by Amy Lane
“Whiskey’s gone,” he said miserably, trying to explain the red eyes and the pile of Kleenex and the fact that his favorite nurse (straight, male, and older than Patrick’s father, but still a fun guy with a good sense of humor) had brought him almost a half a gallon of soft serve peeking out of a jumbo Styrofoam cup.
“I know,” Shawn said, moving close enough to get a bite of the ice cream. “He stopped by the plant to threaten my life again.” (The plant was still closed, actually, and Shawn had been giving the grisly details of bomb cleanup when he visited. It would be open for business again in a week, and Patrick would be very relieved. That shit bored him senseless.)
“He doesn’t mean that,” Patrick said, stealing the spoon back.
“Sure he does. He should.” Shawn waved off the spoon and looked at his son unhappily. “He’s right. I had you twice, and both times I fucked it up. This time I’d better make good.”
Patrick shrugged, uncomfortable. “I’m grown, Dad. When I’m in recovery and can drive and shit, I’ll be out of your hair.”
Shawn’s look was inexplicably hurt. “Maybe that’s not what I want this go ’round,” he said quietly. “Maybe I want you in my life. I mean—I haven’t had any factory these last two weeks, and you know something? I got nothing else. Maybe I should spend some time with the one person I know still talking to me. Maybe that would be the smart thing to do.”
Patrick was skeptical but kept it to himself. “I’m not great at the smart stuff either,” he offered, and Shawn shook his head.
“Sure you are, kid. I’m just not great at seeing it.”
@Whiskey—I’m going home tomorrow. I have no idea what’s waiting for me.
@Patrick—No worries. I sort of know—you’ll like it, I promise.
THE frogs were waiting for him in two giant terrariums.
Cal and Catherine got their own, and the other two (four?) had to share. They had water and a filter and a humidifier and plant vegetation and algae and earth and a maggot/fly cycle and, in general, were well cared for on their new pedestal in Patrick’s room.
Patrick was ecstatic. Shawn was appalled.
“Omigod! Cal! Catherine! Conrad, Chastity! Christopher, Courtney! Hello, guys! Didja miss me?”
Catherine moved her back leg as if to go forward, and Cal moved his as if to go back. The frog(s) did what it (they) always did: stayed perfectly still and breathed in and out. It was all Patrick could have asked for in a pet.
“You named them?” Shawn asked. “I don’t even know what they are!”
“Anomalous rana catesbianea,” Patrick murmured. “They’re what happens to your standard American bullfrog when drug-dealing assholes dump shitloads of atrazine in the water supply to keep their weed crop growing.”
Shawn blinked and looked at the frogs some more. “Oh for fuck’s sake….” He trailed off and looked at Patrick in wonder. “This is why you and Whiskey found the drug stash.”
Patrick was sitting on his bed, talking to the frogs, and he looked over his shoulder (gently—that whole area was still fucked up) and nodded. “Yeah. Why’d you think we were there?”
Shawn shook his head. “As God is my witness, I had no idea.”
Patrick blinked. “Why didn’t you think I was a drug dealer, then?”
Shrug. “I don’t know, Patrick. No father likes to think that about his boy. Here, let me go get that duffel bag Whiskey left me. He says it’s got clothes in it, but I took a look. I wouldn’t use most of that shit to wash the car.”
Patrick felt his first real smile in two days break. “Don’t get rid of it,” he said happily. “That’s shit’s important to him.”
“It better be—some of it looks like it was passed down a generation.” And with that, Shawn turned around and left. Patrick pulled out his phone.
@Whiskey—Thanks for the frogs. You know, my dad never thought I was a drug-dealing douchebag?
@Patrick—You’re welcome. You know, for all his flaws, I think you’re right. How’re the frogs?
@Whiskey—Hella fucking confused.
@Patrick—How’re you?
@Whiskey—Sorta the same.
@Patrick—You’ll figure it out.
