CHAPTER FOUR
As he waited for the light to change, Ray tried, he really tried, to think of sad things, sober things - famine, war, pestilence, his beloved Riv blown to smithereens - but all he could picture was the sight of upright, uptight Benton Fraser, RCMP, shouting out that he had to pee in front of the Mayor of Chicago, his boss, Ray's boss, Ray's mother, Ray's sister, the Mayor's bodyguards and entourage. For an instant, everyone in the room had frozen in place as they stared, shocked, at the red-faced Mountie. Then, Ray had lost it, howling with laughter, immediately joined by Lieutenant Welsh, then the Mayor, who, it turned out, had an infectious belly laugh.
Within moments, everyone in the room, with the exception of Fraser, was convulsing with mirth. Well, Ray thought, maybe not everyone. Inspector Thatcher may have joined in but it looked to Ray like she was faking it. Poor Fraser, battered and bruised, trapped in the bed sans underwear, was practically jiggling at that point. Ray, still laughing his butt off, had somehow taken control and herded the hysterical crowd out of the room and closed the door. Then, still chuckling, he had helped a bare-assed Fraser hobble to the bathroom. In the nick of time.
Since then, Ray would wind down, thinking the giggling fits were over. Then, the image would reassert itself, and he'd be off on another round of mirth. He bit his lip. He had to stop this, he really did. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, his friend was in pain. Deep down, he knew the incident wasn't that funny. His uncontrollable laughter was a byproduct of his relief that Fraser was alive, sitting next to him in the Riv. Offended, but alive. A chortle escaped, but he bit it off. They had arrived at Fraser's apartment building.
Fraser fumbled with the door handle. "Thank you kindly, Ray," he said. It was stated neutrally, but Ray still heard it. That signature expression of gratitude was insincere. No, more than that. It was actually sarcastic. Fraser's unfailing politeness was failing him now. Well, who could blame him? He had been mortified and humiliated and all Ray could do was laugh at him for 97 blocks.
"Wait a minute, Benny!" Ray, feeling guilty, hurried to unstrap his own seatbelt and reached to open his door.
"That's quite all right, Ray," he said, stiffly. "I'm fine." He slid himself gingerly out of the door and climbed to his feet slowly, using both hands to support himself on the car. Under his leather jacket, he was wearing Ray's cashmere sweater and a pair of faded scrubs donated by an orderly. His own clothes had either been cut off him in the ER or were sticky with maple syrup. Francesca had taken them home to wash, mend or discard. Or, perhaps, keep under her pillow. He couldn't summon the energy to care one way or the other.
Ray caught up with him. "Here's your medication." He handed the hospital bag to Fraser. He reluctantly took it. Inspector Thatcher had insisted on meeting with his doctor, prior to release. As a result, Fraser had been forced to take a ten day medical leave. They had extracted his word of honor that he would take the pills and follow the discharge instructions to the letter before discharging him. He shuffled to the entrance of the apartment building. Ray rushed to open the heavy door for him and Fraser went through to the lobby.
Ray followed him. "I'm sorry, Benny. I'm done. No more –" A chortle escaped. He quickly bit the inside of his cheek and thought of the end of Old Yeller. Fraser moved slowly past the elevator toward the stairs. "Uhn-uh. You gotta take the elevator." He reached for the call button. For once, the death trap appeared to be in working order.
"I'm fine, Ray," Fraser repeated, continuing towards the stairwell with dogged determination.
"Yeah, right." Ray got in front of him, blocking his way. "It's three flights up. You'll never make it. And I'm not carrying you this time."
"I didn't ask you to." Fraser tried to push past him, but Ray wasn't budging.
They faced each other in a classic Mexican, or in this case, Canadian, standoff. Ray knew that Fraser, under normal conditions, could beat him in any staring contest. That was aptly demonstrated so many times when he was on sentry duty. But these weren't normal conditions and Fraser, to put it mildly, was not at his best. Still, Ray didn't want to manhandle him given his current condition. He stepped aside and gestured broadly to the stairs.
"Be my guest."
Fraser shuffled to the stairs. As he approached the first riser, he attempted to lift his right foot. It stayed on the floor. He tried with the left. He got one inch high, but that was as far as it went. Fraser stood there, looking silently at his traitorous feet for a long moment. Then, he turned back.
