by John Inman
Deeze stared down at Chaucer who was sitting trustingly between him and Wyeth in front of Deeze’s front door. As long as they weren’t running or giving him a bath, not much of anything bothered Chaucer. He didn’t appear to suspect he was about to be thrust into a cage match with a large Maine coon cat of indeterminate temper and an ax to grind after being abandoned all night and left alone with an empty food bowl and a dirty litter box—again. Actually, Wyeth didn’t appear to suspect the gravity of the situation either.
“I want you to play nice,” Wyeth said, bending down and dragging Chaucer’s chin around so they were facing eye to eye while he wagged a disciplinary finger in the mutt’s face. “We’re a family now. Try not to kill the poor little defenseless pussycat you’re about to meet.”
Chaucer didn’t make any promises, but he did give Wyeth a swipe across the nose with his tongue to let his master know he understood the request and would give it the proper consideration. Deeze, on the other hand, got even more worried and started energetically gnawing at his lower lip.
“Umm, Wy. You may be misreading the facts a bit. Napoleon is neither little nor defenseless. In fact, for an animal with gonads, he can be a real bitch.”
Wyeth slapped a dismissive hand through the air. “Don’t be silly. He’s just a kitty. How unfriendly can he be?”
At that moment a brindle paw stabbed outward into the hall from the bottom of Deeze’s door. The paw had extremely long claws, and the claws were fully extended. Through the door they could hear a grumbling roar, which clearly came from the throat of a pissed-off feline. Napoleon was mad already, and they weren’t even through the door.
“Uh-oh,” Deeze said.
“Oh, relax,” Wyeth said, but this time he didn’t seem quite as sure of himself. “He’s just excited, don’t you think?”
Deeze sucked on his front teeth. “Napoleon? Oh, he’s excited all right.”
Chaucer took matters into his own hands and stepped boldly forward. He sniffed at the paw, which was now blindly slapping the floor and frantically groping this way and that, looking for something to disembowel. Not having a lick of sense, and never having had a lick of sense, Chaucer wagged his tail and gave the marauding paw a playful nip with his teeth.
Something extremely heavy and extremely pissed off crashed against the other side of the door, rattling it on its hinges. Chaucer soared straight up into the air with a terrified howl, and when he came back down he had two bleeding slash marks crisscrossing his nose. He stared up at Wyeth’s horrified face with pouting eyes, as if deeply hurt that his master had not warned him of the danger. He then turned away and curled up into a ball by the hallway wall, as far from the still rattling door as he could get without ripping the leash from Wyeth’s hand. There he lay like a deep-fried shrimp, nose to nuts. Whimpering in self-pity, he administered to his poor nose, still casting occasional accusatory glances in Wyeth’s direction.
Napoleon continued to fling himself at the door with such force that Deeze reached out to pat the hinges, hoping to lessen the racket before his neighbors started poking their heads out into the hall to see what the hell was going on. He tapped his chin with a thoughtful forefinger. “Hmm. Maybe we should introduce them another day.”
“Yes,” Wyeth agreed, clearly appalled by that banging, clattering door and the growls and spitting to be heard on the other side of it. “Maybe we’ll try again after your cat has been tranquilized and put in a straightjacket.”
“He is a little high-strung.”
“You think?” He gazed down at his trembling dog, clucked his tongue in sympathy, then all but growled at Deeze. “Chaucer’s bleeding, thank you very much. I hope you’re still packing Band-Aids.”
THE NEXT day they tried introducing the animals again. This time they planned ahead. Chaucer wore a loose muzzle, more to protect his nose from being savaged again by Napoleon than to preclude any damage he might inflict with his teeth on the damn cat. This put Chaucer in a bad mood right off the bat, because he loathed wearing a muzzle.
For his part, Deeze had spent the night before clipping Napoleon’s claws to better blunt their ability to rip Chaucer’s face off. This activity on Deeze’s part was a two-edged sword. While it did make Napoleon’s claws marginally less lethal, it also pissed the cat off no end. Napoleon hated having his nails trimmed as much as Chaucer hated jogging. And when Napoleon was mad, it took him days to get over it.
