Dinner at Jack's

by Rick R. Reed

  As I stood outside, smelling the damp air from the river, it began to rain. It wasn’t a downpour. It hardly even qualified as a sprinkle. It was more as though a mist had arisen, perhaps working its way up from the damp earth to caress my skin and make my clothes feel just slightly moist.

  I stared out at the river, a barge that passed by, the traffic on the road below, watching as headlights went on to combat the encroaching dark.

  Jack had returned. Not to my house or his own, but to himself. I knew this was only a small step and there would be more work needed. But all journeys begin with a step—and Jack had taken his first. I determined, right then and there, practical or impractical, I would hold his hand if he wanted as he took subsequent steps.

  I would be there for him. I could be his person.

  The darkness was complete, almost as though a shroud had been thrown over the world. The night sky was thick, black, starless, and moonless. A mist swirled over the river’s surface.

  The rain came down harder, and I went back inside. Jack was sitting up and rubbing his eyes. When he saw me, he stopped and smiled. “Before you say anything—” He held up his hand toward me. “—I want you to know I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Leastways, not tonight. I just wanna have one night where it didn’t happen. Just one. Okay?”

  I smiled back. “Whatever you say, Jack.”

  “Call me Jackson, okay?”

  My smile widened. “Sure.”

  “Right now I need a couple things.” He stood up. “First, I need to pee. I have to go like a racehorse.” He disappeared into the bathroom. After closing the door, I heard a waterfall being emptied. It conjured up imagery that would be—how did the kids say it these days?—not safe for work. I felt heat rise to my cheeks, but it didn’t stop me from savoring the image.

  When Jackson opened the door, I could tell from the heat of my skin that my face had grown even redder. I told myself he couldn’t read my mind, for which I was grateful. What kind of perv was I, anyway? Thinking about dicks at a time like this? For shame!

  “I need to call my mom.”

  I wondered how many times Maisie had called throughout the afternoon and into the evening. Of course she was worried. And as ashamed as I was about my thoughts about Jackson’s penis, I was more ashamed I hadn’t thought to call her as soon as we’d come inside.

  I wondered where my phone was and that I hadn’t heard it ring. And then I had a sickening thought—my phone had been in my pocket when I’d gone into the river. I’d piled our wet clothes up near the door. I went to them, rummaged through and found my jeans. Sure enough, my phone was inside, its screen beaded with water. I pressed the home button, and the picture I’d saved as wallpaper—the river shimmering on a sunny day—rose up and then vanished. After that I got the same result when I pushed any button, which was nothing.

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  “What?” Jackson asked.

  “My phone got drowned.” I held it up.

  “Oh geez, I’m sorry.”

  “No worries.”

  Jackson looked around the apartment. The surveillance took him all of ten seconds. “No landline?”

  I shook my head. “Who needs a landline these days?” I quickly answered my own question. “I do, that’s who, obviously.” I gave Jackson what I was sure could be labeled a big, stupid grin.

  “I don’t want to, but uh, I’m gonna need to go home. Ma will be worried sick.”

  I nodded and closed my eyes. Of course she would. I had entertained visions of him staying into the night and of me offering more comfort. Now I just needed to get my keys. I was certain my phone had probably already filled with frantic messages from Maisie, and I felt deep shame that her concern had been no concern of mine until now.

  “Come on. I’ll run you home,” I said to Jackson once I had my keys. I grabbed jackets for us both from my overcrowded closet.

  As we stepped outside, I spied lights on at Daisy’s, and that gave me an idea. I turned to Jackson. “Listen, would you mind if I stopped by my landlady’s place and called for you? Or you can come with me and call for yourself.”

  Jackson looked me over. “You can do it.” He stepped back inside. “I’ll get supper started.”

  “But—” I bit my tongue. The offer was so unexpected, nothing else mattered except the fact Jackson was willing to cook for me. It didn’t matter that I had no idea how he’d put a meal together from what I had in my fridge and pantry. It didn’t matter whether he knew how to cook. It didn’t matter that the offer was completely out of character.

