by Rick R. Reed
“Come on, Gram. It’s not like you didn’t just see me a couple days ago. Pop here?” Mike broke away from her, and before Truman could hear Lula’s reply, she had pulled her grandson inside and then closed the door behind them.
Truman took that as his cue to get his own butt inside. Odd Thomas groaned as he got down from the couch and waddled over to him. Truman squatted to reward him for his efforts, scratching him behind the ears and trying not to show how much he wanted to recoil at the dog’s bad breath. “You wanna go outside?” he asked, trying to inject some excitement into his voice. He could remember a time when the very question would elicit excited barks, perhaps a bit of tail chasing, and a run to claim his leash if it was within in his reach. Now the old boy simply stared at Truman as he put his harness on him.
He took Odd outside, thinking that the leash and harness were simply old habit. He didn’t really need them for the dog anymore. For one, even if Odd Thomas did try to run away, he wouldn’t get too far too fast because he just didn’t have the same speed he once did. He’d passed from the canter stage to the trot stage when Truman and Patsy hadn’t been looking. For another, Odd seemed to have lost interest in the outdoors—trips to the yard and beyond were just another chance to use the bathroom and nothing more. He couldn’t wait to get back to his side of the couch, worn from his weight and furry from shedding. Truman sadly recalled a younger Odd, of whom he once thought that if he ever got off-leash outside, he’d never be able to catch him.
As Truman waited for Odd to finish up, he realized he was no longer hungry. No, he was busy thinking he should try to grab a shower before Mike arrived, maybe slip into something a little less obtrusive than the school clothes he wore. Could he get away with just pajama bottoms and a T-shirt? Was that being too forward? Whatever. He’d decide when he got out of the shower.
He could still heat up the mac and cheese and offer some to Mike.
What would he and Mike do, anyway? Truman wondered as he took Odd back inside. Should he see if there were any sports on TV? Perhaps the Steelers were playing? Truman was clueless. He only knew Mike would probably not be interested in the things Truman enjoyed watching, things like Project Runway and Little Women LA. And he certainly would have no interest in Truman’s collection of old tearjerker movies made even before Patsy had been born.
Do we have any common ground at all?
It would come together. He shouldn’t worry so much. To hang out tonight had been, after all, Mike’s idea.
Truman took a long, hot shower, soaping every nook and cranny he could reach and letting the extra-hot water sluice over it all, even if he knew Mike probably could care less if Truman had even showered at all.
When he came out and dried off, he decided pajama bottoms, sans underwear, would be the right choice. God help him if he got a boner! He topped off the striped flannels with a black T-shirt that had a caricature of Grace Jones on the front he’d found at a rummage sale at the Catholic church down the road last spring.
He was debating putting on just a hint of eyeliner and maybe a bit of blush when he heard the roar of an engine outside.
He hurried to the window and watched, mouth open, as Mike pulled away from the curb. The truck backfired once and sent out a plume of blue exhaust as it headed away.
Truman, a lump in his throat, threw himself on the couch, endeavoring to make himself believe Mike was just going to a store or something and would be back within minutes.
But he didn’t come back. And even Odd Thomas licking his clean, clean face didn’t make him feel better. He must have sat for over an hour on the couch, TV off, just staring. Waiting.
He finally gave up and went to bed. Maybe he’d misunderstood?
Chapter 10
MIKE DROVE off into the night, not allowing himself to look back at Truman’s ramshackle house. He tried to force the image of the place out of his mind, what with its dry-cleaner plastic over the windows and how the paint was practically worn off, making it appear sad, depressing, as though a good wind could blow it right off its bluff into the Ohio River below. It was hard to believe the gray hole-in-the-wall could contain a force of light that shined as brightly as Truman did.
