Last Chance

by Josephine Myles

  “So? Are you going to tell me what crawled into your cornflakes and died?”

  She must have seen something change in my face with her unfortunate choice of words, because the next thing I knew I had a skinny arm wrapped around me and five foot nothing of bubblegum shampoo-scented woman pressed up to my side. To my surprise I didn’t push her away like I always used to -- no, I pulled her in tight. All that cuddling with Steve must have broken down some of my defenses.

  “I’m sorry, hon,” Kathy mumbled into my armpit, “but unless you tell me what’s going on I’ll probably keep putting my foot in it. Please don’t tell me you’re splitting up with Steve. I don’t think I could bear it.”

  At least this was one aspect where I could reassure her. “I swear this has nothing to do with me and Steve. This is all my shit. Family shit. Ancient history.” And so I told her the whole sorry story. This was another thing I was getting better at since Steve had come along. Emotional vulnerability -- yeah, I could now spill my guts with the best of them. I should go on the Jeremy fucking Kyle show or something, along with all the other losers.

  “Oh sweetie, that’s just awful. What a mean old bastard.”

  Here was another surprise, because for some reason I immediately jumped to Dad’s defense. “It wasn’t easy for him. He had such high ambitions for me. He toiled away in that factory so I could go to a decent school and become a doctor. He had this dream of perfect grandchildren living in a big house in a quiet village, me married to some posh bird he’d picked for me. When I told him I was gay and I wanted to study art, it was like...” I let the realization sink in for a moment, feeling the weight of its truth like a smooth pebble on my tongue. He’d wanted all of that for me, and instead I’d ended up a struggling artist in a ramshackle flat in an ethnically diverse part of London with my live-in boyfriend.

  I continued quietly. “It was like I’d destroyed his whole reason for living.”

  “Are you ashamed of who you are? What you have with Steve?”

  I shook my head. Kathy gave me this look that pierced through me like a knife. I couldn’t meet her gaze coz it hurt so bloody much. And I knew what she was going to say before she said it, and the worst thing was I knew she was right.

  “Then don’t you think you should go and show him what you’ve done with your life?”

  ***

  When Steve finally got home that night I was waiting for him. Not glued to the PlayStation or feigning sleep like I had been for the last week, but sitting on the sofa with a couple of beers on the table. I’d even poured them into glasses for a change. What’s more, I’d cleared up some of the junk from the floor and wiped the surfaces. Steve slumped on the sofa next to me and plonked his feet on the coffee table.

  “So, what’s the special occasion?” Steve asked, his lips smiling but his eyes weighed down with dark rings.

  “I just wanted to treat you after a hard day at the office.”

  “Hmm, that’s nice.”

  Steve must have been exhausted if he couldn’t see through such a blatant lie, but then again, I did want to look after him. Fuck knows what he was getting out of this relationship after all -- aside from all the shagging -- so the least I could do was try and pull my weight a bit.

  I moved around behind the sofa and started to massage his neck. The muscles were stiff and lumpy, but as I worked them with my fingers Steve groaned and let his head flop forward.

  “Mmm, feels good.”

  I kept at it until I felt the last knot give, and Steve rolled his head back to look up into my eyes.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you,” Steve said.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been such a moody git.”

  Steve didn’t argue with me. I went back to his side of the sofa and threw myself down with my head on his lap so he could play with my dreads. He’d always said he found it relaxing. I guess that made two of us.

  “You were right.” The words weren’t as difficult to say as I’d imagined.

  Steve gave a lopsided smile and tugged gently on a dread. “I usually am. But help me out. Which thing was I right about this time?”

  “About Dad. We should visit him. Before it’s too late. I called Mum this afternoon and he’s in a hospice. I thought we could go up tomorrow.”

  Steve’s eyes widened but he held my gaze. I could stare into his eyes forever and not get bored. They might be gray, but they’re the brightest things in my world.

  “Do you really want me there?” he asked, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it before.

