by Allan, S. H.
Mrs. Lightner would have replied, but a sudden tug at her coiffure brought tears to her eyes, and whatever she would have said about Dylan and John will never be known.
And in the years that passed, Dylan and John had become Mrs. Gardner’s favorite subject. Oh, there were other “queers” in town—Mr. Parsloe, the druggist, sprang to mind—but none of them were as high profile as John and Dylan. They had a joint bank account! They bought a house! When at parties, they introduced each other as “my boyfriend” or “my better half”!
“It’s almost like they’re regular people,” Mrs. Gardner said one day as she squirted perm solution over Penny Carter’s scalp.
“They are regular people,” Penny protested. She’d been a classmate of both John and Dylan and had always felt a little protective of them.
“I suppose they are,” Mrs. Gardner admitted. “In their way.”
After that day, Penny Carter always drove to nearby Dixon to get her hair done.
As Mrs. Gardner watched one of her favorite subjects coming down leading a dog on a leash, she smiled to herself. Things were obviously not happy in Gay Paradise, if Dylan Reed’s expression was anything to go by. God had given basset hounds a mournful, naturally sad expression, but the dog at the end of the lead was being outdone in the woeful department by the man next to him.
Indeed, Dylan’s outlook was gloomy. The May sun was beaming down, doing its best, but even the lamp of the heavens was finding bringing a little cheer to Dylan a daunting task. Birds chirped merrily in the trees behind the drugstore, but their song fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Lightner passed Dylan on her way to the bank, and her cheery hello received only a grunt in return. When Dylan and Spider—for that was the hound’s unlikely name—got to the corner and waited for the crossing light to change, the dog looked up at his master as if to say, “Dude, you’re bringing me down!”
The light changed, and Dylan and Spider moved on, eventually going out of sight of Mrs. Gardner, who wondered what was behind the young man’s furrowed brow. “Trouble in the bedroom,” Mrs. G said aloud. “Mark my words. He and John have stopped having sex. I’ve seen that look before.”
Incredibly, for once Mrs. Gardner’s conjecture had hit the nail on the head.
DYLAN walked on, deep in thought. He was vaguely aware of life going on around him, but the comings and goings of the folk of Flemyng held no fascination for him. His mind was occupied on The Problem, specifically why John had recently been giving him the cold shoulder. They hadn’t fought. In truth, they’d hardly spoken since the end of April. John was spending more and more time at work, often coming home after Dylan had already given up and gone to bed. It seemed, at least to Dylan, that John was scheduling appointments, workouts, and meetings at times when he knew Dylan would be free in an attempt to keep away. And on the few occasions when John crept into bed while Dylan was still awake and Dylan tried to instigate some action, John had just muttered, “Not tonight. Okay, babe? I’m just not feeling up to it.” And that had been that.
Dylan had tried everything. He’d made a special dinner for John on Saturday night, cooking like a madman all day while John had been at work. By the time John had come home, his coveralls stained with grease, oil, and other mechanical mishaps, Dylan had set the table with candles and had Emmylou Harris—a favorite of both of theirs—playing on the stereo and was pouring the wine.
“Go hop in the shower,” Dylan had said. “Only don’t take too long. I don’t want the casserole to cook much longer. I put it in a little too early, I guess, thinking you’d be home before now.”
John gave Dylan the briefest of pecks on the cheek. “I’m sorry, babe. I got tied up at work. Everything looks wonderful.” He started to peel off his clothes as he headed down the hall to the bathroom. “But I’ll have to eat quick and run. Town board meeting tonight.”
Which put to a halt any hopes Dylan had that the evening would end up with a sexual wrestling match in the bedroom.
Even the addition of Spider to their household had done little to ease the situation. Dylan had thought Spider would rekindle their romance as the two of them fawned over the animal, but John had done little fawning. And Spider’s habit of sleeping between the two men in bed hadn’t helped the coital situation. “Not,” John would mutter if Dylan’s hands began to stray, “in front of the dog.”
Dylan suggested a trip to Hawaii. “Too much work right now, babe,” John had replied.
Dylan thought throwing a party might lighten the mood of the household. “Who would we invite?” John had grumbled. “Penny? Eric? Those two are steps away from a divorce, from what I’ve heard. No thanks on the party idea, Dylan. I don’t need the drama right now.”
Dylan ran out of ideas and decided his only option was to brood. And he brooded well. He and Spider traipsed across the street and wandered over to Tinker Park. There Dylan sat on a bench thinking black thoughts while Spider watched squirrels and wondered if it was worth stirring his admittedly large ass to give chase to them. He decided against it.
So immersed in thought was Dylan that he didn’t even notice Cody Brewer’s presence until the young man had sat down next to Dylan on the bench. Cody had apparently just been out for a run. His tank top was soaked, and as he crossed his long legs, he wiped a hand through his hair, nearly showering Dylan with a spray of perspiration from the motion.
“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?” Cody’s voice was a little hoarse from his recent exertions, making his normally gravelly voice even more so.
“You talking to me,” Dylan asked glumly, “or the dog?”
