by Josh Thomas
“I can’t work for you and be your lover.”
Casey sighed. But here was Jamie, needy and bereaved. “Invent someone tonight. Invent your new lover.”
Jamie stopped crying, shut his eyes, picturing him. “He’s tall. Black curly hair. Emotional brown eyes. Handsome as hell. Very macho, built like a major league athlete. And yet what gives him pure raw sex appeal is the contrast.”
“Pure raw sex appeal?”
“I wanted to fling myself at him. Macho’s great, but it’s also limited, ossified, predictable, selfish, oppressive. But this man gets a look that is… tender. Gentle. Loving. At first glance his face is 100% butch, as in ‘Hey buster, what do you think you’re up to?’ But then you look again, he hasn’t moved a muscle, and you see generosity, open human feeling. That’s what makes him overpoweringly sexy. He is a gentleman. You want to crawl into his arms, you’ll find solace with him. I’ve never in my life seen beauty like his.”
Casey thought, He sounds a lot like you.
“He’s a bundle of contradictions; intelligent, physical. Serious but fun-loving. Courageous, careful. Violent almost, but self-controlled. And principled, the finest thing about him.” Another tear coursed down Jamie’s cheek. “Casey,don’t let me indulge this,it will only result in pure pain.”
“Why? Is this that cop?”
“You should have seen him tonight. God, he was wonderful to me. As my mother lay dying. But I can’t have him, I’ll never have him. He’s Straight. Why can’t I get that through my fucking head?”
Casey breathed deeply. “Jamie, it doesn’t hurt to indulge a fantasy. We’ll label it a fantasy, it will never come true. He’ll never know. Therefore it harms no one.”
“He’s easily the most exciting man I’ve ever met.”
Softly Casey said, “Imagine he’s there tonight. He holds you in his arms, he kisses you. He comforts you, makes love to you.”
“You don’t understand! Indulging this will change my behavior towards him, cloud my judgment. Casey, pull me off this story, I can’t take serial killers anymore. They’re killing everyone in my own life!”
“No, buddy. This is your Pulitzer story, James R. You have to play it for all it’s worth.”
That made Jamie a little more resolute. “I’ll follow it. I’ll be attracted to the man but it goes no further.”
“What did you want to do with him, when you met?”
Jamie’d never felt such attraction before. But he was talking to his best friend, with whom he was always honest, and he finally said, “If he’d been open to it, I wanted… to touch his face. To learn about him.”
“Is that all, to learn about him?”
“Kiss him, if he’d let me. Run my fingers through his hair.”
Casey struggled to understand Jamie’s sexuality. “What is it about this guy?”
“He’s total masculinity and yet, the purest gentleness. What I’d like to be as a Gay man. But he’s Straight. I don’t go for Straight guys. This is ridiculous, Casey, I’m out of control. I’ll be hurt if I indulge this.”
“Indulge it tonight, just once. Tomorrow he’ll make some redneck remark and you’ll see him for what he really is. Tonight, be Gay. What if he were too?”
“Indeed he will not make a redneck remark. He enforces our civil rights because he believes in them.”
“Jamie, what would you do with this paragon?”
“I’d kiss him. A thousand times I’d kiss him.”
“Kisses, touching his face. Get to the good parts! Jamie, have you never objectified a man? Never looked at a man and said, Now that I want to fuck?”
“Yes, but a person isn’t a that! Everything depends on our interaction, what he shows me, his wants and needs and feelings as well as mine.”
It was a philosophical and sexual difference between them. Casey turned men into body parts, while Jamie had been objectified since childhood. Jamie never considered sex outside a committed relationship. Jamie was monogamous and Casey was… well, it wasn’t a point in his favor. “Suppose you did get physical with him.”
“I’d love to see his skin. Touch his body, feel his muscles. Soothe him. Sleep with him someday. It was certainly physical, what I felt; chemical. I broke out in a sweat over that man. But it was emotional too, not just sexual. Sure, I’d love to fuck, but I want to get to know him. His eyes— he’s very strong, but there’s a gentle soul in him that’s pure beauty.”