Truman. Now there was an image Mike couldn’t seem to erase from his mind. Ever since he’d first laid eyes on him, Mike had been transfixed. There was a weird blend of delicacy and strength in Truman that appealed to Mike, that made him want to touch, to caress, to kiss. The harder he tried to force these longings away, the more they persisted. It was like trying to get rid of them actually made them stronger. Truman was there with him when he woke in the morning, when he fell asleep at night. He’d even avoided riding the bus to school, just so he wouldn’t see him. He reasoned that if he didn’t see him, he could pretend Truman didn’t exist. It didn’t work. Nothing did. He was hopelessly attracted.
And tonight, picking him up off the side of the road like some forgotten treasure, Mike had gone against all his good intentions. But again, he couldn’t resist. And he’d heard somewhere that what we resist persists. The idea of being alone with him in his house was too much to bear, though. Mike wasn’t ready for it. He didn’t know if he could trust himself. Didn’t know if he was ready to let this secret side of himself, at least so far in this new place, out.
Speeding away from the house like something guilty and ashamed, Mike wanted to slap himself, scream at himself. He knew he was the one who’d made plans with Truman. Idiot move! What would Truman think when he didn’t show? He’d probably hate him.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Mike told himself he was doing the right thing. What good could come from hanging out with a boy like Truman Reid? The kid was, like, the poster child for the LGBT community, and who the hell needed that? Especially when you’re trying to establish a reputation for yourself in a new place? Mike scoffed, shaking his head.
He drove up to Jackman Park, at the crest of the biggest hill in town. The park had been there for centuries, and its serpentine road and trails wound up and down through copses of maple, black walnut, pawpaw, mulberry, and buckeye trees. In the dark of night, as it was now, the place could be kind of creepy, Mike had learned. It wasn’t hard to imagine a werewolf or serial killer lurking within the bushes’ deep shadows. But creepy also meant deserted, and Mike, in his short time living in this little godforsaken town, had learned it was a good place to come and think, even if those thoughts might occasionally be interrupted by the hooting of an owl or a rustle in the bushes as something unidentified moved on through.
Now the truck bounced over potholes in the cinder block parking lot at the park’s entrance just off Park Boulevard, Summitville’s only street with real mansions. He turned off the ignition and sat, not thinking and just listening to the tick-tick-tick of the overworked engine as it died down into silence.
After it was quiet for a minute or two, Mike grabbed the keys from the ignition and then got out of the truck. The air smelled good, clean, and if he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back in Washington State. He thought he’d live in the Pacific Northwest forever! How rude to rip him away from school when he was just about to go into his senior year. He’d had a life there. People knew him for his true self.
Moving here, it was like the real Mike had vanished. He didn’t know who he was anymore.
But his parents had wanted to come back, clear across the country to Nowheresville, eastern Ohio. Mike shook his head. Why?
He wandered down a grassy slope. He discovered an old fence post on which to perch and pulled out the can of Budweiser he’d stolen from his pop’s stash. It was still cold, although the can was damp with condensation. He pulled the tab, lifted the can to his lips, and took a long swallow.
The beer tasted good. He’d been drinking a lot of Pop’s beer lately, so much that he was pretty sure he’d be called out soon on the missing cans.
But the beer was a kind of comfort, putting a haze over things like how alone he felt these days, how he missed the
life he’d made for himself back in Shoreline. He felt justified in grabbing a little oblivion for himself.
He belched and stared up at the stars. The night was clear, and he was able to make out some of the constellations. Back when times were good, when they were a family, his dad had shown him where the Big and Little Dippers were. The stars made him long not only for Shoreline but also for his family. Sure, his ma and pop were still around, but what they were, the family—that was pretty much gone.
Stop thinking about this crap. It doesn’t change a thing.
He let himself slide back in time and found himself once more on Richmond Beach on Puget Sound, staring up at the same stars. These ones here, they couldn’t be the same, could they, though? They don’t seem to shine as brightly, twinkle as fiercely as the ones back home. Stop it now. That place over there to the west, all the way across the country? That’s not home anymore. You gotta face reality—this is home now, whether you like it or not.
