Chapter 11 Tallus
Tallus
We spent another hour at Evergreen. Diem played the outdoor camera footage, showing our unknown kid and Aaron’s mother as they crossed the parking lot and vanished down the sidewalk, heading in the same direction.
“He goes that way every time he leaves.” Diem stopped the video and punched the eject button on the VCR. “At quarter after the hour every time. Not sure if that’s indicative of a pattern since I only have three instances, but it felt noteworthy.”
He stuffed the tape into its case and tossed it with the others. As he mucked around on the laptop, I puzzled over the timeframe.
“Maybe he had to catch a bus. They run on tight schedules.”
Diem grunted noncommittally as he tugged a USB from the laptop port and shut the computer down. “It would make sense. I’ll drive home that way. See what’s what for pick up points and what routes are nearby.”
“We should chat with Mrs. Daily. I can’t remember her first name.”
Diem agreed, and once we escaped the claustrophobic surveillance room, I steered him to the janitor’s room, where I met the woman the other day. The room was locked, and no one was around, so we inquired at the reception desk instead.
“Marcy Daily. Yes, she’s working the day shift this week. Nine to five. She’s already gone home.”
I glanced at Diem, who scratched the heavy scruff along his jaw, a look of contemplation tightening the skin beside his eyes. He muttered thanks and angled his head to the door, indicating we should go.
Outside, he stopped and peered up and around before pointing to a spot high on a lamppost where the parking lot camera was located. The sun had gone down over an hour ago, so the bright halogen light made the camera mounted a foot or two above it hard to see.
Instead of aiming for the Jeep, Diem strolled with Echo to the sidewalk at the end of the parking lot, letting her sniff the grassy verge as he glanced in the direction the boy and Marcy Daily had gone.
Diem wore his trench coat, the matching fedora tipped at an angle to obscure his face. As he paced, he lit a cigarette.
I hung back.
Before we left, I rescued the albums, ignoring Diem’s scowl and protest. Clutching them to my chest, I watched my boyfriend, but all I could see was Boone, standing beside the car with Hazel on his arm.
Same broad shoulders and towering height, wearing the same hat and coat, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
They shared the same bone structure, the same mannerisms—from what I could glean from pictures—but unlike Diem, Boone’s smile radiated joy and untainted mischief.
Boone, a man who’d been to war, didn’t seem to carry the same trauma as his grandson.
Diem’s smiles were always hesitant and reserved. He never gave them freely. I had to earn them, which made them special.
I ditched the albums in the Jetta, tucked my cold hands into the pockets of my coat, and followed my ornery boyfriend to the sidewalk.
When he saw me coming, he flicked the cigarette into the road.
Vehicles raced in both directions, their blinding headlights making it impossible to see far in any direction.
“Do you want to walk down the street and check it out?” I asked.
Diem grunted and scanned me up and down. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’ll survive. We aren’t going far.”
“You need a better coat.”
“I know, D.”
I offered him a hand, a show of solidarity. Unity. Support. Your anger wasn’t misplaced, it said. You didn’t frighten me. I will love you no matter what. I get it.
Diem took my hand, weaving his warm fingers with my colder ones. If he clung a little tighter than usual, I pretended not to notice.
Diem led the way, letting Echo stretch her legs and pee on every hydrant and pole we passed. She wore her working vest, so when Diem silently insisted that she stay by his side, she didn’t argue. The two communicated in their own language.
We stopped at the main road where four lanes of rush hour traffic zipped by in both directions. A red city bus half full of commuters rounded the corner and vanished into the night, its taillights diminishing the farther away it got.
I scanned the corners. A short way down the busier street, a bus stop sign advertised three routes. A mirroring stop occupied the opposite side of the road, routes taking people in the other direction. The cross street offered two more options. Eastbound and westbound.
Any hope of finding out where the kid had gone died. If he had taken a bus, he could have ended up anywhere in the city.
“This is a dead end,” Diem mumbled, coming to the same conclusion.
“Unless Marcy saw which bus he got on.”
Diem huffed. “Even then, he could transfer anywhere.”
“We should still talk to her tomorrow.”
Diem didn’t respond.
By silent agreement, we headed back to Evergreen and our vehicles.