“Then let his soul make overpowering love to you.”
“This is terrifying. Don’t let me fall for a Straight man.”
“I won’t. Tomorrow I will bitch you up royally if you ever play the fool. I’ll be the first to tell you that what you’re really doing is projecting your own desires onto him, seeing what you want to see.”
Jamie stopped crying immediately.
“But that’s tomorrow, STG. Tonight you’re in need. Reality doesn’t matter tonight. Jack off if you feel like it. And later on, eat, you hear?”
Jamie said he would. Didn’t, though; got buzzed on Thelma’s booze instead, ashamed of everything he’d done the last few hours. It was indeed like him to see what he wanted to see; to try to make over the world.
***
Father Jim was a comfort; they looked at the Prayer Book and designed an uplifting, pastoral liturgy. Danny called, promised to fly in tomorrow morning. Jamie was able to take care of his big Bro when he cried, be the strong one again. Later Jamie tried Stone one last time, but had to settle for another urgent, nondescript message. He felt like Sandra the Mennonite.
At midnight he made a pallet on the family room floor, sheet, blanket and pillow between his mother’s La-Z-Boys. No way he’d sleep in her bed tonight. The phone he placed next to his pillow. Then there was nothing else to do but drink.
He was alone in the house; alone in life. He was alone.
He sat at the kitchen table and his heart started racing. His breathing went erratic. He fought a losing battle against the terror.
Anxiety attacks usually happened when he was physically down; he hadn’t eaten or slept that well in days. He wondered if he would die; which he knew was ridiculous, but he was seized by fear. His heart pounded so hard it might well explode and kill him.
He put the booze away, then sat there keening softly, hands clutched around his chest, trying to talk himself down. “You’re okay, you’re safe here. It’s only because of Mom. You have to not drink when people die. You’re at your most vulnerable at times like this. Don’t make yourself more so.”
“I’m always alone when anxiety attacks happen. That’s what’s so terrifying, I’m always alone.”
Then he split again, “You won’t die, Jamie. You’re healthy. Your fear is real but you won’t die. Mom wouldn’t want you to. Danny doesn’t, Casey. Visualize your friends, all of them here in the room right now. New York friends, Chicago, Europe. See them? They say ease up, Jamie, you’re okay. They touch you. They love you, Jamie. You’re okay.” His heart pounded worse than ever. He visualized his mother being dissected by med students.
The doorbell rang, of all things, a new panic, “Who the fuck is this?” Now he had to pull himself together for someone else’s benefit?
He suppressed a scream, imagined himself collapsing to the floor, having to crawl. But he stumbled to the door, flipped on the light, and there stood… the man of his dreams or his projections; the man he would never have.
“I saw your lights on. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Jamie shook badly, turned away, didn’t want Kent to see him like this. “I’m not exactly.”
“I got to thinking, you’re here all alone. I didn’t want you to be by yourself.”
“Thank you,” Jamie managed. “Come in.”
Kent did, Jamie shut the door, then he couldn’t solve the mystery of where they should sit. Kent held up a little paper bag. “I made you a sandwich. Did you eat?”
“No.” They found their way into Thelma’s kitchen. Jamie unwrapped the san
dwich and put it on a Corelle salad plate, then stood there staring at food Kent made for him. “Um, something to drink?”
“Ice water’s fine.”
“Ice water. I remember how to make that.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Jamie couldn’t make conversation and he certainly couldn’t look at the man. He nibbled on his sandwich— salami and sharp cheddar, mayonnaise and big salted slices of homegrown tomato.
“When my Dad died,” Kent said softly, “I couldn’t have stood it if I’d been by myself.”
“I’m very grateful, I’m not standing it well either.”
They were silent as Jamie ate.
The cure for anxiety is feeling safe. He breathed more deeply, gradually calmed down, his symptoms faded. He wasn’t alone. He had a new friend, here with him. He felt safe.
Kent said, “What’s with the blankets on the floor?”
“That’s where I’m going to sleep. There’s only one decent bed in the house, my mother’s, and I don’t want to sleep there. Not tonight. Never again.”
