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Memento Amare

Page 37

by G. D. Cox


  Ma falls asleep and never wakes up, too.

  Everything is an indistinct haze after that for Cole. He hears Nate talking into his comm pad. He hears Clyde talking with an even raspier, mournful voice to other people. He senses warm, callused hands gently maneuvering him into a suit jacket and fastening a black tie around his neck. He sits on the side of a bed and senses full, supple lips upon his forehead. He senses the same warm, callused hands grip his and lead him on numb feet out of the house.

  The gold-plated handles of Pa's and Ma's coffins blister the skin of his hands like a brand.

  His eyes are dry until he and Clyde are alone in the house. Nate had to leave once he got them safely inside. A mission in Zaanstad in the Netherlands, Nate said. His eyes are dry until he drags his feet up the stairs to Pa's and Ma's ... up to the master bedroom and sits at the foot of the army-neat bed.

  There's nothing in particular that breaks him. One moment, he's calmly and mutely sitting where he is, surrounded by everything that's permeated with Pa's and Ma's memories, with pale shadows of everything they were, everything they mean to him. The next moment, that lifelong dam in him that had corked up entire oceans, entire planets of oceans, multiple times by now gives way with a thunderous roar.

  He feels Clyde sitting next to him on the bed. He feels Clyde's strong, muscular arms enfold him in their sanctuary. He feels Clyde's chin on his shoulder as Clyde rests that head of thick, still-golden hair against his. He feels Clyde's tears against his cheek, and they are as hot and stinging as the ones that trail down his contorted face from eyes that won't dry.

  They cry, like they did once long ago, for a very, very long time.

  "I think," Cole says an eon later, his throat sore and his half-lidded eyes even more sore, "I think Ma just couldn't bear to be away from Pa. Not even for a few days. And I get it. I do."

  Clyde is also in a suit, a black one with a burgundy tie that Pa had gifted him for his forty-second birthday. Clyde's chin is still on his shoulder and Clyde's head is still pressed comfortingly against his. Clyde's arms are still embracing him, and the fingers of their hands are weaved on his lap.

  Clyde says nothing and gives his fingers a consoling squeeze.

  Another eon later, Cole somehow finds it in himself to let out an almost noiseless huff of a chuckle. A bittersweet one.

  "Fifty-six years," he murmurs, staring down at their Italian leather shoes that are striped with vivid noon sunlight cascading in through the bedroom windows.

  He feels Clyde's clean-shaven cheek bunch up in a small smile. He feels, again.

  "Yeah," Clyde rasps. "That's a really long time to be married."

  Cole stares down at their luxurious platinum, court-shaped wedding rings around their fingers, glinting in the sunlight.

  "It's a lot more than most people in this world will ever have, babe."

  Cole finally turns his head to gaze at Clyde. Clyde's hair is gelled up and spiky, and those big, beautiful, wide-set eyes are puffy and red and those full, supple lips are chapped. Those lips are also bowed up in a tender, compassionate smile for him.

  Cole says nothing as he tilts his head forward and presses their foreheads together. Clyde says nothing more either, and that's okay because they're remembering all over again just how monumental and scarce a love like Pa's and Ma's, a love like theirs is in this vast, unfair, unpredictable, senseless world.

  "Forever, hm?" Cole whispers after another eon.

  He feels more than sees Clyde's smile broaden into that impish, confident one.

  "At the very least," Clyde whispers back into his lips.

  Four days later, they're sitting side by side on one of the steps of the limestone stairs connected to the house's oak hardwood porch deck. It's a hot, early autumn morning and both of them are in thin t-shirts and old, broken-in jeans that have faded with time. There's no one else around as far as they can see, but Cole doesn't think twice either way about tangling the fingers of his left hand with Clyde's right. Clyde doesn't think twice about laying that golden head upon his shoulder, its favorite resting place.

  They've been cleaning up the house since the funeral. John and Phyllis and many other church friends had returned the next day after the funeral to help. Phyllis returned again the day after that to give them even more food they can store in the fridge so they don't have to cook or go out to eat. (There's so much that there's no way he and Clyde can finish all of it before they go back to NYC. Clyde's suggested that they give whatever they don't eat to a homeless shelter in the city, and he agrees with it.)