IN ANOTHER two weeks, all of Patrick’s bandages were off, his arm cast was small enough to let him function, and he’d cleared all of the neural tests. He was officially cleared for takeoff in the vehicle of his choice. His dad took him out shopping for one.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked, confused. He started school the next day, but he’d been planning on using Whiskey’s car. Not only was he not thrilled to be dependent on his father again, but the whole “let’s go shopping” thing seemed awfully personal.
“You need something bigger. You said you were going to work on Whiskey’s boat. This’ll help.”
“But I wasn’t going to start that until I started getting paid.”
“I got you new credit cards. Use them.”
“Dad….”
Shawn was driving them to the dealership in his SUV, and Patrick watched as his hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Please, Patrick? Man, just do me a favor and use my money. I was an asshole before. Forgive me and use my fucking money.”
Patrick sighed and looked out the window. “I’m not a leech,” he said with dignity.
“Did I mention the part about being an asshole? I spent all that time in the fucking factory. I lost my wife and I almost lost you. Just let me give you something I bought with all that time. It’s not enough, and it’s not worth it, but I can give it to you.” Shawn’s throat worked. “Please?”
“Okay. Fine. Thank you.” God, he was so weak. But his dad was talking to him and taking him to go look for something as opposed to having someone else shop for it so it would end up in their driveway on his birthday.
Shawn swallowed again. “You’re welcome. Don’t let anyone drive this one but Whiskey, or maybe Fly Bait.”
“I was drugged when Cal drove the other one,” Patrick said with dignity.
“Well then,” Shawn said, looking decidedly less tense, “I don’t have anything to worry about.”
@Patrick—What are you doing?
@Whiskey—Waiting for my dad to close the deal on a really sweet Chevy truck. You?
@Patrick—Waiting for a chopper to an oil rig.
@Whiskey—How cold is it?
@Patrick—You’ll need a space heater and a bonfire to coax my balls back out into the open.
@Whiskey—I’d rather be doing that than getting a truck.
@Patrick—Enjoy the truck. It’s got a heater.
@Whiskey—It’s 105F today.
@Patrick—Enjoy the truck. It’s got an air conditioner.
@Whiskey—LOL. I fucking miss you.
@Patrick—Yeah.
SCHOOL was a lot easier than he remembered. Maybe it was the Ritalin, maybe it was being grown up, or maybe it was a shitload of perspective, but there it was. He sat in the classroom, he did what the teacher said, he read what he needed to, he passed his classes. He’d been nervous that first week, but once he sat down (per Whiskey’s suggestion) and charted a schedule, he was fine. He found he liked the campus at Sac State—there were some nice open spaces, some gorgeous trees, and that was lovely. He was half-afraid when he started, though. He had some vision of himself at an all-you-can-eat gay buffet with an empty stomach.
It was more like ending up at a Mexican restaurant when he had a date for sushi afterward.
@Patrick—going dark in an hour—getting a big storm. No reception in ship. Don’t worry.
@Whiskey—I’ll worry, but thanks for the heads up.
@Patrick—What’re you doing?
@Whiskey—Watching cute guys play Frisbee in the quad.
@Patrick—Thanks a lot, you bastard. Now I’ve gotta go beat off.
@Whiskey—Me too.
@Patrick—Tempted?
@Whiskey—To beat off? Always.
@Patrick—To join them after
Frisbee.
@Whiskey—Not even a little. Not to my taste.
@Patrick—Not gay?
@Whiskey—Not you!
THE week after that, he started work. That too was easier—and better—than he’d anticipated.
He had scars—he was surprised, when he put on his yoga pants and tank shirt. The expensive, stretchable, breathable cotton was new; Shawn had brought him a catalogue and made him order from it. (Speaking of scars, Patrick was starting to look for the marks where the aliens had removed his father’s brain and replaced it with the man who paid his bills now.) But the pink and shiny skin on his shoulder, on his calves, and, Patrick would imagine, along his back and underneath his cast was new too. He’d had surgeries, and although his hair had grown in back enough to cut and make it match the rest, he knew he had scars under his hair too.
Shawn came in as Patrick was looking at himself before work, feeling bemused. He’d always liked looking good, wearing new clothes. It had been the first thing to go when he’d woken up in Whiskey’s arms, and he realized that while he hadn’t missed it then, he missed it now, when the regular, unscathed skin was not just a credit card away.
