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Leaving Spy magazine had to be one of the most gentle firings that Mike had ever had the pleasure of partaking in. Almost painless, like a freeze burn. He imagined the shock of it would probably set in later, once he'd had a decent amount of time to think while sitting on the kerb he'd been kicked to. It might even be the time he liked Sidney Kidd the best, not that it was saying a lot. Still, Mike had the right of it, he was definitely getting fired in the morning - better than getting married in the morning, as the song goes. Although that had nearly happened too, as it turned out. And wasn't that the darndest thing of all.
After the wedding, he'd sat on the terrace in the sunshine, feeling bemused and bewildered. Also hungover but he only had himself to blame for that, plus a little extra from that morning's stinger from Uncle Willie - who was a dark horse in Mike's opinion. He was surrounded by the bird-of-paradise-like denizens of rich Philadelphian life and feeling out of place, which was also news to no-one, when Sidney Kidd bounced up and joined him, grinning like some demented child. Mike eyed him sidelong, like he would a suspicious animal that might yet bite.
"Wonderful pictures!" said Sidney, patting his little camera, "And somehow I managed to prevent it falling in the ice bucket, how lucky for me!"
"Sure," said Mike, "Lucky." He privately thought Tracy must be losing her touch - probably from happiness.
Sidney then waved a set of typed notes in his face, which Mike didn't recognise, but had an awful feeling about. "Great copy," said Sidney then, not losing his grin, "But then I always liked your style, Connor. Pity your last piece will never see the light of day. Don't expect a check."
"I never expect checks, " said Mike, "Then they always come as a lovely surprise."
Sidney slapped him on the back like he'd made a great joke, toasted him with his champagne glass and wandered off. Mike felt he knew how the chicken that crossed the road felt - if he'd never made it to the other side.
He looked up, and what did you know, Mr C.K. Dexter Haven himself was standing twinkly-eyed behind a bush. In Mike's experience, this was not an uncommon phenomenon. Mr C.K. Dexter Haven always seemed to be there when he was at his most humiliated. Generally, truculence was the emotion uppermost on Mike's mind when he observed this particular visage of manliness in a linen suit. His punched jaw ached in a phantom kind of a way and he lifted his own glass in an ironic salute. In theory, it was the happiest day of the man's life, and he should know because this was the second time around. Mike wondered why instead of enjoying it C.K. Dexter Haven was lurking in a bush watching him.
***
One week later, a check arrived in the same envelope as a lease agreement for a darling little hunting cabin in the woods near Unionville. The check was in one handwriting and the lease was in another. It seemed the happy couple were already doing everything together. Mike wasn't sure how he felt about all this largesse, he'd told Tracy that it wasn't done to play the lady bountiful in these modern times, but he couldn't argue with it, not with his rent due at the end of the week and his job prospects through the floor. He supposed the check was for services rendered and that felt even worse. Grubby somehow. But Liz Imbrie came over to help him pack up and to fuss over him which he appreciated, even if it mostly consisted of smart remarks about his threadbare wardrobe. She soon put him right about how grubby he could ill afford to feel. Mike looked at her clearly, she was a good girl and he liked her, sure. But what did she think was going to happen with Mike two hours drive away and no money for gas? He wasn't sure she'd thought this through all the way.
So he was going to be a writer again. A real writer this time, starving away in his garret, sorry, cabin, quietly finishing his magnum opus before being eaten by bears probably. Mike stretched up to his full height once he finally got there, stepping out of his battered Ford after bouncing up the rutted track, and feeling his back crack a little as he took in a great lungful of healthy fresh air. He was sure it would make him cough, his lungs had never had healthy fresh air in their life. He smiled at the thought. The trees around him made him feel small for once, not the gangling beanpole he knew himself to be, but that was kind of nice in a way, like he was being looked after somehow, like he could let go for once.
