Where Nerves End

by L. A. Witt

  I turned away from the gawking neighbors and watched a couple of the guys moving a small bed frame down the ramp. Dylan’s, I assumed.

  Seth came out of the house and paused to wipe his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “So did you guys deliberately schedule this on the hottest day of the year?”

  “Hottest day?” I scoffed. “Please. We’re barely out of winter. Be glad we didn’t wait until August.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t,” Seth muttered. “Just to be dicks.”

  “We thought about it.” Michael clapped his shoulder. “Picked a hot day to make you miserable, Wheeler.” He grinned. “Mission accomplished, yes?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, Doc.” Seth glared at him suspiciously. “This is a ploy to get me back into your office, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” Michael said with a flippant shrug.

  “And all of this so you can live with that yo-yo.” Seth pointed his thumb at me. “You have any idea what you’re getting into?”

  Michael laughed. “I think I’ll manage.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” Seth turned to me. “You going to help carry anything, or what?”

  “Nope.” I put up my hands. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “It’s true,” Michael said. “He picks anything up that weighs more than ten pounds, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Seth snorted. “Well, shit. I want to see the ‘hell to pay’ part, so Jason, why don’t you—”

  “You paying for his acupuncture?” Michael threw him a pointed look.

  “Uh, no.” Seth turned to me. “On second thought, why don’t you take it easy?”

  “Planning on it.” I grinned. “As for you, how about less jawing, more picking shit up and carrying it?”

  Seth grumbled something about heat and slave labor. Then he peeled off his sweaty T-shirt and draped it over the porch railing. With a groan, he clasped his fingers over his head and stretched.

  And I’ll be damned if Michael didn’t do a fucking double take.

  I mean, I couldn’t blame him. Seth and I were friends and would never be more than that, but the man was smoking hot. The intricate tattoos covering his arms, most of his chest, and about three-quarters of his back created the perfect excuse to stare at his lean, nearly hairless body. Low-slung jeans over hips that narrow could drive any man out of his mind, so how could I blame Michael for sneaking a glance?

  Aside from the fact that he was, you know, straight.

  Maybe he hadn’t seen Seth’s more recent tattoos. The elaborate ink work spanning Seth’s shoulders and extending down the center of his back was all fairly new. Michael had known Seth for years. It was possible he simply hadn’t seen him shirtless in a while.

  Then again, Seth was one of Michael’s patients. Surely he’d have seen the tattoos by now? More than once?

  As Seth disappeared into the U-Haul, Michael’s eyes flicked toward me, and in the same instant I realized I’d been staring at Michael, he probably realized he’d been busted staring at Seth. He shook himself and turned away, color rushing into his cheeks.

  “Hey, Mike!” Seth called from inside the van. “Give me a hand with this thing.”

  Michael exhaled, undoubtedly as relieved as I was for the diversion, and disappeared into the van. The metal box muffled their voices and movement, but in my mind’s eye, I still saw Michael’s double take.

  I had to have imagined it, right? Michael was straight. And just because he’d looked didn’t mean he’d, like, looked. Except he totally did. I fucking saw him.

  Didn’t I?

  Wishful thinking, man. Wishful thinking.

  Shaking my head, I went into the house to see if anyone needed any help in there.

  It only took a couple of hours to unload the truck. Then Michael and Seth left with the U-Haul to get everything else out of the old place. Michael said it was all boxed and ready to go, just needed to be loaded up and taken to his storage unit, so he and Seth could handle it.

  While they were gone, the rest of us hauled the remaining boxes and furniture to their respective rooms. Without Michael to keep an eye on me, I carried a few things. Nothing too heavy, but enough to make me feel useful. Though I wasn’t sure how wise it was to set myself up to be sore later when I lived with the damned acupuncturist who’d told me to take it easy in the first place.

  By two thirty, everything was where it belonged, furniture had been assembled, and all that remained was to unpack the boxes. Michael and Dylan would handle that part on their own.

