by Wade Lake
Mack dabs the mattress with paper towels then sets up a box fan at the foot of the bed in an attempt to blow it dry.
The rain doesn't completely stop, but the raindrops shrink to the size of pinheads, and the gusts soften to a slow and steady breeze. Mack opens the bedroom window to let in fresh air. They finish unloading Mack's truck, then start unloading Chase's. It's monotonous but pleasant work. Mack likes physical work. Every box pulled from the vehicles and set into the living room is a sense of accomplishment. It's work that doesn't allow a lot of talking—too much hurried walking back and forth—but they communicate with grins and winks and pats on the ass. When both vehicles are empty, they drive back to their old apartment for another load … six loads later, they've moved the sofa, dining room table and chairs, two recliners, two chest of drawers, two computer desks, printers, rugs, microwave, and just over a hundred boxes.
✽✽✽
It’s 9:00 that evening when they finally lay down atop the naked foam mattress, exhausted, window open above the headboard, a warm breeze squeezing through and gliding down their bodies.
Mack hooks a leg over Chase's and asks, "Wanna get naked?"
Chase snickers. "You're kidding."
"I'm not," Mack says.
Chase moans dramatically. "Tempting, but … I can barely move."
"Not a problem," Mack says and shows his teeth through a smile. "You just let me do all the work."
Chase goes quiet for a moment then rises onto an elbow. "What d'ya mean by that?"
"Mean by what?" Mack asks.
"You think you worked harder than me today?"
Mack tosses Chase a puzzled look. "I didn't say that."
Chase pulls his leg out from under Mack's and sits up. "Because you didn't."
"You're right, I didn't—and I didn't say I did."
Chase bows his head and strokes his beard with both hands. "Sorry, babe. I guess I'm just tired."
Mack touches Chase's shoulder. "It's been a long day, I get that."
Chase smirks. “You don’t get it, but that’s okay.”
Mack pulls back a little. “What don’t I get?”
Chase touches Mack’s hand. “Sorry, babe. I got a lot going on in my head. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“What don’t I get?” Mack repeats.
Chase shrugs. "This place—” He gestures around the bedroom. “I don’t think you realize—I know you don’t realize—it's … it's gonna be a lot of freakin' work."
“And even when the work is done, what do we got?”
Mack doesn’t answer.
“Bad backs and a year missing from our lives most likely.”
Mack’s heart sinks. “You said you’d learn to—”
“Don’t tell me what I said,” Chase snaps. “I know what I said, and it was the truth. I’ll learn to love this house because you love it. I’ve no doubt I will. But right now—tonight—I’m concerned, I’m scared, I’m freaking out just a little. Let me have that.”
Mack nods but holds his tongue. Sometimes it's best to let Chase have his rant.
"And this mattress," Chase continues—he sweeps his hand over a section of pale foam, wipes his fingers on his jeans. "It feels like a wet sponge." Chase rolls his weight side to side, causing the mattress to bounce. "I can't sleep on a wet sponge."
"We made love on a waterbed once," Mack says. It’s an attempt to inject some humor, but Chase isn't listening.
"I can't sleep on this," Chase says. "Can you sleep on this?"
"Maybe if we—"
"Where's the box where we packed all the sheets?" Mack throws his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm gonna make a bed on the couch."
"There's not room on the couch for both of us," Mack calls after him.
"I called it first."
Mack follows Chase to the living room where a rough pyramid of plastic tubs and cardboard boxes reaches nearly to the ceiling. Chase begins reading the scribbled labels on the lower containers.
Mack crouches beside him and joins the search. "I saw them earlier today."
"You knew we'd need sheets tonight," Chase says, "Why didn't you—" he stops himself. "Sorry, babe. I'm trying not to do that."
"It's okay,” Mack says softly. “I should have set that box aside."
Chase resumes his search, crawling box-to-box. Mack does the same with no luck. When he realizes Chase, still on all fours, has paused, and is staring straight at him, Mack isn't sure whether to acknowledge it.
"Look at me, babe," Chase says. His voice is flat. No emotion to indicate his intentions.
