The First Hello

by Willa Okati

  Shawn’s lips parted on a breath. He blinked again, shivering, as the chill of the room bit deep into his bones. That’d been—fast. He could feel it, like the brush of a bird’s wing. There. Gone. Still there, somehow.

  None of it made sense. Or—it did, but—

  The washcloth in one hand fell away, landing on the floor with a wet slap, forgotten as Shawn stood. His bare feet made almost no sound on the time-loosened floorboards as he padded across them, back into bed. He breathed in, the scent of Raleigh’s skin and sweat ripe in his nose, heady and dizzying.

  His eyes fell shut.

  “I thought you’d sleep the day away,” his lover said to Stiofain, idly toying with one swollen knuckle on his left hand. “I’d have let you.”

  “I’ll get plenty of rest soon enough,” Stiofain said. He leaned his head back against his lover’s chest. “We both will. How much longer do you think we have, this time around?”

  His lover sighed behind him, but he didn’t let himself be edged out. Never had, never would. Nor would Stiofain want him to be. “I don’t know.”

  “Who does?” Stiofain took his lover’s hand and pressed them palm to palm. He clicked his tongue, a quiet and hollow noise. “When did we get so old, you and me?”

  “Don’t know. Somewhere through the years, all the many years we’ve walked this earth together.” A silver-bristled cheek rested briefly against Stiofain’s. Stiofain closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the man, his familiar comfortable ways. “Wonder where we’ll go next.”

  “Somewhere fancy. I could do with being rich.”

  “You liked it enough before. I like this. Just you and me and the whole Dakota Territory.”

  “They don’t call it that anymore.”

  “Even so.” His lover traced patterns on Stiofain’s nape. “Wherever we go, I’ll find you. You know that, right?”

  “I know.” Stiofain remembered being able to reach behind himself, and how he would cradle a palm against his lover’s head. He kept his eyes closed and breathed out the memory, rich as plum sauce, and made it be enough—enough for now, before they had to part again for who knew how long it took to be brought back together. To be young but alone. To remember again. “You ever wonder what it would be like if it didn’t happen for us? If we were alone for all our days? Would it be a blessing, or would it be a curse?”

  The bed shook, a jarring thump, as the episode broke with a recoil like a snapped bow string. Shawn pressed his face into the pillow, wishing—wishing—

  His hand searched for purchase on the bedding and landed on top of the book. Its corners nestled into his palm, so damned familiar that he…

  He sat up. Book in hand. It wouldn’t hurt just to take one look inside, he argued to himself. Just one.

  As he’d imagined it might, when he let the covers part, the book opened to a page not quite at the beginning but close. A list of household inventory, just like Raleigh had said. Shawn scoffed as he lifted the book to the window, straining his eyes over the faded ink.

  Five barrels salt fish (cod)

  Fifteen bolts assorted dress goods (cotton linen calico voile etc.)

  Guns, three (revolver, rifle, derringer)

  One hundredweight of candles, beeswax

  Being an account of the memories that consume me, as best as I can collect them together. I do not do this for the sake of a whim, but at the request of the one who gave this book to me, along with the employment that has kept body and soul together long enough to find common ground and come together in these, our newest lives. In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy one, I—

  No. Shawn dropped the book. It landed on its back, falling open to another page near the middle. The spine showed cracks there, pages nearly separated from their bindings.

  Outside, the moon—bright and full—broke through the clouds. Not much light. Just enough to read by.

  1874: I remember a pair of wild young Celts, running next to naked beside tall cliffs that dropped down to an infinite sea, and yet they laughed. They were so bright that to think about them stings as sharply as staring into the heart of a fire. They had everything and regretted nothing.

  Would that I could unlearn the lessons I have taught myself, that have given me unhappy dreams.

  Would that I could release all sorrows, and let them drift away as easily as puffs of air, and feel only joy again.

  1875: There are yet deer in the timber beyond the shores. The scent of fresh venison steaks served to us still sizzling brought with them a memory of a mad frontiersman and his loyal companion who struck out for parts unknown. It is so clear to me, it is as if I lived it only yesterday.