By the time the appointed hour for the meeting came around, the two animals were already furious. By the same token, the two humans seemed blithely unaware of that fact and so for lack of a better plan decided to go ahead with the meeting anyway. Because, really, they both agreed, how bad could it be?
Needless to say, they were about to find out.
Wyeth stood outside Deeze’s door with Chaucer straining at the leash. He was straining at the leash trying to get away from the door, not through it. Every sinew in Chaucer’s body wanted nothing more than to get back in the elevator and go the fuck home.
On the opposite side of the door, a growling Napoleon lay trapped in Deeze’s arms. He was so mad he was puffed up to three times his normal size. It was like holding a squirming goat. Napoleon had already drawn blood on Deeze’s forearms in three places, but Deeze, the perpetual optimist, took a stoic breath to steel his nerves, flipped the lock on his front door, and sang out to Wyeth standing in the hall, “Come on in! Let’s get this over with!”
Wyeth strode through the door dragging a terrified Chaucer along behind.
At the first sight of the strange dog on his home turf, Napoleon wrenched himself from Deeze’s arms and launched himself through the air like a Sidewinder missile, a spitting, snarling ball of fury with dangerous, pointy ends protruding in every direction.
“Close the door!” screamed Deeze. “Don’t let them out!”
Wyeth kicked the door shut behind him just as Chaucer’s eyes got as big as baseballs and his hackles shot up like porcupine quills. In full terror mode, he took off running, ripping the leash from Wyeth’s hand and emitting a howl that made both men cringe.
Napoleon shot after the dog like a cheetah chasing down an antelope on the plains of the Serengeti. In less than three strides he was close enough to sink a claw into Chaucer’s tail, which gave poor Chaucer a shot of adrenaline rather like a supercharger pouring extra fuel into a GTO. In a split second, Chaucer was airborne.
Trailing his leash, which snagged on everything he passed, Chaucer tore through the apartment like a tornado, leaving a path of destruction in his wake. Table lamps flew. Knickknacks crumbled. A humongous box of school supplies leapt skyward, and hundreds of assorted crayons shot into the air, adding an explosion of color to the festivities.
As the animals flew around the room in circles, both screaming and wailing to high heaven, Wyeth and Deeze stood in the eye of the storm, speechless, wondering just what sort of biblical hell they had unleashed.
Chaucer howled like a banshee while Napoleon tore straight up the living room curtains, leaving rents and nubbins behind in the fabric before his weight tore the curtains from the windows completely. Chaucer bounced across the sofa, scattering cushions, and became mired in a stack of throw pillows. Napoleon saw his chance and leapt with all twenty claws extended right onto Chaucer’s back, sticking to the poor hapless beast like a furious swath of homicidal Velcro. Chaucer howled and shot into the bedroom, upending the coffee table along the way, sending a bowl of malted milk balls rolling across the floor. By hurling himself under the bed, he scraped Napoleon off his back, and the moment the two were separated, Deeze slammed the bedroom door closed, locking them both inside.
Wyeth stood staring at the devastation, jaws agape. At that moment the last curtain still hanging slid from the rod and landed in a tattered puddle of red on the living room floor.
Calmly, Deeze licked a dribble of blood from his arm and said, “Well, that went pretty well. How about some tea?”
WYETH GLANCED at his watch as he paced the marb
le floor of the library’s domed reading area. The murmur of whispered voices and the papery flutter of carefully flipped pages filled the massive space beneath the vaulted ceiling like the startled hush of bird’s wings flurrying into flight. The air around Wyeth was alive with the scent of old books, new books, dusty books, and just a tinge of body odor from the scattered homeless people who came into the air-conditioned library, not only to read and pass the time, but to escape the summer heat outside, as they came to escape the cold and rain in winter. Most of the homeless who frequented the library were, despite their circumstances, lovers of the written word. Or maybe they just came to forget their own troubles for a while, to separate themselves from the stark realities of their own disappointing lives by losing themselves in the stories of others.
Wyeth knew many of the homeless by name. He even sought them out to say hello, to ask how they were doing, to see what they were reading. They were invariably polite and humble and treated the books with respect. Wyeth only wished some of the “regular” library patrons would be so civilized.