Reluctantly, Mack turns his head.
It feels like a long moment. Chase draws a long breath, followed by a long sigh. "You did good today, babe,” he says. The tone of his voice says he really means it. “Both of us did. Hell, I didn't think we could move it all in one day."
Mack places a hand on Chase's closest shoulder. "But we did."
Chase grins.
Mack leans in for a kiss—
Chase leans away to decipher a handwritten label on a large cardboard box near the bottom of the pyramid. "Found 'em!" Standing up on his knees, he grips the box and tugs with short, quick movements as if pulling out a Jenga block. The boxes stacked above it lean precariously—
Mack reaches up with both hands to steady them—
Too late.
Large and small boxes bury them both. Sounds like thunder … followed by … laughter?
Chase is laughing.
Flat on his back, he's still holding on to the box marked "Bedding." The cardboard flaps have sprung wide open: a stack of pillowcases and poorly folded fitted sheets have piled up beneath his chin. With a slightly dazed look, he turns his head toward Mack. “Found ‘em,” he repeats. Winks.
It's good to hear Chase laugh. Actually, it’s great to hear Chase laugh. Doesn't happen often enough, but when it does, he sounds like a teenager.
Mack often wonders what Chase was like as a teenager. Chase doesn’t like to talk about growing up, so Mack is left with guesses. He imagines Chase was the most talented and coordinated kid in his class. He was probably out with his parents and teachers. He probably had best friends and teammates and boyfriends, and occasionally, at house parties and bonfires, the lines between categories blurred … Mack likes to throw his own fantasies into the mix when he imagines.
Chase’s nasal laugh reminds Mack of his own teenage years. Unlike most people, Mack loved his awkward years: Every beer was a protest. Every dirty joke was comedy gold. Every orgasm was something akin to an epileptic fit. And relationships? Well, there weren't many. Only one really. The best metaphor for that was his single try out for the high school wrestling team—a clumsy grapple with a handsome and slippery fellow who, despite his stunted size, turned out to be much stronger than Mack. That hasn't really changed. It has occurred to Mack that, perhaps, that’s because he never aged out of his awkward stage; he just grew comfortable with his lack of coordination.
Chase is still laughing. It’s a wonderful sound. Especially after the day they’ve had. Pushing a box off his own lap, Mack releases a single -syllable snort, which sounds like a sneeze, which prompts Chase to laugh even harder. Mack joins in with a full-on belly laugh. The two men are helplessly exhausted. An observer would swear they’re drunk.
The first time Mack saw Chase drunk, they had only been dating for a month. Maybe five weeks. They went out for dinner at a bar in Bywater known for its half-priced appetizers, but right after they placed their order, there was a fight in the kitchen—a real fight with pots and pans and fists flying—and the cook walked out with blood pouring down the side of his head. A few minutes later, their server came out to apologize and to let them know that, while the bar was still open, the kitchen was closed for the evening. In other words, no half-priced appetizers. Mack suggested finding somewhere else to eat, but Chase insisted on staying. Any place close by would be crowded by now, and Chase said he'd rather go hungry and hang with Mack than have a full belly and m
iss out on their time together. For the next two hours, Mack paced his drinks, but Chase drank too much, too fast. His personality became bolder and prouder. Mack actually enjoyed seeing him that way: overly confident, spontaneous, sentimental. Chase’s gestures became broad and sweeping. His voice grew just loud enough to make everything he said sound important. They made love that night at full volume at four in the morning in the bed of Mack's truck in the parking lot behind the bar with a homeless woman cheering them on.
Mack is hoping for something similar tonight. Without the cheering.
3
Chase lays a sheet over the couch and tucks it in neatly beneath the cushions. Mack locates the box with their pillows—tosses one to Chase, keeps one for himself.
"Where are you sleeping?" Chase asks.
Mack shrugs. "The bed, I guess."
Chase shakes his head. "Pull up a sleeping bag on the floor here below me. Be like camping."
The hard ground is the whole reason Mack never cared for camping. "Nawl … mattress is barely damp."
