definitely what I want." I want to be a good father to my son—a better father than I had. I couldn't possibly do worse—could I? Fuck, I don't have a clue how to be a father—all I know is what not to do.

If she disappears again, I'll find her. I'll find them both.

Before she goes, I give her my home, work, cell, and pager numbers. She takes the piece of paper guiltily and watches as I transfer her home and cell numbers into my PDA, along with her address. I've half a mind to call EPS and get them to run a check on her, but I tell myself I'm just being paranoid.

After she leaves, I sit in the restaurant for another fifteen minutes, staring into space. My cell rings again—it's work, wondering where I am. I apologize for being late and head off to meet the client.

Fortunately, it's a stupid assignment, one of those up and coming starlets who's convinced she needs a bodyguard, even though no one really gives a shit about her. I manage to maintain some semblance of professionalism and make it through the afternoon, but the second I get her back to her house, I jump in my jeep and just start driving. My phone rings a couple times, but I can't face talking to anyone, so I leave it.

I end up at the beach somewhere—I'm not even sure how I got there—and I get out of the car and start walking. My shoes fill with sand, so I kick them off and keep walking. It's a cool afternoon, not many people out and about, and those that are take one look at me and look away again.

Eventually I end up sitting on a log, watching the tide come in. It keeps coming, as tides do, until my feet are soaked. I walk through the surf up to dry sand and start the long trudge back to my car in the dusk—by the time I get to my car, it's completely dark.

I actually get lost a couple times on the way back—I've never been in this particular area before, and it takes me awhile to find my bearings again. The phone rings five or six more times before I get home, but I can't bring myself to answer it.

Once I get home, once I've pulled the car through the gate and into the garage, once I've turned off the engine, I can't seem to do anything else. So I sit there for a few minutes, which is all it takes for Bill to appear.

"You mind telling me where the fuck you've been?" he says angrily as he opens the door. "And what are you doing sitting out here in the garage? Jesus, Tim, what is it—is Pembleton back in town? Is that who you had lunch with?"

I shake my head dumbly.

"Then what the fuck is going on?"

"Nothing," I mutter, getting out of the car. "I just went for a drive after work."

"Went for a drive without your shoes? Come on, get inside the house."

I follow him inside, trying to ignore the way he's looking at me. He's pissed, and he's worried, and I don't feel like dealing with either emotion. I tell him I need a shower, and after a minute more of asking me questions I can't seem to answer, he shakes his head in disgust and lets me go.

I stand in the hot water for a long time, still a little numb, trying to stay that way, but it's breaking through. He's six years old, and he's never known his father, and how much better off would I have been if I'd never known mine? How can I insert myself into his life when he thinks his father is dead? What isn't Emma telling me? I start to rock back and forth, hanging on to the showerhead, moving more and more, and there's a creaking noise that's getting louder, and then I pull the showerhead off the pipe entirely. For a second I just stand there in shock, but then I throw it against the door and the glass cracks and I slide down and sit on the floor of the shower until Bill comes in, turns off the water, manhandles me out, dries me off, and wraps a robe around me.

"If you don't start talking, I'm going to call Scott," he says quietly, and I know he means it. "You're scaring the shit out of me."

"How did you do it?" I ask. "Jesus, Bill, how the fuck did you do it?"

"How did I do what?" he asks with feigned patience.

"Deal with everything—the court fight, Mary, meeting Billie." I turn to look at him for the first time since I got home. "How did you cope with becoming a father?"

I can feel his gaze on me as he tries to figure out where I'm going with this. "I didn't, not at first. It was a couple months after Joe died before I even let myself think about it."

He looks at me some more. "Come on, let's move someplace more comfortable, okay? I don't feel like sitting on the floor." I follow him out to the living room and sit on the sofa. He goes into the kitchen and brings back a glass of water. I manage to get it down despite my shaking hands.

"Who did you have lunch with, Tim?" Bill asks, his voice quiet but firm.

"Emma Zoole."

"Who is Emma Zoole?"

"Someone I knew in Baltimore. Someone I had sex with a couple times. Great sex—almost as good as you and me. In a specially designed coffin, actually." His eyebrows go up, but he doesn't comment on that.

"Seven years ago?"

"About, yeah."

"So she's not pregnant or anything."

I laugh bitterly. "Not now, no. She was, though." I look up at him. "See, it seems she was pregnant, around seven years ago."

"What did she tell you?" he asks urgently. "Did she tell you she had a kid?"

"A kid, yeah. My kid. My son. His name is Sam. Samuel Timothy Zoole—it's a nice name, don't you think? He's six years old—he'll be seven in August."

He runs his thumb along his chin. "Jesus, Tim. Is she telling the truth?"

"About me being the father? Yeah, I think she is. She gave me some pictures—I left them in the car. He looks like my sister did when she was little. He looks like me, Bill." My voice breaks as I say it, and he reaches out and puts his hand over mine.

"So this woman, this Emma, she just shows up out of nowhere and tells you, hey, you're a father?" he asks angrily. "What's she after—money?"

"What? No, she didn't—shit, I don't think—I ran into her over the weekend. She's a member of the Zen Center. She asked me to lunch, to catch up. That's when she told me. She didn't say anything about money, and it's not like I'm—" I stare at him. "Fuck, Bill, you don't think—"

"The Rolling Stone article was a month ago. Pretty fucking coincidental, wouldn't you say?"

"She was surprised when I told her I was with someone, with you. It didn't seem like an act."

"What did she say she wanted?"

"She didn't. She just told me about Sam, that's all."