He turned away when he saw his dad in the mirror and realized that Shawn was pretty upset. “I’m almost ready,” he said, to cover up the awkwardness. “Did you still want to take me? The truck’s working great.”
“I used to think you were vain,” Shawn said quietly, and Patrick shrugged.
“I am.”
Shawn nodded. “No, you’re not. If you were vain, you’d be more upset about that.”
“Whiskey isn’t going to care,” he said with certainty. “It’ll be embarrassing at first, ’cause he’s only known me perfect, but mostly, I think Whiskey just wants, you know, me. So it’s okay.”
Shawn nodded and then shook his head. “You were a beautiful baby,” he said roughly. “And you were so perfect. We used to put you in a playpen in the office, and you’d just sit there and make noises to hear yourself. I could have listened to that forever.” He sighed. “I should have never stopped. I don’t know why I did in the first place. Now look at you.”
Patrick grinned, the expression obviously startling to his dad. “Yeah, I still make noises to hear myself. How do you think I learned to fart with my armpits?”
Shawn burst out into surprised laughter, and Patrick grabbed his yoga mat and his gym bag so he could shower and change after his third class. Shawn turned around to head downstairs to the kitchen when there was a noise from one of the terrariums.
Patrick looked over and smiled. “Cal? Catherine? Is that you?” He moved closer and turned around to his dad. “They never talk. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard them talk.”
Shawn grimaced. “That’s awesome, Patrick, but, uhm, I’m having trouble just learning to listen to you talk. Maybe we can not force Daddy to talk to the two-headed frogs for a while, okay?”
“Okay! I’m going to be late for work anyway!”
@Patrick—Going to be out of touch for a week. Keep sending.
@Whiskey—*worry*
@Patrick—Don’t worry. It’s just ice. How are you?
@Whiskey—Starting work. Dad’s driving me and picking me up. SO. Weird.
@Patrick—He’s taking care of you then.
@Whiskey—I don’t need anyone to take care of me.
@Patrick—Best reason to do it.
@Whiskey—Whatever. I have scars.
@Patrick—Oooh. Can I kiss?
@Whiskey—Yeah, after that whole ice thing, feel free to knock yourself out.
@Patrick—I’ll hold you to that. Tell me how work goes, even if I don’t respond.
@Whiskey—I know. You’re always listening.
@Patrick—Love you.
@Whiskey—Love you back.
Whiskey
Six Months of Night
WHISKEY’S job in Alaska was much the same as it had been in Sacramento. He was supposed to monitor water composition and wildlife anomalies to see if the new, hopefully improved safety requirements on the offshore drilling facilities had softened the impact on the environment.
On the one hand, it was exciting work. Whiskey always took assignments like this as proof that mankind was not really hell bent on self-annihilation but was, instead, simply misinformed. Someone was trying to do something better for the environment, and Whiskey was there to help them along.
On the other hand, some aspects of the job were much the same as they had always been: a bunch of socially inept people masturbating in a box. Of course, that was an oversimplification—many of the people Whiskey worked with were perfectly capable of holding a normal conversation in a restaurant or going to see a movie without analyzing the chemical composition of the explosives used in the special effects.
Unfortunately, those were usually the men who were hired to maintain the ship.
Not all of them—and Whiskey truly loved his coworkers. One of the exciting things about wandering like a gypsy from study to study for the last ten years was getting to meet new people. It wasn’t until recently that he’d realized that very often, he would organize his own team so he could work with the same people—Fly Bait in particular—and that he was reluctant to warm to new people.
It hadn’t been until Patrick had fallen in his lap that he’d realized some people he warmed up to just fine. And then Patrick made him see that every wander, every project, had just been one more attempt to find a home.
God, he wanted that home.
Somewhere in Greenland, it had been recorded that arctic winter ended two days earlier because climate change had reduced the polar ice cap to the point that the sun hit the earth earlier as the seasons changed.
