Laugh Cry Repeat

by John Inman

  It was only a few days after the shooting, and the Catholic school was still closed since it wasn’t just a school anymore. It was a crime scene. Deeze had been interviewed countless times by the SDPD. He and everyone else in the city now knew the name of the young boy who started it all. Ramon Diaz. He was thirteen years old. The motive he gave for the shootings was that he hated Mondays.

  He hated Mondays.

  Later they would learn the boy was abused at home. When that knowledge became available, the whys of his murderous actions had a cause the pundits could point to. At least his motives were a little less ethereal now. What he did seemed less of a whim. In a dystopian sort of way, the boy’s actions even made sense. His striking out. His asserting power over a world that let him suffer so at the hands of an abusive parent. Not that it mattered much to the victims why the boy chose to steal his father’s rifle and start shooting at innocent people, at babies for Christ’s sake. The deed was done and could never be undone. Everyone, including the boy, would have to live with the consequences.

  Wyeth had decided to take a few days from work to help Deeze through the trauma of everything that had happened.

  “How long are you taking off?” Deeze asked, worried.

  Wyeth offered a gentle smile. “As long as I need to.”

  “Don’t,” Deeze pleaded. “You might lose your job.”

  Wyeth shrugged. “Some things are more important than jobs.”

  And that was that.

  Deeze, with Wyeth at his side, attended two funerals that week. One for Mr. Biles, the transitional kindergarten teacher who had worked in the classroom next to Deeze and who died on the grass that day, and one for Father Mike, the priest who had helped Deeze acquire a teaching position at the school. Deeze had wept for both men, but only later. After the funerals were over. After he was home. For some reason, Deeze had developed an unreasonable aversion to showing emotion in public. He suspected his survivor’s guilt had something to do with it, but he was in no mood to try to analyze himself. His feelings were still too raw to be picked over. He was still too emotional about it all. Too hurt. Too angry. Too damaged.

  When the sorrow began to swoop in on him at odd times, Deeze turned to Wyeth to shield him from the pain. Gradually, the guilt diminished, even the nightmares lessened, but the horrific memories remained. Deeze suspected they would always be there, waiting to pounce from the shadows when they were least expected.

  Yet in the midst of all this misery, happiness occasionally found a way to peek through too. And sometimes it did more than peek. It barreled right in like a Mack truck.

  Case in point.

  At Agnes’s insistence, because she had heard it was going cheap, Wyeth and Deeze rented a two-bedroom apartment in Wyeth’s building only four doors down from his old apartment. They began moving into their new digs three weeks after the shooting. With the school grounds released by the police, Deeze’s kindergarten class was in session again, so with both men back to work, the move was scheduled for the weekend.

  When word got out that Deeze was moving, six strong men, each and every one of them a total stranger, showed up outside the door of his apartment to help. They were the fathers of six of his students. When they told him this and Deeze tried to send them away, thanking them heartily but explaining he really didn’t need their assistance, they wouldn’t leave. Finally, since he couldn’t very well toss them down the stairs, Deeze accepted their help.

  He and Wyeth and all their belongings were moved into the new apartment in less than two hours.

  They awoke the next morning in their new home, wrapped as always in each other’s arms. After a brief respite of sunshine, the sky turned overcast again. Autumn was here. Wyeth tugged the covers up to their necks as they cuddled in the warm bed, both men hard, both men as much in love as they had ever been.

  Apparently a truce had finally been reached between the other two members of the household. Napoleon purred at their feet while Chaucer pranced around in the other room, rattling his leash against the front door, pleading to be taken out. The apartment was a mass of unpacked boxes and jumbled stacks of furniture.

  Wyeth had never been so happy in his life.

  “I didn’t have any nightmares last night,” Deeze murmured around a yawn while he dragged Wyeth’s warm, luscious body into his arms.

  “That’s good,” Wyeth muttered, burrowing his face against Deeze’s heavenly fuzzy chest.

  A broad hand rested on Wyeth’s ass. A gentle finger dipped languidly into the cleft there, making Wyeth purr.