  It was another step forward, I thought. And it was huge. “That would be great,” I said. “Help yourself to whatever you find in there. I’ll be right back.”

  * * * *

  When I returned, it was as though my studio apartment had been transformed. Warm yellow lights fought back the darkness pressing against my windows. Jackson had managed to dig out my old iPod from a dresser drawer and the music dock I used for it. Somehow he’d chosen perfect music. Oscar Peterson’s Night Train album suffused the room with jazz piano. On the coffee table, he’d lit a couple of candles.

  And something smelled horrible in the kitchen. Jackson grinned at me from the stove. He stood above a pot, stirring. “I couldn’t find much, so I took a page from you and got creative.”

  “Oh?” I sniffed again, hoping for a different outcome, but it still smelled awful, stomach churning. “Whatever you came up with smells delicious,” I told him. Lies in the service of kindness are never a sin.

  “It’s, uh, pasta, with deli ham and a sauce of ranch dressing.”

  I think I succeeded in not shuddering. “That sounds great.” I would eat whatever Jackson made, and I would eat it with gusto.

  He rapped the spoon on the side of the pot, and I watched as a glob of whitish goo dropped back in. “What did Mom say?”

  “Oh, she was, as we thought, very worried. In fact, she was just about to leave work and drive straight here when I called. So I’m glad I caught her.”

  Jackson moved to me, so close our bodies were almost but not quite touching. “I’m glad too,” he said softly. “I wanted this chance to return the favor, to cook for you for a change.”

  Did he really have no idea that what he’d made was awful? I shook my head, admonishing myself. I forced myself to conjure up an image of what Jackson had been like when Maisie first brought me into his room. The contrast almost brought me to my knees with gratitude.

  It didn’t matter whether he knew what he’d made was shitty. The fact that he’d made it was a small miracle.

  I set about setting out pasta bowls and silverware. I tore off a couple of paper towels from the rack under the sink to use as napkins.

  “I think I have some wine,” I said. “What do you think? White or red?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackson said, perplexed. “There’s ham, but there’s also a white sauce.”

  Ranch dressing was a sauce? Stop it! I bent down to rummage through the cupboard where I’d stored a few bottles of wine. I snatched one out. “Perfect! A rose! It’ll go with anything.” I set it on the counter, grateful for the screw top so I wouldn’t have to try to hunt down a corkscrew.

  As I feared, the pasta concoction was horrible. Not only was ranch dressing never made for hot pasta, the pasta was overcooked and mushy. The deli ham, torn into bite-size chunks, added some necessary salt, though it wasn’t enough to save the dish. But I ate every bite, and after I’d thoroughly cleaned the bowl, I held it out to Jackson. “Can I have some more, please?” Because, here’s the thing, there is no higher compliment to a cook than asking for seconds. Words are lip service, but wanting more is the real deal.

  Jackson stared at me, and I could see he was a little surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Of course! It’s yummy.”

  He got up and dished me up another bowl, filling it up just as full as the first time. When he sat back down, he eyed me warily. “You’re laying it on a bit thick, you
know.”

  I feigned innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And—into the breach once more—I lifted a forkful to my mouth. I chewed, swallowed, and successfully thwarted my gag reflex.

  “I couldn’t find anything for dessert,” Jackson said as the meal wound down.

  I pulled the plate of cookies from earlier over in front of us. “These will do just fine.” I snatched one up, waiting for the sharp ginger bite to obliterate the lingering taste of ranch.

  We ate cookies. Jackson made more tea. The evening seemed almost normal. At one point I mentioned what had happened. “Did they ever find out who was responsible?” And Jackson looked at me with something akin to fury. I was reminded of the time he’d flung my just-made chili against the wall. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I asked for one night free from this.” His features softened. “Can’t you give me that?”