"On second thought, I think ... uh ... I'll take the ... uh ..."
"Elevator?"
"Yes."
They stood there, facing straight ahead, as the rickety apparatus groaned and rattled its way down to them.
"I apologize, Ray," he said, awkwardly.
Ray rolled his eyes. "I should be the one to apologize." He looked at his friend directly. "I've been a jerk." He stabbed the elevator button again. "You should be pissed at me."
Fraser let out a noise. Ray looked at him. His lips were quirked up. Then, he burst out in a laugh, which quickly turned into a yelp. He hugged his ribs as he alternately laughed and groaned. He leaned weakly against the wall, roaring with mirth, and moaning in pain. Three flights up, Diefenbaker began howling in unison. The din was incredible. The neighbors began to poke their heads out of their apartments, murmuring and muttering at the disturbance.
Ray was nonplused. He had never seen Fraser laugh like that. Never. A smile. An occasional grin. A rare chuckle. Not these wild peals of laughter. It sobered him up completely. He was about to slap Benny for his own good when he stopped. Just then, the elevator pinged and the iron gate rattled open.
Fraser looked at him, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Nice choice of words, Ray."
"Huh?" Then, realizing what he had said, he grinned broadly. "No pun intended." He put a hand on Fraser's back to usher him into the lift and pulled it back when he sucked in a sharp breath.
"Sorry. Does it hurt?"
"Only when I laugh," he replied.
"Really?" Ray said, surprised.
"No, Ray," he deadpanned. That set Ray off again. Then, Fraser. Then, Dief. They stumbled into the elevator and rattled up to the third floor. By the time they got to the door of the apartment, Mrs. Campbell, and Mr. Mustafi were in the hallway, frowning in disapproval.
Ray greeted them all by name in Fraser's stead, since the Mountie was breathless from the exertion. He reassured them that he'd get the wolf quieted down, then quickly hustled Fraser inside and shut the door. He leaned against it.
"Whew! It's like running the gauntlet."
Fraser shuffled to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge. Diefenbaker put a paw on his knee and looked up at him, head cocked to one side.
"It's the drugs, Dief," he said, enunciating carefully. The wolf made a noise, a sort of whine-whimper that really sounded like a question to Ray. "Really. A little giddiness. I just need to rest."
"You want I should close it?" Ray gestured to the half-open window.
"No, leave it open, please," Fraser said, then yawned hugely. He tried to cover his mouth. "Ow,' he said, at the instinctive movement, then to Ray, "Excuse me." He watched as Ray scooped kibble into Dief's bowl and freshened his water. He eased himself back on the bed until he was as comfortable as he could manage. He closed his eyes for just a moment. He'd thank Ray when he was done tending to Dief, return his sweater, and ...
Dief padded over to his bowl. He looked up at Ray and made a noise. He seemed to expect some kind of response.
"You're welcome," Ray offered.
That seemed to satisfy the wolf, who bent his head and chowed down.
Ray opened the refrigerator door. Not much in there, besides maple syrup. He checked the pantry. He moved a can of soup down from the top shelf and set it on the counter. He did the same with a pot. He filled a glass with water and carried it over to the bedside table.
Fraser was out for the count, breathing in deep, regular rhythm. Ray eased his shoes off and set them neatly under the bed. He grabbed the extra blanket out of the wardrobe and spread it over him. Sleep really was the best prescription. Ray had tried to convince him to come home to his house, but Fraser had declined. He had to agree that he was much more likely to actually rest in the spartan apartment than at Ray's noisy, crowded house, especially with Frannie underfoot. He would stop in tomorrow after his shift and check on him.
Ray turned off the light. "G'night, Dief," he called, softly. "Don't eat my sweater." He got a woof in the affirmative. With one last look around, he exited and pulled the door shut behind him. It bothered him that he couldn't lock it, but there was nothing to be done about that now. As he walked past the next door, Mr. Mustafi poked his head out.
"Is he all right?" he asked Ray, a hint of a Middle Eastern accent coloring his words.
"Yeah," he said, "he'll be fine." He nodded, continuing down the hall. He stopped and came back. "Keep an eye on him, will ya?" He handed Mustafi his card. "That's my cellular phone."
