Boy

by James Stryker

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Boy: A Journey

  Copyright 2016 James Stryker

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow ©Copyright 2016

  Edited by BJ Toth

  Published in 2016 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, NineStar Press, LLC.

  Warning

  This book contains brief graphic depictions of death, terminal illness, and suicidal ideation.

  Boy: A Journey

  James Stryker

  Table of Contents

  Boy: A Journey

  About the Author

  Connect with James Stryker

  Dedication

  For my grandmother and kindred spirit, Elaine.

  Acknowledgements

  My words first appeared in print when I wrote the obituary for my grandmother in 2003. She continues to influence elements of my writing, but in particular, Boy: A Journey honors her memory. Grandma, thank you for sharing fifteen years with me and impacting the person I am today. I love you and will always wish we’d had more time together.

  Boy: A Journey couldn’t have made it out of the “think tank” without my wife, Jayme. Thanks for encouraging my craziness and corralling kids and puglets so I could work on it.

  I’m also grateful to the visionary team of NineStar Press for their support of this book and LGBTQ literature. I’ve been fortunate to work closely with BJ Toth, an editor with a brilliant left brain, who’s probably scarred for life by my comma splices.

  And as always, the most thanks to you, the reader, for investing your time on another adventure into my headspace.

  Chapter One

  Harrisburg International Airport, Pennsylvania

  February 2038

  Luke stepped off the escalator and searched the baggage claim area for Beau. Broadway had spurned him, but she never would. He’d wrap his arms around her, pick her up, and spin her around as if they were in a black-and-white movie. He anticipated the long ride home when he could confide to her how the year in New York had treated him. Rejection after rejection after rejection. Beau would understand. She’d be sympathetic, consoling, and wonderful. She was the only one who would be, and the only one to whom he planned on revealing the truth.

  It took several scans of the room before Luke realized that he was standing by the luggage carousel. He might’ve been receptive if his father had looked remorseful. Like he regretted the actions that had driven his son away for a year. But Jay just stood there, and when they made eye contact, he smiled.

  I’m going to kill Beau. Kill her. Now I’ll be stuck with him for almost two hours in the car. Three hundred cubic feet of space. Goddamn it, why am I here?

  He marched past his father to the revolving glass doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. It was February and freezing cold, but he’d stand there, rubbing his arms, and call a cab. Or he’d walk. Or he’d call his sister, scream at her, and then beg her to come get him.

  “Luke.” Jay appeared beside him and touched his arm. “I know I have a few more gray hairs, but surely you still recognize me?”

  He glanced at his father’s hair. There were more than a few, and he’d lost weight. A lot of weight. From worry? From guilt? Luke doubted it. Maybe with Luke out of the picture, Jay had done lots of classic, active father-son pastimes with Beau’s husband, Jake—Luke’s replacement. His father and Jake probably played basketball together, or catch. Maybe Jay had gone full measure: thrown on a Cosby sweater and taught that fucker to ride a bicycle without training wheels.

  “Where’s Beau?”

  “She’s at home. I wanted to pick you up.”

  “And she let you?”

  “Why would she have prevented me?” Jay laughed. “I’ve missed you. You have two weeks to spend with her, but I want to hear your adventures first.”

  Luke scrutinized Jay’s face, expecting to be mocked. Beau was aware of his lies about how he was doing in New York. Did she tell Dad? Was that why he came? To make the ride home one big, long, inescapable “told you so” lecture? More haranguing about a “real” career?

  But there was no gleam in his eye, no knowing grin. His father just seemed happy to see him. Luke should’ve known Beau would never betray him. She’d broken her promise to come to the airport, but Jay had probably insisted. If she seemed too resistant, it might’ve aroused his suspicion. Luke could forgive her.

  “You travel light, like Mom. I parked close, just in case.” Jay clapped a hand on his back, nudging him toward the parking garage.

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Fine. Wondering why you don’t call us, but you call Beau. I can’t say she’s the only one who wonders that.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Auditions?”

  “Several.”

  It was true. He devoured Backstage magazine and never missed a casting call. Since he wasn’t an Equity member, he had to come the second or third day and stand in lines with hundreds of actors waiting to be seen, but sometimes he made it through the doors. And occasionally he got to sing more than a line.

  “Any roles?”

  “Several.”

  This statement was somewhat less true. Part of choruses, as a backup if the preferred nobody was hurling behind the curtain. Expendable. Unseen background noise. He’d tried to view it as a “foot in the door.” A start to “making the right connections,” like people said. But fuck people. He didn’t want to wave a palm frond in Aida. Luke wanted the center stage spotlight.

  “Major ones?”

  “Most likely.”

  This time he spoke a blatant lie. Last week it might’ve been a supremely overconfident assumption, but not a “no.”

  He saw the white van, and the journey home loomed ahead. He hoped his father would drop it. But he didn’t. He was interested. Or faking interest. It was probably faking. Definitely faking.

  “Oh, yes? What?”

