Miles (5 page)

I
know I cried more than anyone else at the funeral home when Papu died a few
years back.  I was too distraught to go to the funeral.  I wish he was
still here.

A
couple of winters ago, when the sniping started, I got shipped off to Uncle
Alex's
Minnesota
farm for Christmas.  I hated it at first,
because Uncle Alex had moved from gin to LSD by then.  One morning, two
older teenagers saw me ice fishing from across the lake.  They rode over
on their snowmobiles, introduced themselves, and invited me to go sledding with
them.  We went out every day for a month after that, tearing the lake and
the nearby golf course to shreds, before coming back to spend the evening
playing with Unc's pinball machine while he tripped out in the privacy of his
bedroom. 

I
was sent back the following summer, as things continued to get worse with the
parental units.  This time, I didn't mind.  Unc was dried out, had
sold a painting, and decided to spend a lot of his money on me, that is,
whenever I wasn't playing baseball with Kevin, Joel, and the rest of their
friends, all of whom were pretty nice to me, considering I was barely fourteen
and they were all pushing eighteen.  You know how the age caste thing
works with kids.

It
was even fun running away from Dad and getting lost on
Danger
Island
on my first trip to
Disneyland
.  I cried a little bit when I misplaced my
stuffed Shere Khan Bengal tiger.  For us six-year-old tykes, "The
Jungle Book" was the big movie that year. 

Our
yearly pilgrimages to the Adler Planetarium (to make sure Jupiter was still
there) and Marshall Field's (to see their massive Christmas tree, pick out
beautiful new tree ornaments, and to have lunch at the Walnut Room) were
staples to me.

I
broke down.  I began to cry for my lost family, hard and loud, and cried
myself to sleep on the couch, still in my clothes, weakened with shame for
having cried in the first place.

*

I
woke up later that morning, feeling like I hadn't slept at all.  A few
embers remained in the fireplace.  The harsh, pale sunlight I associated
with winter poured into the living room.  It looked like another
cloudless, and, no doubt, bitterly cold day. 

I
peeked into the garage.  Mom's station wagon was there.  I checked
the driveway, confirming Dad's Stingray was not.  Perhaps sacrificing your
family on Saturdays was the price you had to pay for a six-figure income.

It
was every bit as cold as I figured it would be.

Soundlessly,
I climbed upstairs, made sure Mom's bedroom door was closed, and headed to my
own room, locking the door behind me.  Kneeling down at my bed, I pulled
out my school bag and opened the leather album to the first photograph of my
teacher and stared at it for many minutes, with my hand pulling at my jeans to
give my erection some room.  I stripped to my t-shirt and socks, and
turned to look at myself in the dresser mirror.  I wrapped my arm around
my lower abdomen and perched my left foot on my desk chair, mimicking
Nicolasha's pose.  My upper thighs were more muscular than his.

I
sat down on the floor with my back against the side of my bed, took off my
t-shirt and socks, and leafed through the rest of the album, the immediate
chill over my body roundly ignored.  If I was groggy before, I was wide
awake by then.  There were five more black and white photos of
Nicolasha.  Clearly, the pictures were the work of a professional: both
the lighting and focus were soft, and the composition chillingly distant. 
I began rubbing one hand over myself while turning the pages of the album with
the other.  My feelings flailed from stimulation and desire to sadness and
confusion.  This was my teacher, for God's sake, facing the camera with a
bizarre smile, wrapping the front of his dago-t over his fingers to show the
camera his crotch; naked and standing straight, a hand on a hip, looking at the
cameraman with a hint of impatience; laying on a blanket and the edge of a
bean-bag, partially erect with his legs spread out and arms folded over his
head, staring off into the distance; sitting on a bar stool with his hands on
the inside of his thighs, his face covered with the utter boredom of a
commuter; and the fifth, another detached, absent glare, his arms crossed
behind his neck, his knees raised toward his face, exposing the bottom of his
rear end and balls.

Who
the hell took these, anyway?

My
breaths became shorter.  I began to tense up.  I flipped to the next
page and stared down at two color pictures of my teacher.  The first was
taken from behind him.  He was wearing a dark blue denim jacket with a
tall collar, with his thick hair wet and ragged, like he had just gotten out of
the shower.  Again, he was staring into the distance, this time, affording
"the audience" an incredible profile shot, his unlined, pale orange
face set against the dominant shadows in back of him, his sky-blue eyes and
full lips plain and uninterested.  His perfectly shaped, bulbous rear was
accented by the position of his legs, which were spread outward, braced like he
was about to lunge forward with a sword.  The lighting revealed a hint of
a soft tan on his bare legs and face, which told me these hadn't been taken
before school began, since Nicolasha sported no trace of sun when we first
walked into his classroom.