  Your mother taught me so much about cooking good food, she'd said to them, blinking her eyes a few times when they began to glisten under the sun. I already miss her dearly. But I know she's safe in Heaven now, she and Dennis. We'll see them again one day.

  Cole may not quite believe in any gods even now but he knows kindness from a good soul when he's being shown it. He'd nodded and thanked her for the food and all the help, and she'd smiled with crinkled, hazel eyes that bore not an iota of judgment towards him and Clyde.

  He and Clyde will be staying in Chicago for a few more days before heading back to NYC. They've already scheduled their flights and Nate is expecting them back at HQ to be assigned their next mission.

  He doesn't want to leave.

  "I was thinking about painting one wall of the kitchen a nice shade of red," Cole says before his brain can tell his traitorous mouth to shut up.

  Clyde doesn't move that golden head away from his shoulder. Clyde doesn't say anything for a while, and there's a good chance that Clyde is thinking about how he'd freaked out so many years ago in their apartment when Cole had simply suggested they move elsewhere. That's what Cole is thinking about, anyway.

  "We'll fly back to NYC," Clyde replies.

  "Okay," Cole quickly says, and he tries not to feel any disappointment, tries not to let his shoulders slump and -

  "We'll drive Baby home from there. Have a road trip through Ohio and Indiana. Check out the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and maybe that Amish town Rajah kept going on about."

  It takes a minute for Clyde's casual comments to sink in for Cole. When they do, something in the left side of his chest - that thing that's been aching so damn much for the past week - swells beyond comprehension with a warmth that he knows so many, many people in this world will never receive and have in their lifetime.

  "We'll drive Baby home from there," Clyde says again, shifting his head into an even more comfortable position on Cole's shoulder, "after we figure out how to ship the important stuff from the apartment. We definitely want the bed and the couch."

  Cole swallows past the lump in his throat. He strokes Clyde's fingers with his own.

  "And the coffeemaker."

  "Oh yeah, definitely the drip coffeemaker. I can't live without coffee in the mornings now."

  "You'll be bored in a week," he murmurs, staring down at the mowed grass section of the front yard.

  Clyde lets out a derisive yet affectionate snort, and Cole's lips just can't help but quirk up.

  "You'll be bored in a week," he says again. "The most exciting thing we'll be doing here is going to the supermarket and wondering what we'll cook for dinner. Or go to the movies. Or walk on the beach or at the park."

  "Or go to that awesome cheeseburger place on Wells Street," Clyde says, rubbing a stubbly cheek against his shoulder. "And eat all the deep-dish pizza ya want."

  Once more, Cole has to swallow past the lump in his throat.

  "You'll be bored," he whispers, and maybe there's a part of him that irrationally hopes that Clyde will choose to stay in NYC, because nobody, nobody can be so fortunate to have it all, much less him.

  "No, I won't," Clyde says so casually, like he isn't making that thing in Cole's chest swell to bursting. "And ya know why?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I get to do all that with you," Clyde says just as casually, like it's the answer to everything for Clyde. "And a red wall in the kitchen sounds awesome
."

  So it's inevitable, really, that at the age of fifty-five, Cole sits with Clyde in those twin armchairs in front of Nate's desk in Nate's extensive and grandiose office once more and says, "I want to grow old with my husband, Nate."

  Nate gazes at them with heavy-lidded, piercing, brown eyes that haven't lessened at all in their ferocity and ability to make GATF agents tremble in their boots. Nate's black hair is now more salt-and-pepper, still cropped as short as it ever was. There are more creases around Nate's eyes now, creases that betray Nate's fondness for him and Clyde.

  Nate doesn't object to their decision to retire as active agents from the GATF. There's a persistent ache in Nate's left scapula from a bullet that regularly reminds the most long-lived director of the GATF of the impermanence of youth, health and life. Nate does, however, convince them to remain on the agency's payroll as permanent consultants who aren't required to be active in the field. They have far too much experience and knowledge, Nate thinks, to be wasted in suburban domestic bliss.

  Nate strides around the desk to face them while they stand side by side in front of him. Nate glowers down at Clyde who gazes back with a straight face but crinkled eyes.