  “It’s okay if you can’t hack it. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you, ‘cause he’s a bigoted arsehole and it’s probably going to be really dep--”

  Steve stopped me with a finger to my lips. “Of course I want to be there. I’ve been wanting to meet your folks for ages.”

  “Even if Dad lays into you for fucking his son?”

  Steve grinned. “Even if he does. Speaking of which...” He shifted a little so I could feel the length of his dick against my cheek. It was fattening up nicely. I mouthed him through the wool of his trousers, smelling his arousal growing fast. Moments later, I’d kicked the coffee table out of the way -- heedless of the beer soaking into the carpet -- and was on my knees between his legs. I feasted on Steve like he was a pepperoni pizza and I was famished, doing my best to cram myself full of him and fill up all the empty places inside. And when he was done, when my mouth was full of the salty-sweet taste of him, I climbed up to kiss him hard. It only took a few pumps of my fist before I shot my load all over him, the jizz striping his tie and soaking through his shirt.

  Steve slumped there with his eyes still closed, and I thought I was going to have to wake him up. Either that or attempt to carry him through to the bed, and he’s not that much smaller than me. But then he raised his lids and gave a sleepy smile.

  “You know there’s nothing your dad can say that will change the way I feel about you, don’t you?”

  I nodded, but up until that point I hadn’t known that at all. I let the realization filter through me, easing the residual tension the sex hadn’t been able to deal with.

  “Okay, big day tomorrow,” Steve murmured. “Let’s get to bed.”

  ***

  The taxi ride from the train station took us right through the heart of Slough, and Steve got a good look at the dump I’d grown up in. He didn’t make any rude comments about it, though I was half expecting him to start quoting that famous Betjeman poem about it not being fit for humans now. Instead of invoking “friendly bombs,” to fall on the place, he kept his eyes on me and squeezed my hand.

  The hospice itself was in a more salubrious village location outside the town, reminding me of what a fine line there was between the haves and the have-nots. It was no wonder Dad had been obsessed with me getting on in the world, with all these riches so tantalizingly close.

  “Wow, nice place for a hospice,” Steve said when we finally uncurled ourselves from the back of the minicab. I handed the driver a twenty before turning to get a proper look.

  “Bloody hell,” I agreed. When Mum had told me Dad was in a posh place, courtesy of the National Health Service, I’d never imagined she meant a stately home. I mean, compared to the neighborhood they lived in, pretty much anything was high class in comparison. But this place? This would be posh by anyone’s standards, what with the imposing Georgian facade and landscaped gardens.

  Inside, it was obvious that the place had been adapted to its new purpose, although the proliferation of Health and Safety signs and access ramps couldn’t hide the fact we were in a mansion. Then I saw a hunched figure on one of the lobby chairs, and everything else could have blinked out of existence for all the attention I paid it.

  “Mum?”

  She’d sounded old and tired on the phone, but I’d figured that was only to be expected what with all the stress of Dad’s ill
ness, so it still came as a shock to see her. I realized I’d been carrying around a mental image of her that was ten years out of date. Her hair was whiter, her skin lined and sallow, her body thinner and stooped. She didn’t look sixty -- she looked about eighty. The comparison with Steve’s groomed and glamorous mother was stark, and I couldn’t help wondering if he’d notice Mum’s cheap supermarket own-brand clothing and ugly old-lady shoes.

  “Jeremy? Oh, my love, you came!” And then I was enveloped in a hug that smelled of roses, and I could have been eight years old again, being comforted after yet another crappy school day fending off the kids who thought scholarship students were easy targets. Except this time, it was me being the grown-up.

  Mum cried into my chest, and I held her awkwardly, not knowing quite what to say or do. But then I caught Steve’s gaze and I saw only compassion there. I patted her back, making soothing noises like she used to with me. Eventually she pulled herself together enough to sniffle to a halt.