Mustafi took the card and squinted at it. "I will," he said, solemnly.
Ray wished him a good night and proceeded down the three flights of stairs. There had been enough danger in the past twenty-four hours. No way he was taking another ride in that decrepit antique. As he started the Riv, he looked up at the third floor window. "Night, Benny," he said, then headed home, eagerly anticipating his own bed.
Fraser jerked awake from a dream in which he was falling, falling, falling forever into an abyss - a dream he suspected would be with him for a while. He glanced at the luminous face of his alarm clock. Three a.m. He lay quietly, careful not to disturb the warm presence tucked up close beside him. Dief must really be worried about him as the wolf much preferred to sleep alone. Well, he'd given him cause last night.
It had been a close call. If it hadn't been for Ray's quick thinking ... He didn't want to follow that thought through to its depressing conclusion. He had scared his friends last night. And, if he was honest, himself. Ray had been right - he should have let go of Maxwell and used both hands to climb back to the safety of the roof. It was logical, rational. If their positions had been reversed, he would have urged Ray to let the man drop and save himself, and not thought any less of him for doing so. Fraser could not explain why he didn't let go. It hadn't been a choice. He couldn't do it. He was incapable of letting go.
Why, he asked himself, bitterly? Why had he held on to a violent criminal almost at the cost of his own life? A man who had caused the dangerous situation in the first place with the intention of killing him. Duty? Honor? Martyr complex? His thoughts chased themselves round and round, finding no answers, until he had to get up. He eased himself to the edge of the bed. Dief stirred, and whimpered. He stroked his ruff until the wolf settled, then shuffled to the bathroom. When he was finished, he realized that he was hungry. He knew there wasn't much provender in the apartment. He needed to go shopping, but perhaps a piece of ham and a glass of milk would suffice. He shuffled to the refrigerator and opened the door with a small grunt of effort.
Next to the nearly empty carton of milk and in front of the maple syrup were two unfamiliar items. Curious, he pulled them out. Written in rather florid handwriting on masking tape, was the word "hummus"on the plastic tub and "pita" on the foil. It was the same handwriting as on Mr. Mustafi's mailbox card. Fraser pried the lid off the container and sniffed appreciatively. Garlic, olive oil, and lemon. He felt a bump against his leg. Diefenbaker looked intently at the container, tongue lolling.
"Yes, of course, you may have some." Fraser tore a piece off the pita bread and spread it thickly with the smooth paste. He gave it to Dief who gulped it down in one bite, then wagged his tail appreciatively. Fraser nodded in encouragement. "This is the type of healthy food you should be eating, instead of the donuts and Milk Duds you seem to favor these days." He divided the treat between two plates, then placed Dief's share on the floor. Fraser nearly beat him in finishing the meal. It was that good and he was that hungry. The wolf whined. "That's all there is." Fraser licked his own fingers. "Perhaps Mr. Mustafi will part with the recipe." Deif yipped hopefully, then settled on his usual spot on the floor.
Fraser washed the container and set it on the drainboard. He lined up the medicine bottles that the hospital had sent home, checked the directions, then took the requisite pills. He chased them with milk, then made a face. Milk and garlicky hummus were not a fortuitous pairing. As he put the milk carton away, he noticed the bottle of maple syrup on the top shelf. He poured a minute amount on his plate and tasted. It cleared his palate. His brand of maple syrup was a good Canadian staple, but it was no Quebecois Dark Reserve. He retrieved the sense memory of the premium syrup that he had tasted yesterday at Nick's. It was sublime. He had enjoyed watching Ray's face as he had tasted one of the best, if not the very best, maple syrups in the world. Even Ray, who was by no means a connoisseur of the liquid gold, could tell the difference.
Fraser frowned. How was it that the premiere food product of Canada, whose exportation outside of the French Canadian province was strictly controlled, was being sold in the back alleys of Chicago? It was a mystery. A mystery he intended to solve. After all, he needed something to occupy himself for the next ten days. He moved slowly back to his bed and climbed in. He was asleep in moments. Dief looked up from his spot on the floor and nodded in approval before joining his pack mate in slumber.