  1876: Canning today. G—’s new hobby. Fourteen jars pickle, twenty-seven jars relish etc., five jars okra, which does not grow well in this colder clime but which R— and D— are zealous in their enthusiasm for (G— tasted it and swore they might have it all to themselves, with no complaints from her). I managed to coax along a few plants, enough to allow them their treat. Also miscellaneous cherries, blackberries are ripening. When the time comes for candying fruit, I mean to hide a jar away for nibbling when they have been warmed by lying on R—’s skin in our bed together. Our bed! It still strikes me as so strange, and yet it is true…

  1881: I remember taking him inside me for the first time, the only time in that life, while the city burned. I do not recall the city’s name. Only that the sand grew as hot as glass under the brightest sun of the day, and that he told me he loved me until there was no air left for speaking…

  The pages turned with ruffling crackles beneath Shawn’s fingertips. He’d crawled forward on his knees on the creaking bed to the window and rested the book on the sill. He had to squint, but the moonlight was good enough and he couldn’t have stopped to go and look for a flashlight or a Coleman lantern if he’d wanted.

  The trick was knowing where to look, wasn’t it? To see where the real meat was hiding, right there in plain sight. Pages of household details and the odd recipe for saddle soap would break off into—

  1884: I remember what I think would now be France, in perhaps the twelfth or thirteenth century. It would be far different now, I am sure, and likely I would not recognize the paths now that were familiar to me as my own face back then—though the face too has changed and does each time the wheel turns us out into the world anew, but I digress; I remember this: that under cover of night, with the air as warm and sweet as honey, a careless loving in the fields behind berms of fresh hay where we could not be seen. He held me as if I were precious to him, and kissed my cock until I spilled in his mouth, and I licked the spending from his tongue until he could wait no longer, and with the aid of stolen butter made from goat’s milk to ease the way, thrust deep inside me…

  Well. Into that. Shawn swallowed, wishing for some ice water. He thrust a hand into his hair, as frustrated as he was aroused.

  The way they’d loved each other. Even if they were crazy, Shawn couldn’t help but wish for a taste of that. He’d never gone further than a one-night stand himself, and that’d been on purpose. He’d learned that lesson young, watching his mother’s boyfriends cycle in and out of their lives. Lovers didn’t stay. Anything that came with strings attached was too risky, because what happened when those strings were cut? Even if he gave Raleigh what Raleigh wanted, what would happen when Raleigh got tired of him?

  Too easy to get his heart bruised, and Shawn had always figured he’d had his fill of that in every other way already. Being stubborn was how he survived and carried on. Someone had to be strong. Didn’t they?

  He still wanted some water but found himself drawn back into the crabbed old handwriting and the story it told before he could decide whether he wanted to bring one of their remaining bottles back to bed with him.

  1885: D— scolded us soundly for coming to the dinner table with mud on our knees and our noses. Though she made a good show of it, she scarcely stifled her giggles at our expense. A remarkable woman. I remember when
she was Cordelia, and if I had the wherewithal to travel to Rome, I know I should find there a tiled mosaic with her face at the center, framed by a rising sun…

  1887: R— and I picnicked by the shore today. He enjoyed great fun at my expense, teasing me about my inclination to melancholy. “Always so worried about what might go wrong,” he said, the sunlight on his hair and in his smile, “that you forget to keep one eye on the things that are right. Stop worrying! If we are together, that’s all I need. And I would it were the same for you.” It is, it is, and yet…

  1890: Payment for workers: bricklayer, fifty cents; masons, one dollar. To think that the centerpiece of the fountain that will be has survived so many ages!

  1896: I remember Egypt. I remember India. I remember white cliffs, and I remember teasing G— until she boxed my ears, and I remember sands that stretch out like the oceans.

  1897: To find him is to know that one day I will lose him. It is an inescapable truth, and it weighs heavy on my mind.

  1899: Today they began the tilling of soil for what will be a magnificent herb garden. I have never tasted marjoram nor nutmeg or even yet clove, but R— promises I will savor them all.