"Your choice," Chase says. "Heading to bed now?"
"I should … 'less there's anything you want me to do first?"
Chase lifts his legs onto the couch and sits cross-legged. The fly of his boxers spreads wide open. "I'm good," he says and begins plumping his pillow.
Mack hesitates.
Chase positions his pillow against the sofa's arm. "Don't forget to close the window behind the bed."
"Worried about burglars?"
"Little bit—but seriously, I'm turning on the A/C." There's a compact air-conditioning unit in the window above the couch. Chase reaches for the On knob.
Mack feels a twitch of annoyance. The tiny air conditioner in here won't do anything for the bedroom. He starts to say that but chooses a better argument: "Actually, this house was designed to take advantage of any cross-breeze,” he says. “I was planning to keep the bedroom window open. I could open the window beside the front door, too. That way, we could … test out … the, uh, effectiveness."
Chae is sneering. "In this neighborhood? No thanks." He turns the A/C knob clockwise.
The A/C unit hisses and begins to vibrate.
Mack leans his weight from one foot to the other. Maybe Chase is right.
“You know I’m right,” Chase says as if reading Mack’s thoughts.
A blast of air skims Chase's head and hits Mack's chest … feels no different from room temperature. Mack waves a hand through the breeze. "You, uh … think this thing works?"
"Probably not," Chase says. "Nothing else in this house works."
"Except us," Mack corrects him.
Chase glances up and smiles. The smile holds for a full second … followed by a straightening of the lips, a tightening of the jaw: The expression is now contemplative.
Mack has no idea how to interpret it … so he looks down, turns away, steps to the bedding box and grabs up a pair of sheets. He unfolds then refolds one of the sheets. Finally, he says, "Night" over his shoulder, and shuffles to the bedroom.
Mack can't help but feel a little disappointed. He'd expected to make love together on their first night in the house. Or at least sleep together. Whisper to one another in the dark until dreams slurred their words. Clearly, Chase is less excited than Chase about this new page in their life. That's okay. Not much excites Chase. He'll come around. But … is he unhappy? Is he angry?
Mack remembers the first time he saw Chase genuinely angry. It was probably four months after they began dating. Maybe five. They were at a cookout in City Park with a team of Mack's coworkers—Mack was still working for a big plumbing and HVAC company at the time—and Chase didn't know anybody there, and he drank too much too quickly, and got into a disagreement with a jetted tub installer who didn't like cops. Mack had never met Chase's dad, and Chase had only mentioned him a couple times, but apparently, his dad had been a local cop. Shortly before Chase graduated high school, his dad was called to a domestic dispute in Irish Channel and, soon as he knocked, a shotgun blast through the front door killed him. At the picnic, Chase and the tub installer called one another idiots, and when words weren't enough, the tub installer squirted ketchup on Chase's shoes. A shoving match erupted, and Chase broke the man's collarbone. They left the company picnic early—hastily, might be the better word. They scooped up a couple plates of chicken legs and macaroni salad and quickly retreated through a copse of trees to an isolated spot in a quieter section of the park. They made love that evening in an abandoned horseshoe pit adjacent to 800-year-old live oaks. The pit was filled with sand and wasn’t comfortable, but it was low enough to keep them hidden. More or less. When Chase moaned, "I'm getting close," Mack teased, "Close don't count except in—" and Chase's moan mixed with laughter, and the strange combo erupted so loudly, every dog within a half-mile radius began howling. Mack half expected car alarms to go off. He imagined the ancient oaks doubling over in concern and pulling their limbs close to their trunks. Mack told himself, that's what every orgasm do: startle nature.
Nothing to upset nature is likely to happen tonight. Nothing even close. Sure, they'd had their moment in the cab of his truck, out by the curb, this morning. That was fun … but not the kind of coupling a new home deserves. Maybe tomorrow.
