Communion (1950)
David McCord

Strange Crossroads

by Lyrica

Simon Banks picked up the phone just as it began its second ring. "Banks," he barked into the receiver.

"Simon, it's Jim."

Simon smiled broadly. He'd been expecting this call. He'd been waiting on it for days, imagining it, almost tasting it. Now that it
was here, phone in his hand, Jim's voice tinny and faint in his ear, he was almost sad. Anticipation had been so sweet. But not so sweet as what he expected to come next.

He pushed away the stack of reports at which he'd been staring for the past half hour. The pale folders slipped sideways and
cascaded across his desk. He just let them go as he kicked back, levering one foot up onto the edge of the desk, and pulled out a cigar. "Jim! How's the fishing?" The words came out just right, imbued with good cheer and casual greeting.

Jim, though, apparently didn't share Simon's humor. He ignored the question and his voice, through the static of long distance,
was sharp and worried. "Have you seen Sandburg?"

Oh, yeah…sweet. Simon cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder while he centered the tip of his cigar perfectly in the little clipper and snipped off the end. He rolled the cigar back and forth, savored the scent of it, the way it crinkled against the
pads of his fingers. Answered slowly, as if he had all day. "Well, sure, Jim, I've seen the kid. But you didn't answer me. How's
the fishing?"

"It's fine. The fishing's fine," Jim snapped. "I've been trying the loft, and I can't catch Blair in. He isn't answering his cell phone.
And he hasn't been to work. I'm-- I…"

The beginnings of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as Simon listened to Jim struggle to make the words come out. His
best detective was a good fisherman, but Jim was an even better fish, and he had just taken the bait. Simon struggled to keep
the smile out of his voice as he gave his first experimental tug on the line. "Blair's staying with me."

"Staying with you! Why's he staying with you? Is he still sick?!"

"Nah, he's doing just fine." Jim must be using some worn-out, roadside, gas station payphone. One of those old black ones with chipped corners and all the shiny decoration worn through to bare metal, sheltered by one of those scratched plexiglass hoods
that didn't really block out any of the surrounding noise. Simon heard the swish of tires on asphalt, the slamming of a car door
and a voice calling out a greeting. The connection crackled, as if Jim was working the cord between his fingers.

Simon imagined that if he listened close enough, underneath the ambient noise, he could hear Jim's jaw working. Could hear him seesawing between pretended nonchalance and a good old-fashioned Ellison explosion. Simon hadn't seen one of those in a
couple of years. Actually, not since Blair had come into Jim's life. For good measure, and because he was still a little ticked at
Jim for himself and a whole lot ticked at Jim for the sadness he'd seen in Blair, Simon waited another few seconds, letting the
silence grow. Then he rubbed it in a little thicker. "He's doing much better in fact. I took him to the hospital when we first got
back."

"The hospital! What did he need to go to the hospital for?"

Simon deliberately misunderstood what Jim meant. "What for?! Well, in case you didn't notice, Jim, the kid was sick. Very sick. And then we dragged him over half the mountain up there--"

"You mean *I* dragged him over half the mountain," Jim interrupted angrily.

Simon chomped down on his cigar with a little more ferocity than he'd intended. "Okay, Jim, if you want to lay credit where
credit is due. *You* dragged him over half the mountain. The guy you accused of treating you like a lab rat came in pretty
handy when you *needed* him. And he kept up pretty good, despite how sick he was."

Jim sighed. "Simon, are you still pissed about my leaving? I explained all that."

"Yeah, you explained. After you didn't have the guts to explain here in my office." There was a long silence from the other end
of the phone. A long guilty silence. Simon allowed himself to relent, but only just a little. He knew Jim hadn't meant to hurt
anybody, but he also knew Jim didn't think sometimes before he acted. "Ah, shit, Jim, I'm over it. My skin's as thick as yours.
But the kid's different. He's not like you and me, and I don't want him to ever be like you and me."

"I know he's different." Jim relented for a moment, and Simon wondered if Jim was even aware of how his voice had softened.
Then just as quickly as it had gone, the annoyance was back. "What's with the sudden concern for Blair, anyway?" Jim
snapped.

Jealousy came through the anger plainly, and Simon stopped trying to control his grin. He let it bloom as he wondered how
much longer his best detective was going to be so oblivious, so obtuse, to what was so obvious. Even a rookie could see the
clues. "Somebody needs to be concerned about him."

"Like you?" Jim growled.

"Well…" Simon pretended to consider, drawing the word out, rolling the cigar another couple of turns. "…sure. Why not? It's
been great, having somebody to go home to. Once he settles down and gets comfortable, the kid's fine company. But you
already know that, don't you? Otherwise, that one week stay-over wouldn't have turned into a couple of years."

There was another long silence on the phone, then Jim said, "'Gets comfortable'?" His voice was dangerously low. "Gets
*comfortable*!" The growl became a rumble that bespoke of an animal with shoulders bunched and hackles raised.

Simon grinned, teeth showing, and said softly, "What's the matter, Ellison? Afraid I've developed a taste for pale, sweet meat?"

As Jim started to sputter, Simon gently hung up the phone. And then he sat there and grinned until his face ached. Picturing Jim's reaction was so easy, it was like having enhanced senses and esp rolled into one. He could imagine the muscles standing out in
his friend's neck, the angry flush creeping up Jim's face, could hear the enamel of his teeth being ground away to dust as that
square jaw worked. Feel the vibration as Jim slammed the receiver down on the hook. That poor, old antique payphone had
probably just lost another chip of plastic

Simon settled his cigar between his teeth, patted his pockets, then the files on his desk as he dialed with his other hand. He'd
just fished his lighter from under a pile of papers when Daryl answered.

"Banks residence."

Simon spat his cigar into his hand. "Hello, son."

"Dad! Hi. I was just about to call you."

"Yeah? What're you up to this afternoon?"

"Blair said if I finished all my homework by five, we could have pizza for supper. All I've got left is my math, so can we?"

"Did you ask Blair to help you with your history?"

"Yes sir. We already finished it. Blair said I've got it down pat. I'm gonna *ace* that test!"

"Good."

"So, can we, Dad? Get pizza?"

Simon pretended reluctance. "Didn't we have pizza night before last?"

"Aw, Dad…!"

Simon laughed at the wheedling tone. "Yeah, sure. If you finish your math like Blair said, we can get pizza. If you want to call it
in, I'll pick it up on my way home."

"All right!" Daryl crowed, then blasted Simon's hearing by yelling, "Hey, Blair! Dad said we can."

"Ouch," Simon protested mildly. Through the ringing in his ear, he could hear Daryl doing his happy dance, feet pattering on the
tile floor of the kitchen. "Put Blair on."

Blair was less exuberant than Daryl, but still laughing as he came on the line. "Hey, Simon, what's up?"

"Hey, Blair. Thanks for helping Daryl with his history. He's been having a tough time with it. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. It's the least I could do considering the way you've looked after me this week."

"Speaking of which…you need to get your stuff packed up." Simon brought the cigar back to his lips and rocked his chair back
even farther. He thumbed his lighter and watched the bluegold flame dance as he smiled at the sun shining through the windows
of his office. "I think Jim will be home early."
 

The End