Miles (20 page)

"Why
do you love me?"  Brennan's playful words came to me in ticklish
puffs of air, but dropped like mortar fire.  It took a long time for him
to realize I wasn't responding to his kisses.

My
lost words fertilized the garden-variety fear inside me.  "I'm alone,
without you."

Brennan's
hands took my face and felt the wetness along the edge of my eyes and my shaking
lips.  "You're not alone."

"I
am..."

"No."

"My
God..."  My voice went to pieces.  "Alone!"  Some
kind of scream began to retch outward before it was stopped dead by Brennan's
mouth, sealing itself over mine.  His fingers closed my wet eyes, keeping me
from another selfish cry and keeping us locked together.

Somebody,
presumably in a heaven someplace, sent us to a merciful sleep on the same
tear-dampened pillow.

*

Bits
of the sun managed their way through the corners of the storm clouds, which could
not decide if they would come together and have at it, or just drift off toward
another city in need of wintering.

I
finished my REM-interrupting pee and stared out of the bathroom's icy rectangle
window as the toilet flushed.  I didn't hear Brennan open the bathroom
door behind me, but, without a start, I smiled when his hands reached around my
waist.

We
stood wordlessly in the dark and held and touched and rubbed and licked and
sucked and pushed and pulled and pumped and drained each other senseless.

*

"I
have another question."

"Brennan,
shut up until the sun comes up."

He
ignored me again.  "Does love last forever?"

"How
would I know?"

"You're
the smart one."

"Christ,
Brennan, I'm no smarter than you or anyone else.  I just remember everything
I read."  And feel.  And think.  My voice tensed up and
rose.  "Do you have any idea how that separates me from others, like
you and the guys, or the other inmates in my classes?"

"I'm
sorry," he whispered.  "You are smarter, though, or more talented,
maybe both, to judge by your poetry.  I've read some, you know."

I
rolled over from my back to my side, facing my friend in the fading darkness of
the bedroom.  I could distinguish a Stan Getz ballad somewhere in the
background.  "That’s funny, but I don’t remember ever showing you
any."

"Before
the symphony, when you took your shower without me."  I figured we'd
miss the symphony, if I hadn't gone in by myself.  "I hope you're not
mad."

"No,"
I mumbled.  "Did you like any of ‘em?"

"I
sure did a whole lot."  Another flash overcame me, the bastard. 
"Especially the one about going to the ballpark with your mom," he
added.  The frosty currents of silence took me away from the exploding
scoreboards and flaming Cubs pennants and into Brennan's soft arms. 
"I think you're super-special, and you'd be a happier person if you
accepted that."

"Stop
it, Brennan."

"I
love you."

"Stop
it."  My voice was crushed by the tears that began falling from my
eyes.  More damn tears.  I felt like a weakling, such a helpless,
useless fairy.  I wanted a dollar for every time had I cried in the last
calendar year.  I'd buy the White Sox, by God!

Brennan
ignored my tears, too.  "So, do you think love lasts forever, or
what?"

"I
don't know," I choked through the end of the light rain. I managed a
laugh.  "I love the White Sox, even when they're no good."

"Which
is most of the time," Brennan added.  We laughed together and
kissed.  "Hey, the sun's up.  What would you like to eat for
breakfast?"

"How
about you?"

"You."

"Huh?"

Brennan
pointed at me and said quietly, "You.  I want you for
breakfast."

Aren’t
you stuffed from dinner?  I knew I was.  Ouch. 

I
brushed a curtain of his long blond hair away from his face.  "You
can have me for the rest of the year, Brennan," I replied in a hush.

"What
happens after that?"

"Ask
me again next year."

We
laughed again and kept kissing, until a further three more songs finished after
Getz'.  I had a mind to call the station and ask if they'd play
"Cheek to Cheek" for me, no, for us, but my breakfast kiss kept me
busy.  Kept
us
busy, actually.

*

Much
later, the phone kept ringing, and it wasn't a bad dream.  It was Felix.