"What did you say to her?" he asks carefully.

"That I wanted to see him. That I want to be a father to my son." I bury my face in my hands, and Bill rubs the back of my neck. "How the fuck am I supposed to do that, huh? She told him his father was dead!"

"Bitch," Bill mutters. "She give you any explanation why she neglected to tell you about this for seven years?"

"She was seeing someone else when we were together, and he—he was a real asswipe, Bill; he beat her up—she basically ran away in the middle of the night. She didn't know who the father was, whether it was me or him, until she had the baby. She figured it out then, she said, but by then she was living in Texas, and she wasn't in contact with anyone in Baltimore anymore, and she just never contacted me."

"But she contacts you now."

"No, it wasn't like that—I told you, I just ran into her at the Zen Center."

"Are you sure about that, Tim? Think about it. Put on your detective hat. Don't you think it's awfully fucking coincidental that this all happened now, after the news broke that we're together?"

I stand up and move away from him. "Why are you so fixated on this? Why can't you just be supportive? What is it—do you think I'm going to ask you for money? I've never asked you for anything—you want me to start paying rent? Because I'll do it, if you're that worried about your money."

He comes over to me, puts his hand on my shoulder. "That's not buddies. You know that's not what this is about."

I move away again. "Then what is it about? Jesus, Bill!"

He drops his head. Sort of rotates his shoulders in that not-quite-a-shrug he does when he's pissed. Turns, walks back to the sofa, and sits down. I sigh and join him.

"I'm sorry," he says after a minute. "It's just—I didn't know where the fuck you were, and then you show up, and you're a fucking mess, and this is pretty big news, and—" he looks up at me, checking to see how I'm handling things this particular second "—and it's what Mary did, okay? So forgive me for jumping to conclusions based on my own experience."

"Wait—what Mary did? I thought—"

"It's what she was going to do," he amends. "Before John spilled the beans about me and Joe and she flipped. She thought I was the big shot, in Jenifur, making money, and she figured she'd cash in. Otherwise, she never would've brought Billie to that show. It's one of the things that came out during the custody hearings, thanks to a private detective I hired." He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. "And she's not the only one. Once a year or so, someone tries to come up to me after a show, claiming I fathered her child, trying to get some sort of settlement out of me. Of course, it's never true—none of these American groupie types are any too swift on the uptake. I stopped doing groupies when I left the Hard Cores."

I reach for his hand. "I'm sorry, Bill. I didn't realize."

"You know it's not about the money. Shit, Tim, anything you need, ever, it's yours—"

I stop him, my fingers on his lips. "I know. I'm sorry." I move closer to him. "And maybe you're right. But even if she is after your money—shit, Bill—" I'm shaking again, and this time he pulls me into his arms and just holds me. After some time has passed, he makes some pasta, I change into some sweats, and we eat. I don't think either one of us actually tastes the food, and we don't say much. After dinner I get the pictures out of the car, and we sit down and look at them. We both agree—Sam looks like me. He looks like he could be my son.

Bill, as he so often does, seems to know what I need. He turns on the Lakers and sits me down on the sofa with the remote. Basketball as therapy—it worked often enough when I was growing up, when watching a game with Jim got me through—got me through a lot. And if I'm not ready to think about everything that happened today, I'm sure not ready to think about the things watching, and playing, basketball with my cousin got me through when I was a kid. When I was six. When I was younger than six. I shudder and turn up the volume, and a few seconds later Bill's there, next to me, and I grab onto him again.

"I can't believe I'm acting like such an idiot," I tell him. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I've always wanted kids. I mean, this is good news. Isn't it?"

He nods. "Yeah, it is. Or, it can be, if everything works out. But there's a lot to work out, Tim."

"Yeah, I know. Give me the phone, would you?" He looks at me closely, nods again, and grabs it off the table and hands it to me.

It's getting late, but Cecil's still there, just like I thought he would be. Once I moved in with Bill, I let a little of my guard down with a few of the people from work. Cecil Thompson, an enormous British expatriate who reminds me inescapably of Gee, is one of them; he heads up the investigative wing of EPS. I explain what I want him to do, adding that it's personal, not professional, and he agrees to do it, no questions asked. He says he should have a report ready by lunch tomorrow. I put the phone down with a sigh, and Bill gestures for me to move a little, then digs his hands into my shoulders.

"That was a smart thing you just did," he says softly.

"Yeah, I know," I mumble, leaning forward so he can reach more of my back. "Can we not talk about it anymore?"

"Sure," he answers, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Why don't we turn off the television and head for a flat surface? Good thing for you I've got strong hands—you're tight as a drum."

He takes me into the bedroom, strips me down, and proceeds to give me a better backrub than any professional massage therapist could hope to. When he's done, and I'm half asleep, he turns out the light, pulls the covers over both of us, and rests his warm hand in the middle of my back until I fall asleep. When I wake from the nightmare we both knew I'd have, he holds me, whispering soothing words, until I stop shaking. Then he takes my face between his hands and kisses me, and we make love, and I fall asleep again.

III. Tonglen

illusions of someday

casting a golden light

no dress rehearsal, this is our life

—Ahead by a Century, the Tragically Hip

I wake up the next morning, and for a minute I just watch him sleeping, like I do every morning, smiling, but then I remember. I get up, go for a run, and then I sit. It helps, a little, although it's more difficult than it's been for months. When I finish, Bill hands me a cup of coffee.

"You going in today?" he asks, like the answer isn't obvious to both of us.

"Yeah, I have some paperwork to catch up on. You?"