The cabin was neat and tidy and at least twice as big as he'd pictured, and he'd pictured pretty big. There were stag heads on the walls and plaid blankets folded on the couch. Mike liked it. He laid out his old typewriter on the table in the snug before wandering out onto the porch and sitting in the swing chair, listening to the rustling of the trees. So. He was here. This was the next chapter of his life for better or worse. For richer or poorer, whispered the trees back at him. Apparently even trees could be ironic now. Mike supposed he better figure out when hunting season started and make friends with the locals before then - make sure he didn't become prey.
***
Tracy was the first to visit him. She drove up in some sleek coupe, red hair wrapped in a white silk scarf that she shook out when she stepped from the car. It was like the world brightened around her, everyone and everything happy to see her, not just poor old Mike in his charity cabin. She was lucky he had cream for coffee, was what crossed his mind, since he'd had no notice - although he was quite aware that since the nearest telephone was three miles away, he was being unfair. Mike decided he wanted to feel hard done by, it kept his feet on the ground, kept his battered little heart from fluttering up too high in his chest at the sight of her, so fine and fresh, and not remotely his.
Tracy herself was ready to be pleased, by the situation, by his arrangements, by his typewriter and the pages of manuscript he'd already got stacked up by the desk lamp. Pleased in general, that was Tracy, but Mike found himself oddly relaxed as she darted from place to place, which surprised him. Where was the discomfort, the chip on the working man's shoulder he was expecting to feel around his patroness and landlady? He was learning to be a kept man even sooner than he expected, it seemed.
They sat, after a while, on the couch with the plaid blankets, which were not needed in the early summer weather, and Tracy sighed as she settled back against the cushions.
"I'm glad you're comfortable, Mike. I'm glad it's working out - I know you must have had reservations." There was a faint edge to her tone, that almost made him bristle, until he realised that she wasn't directing it at him, but was instead looking inward at something only she could see. He wondered what reservations she was thinking of - not the same as his, he was suddenly certain.
"Well, here I am, a regular Davy Crockett, eking out an existence in my wooden shack with only six bedrooms. Whatever shall I do?" said Mike, smiling to show he didn't mean it.
Tracy laughed. "I am glad. Truly. And your work?"
"Going as well as can be expected. A bouncing baby in the offing as the midwife might say. I feel like something is being born, at any rate, but we'll see. How is life back at the farm?"
She hesitated, he saw it, but could only guess as to why.
"Oh, it's not like it's new to me, you know," said Tracy, "You forget, I've been mistress of the collective Haven Mansions before." She kicked off her shoes and curled her legs up. "Same old butler, same old servants, same old... me."
There was discontent in her voice, that was what he was hearing, and Mike did feel a flash of his old militancy towards the rich and undeserving, before manfully swallowing it in the genuine unhappiness of his... friend.
"What were you expecting?" Mike asked gently, because he was genuinely curious.
Tracy laughed, her trilling fake laugh, and it brought Mike right back to the pair of them in the gardens that night, champagne on their tongues as they kissed...
"I thought... Oh, I don't know what I thought. I suppose I felt that if I had changed and Dext too, then our new marriage would be different. Somehow. But it's not. Not really."
She frowned and he hated to see it on her dear face.
"I suppose I haven't really changed at all. And that's sad."
***
Dexter came in the night, shyly sliding his car in under the trees, like he was ashamed of his visit and trying to hide. He nearly gave Mike a heart attack, he'd thought there was an intruder and he met Dexter at the door with a shovel in hand. Dexter raised an eyebrow at him and Mike immediately felt like a heel. Dexter seemed to do that to him effortlessly.
"Are you planning on getting your own back," asked Dexter mildly, "Or can I come in?"
Of course, Mike let him in and went quickly about tidying the place. He hadn't been expecting surprise millionaires and it gave him something to do with his hands. Dexter sat on the couch and stared at him, then stared at the whisky in the glass on the coffee table, Mike's toddy before retiring.
