Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"What could have made them want to do that, I wonder. They were reclusive, yes, but I can't really believe that taking a rowboat out on a lake at night in early March and both falling out of the boat and drowning was an accident."

"No, it wasn't any accident," Andy agreed. He was sitting at my kitchen table, on his lunch break. They'd been working on the house next door for several days now and I had started making them sandwiches and taking them over at lunch. They were such a convivial crew and so good looking that I felt comfortable and a little bit warm inside to have that bit of connection. I'd already dealt with the wet dream I'd had of Andy. It was just me not having had sex for some time and thinking back to my days before I'd met Tim. I'd given all of that up, though. That was behind me. I'd grown up.

Today, for the first time, Andy came into the house and ate with me while the rest ate over there on the job.

Until now, I hadn't realized how lonely I'd felt without Tim in the house and in this hiatus between semesters at the college. And I certainly couldn't concentrate on research, not with a dumpster sitting right outside my dining room window and me running there each time I heard a clunk to maybe see what was being tossed—and who was tossing it. It didn't escape me that I was more interested in seeing what was what out there than annoyed at the interruption of my work.

Strong, hunky construction workers in those loose, white coveralls, with no shirts under them, giving the impression that was all they were wearing. Heavy-duty construction boots, wide-stance strutting to and from the dumpster like they were heavy hung. Moving with the grace of dancers, contrasting tantalizingly with the hulkiness and roughness of their bodies. All smiles, patting each other on the back and rump intimately. The construction supervisor, Andy, moving among them, more muscular than any of them. Tattoos on his bulging biceps as well as on his calf. Rough, calloused, but sensitive, hands, moving expressively. He so attentive as he sat at my kitchen table.

"There must be some story behind it," I said, "and to think that it was developing just on the other side of this wall from me and I didn't know it was happening—or care."

"You mustn't be hard on yourself," Andy said, giving me a sympathetic look and ever so briefly touching my forearm with his rough, calloused fingers. "That's the way it is with city life. I'm sure you were having your own concerns here."

"Yes, I guess I was." That's when I told him about Tim and how harrowing it was that week that Tim was dying and there wasn't anything anyone could do—or was doing—to prevent that. It, of course, was only a week, though, and whatever was developing next door surely built up over much longer time than that. But Andy was right about urban life. Everyone here husbands their privacy. I couldn't say that either of the women, even the few times I saw them, appeared to be open to approach. Not that I ever gave a thought to approaching either one of them.

"But I guess I shouldn't be so revealing," I said, suddenly not sure of the vibes I had thought I got off this man. What if it was all in my hysterical fantasies—like in the wet dream of the other night? "I hadn't told you before that I'd lived here with a man. I hadn't thought that maybe you didn't . . . and didn't approve of . . ."

"I've seen the photographs of you and an older man. You have them around here on several tables. I figured it out. Don't worry. You two look happy in the photos."

"We were," I said, with a low voice.

"He must have given you everything you needed," Andy said, the edge of natural gruffness in his voice tempered.

"Yes, yes, he did," I answered.

But had he? Had Tim giving me everything I needed? He was an attentive but a pretty tame lover. Were my recent fantasies telling me I wanted more than that?

"He gave me everything I had a right to have from him," I answered, hedging now for some reason I couldn't explain.

Andy smiled, put a hand on my forearm, and said, "You should have everything you need."

It was only after Andy went back to work that I realized that, from my explanation of Tim's death, Andy realized the full extent of the gay relationship we'd had—what positions we took, how I let Tim dominate me as he liked. And yet he hadn't shown the slightest hint of revulsion. Could it be that I'd also revealed that what Tim gave me was a little tame?

"I keep wondering if there is anything in that house that would give a clue to why they did what they did," I said as Andy was getting up to return to work, the stiff rustle of his white coveralls arresting my attention, taking my eyes to the square-cut top with the curly chest hair cascading over it and the deep cut at the sides, showing hard, tanned skin down to his waist, as well as more tattooing.

"I've thought of that too." he answered. "Not much I've found, there isn't."

"Not much? You found something?"

"Well, their tables had photographs on them—of the two of them—very similar to the photos you have here of you and your . . . your other."

"Ah," was all I could think to say.

He pressed on. "There weren't any papers in the desk. There's little furniture, but other than not having taken care of maintenance in the house, it wasn't really cluttered. And nothing really in terms of personal affects that would tell you anything about the women—other than the photos, and they pretty much spelled out what the women were to each other. The lack of maintenance puzzles the estate agent too. There is a tidy sum in the estate; it was like the women didn't care that there was water draining down into the downstairs walls from leaks in the bathroom."

"Strange and mysterious," I said.

"Yes, it is. And perplexing."

"It's almost like they were afraid to let workmen in the house. But, I guess it's not really our place to delve into their lives in death when we didn't do it while they were alive," I said.

"No, I guess not," Andy answered. "It's bad to take too much for granted . . . or to rush anyone into deciding what they want."

He didn't sound too convinced, though. And, more important, he seemed to waver there, as if he wanted to make some parting gesture, some personal connection. But the moment passed and he just thanked me for the lunch—and for the sandwiches for Joe and Mitchell out there, the good-looking guys who were doing the grunt work. And then he left me, to bask in the glow of having had him at my table for lunch. Knowing what that meant to me—how it affected me—but content to let it build apace . . . or not. I went to the refrigerator to see what sort of different lunch I could put together for the workman the next day.

And then I was going to have to make a trip upstairs and indulge in a fantasy.