  “Here, Mrs. Smith, please.” Steve held out a handkerchief to her and Mum took it, sniffing loudly and blowing her nose.

  “Thank you, my dear. You must be Jeremy’s... flat mate.”

  I could see she was trying, but I had been quite clear about our relationship on the phone. There’s no way I was crawling back into the closet again, no matter how much easier it might make things with the folks. They’d have to deal with it.

  “Steve is my partner, Mum. We’ve been together for six months.”

  “Yes, I see.” I watched for the disgust in her eyes, but instead found only an old sadness, now tired and worn thin. “Love, it might be best if you go up alone first. The tumor’s affected his memory and he’s currently stuck in 1996 with you about to start your A-levels. Might take him a moment to recognize you, but at least he’s not angry anymore.”

  I nodded and she gave me directions. I was about to ask Steve if he’d be okay waiting with Mum -- I mean, it’s not like she’d been all that welcoming -- but he was already steering her in the direction of a seat with talk of finding her a cup of tea. Yeah, that’s Steve. Manages to make himself at home just about anywhere. He’d be fine.

  There was a red line painted on the floor that led me up to the ward, and I concentrated on following that rather than thinking about the meeting ahead. Then I arrived at the door of his room, completely unprepared. All the one-sided dialogues I’d been having in my head over the last decade flew away, leaving me wordless. Staring.

  Was this bag of bones really my father? He’d always been a big man. Sturdy and built like a Viking. I took after him in looks, if nothing else. Yet here he was, his arms wasted and liver-spotted, his legs like sticks under the thin blanket. I made myself look him in the eyes, but they were shut. For a moment I thought perhaps I’d left it too long, but then his chest heaved and he gave a rattling cough that made me want to retch.

  His eyes flickered open, the whites an unhealthy, bloodshot yellow. I remembered Mum’s words about the cancer having spread from his brain all through his body, attacking his liver and his lymph nodes. All that macho aggression he’d cultivated, and a few mutant cells were all it took to defeat him.

  I forced myself to speak. “Dad, it’s Jez. Jeremy, I mean.”

  “Jeremy? What are you doing down here? I thought I sent you up to finish your homework.” Dad’s voice wheezed and spluttered, but through it I heard the echo of the strident tones I’d grown up with.

  “It’s all done now,” I said, blinking hard as the room blurred.

  “Yes. You’re a good lad, aren’t you? A hard worker. Your teachers say you could get into the Royal College of Medicine if you keep it up.”

  I tried to smile but it only made my eyes well up. “Sounds good. I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all I ask, son. All I’ve ever asked.”

  And then he surprised me by reaching out to take my hand. I almost flinched -- muscle memory kicking in after all the reprimands he’d given me in the past -- but then he squeezed my fingers gently and let go.

  I realized, as his breathing slowed, that he’d fallen asleep.

  ***

  When I returned to the lobby, I saw Steve sitting next to Mum, his knitting on her lap as she demonstrated something to him. She answered his enthusiastic thanks with a faint smile, and I saw a glimmer of the beauty she’d once had, before a life of poverty had tarnished it.

  I rounded the row of chairs and Steve rose to greet me with a hug. I hugged back fiercely, breathing in his fresh, lemony soap scent as an antidote to the stench of death still haunting my nostrils. Unshed tears still pricked at my eyes, so I buried my face in his neck until I’d fought them back. When I looked up again, Mum was watching us both with a strange expression. I tried to place it. Was she wistful?

  “How was he, love? Is he sleeping?”

  I nodded, still not sure if I could trust my voice not to crack.

  “It’s hard to see him like that, isn’t it?”

  I nodded again, but the words needed to find a way out. “He used to be so strong. I can’t believe he’s let this beat him.” I directed my anger at the NHS. “Why couldn’t they treat him? He’d have had longer on chemo, wouldn’t he?”

  Mum shook her head, her lips pursed. “You know what he’s like. Always knows what’s best, and he wasn’t going to have his body pumped full of poison just so he could spend more time lying around being bloody useless. Besides, it wouldn’t have cured him. The tumor was too deep to operate safely.”