But
it was the last photograph made me take pause.  I picked up the album in
both my hands, staring closely at Nicolasha's peasant features, one side of his
face obscured by a shadow, his thin, bare chest exposed from breast to breast
inside the denim jacket, his fingers resting on the edge of the jacket and his
hips, and his thick penis pointing downward between his legs.  But I was
drawn into Nicolasha's heartsick expression, and away from my own
stimulation.  What was he thinking as the camera went off?  What was
he feeling, deep inside of his heart, where he told us all true music flowed in
and out of?  

Anyone
would find this body in this pose an object of desire and beauty.  What I
couldn't imagine was that this was Nicolasha, my beloved little father, the
young, caring teacher from
Russia
who brought so much warmth and so many feelings
to all of us at school.  I just couldn't accept what I was looking
at.  I had burned every inch of his face and body into my mind, flown
reconnaissance over him every day in class, pictured us holding hands and
hugging while I took my morning shower, dreamed about seeing him perform with
the Chicago Symphony, but...this?

In
all of these pictures, he was standing there almost naked, staring at something
nobody else could see, ready to have sex with whomever, smiling at a joke
nobody else could hear, but he wasn't really there.  Nicolas Mikhailovitch
Rozhdestvensky was off someplace else, perhaps back at home in Gor'kiy, or
being held in someone's loving arms, or wandering between the chords and
stanzas in some overture, maybe. 

Look
at that last picture - he was challenging the rest of the world to look and
stare at his bare, young body, to try and touch him, to reach through his eyes
and into his soul.  And he was sad, either because he knew no one could,
or was afraid no one would.

I
was suddenly cold.  I returned the album to my school bag and buried it
beneath my other books and papers.  I slipped back into my t-shirt and
socks, found some long johns, my maroon
University
of
Chicago
sweat pants and hooded sweatshirt, and a down ski
vest so I could go jogging for the next couple of years.

* * *

what he thinks he shows

Troilus and Cressida

You
know you've had an awful weekend when you're happy to get back to school.

My
family spent the rest of the holiday weekend staying in our rooms and
alternating our visits to the kitchen so we wouldn't run into each other. 
I almost sat down at the dinner table with my grand dinner of peanut butter,
bacon, and jelly sandwiches before Mom came downstairs to start a pot of strong
black coffee.  I left when she began slamming the cabinets, noticing we
were out of sugar. 

I
didn't listen to any of my new records. 

I
got an
A-
on my Italian exam, and 96% on the Asian History test, so I
was confident I did just as well with my music essay, even though I had
butterflies about seeing Nicolasha again, with or without his clothes on. 
I tried staying focused on what was being said in my classes, but I couldn't
keep from daydreaming about the album of photographs I was carrying around with
me, or agonizing about how I was going to return them.

Was
there such a thing as a wet daydream, I wondered?
 

I
stalled at a water fountain, watching Nicolasha confer with Principal Connelly
while my classmates walked past them into the music room.  The old boy had
an over-dressed (and rather short) new student with him, ridiculous in a
double-breasted blue jacket, yellow tie, starchy white dress shirt, grey
slacks, blue argyle socks, and tan suede saddle shoes.  He even had a
traditional raincoat draped over his arm, which looked like my Dad's
Burberry.  What, no morning coat? 

The
shoes were cool, anyway. 

He
was perfectly groomed, his parted black hair swept off to one side of his
bright, anxious baby face, complete with thick eyebrows, somewhat feminine dark
eyes, and tiny pink lips, which were sculpted like a child's.  I
self-consciously glanced down at my dull ski sweater, turtleneck, jeans, and
hiking shoes.  The Principal saw me and held his hand out, indicating the
classroom door to me like it was a five-star grand hotel.  I was the only
student left in the hall. 

The
new arrival looked sheepishly at me as I walked toward him, sizing up his
flawless, 'Young Republican from Hell' Halloween costume.  We glanced at
each other with mock disregard.  Nicolasha patted me on the back as we
went in.  I took my front corner seat.  The little senator sat in the
empty desk to my left, folding his raincoat into a neat pile and putting it on
his lap.  He sensed half of the room was staring at him, and shifted
uncomfortably in his seat.

"Good
afternoon, friends.  As you all have noticed, we have a new student who
has just transferred in.  Principal Connelly has asked me to introduce you
to Felix Cromwell, and for you to welcome him to our family." 
Nicolasha smiled warmly at Felix, who gave a friendly little wave to each side
of the room.  I was not the only one whose eyes widened at this Felix
character's silly gesture.  Maybe I should have reached over and messed up
his tidily groomed hair, but I was afraid he might stand up and punch me in the
knee.