Since Whiskey would be out of this great polar ice cube before that, he didn’t give a fuck. The only sunshine he cared about was the light he saw in Patrick’s smile, and that may have been romantic bullshit that he didn’t believe in and wouldn’t say out loud if someone held a gun to his head, but it didn’t change the fact that it was true.
@Patrick—What are you doing?
@Whiskey—Watching my dad flirt badly with one of my students.
@Patrick—Please tell me she’s older than you.
@Whiskey—I’m pretty sure she’s older than you.
@Patrick—My opinion of him just raised a little. Is she nice?
@Whiskey—She keeps trying to fix me up with her nephew. And she doesn’t use too much hair spray, too much makeup, or have too nice a car.
@Patrick—If it wasn’t for that blind date thing I’d give a shit about that other stuff.
@Whiskey—I’M NOT GOING!
@Patrick—I didn’t think you were. I’m just jealous about time spent with you in general, not anyone specifically.
@Whiskey—Wow. You can be a total dick. I’m so relieved.
@Patrick—I’ve been a total dick before. You’ve seen it.
@Whiskey—Stop talking dirty—I’m celibate here.
HIS chats with Patrick were his lifeline, and, if he was really lucky, he’d get more than a chat. Patrick’s birthday was in September, and his present was apparently the best camera phone known to man—the pictures started flowing thick and fast, and Whiskey treasured every one. Whiskey had ordered something online that he thought Patrick might like—and that his dad might share.
@Whiskey—Bad news. I was going to work on the houseboat today when my dad talked me into flying a fucking kite if you can believe that. I thought he was high—until he showed me the goddamned package.
Shawn had taken the picture—Patrick on a windy overlook above the levee, with the magnificent kite featuring a colorful frog in the center dancing overhead.
@Shawn—Thank you. If you could have that blown up and sent here, I would really appreciate that.
@Whiskey—You’re welcome. I haven’t seen him laugh like that since he was eight. I appreciate THAT.
Patrick sent him pictures of Brittany, his boss and friend at the gym (a solid, fortyish blon
de woman with a sardonic smile), of the campus at Sac State (surprisingly pretty, for all it existed in the heart of Sacramento), of his new truck (big and electric green), and of the frogs (which hadn’t changed at all). What Patrick didn’t send him pictures of was the houseboat.
@Patrick—Puuuuuullleeeeeeezze! I wanna see it! Please please please please please?
@Whiskey—No. Stop whining. It’s beneath you.
@Patrick—Come on, dammit! I’m going to live there!
@Whiskey—I want it to look fantastic. No shitty rug, no crappy paneling. I’m getting the bottom scraped and repainted right now.
@Patrick—On a yoga teacher’s salary?
@Whiskey—Dad helped. Don’t say anything to him. He doesn’t want anyone to know.
Like that was going to happen.
@Shawn—Appreciate the help with the houseboat.
@Whiskey—Appreciate the third chance.
AROUND Thanksgiving (which was celebrated in the tiny ship’s galley with tofurkey, something Whiskey had never really warmed to, since he believed solidly in the food chain) and a bunch of bad jokes that Whiskey still found funny, he received a long e-mail. It rambled, it chatted, and, at one point in time, it scared the hell out of him.
Okay, I’ve got some bad news, and I feel really guilty. (Here was when Whiskey’s heart failed.) I don’t think I want to be a biologist like I told you. (And here was when he wanted to strangle Patrick for scaring the hell out of him.) I’m good at science, but I’m really good at yoga, and teaching, just like you said, so I’m thinking of studying Kinesiology. It’s going to take extra time, and I may be sort of a student freeloader for a lot longer than two years, but… (And here, right here at the ellipsis, was where Whiskey wanted Patrick there, right there in his arms, on his lap, even, since he was so slight, because it was awesome.) but I really like teaching. I like taking people who can’t move well and giving them something that makes them happy and gives them peace, and I think it’s so important and I love it, and I want to know more about it and I want to get better at it. I can be all sorts of things with it—a personal trainer, maybe a gym teacher with extra stuff attached, or a physical therapist. But I can’t be a biologist, even though I can still be your lab boy in the summer.