  Shawn pressed both hands hard over his eyes. They ached from the strain, but he couldn’t—stop—

  1900: Though we are neither of us young, and R— is not as strong as he used to be when we would strive within one another from dusk to dawn, tonight he laid me on the bed as tenderly as a bride and pressed a kiss to my skin for every stitch of clothing he removed. He did not stop—would not stop—when I begged for mercy, nor would I when it came his turn to plead for pity. There is all eternity before and behind us, and not a second to spare.

  1901: I love him. I will always love him, far more than my own life. I wonder if it is a punishment for some sin I can no longer bring to mind.

  1902: The marjoram is ready for harvesting today, but I find I have lost my taste for it.

  1903: Mercy is all I ask for, to save us from ourselves, and me from my own selfish heart that would keep you bound to me. I love you enough to let you go. I only want your happiness. Love me enough, I ask, to do the same. I must at least try. And if you can find it in your heart, then forgive me for what I do.

  Shawn threw the book facedown on the bed. Too roughly. Some of its pages crumpled and bent in half. It might be broken for keeps. Too old, too fragile to handle carelessly. When he bowed forward and covered his head with his arms, he could smell the years on the leather—and the faintest, faintest ghost of spices.

  * * * *

  Frost had gathered on the clumps of broken weeds and made them crunch softly underfoot. Frozen rain? Could have been. His breath made plumes of smoke that lingered in the air like ghosts of memory and half-forgotten wishes.

  A light burned in the window next to the door that still sat off-kilter on its hinges. Shawn knew better than to touch the metal with his bare hand, but ghosted his fingers over the old iron with its maker’s mark engraved in each bracket. He could smell something rich and savory that made his stomach gurgle and his throat close up.

  He could see Raleigh inside, chin propped on his hand, lost inside another book. Shawn didn’t think he knew anyone was there. If he wanted, he could turn around and go. No one would be the wiser. He could see Gabrielle settled at the rehab center. Find an apartment, a job, and make some kind of life for himself, by himself.

  Slowly, clumsily, he lifted his knuckles to rap at the door instead.

  Inside, Raleigh’s head came up sharply. Shawn watched him through the window as he dropped his book as carelessly as Shawn had dropped the household accounts, forgotten on the tabletop behind him while he took great steps toward the door. Hurrying, just in case Shawn changed his mind and made a bolt for it.

  Shawn almost did. If his legs hadn’t gone heavy as anchors, he would have.

  He held his head as high as he could when Raleigh swung the door open and looked at him—just looked at him—with so much hope that it hurt to watch. He’d changed into a soft white shirt with a dozen small buttons, and a pair of cherry-red suspenders.

  “I don’t believe you,” Shawn said because he had to. “I can’t. It’s too far-fetched. I’m sorry.” He licked his lips and swallowed hard. “But—what if I wanted to, Raleigh Carter? What then?”

  Finished, he met Raleigh’s gaze. He didn’t look away. He owed the man—this man—that much, at least.

  Raleigh looked at him for what seemed like the longest time, with no change in his face to give away what he might be thinking. Long enough that Shawn’s nerve began to break, and the idea of running took on a hell of a sharp appeal.

  But just as he thought to himself I can’t take another second of this, Raleigh inclined his head once and took two steps to the left. The sheer warmth of the kitchen and the smell of the food made Shawn sway toward him.

  “Then that’s a start,” Raleigh said. “Come inside, Shawn, and we’ll see what we see.”

  Chapter Nine

  The kitchen was warm. Shawn hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten on the walk over before the rolling heat of the fire crackling in the range bowled into him in a nearly solid wave that drew him up short and stopped him in his tracks. His eyes fluttered shut, and his lips parted in a moan of relief and appreciation. He thought he might have swayed on his feet.

  When he opened his eyes, Raleigh leaned against the door, watching him with half of a smile. “You used to do that,” he said. “Every time you came in out of the cold. You always got so caught up in the moment you’d forget to take care of yourself. I guess some things never change.”

  The bubble of pleasure at the warmth flattened and faded. “I don’t remember that,” Shawn said. He tugged at the collar and then the cuffs of his borrowed sheepskin coat, letting it slide off his shoulders. “This is yours.”