“The dog. You sound like a whole lot of no fun right now.”
“I’m not.”
“Still trouble at home?” Cody asked, his eyebrows raised.
Dylan nodded.
Cody put a damp, sweaty arm around Dylan’s shoulder and pulled him closer. Dylan thought it sweet that Cody was comfortable enough, as a straight man, to engage in such a public display of affection in a town that boasted the likes of Mrs. Gardner. “Cheer up, buddy,” Cody said. “Things could be worse.”
A sour look to his face, Dylan merely grunted in reply. In truth, though, he felt comfort in Cody’s friendship, although he could do without the wet arm draped about him and the musky smell coming from Cody’s armpit. Cody, technically, was more John’s friend than Dylan’s. Cody and John had been Marines together, worked out together, and practiced their martial arts together. Up until recently, Dylan had felt there was little in common between him and the athletic—and presumably straight—Cody. However, at a party several weeks ago, Cody and Dylan, spurred on by the crowd and aided by a few too many beers, had kissed. It had been a mere lip-lock with no tongue, but everyone had a good laugh over it. Cody had joked, “You’re a pretty good kisser for a dude,” and Dylan found himself liking the guy.
Strangely, it had been to Cody that Dylan had told his troubles in the following weeks. Cody’s had been a welcome shoulder on which to figuratively cry.
“Has he said anything to you?” Dylan asked hopefully.
Cody shook his head with a sigh. “Afraid not. I’ve not really seen much of him these last few weeks. He hasn’t been to the gym much.”
“No, he’s been using the equipment in the basement a lot. He locks himself down there and turns up the stereo. All I hear is the clank of his weights and Steve Earle blasting out of the speakers.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with the guy.”
“I do,” Dylan said sadly. “He’s gone off me. I’m no longer what he wants.”
Cody scoffed. “Dude, he thinks the world of you. Always has. This is just a phase he’s going through.”
“I don’t think so. I think he’s realized that what he really wants is someone like you. Someone athletic. Someone he can hit the gym with. Someone who likes those MMA fights you guys do instead of someone who would rather see Wicked.”
“Well, then he’s crazy,” Cody replied with feeling. “You’re the best thing that’s ever
happened to him. Back when we were in the Corps—”
Dylan winced. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a long harangue about the good old Marine Corps days.
“You were all he thought about. Of course, I'm the only one he talked to about you. Back then, he kept his gay side firmly under wraps.”
Something clicked in Dylan’s brain. All John’s closest friends were either ex-Marines or guys who worked out a lot or were into martial arts. And then there was small, thin, weedy Dylan. Dylan sat up so suddenly he startled Spider, who had been sitting quietly on the grass throughout the proceeding dialogue, contemplating an anthill. “Can you,” Dylan asked Cody, “teach me how to box?”
“Say what?”
Dylan repeated his words slowly.
Cody shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a reservoir of water that had decided to camp out there since his morning shower. “It sounded as if you said you wanted me to teach you how to box.”
“I’m glad that’s what it sounded like, because that’s what I said.”
“You’re crazy!” After seeing Dylan’s hurt look, Cody quickly added, “I mean, I think you’re jumping the gun here. John doesn’t want some macho idiot for a boyfriend. He wants you.”
“The last few weeks would seem to point in another direction,” Dylan grumbled. “So you’re telling me you can’t do it?”
Cody removed his arm from around Dylan’s shoulders, leaving behind faint patches of wet on Dylan’s shirt. He sat forward, contemplating. “I could teach Richard Simmons to be butch,” the ex-Marine boasted. “I just don’t see that—”
“Then it’s settled.” Dylan was adamant. “When do you want to start?”
Cody sighed. Gays, he was quickly learning, were every bit as weird as heterosexuals when it came to their relationships.
HISTORY has had some great brooders. Lincoln was, from all reports, a pretty melancholy guy. Napoleon went about with a scowl so often most of his army thought his face was frozen that way. In literature we have Hamlet, with his “to be or not to be” stuff—really, make up your mind!—and nearly every character John Steinbeck created. None of these, however, could hold a candle to John Mackelby when he really had a brood going. Lincoln, upon seeing John sitting at his desk in his cluttered office at the repair shop, would have spotted the lined forehead and the clenched jaw and muttered, “And I thought I had problems.” Hamlet would have gasped and said, “Dude, lighten up!” Napoleon would have attacked some poor army somewhere in an attempt to forget the sight entirely.
John was good at brooding, and he had a lot to ruminate over. He was in turn angry, crushed, puzzled, and perturbed. And to make matters worse, he knew he had to talk the situation over with Dylan. He was just afraid to do so.
Because once he voiced his concerns, they would be out there. They would take on a life of their own. They would be real.
And John wasn’t ready to face that.
On the other hand, he knew he couldn’t keep dodging the issue. He had to know, one way or another. Even if it meant he and Dylan were over.
No! That, he told himself, won’t happen.