"Good
morning, sir.  This is your wake up call." 

"Felix..." 
What time was it?

"How
was the symphony?  What was on the program?"

I
rolled over and moved closer to the edge of the bed.  Brennan kept his
eyes closed, but followed my body with his.

"Shostakovich's
Fifteenth Symphony," subtitled: The Evil Photographer.

"How
was it?"

"Superb." 
I only cried once, and didn't laugh out loud at all.

"I'll
bet it was.  Have you ever been snowmobiling?"

"It's
been a few years, but, yeah, I have.  I love it."

Brennan
mumbled he loved me from the nape of my neck.

"What
did you say," Felix asked?

"Nothing." 
I covered the mouthpiece and whispered for Brennan to be quiet.  He stuck
his tongue out at me.  "Why?"  Had Jason bought a stable of
snowmobiles?

"Dad
saw something about snowmobiling on TV last night, and wants to drive to
Michigan, like, right now."  Jason Cromwell was mad, and would live a
very long and happy life, I reflected.  "We'd all love for you to
come with us."

I
smiled.  "Right now?"  It sounded fun.  Brennan
pressed his erection between his stomach and my lower back, moaning very loudly
in the process.  I clamped my hand over the receiver and told him to shut
up.  He pulled a strand of pubic hair from my balls in reply.  I
screamed out, pushing Brennan and his playful tool away from me.

Felix
hung up.

I
tried calling back, but the line was busy, and stayed that way.  I dropped
the phone into its cradle and fell back into bed.  I felt bad. 
Brennan said he was sorry.  I shrugged it off and went back to sleep in
his arms, thinking about how I might try and make it up to Felix next week.

*

We
drove back to Brennan's and strolled through his backyard into the connecting
forest.  The morning sun gleamed through the tall grey trees around
us.  We had trouble keeping our footing on the uneven ground and the loose
layer of snow over it.  Brennan took my hand as soon as we couldn't see
his house.

"You
have to have the biggest backyard I've ever seen.  It’s so cool."

"The
guys always come over after school to light up out here."

It
was good to hear the team hadn't changed much.  "How are they?"

"I
don't remember so many of them being such jerks when we were younger. 
Still, they'll always be the team."

"I
guess."

Brennan
stopped walking and held us still.  He bit his lip while he looked around
us, as if we were in a Belgian forest, surrounded by enemy soldiers. 
Confirming no mustard gas attack was imminent, he took an uneasy step closer to
me.

"Now
what's up?"

"You
never answered my question."

"Jesus,
Brennan!  Maybe you can use these sleep deprivation interrogation
techniques with the
CIA
!"

"I'm
serious."

I
sighed.  "Which question?"

"The
one about love.  You didn't say if you thought love lasted."

"I
don't know.  People don't last.  Why should love?"

"Love
is better than we are."

I
tried not to smile.  "If love comes from people like us, how can it
be much better?"

"The
same way a symphony can be better than the guy who wrote it."

"You
sound like Nicolasha."  I squeezed Brennan's hand in mine, but got no
visible reaction.

Brennan
began looking around the empty and frozen preserve once again. 
"Well?"

"I
don't know, Brennan.  Real love should last forever, I suppose.  I'm
not sure." I usually have trouble with real like.”  No return
smile.  "Does that answer your question?"  He nodded. 
"Good.  Can we go inside now?  I'm still tired, damn it, and now
I'm hungry, too."  Well, for food.

"One
more thing.  Please."  I looked down at the snow and shook my
head, keeping my grin to myself.  "Can I kiss you again?  Out
here?"

I
finally laughed out loud, making my friend blush.  "Like I’m gonna
say no. But you'd better make it quick, Brennan.  Some raccoon might see
us."

We
had come a long way in a short amount of time.  It seemed our mutual walls
were falling, the rifles lowering, every time we were together.  Did we
really respect and trust and care about each other enough to call it love, or
were we just greedy and horny and saying whatever shit sounded good enough to
get what we wanted from each other?  We weren’t even seventeen; I was at
least smart enough to have doubts about, well, everything on that basis. 
Or maybe we just weren't brave enough to admit we actually had found love in
the other, certainly not smart enough to admit it to ourselves and make our
lives a whole lot easier - or unimaginably worse, as the case might be.

