Miles (8 page)

"To
hell with it.  Let's be best friends."  This time, Felix looked
like he was wobbling with some unspoken emotion.  I thought he'd like
that.  We hugged each other tight for a long time.  I was too bushed
to notice or care if I’d popped a bone between us.  If I did, Felix wasn’t
saying.

"We
better get some sleep, buddy."

"I
like friend, better."  I messed up Felix's hair and gave him a tiny
push as he climbed to the top bunk.  I put my clothes on the floor and
slipped out of the robe and under the comforter before I realized what I was
doing, or noticed Felix looking upside-down at me from above.

"Don't
you want some pajamas or something?"

"I'm
more comfortable like this.”  Aside from the burning blush that was
raising my body temperature.  “Thanks, anyway."

I
heard Felix setting a tinny alarm clock.  Then his robe dropped to the
hardwood floor beside me.    

"You're
right.  This is nice!"  It was all I could do not to cry
out.  "Good night, Hitman."

Hitman? 
Cool
.

"Goodnight,
shortstop."

* * *

We shall never be younger

The Taming of the Shrew

The
next four weeks that led up to Christmas passed me by like a montage in a
movie, a bunch of little scenes and shots edited together with particularly
poignant soundtrack music to indicate a great deal of activity shown in minimum
screen time.  In other words, the time was spent happily, unlike those
lonely, miserable chapters in our lives that plod along in real,
War and
Peace
time.

Felix
and I started becoming each other's first best friend.  We met at 7:30
every morning for juice and the freshest bialys at the Russian deli on 55th
Street, bought huge sandwiches for lunch before going to classes together,
lunch together, and homework at the University library together before taking
our respective trains home.  I stayed over at the Cromwell's every Friday
and Saturday night, and treated the family to an adventuresome series of guided
walking tours of the
Loop
and Gold Coast while they treated me to their
warmth and acceptance, and quite a few free meals.  I got the better end
of the deal.

We
talked ourselves to sleep on those weekend nights.  We talked about every
blasted thing that had ever occurred in our sixteen-year-old lives, good and
bad, but never mentioned our first night together, the looming dissolution of
my family, or what Felix obviously felt was the impending, "I'm sorry,
son, but we're leaving Chicago" speech from Jason.

We
never mentioned girls or girlfriends, either.  Arlene asked us once over
dinner if there were any cute girls in our class.  Felix replied with unusual
tartness that most of them were geeks, and the ones that weren't certainly
wouldn't go out with anyone they thought might be gone the following
month.  I remained silent.  So did Jason.  It was our only meal
together that reminded me of dining with my family.  We didn't give each
other a hug before going to sleep that night.

(We
called each other 'shortstop' and 'Hitman' whenever we were alone, together.)

On
the collapsing home front, Mom and Dad simply ceased to exist as a unit. 
I'll give Dad credit, though.  When I got back home on Sundays, we watched
football games together and went to the country club for dinner, where I
de-briefed him on what I had done with the Cromwells that weekend.  He
tried hard to be pleasant, which had to be a real strain on him,
sometimes.  It's not like those were pleasant days for any of us, or for
me, at least when I wasn't with Felix or his folks.  I think he was trying
to keep his distance, knowing I wouldn't be moving with him to
New York City
because of how close me and Felix had become. 

When
creating some distance between yourself and your son becomes the best way to
remain pleasant, it's safe to say the salad days are over.

Mom
let her life in the emergency room and the suburban career woman social ghetto
take over the driver's seat.  You see, if she weren't so busy, she might
have had to take a look at her life, or her husband, or even her son.  And
that
wouldn't do, now, would it?  Actually, I'm pretty sure she had
had that up-close-and-personal look-see, subconsciously, anyway, and that's why
she was trying so hard to pretend everything was fine. 

I'll
bet the rest of those over-coiffured, under-emotioned hags didn't have a shred
of suspicion Mom and Dad had ever raised their voices at each other, much less
thrown things with intent.

At
first, I kind of resented Nicolasha carrying on as if I was just another one of
his students, one who hadn't been to his home away from home, one who hadn't
seen his photo album (did he even realize it wasn't in his end-table drawer?),
or one who didn't have dreams about him.  But then I came to realize he
was afraid, just like Mom and Dad were, of actually living what they
felt. 