"Oh, sit down, will you," said Dexter, "And drink your drink."
Mike did, slowly folding his long limbs.
"I just wanted to see how you were going on," said Dexter, a plaintive note in his voice, as Mike eyed him suspiciously. "Tracy mentioned how comfortable you were."
Oh, thought Mike, is that how it was, the husband checking up on the erring wife. His heartbeat, which had been pretty darned fast since the shock of Dexter's arrival, started to beat harder as he prepared to get mad. How dare he! What did he think of Mike to imagine such a thing, and more particularly, what did he think of Tracy? His anger was fueled by his own impossible hopes and dreams - there was nothing like guilt to spur a body on.
Dexter put out a hand, laid it on his arm, and as easy as that Mike felt his anger melt away. Dexter's hand was large and warm, soft and manicured. Nothing like Mike's spindly paws, covered in ink from the typewriter ribbon, scratched from cutting kindling for the stove.
"Comfortable is something Red and I never seem to manage," said Dexter by way of explanation, "Not unless I had a glass in my hand - and I'll jump off a bridge before I start drinking again."
Mike must have made a sound, something inarticulate, because Dexter focused back onto his face. "Oh, do excuse me, I appear to be getting too comfortable. Don't worry, Mike - you don't mind if I call you Mike, do you? Seeing as you're my tenant by marriage. No, you don't have to worry for any local bridges, I wouldn't do that to you." There was that humour again, hovering in the corners of his eyes. "It's just an expression."
Mike wasn't at all sure about that. Dexter just didn't seem to be used to being serious. Maybe that was the problem.
"Sounds like you need the healthy fresh air up here more than I do," Mike said cautiously and Dexter laughed.
"I've had too much if anything. Fresh air, exercise, I'm disgustingly healthy really. The brightwork is dazzling. It's just when I was drinking, it blurred the edges of things, let them rub along and fit together better. I miss that part of it, I think."
Mike cleared his throat. He wasn't sure if he should be offering, when it wasn't even his place, but, "Anytime you need to get away - you'd be welcome. Save me becoming the wild man of the woods."
After all, it was Dexter who had saved him from himself and given him this chance. Not so much tough love as brutal love, admittedly, but Mike owed him. Dexter smiled at him then, not smirked, no irony about him, and Mike felt his heart thump once, like a drum, and he was lost and drowning.
***
"Well, isn't this fine," said Tracy, as she looked around at the picnic table Mike had set up outside, since the weather was warm enough. He'd even tried baking - cheese scones - and that made her hide her smile behind her hand.
"Did you wear an apron, Mike?" she asked him, disingenuously.
He pretended to growl and rushed her and she screamed delightedly and raced off. He caught up easily, but not too easily and swept her off her feet. Her hair smelled of flowers and sunshine as he carried her back to the picnic table, and she swung her legs like a little girl.
His heart felt all swollen, like it was too big for his chest. Tracy looked at him then, a casual glance that lingered. "Oh, Mike," she said.
He put her down like she'd burned him. What had he been thinking? He'd let it go too far, he'd been too free...
But instead Tracy slipped an arm around his waist and tucked herself under his chin. "It's all right, you know," she said, her voice throbbing but steady. "I think we all need something to hold on to. Something like this. You mustn't feel ashamed. I don't."
He held her to him then, like he'd been wanting to do since her wedding and tried to fix it in his mind, all the little details, like a keepsake.
"Mike, do you remember what you said to me back then? How I wasn't made of bronze, how I was made of flesh and blood, and that was the blank unholy surprise of it?"
He cleared his throat. "I remember. I'll never forget, you know."
"Well, Dext remembers that about me too - most of the time. But not many others do. No-one really. Only you. And him. That means something."
"Him. And me."
"That's right."
"No, I mean, him and me..." Mike flushed, not even knowing what he wanted to say. Not sure he even knew what he meant. He should do - who was the writer here? But talking about it seemed impossible.