Not
even me, the reputedly smart one.

*

I
ran through the transcripts of our most recent bedtime conversation as we drove
back to my house, away from the enemy lines, not to mention any ex-hippies who
might see or hear their son and his close friend re-interpreting a Commandment
or two.

"I
think you're super-special, too."

"What?"

"Last
night.  You said I was super-special.  Well, so are you."

Brennan
eyes glazed over.  "You're not alone.  Not anymore."

The
grip between our hands became so tight our arms shook.

* * *

Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

Henry VI

I
was surprised to make it to school alive.

It
began snowing the instant I walked out of our house.  The old reliable
commuter line struggled to stay on schedule, even though its new aluminum
double-deckers had this irritating habit of flying off of the tracks in snowy
weather.  And it kept snowing, very hard.

If
it weren't for the maniacal zealotry of the old man, our beloved Principal,
classes would have been canceled, and we all could have spent the rest of the
day horsing around in the snow by the lake, or prowling around the University,
or playing chase in the nearby museum, or even risking life and limb in the
dilapidated remains of the Loop's movie theaters.  But, no, unless you
could measure the snow in terms of feet, we were going to get educated, by God,
and the weather would just have to wait.

Well,
I thought, let it snow.  If the trains break down, I could stay over at
Nicolasha's.

On
my way to Literature class, I saw the old man talking, or, rather, issuing
directives, to Mister Granger, who then gestured for Zane to come with the
Principal.

Over
a flavorless cafeteria lunch, Zane once told me his father had named him after
the famous cowboy novelist, which I thought was funny, since there was very,
very little of anything cowboy about Zane and his asymmetrical blond crew cut,
glasses, nasal voice, and dimpled smile.  He was a shy, wooden preppie who
couldn't walk down the hall without careening into something, he was such a
klutz.  Zane was one of those poor chumps brought up not so much as a son,
but as a colony, of a domineering architect father who always picked him up
from Pilot School every afternoon, "to make sure he got home safely."

We
exchanged puzzled glances as we passed each other, and I went in to be regaled
by a few unimportant sonnets by Marlowe.

Felix
made a very active effort to ignore me, even though we sat next to each other
in every class, right near the door for quick getaways.

Zane
didn't return to the group until we had moved on to Asian History.  Felix
was then summoned by the old man.  The lecture on the pre-Nationalist warlords
of China was stultifying.  I tried making eye contact with Zane, but he
sat on the other side of the room, and didn't look up from his notebook until
the bell rang.

Felix
wasn't back yet. 

I
followed Zane heading up the dark staircase to Italian class, and stopped him
near the base of the steps with a hand on his briefcase.  Other students
filed past us with irritation.  "Hey, Zane, wait up."

"We
have to get to class."  He didn't look at me.

"There's
still time.  What did the old man want?"

"I'm
not supposed to talk about it."  Zane began to walk away, but I held
on to his arm.  He glanced at me for a very defensive moment before
shaking his head and almost running away from me into our classroom.

Felix
gave me a blank look as I approached him and the old man, who sent my friend
into Signore Abbado's care.  I was taken into the old man's Interrogation
Room downstairs.

*

"I'm
very sorry to hear about your parents."  I nodded, looking for
something beyond the affected pleasantries on the cool but witty ex-History
professor's face.  "Do you think you'd like to take some time
off?"

"No,
sir.  I'm just glad Christmas is over."

"You're
sure?  All of your teachers would understand."  He looked at his
lap.  "They're all very proud of you.  You're an excellent
student, one of our best."

I
was mortified, and it showed.