He nods. "Working on a couple new songs. Jen and May actually like one of them, so it might make it onto the next album."

"That's great, Bill." He ducks his head.

"Call me after lunch?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

He lays his hand along my cheek and goes to change. I grab a bagel and head out the door.

Fortunately, Cecil has his report ready for me by 10 am. After I read it, I call Emma and tell her I have to see her. She agrees to meet me in an hour.

I talk to Cecil for awhile as I wait. He's sympathetic, gives me a few suggestions for how to proceed, and offers to help any way he can. He also tells me, smiling, that Sam is one cute kid, and from all reports a well-adjusted one, given what he's gone through. Those few words send a shudder through me, but I manage to hide it from Cecil.

I call Bill and tell him what I'm thinking. He talks to me for a minute, then hands the phone to Robbie, Jen's personal assistant, who gets things done on short notice all the time. Then I make a couple other calls.

Finally the front desk buzzes me that Emma's here. I show her into a conference room, feeling that old familiar feeling. She's not a suspect, and this isn't the Box, but she has been lying to me, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it.

She looks apprehensive when she sees me. Good. I put the file down on the table and gesture for her to take a seat, but I remain standing. Yeah, it's like riding a bike.

"What's this all about, Tim?" she asks, fiddling with her purse. "I told you I'd let you know after I talked to Sam, after I told him about you."

"Yeah, that's what you told me," I reply. "You told me a lot of things. How much of it was the truth, huh?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, I have some information I didn't have yesterday."

"What information? I was telling you the truth—Sam is your son."

"Oh, that I believe—although I wouldn't mind some DNA tests to back it up. It's the rest of your story I have a hard time with. See, when you work for an agency like this one, you have access to information, just like when you're a detective. It turns out that you moved to California from Texas just two months ago, and that you only joined the Zen Center three weeks ago. You weren't a member of any Buddhist organizations in Texas, or in Maryland, for that matter, and although your parents practiced Pure Land, you haven't practiced any religion at all since you left for college." I pick up the file. "Should I go on, or are you ready to tell me the truth?"

I look at her, and she's crying. "I'm sorry, Tim," she says. "You're right, I lied to you, and I'm sorry. I saw your picture one day when I was in the checkout line, and I couldn't believe it, I couldn't believe it was really you. I—I was with someone, my last couple years in Texas. I thought he was going to be great, thought we might even get married, maybe even have another baby. But Steve, he turned out to be another in a long line of bad choices. I guess maybe you know that already, huh?"

"I know he was arrested for drunk driving, that he hit a seventeen year old and killed him." I answer carefully. "And I know Sam was in the car at the time." My fists are clenched, but I keep breathing.

She nods. "That's when I knew I had to leave him—he's out on bail, and I was scared of what he'd do. Then I found out he'd emptied my bank account. I didn't know what I was going to do until I saw that stupid tabloid."

"The address you gave me is fake, Emma. You don't have a job, just some freelance work. Where have you been living?"

"We stayed with a college friend for awhile. Now we're in a hotel."

I sit down at the table. "I checked, and no one's leased my old apartment. It's small, but you're welcome to move in today. My furniture's in storage, but I can arrange for it to be moved out there this afternoon."

She stares at me angrily. "Why? Why are you doing this, after I lied to you?"

"Because I want what's best for my son." I hear the words coming out of my mouth, and they sound right, and it terrifies me all over again, but I push that away and concentrate on what's in front of me. On who's in front of me.

She's telling the truth now, at least. She's the mother of my son, and where they're living now is not safe. When Cecil told me where they were really staying, when he told me about how Sam's arm was broken in that car accident, it was all I could do not to drive to the hotel and take him bodily away from her. After I talked to Bill, though, I got back a little control.

I do drive with her back to the hotel. I meet Sam, briefly—she hasn't told him yet, so we keep it low-key. She introduces me as a friend who's letting them use his apartment, then tells him to get in the car, and that's it, that's all the contact we have. He looks at me suspiciously—understandable. It's good, really, that he doesn't trust strangers. That's what I am, after all. My hands are shaking as I get back in the jeep so they can follow me to the apartment.

After Emma's gotten the key, after I've arranged for my furniture to be delivered, I get in the car to head home, but then I punch Bill's number instead of starting the car. He answers after the first ring; I can hear Jen's voice in the background, arguing with someone.

"Hey, it's me."

"Everything go okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think so."

"You on your way home?"

"Not quite yet. Listen, I know I said I'd be home soon, but I really want to stop at the Zen Center, sit with this awhile, see if Scott's there, maybe talk to a couple people."

"You can talk to me—I'm heading home in a few minutes. For that matter, you can sit there—I happen to know there's a perfectly good set of cushions in the living room."

"Fuck, Bill, I know that. I just—"

He cuts me off. "I understand. Fuck it, no, I don't fucking understand—but I trust you. Just don't pull any shit like yesterday, all right?"

"I won't, I promise. I love you."

"Yeah, I know. What did she say? She gonna let you see your kid?"

"I saw him today. I met him today, Bill. He doesn't know—she said she was going to tell him soon. I think she's telling the truth. When I confronted her, she came clean—her story checked out with what Cecil found."

"When are you going to talk to her again?"

"Tomorrow, I think."

"And you're going to the Zen Center now, huh?"

"Yeah. I'll be back in time for dinner, I promise. You want me to pick something up?"

"Uh, sure. Or we could just order something."

I pause to think. "Hey, it's good news, right?"

"Good news. Yeah, Tim, I think it is."