  In response, I did what my body told me to do. I leaned over and kissed him. Tentative at first, I merely placed a small peck on his lips, then leaned back to stare into his ice-blue eyes, looking for something, encouragement maybe. And I saw it. Felt it even more when he reached up to place his hand on the back of my neck to draw me closer.

  Our lips, tongues, mouths connected. The kiss went on forever. No, really, forever. Nations rose and declined in the space of our kiss. Entire lifetimes all around us were played out. Our entire solar system was sucked into a black hole. But our eyes never opened. Our mouths never disengaged. There was a deep hunger in that kiss. But there was also communion and release.

  When at last we did pull away, we were both panting. Spent—but not quite. We stared at each other, eyes so close I feared mine would cross, and drank the other in. This was not just a gaze—it was an exchange of souls.

  I asked a stupid question, but it was a stupid question born of concern. “Is this okay?”

  Jackson shook his head. “You’re not rushing anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of. In fact, you’re years late. This is how the rest of that night should have gone.” His voice was hoarse. “One thing—we never know what’s going to happen next, so we live in the moment.” He stood and clutched my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine.

  “Take me to bed?” he whispered.

  I opened my mouth to ask if he was sure, but he placed a finger over my lips. I could see tears standing in his eyes. “No more words,” he said, so soft I had to strain to hear him.

  I rose to follow.

  We stood at the side of the bed. The wind howled outside, and rain tapped against the windows. “Lights on? Off?” I asked.

  “Off, please.”

  “Music?” I moved toward the sound dock, thinking George Winston.

  But Jackson shook his head. “Just you.”

  I left him long enough to shut off the single floor lamp and the fluorescent over the kitchen sink, plunging the room into darkness. As my eyes adjusted, the room took on a gray cast from the pale illumination of the night outside.

  There’s always light.

  I dropped my clothes as I moved toward him. He stood, hesitant, not doing anything. His hands hung at his sides, as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them. And that was okay.

  I knew what to do.

  Once I was naked, I moved close. Kissed him again, moving from his mouth to his neck, up to his eyelids. My hands roamed over his chest, and I tried to remember that I was feeling Jackson and not his emaciation. I hoped these moments, this now, would be another step in his healing, another release of his pain. I reached down and felt his excitement, squeezed. He gasped.

  Slowly I began to undress him, dropping each garment one by one, emphatically, on the floor.

  Once he was naked, he bowed his head, and a shuddering sob escaped him.

  “Hey, hey, what?” I asked softly.

  “I’m ugly.” He turned away, his shoulders heaving. “I don’t need your pity.”

  I didn’t say a word. I moved around him so I was in front again. I dropped to my knees before him and took him into my mouth. In spite of his shame and embarrassment, he was still hard. I lovingly sucked him and didn’t let up when his sobbing increased, didn’t let up when I felt the first shudder course through him, didn’t let up when the first jet of semen hit the back of my throat. I milked him, savoring the jerking ebbs of the flood. I held fast to his thighs, not allowing him to move away.

  At last I stood. We both collapsed on the bed. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight, and was relieved when he curled up against my side and allowed his head to rest on my chest.

  “Don’t ever say that,” I whispered, stroking his hair.

  “What do you mean?” His words tickled the side of my neck. I pulled the blankets up over us.

  “That you’re ugly or somehow not worthy. That’s bullshit. You’re a beautiful man. You were when I met you. You are now.” I bit my lip, wanting to heap more praise on him, wanting to go overboard in letting him know he was valued. That there was the great potential for love here. But it all seemed too much. Too soon.

  There would be time for us to grow, I prayed silently. So I simply said, “Let’s sleep now.”

  And like magic, my words transported him. I swear only seconds had passed before I felt him go limp in my arms, felt as much as heard his breathing deepen. It was like I said before—the release of that burden earlier had taken a toll. He had to have been exhausted.

  * * * *

  The next thing I knew, I woke up to an empty bed. I reached out sleepily for Jackson, and he was gone.

  Immediately I sat up, jarred wide awake. My heart was pounding. A cold breeze hit my bare chest. I looked over and saw my door was open. Oh God, had he gotten up in the night? Gone into the river? Almost breathless with fear, I leaped from the bed and rushed to the door.