  Luke named a role and got into the car. He folded his arms and stared through the windshield. He heard the other door shut and the engine start. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And this game was proof of the curiosity not being genuine. Jay was trying to tease out more information, only to catch Luke in the lie.

  “Now I could see that. You’d be perfect for that role. Very suave. Very cool.” Jay backed the van from the spot. “But I hope you didn’t limit yourself. I could picture you in either lead. You’re more on the high side, so they might think your voice is better suited elsewhere."

  Luke would’ve accepted anything. Aida palm frond holder included. But the casting director hadn’t agreed he was a fit. He received word there’d be no callback. Absolutely nothing.

  “I’d love to see you in that. To see you in anything. Mom and I can come to New York.”

  Believe me, when I get a lead, you’ll be the first one I’ll call.

  That was part of the plan. He’d land a lead role in a huge production. Carnegie Hall. A big, classic Broadway show with his name on a marquee in huge letters. And then he’d call his father to rub the success in his face.

  Unfortunately, it’d been a year, and that glorifying redemption was still a dream. After the disappointment from the last audition, he’d given in to Beau’s pleas to come home. He needed her to soothe his bruised ego.

  “I was watching the video of your last stock performance the other night. That was something. I mean really something.”<
br />
  You thought it was something all right. Luke’s back stiffened as he crossed his arms tighter.

  The fight had happened after his final show at the local theater. His father had gotten on his case about him wasting time at “this shit.” Sure, he’d watched the video. Watched it with his arm around Jake while they drank beer from frosted mugs and laughed about the waste of matter Luke was.

  “I was thinking how we watched that recording of Robert Cuccioli a hundred times. We stayed up all night the day you got offered the show, watching his every move because you wanted to nail that part.” Jay drove past the onramp to the highway, and Luke groaned inwardly. He was going to take the long way. “And you absolutely did. Absolutely! You were meant for that role. It was like a second skin on you.”

  Well, I did do it justice. Despite his sour mood, Luke grinned. Justice as in slaughter. I slaughtered it. It was fantastic. I was fantastic. But then he remembered the fresh rejection. If those bastards knew what I could do!

  “I was so proud of you.” His father reached over and patted his arm. “I am proud of you.”

  Luke shrugged off the touch and said nothing.

  You’d be proud of me if I went to mortuary school. If I were Jake. You haven’t missed me. You have your perfect son-in-law married to your perfect daughter. You don’t need me. Watching my video? I bet you trashed it.

  Jay sighed and returned both hands to the wheel as he pulled into the gas station.

  Thank God. We aren’t taking the long way, we just need gas. Thank you, God, for cutting me a fucking break.

  “I’ll be right back. Do you want anything?”

  “Not from you.”

  Luke wasn’t sure he caught the comment. The car door shut, and Jay walked across the parking lot. And as if it were a dream, Luke watched the Honda Civic collide with his father.

  The metal bumper hit Jay’s calf and knocked his legs from under him. He flipped into the air, and his body crashed onto the car—torso slammed against the sleek hood and his head smashed into the windshield. The car swerved a little, and Luke heard the screech of brakes and smelled hot rubber. The speed and force of the stop ripped his father out of the windshield and sent him flying forward. His body skidded a few inches on the blacktop before he was at rest—a crumple of blood and glass in front of the car.

  Luke shoved open the van door and ran to kneel beside his father’s twisted body. Although he knew he could make the injuries worse, he pulled Jay’s head into his lap. He smoothed the hair and glass from his face, trying to find him somewhere in the blood. When he called his name there was no response.

  Then he felt a wet spot on his jeans and thought he’d pissed his pants.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

  Luke curved his hand under Jay’s head, his fingers moving through his matted hair, until they were stuck. Sunk in a crevice. And he felt something solid, like hard gelatin left open in the fridge for a couple of weeks. He ripped his hand out. Blood dribbled from the ends of his fingers. He hadn’t pissed his pants. But he wanted to.

  Oh, my God! Oh, my God! He looked at his father, who still hadn’t opened his eyes or moved. What he could see of his skin through the blood was losing color. Luke pressed his hands to Jay’s face, willing that living tinge not to fade. No! Please stay! Stay with me, Dad, please!

  Luke heard sirens in the distance, but he knew they were too late. More of the syrupy blood saturated his jeans. No one could lose that much and pull through. No one could survive having their skull open, their brain exposed. He sat on the asphalt of the parking lot, caressing his father’s hair, and watched him die.

  Chapter Two

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  February 2038

  Tom DuBelle knelt, puking out the sparse contents of his guts, when the phone in his pocket rang. At first, he resigned to let it ring. The caller would leave a message if it was important. He gripped the toilet bowl as he continued vomiting.

  But when he heard no signal of a new message, and the phone rang for the fifth consecutive time, he decided he might as well see who it was. He only had the dry heaves anyway.