  Out in the backyard, everyone dived into the cooler of beer while I fired up the barbecue. The charcoal had just hit the perfect temperature and I was laying burgers and steaks on the grill when Seth and Michael returned.

  “You allowed to drink beer in your line of work?” I asked as Michael dug one out of the cooler.

  He laughed. “Don’t tell any of my other patients, all right?”

  “As long as you don’t tell my acupuncturist.”

  “Not a word.”

  Michael had just managed to take a seat and crack open his beer when his phone beeped. He glanced at the screen, then jumped out of his chair. “My kid is here. I’ll be right back.” He set his drink and plate on the plastic table beside his chair and then disappeared into the house.

  A moment later he returned, flanked by a petite brunette with a pigtailed toddler on her hip, a sandy-blond guy who was even taller than Michael, and Dylan.

  “This is Daina,” Michael said. “Her husband, Lee. Their daughter, Amanda. And”—Michael beamed—“of course you’ve already met my son.”

  I shook hands with Michael’s ex-wife and her husband.

  Daina handed Amanda off to Lee, then shifted her attention to her son. “You have something to ask Jason, don’t you?”

  Dylan shrank back against his mom.

  “Go on.” Daina nudged her son gently. “You’ve met him, honey. You know he doesn’t bite.”

  I squatted so we were more or less eye level, and he drew back a little more. “Hey, buddy. Remember me?”

  He nodded. Then he glanced up at his mother, and when she gave him a smile, he looked at me and shyly said, “Can I use my PlayStation on your TV?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Just means we’ll have to make some room between the Wii and the Xbox.”

  His eyes lit up. “You have an Xbox? Can I play it?”

  “As long as your folks are okay with that.” I glanced at Michael and Daina, and they both nodded. To Dylan, I said, “We’ll get it all hooked up tonight, okay?”

  “Cool!” He grinned at his mom, who laughed and tousled his hair.

  “Daina!” Seth’s voice turned our heads, and he approached with his arms out and a beer in his hand. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “Seth!” she squealed, throwing her arms around him. “Long time, no see.”

  He hugged her tight. “And just why haven’t I seen you in ages, woman? Hmm?”

  “I guess I haven’t been slumming in a while.”

  “Oh. Oh.” He let her go and put a hand over his heart. “Cut me, I bleed.”

  She elbowed him playfully. “Builds character.”

  “Uh-huh.” Seth turned to Lee. “So when are you going to come by and have me finish that design?”

  “When you’ll do the work for free.”

  “Free?” Seth snorted. “I don’t work for free.” He didn’t need to shoot me a “keep your mouth shut” glance, but he did anyway. I kept my mouth shut. Discretion was the one condition attached to my free ink.

  As everyone continued chatting, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I wasn’t terribly surprised to find Edna standing on the porch.

  “I saw someone was moving in.” She gestured toward the front yard where the U-Haul had announced Michael’s arrival. “Of course everyone wants to say hello and welcome them to the neighborhood.”

  “Sure, come on back.”

  At least it was Edna. She was pushing eighty-five, and
while she obviously wasn’t sure what to make of two men living together the way Wes and I had, she was always friendly. She wasn’t outwardly homophobic—all this gay business, as she called it, simply didn’t compute.

  In the backyard, we approached Michael, who was shooting the breeze with Seth.

  “Michael,” I said, “this is Edna Morton. She lives two houses down. Edna, Michael Whitman. My new roommate.”

  “Your—” Edna looked up at me, her thick glasses magnifying her wide eyes. “Roommate?”

  “Yes. Just my roommate. He’s moving in along with his son.”

  I struggled to keep a straight face as her eyes widened a little more. To Michael, she said, “You have a son?”

  This time it was Michael who fought to hide his amusement. “Yes, I do. I think he’s getting some food with his mother, so let me go find him.”

  She watched him go, then turned to me. “Well, he seems like a nice gentleman. Is he new in town?”