Is
this what being an adult was all about?  Living what someone said you're
supposed to feel, or you imagined you had to feel, instead of what you
wanted
to feel?  To hell with that.

Of
course, I refused to accept Nicolasha wasn't feeling something about me. 
But I thought I knew what he was afraid of.  It was the same fear I felt
after I touched Felix in the hallway, after I put my lips on Nicolasha's, after
I stared into the photo album and...well, you know. 

These
events are exactly what I mean about living what you feel.  I couldn't
talk to anyone about it.  It ate away at me like an acid.  And, of course,
it was Christmas. 

My
mind had seeped into a daze fed by the macabre film I had just seen at the
still ornate but fast-fading Chicago Theater, a grim character study of a
ventriloquist who loses his mind and becomes a murderer when the personality of
his dummy takes over.  "Magic," indeed. 

At
first, I thought I had walked into a street pole.  I slipped on a small
patch of ice and collided with the large Santa Claus look-a-like before landing
on the cold
State Street
sidewalk with my knees.  He was old,
haggard, and dissipated all at once, and the chintzy Santa Claus outfit did
nothing to conceal these pleasantries from anyone who got close enough to smell
the bourbon on the man's strained breath.  He started ringing his school
bell again, almost directly over me.  The harsh, brassy clangs hurt my
ears.

His
bloodshot eyes howled, Ho ... ho ... fucking ... ho.

Rush
hour buses, taxis, and people continued their ballet of the dead while I used
Santa's red metal collection bucket to climb to my feet.  The besotted old
gasbag finally looked about to hit me with his bell when a tiny black girl
tugged at his loose red flannel pants.  Tears were running down her
face.  "Santa?  Where are my mommy and daddy?"

I
couldn't tell if he was clearing his throat, or was about to spit a hocker the
size of a beer can out towards one of us.  "I don't know, little
girl.  Where did you leave them?"

Her
arms wrapped around the imposter's leg.  "I didn't.  They left
me!"

I'll
bet he thought the job would be easy money.  All he had to do was smile
and laugh and ring his Goddamn bell until the passers-by got so irritated they
gave up a few cents into the collection bucket.  Any wino could do
that.  His eyes peered out into the crowd and landed on mine.

"Well,
let's catch our breath and try to remember.  OK?"

He
took the little girl off of his leg into his arms, wiping the tear streams from
her rounded cheeks.  She smiled at him like he really was Santa
Claus.  He swung the girl away from me and whispered, "What are you
waiting for, punk?" 

I
shook my head and walked off toward the train station with a smile.  I was
the last person to walk into the boxcar before the doors slid shut behind me
and we slowly pulled out of the terminal.  On to Theresienstadt!  I
guess I was too old to ask Santa Claus anything, but, as the commuter train
rolled south through the scarred brick hedgerows of the South Side to the
suburban wasteland that lay beyond, I decided to begin asking other, perhaps
less important father figurines, about all the aches and pangs inside me I
found harder and harder to hide from myself anymore.

*

On
the last day before Christmas break, Nicolasha transported his excellent stereo
system to school so we could listen to Bach's
Christmas Oratorio
in the
fullest audiophonic splendor, short of a live performance.  He had also
baked dozens of rich, delectable Christmas cookies and brewed gallons of his
sweet honey tea, which we devoured with intent while the arias and choruses
played forcefully in the background.

It
was a Pilot Institute tradition to bring a Christmas gift for each of your
teachers, the size of the gift determined by how much you learned from the
teacher (or how good your grades were in their class).  Nicolasha sat in a
silent daze as his desk top was covered with large, prettily wrapped
packages. 

I
hoped he got a leg up on a new wardrobe in all those presents.