"Okay. I'll see you in awhile, all right?"

"Yeah. Come home as soon as you can."

I hang up and walk to the Zen Center. Scott's not in his office, but I find him in the Guest House, chatting with some of the volunteers. When I ask if he has a minute to talk, he says he'll meet me in his office in half an hour, which is fine, since it gives me some time to sit first.

That's the plan, but it doesn't work for shit. My monkey mind is far too active, my body far too restless. I try some kinhin around the Center's gardens, and that's a little better, but I'm still unsettled when I make my way back to Scott's office.

He smiles when I walk in, and I'm struck by the thought that he has no idea what I've been through the past 24 hours. "Hey, Tim, I'm glad you came in today—I wanted to see if you've thought any more about the program." Scott's been through the End-of-Life Counselor Training Program at the Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco, and last week he and I were talking about whether that might be a good path for me.

"Uh, actually, there's something else going on that I really wanted to talk to you about."

"Sounds serious—is everything all right with you and Bill?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, it's great; it's wonderful. No, it's not Bill—I got some news a yesterday, some pretty big news."

"What is it?"

"Do you know Emma Zoole? She was at the Sunday sit, and I guess she's been coming here for a few weeks."

"Emma Zoole? I'm not sure—maybe."

"Well, the thing is, I knew her back in Baltimore, years ago. We were involved for a while. I hadn't seen her in over seven years, until I ran into her last weekend. She and I had lunch yesterday—I thought we were just going to catch up, you know? But she dropped a bombshell."

"What did she say?"

"She told me she had a baby. My baby—my son. He's six now—he'll be seven in August. His name is Sam, and he doesn't know about me, and I never even knew he existed until yesterday."

"Wow," he says, sitting back in his chair. "That's big news, you're right about that. How do you feel about it?"

I laugh self-consciously. "Terrified." I look out the window. "Seriously, Scott, I don't know what I'm feeling. I always wanted kids, but when I met Bill, I figured that was it, you know? I mean, he has Billie, but she doesn't live with him or anything—I've only met her once. And even before Bill, it seemed less and less likely I was going to meet some girl and settle down and raise a family."

"Do you still want that? To settle down and raise a family?"

"As far as I'm concerned, Bill's my family now. I don't—I didn't need anyone else."

"But now someone else has entered the picture."

"Yeah. And it's not like—I can't ignore that. I won't ignore it."

"What are you going to do?"

"I—" I swallow. "I want to be a father to my son. A good father."

"What does that mean to you, Tim? What does it look like?"

I stare at him. It takes me a good three minutes to say another word. Then we spend another forty-five minutes talking about it, and when I leave, I feel a little better, although possibly even more confused. I still stop to visit Lily before heading home, though.

She's on top of things today, despite the problems she's been having and the increase in her morphine dosage—the minute I enter her room at the guest house, she says, "What the hell is going on with you? You look like shit, Tim."

"Hello, Lily, how are you today?" I ask sarcastically, pulling a chair up to her bed and sitting down.

"I'm dying; I'm supposed to look like shit—what's your excuse?"

And suddenly I don't know what the fuck I'm doing there, how I could possibly be helping this woman, and what business do I have even considering being a father to a six year old who thinks his father is dead? Suddenly I understand how Frank felt, looking into Olivia's crib, the day before his stroke. Maybe I'll have a stroke myself. It doesn't sound like such a bad idea at the moment. I cover my face with my hands, but Lily pokes me with her bony fingers until I look at her.

"Come on, gorgeous, this isn't like you," she says gently. "What's the matter—did you have a fight with Bill?"

"Why does everyone always assume I've had a fight with Bill?" I mutter, annoyed.

"Because anybody who's spent more than five minutes with you knows how much you love him, dumbass. So if it's not Bill, what is it?"

"Did you ever think about having kids?"

"Yeah, I thought about it."

"I've always wanted kids. I drove my old partner crazy when he had his daughter, you know? But I'd pretty much given up on that dream, even before I met Bill."

"Uh-huh," she says, clearly waiting for this to make some sort of sense. "You know, you could always adopt. And didn't you tell me Bill has a daughter?"

"Yeah, yeah, he does, a little girl named Billie. Only I guess she's not that little anymore—she's eleven. He's only known about her since she was five, though; did I ever tell you that?"

"No, you didn't."

"Her mom just showed up one day, at a concert, with Billie in tow. She didn't even tell him then—he had to go to court. It was a year and a half later before Billie even knew he was her father."

"Is her mom fighting visitation? Is that why you're upset?"

"No, no, this isn't about Billie at all. Well, not directly, anyway. See, I ran into someone at the sit over the weekend, an old girlfriend, actually."

"Yeah, you told me about that. You were going to have lunch with her sometime—was that today?"

"It was yesterday. And the thing is, she told me I have a son. His name is Samuel Timothy Zoole, and he's six and a half years old, and he's my son, and I never knew he existed before this Tuesday. Pretty coincidental, don't you think, that both Bill and I find out years later about children we never knew we had? Something else we have in common, I guess."

"Shit, Tim, that's amazing."

"You want to see some pictures?"

"Sure."

I dig them out of my pocket and hand them to her.

"He looks like you—he's going to be a handsome man one day."

"You think so? This picture, this one right here, in this one he really reminds me of my sister when she was little."

"I didn't know you had a sister—what's her name?"

From that we just start talking about our families, which we've never done before. Before I know it, an hour has passed, and Lily's starting to hurt, even if she won't admit it, so I excuse myself and head home. Somehow, some way, this is all starting to sink in, to gain a reality it was missing before. I have a son named Sam, and I met him today, and I'm going to see him again. I'm going to do everything I can to keep him safe.