He lifted a hand and smiled at one of his favorites, Crazy Bill. Crazy Bill, as always, wore a greasy overcoat and a battered deerstalker hat on his head like a down-on-his-luck Sherlock Holmes. Sitting next to him, perusing the same book as Bill, sat Itty Bitty Bob, Bill’s best friend. Itty Bitty Bob reached four foot six standing and two foot two sitting. He was a dwarf. The book they were perusing was an illustrated copy of Treasure Island. Apparently they were in the mood for pirates.
“Hi, Bill. Hi, Bob,” Wyeth said, leaning in and whispering so as not to disturb the other readers.
Bill and Bob gave him two sweet smiles that were very much alike, then turned back to their book as if they were getting to the good part and couldn’t be bothered right then, thank you very much. Wyeth gave each a congenial pat on the shoulder and left them to it.
Heads throughout the reading room lifted at the clatter of tiny footsteps and the chorus of high-pitched, childish giggles coming from the stairway leading down from the floor above. Off in the distance, Wyeth heard a series of sibilant shushes coming from other librarians, but they didn’t seem to reduce the noise much.
“Can it!” boomed a familiar voice, and Wyeth grinned. Immediately the shushes increased dramatically while the giggling ceased altogether.
Peeking around the corner of the stairwell, Wyeth spotted Deeze at the same moment Deeze spotted him. They gave each other a cheery wave, and Deeze turned to beckon forward the crocodile of five-year-olds following along behind him in an undulating line of tiny excited humanity.
The kids were all in little brown school outfits consisting of khaki shorts and little tiny chestnut-colored polo shirts. Some even wore little brown baseball caps on their heads that read St. Luke’s across the front.
The kids were craning their necks, gazing with awe at the domed ceiling and over at the long shelves of books stretching out seemingly for miles in every direction. A few were more interested in all the homeless people sitting around watching them. Wyeth couldn’t blame the kids for that. Some of the homeless were rather eccentric in their dress. To a five-year-old, they must have looked like fairy-tale creatures. Ogres maybe. Or trolls one might spot lurking under a bridge.
Deeze, still leading his unruly troop, strode across the reading room floor and walked right up to Wyeth to give him a hug. Wyeth quickly broke the hug, thinking maybe they had better shake hands instead, then turned along with Deeze to the twenty-four little terrorist Catholics who were straining to break ranks and take off in twenty-four different directions to see what they could tear apart.
Deeze managed to snag their attention by clearing his throat rather pompously, and as soon as most of them were looking in his general direction, he pointed to a doorway off to the left. The sign above the door said Children’s Corner.
“Everyone quietly go thataway,” Deeze commanded. With a grin, he added, “The key word in that sentence is quietly. And yes, Mary Lou”—he pointed at a giggly girl with freckles and no front teeth who seemed to be capable of making an inordinate amount of noise even when she stood there unmoving with her mouth clapped shut and her hands tucked safely into her armpits—“that includes you.”
The kids broke ranks and stampeded toward the door Deeze had pointed to. All but one.
Wyeth gazed down to see a familiar face staring up at him. It was little Jake. The boy from the beach. Jake tugged at the crease on Wyeth’s trousers, so Wyeth knelt to face the boy to see what he wanted.
“Hi, Jake,” Wyeth said. He stared down at the kid’s bony knee. All sign of his former injury was long gone. “I see you don’t need a Band-Aid anymore.”
“No, I healed. People do, you know.”
Wyeth laughed, not at Jake, but at himself. Someday he’d learn not to talk down to kids. “So did you want something?”
Jake nodded, eyes wide. “My mom said you must be Mr. Long’s boyfriend. Her and Daddy were talking about it after we saw you that day on the beach.”
Wyeth stared up at Deeze, then back at the boy. “Is that really what she said?”
Jake nodded, his eyes wide and innocent. “Uh-huh.”
It was Deeze’s turn to kneel down and intervene. “You must have misunderstood her, Jake. Mr. Becker and I are just friends.”
“It’s okay,” Jake said. “Mommy’s brother has a boyfriend too. It’s not like she’s a homeyphone.”
Deeze visibly struggled not to laugh since the kid was looking so serious. “I think you mean homophobe.”
