“She knows I have AIDS,” I say. “She knows about my cancer, too. She knows that I am as good as dead.”
“Uh-huh.”
We’re now on the upstairs landing. Rows of red apartment doors line the hallway. We’re at number 19. We’re looking for number 29.
“Look,” I say, “you can’t get AIDS from kissing. You know that. The whole damn world knows that.”
“Knowing it and doing it are two different things, man. She must really like you.”
“What’s not to like?”
Numi shakes his head and smiles that smile that is only for me. I sense that he’s troubled for reasons I still don’t understand. Numi is detached and introspective and doesn’t always lay his thoughts and feelings out there. I suspect the source of his angst is that he feels he might lose control. He likes helping me. He likes helping me in a particular way. He’s protective, demanding, careful. Would another person look after me so closely? He doesn’t know. And until he knows, he has no problem hiding his displeasure.
“Do you like her, too?” he asks me as we pass an open door. There’s a fake Christmas tree in the far corner and two children in diapers running around holding real hammers and screwdrivers. The mother appears passed out on the couch. It is, of course, early July.
I say, “I’ve liked her from the moment I set eyes on her.”
“You never said anything about that,” says Numi.
“You don’t know everything about me, Numi,” I snap, perhaps louder than I wanted to. The act of snapping at Numi saps my strength immediately, and I regret it for a number of reasons.
Numi doesn’t seem to notice or care that I snapped at him. He does, however, curl his forearm around my hand a little tighter. Numi always seems to know when my strength is waning. How he knows this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s an inflection in my voice. My posture. I have no clue, but he always, always knows my current state of strength, which I find both unsettling and comforting at the same time.
“No,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know everything about you, kemosabe. But I know enough.”
“I didn’t mean to snap,” I say. I always feel like shit when I snap at Numi. I mean, what kind of asshole snaps at the only person who helps him live when he’s dying?
Me, I think. I’m that asshole.
“It’s okay, homie,” says Numi, and hearing his thick Nigerian accent using street slang is so comical that I want to laugh, but I don’t have enough strength to laugh. Numi never holds a grudge and never pouts. I say I’m sorry and he accepts it and we move on.
“Yes, I like her, Numi. I didn’t tell you or anyone. Least of all, her. Why should I? I have AIDS. She’s a beautiful woman. What business do I have liking her?”
Numi, who generally doesn’t like to hear self-defeating talk from me, glances at me sideways. He must have heard something in my voice.
“But you don’t just like her, do you, boss?”
I shake my head. We’re almost at number 29.
“You love her,” says Numi.
I nod, and now he looks away, and I feel something collapse in him. Perhaps he has let out a long sigh of air. And just before we get to number 29, I know there’s something I have to do for my devoted friend. I reach out and stop him in the hallway, which literally takes all of my strength.
“Yes, I think I love her,” I say. “And I love you, too, my friend,” I say, and it’s surprising how easy that was to say. It’s the first time I have told another man that I love him.
Numi covers his face and his quiet strength briefly crumbles, and I suddenly realize how long he’s been waiting to hear those words. A moment later he gathers himself, wipes his eyes and says, “I love you, too, man.”
“Good,” I say. “Now, can we stop being gay?”
“Easier said than done, kemosabe.” He glances at number 29. “This it?”
“This is it,” I say. “Olivia’s last-known address.”
CHAPTER TEN
Numi and I are sitting on a sagging couch that might be broken in the middle.
The couch draws me towards the center, as it does Numi. And, since I’ve never been comfortable touching another man, I fight gravity. I lean away from Numi. I shift uncomfortably. I cross and recross my legs. I hang onto the arm of the couch. But nothing helps. I’m continually drawn to the center of the couch like a man is drawn down into quicksand.
Numi doesn’t fight gravity. Numi sits calmly in the middle of the broken couch, one leg crossed casually over the other. His loafers are clean. His jeans are freshly pressed. His dark ankles look like strips of rich chocolate. Numi never wears socks.
The young lady sitting across from us watches all of this curiously, although mostly she’s sobbing quietly into a tissue. Her name is Karen Fitch, and, according to Eddie, she’s the last person to see Olivia alive.
“How long did Olivia live with you?” I ask gently. I know the answer, but I always like to verify the facts with all those involved in a case.
“She lived here for about six days.”
I nod. The days match. Without a police report, or without Detective Dobbs’s help, I don’t have much to go on. I’m investigating blind, so to speak.
The couch continues drawing me down towards its broken center where Numi waits calmly like a big black whirlpool. My strength is waning. I’m tempted to release my hold from the arm and sink down into Numi.
Although crying, Karen’s voice is strong. She’s wearing pink sweats and a pink T-shirt and pink flip-flop sandals. Her toenails are painted pink, too. Mostly, though, I notice the darkish, baggy skin around her eyes.
I’ve already ruled out that my friend Eddie is involved in Olivia’s murder, although the police haven’t. I just don’t think my friend is a killer, although he is a serious womanizer. I’m looking for a connection to her death and my brother’s disappearance twenty-two years ago. The police won’t be looking for such a connection. At least not yet. The police have long ago forgotten about my murdered brother, although his case is officially still open.
I haven’t forgotten. Nor will I ever forget.
“Did Olivia meet with anyone during the six days she was actually here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did she talk about, say, meeting anyone new?”
“Like a boyfriend? She just left Eddie. I don’t think she was ready to date or—”