  I could hear his voice through hers, and remembered his hatred of layabouts and scroungers. Of those who sponged off the state. All that bitterness, all that loathing, and where had it landed him? Alone in his hospital bed, only a downtrodden wife and estranged son to visit him.

  I felt like someone had cut the cords at the back of my knees. Steve pulled me down onto the row of chairs and I clutched him wordlessly, borrowing his strength to help hold back the tears stinging my eyes.

  ***

  Later that afternoon we sat in Dad’s room, all three of us. I stared up at the elaborate moldings on the high ceiling as Mum introduced Steve. She called him my friend, but as I was clutching Steve’s hand so tight my knuckles had turned white, I think the relationship must have been obvious.

  Dad grunted, looked Steve up and down, and then turned his attention to me. “What have you done with your hair? I thought you’d have grown out of all that nonsense by now.”

  It looked like we weren’t in 1996 anymore, then.

  “I love his locks,” Steve said, with a bright smile. “Don’t you think they make him look like a lion?”

  “They make him look like something, all right,” Dad grumbled, but he was speaking to Steve, so I figured this was some kind of progress.

  “Steve’s in publishing,” Mum offered. “He’s just been promoted, and Jeremy’s just had a very successful exhibition in a gallery in Islington.”

  I wanted to tell her to stop, because Dad had never been interested in the arts, but I was distracted by Steve pulling something out of his satchel. For a moment I thought it was going to be his bloody knitting, which really would cement him as a useless fairy in Dad’s mind, but my heart sank even lower when I recognized the gallery guide.

  “Here, take a look at Jez’s paintings. He has a real talent. You should be proud of him.”

  I wanted to tear the pamphlet out of Dad’s hands. The exhibition had been of my recent nudes, Steve posing for more than one of them, but if Dad had any opinion on his son painting naked men, he kept it to himself. I couldn’t read his expression as he stared at the glossy prints, but he studied them for a long time.

  “Says here you’re up and coming. I suppose people must pay good money for these, then.”

  Steve named the most surprising bid I’d had, and Dad gave a shocked wheeze before that awful rattling cough took over again. When he recovered, th
ough, he gave me the strangest look.

  “Don’t know why you want to spend your time on all this arty bollocks, but it looks like you’ve done all right for yourself.”

  That look was still there. If I didn’t know better, I’d have called it pride.

  ***

  The phone woke me at three am, and I listened to Mum’s choked words with a numb resignation. He was gone, and it hadn’t been easy -- I heard it in her voice. Steve said nothing, but held me tight until I demanded more. More touch, more sensation. I wanted to be fucked so hard I’d forget everything else. Steve rolled me onto my front and covered me with his body, pinning me down and nailing me with a single-minded intensity. He ground in deep, scouring out my insides and biting down on my neck. I came from that alone, rutting into the mattress, the pillow muffling my howls.

  After a few hours of fitful sleep, Steve and I returned to Slough to look after Mum. It was bizarre, walking back into that tiny house again. Other than the telly being bigger than I remembered, hardly anything had changed. I kept expecting to hear his voice bellowing from the living room, telling me to get back to my homework. I was amazed at how well Mum coped with it all, considering, and after a couple of hours of sitting dazed in an armchair, she roused herself and started to talk about all the paperwork we needed to sort out between us.

  “And of course, you’ll want to have a look through his things. See if there’s anything you want as a keepsake.”

  “There’s nothing of his I want.” I didn’t mean to sound cruel, but I was numb inside and the words kept coming out wrong. It’s a good thing Steve was there, because he seemed to know exactly what to do and say, whereas I was floundering.

  “Come on, Jez. It won’t hurt to take a look, will it?”

  It would hurt, I knew it. But with Steve’s arm around me I didn’t want to admit it. Besides, maybe I could borrow some of his strength.