"As
for your essays, they were quite creative and very well written.  I would
like to read a few of them, if you do not mind."  Nicolasha sat down
on his desk, next to the school phonograph.  Our eyes met for a moment.

I
pictured him crossing his arms over his head and pulling his jeans down as he
began to read this rather odd, stream-of-consciousness poem about Soviet
leprechauns dancing in a corn field made out of rifles, and then played the
introductory Allegro from the
Age of Gold
which Farrah based it
on.  She was always out in the bleachers.

(I
liked the recording Nicolasha gave me better than this one.) 

He
skipped to this riotous song, a collection of rapid-fire words and phrases that
our teacher struggled to enunciate in coordinated time with the Suite's Polka
that Zane conjured it up to.  Of course, that's pretty much how Zane
talked when he cornered some poor idiot into a conversation with him.

Nicolasha
then spent almost ten minutes reading an incredibly rich and detailed portrait
of a chaotic night at the circus.  Kim had composed a nearly perfect
accompaniment to the Suite's Dance.  She looked around her desk casually,
but I could see that gleam of triumph in her pale green eyes.  The whole
time, Felix sat there smiling, openly impressed by what he was hearing. 

Nicolasha
reached for another essay.  His eyes linked up with mine, and I began to
wish I had missed my train that morning.

"Picture
a very large and empty courtyard, a field of cobblestones.  Far in the
distance, the field is lined by dark, unoccupied, but fabulous old
palaces.  The firmament above is a sunset mixture of orange clouds and
blotches of deep blue sky peeking out from the thick cumulus veil.  The
courtyard is littered with music stands that face in every direction and
surround a tall monument topped by an archangel reaching up to the spectacular
heavens.  A cold wind flips the blood red pages on the stands. 
Suddenly, a ragged young boy, dressed in beggar's clothes, dances onto the
courtyard, holding a wood-carved toy violin to his coal-smudged cheek, playing
the instrument from the crimson sheets of music.  The archangel's arms
move gently in rhythm to the unseen orchestra that wells up from the unlit
palaces, accompanying the boy until he cannot keep up and drops exhausted to
the damp, hard cobblestones.  The red pages are swept off of the music
stands in a savage blast of wind, a scarlet tornado that pulls the toy violin
out of the boy's dirty hand and across the courtyard.  The archangel sees
this and floats down from the monument, hovering over the sobbing child and
taking him in its stone arms back to the top of the monument, where another
violin appears, and the boy begins to play, even while his body and his clothes
turn grey and then to stone."

I
was so embarrassed, I could have died, right there in my desk.

I
could feel Kim's glare burning itself through my back. Nicolasha played the
recording of the suite's Adagio, sweeping his arms back and forth, conducting
the piece with erotic precision.  Felix now looked at
me
with wide
eyes.

"That
was really beautiful," he whispered.  "It's even better than the
music."  He reached out to shake my hand.  His grip was warm and
firm, even if his hands were a little on the small side.

"You
should hear Nicolasha play it live."

"Who’s
that?"

I
pointed my thumb toward our teacher as he brought the selection to a
close.  From the look on Felix's face, he had never referred to a teacher
by their first name in his life. Until Nicolasha came into our lives, the rest
of us hadn't, either.

Our
music teacher handed back the essays and assigned a chapter on Prokofiev in our
text for homework.  He waved us out of the room, even though it was almost
ten minutes before the final bell was due to ring.  For his consideration,
Nicolasha was nearly run over by escaping students.  I used the ensuing
chaos to slip out of the room before he could call out after me. 

*

I
bolted down the stairs and collided into the locked half of the Pilot
Institute's north door, which led into the labyrinth of brooding, gothic
buildings found at that end of the University, a fine place to lose anyone
tailing me.  I was interrupted by Felix, who slid down the wooden banister
and landed beside me with a happy grin. 

"You
sure know how to beat feet at the end of a school day."

"I
have to go, Felix."

"Let
me come with."  He took hold of one of my arms, but let go when I
glared at him with wide eyes.  "I'm sorry.  I just want to talk
to you for a couple of minutes.  Please?" 

He
had a pretty cute smile, I'll say that.  I was torn between blowing him
off him and messing up that perfectly parted hair.  I heard people
entering the staircase from the floor above.   He yielded to me as I
exited out of the door's open half, and did so with hurt in his eyes.  I
sighed and waved for him to join me.  "Are you ready to go?"