  "You take care of him. You hear me?" Nate growls at Clyde, pointing a forefinger at Cole's chest.

  No one in the room points out the gruffness of Nate's voice.

  Clyde's eyes crinkle even more as he says with sincere deference, "Yes, sir."

  Nate glowers at Cole next, and he has to cling on to his own straight face even as his own eyes crinkle and glint with amusement and mutual fondness for one of the oldest and best friends he will ever have in his life.

  "The same goes for you, Boots," Nate growls at Cole while pointing a forefinger at Clyde's chest.

  "Yes, sir," Cole replies, allowing his lips to quirk up just a little, knowing they'll be seeing Nate again soon enough.

  With the agency's help, it's a simple task to get their bed, couch and other household items transported to Chicago ahead of their road trip in Baby. They're keeping the apartment as a secondary place to live, but they both know they'll only come back when Nate requires their physical presence at HQ.

  "You can still change your mind, you know," Cole says as he stands near the shut door of the apartment he and Clyde have called home for so many years.

  Clyde is standing in that spacious, cherry-wood area where they've slow danced so many times, turning around in the warm glow of morning sunlight while taking in the kitchen and living room now bereft of their black, leather-bound couch and numerous framed photographs already on their way to Chicago. Clyde's expression is tender. Clyde's eyes are soft and creased and Cole sees only serenity in them when Clyde faces him.

  "What?" Cole asks quietly when Clyde gazes at him, his own eyes soft and creased.

  "It's just funny," Clyde replies, smiling that sweet, closed-lipped smile, "that ya still think my home's just a building made outta bricks and cement."

  And well, it seems the kitchen's curved, central island is still very much a convenient spot to plow Clyde's still ample, gorgeous ass for one last christening of the place.

  They take a laid-back, week-long route to Chicago. They're in no hurry. They have no plans other than to enjoy each other's company in a smooth ride like Baby and in clean, decent hotels with pristine plaster ceilings and monochromatic, earthy color schemes. Clyde doesn't drink a drop of alcohol throughout the journey and neither does Cole. Clyde has, in fact, sworn off alcohol since the Croenia Clusterfuck, not wanting to become his old man in any way, not wanting to ever relive that lonely, alcohol-fueled road trip from NYC to Denver in any way either. Instead, they get high on each other with a luxury they didn't have before, making love all night and sleeping late into the morning before making love again until their rumbling stomachs protest too much, with no end of such days in sight.

  During their stop in Cleveland, they spend a few hours in the dynamic, geometric Rock & Roll Hall of Fame on a weekday. Cole is far more enamored with Clyde and his childlike excitement while they stroll hand in hand through congested exhibits and ogle iconic costumes and historical memorabilia displayed on six floors. Cole has to chuckle when Clyde is most excited by the many food trucks outside of the museum. They stuff their faces with pulled pork burritos and colorful cupcakes while grumbling about the crowds and the noise, smiling at each other with crinkled, twinkling eyes and feeling as old as boys.

  "The museum's not complete, ya know," Clyde says deadpan.

  "Oh?" Cole says, raising one eyebrow.

  "Yeah. They haven't added me yet," Clyde says, still deadpan.

  "True," Cole replies sincerely, thinking of his husband's dulcet singing voice and he doesn't give a damn who sees when he kisses Clyde on the cheek and feels said hot cheek bunch up in a grin.

  They spend more time in the Amish town of Shipshewana in Indiana. Cole slows Baby down to a cruise on the town's immaculate roads and they drink in the pastoral visions of white-washed houses with perfectly mowed lawns, iridescent flower gardens and lush corn fields. Clyde has that childlike look of wonder again, and it brightens even more when a tourists-packed traditional Amish buggy, pulled by a huge and powerful horse, passes their car. Cole recognizes the horse's breed instantly. He has to press his lips together hard to not smile like an idiot.

  "Wow," Clyde murmurs, staring with spellbound eyes at the flaxen chestnut sabino with lovely, feathered lower legs and a thick, flowing mane and tail, at its high-set, shapely neck and robust, straight legs and energetic trot.

  "Wow, indeed," Cole says, and Clyde glances at him.