"Oh Mike," said Tracy again, but this time she was the surprised one. But not unhappy, Mike realised, not shocked and disgusted. "Well, that might explain a few things. Oh, but I'm glad, Mike, so glad."
She turned her beautiful face up to his.
"It means things have changed after all. It means he needs us, don't you see? He needs both of us, if only he could be brought to realise it. And I need you."
And I am caught, thought Mike, prey after all.
***
The summer came in earnest now. The trees burgeoning with life, the birds making rackets at all hours of the day and night until Mike couldn't hear himself think some mornings. He became a man who rose with the dawn, which in the city, as a reporter, he'd never thought he'd ever be. It felt like everything was settling down to breed, even the local youngsters were giggling in pairs in the corners of the only bar for miles. It might have made Mike feel old, but he found he couldn't really object, not when he felt like a compass with two lodestones, pulling him into their orbit and then every which way after that.
He could have felt frustrated, but instead he felt alive. He watched the robins in the trees carving out their territories, desperate to be noticed, and felt smug, in a twisted way. He certainly had their attention, he was better off than the robins. There wasn't a week went by without one or other of them driving out to see him. He went for walks with Tracy, he went swimming with Dexter. He went sailing on the the little ice water lake with both of them at different times, or rather, they sailed and he learned. And they talked.
It wasn't about all that much, not really, not at first, but all the social niceties, even the awkward ones, wear smooth eventually. So he was lounging on a warm rock by the swimming hole with Dex when the man in question leaned up on an elbow and said, wonder in his voice, "Do you know, I believe that I am actually happy." Like it was a surprise, like he hadn't noticed it had been happening.
Mike snorted at his overblown dramatics. Which almost made Dex frown, before his own natural sense of humour reasserted itself.
"Yes, well, I'm not used to it. The privileged classes don't actually enjoy their privileges most of the time, and if we do it's considered terribly passé."
"You just make everything too complicated," said Mike, "Now take me - I can't afford for anything to be that complicated. In fact, the most complicated thing I've been involved with is... us." His voice broke then which didn't help the light tone he'd been going for. "And that just shows you that it must be involvement with the privileged classes that are the problem."
There was a silence but it wasn't bad. Mike mentally cursed his stupidity anyway.
"Are we a problem, Mike?" asked Dex at last, very gently.
Mike rolled over, suddenly conscious that he was only wearing a bathing suit and he was too skinny and too gangling, and his skin felt hot all over, prickling suddenly in the warmth of Dex's regard.
"Is there an us?" he shot back, ready as always to go on the offensive, rather than be hurt.
"Well, that's rather the question, isn't it?" said Dex, but from the uncomplicated happiness in his eyes, something more thoughtful was taking its place. "It seems to me that we haven't been entirely fair to you."
Mike wondered if it would spoil the moment if he rolled his eyes.
"You see, Red and I..." Dex paused, his eyes twinkling now. "It might shock you to know that we can occasionally find ourselves falling back into old habits. And that's bad, you know."
"I hear divorces can be terribly expensive at this time of year."
"And not good for the skin. But here - with you..." Mike realised Dex was struggling - Mister Smooth, with a quip for all occasions, was having trouble when it came to expressing serious matters. Emotions, thought Mike, always the elephant in the room.
"Well, that's why you need a writer. So you can always get your lines right," he tried.
Dex smiled. "That's why we are always going to need you."
He reached out then and clasped Mike's hand. It was sun warmed and lightly tanned and the feel of it on his skin made Mike shiver. Because it was the final promise, a guerdon for the future, when all their pieces were here. It wasn't fair to start something yet, he knew that. But it would be soon because it seemed to him that the negotiations were finally done and there was a place for him in this beautiful world, after all. For the first time Mike thought the nasty weight that sat on his chest was lifting. The green imp of jealousy was hopping off his shoulder. Let the hearth fires and holocausts commence.