Principal
Connelly, in his appalling orange-and-navy blue tartan blazer, waved his hand
dismissively.  "I personally think you could show more collegiality
and leadership.  Join one of the clubs, for Heaven's sake." 
Join? 
Join
?  "You'd take over in a month.  The
newspaper, for instance."  Please.  If there were a bigger bunch
of geeks in the Western Hemisphere than the paper people, someone would have to
show me.  "You're too introspective for your own good.  Be young
while you still are."  I nodded in polite agreement, not feeling like
debating him or anyone else about who I was, or what I was supposed to
be.  "At any rate, you're a fine poet for somebody so young. 
The works you handed in for the mid-term were very, very good, even though I'm
not much for poetry."  No, I thought, anything less than a
thousand-page ordeal on some drab historical figure wouldn't appeal to you,
sir.

"I've
asked you down here to discuss a very delicate matter."  He looked
away from me again.  I wondered, what was on his legal pad that was so
damned interesting?  "I'm no good at this sort of thing.  I
don't like questioning people as if I were a policeman."  A secret
policeman, you mean.  I imagined what Principal Connelly would look like
in the grey-green uniform of the East German Stasi.  "Subtlety isn't
one of my strong suits."

"Can
I ask what's up, sir?"

He
smiled without showing any teeth, looking me over for a few moments, before turning
in his chair and watching the snow continue to fall in the manicured hedgerows
outside of his window.  "We should all go home," he said under
his breath, "forget the day ever happened."

"I
beg your pardon, sir?"  My voice was aggressively firm and pronounced. 
I'll bet his chagrin at thinking aloud was in hyper-drive right then, hee hee.

"Tell
me about Mister Rozhdestvensky."

Click. 
So much for my voice being firm and pronounced.  "What would you like
to know, sir?"  The radiator was louder than I was.

"Your
impressions."  Did
you
ever wish you were in a train wreck?
 "Anything at all."

I
cleared my throat nervously and shifted in the old man's uncomfortable wooden
"guest" chair.  "He's a great teacher.  One of the
best I've ever had."

"Why?"

"Because
he knows his subject.  To death, I mean."

"He's
paid to.  All of them are."  Connelly's voice was clipped and
emotionless.  I hated staring at the high back of his leather executive
chair.

"He
cares about us."

"He's
paid to."

"I
mean, really cares.  Like we were friends."

Principal
Connelly turned his chair around and met my furtive eyes directly. 
"Are the two of you friends?"

I
blushed, but didn't mean to.  I looked away first, but didn't want
to.  "Yeah."

"Yes,"
my Principal suggested.

"Yes,
sir."  I couldn't look up from the edge of his desk.

"What
kind of friends?"

"Good
ones."  Hah!  I knew I could look up at him again! 
"He's been like the older brother I've never had.  Through...
through...all kinds of bullshit."

The
old man folded his hands on his desk, returning his eyes to the legal
pad.  I felt his disappointment in the air.  Our parents paid a lot
of money to purge such vulgarity from our souls, I could hear him thinking.

"Has
Mister Rozhdestvensky ever invited you to his apartment?"

"Yes,
sir."  My voice began to regain its composure.  "He loaned
me some of his records, one evening."

"Records,"
the old man mused.  "Which ones?"

"Symphonies
by Prokofiev and Shostakovich," I lied.  "Number Five of
Prokofiev.  Numbers Eleven, and Twelve of Shosta - "

"Did
you visit him during the Christmas break?"

"Yes,
sir.  On Christmas morning, to give Nicolasha his gift."  I felt
good about finally using the term of endearment that probably grated on the old
man.

"You
didn't bring one for him on the last day of classes, like everyone
else?"  He peered curiously over the rims of his large black glasses
at me.

"I
did.  But I only found this record after school was out, and I thought I'd
surprise him."

"Nicolas
means a lot to you, then."

"Yes,
sir, he does," I replied in my newly firmed up and pronounced voice. 
"He's a great teacher, and a great friend.  I wish I had met him
before I did."

"Why?"

"I
could have used some of his hugs a long time ago," I admitted, then
furiously regretted.  But at least I wasn’t stupid enough to make a joke
about bubble baths.