He remembered when he and Dylan had first started dating, once he’d finally gotten enough nerve to actually ask Dylan out. John would have done anything for the guy. He’d once told Dylan, on a night when they’d been walking in the park at twilight, that he’d buy him anything, even the moon. Not that he’d had the money for much of anything in those days, let alone Earth’s satellite. Dylan had laughed, thinking John was misquoting Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life.
John knew that, by avoiding talking with Dylan, he was exacerbating the problem, driving a further wedge between them. He had to act.
John looked up from the invoices that were scattered across his desk, through the window of his office into the garage itself. Three cars were there, still awaiting repairs. And he had a brake job, a tune-up, and an alternator to deal with the next morning. For over a week now, he had been overbooking the garage, agreeing to do more repairs than he and his two assistants really had time to do. But John wanted to get some extra money so he could buy Dylan season tickets to the Broadway in Chicago series. That meant working late. Every night.
And it wouldn’t be enough.
He had to do something more. He was losing Dylan. He felt that in his bones. John just had no clue as to how he should proceed. So he brooded.
Will Helton, the youngest of his workers, opened the office door and popped his head inside with the manner of one who is prepared to duck immediately if John decided to throw a projectile his way. “Um… boss?”
“Yeah?” John knew he was speaking through clenched teeth, but he couldn’t help it.
“You want us to stay on and help out with those last jobs?”
John shook his head. “No, that’s all right. You guys can go.”
“We can stay. We don’t mind. You don’t have to pay us overtime or nothing. I don’t got nothing going on tonight.”
John’s first instinct was to curtly correct Will’s grammar. He stopped himself in time. Good God, he thought. If I’m scaring my workers this badly, so much so that they’re volunteering to work for free, what effect must I be having on Dylan?
John knew he had to talk to his lover. But even thinking about doing it sent shivers into his very soul. This is silly, he told himself. I was a Marine. I’ve had six mixed martial arts fights and won five of them by KO! Why am I so afraid of dealing with Dylan? Sweet little Dylan, who doesn’t weigh 140 pounds soaking wet?
Because, John told himself, you love him. And you’re afraid you’re losing him.
A WEEK later found Dylan at the gym, dressed in baggy sweats and attempting to keep a speed bag going. The first hit he found, no trouble. His fist hit the little bag, and it thumped back and forth, but when he went to punch it again, the bag didn’t seem to be where his fist went.
“You’ve gotta keep your eyes on the bag,” Cody told him. He was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. “And don’t try to go so fast at first. You’ll pick up speed once you get used to it.”
Dylan frowned. So far on their trips to Rockford to use the boxing gym—there was no such establishment in Flemyng—Dylan had shadowboxed, hit the heavy bag, and done more rope skipping than a bevy of ten-year-old girls would do in a lifetime. After four boxing lessons from Cody, Dylan was disappointed he hadn’t actually boxed. He had hit no one, and no one had tried to hit him back. “When am I going to get into the ring?”
In about a decade or two, if I have anything to say about it, Cody thought. He liked Dylan. For that matter, he liked John, even if he was acting like a butt. Cody felt protective of the small, thin librarian, and the thought of someone punching him, even with gloves on, did not sit well with the ex-Marine. “Soon, soon,” he said just to placate Dylan. “Let’s get you over to the heavy bag for a while. We’ll come back to the speed bag. I want you to work on that right hook of yours.”
Dylan sighed but moved over to one of the heavy bags hanging from a chain. Cody held it in place, hardly necessary, as Dylan’s hardest punches barely moved the bag, and shouted out encouragement, and Dylan slammed his fists into the thing.
Dylan’s arms soon felt like rubber. His back hurt. His legs ached. And he was sweating. Sweating! Then he thought of John and ramped up his adrenaline, punching the bag with everything he had.
Do it for John, he told himself. He thought of better times, when he and John would snuggle on the couch and watch movies on TV. Their usual position on the couch would have Dylan leaning against John, with John’s arms wrapped tightly around him. Every now and then, when the movie hit a lull, John would kiss Dylan’s neck. If the movie turned out to be a snorer, the necking would escalate until they were kissing passionately. Soon all thoughts of the movie would vanish, and the two would be peeling off items of clothing in between kisses. Dylan recalled one time when they’d abandoned a particularly unfunny Will Ferrell movie and things started to get hot and heavy. “Let’s
go to the bedroom,” John had whispered. But Dylan had smiled mischievously and hadn’t budged. Instead he started to give a nearly naked John head. John had sighed contentedly and said, “Or here on the couch is good.”
Dylan had to get those days back.
“Are you with me here, Dylan?” Cody’s voice broke in on his reverie.
Dylan nodded and began beating the hell out of the heavy bag.
THAT night, Dylan finished up work at the library as quickly as possible and was home by nine thirty. It was supposed to be John’s day off from the garage, but he’d said he had to go in for a few hours “to get some stuff done.” Surely, though, he’d be back by now.
Dylan entered their little house with anticipation. It had only been a week since he’d started training with Cody, but he was already feeling a change. His arms ached so much that at times they twitched spasmodically, but, in his mind at least, he was becoming buff and macho. Just the kind of guy to make John stand up and take notice. In more ways than one.