Pulling
a plaid scarf tightly around his neck, he smiled again.  "Where to,
buddy?"

Buddy,
huh?  I looked at the classical spires around us and suddenly felt
adventurous.  "We’re going to Checkpoint Charlie.  That would be
the
55th Street
IC train station."  I pointed
northwest,
eleven o'clock
.  "We're in
East Berlin
now, and have to get these plans away from a dangerous Soviet
agent."  I held up my leather book bag.  "The last one
there buys dinner!"  We began walking quickly into the nucleus of the
acclaimed campus. 

Felix
was excited, and smiled again.  He smiled a lot.  "How about the
loser has to have the winner over to their house for dinner?"  My
face fell as I stopped in my tracks, giving Felix a cold look.  His hand
touched my arm again in apology.  "I only have enough change to get
home."

I
wrapped my arm around Felix, pulling his trench coated shoulders close to me as
we continued on.  He smiled again.  "We're buddies,
right?"  He nodded quickly.  "Good.  Then I can trust
you."  His arm reached around my back.  This was pretty
cool.  "I'm going to get to Checkpoint Charlie first, because I know
Berlin
better."  Don't bet on it, his shaking head said.  "But if
the Russians get me and you escape, than its dinner on me, OK?"  He
nodded with another damn smile.  Stop it!  "Well, Felix, let me
tell you, 'home' really blows for me, nowadays.  I mean, it really sucks
whenever I'm there, so, if
I
don't want to be there, it wouldn't be fair
to subject you or anyone else to a visit, now, would it?"

"Then
you better cross the border before I do, pal!"  With a friendly slap
on the back, Felix pulled away from me and charged up a short, grassy incline
between two maroon brick buildings, heading through the common and the nearby
dormitories toward the train line.

Wait
until he sees the size of the fence which separated that end of campus from the
tracks, I thought to myself with a grin.  I shot due north, keeping to the
hard, discolored grass of the block's front yards for better traction, up to
the bustling 55th Street, where I spun around a bus stop and stayed close to
the curb as I maneuvered away from a few shoppers before reaching the underpass
station.  I fumbled for my ticket pass, slapped it into the turnstile,
bound up the short wooden steps three at a time, and crashed through the flimsy
spring doors that opened up to the long, empty Hyde Park station
platform.  I trotted further down, hoping to catch a glimpse of Felix
struggling around the fence.

"Drop
the bag, you son of a bitch!"

Felix
rolled out from under the edge of platform to the gravel carpet beside the
inside rail, his hands cupped, holding an imaginary pistol at me.  I
dropped my bag and dove down, stomach first, to the opposite side of the deck,
taking cover behind a large, two-sided metal bench.  I held my own
illusory handgun, a simple Colt .45 automatic, it had to be, and peered around
the base of the seating area, ready to unload the gun into the little creep.

Felix
fired three times from behind my back.  Shit!  I jerked my back and
cried out, before slumping to my death against the bench.  I lay
completely still, waiting until I heard my short buddy climb up from the
tracks.  How the hell did he get under the platform?  I looked up at
Felix's grinning little face, and then at his blood-stained leg.  The
right knee of his dress slacks had been torn open, and, apparently, so had his
knee. 

He
helped me to my feet and patted me on the arm.  "You should see what
it looks like under there."  We sat close together on the bench.

"No
thanks.  Are you OK?"  I brushed his hands off of his lap and
looked at the bloody horizontal gash running across the top of his
kneecap.  "What was it?  Nothing rusty, I hope!”

Felix's
smile was forced, this time.  "I think it was a bottle. 
Damn." 

I
shook my head and reached for my school bag, pulling a souvenir bottle of cheap
Smirnoff vodka out as I propped an elbow over his leg to get a better
angle.  "I can think of a lot of things I'd rather do with this than
pour it down your leg, Felix, but since we're buddies and all that, I'll make
an exception, just this once."

Felix
seized the bottle out of my hands.  "Give me a sip,
first."  He took a little swig, made a dirty look, and handed it back
to me.  I had one, too, before leaning over to pour a few drops across the
entire gash.  Felix moaned painfully.  "God, that stings."

"Not
as much as a tetanus shot would."  I bounced my fist on his thigh a
few times before throwing the empty bottle onto the tracks.  His moan felt
like it was caught in my ears.  The buzz of the neighborhood was a little
quieter than usual, as if the world had suddenly decided to be quiet and catch
its breath for a moment.  I could feel the late afternoon sun on my face,
and wondered if Nicolasha had gone straight home, or might be watching us from
the street below.  The wind was pretty calm.  I assumed it was
Chicago
's
way of telling me a particularly fearsome winter was on its way.