4
Mack stretches a fitted sheet over the foam mattress, lays the regular sheet atop that. Through the rattle and hum of the box fan by the door and the A/C in the living room, he can already hear Chase snoring. Mack is envious of how quickly Chase can fall asleep. Mack wishes he had that ability. He’s dog tired tonight. Sleep should come easily, but he knows it won't. He’s always had trouble falling asleep alone. He was one of those babies who would never sleep without his mother’s arms or a tight swaddling. He’s one of those adults who simply stares at the ceiling if there’s not another body touching him.
He’s sweaty and grimy from the day's work. He should take a shower. He considers it. A shower usually helps him sleep. But as hot as he already is, a hot shower sounds miserable. And the bathroom is attached to the bedroom, and the bedroom is already too steamy.
He decides to forgo the shower. Chase didn't take a shower. It's summer in New Orleans. Everybody smells like sweat.
Climbing onto the mattress, he glances up at the window behind the headboard. He reaches up to close it, as Chase had requested, but pauses with his hands on the sill. The breeze rolling in over the backs of his hands feels pleasant. Calming. Mack likes to do whatever Chase asks, but … what Chase doesn’t know won’t upset him. Mack leaves it open.
***
Mack’s eyes have been closed for an hour now. Or maybe it’s just been a few minutes. Feels like an hour. The breeze spilling over the headboard and dropping onto Mack’s face feels … better than no breeze at all. It tickles his nose, but he’s trying to ignore that.
Once or twice, he feels like he’s about to fall asleep. Feels himself teetering on the edge. Chase is saying something to him. He’s using his foreplay voice. Soft, sexy. Hungry. Mack suspects it’s only a dream beckoning him closer, but he’s okay with that. He likes it. Sounds like Chase is whispering into his ear … maybe he really is. Eyes still closed, Mack smiles in the dark. He throws an arm over to Chase’s side of the bed to pull him closer—
His arm lands empty.
That’s right. Chase is on the couch.
Eyes still closed, Mack rolls onto his side.
He can still hear the whispering. Mumbling. Like someone swearing under their breath. But it’s further away now. Probably Chase in the bathroom.
Without opening his eyes, Mack says, “If you’re talking to me, you’re gonna have to speak up. If you’re in there with a burglar, I’m jealous.”
Mack chuckles to himself.
No answer.
It occurs to Mack that, if Chase climbed off the couch and stepped through the bedroom on his way to the bathroom, he probably noticed that Mack hadn’t shut the window. Shit. Not a big deal, but he’ll be disappointed. That’s probab
ly what he’s mumbling about.
Mack opens his eyes. The room is almost pitch black, so he still can’t see anything, but it helps him focus his mind. He tries to distinguish what Chase is saying … sounds like nonsense. A repetition of S sounds.
Definitely coming from the bathroom.
But the light in the bathroom is off. If it were on, he’d be able to see it leaking out from around the door. As his eyes adjust, he can see that the bathroom door isn’t even shut. It’s wide open.
That’s when he hears Chase snoring.
On the couch in the living room.
So who’s in the bathroom?
Mack sits up in bed, fully awake now.
Could it be a burglar on their first night? That would be … ironic? No, not ironic. Just … unlikely … weird. Mack eases out of bed quietly. He used to have a gun, but he sold it for an engagement ring years ago. And since he’s been living with Chase, he’s never felt the need for protection. Not even condoms.
He’s losing his train of thought.
Maybe he should grab a ball bat or a skillet or something … but everything’s still in boxes.
It can’t be a burglar, Mack tells himself. There’s no way in but through the window above the bed, and Mack would have felt him drop through over the headboard.
Mack creeps across the wide-plank floors to the open bathroom door.
The voice is louder here. It’s repeating the same word. More or less. Sounds like “His” or “He is.”
Mack reaches through the doorway. His hand slides along the wall feeling for the light switch—clicks it.
The bathroom light pops on.
“He’s, He’s, He’s.”
It’s coming from the tub-shower combo. There’s a shower curtain left over from the most recent renters. It’s drawn, hiding whatever’s making the noise from Mack’s view. Slowly, cautiously, he grips the curtain and slides it back.
The plastic rings holding the curtain to the shower bar make a skating noise.
Nothing there.
Just the tub.
But the source of the noise is obvious now.