  Raleigh exhaled. He didn’t say keep it or admit—out loud—that he’d been trying to get Shawn to do that all along, but only smiled a little more on the one side. “You’re a stubborn, stubborn man, Shawn.”

  For what it was worth, Shawn wished he could be otherwise. He hoped Raleigh knew that. He might.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

  He watched Raleigh circle around him and the kitchen table, a sturdy slab of oak scored from decades worth of use, polished bright once more. Two place settings, one on either side, a bowl and a saucer. “Sit down,” he directed as he stopped in front of the cooking range. “I figure it’s my fault you didn’t get to eat your sandwich earlier. It’s the least I can do to make up for that now.”

  Shawn’s stomach gurgled at the smell that came from the pots and pans arranged on the hot stove. Salty, savory, flavorful. “You made this?” He couldn’t remember the last time anyone except Gabrielle had cooked for him.

  Raleigh shrugged as he dished up. “It’s just soup. Nothing fancy. And a sandwich. I’m not much of a cook, but I can just about manage grilled cheese without burning it.” He tilted one hand from side to side and grinned. “Usually.”

  “You don’t have to feed me,” Shawn said, meaning thank you, not I don’t want it.

  He wasn’t sure which one Raleigh heard. “I know,” he said at last, tapping his spoon against the lip of the pot, “But I want to. It’s pretty mild. If your stomach will let you, think you could at least try to eat it?”

  He understood. Gratefulness fought a brisk battle with shame. Shawn swallowed them both down and took up his spoon. “Do my best.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” Raleigh juggled bowls and saucers in his broad hands without spilling, setting one of each before Shawn and keeping the others for himself. “Though if you like it, feel free to compliment the chef after all.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of Shawn’s mouth. He ducked his head, but he could feel the lingering warmth of Raleigh’s regard long after his tentative smile buried itself in the food. Just soup, sure, but if it wasn’t all homemade, Shawn would eat that sheepskin coat for dessert. He’d added cream or may
be even milk, and something that made the mealy potatoes in the soup taste more savory than usual. The sandwich wasn’t two slices of white and one of American, but a good three inches thick in the middle with savory bacon, pale cheese and juicy tomatoes, and a spear of sour-sweet pickle.

  Shawn took it slow. One bite at a time. He knew better than to rush, and it kept him busy. Let him sit and soak up the warmth, the frank affection, while giving him time to figure out what he thought and felt too. “You could ask for a lot more,” he said at last, with a quick glance up at Raleigh through his eyelashes. “If you had the sense God gave horses, you would.”

  “But I don’t. And I won’t.” Raleigh raised one shoulder, seemingly content to pick at his own serving without actually biting down. He tore off a corner of his sandwich and dipped it thoughtfully in his soup. “Shawn? Do you want to know what it’s like for me, on this end?”

  And there it was. Shawn laid his spoon down. Centered it clumsily, then more carefully, trying to give himself time to work up the nerve to say it. Didn’t work. He said it anyway, looking up at Raleigh. He touched his tongue to his lip and managed, “Yes.”

  Then he cleared his throat. “No. Wait. Do you mean this time, or—”

  “This time or all the times, it’s pretty much the same,” Raleigh said. He dropped the bit of bread he held and dusted his hands off, then folded them under his chin and turned all his focus on Shawn. Disconcerting, all that blue. “I remember everything. Every time. Almost since the beginning.”

  Shawn couldn’t imagine. “From the way that book read, that’s thousands of years.”

  Raleigh didn’t blink. “Yes.”

  Shawn had to look down, then. “It’s too much.”

  “Sometimes,” Raleigh said. “I don’t remember the very beginning, the very first life. I think maybe I’m not supposed to. That whatever makes this happen doesn’t want to be pinned down, or could be that’s just not the way it works. It happens to more than just you and me, you know. There are faces that stay the same. We move in and out of each others’ lives like interlocking rings, these other souls. I meet them, and I know I’ve met them before, just wearing different bodies. Friends. Relatives. A hundred butterfly effects coming around again.”