A Certain Slant of Light by Laura Whitcomb Page A

help but believe him. I had my arm at my side, and now I lifted my hand to his, where it rested on the blanket. Without intending to, my hand passed through him from the thighs up to his heart before I pulled away, tingling. He gasped and his eyes widened in amazement.
       "I'm sorry," I said, worried that I had inadvertently stopped his heart. Then I saw his hand move to his shorts and press the hardness under his clothes against his body. His face flushed. I leapt out of the bed to the corner of the room.
       "I'm sorry," he echoed. "It's all right." He took the pillow and covered himself with it.
       "It's my fault," I stammered. I wanted to fly away.
       "I didn't mean to offend you," said James. "You surprised me."
       "I'll be back in the morning," I told him.
       "No, no," he whispered. "Rest in the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."
       I shook my head. "Please," said James. "Otherwise I won't be able to sleep."
       He stood, still holding the pillow in front of him. I moved to the bed and lay down, both embarrassed and secretly flattered. A flitting memory of warm skin under a cool sheet made me blush. I lay there and watched him, glad to be in his bed rather than alone on the roof. He turned out the light and stretched out on the floor, tucking the pillow under his head now.
       "Maybe tomorrow," he whispered, "you'll taste an apple."
     
     
     
     
    Seven
     
     
    As THE TWILIGHT before dawn began to form objects out of what had been invisible, the window frame cast a cross on the wall, turning the little room into a chapel. On the floor beside the bed, James sat up with a start, like a dog that hears gunfire. He looked at me where I sat on his mattress. "Don't go anywhere," he said.
       While he showered, I wandered through the house. Passing the bathroom door, I heard the echoed hiss of water running, and, as I passed Mitch's room, I heard a voice. I couldn't under stand the words, but there was a kind of anguish in the tone. I moved through the wall and found Mitch sleeping with a sheet over him up to his bare chest. I could see his tattoos better now: around his left arm, a Celtic braid; around his right, a chain of thorns; and over his heart, a single sword no bigger than a butter fly. He seemed deeply asleep, but then he spoke.
       "You bastard." His face, eyes shut hard, went from anger to pain in one instant. A sob shook him, and he swung his right arm over his body as if trying to free it from something. Then he sat up with a cry and opened his eyes.
       "Shit," he muttered. He rubbed his face where tears had not had time to run and shook himself. Looking at the clock, he sighed.
       "I hate Third Sunday."
       James found me waiting in his room. He appeared in his towel and took clothes from his drawer and closet. He smiled at me. "Close your eyes now."
       I sat facing the windows, watching him in the reflection there. I didn't realize he knew I was peeking until he'd buttoned his pants and then pantomimed a strong-man pose looking at the window before he put on his shirt. I turned to him, unable to truly feel ashamed.
       We came into the kitchen and found Mitch drinking a cup of coffee. "You ready?" he said to James.
       "What for?"
       "Third Sunday," said Mitch. "Just 'cause you didn't go last month doesn't mean you get to blow it off. I'm not hanging out with Verna by myself."
       James paused. "Verna. Okay." Obviously he didn't remember this monthly ritual. "You get off work okay?"
       Mitch frowned at him. "What?"
       "You work on Sunday mornings."
       Mitch gave him an odd look. "They know about Mom," he said. "I've had Third Sunday half-day for four fucking years. What's the matter with you?"
       "My name is Billy, and I'm a recovering drug addict."
       This made Mitch laugh, almost spitting his coffee on his shirt.
       James seemed pleased. They made breakfast together, not speak ing much. As they ate toast and eggs, Mitch began to wind down, like an