  He has to press his lips together even harder when Clyde's expression transforms into a squinted, incisive one.

  "Do you know what breed of horse that is?" Cole asks, straight-faced as he can be.

  "What?"

  "It's a Clydesdale."

  As expected, Clyde rolls those big, wide-set eyes in an exaggerated manner and lets out a long, low groan.

  "Okay," Clyde mutters with an outward expression of forbearance, "c'mon, out with it."

  Cole lasts for an impressive two seconds before blurting out, "It's ... it's got your name and it's gorgeous just like you, sweetheart."

  Clyde lets out another long, louder groan and drags warm, callused hands down his face while Cole gestures at the horse trotting happily away and also says with tremoring lips, "Look at it! It's big and strong and its mane is gold like your hair and it's just so handsome and wonderful like you."

  Clyde is laughing even as he covers his eyes with one hand, his shoulders quaking and his pearly teeth gleaming in a wide smile.

  "You are such a corndog," Clyde says when he finally catches his breath, grinning at Cole and putting the early afternoon sun to shame with that beam. "I cannot believe you are my husband, man, I just can't." Clyde shakes his head. "Are you done?"

  "For now," Cole replies, utterly straight-faced again and Clyde lets out another bark of laughter and grasps his right hand and doesn't let go.

  Baby's trunk is stuffed with bags of jumbo pretzels, homemade cookies, fruit jams, a plethora of cheeses and smoked bacon by the time they arrive home in Lincoln Square in the evening after the two-hour drive from Shipshewana. Not a thing has changed about the familiar, comforting A-framed house since their last visit over eight months ago on a short break after another mission accomplished. It still has its ballistic-resistant windows and doors, its state-of-the-art security system and its security cameras, motion sensors, secured phone lines, smart locks and internal home monitors tracked 24/7 by the GATF. Its grassy front yard has been regularly mowed by John, a deed appreciated by Cole and Clyde. The trees that line its serene street are still verdant and trimmed. Their transported possessions are already unloaded in the living room.

  In the days afterward, Cole and Clyde take their sweet time arranging the furniture, unpacking boxes and boxes of their things and hanging up all their framed photographs throughout the house. They decide to turn the master bedroom int
o a home office for both of them and the generous room that was once Cole's childhood bedroom then Pa's home office into their master bedroom instead. Both rooms have en suite bathrooms, which means that after a long day of carrying their bed and other assorted furniture from one room to the other, Cole gets to watch Clyde strip and saunter naked to the bathroom from their bed.

  "You coming or what?" Clyde rasps over his shoulder while leaning on the bathroom's door frame, arching his back to show off that ample, gorgeous ass and wriggling it in utterly shameless invitation.

  They don't leave their new bedroom for quite some time.

  John and Phyllis come over in the second week to officially welcome them home. Phyllis gives them a large, home-baked chocolate cake as a gift.

  "It's nothing like what your mother could bake," Phyllis says with a sigh but smiling anyway while they eat slices of it at the kitchen table. "I do miss her six-layer chocolate cake. It was fabulous!"

  "She taught me how to make it," Clyde says, and John and Phyllis glance so fast at him with large, shining eyes that Cole almost chokes on his mouthful of chocolate cake.

  "You know how to make her six-layer chocolate cake?" John asks.

  Clyde glances at John with wide eyes, then at Phyllis, then at John again.

  "Uhm. Yes?"

  Phyllis grabs both of Clyde's hands across the table. She has a forceful grip for an eighty-plus-year-old woman if Clyde's round eyes are anything to go by.

  "Clyde," Phyllis says with utmost solemnity, gazing unblinkingly at Clyde, "you have been ordained by the Lord to continue her good work."

  "I have?" Clyde squeaks.

  "Yes, you have. There was a reason Mary taught you how to make that cake, Clyde Barnett-Cole, and you cannot let that wisdom go to waste!"

  Cole is being very helpful by covering his tremoring lips with one hand and not saying a word.

  "I can't?" Clyde squeaks.

  "No, you can't, and I will gladly pay you for it!" Phyllis says, squeezing both of Clyde's hands in hers while John grins at him and Cole's shoulders tremble with soundless mirth.

 

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