“Yeah, that.” Jake grinned. “She said she thought you guys were cute together. My mom’s kind of sappy sometimes when she talks about lovey-dovey stuff. Even Daddy says so. But don’t worry. He’s not a homeyphone either.”
“Well, that’s nice, but we’re just friends,” Wyeth said again.
Deeze leaned in and whispered into the boy’s ear. “Don’t listen to him, Jake. Your mom’s right. Wyeth is my boyfriend, and I like him about as much as you like Jujubes.”
Jake’s little face lit up. “I love Jujubes!”
“I know you do.”
They heard a woman’s voice as she strove to get the kids’ attention. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair in the middle of the Children’s Corner, asking all the little boys and girls to gather around so she could read them a story. She had a slightly harried look in her eye, Wyeth noticed. Not that he could blame her for that.
“Run along now, Jake. It’s story time,” Deeze said, pointing to the lady in the chair. “Go join your classmates. Try not to do anything that will entail a SWAT team rappelling down through the ceiling or me having to explain to your mommy why you’ve been sent to Sing Sing for thirty years.”
“You talk funny,” Jake said, and two seconds later he was flying across the reading room, little tiny Keds smacking the floor beneath him as he narrowly missed an elderly man in a sport coat with leather patches on the elbows, who chuckled and called, “Whoa there, son!” as the boy sailed past.
Deeze and Wyeth rose to their feet and gazed at each other.
“You are, you know. My boyfriend, I mean,” Deeze said around a smile.
Wyeth blushed and meekly nodded.
Deeze plucked at his shirtsleeve. “Come listen to the story with us,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to leave you just yet. The library can do without you for a half hour or so. Think of it as public relations.”
Wyeth had a concerned look on his face. “Aren’t you worried about what Jake’s mother said?”
Deeze shrugged. “No, but you have to admit she’s perceptive. I suppose it helps that she has a gay brother.” He glanced toward the reading room. “Come on. The story’s beginning. I hate missing the start of a story. Or the opening scene in a movie. Or foreplay. Ooh, listen. It’s Dr. Seuss too. He’s my favorite. Wyeth? You coming?”
Wyeth stared dreamily into Deeze’s eyes. “I love….” But his words trailed away before he could finish.
Deeze’s gaze softened.
A tiny smile played at his mouth. “You love what, Wy? What is it you’re trying to say?”
Wyeth reddened, but for once in his life he didn’t care. He was determined to say what he wanted to say no matter what sort of shitstorm it unleashed. Still, at the last minute he couldn’t do it. Hating himself for being a coward, he sought out words that weren’t really what he meant to say at all, but were as close as he dared to get. “I-I love it when you say my name,” he feebly muttered.
Deeze’s smile broadened. “And I love you.”
Wyeth’s heart stopped. He was almost sure it did. “You’ve never said that before, Deeze.”
Deeze winked. “No, but I’m saying it now.”
Wyeth stammered out a reply. “I-I love you too, Deeze. That’s really what I started to say before I chickened out.”
Deeze smiled gently. “I know.”
“We can rewind the last couple of minutes and pretend like you didn’t answer me at all if you want. I didn’t mean to make you say something you didn’t want to say.”
Deeze cocked his head. “Are you nuts? I meant what I said, Wy. It wasn’t a mistake. I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity to say it for weeks. Thanks to you being a sniveling wuss who was too chicken to say it himself, this turned out to be the day.”
Wyeth didn’t care that Deeze had just called him a sniveling wuss. His eyes misted over anyway. “Well then, if it wasn’t a mistake and you really meant to say what you said, would you mind saying it again? I wasn’t ready for it the first time. I want to memorize every moment of you uttering the words.”
“My God, you really are nuts.” But Deeze was smiling again, which was no big deal since his previous frowny face had surely all been for show anyway. “Okay. Here goes. You ready? You listening?” He rested his hands on Wyeth’s shoulders, massaging him gently with his fingertips, edging just close enough that they wouldn’t be arrested for smooching in public. “I love you, Wyeth Becker. I think I’ve loved you since the very first time your dog stepped out in front of me and knocked me on my ass.”