  “You’re not off the hook, you know,” Deeze said, nestling his nose into Wyeth’s hair while his finger did all the work. “I still expect you to speak in front of my class.”

  Wyeth groaned. “Oh God. I hate public speaking.”

  “They’re not the public. They’re five-year-olds.”

  “That makes it even scarier. Five-year-olds can cut through bullshit far better and way faster than adults ever can.”

  Deeze laughed. “That’s true enough. Do you like my finger?”

  “Jesus, Deeze. I love your finger.”

  A comfortable silence settled over the two men. Hard cocks pressed to welcoming hips. Strong hands roamed lazily over accepting flesh while one exploring finger continued to send one man practically airborne in euphoria. The word “love” hovered in the air around them, unsaid because it didn’t need to be.

  Deeze’s voice intruded on the lazy silence. “It’s fading, Wy.”

  Wyeth lifted his head to gaze into Deeze’s eyes. “What is?”

  “That day,” Deeze said. “It’s not the first thing I see anymore when I wake up.”

  “What do you see?” Wyeth asked, his eyes kind.

  Deeze slid a hand along Wyeth’s flank and rested it to the side of his pale, freckled, upturned face. “I see you,” he said softly.

  Wyeth tried to joke. “That must be quite a jolt.”

  Deeze smiled, but there was no humor in it. Only contentment. “No. It’s not a jolt at all. It’s beautiful.” He dipped his head and snuggled into the crook of Wyeth’s neck, absorbing his heat, inhaling his scent. Never getting enough of either. “Thank you for letting me love you,” Deeze whispered. “And thank you for loving me back.”

  Wyeth couldn’t think of a thing to say. Not one thing. He lay in Deeze’s arms and listened to their two hearts hammering a mellow morning song. The music was clearly meant to be a duet. Actually, since Napoleon was purring at their feet, it was a trio. Still, the melody was lovely. Both men enjoyed it thoroughly, and both men drew strength from it, just as they always did. Who knew what the hell the cat was thinking?

  In the distance, Chaucer scratched impatiently at the front door. He was blithely ignored.

  Wyeth burrowed deeper into the bed. His lips slid past a broad chest to a furry belly. There he also met a rope of turgid flesh that rose to meet the gust of warm breath slipping through Wyeth’s lips. A drop of crystal liquid shimmered at its tip.

  When Wyeth lapped the dewdrop away with the tip of his tongue, Deeze shuddered beneath him. When Deeze took him by the hips and eased him onto his stomach in the bed under a rain of kisses, Wyeth groaned in contentment and anticipation.

  Seeing which way the wind was blowing, Wyeth reached for the nightstand drawer.

  Chaucer would just have to wait.

  DEEZE WAS unpacking a box of kitchen crap when he heard a soft rapping at the front door. Wyeth was out buying groceries, so setting a stack of plates aside, Deeze stepped to the door and yanked it open. Agnes stood there in a dirty housecoat, leaning heavily on her walker. She had a small pickle jar in her hand.

  “Can you open this?” she asked, waving the jar under Deeze’s nose.

  Deeze laughed and twisted the lid open with no effort at all. In truth he was stunned by how much Agnes had failed in the past few weeks. The chemo was clearly killing her. She had lost weight, and she hadn’t carried much extra poundage to begin with. Kindly, Deeze took her arm
and led her into the apartment.

  “I’m lonely,” he lied. “Talk to me while I unpack boxes. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.”

  He settled her at the kitchen table and placed a coffee cup and a scone in front of her. She sipped halfheartedly at the coffee and ignored the scone completely, plucking a gherkin from the jar instead. With rabbitlike nibbles, she gnawed on the gherkin and watched Deeze as he stacked dishes in the kitchen cupboard.

  “You haven’t heard,” she said quietly.

  Deeze stopped what he was doing and stared at her. “Heard what?”

  Agnes’s birdlike hand, speckled with age spots and sinewy with age, fluttered at the collar of her robe. Only then did Deeze see the sorrow in her eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

  Agnes shifted her eyes to stare through the kitchen window. She heaved a great sigh and slumped a little more in the chair, listing to the left. Even sitting up seemed to be exhausting for her now.