"Does
Mister Rozhdestvensky hug all of his students?"

"Yes,
sir, as far as I can tell, Nicolasha hugs all of his students, and everyone
else's students, too.  That's the way he is.  That's why everyone
loves him."  I blushed again, knowing I had used the wrong
word.  "He's beloved."

I
girded myself for being asked if
I
loved Nicolasha, and, intending to
say yes while looking the old man right in the eyes, thought about what I would
say when the big "Why?" was launched in my direction.  But the
question didn't come.  We had gone as far as we would.  Principal
Connelly brought back his jets back from my airspace.

"Do
you think teachers should hug their students?"

I
was sure of it.  The old man had an unknown twin who was a high-ranking
officer in the Stasi.

"Yes,
I do.  We used to get hugs from the nuns and the priests when I was in
grammar school, more so when we were younger.  We used to get slapped,
too, if we got out of line, but most of us didn't.  Where does it say
older kids don't want or need hugs anymore?"  The old man held open
his hands in agreement.  "Aren't you allowed to get hugs once you're
in high school?"  I hoped the radiator would explode, like I suddenly
felt like doing, in that small, peeling room.  "Especially when you
don't get them at home, anymore."

"I
hug my children every day," Principal Connelly said.

"I
will every hour, if I ever have any."

The
hallway bell rang sharply.  It was lunch time.  "You
will."  He smiled at me and stood up, offering his heavily veined and
strong, dry hand.  I took it, managing not to show the looming sadness I
felt, doubting the old man was right about that last bit.

He
escorted me to the door and opened it.  Students hurried up and down the
corridor outside his office, careful not to run in front of the
Principal.  "Tell me.  What special record did you buy for
Nicolas?"

"An
opera by Satie."

In
dismissal, he touched the side of my arm like a jeweler would touch a fragile
diamond, and I headed for the my locker.  Snowstorm or not, I wasn't going
to stay in the building.  I needed some air.

I
turned into a rest room before exiting the building.  I was in the middle
of washing the "conference" off of my hands and face, when I looked
up at my reflection in the mirror with water dripping down my cheeks and dread
in my bloodshot eyes.  

I
couldn't remember if Satie ever wrote an opera.

*

I
walked to the middle of the huge, empty plain that lies to the immediate south
of the Pilot School and the rest of Hyde Park.  The locals called it the
midway.  The dense falling snow peppered my face and clothing and the rest
of the city, creating an eerie silence in us both.

The
sky, the air, and the ground blended together into one tremendous, snow-white painting.

If
I smoked, I would have been smoking.  I wished I had some vice like
that.  Chewing gum, cigarettes, booze, hell, even pills, something to
occupy me, rather than always having my thoughts to bounce off of the sides of
my mind until I was half-nuts from it.

I
supposed I could call all my crying some kind of vice.  I did it enough
for it to be a bad habit.

It
wasn't very cold, perhaps a few degrees below freezing, which would make the
night's travel across the slushy city that much more difficult. 

My
pants were soaked halfway to the knees from the snow.

My
lunch period was almost over, but it felt like I had just gotten outside. 
I didn't want to go back.  How much trouble would I get into if I skipped
the rest of the afternoon?  What would I miss?  What would it matter?

Who
would school report me to, anyhow? 

I
filled my mind with this idle nonsense, desperate to ignore the trembling worry
I was gripped with.

*

I
could see Felix looking at the snow that was still caked on my hiking shoes and
the bottom of my pants.  The classroom was silent as Doctor Clive bantered
on about the finer points of adjustment disorders.  I suppose I should
have been listening, since a lot of what our Psychology teacher was talking
about sounded more than a little relevant to what I felt was going on inside of
me, but I couldn't.

Nicolasha
and me, the two of us.  That's all I could see or hear.  I
re-animated every moment of our making...having sex...in the Christmas
twilight, while thousands of pounds of metal and rubber were smashing into each
other, somewhere in the far southern suburbs of Chicago, with my Mom and Dad
being reduced to dead massacres of broken bone and torn flesh.