Bill greets me at the door. I can tell he's worried, but he doesn't say anything, just kisses me softly and asks what I brought home for dinner. After we eat, we look at the pictures again, and I talk obsessively, everything I couldn't say before tumbling out, without any more sense than the dumb silence of last night. He sits on the sofa, his arm around me, and makes supportive noises. Then, after I've talked for awhile longer, he takes the pictures out of my hand, puts them away in a drawer, and opens my fly.

"What are you doing?" I ask, amused.

"What do you think I'm doing?" he responds, moving down on the sofa, gesturing for me to lift my hips.

"Oh, I don't know, taking my mind off my worries?" I gasp as he nuzzles my balls.

"Got it in one," he answers, his fingers gentle on my cock. "You were a detective, weren't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I was. How did you—fuck, Bill—how did you know?"

"You're very perceptive, that's how. I bet your brain's not the only thing that perceives well. I bet if I do this—" he licks slowly around the tip of my penis— "you'd perceive that pretty fucking well, too."

"Well, you'd be right. Although maybe you'd better try it again, just to be sure."

He looks up at me briefly, smiling wickedly, then takes me in his mouth, and I forget my worries. I forget about everything but the feel of his tongue, his lips, his long fingers, all working in concert to blow my fucking mind. After he's blown it once, he takes me into the bedroom, fucks me, and blows it again.

The next few days pass slowly. I talk to Emma every day, but she wants to wait until they're settled in to the apartment before she tells Sam who I am, and I have to admit that makes sense. He's been through so much in the last year, and as much as I want to see him, as much as I'm still tempted to just go over there and force her to tell him, I hold off.

She calls on Tuesday, a week after she told me, and says she's going to tell him that night. I think Bill's ready to kill me by the time I talk to her on Wednesday morning.

"I told him. He's a smart kid—I think he'd already guessed. I thought you could come by tomorrow evening, have dinner with us."

"That sounds good," I answer, sounding calmer than I feel. "What time?"

I manage to make it through the rest of the day, working a few hours for EPS, doing a shift at the hospice. I talk with Scott, and I make it to evening sit. By the time I get home, I'm feeling relatively okay. Relative being the operative term.

As usual, Bill sees beyond the mask, the outer calm. He knows I've been having nightmares; he knows how scared I am I'll fuck this up. His methods for helping me achieve some peace wouldn't be found in any text on meditation, but they sure as shit keep me in the moment. And they're some damned fine moments.

IV. Kinhin

We live to survive our paradoxes

—Springtime in Vienna, the Tragically Hip

Tim's a nervous wreck, waiting. Neither one of us have gotten much sleep since he heard the news. I try my best to wear him out, but it doesn't work that well—although I like to think we both enjoy ourselves. Tim says making love is better than meditation, that it is a form of meditation, that he's never more in the moment than when we're fucking. Even so, he spends an hour meditating each morning; he's always a lot less nervous afterwards, so it's all good. It's weird that I know what the fuck zazen, kinhin, and tonglen are, but it's still good.

I'm half asleep the night before Tim's dinner at Emma's when he wakes me up, stifling a chuckle into my shoulder.

"What?" I mumble, turning to face him.

"You're my Eskimo," he tells me earnestly, then starts laughing.

"What the fuck are you talking about now?" I ask, working my way around until my head's pillowed on his shoulder. Knowing Tim, whatever this is could take awhile—I might as well get comfortable.

"I had this anguished, drunken conversation with Frank, the night he came to the rescue at the convenience store. I was asking him about what would you do if your one true love, the woman that was perfect for you, was an Eskimo, and you lived in Des Moines, so you never met her."

"Des Moines?" I smile. This is a good one.

"It was a metaphor. More of one than I realized at the time, apparently."

"Apparently," I repeat. "Well, it's the right country, anyway." He looks at me, confused, and I stroke his cheek. "Inuit, as they are called these days—not Eskimos—reside mostly in the northern provinces and territories of the great country of Canada."

"Hey, that's right, they do, huh?"

"They do."

"You ever miss it?" I should have seen that one coming.

"Canada?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know you've been up there a few times, touring, and you must've spent some time there during the custody hearings, but you haven't lived there for what, ten years?"

"Eleven."

"Right, right, eleven years. So, do you miss it?"

"Sometimes. I mean, I miss Vancouver, seeing bands at the Commodore. I miss four seasons, and the mountains, and stupid shit like the way people talk, and the French on everything. Now that I'm making money, I don't miss the fucking taxes."

"You think you'll ever go back?"

"Don't know. Maybe someday. It'd be nice to be closer to Billie."

"Yeah, it must be tough, her living in Regina."

I shrug. "The visitation's pretty fair, considering. Fuck, my lawyer said I had a shot at custody, but that would've meant dragging Mary through the mud. She's done some fucked up things in her life, but she loves Billie, and Evan's been a good father to her, the only one she knew until—jesus, until she was Sam's age, I guess. It wouldn't have been fair to her to take her away from her family."

I touch his face again, running my thumb along the stubble. "I don't have any plans to leave Los Angeles, Tim," I tell him. "Not unless you're planning on moving."

"Wasn't planning on it, no," he replies. "But, you know, if you needed to be up there—"

"Yeah, I know. But I don't, and even if I didn't have the band, I'd stay down here now, because you need to be here to be with your kid."

"I still can't believe it."