  Tom brought his face from the toilet and turned against the side of the bathtub. His head spun, and he took his time stretching his legs out since the caller obviously wasn’t going to stop. When he leaned back on the tub, his body shuddered from the exertion. He tilted his face to the ceiling and closed his eyes.

  Why me, God? I should just put a bullet in my brain. It’d be a better way to go than this. Someone else would have to clean up the mess.

  He smiled because this thought reminded him of Jay.

  But chances are the person cleaning my mess wouldn’t be like you. I’ll be boring, but clean. I’ll overdose on the meds. I’ll take everything I’ve got and just go to sleep.

  He took a breath, and his muscles relaxed as he expelled the air. A deep sleep was a delicious idea. Freedom from the weight of a broken body shutting down. Wherever one went after death, whether by suicide or letting time grind to a halt of its own accord—even if there was nowhere, and a person only rotted in the ground. To be still. To be finished.

  I’m tired. So fucking tired.

  Tom ran a hand over his face.

  The phone rang again.

  This wasn’t the time to sweep into preparations. The excellent thing about suicide was that it had no expiration; it wasn’t a limited-time offer. He could revisit the plans as often as he liked and act when he was ready.

  That’s real freedom, you motherfuckers. I’ll go when I want and on my terms. There’s nothing you bastards can do to stop me.

  He wasn’t sure who he directed the affirmation to. The cancer cells? The doctors? The parts of his body that persisted in functioning like good soldiers? Not that it mattered. They were all powerless when it came to taking his own life. And they were all motherfuckers.

  The phone rang a seventh time, and Tom dug it from his pocket. When he saw the caller’s name, he felt a flare of energy and was sorry to have taken his time. Jay wouldn’t object to talking over the toilet bowl. Tom didn’t have to keep up pretenses with him, though Jay wasn’t yet aware of his current situation.

  You’ve been trying to tell him for months. This is as good a time as any.

  He imagined what Jay might say when he answered.

  “‘Ground control to Major Tom!’ What took you so long? I thought you were dead.”

  Tom always answered when Jay called. Wherever he was, whoever he was with. It’d been that way for over thirty years. If Jay’s name was on the screen, Tom picked up instantly. Three in the morning or three in the afternoon.

  And this comment would give him the perfect segue.

  “No, I’m not dead. Yet. Now, if you were to call five or six months from now…”

  There wasn’t much point in planning these talks. Depending on what news Jay had to report, their conversations turned a thousand ways. At the beginning of each call, Tom promised himself to tell the truth about his health, but once again the opportunity hadn’t come up. He’d disconnect and realize he’d kept Jay in the dark another week. But he didn’t feel guilty for long. It wasn’t Tom’s fault the right time hadn’t presented itself. And there was always next week.

  But you’ve been saying that for weeks now. And sooner rather than later, there won’t be a next week. Do you want it to be a stranger telling him you’re on the slab? You’ve got to do it.

  Resolved to disclose his secret, Tom slid his finger across the screen to answer the persistent call and put the phone to his ear.

  “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?” Tom smiled.

  “Is this Tom DuBelle?” Jay’s voice sounded different. Perhaps he had a cold. Or maybe he was playing a joke, putting on a different voice. Yes, the usual Tom DuBelle would absolutely have taken his call the first time, not the eighth.

  But current cancer husk, Tom DuBelle had happened to be hanging over a toilet bowl.

  “Hilarious. I’m sorry I didn’t p
ick you up immediately. I was busy.”

  “Mr. DuBelle, this isn’t Jay.”

  He pulled the phone away and again read the name on the screen. No, he hadn’t imagined Jay’s number. But why would someone else call him from Jay’s phone? And who would know to call him? Jay kept Tom’s number under the phone contact “Memorial Hospital” so when Tom called, anyone who might pick up would think nothing of it. They’d pass the call along without interest in hearing details of a requested removal. And it gave Jay an excuse to escape the house to talk.

  But who would know that? And why? Before his brain scrambled further for an answer, the caller’s identity dawned on him. Confusion turned to nerves. This call was definitely unexpected.

  “Hello? Are you still there? Mr. DuBelle? Hello?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” Tom swallowed. “And you can drop the Mister. It’s not necessary.”

  “You know who this is?”

  “Of course, I know who this is.”

  ✩

  Tom had seen Luke a handful of times in the past twenty-six years. The most recent had been a year ago from the farthest seat to the right in the dress circle of the Community Theater of the Arts. Tom had been the weird douche bag who wore a baseball cap in the theater, hid the lower half of his face with a red-and-black scarf whenever the houselights came up, and had the audacity to snap a picture during the show. But the peculiar looks and the nimrod seated to his left elbowing him in the side had been worth it. For two and a half hours, he’d watched Luke move around the stage and listened to him sing. It’d been the longest span of time he’d been in the same room with the boy.

  When the performance had ended, Tom had hidden in the corner of the vestibule. He’d pulled his trench coat around himself and tried to melt into the wall as he’d waited for the performers to file out of the theater.