  “The boy,” she said, her fingers still fiddling with the front of her robe. The coffee, the scone, and even the pickle were now clearly forgotten. A spasm of sadness crossed her age-lined face. Or was it pain? Deeze couldn’t be sure. “Ramon Diaz,” she said. “Just now on the news.”

  “The shooter?” Deeze asked. “What about him? He’s in custody at juvenile detention. They’re waiting to see what the judge will want to do with him while they wait for a trial.”

  Agnes turned from the window and studied Deeze’s face. She reached out for his hand and he let her take it. Gently, she pulled him toward the table until he stood directly in front of her. She gazed up into his face with sorrowful eyes and cleared her throat. The moment she did, a spasm of discomfort tightened her lips. She shook her head, refocusing her gaze on Deeze’s face. “There won’t be a trial. The judge won’t have to worry about what to do with him, honey.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s dead,” she said. “He committed suicide.”

  Deeze froze, staring down at the old woman.

  “I’m sorry,” Agnes said.

  His legs grew suddenly weak. Deeze collapsed into a chair and sat staring at Agnes, his hand still trapped in hers. He was about to ask if she was sure, but he saw the truth of what she said in her eyes.

  “It never stops,” Deeze mumbled, turning away to stare at the wall.

  Agnes tugged at his hand to get his attention. Her old eyes shimmered with tears. She gazed on him with pity. “It does though. The pain. It stops. Sometimes it just takes a while. Deeze, that boy’s life was over anyway. He’s away from his suffering. He’s free of his guilt. He’s in God’s hands now, and God will take care of him. I’m sure of it.”

  Deeze could think of no argument to that, so he simply nodded and remained silent. Funny, but he couldn’t seem to dredge up a tear. He was sorry for the kid, sorrier than he could ever have imagined. But he also knew Agnes was right. The boy’s life was over the moment he started pulling the trigger back on that morning Deeze would never forget. If anyone was to blame for everything that had happened, it was the abusive father who tortured the boy, making Ramon feel he had no other way out than to do what he did. To strike out. To bring attention to himself in the only way he knew how. With his father’s gun.

  A glimmer of anger twisted Deeze’s face. Pity the boy didn’t shoot his father instead.

  Deeze squeezed his eyes shut, forcing that thought to retreat. Enough people had been hurt. There was no point in wishing for more suffering to take place. The world was filled with enough pain already.

  “I’m sorry,” Agnes said again, patting Deeze’s arm. Her fingers lingered there, tangled in the arm hair as if drawing comfort from it.

  Abruptly dropping her hands to her lap, she stared at Deeze. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

  Deeze nodded. Businesslike. Brisk. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Where is Wyeth? He should be here with you.”

  “He went to the store. He’ll be right back.” Deeze lifted his eyes and studied the old woman. His friend. He reached out and patted her cheek. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I promise. I’m fine. Life goes on, after all. Life always goes on.”

  “Only for some,” she said. She had struggled to utter the words, and Deeze frowned at how weary she sounded. As she pushed herself feebly from the table and stood on wobbly legs, he took her arm.

  “I’ll walk you home,” Deeze said.

  A weak smile wafted briefly over Agnes’s pinched face. “Thank you. Don’t forget my pickles.”

  It was the last time Deeze would see her alive.

  TWO DAYS later, Wyeth stood in the middle of their living room, admiring their new home. After a lot of wrangling as to what should go where, they had finally arranged the apartment to satisfy both their wishes. Deeze’s sofa, lushly coated with cat hair, had been dumped on a street corner with a Free sign on it and had disappeared in ten minutes flat. Both beds went to the Salvation Army and were replaced with a new California king, which gave them plenty of room to roll around in. Their two desks sat side by side in the second bedroom, which now served as a den.

  Wyeth jumped when Napoleon tore past, Chaucer hot on his heels. Lately the dog had begun fighting back, and Napoleon didn’t like it at all.

  “You started it!” he yelled at the cat. Chaucer barked in agreement as the two animals stampeded into the den.

  “Help me pin this on,” Deeze called out from the bedroom. “I can’t get it straight.”