I sigh. "You're not going to let me sleep any time soon, are you?"

"Hey, no, I'm sorry. Go to sleep. I'll shut up."

"I've got a better idea," I tell him, and move my hand from his face to his hip.

"You do, huh?"

"I do."

"And what is that idea, exactly?"

"How about I fuck you? Think that might help you get some sleep?"

I can see his smile, even in the dark. "There's an idea. You sure you have the energy for that? Because I know you're tired." I feel his fingers run lightly across my face.

"I think I can find the strength."

"Well, if you're sure."

"Oh, I'm sure."

After that, we both manage to get some sleep. The next morning, he swims, he sits and he walks and he sits again, and afterwards he looks pretty damned peaceful. I spend some time persuading him not to go buy out the local Toys R Us, remembering the first few times Billie came here, how hard I tried to impress her, buying all this girly shit she wasn't the least bit interested in. Turns out my daughter's a tomboy.

"Get to know him first," I keep telling him. I think it's registered.

Fuck, I hope this goes all right.

V. The Sound of the Bell

I remember that night

It was the one I picked a fight with you

I'm holding the bag

Now there's gonna be a new kid in the family

Oh no, kid, you're gonna run in the family

—Runs in the Family, the Roches

I have to head in to the studio, since we're hard at work on the new album—well, some of us are hard at work—so after a long, tight, hug, I take off. I talk to him a couple times during the day, but he's doing pretty well—keeping busy at the Zen Hospice, and who would have thought something like that would be so damned good for him, but it seems to be, so I'm going with it—and then he calls me at 5:15 and says he's on his way. I tell him I love him and I'll see him at home later, then try to concentrate on the music—my own form of meditation, I guess.

Jen goes off during rehearsal, threatening to fire Trevor, threatening to quit the band, and just generally going nuts, so it's after 10 by the time I get home. Tim's jeep is in the garage, but I don't see him in the house. There's a note on the fridge: "Went for a run." Fuck. That can't be good.

Fortunately, he comes home a few minutes later. Unfortunately, he's in bad shape—not as bad as last week, but pretty bad nonetheless. I get him in the shower, hoping I don't have to call the plumber again in the morning, then sit and wait, listening occasionally outside the door. He stays in there just long enough that I'm wondering if I should check on him when I hear the water go off.

He comes out a few minutes later, wrapped in a towel. "I'm okay," he says, holding a hand up to ward me off. "It was bad, but I'm okay. Give me a minute to get dressed, all right?"

"Sure," I tell him, relieved. He joins me in the living room a few minutes later. He looks exhausted. "What happened?" I ask, putting my arm around him.

He sighs. "The thing is, it started out fine. I mean, yeah, he was shy around me, but that's understandable. Dinner went okay, and then afterwards—" he looks at me. "I know you said not to, but I picked up a couple things. I couldn't go there empty-handed, I just couldn't—he's my son."

I nod and squeeze his shoulder. Of course he couldn't. Fuck, the first couple months we were together, Tim bought me six books, a new jacket, almost a dozen cds—he even got me flowers a couple times, saying he thought they'd look nice on the dining room table, embarrassed but proud. When someone's important to him, he wants to show it—he told me once about how he annoyed Pembleton by buying too many gifts for his baby daughter. I'm surprised he kept it to just a couple things.

"So I got this Harry Potter Lego set, and I got him a stuffed animal, a dog. I left them in the car at first; I wasn't going to bring them in unless things were going okay. I went out to get them after dinner." He sighs forlornly.

"What happened?"

"He never even opened the bag with the dog. He took one look at the Lego set, shoved it away from him, and said he hated Harry Potter. I asked him why, and he wouldn't answer me, he just got up and ran off into his bedroom."

I squeeze his shoulder again. "Did Emma know why he was upset?"

He nods, his expression bleak. "I told you about the accident, right?"

He's told me more times than I can count, but I don't mention that, I just nod back at him.

"Well, it turns out that what happened was, this guy Steve told Sam he had a special treat for him. He was taking him to see the Harry Potter movie. They didn't tell Emma about it—it was supposed to be a secret. But Steve took him to one of those movie theatres that also has food, like restaurant food, you know? This particular one also served beer. Sam was trying to enjoy the movie, but meanwhile Steve is slamming down the beer. They ended up getting kicked out before the movie even ended—Steve started to threaten the waitress because she wouldn't bring him more. So they leave the movie, and Steve leaves Sam in the car while he visits a nearby bar. After a couple hours, he comes out, they drive off, hit the other car, kill that poor kid, and Sam breaks his arm."

"Shit, no wonder he hates Harry Potter," I mutter.

"Yeah," Tim answers bitterly. "And I have to show up, another strange man appearing in his life, out of nowhere, and remind him of it."

I take his hand. "There's no way you could have known." The phone rings. I let the machine pick it up, but then I hear a woman's voice asking for Tim, and he strides quickly over to the table and gets it.

"Yeah, Emma, I'm here," he says wearily. "What? He did? Okay, yeah, that's good, I guess. Really? I'm glad he likes it, really glad. Hey, I'm sorry, Emma—I had no idea—yeah, yeah, I know. So, when do you think—okay. Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea—something structured. Right. Uh, would Friday work? Good. Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow then. Yeah. Thanks for calling. Uh, if you think it wouldn't upset him, tell him I'm sorry, and that I said hello. That I'm looking forward to Friday. Okay. Bye."