  “No, I don’t think so. You’d have to ask him.”

  “And he’s… living here….”

  Does. Not. Compute.

  “You know how it is. The economy and all of that.”

  “Ooh, yes,” she said with a slow nod. “I most certainly do.”

  A moment later Michael returned with his arm around Dylan’s shoulders. “Dylan, this is Edna. She’s one of our neighbors.”

  “Hi,” the boy said.

  “Hi, Dylan.” Edna smiled. “And how old are you?”

  Dylan shyly said, “Seven.”

  “Seven, huh?” She smiled. “Well, my grandsons will be visiting from Michigan this summer. They’re right about your age, so maybe you can play with them. Would you like that?”

  Dylan nodded but didn’t say anything. I don’t think he quite knew what to make of her.

  I know the feeling, kid.

  The rest of the neighbors trickled over to meet Michael, and everyone seemed to think he was all right. They all adored Dylan too. Kristine was more than “all right” with Michael. She’d been visibly uncomfortable with Wes and me but could still put a coherent sentence together. With Michael, she blushed like crazy and it took her three tries to spit out her own name.

  Once again, I know the feeling….

  Eventually, the backyard barbecue wound down, and around the time the sun set, only the three of us were left. It was amazingly quiet once everyone had gone except for Michael, Dylan, and myself. Sure, every sound from floorboard creaks to muffled coughs echoed throughout the house, but at least it was just us now. The calm after the party.

  Michael left Dylan upstairs to unpack his things, and came down to the kitchen. He pulled a beer out of the refrigerator.

  “I really appreciate all of this, by the way.” Michael leaned against the kitchen counter. “Letting us move in.”

  “Hey, I need it as badly as you do.”

  “Win-win, then.” He set his beer aside and dug a teakettle out of one of the boxes stacked on the floor. “Fair warning, this shit doesn’t smell great.”

  “Tea? It usually smells pretty good, doesn’t it?”

  “Usually, yes.” He took out a Ziploc bag filled with leaves and twigs, and as he emptied it into the kettle, he continued, “But trust me on this. Some people aren’t crazy about the way these herbs smell.”

  “Dare I ask what they are?” I asked as he filled the kettle with water.

  He said something that I could never in a million years have repeated.

  “I… beg your pardon?”

  He set the kettle on the burner. “It’s a bunch of Chinese herbs. And enjoy not knowing what they are or how they taste because I’ll probably make you take some eventually.”

  “Oh good. Can’t wait.” I sipped my beer.

  Tea? I think I’d rather drink hot dog water.

  While the kettle warmed up, Michael reached for his beer.

  “So you mix tea and beer?” I wrinkled my nose. “Lovely.”

  He laughed. “Hey, I feel like having a beer. And that”—he nodded toward the kettle—“won’t be ready to drink for a bit anyway. So between now and then I’ll—” He stopped suddenly, and his eyes lost focus as he craned his neck as if he was listening for something.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Damn it.” He set his beer down and pushed himself away from the counter. “Dylan’s coughing.” Now that he mentioned it, I heard it too. A deep, hacking cough that sounded like it hurt. Michael started toward the stairs and threw over his shoulder, “His asthma’s kicking up again. I’ll be right back.”

  Moments later Dylan came down the stairs. His eyes were red, and he paused to cough into his elbow.

  “Hey, champ,” I said. “Not feeling so great?”

  He shook his head and coughed again. When he took a breath, he wheezed faintly, so I didn’t push him to speak.

  His dad came down the stairs behind him with a box under his arm. He nudged Dylan. “Set up your game, kiddo. You’re not going to be moving for a while.”

  Dylan took off his T-shirt and tossed it over the back of the couch. Well, Michael hadn’t said anything about folding it or putting it in a hamper. I didn’t mind.