  It was the morning of the marathon Deeze had signed them up for months earlier. Deeze was dressed in bright yellow running shorts and a white tank top, newly purchased for the race. At Deeze’s insistence, Wyeth wore the very same outfit.

  Before Wyeth stepped forward to lend a hand, he stood at the bedroom door and admired Deeze.

  “My God, you’re beautiful.”

  Deeze had four safety pins cradled in the palm of one hand and a sheet of paper with his race number, which needed to be pinned to his chest, printed on it in the other. The handsomest smile in the world splattered across his beaming face. His wounds had healed, and little was left to mark that horrible day almost a month earlier but for a raw-looking scar still visible where the bullet had grazed his wrist. Deeze had taken to wearing his watch on that wrist, but Wyeth knew the scar would always be there, no matter how much Deeze tried to hide it. Fortunately, the other scars, the internal scars, were mending daily. But for occasional bouts of melancholy, Deeze was back to his usual happy self.

  And Wyeth was more in love with him than ever.

  They moved toward each other, stopping only inches apart, each set of eyes lost in the gaze of the other.

  Wyeth reached out and trailed the back of his hand along Deeze’s jawline. There was stubble there. They had awoken late, and Deeze hadn’t had time to shave. Deeze’s brown eyes, flecked with gold, simmered like molten lava in the morning sunlight streaming through the window.

  “Remember what you told me once, Deeze? About how there is always one kid who doesn’t know how to laugh. Doesn’t know how to have fun. Remember?”

  “I remember,” Deeze said quietly, a gentle grin curving his mouth.

  “I’m that kid, Deeze. I’m the kid who didn’t know joy until you came along and shoved it under my nose. I’ll never be able to properly thank you for that.”

  Deeze lifted his hand to stroke his fingertips over Wyeth’s forearm. “You’ve already thanked me. You thank me every time I turn around and find you there beside me. You thank me every time I open my eyes in the morning and feel your warm, delicious body next to me in the bed. Don’t say you never thank me, Wy. Everything you do is a thank-you.” He stopped talking long enough to roll those simmering eyes over Wyeth’s body.

  “Wyeth Becker, you’re beautiful too. It melts me every time I look at you.”

  No longer ashamed of his body, Wyeth stared down at himself. His pale arms and legs. The ginger hair everywhere. The freckles on his should
ers that he used to hate. Without a trace of self-mockery, he stared back at Deeze with a cocky grin, flexing his biceps. “Thanks. I’ve been working out.”

  When Deeze laughed, Wyeth snarled at him, then plucked the safety pins from his palm and carefully attached the race number to Deeze’s shirt.

  “Your first marathon,” Deeze said proudly, watching Wyeth fiddle with the pins.

  Wyeth swelled up like a bullfrog. “I’m going to beat your ass, you know. I’ve been practicing a lot. Just ask Chaucer. He hates my fucking guts.”

  Deeze snorted in what might very well have been derision. “It isn’t all about speed, dipshit. It’s about stamina, it’s about pacing yourself. It’s about trying not to make your lover look like a snail.”

  “My lover,” Wyeth sighed. “I still like the sound of that. And don’t worry. I’ll try not to humiliate you too badly.”

  Deeze narrowed his eyes. “You’re too kind.”

  Wyeth laid a hand to Deeze’s chest, giving his race number a final pat before snatching his apartment keys off the top of the dresser. Locking the place up behind them, they headed for the elevator. At the last moment, Deeze stopped and stared back down the hall.

  “What is it?” Wyeth asked. “Did you forget something?”

  Deeze shook his head. His eyes were serious, his lips drawn back in a taut line, thin and bloodless. “I think we should check on Agnes. I haven’t seen her for a while.”

  Surprised, Wyeth said, “Oh. Okay.”

  Side by side, they approached the old woman’s door. Deeze tapped lightly at it. When no one answered and they didn’t hear anyone moving around inside, he tapped a little louder.

  Deeze tried the knob. To Wyeth’s surprise, the door wasn’t locked. Wondering if they would get their heads snapped off for walking in without an invitation, Wyeth held his breath as Deeze gently twisted the knob and stepped inside.