He comes back to the couch, and the hope is back in his eyes. "After I left, after he calmed down, he opened the bag with the stuffed dog in it, and Emma says he really likes it. They left Texas in such a hurry that they left a lot of stuff behind, and he's been missing a lot of his stuffed animals. And we're going to try again on Friday—we're going to the zoo. Neutral territory. And I won't buy him anything unless he asks for it."

He smiles a little at that last part, and I can't help smiling back. "That's great, Tim," I tell him, getting up and giving him a hug. His arms tighten almost painfully around me, and he kisses my temple, then my ear.

"I love you, Bill," he says quietly. "Jesus, I love you so much. I don't know how I'd make it through this without you."

My eyes burn. "I'm not going anywhere. Ever. Understand? You've got me, for the rest of our lives."

"Thank god," he murmurs, one hand in my hair, the other arm across my back, warm and solid. He cups the back of my head and urges me up into a slow, thorough, deep kiss. By the time we come up for air, his hands have migrated to my ass, and I've got both of mine under his sweatshirt. I can feel his erection against my belly, and I'm rocking mine against his long, muscular thigh, and I'm starting to get a cramp in my arches from being up on the balls of my feet, but I don't give a fuck.

"Come on," I say hoarsely. "Bed. Now." He smiles slowly and runs one finger down the length of me, and I almost come in my pants, because even after six months, that touch and that smile and that whole package just fucking kills me.

We make it into the bedroom, and he slowly unbuttons my shirt while I'm trying unsuccessfully to get his sweatshirt off. He stops what he's doing for a second, and I miss the warmth of his hands on me, but it's worth it, because he's tossing his sweatshirt and then his pants over the chair in the corner. He sits on the bed and beckons me over, and when I get there he grabs my ass again and buries his nose in my crotch, and my knees buckle, but he's holding me up. I regain a little balance, enough to push him back on the bed long enough to finally get my damned pants unzipped and then off. He grabs me again, pulls me on top of him, and starts kissing me some more, and his hand is back on my ass, massaging, and I break off the kiss long enough to tell him what I want. He groans, and I grab the lube, and his cock twitches as I smear some on, and then I bring my knees up and work my way down, work him into me, all the way, and then he sits up, pulling me with him, the two of us together, and his arms are around me, and mine are around him, and he's kissing me again, deep and wet and hungry as I rock against him, rock around him, and it's so good, it's always so fucking good. He starts thrusting harder, holding me in place, and then he grunts, fuck, I love that sound he makes, and he shudders as he comes, and I watch him, I watch him until he opens his eyes again, and then he reaches down and it just takes two strokes and I'm gone.

"Love you," I gasp a minute later, leaning into his shoulder, his arms solid around me, answering what he told me before, but I'd answered it already; he knows.

"I know," he murmurs, warm breath in my ear, warm hands on my sweaty back.

He sleeps soundly that night, without any nightmares, but I'm more restless than usual, waking frequently to watch him for a while, then falling back to sleep.

The trip to the zoo goes fairly well, I guess—Sam's apparently terrified of snakes, has a little breakdown in the Reptile House, and refuses to let go of his mother afterwards, cutting the visit short, but before that he seemed to be having a good time. They try Disneyland the next Wednesday. I have another shitty day rehearsing with the band, but when I get home Tim's smiling. Disneyland, apparently, went off without a hitch.

"I want to invite them here," he tells me, pulling me into a hug. "This weekend. Sam told me he likes to swim—I figured we could fire up the grill, hang out by the pool—what do you think?"

"It sounds like a plan," I reply, kissing his cheek. "Go on, make the call."

He keeps hold of my hand and drags me to the couch, pulling me down next to him, grabbing the phone.

"Wait a minute," I say. "Does he know about me?"

Tim just keeps smiling. "Yeah, he does."

"What does he know?"

His expression gets serious. "That I live with you. That you have a daughter a few years older than he is. That you and he are the two most important people in my life."

"You told him that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did, just today, as I was saying goodbye. See, apparently I talk about you a lot. So he asked who you were, and I told him."

"What did he say?"

"That he wanted to see your guitar. I didn't ask him which one."

I smile. "Go, call already."

Unfortunately, Emma doesn't think Sam's ready, or so she says. She suggests another dinner at her house first, which Tim agrees to, but he's pretty damned disappointed. So disappointed that I don't tell him about my day, don't tell him how seriously I'm considering leaving the band. He's got enough to deal with right now—he doesn't need anything else.

Fortunately, dinner at Emma's house goes all right, with no major meltdowns. Emma calls the next day.

"They're coming Saturday," Tim tells me when he gets off the phone. "Emma says, if things are going all right, Sam can spend the night." He looks at me, worried. "That's okay, isn't it? I mean, I told her it's okay, but this is your house—"

"Shut the fuck up, freak," I reply. "Of course it's okay. And this is your house as much as it is mine."

He looks at me closely. "Is there something else bothering you?"

"Rehearsal's been a bitch, that's all. No big deal."

"But they're going to do your song on the new album, right?"

"Maybe, maybe not," I hedge. "Don't worry about it," I add. "Let's figure out what the hell we're going to feed him, huh? What time are they coming?"

That distracts him, just as I intended. It's not that I'm not going to tell him—just not yet. It's not that big a deal, anyway.

VI. Sesshin

All of the gates are open

all of the charges dropped

talks are terminated

payments have been stopped

—Quitting Time, the Roches

We've got veggie burgers ready for grilling, enough food for a small army, and some of Billie's toys from when she was younger, along with a few carefully chosen purchases Tim made. He spends half the morning fucking around with the video game set-up, looking through all the games and deciding which ones are suitable for a six year old. Then he plays some of them, "just in case Sam wants to play them together." I have to smile, watching him sitting on his zafu in front of the television, joystick in hand, pretending to be doing research but really just having fun. Fucking goofball.