  Jackson stood outside, wearing my flannel bathrobe. He was looking down at the yard.

  I stepped up quietly behind him. Ruth was down there, doing her business.

  He turned, a little startled. “Oh! I didn’t mean for you to wake up. We forgot to let poor Ruth out for a final potty break. Shame on us. The poor thing was tap-dancing at the door.”

  The dog rushed back up the stairs and didn’t deign to look at me as she rushed by. She hopped up on the bed and curled up in the warm spot I’d left behind, wet, muddy paws and all. I sighed. She knew it. I knew it. It was what I deserved.

  “Thank you,” I told him.

  “No worries.”

  We came back inside, and I was thinking that Jackson and I could occupy one side of the bed while Ruth took the other. After all, we had wronged her, ignoring her as we did. You see what kind of dog owner I am, don’t you? What’s that? A softie? A pushover? Get out of here! I just love my dog.

  As I moved toward the bed, Jackson stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. I turned, wondering, anticipating that maybe the gesture was another overture for more lovemaking. I had wanted to let him set the pace, move slowly, but I would be happy to do whatever he wanted.

  But the fear on his face told me immediately that sex was not on his mind.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked softly.

  “They were out there.”

  I swallowed, feeling a chill so intense it made me shiver for a moment. “Who?”

  “Them. They saw us, and they were waiting for me to come down.” He looked away, toward the door, and then back at me. “They wanted to beat me up again. Break a few bones. Teach me another lesson.”

  I gathered him up in my arms. “Oh, Jackson, no. No. You were dreaming. There was no one out there but Ruth, believe me. There’s no one here in this town who has anything in store for you but love. We want to see you whole, better.” I touched his face. “Can you believe that?”

  He nodded. But I wasn’t convinced. And I knew he wasn’t either. Baby steps…

  I took his hand and led him back to the bed. For the transgression of not letting her out earlier—and, I belatedly realized, not giving her her supper—Ruth was stay
ing put on my side. She glared at me as I neared the bed, daring me to move her even an inch.

  Jackson and I climbed in near her, and the three of us settled in for more sleep. Ruth went first, her snores loud and rhythmic. Jackson lay tense in my arms, and although it was my full intention to see him off again to slumber, at some point I lost my hold on consciousness. I don’t know if he slept.

  But here’s the good thing—he was there in the morning when I awoke.

  And he was smiling, stroking the stubble on my cheeks. He pulled me on top of him.

  “This. This is right,” I whispered, and I could feel him nod. He pulled my lips down to his own.

  Sometimes we have to treasure the moment—the now—which, really, is all any of us has.

  Epilogue: A Picnic

  Sicilian Roast Chicken

  1 3-4 lb. chicken, cut up

  1 T thyme

  1 T onion powder

  1 T garlic powder

  1 T dried basil

  1 T dried oregano

  Kosher salt

  Fresh ground black pepper

  1/4 stick of butter

  1/4 cup of olive oil

  Preheat oven to 425F. Rinse chicken parts and pat dry. Put in roasting pan. Melt butter either in your microwave or in a small saucepan. Add in olive oil. Brush this mixture onto all chicken parts, coating generously. Sprinkle salt, pepper, onion and garlic powder, and dried herbs over all. Place in preheated oven and roast for 40 minutes or until a meat thermometer reads 190F.

  Serve hot or cold. (The latter is great at a picnic!)

  Serves 4.

  * * * *

  A gust of moist, warm air glides across the river’s green water and bathes us. The sun beats down, butter yellow. Its intense heat bakes my skin. Bees buzz around us. A butterfly, orange and brown, flies up, then down as it surveys the picnic laid out on two blankets. The grass is hyper-green, dotted with dandelions and clover. I’ve set up my Bluetooth speaker, and a jazz playlist pours out. Oscar Peterson of course, but also Duke Ellington, Art Blakey, Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Ella.