“That’s strange, I sleep in my Dad’s bed every night. It makes me feel closer to him.”
“I’m glad you feel that way. Maybe I’m in denial. Whatever the fuck that means.”
“Did you talk to anybody?”
“My best friend Casey. My brother Danny’s on his way tomorrow. The priest.”
“But nobody to be with you till tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Where are your cousins, your aunts and uncles?”
“I haven’t any. Both my parents were only children.”
“What about your Unca Deed?”
“I didn’t call him, he’s been in bed for hours. We’re not related by blood, just hearts.”
“Gee, no cousins even. You’re all alone.” Then Kent wished he hadn’t said that.
“I sure am.”
“Did you cry, Jamie?”
“Man, the Wabash is at flood stage.”
“Good. I didn’t cry at first over my Dad. Which only messed me up later.”
“How long ago?”
“Four and a half years. I miss him every single day.”
“Why do parents die?”
Kent frowned; the quiver in Jamie’s voice got to him, the poignancy of his question. “Don’t know. I’m sorry, Jamie. But I know exactly how you feel.”
“Upside-down crazy?”
“At the very time you’re trying to be strong for other people.”
“What was your Dad’s name?”
“Big Stick Kessler.” Kent smiled a little. “James Earl.”
“A player too. A home run hitter?”
“Homers and doubles. You knew about me?”
“I knew about you.”
“Can I stay?”
Jamie was stupefied. Was the man coming on to him? Was he just unbelievably kind?
Did it fucking matter? “Would you?”
“Someone to be with you in the house. I don’t want you here alone at a time like this. Unless you want to be.”
Jamie sobbed a little. “Don’t want to be. Can’t stand to be.”
“Me neither. Let’s pretend we’re boy scouts, camping out on the floor.”
Jamie was so overwhelmed that he sat there and cried. “I felt so afraid.”
Kent rubbed Jamie’s forearm. “Sometimes the way gets dark and scary.”
“Then someone comes to help you through it. Kent, thank you, dear God.”
“All I know is people need each other. When I saw there weren’t any cars in your driveway, I knew you had to be by yourself. And I didn’t like that at all.”
Jamie dried his eyes finally. “I’ll never forget this, man. Never in my life.”
Kent shrugged, made Jamie finish his sandwich. Jamie mumbled, “These tomatoes are really good.”
“I wanted like anything to bring you a casserole. But I don’t know how to make one, and it was too late to call my Mom and find out how.”
His caring cut Jamie so deeply,he stabbed at levity instead,“No merit badge in cooking, huh?”
“Man, cooking-wise I’m a tenderfoot.”
“My sandwich says it all.”
***
Jamie blew up an air mattress, bigger, nicer, placed it four feet away from his little pallet and made up another bed. He showed Kent the bathrooms, turned on the overhead fan, and they slept together—not sleeping together, but together in their underwear, one light on as they got out of their clothes, backs turned, no looking, then lights out.
Jamie lay there in the dark, staring up at the fan. Kent’s smell was distinct; deodorant soap, but another scent that seemed to come from inside him, sweet as baby powder. Jamie had never smelled anyone like him. It was as if he could smell the man’s soul.
Gradually Jamie heard a soothing sound; a quiet, gentle snore. It made him smile a little. Rick used to snore too.
In a way it was every bit like sleeping together. Jamie loved that snore, and the sweet scent of a man who slept on a pallet so he wouldn’t be alone.
Jamie wasn’t projecting. He saw Kent as he was; a kind man, open and brave enough to come to a Gay house, take his clothes off and sleep in the same room, because Jamie needed him. Two hot tears escaped,
aching for such tenderness. He didn’t need to be fucked silly. He needed the comfort of a friend. Jamie turned onto his chest, hugged his pillow like a lover, matched
his breathing to the snoring, and slept.
22
Glenn
Kent was gone the next morning, but left a note: “I didn’t bring work clothes. Call you today.” His handwriting was tight, compact, masculine and eye-pleasing; there was no mistaking that long-tailed K. Don’t indulge this, let last night’s magic be what it was. Just having Kent in the house made the Day After more bearable.