Finally the gate buzzer rings and they pull up into the driveway, in a sensible, fuel-efficient, late-model sedan. From what Tim's told me about her, I half-expected a hearse, although he also told me the death obsession seems to have gone the way of the stiletto heels.

The kid—Sam—makes it out of the car first, but then he hangs back and waits for his mom. You'd have to be fucking blind to miss that he's Tim's—the nose, the mouth, the height. He's six, but he's as tall as Billie was at eight. Good looking kid—not that that's any fucking surprise.

The infamous Emma Zoole takes her son by the hand and walks calmly up to Tim, shading her eyes to look up at him; the top of her head doesn't even reach his shoulder. She's dressed in crisp, clean, beige linen, her long hair in a neat bun—you sure can't tell she was practically homeless a few weeks ago. The kid's got Tim's mouth and nose, but he's got his mother's eyes and a similar cautious expression.

I walk up behind Tim as they share a quick, somewhat perfunctory embrace.

"Hey, Emma," he says softly.

"Hi, Tim."

Tim drops to a squat and reaches a hand out. "Hey, Sam, it's really good to see you."

"Hi," the kid answers. "It's good to see you too." Then he hugs Tim, and the smile that breaks over Tim's face is amazing.

He stands, picking Sam up, and gestures for me to come closer. "Sam, this is my friend Bill."

It's my turn to offer a hand. "Hi, Sam, how are you?"

He shakes my hand solemnly, perched with seeming contentment in Tim's arms. "Ma says you play guitar."

"Yeah, I do."

"Can I see your guitar?"

"Sure. My guitars are inside—you want to come in?"

"Okay." He turns back to Tim. "You have a pool, right? Ma said you have a pool."

"Yeah, yeah, we have a pool. Did you bring your bathing suit?"

"Uh-huh."

"Great, that's great. Come on, let's go," Tim says, putting him back on the ground, and just like that Sam takes his hand and goes into the house with him. I walk up to Emma.

"Hi, Bill, nice to meet you," she says, reaching up to shake my hand, still shading her eyes with the other one.

"Likewise," I answer. She doesn't look like someone who used to sleep in a coffin any more than she looks homeless. If it weren't for a trace of hardness and evasion in her eyes, she could pass for any upper middle class soccer mom, one who'd invite the whole team over after practice for tofu stir fry with organic vegetables.

"You look different from your pictures," she says.

I shrug. "You know how it is with those publicity shots. You ready to go inside?"

"Just about—just let me grab a few things." She goes to the trunk, and I help her bring in a couple bags. We exchange a little small talk, which gives us the excuse to check each other out some more. She seems very calm and serene—Tim says she meditates, it's not just an act she put on to meet up with him—but I see the way her eyes follow Tim and Sam into the house. And I see the way she looks at me, at the house itself, the furniture, the guitars, Tim's meditation cushions—she's cataloging it all, with what system I couldn't guess. Tim shows them down to the guest rooms to change, and he and I head into our room to do the same.

We're both out at the pool in our swim trunks before Emma and Sam emerge. Tim's not paying attention to anything but the way the boy approaches him, but I can't help but look at Tim, because Tim in swim trunks is not something I'm ever going to be able to ignore. It turns out it's not something Emma can ignore, either, but then Tim gazes at me and smiles, and I relax.

"He's incredible, you know," Emma murmurs. "Even more handsome than I remembered. You're a lucky man."

"Yeah, I know." I resist the urge to go over and plant one on him. She's incredible, too—beautiful—but he's barely glanced at her. Fuck, if I saw her on the street, I'd barely glance at her either, not with Tim around.

"Bill, where'd we put those noodle things?" he asks, coming up to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. I lean into him a little, and he squeezes gently.

"They're over by the bar."

"Great, great. Hey, don't forget the sunscreen, huh? Don't want you getting burned again." I choke back a laugh. My ass was sore for three days after our last adventure by the pool, and he hasn't let me forget it.

"Don't worry, buddy—I think I'll stay in the shade today."

"All right, but I might need you to do my back and shoulders again later."

"Anytime, Tim." We share a smile, and I forget all about how beautiful Emma Zoole is, because she's fucking missed her chance with Tim Bayliss—he's mine. Then he grabs the pool toys and joins Sam on the steps, heading into the water.

We stand in the sun for awhile, but neither one of us shows any inclination to join them in the water. After awhile we move out of the way, back into the shade by the bar. I offer her a drink, and the two of us sit down with bottled water and watch the two of them playing in the pool.

Tim's a natural with the boy, horsing around, but always with an eye out for safety. He's clearly having as much of a blast as Sam is, laughing, letting the kid climb all over him, serving as Sam's personal jungle gym and pool toy, paying attention every time he's asked to watch something, even when it's the same thing over and over again. Sam's latest trick involves climbing up on Tim's shoulders and diving off; Sam calls out for his mom to watch, so we both do.

Tim's smile is incandescent as he comes up out of the water, his son on his shoulders, Sam's hands lost in his until he lets go, balancing precariously, and triumphantly dives—well, it's really more of a belly-flop—into the water. Sam comes up, shrieks with glee, and immediately launches himself at Tim again. Tim meets my eyes for a second, grinning that grin at me. Then he sinks into the water again so Sam can climb back onto his shoulders.

I pick up my drink and realize Emma's not watching the pool