Bad Glass

I had cash to pay for my lunch, but I watched Floyd trade in a couple of packs of C-cell batteries for his, and Sabine offered up a handful of costume jewelry. Mac paid for his and Amanda’s meal with a couple of old books; Sharon slipped on a pair of reading glasses and studied the covers and copyright pages before nodding her acceptance. Taylor produced a roll of quarters from one of the pockets of her cargo pants.

“Sharon’s got everyone in the city doing her looting for her,” Taylor whispered, nodding toward Sabine and her costume jewelry. “Sooner or later, everything of value ends up here.” There was an anxious lilt to Taylor’s voice. She was probing me, trying to gauge the depth of my hurt over Weasel.

I let out a low, noncommittal grunt. I still wasn’t ready to meet her eyes.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you folks,” Sharon said, flashing a wry smile as we got out of our seats. “And it was nice to meet you, Dean. If there’s anything you’re looking for while you’re here—anything at all—just let me know. I might be able to help.”

As we filed past, Sharon stopped Sabine with a gentle hand on her arm. “And if you can swing it, kid, stop by tomorrow afternoon. I might have something for you.” Sabine gave the older woman a questioning look, then nodded, her eyes suddenly going wide.

The wind picked up as we walked back home. I hunched forward and pulled my jacket tight against my chest, but the wind still managed to work its way beneath my clothing, cutting straight to the skin. It started my teeth chattering, and I had to clench my jaw to get it to stop. The only warm part of my body was my injured hand, tucked deep inside my pocket; it throbbed with the beat of my heart, pulsing flush with blood.

As we crossed the Spokane River Bridge, Sabine grabbed my arm and pointed back toward the line of buildings that constituted downtown. I followed her finger and found a scrawl of graffiti etched across the third floor of an office building. It was old graffiti—faded yellow, outlined in electric blue—but I recognized the shape of the letters. It was the Poet. The Artist.

SORRY ABOUT THE TUMORS. SOMETIMES THEY AREN’T FATAL.

Sabine smiled—a broad, joyous smile—then tucked her hands into her pockets and trotted up to Floyd’s side, greeting him with a playful shoulder bump. She seemed in a good mood. Practically delirious.

I lowered my head against the cold wind and followed.

As soon as we got back to the house, Taylor grabbed me by the arm and hauled me upstairs. I didn’t particularly want to go, but she was insistent. Her fingers dug deep into the muscles of my forearm, and the hard, impatient look on her face said she was done fooling around.

Fine. Whatever.

She’d sided with Weasel. She wanted him around despite my feelings. And that wounded me.

What did you expect? I chided myself. She’s only known you for a couple of days. Did you expect instant love and devotion? Did you think she’d honor your wishes above all others’? That didn’t seem too likely to me. I wasn’t exactly a stunning beauty, and I didn’t have Taylor’s smile, her charm, or her heart. There was absolutely no reason she should feel anything for me … anything but pity, that is.

The upstairs hallway was surprisingly long, and we went all the way to the end, passing a bathroom, three open bedroom doors, and a narrow staircase leading up to an attic-loft. Without any fanfare, Taylor threw open the final door, revealing a cramped sewing room. A sewing machine sat perched atop a card table on one side of the room, and a futon mattress lay spread across the other. A stack of plastic milk crates formed shelving along one wall, filled with bolts of brightly colored fabric. A half-finished quilt lay beneath the sewing machine needle; from what I could see, the squares of fabric formed geometric waves, all in varying shades of blue.

“Weasel stayed here off and on,” Taylor said, pointing down at the futon. Several colorful blankets had been pushed down to the foot of the mattress, and dirty clothing lay scattered at its side. “It’s your room now. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like.”

“And Weasel?” I asked.

She shook her head and gestured me down toward the futon. I took a seat on the thin mattress, and she sat down on the folding chair across from me. “I’m done apologizing to you, Dean. He’s my friend, and he helped me through some bad shit when the city went crazy. He hooked me up with the commune—the Homestead—when that’s where I needed to be. And if not for him, I doubt I’d be alive right now.” She reached out and touched the sewing machine, running her hand across its domed surface. It was an idle gesture, something to occupy her hands, something to look at other than me. “I like you, Dean. Really, I do. But I’m loyal to my friends. And Weasel deserves my loyalty.”