Felix
and I had debated for hours about what to buy for Nicolasha.  Since we had
no accurate idea of what records he might like to have (if there were any he
didn't have), we were torn between an expensive, mounted globe from Rand
McNally and a slightly worn ebony metronome from a pawn shop over on Van Buren
Street.  That was, until Arlene came upon a rare book store in Rogers Park
that was a trove of musical and literary editions.  Felix chose a
complete, hardbound score to Prokofiev's
Aleksandr Nevsky
, while the
owner, a pipe-smoking, pear-shaped old man in glasses, suggested I opt for an
incredible original text of poetry by Yevtushenko (that I really wanted to keep
for myself, even if I couldn't read Cyrillic).  We congratulated ourselves
(with thanks to Arlene), confident in having trumped our classmates.

Felix
waited for everyone else to return to their seats before bringing our presents
up to Nicolasha, who received them with an appreciative grin.  As Felix
sat back down, our teacher devastated me with a private, longing gaze, holding
his hands over his left breast for a few desperate seconds.

"What's
the matter, Hitman?"  Felix tapped the edge of my knuckle with his
pen.  I pulled away from Nicolasha's orbit, only to be met with another
one of Felix's kind-hearted smiles.  I shook my head and nibbled on a
cookie, convinced the safest place for me was somewhere in that oratorio.

*

Nicolasha
asked me to stay for a moment as the rest of class left to begin their
Christmas vacation.  Felix gave me a curious look before I patted him on
the shoulder.

"I'll
meet you outside, OK?"

"Sure
thing.  Don't be too long, though.  The movie starts pretty soon." 

"No
problem."

Felix
closed the classroom door after waving at both of us.  Click.  The
din of students and teachers and parents occurring beyond the closed door was
as remote to us as
Iceland
.  The sudden blizzard of silence stilled us
both for many subsequent moments.

Nicolasha
took a few hesitant steps toward me, reaching into his tweed jacket for a long,
red envelope.  He fingered it nervously as the Bach holiday choral
continued to play.  I could see it had my name written across it. 
Clearing my throat with a shy smile, I held out my hand to accept
it.  

"Please
do not open it until you leave.  It is a little surprise."  Ah
ha - airline tickets!  He was defecting back to
Russia
and needed someone to help carry his records!

"We're
supposed to buy you something, Nicolasha."

"You
are special, little friend."

I
laughed awkwardly, before Nicolasha pressed the tip of two fingers onto his
lips and reached toward me, touching my lips with them in turn.  And now
I
was frozen, right there where I stood.  He wrapped his arms completely
around mine, pinning them to my side, enveloping me in a true Father Christmas
bear hug.  Nicolasha kissed my ear and held me in front of him as Felix
re-entered the room.

Nicolasha
leaned toward my face, whispering.  "Please call me over the
holiday."  How about tonight?

"I
will, little father."  We turned and smiled at Felix, who gestured
excitedly for me to come with him.  So much for another kiss.

"I
can't believe it!  Dad's outside.  He must have left work
early!"  A father?  Leave work early?  I didn't believe a
word of it.  The second coming must be near.

I
headed to the door with Felix, putting the envelope inside of my pea
coat.  We snapped our heels together and saluted at our young teacher in
playful precision (something we practiced on Jason and Arlene after seeing
"The Man Who Would Be King" a few weeks ago) before we made our
getaway through the hallways of the Institute.

"How
come Mr. Nicolas doesn't give me a hug like that?"

"I've
known him longer."

I
glanced over my shoulder, feeling like an awful lot of me was still back there
in Nicolasha's arms.

*

The
ride downtown was hilarious.  Jason made us sit together with him in the
front seat of his elephantine Lincoln Continental, probably to make sure we
didn't miss a single note of his
Elvis Sings Christmas
8-track
tape.  In the middle of
South
Shore Drive
, he wrapped his right
arm around our shoulders and cradled us both in a savage arm lock while weaving
from lane to lane, pretending we were being chased by a car full of
assassins.  He ordered Felix into the back seat, and refrigerated the car
by rolling down and locking the power windows - until the two of us mooned
someone.  Neither of us was sure Jason was serious, until he slowed down
and let a few cars actually pass us, looking for the right target.  I
laughed and knelt down on the seat with my rear end touching the top of the
window sill, urging Felix to follow my lead, which he did just as his father
yelled out, spotting an elderly couple in a king-size Cadillac to our
right.  Jason maneuvered his car beside the old folks, who were treated to
a festive view of our bare asses for a few chilling seconds.