Mike drained the beer and crushed the empty can. He briefly considered chucking the can into the woods not three feet away from where he sat, but that wasn’t him. He’d save it, take it back to the truck with him, at the very least find a garbage can, if not a recycling bin.
The air had a crispness to it that Mike didn’t associate with home, er, Shoreline. Crispness? Hell, it was downright cold! Mike shivered, rubbing the arms of his jean jacket, wishing he’d stolen two beers instead of just the one.
Why did you do it? Why did you make plans with the kid and then run out on them—and him? Mike hopped down from the fence post and began pacing the grass bordering the woods. He still hadn’t summoned up the courage to go into the woods after dark, although his rational mind told him they’d be no different than they were during the day, when there was nothing Mike liked better than aimlessly wandering those same trails. The trees formed a cover that made it almost dusky-dark, the trail dappled here and there with patches of warm golden light.
He didn’t want to face the answers to his self-imposed questions. He’d noticed Truman Reid the first day of school when Mike had gotten on the bus. Their eyes had met for only the briefest of moments, but there had been something there, some connection. Understanding, maybe? Recognition? Attraction? Hey, you’re alone now. You can admit it.
Mike let out a long and low sigh. Recognition of what? Like to like?
He snorted. Put Truman and him in a room together and no one would see any similarities save for the fact that they were both male, and even that part was questionable when it came to Truman. Now, now, that’s not nice. But objectively speaking, it was true—they were so different they might as well be from separate planets, universes even. Truman couldn’t begin to hope to hide from the world who he really was. And Mike? He was so deeply hidden no one would guess who he really was.
Mike glanced up at the star-crowded night sky again. Silly. The stars shine just as brightly here.
Mike got back in the truck and rolled up his window because he’d begun to shiver. He wasn’t quite ready to go home yet. If the house he shared with his mom could even be called home. The fuckin’ two-bedroom, one-bath shithole was fully furnished with someone else’s broken-down furniture. There was nothing there that felt familiar, that gave Mike any comfort, made him feel any sense of home. Add in that his mom was hardly ever there—she’d sure learned to make friends fast, all of them male—and Mike didn’t wonder for long why he wanted to spend so little time there.
Much as he tried to steer his mind away from him, all Mike could think of was Truman. How knowing him just wasn’t a good idea. But good idea or not, Mike couldn’t keep thoughts of the blond kid out of his head. He was small but solid. There was a fierceness to him that Mike liked, admired even. Truman wasn’t hiding who he was.
And you’re not either, Mike told himself. You’re just being selective about who you share yourself with. Nothing wrong with that. This is a small town. You’ve heard how the guys talk about Truman behind his back. Mike felt a hot rush of shame wash over him as he remembered, just the other day in woodshop, how Art Hoyle had said something about how Truman Reid loved a hot drill bit in his mouth, how he couldn’t resist getting “drilled” just like his mom, only Truman was a lot tighter. The guys gathered around had laughed as though Art was some kind of Louis CK, come right here to eastern Ohio.
And Mike had laughed too, right along with the other guys.
And hated himself for it.
He should have stood up for Truman.
And what, expose myself? This is why, Mike thought, he was better off keeping his distance from the big sissy. Guilt by association.
Still, Mike touched himself through his jeans, rubbing as he thought of touching Truman’s silky blond hair, of the feel of those full lips on his own….
It was hopeless.
Mike opened his pants. With Truman’s smiling face across from him in the dark doing the same thing, he finished himself off.
And then Mike drove back to the house in which he lived with the woman he called Mother.
Chapter 11
“EVERYTHING’S CHANGED,” Truman said softly into the phone. Alicia, withholding judgment and being supportive, Truman guessed, listened with none of her usual sass. For a moment, it even seemed the never-without-a-snarky-comment Alicia was speechless. Silence hung between them for perhaps longer than it ever had.