  The PlayStation wasn’t set up yet, but Dylan had a small handheld device. He lay on his stomach on the living room floor and played contentedly, his inhaler within reach, while Michael knelt beside him and started pulling things out of the box: a long, slim pair of tongs. Some cotton balls. Rubbing alcohol. A lighter. Four round glass jars that resembled fish bowls and were about the size of my fist.

  Once everything was laid out, Michael picked up the tongs and pinched a cotton ball between them. He dipped the cotton in the rubbing alcohol, and my eyes darted toward the lighter beside the jars.

  I cleared my throat. “So, um, what exactly—”

  “Cupping. Helps with asthma, especially when his inhaler isn’t cutting it.” Michael flicked the lighter and held it to the cotton ball. “Ready, kid?”

  “Yep.” Lying in front of him, idly kicking back and forth the way kids often did, Dylan focused on his game.

  Holding the tongs in one hand, Michael took one of the jars in the other. He held both close to his son’s back, turning the jar open side down. He put the flaming cotton ball inside it, held it there for a moment, and then pulled it out the instant before he put the jar on Dylan’s back, right below his left shoulder. When the jar met Dylan’s skin, his shoulder dipped slightly as if Michael had pushed down hard, but the kid didn’t wince or make a sound. When Michael released it, the jar remained in place on Dylan’s back.

  He was about to put a second one in place, but Dylan started coughing again. Michael waited until it had passed, and then, “You all right?”

  “I’m good.”

  Michael put a total of four jars—cups?—on his son’s back, then sat cross-legged beside him. After a few minutes, he glanced up at me and must have seen my “what the fuck?” expression, because he said, “Simply put? The suction helps with circulation, stimulating lymph nodes, getting rid of toxins. That kind of thing.”

  “Which helps with asthma?”

  He gestured at Dylan, then put his hand to his ear and raised his eyebrows. It was then I realized the boy’s wheezing had quieted.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said.

  Michael smiled, ruffling his son’s hair. “He’s been doing pretty well lately, but I’m guessing the move aggravated his asthma. Stress and all of that. Probably why his inhaler wasn’t doing enough this time.” To Dylan, he said, “Feeling better?”

  The kid didn’t look up from his game. “Yep.” He paused to clear his throat. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Michael let the cups sit on Dylan’s back for a few more minutes, and then he carefully removed them. Four reddish-purple bruises remained on Dylan’s skin, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable, and Michael wasn’t concerned. Dylan grabbed his inhaler off the floor and his shirt off the couch, and trotted up the stairs with his video game. He didn’t cough once. />
  “Guess it does work,” I said.

  “You’d better believe it does.” Michael stood, and as he carried the cups into the kitchen, he added, “He’s done a lot better since we moved to Colorado anyway.”

  I followed him into the kitchen. “Really?”

  “Oh yeah.” Michael set the cups on the counter, then pulled a tea mug out of a box. “The pollution and shit in Los Angeles was horrible on his lungs.”

  I wrinkled my nose, nodding toward the teakettle, which had been heating this entire time and was starting to emit some vaguely bitter odors. “And that god-awful smell doesn’t bother him?”

  “He’s not fond of the taste, but no, the smell doesn’t bother him.”

  “You make him drink that shit?”

  “Mixed with enough honey and stuff so he can’t really taste the worst of it,” he said. “I actually like it, but….”

  I shuddered.

  “Anyway,” he said, “the pollution wasn’t doing Dylan any good, so my ex-wife and I decided to move somewhere cleaner. And cheaper, for that matter.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “Cheaper?”

  “Compared to LA, hell yeah. But it’s a little less manageable with one income than two.”

  “I know the feeling.” I glanced at my watch. “Damn it, it’s already six o’clock? I guess I’d better get going.”

  Michael smirked. “You don’t mind leaving us here unsupervised?”

  I chuckled. “Might as well get used to it, right?”

  “Good point.”

  “By the way, the club’s open late tonight and tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll be getting in around three thirty, four in the morning. So if you hear someone coming in during the night, it’s probably me.”