But five minutes later Jamie lay on Kent’s sheets, soaking up nature’s baby powder, letting his cock do what it was built for, as he clutched the pillow Kent snored on.
***
Jamie retrieved the morning papers; no Mom. When the bank opened he would inspect the safe deposit box, pick up the bonds, leave his raw notes of Ford’s calls, max out the ATM card and say nothing.
He made coffee. He poured himself a cup but let it go cold. Might as well try to work. There was so much to do.
He learned to negotiate his mother’s computer. He was appalled by Microsoft’s clumsiness, but he located the legal and financial information he needed. Jeez, Mom, plug in the Bunn! She held onto her stock in infashion.com and did very well with two local corporations and several mutual funds. A document called “My Dear Sons” explained the first steps to take; every asset she had was divisible by three boys. She made a pitch for contributions to Purdue, and she told them that she loved them.
He sat in his mother’s office, reading, occasionally tearing up, but mostly trying to get an old dot-matrix printer to work. It finally did, racing back and forth on its track, a noisy, bizarre little machine that somehow typified his cheapskate, adorable mother.
Danny called to say he couldn’t get plane tickets closer than St. Louis, so he and Lynn were driving in from Colorado and would arrive tomorrow. Jamie’s heart sank, but he didn’t show it. “Be safe, Bro, don’t push yourself if you’re tired. Stop and get a hotel room.” Danny said he would, but they both knew he’d drive straight through.
And still Stone didn’t return Jamie’s call. Later Jamie would learn that was because Stone was drunk 24 hours a day.
Jamie signed a paper and faxed it to the Indiana University School of Medicine, allowing it to take control of her body. The funeral home people wanted to know what to dress her in, and how her hair should be done. He called Connie, her friend and hairdresser. After receiving her shocked condolences, he said, “My thought is we’re not burying her in a favorite outfit; it’s a different sort of occasion, like she’s going to work at her volunteer job at Pharmaceutics Research. I think she should dress down. And since we’re sending her t
o IU, I’m thinking of decking her out in Purdue sportswear.”
“She’d love that. And I’ll do her hair one last time. Please let me, it’s my gift to your family, and to her.”
He accepted her gift and headed down to the Village, West Lafayette’s shopping district. At the Purdue Spirit store he picked out gold sweats. At the checkout counter he spied a little $5 trinket, pushed its button to activate a computer chip. “This,” he cried, “we must have this.”
He ran to a nearby copy shop, made up a little sign to pin to her sweatshirt: “IU MED SCHOOL, PUSH HERE,” with an arrow to the button. Then he delivered the outfit to the funeral people, specifying that his mother’s body wasn’t to be moved until his brothers arrived.
It would be a good memory in future years; they’d send her to IU singing “Hail, Purdue!” He remembered her singing the Fight Song to him as a child, solemnly teaching him all the proper etiquette. All the little Foster boys knew that cheering for Purdue was like cheering for their Mom. So they cheered like crazy. Alma mater; dear mother.
Back home he fired up his laptop, tried to organize his information. It was better than playing 99 games of solitaire, the only alternative he could think of.
His sadness turned to anger as he read his notes about the murder of Glenn Archer Ferguson. Anger was often Jamie’s fuel; now he deliberately channeled it into the one thing he could do to make sense out of this irrational world.
Later he made another phone call, got what he needed. Ate, went to the bank, then drove to Indianapolis.
That evening he e-mailed Casey:
ED. NOTE: Six (6) photos sent in .JPG for download: Victim Glenn Ferguson (1), lent by lover G. Tompkins; Crime Scene (2, 3) at Willow Slough, Morocco, Ind.; investigating officer Sgt. Kent Kessler of Ind. State Police (4, 5); Kessler with state Conservation Officer Suzanne Myers at scene (6); she discovered body behind woodpile.
Call if you have ?s, Case, it’s okay to call despite everything. Edit for tightness & coherence, I guarantee the veracity but not that I make sense. Not much sleep last night so watch out. I think we should copyright, don’t you? Our exclusive, don’t let AP steal it. Love & thanx, J.