He sat outside the school auditorium, on a bench next to the big trophy case, arms wrapped around himself for warmth. It was a week and a half into October, and Summitville High’s production of Harvey was coming along relatively smoothly. The sets—black-and-white line drawings on big painted boards cut to resemble things like furniture, doorways, and window frames—were almost complete. The lighting had been set up, with everything in place well ahead of opening night. Most of the cast, save for one notable exception, had made amazing strides in memorizing lines.
Rehearsal was due to start in twenty minutes, and Truman figured he could count on this time to be alone with his thoughts—and with Alicia. He needed to talk to someone, and she was, as she reminded him when he first called after not having spoken in a week or more, his BFF and he should never forget it.
“What’s wrong?” Alicia finally asked.
“I don’t know. It’s just like nobody notices me anymore.” He was thinking mainly of his chief heartache—Mike. Since the night he’d driven Truman home and then stood him up, he’d been moody and distant, not saying anything at all to Truman. Even when, once, Truman had in desperation asked Mike what happened that night, the guy had only shrugged and mumbled something about how their plans had never been definite. Truman had wanted to argue, wanted to tell Mike he’d hurt him, made him feel like a fool, but he was fairly certain Mike would have told him that none of those things meant any skin off his ass. So Truman let him walk away—maybe forever.
There was nothing, only an empty ache where once hope had lived.
Truman tried not to take Mike’s morose silence personally. That was easy to do, since the guy barely opened his mouth to speak to anyone else, even his fellow stage-crew members. He followed directions. He worked hard. He kept his head down and, most of the time, eyes averted. And when rehearsal was over, he was simply gone, as though he’d never been there in the first place. He was like a hunky ghost.
Personal or not, Truman couldn’t help but wonder if he hightailed it out of there to avoid Truman. Or was he flattering himself in thinking he mattered that much to Mike? Maybe the simple truth was that Mike just wanted to get home. Or he had some girl to meet at one of the make-out spots along the Ohio River.
Truman went on, fearing he was whining but needing to vent. “At first it was like I was on equal footing with Mr. Wolcott as director of the play, but now it seems like he’s taken over. He’s used all my ideas for the set, for how things should be lit, for what everyone in the cast should wear, but now that it’s down to the nitty-gritty and the performances are getting, you know, nuanced, it’s all him. I jus
t sit like a lump next to him, keeping time.”
“Well, you’re the prettiest lump I know,” Alicia said. “And pretty is as pretty does.”
“Thanks.” Truman looked around the empty lobby. Still no one had shown up. It was getting dark earlier and earlier these days. Already the sky outside was a deep shade of violet, which Truman knew would last only for a moment or two before full dark descended. He dreaded the long days of winter, when they’d go to school in the dark and come home in dusky twilight. It was like they didn’t have as much time, even though there were still twenty-four hours in each day.
Alicia said, “Truman, it sounds like you have been a big influence on how this play will turn out. To me it seems like you’re not giving yourself enough credit for all your work. But that’s par for the course for my little buddy.” Alicia paused. “We need to get together soon. Have a girl’s night out. Or in.”
“Put on our cha-cha heels, play some records,” Truman said, laughing. “Listen, hon, I gotta go.” Truman could see Mr. Wolcott approaching the heavy glass front doors of the field house. He was wearing a navy peacoat and a red muffler, and if he wasn’t a teacher, Truman would have flirted outrageously with him.
“Truman!” he called when he got inside, stamping the snow that had just started coming down off his boots onto the black rubber mats just inside the front doors. “I’m glad you’re here early,” Mr. Wolcott spoke as he walked closer. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
He sat on the bench next to Truman, and Truman could smell something woodsy on him. Sandalwood, maybe?
Mr. Wolcott unbuttoned his coat and removed the muffler. He side-eyed Truman, smiling. There was a high blush to his cheeks from the cold outside that only served to make him sexier. Mr. Bernard was a lucky man, having this to curl up next to every night in bed. Almost involuntarily, Truman’s gaze went down to Mr. Wolcott’s left hand, where a black wedding band adorned his third finger. The reminder had its intended purpose, in that it jolted Truman back to respectable reality.