***
At home, Diem was antsy. While I cooked dinner, he wandered the apartment like a lost puppy, cracking his knuckles and pausing more than once at the refrigerator, where he stored his not-so-secret stash of that week’s liquor of choice.
Twice, he opened the fridge and peered inside. Twice, he closed it again without taking anything out. At one point, he removed a half-empty twenty-sixer of bourbon from the freezer and dumped it down the drain. The bottle landed in the recycling bin with a crash and a self-deprecating curse.
I pretended not to notice.
Diem hovered as I chopped onions and fried meat. Every plate or knife or spatula I dirtied, he washed the instant it hit the sink.
He petted Echo when she whined at his feet, assuring her he was okay.
She knew as well as I did that he was not. This Diem was made of glass. This Diem’s ugly emotions were on display. His thoughts were loud.
When Echo persisted, he found her toys and played with her for a few minutes before telling her to lie down. Then, he squatted in front of Baby’s terrarium and talked softly to the snake, who remained curled inside her hollow rock, oblivious to his turmoil.
At seven, I announced dinner was ready. Diem sat and ate distractedly, knee bouncing so violently that it was like dining on an airplane while flying through an especially turbulent storm.
Echo returned to Diem’s side, nudged him, leaned against his thigh, and whimpered. Diem absently stroked her fur, but he wasn’t calming like he normally did in her presence.
She persisted.
“Are you okay, D?” I finally asked as though I didn’t know the answer.
“What? Yeah.” He focused intently on his plate. “Dinner’s great. Thanks for cooking.”
I wasn’t sure he heard what I said or if his answer had anything to do with the question I posed, but I let it go.
Diem finished first and pushed back from the table. “I’ll wash up,” he announced as he banged around at the sink.
Echo trailed his jerky movements as he wiped counters, rinsed pots, and filled containers with leftovers. When I delivered my plate to the sink, he shuffled aside so I could add it to the pile.
The instant I released it, Diem reached for the sponge, and it was impossible to miss the tremor in his hand as he meticulously washed the plate.
I touched his shoulder. “D?”
He kept scrubbing.
“Diem. Stop.”
He dropped the plate and sponge into the sink and braced his hands on the edge of the counter, chin falling to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw so tight that it vibrated.
Was it the photograph? His meeting? My mother’s comments from three days ago? My stepfather’s suggestion about fishing? Was it cravings that wouldn’t pass?
Was it all of the above?
Sometimes, I didn’t know how to bring him down from the ledge inside his mind.
Before I could encourage him to talk, he shoved back from the counter and hauled me off the ground and into his arms. The action was so unexpected, I yelped and clung for dear life, legs wrapping his waist as I secured a death grip around his head.
“Diem! What the hell?”
My shout of surprise went unanswered. With long, determined strides, Diem took us out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom, where he dropped me on the bed and landed on top of me before I could rebound.
The action could have been fatal. He could have crushed me, but Diem was a man with an unconscious awareness of his size and weight.
So, instead of deadly compression, he covered me like a soft blanket on a cold night.
His arms surrounded me, and he clung with a gentleness unbefitting the formidable tank most people saw.
Diem buried his face in my neck. Tight exhales burst wetly across my skin.
The distinct trickle of falling tears followed.
I knew with absolute certainty that I was the only person on the planet whom Diem felt safe enough to cry in front of.
It happened rarely, but when it did, those tears were utterly heart-wrenching.
Diem unraveled in my arms before I could process or understand what was happening, so I did the only thing I knew would work. I engulfed as much of his larger body in my arms as I could and held on for dear life.
In the nineteenth century, doctors believed that removing excess or impure blood from an ailing patient would restore balance to their system and improve their health.
When Diem’s tears ran, I imagined something similar.
I envisioned the poison he’d been spoon-fed in childhood draining away, renewing him, bringing balance to his upside-down life.
In time, the full-body quake calmed. Diem sniffled, still not lifting his face from my neck. He exhaled a ragged breath. “Sorry. It was a rough day.”
“I gathered. The meeting?” I asked, stroking his hair.
“Part of it.”
“The picture?”
“Didn’t help.”
Diem hated being vulnerable. I could have said a million supportive things, but silence was better.