by Josh Thomas
Jamie turned away. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“How about if I don’t show you the numbers? I won’t bring them out till you’ve built yourself back up. Then you’ll see how far you’ve come, and you’ll feel good about it.” Jamie wavered. “Athletes measure their progress so they can achieve their goals.”
“I’m no athlete.”
“You always say that, and I’m sick of it. Off with the sweats, let’s get this over with. Now do it, Commander’s orders.”
Under his sweats Jamie’s trunks packed a pouch, and suddenly he saw them as faggoty, like a European bikini. What else would a Gay guy wear? Of course his shorts were all crotch. But if he got excited, being so near to each other, Kent would notice, the truth would drip out. Jamie couldn’t let that happen. He went clinical, and flipped on “Wall Street Week” for the sole purpose of watching ugly guys talk economics.
“Come on, Modelboy, you’ve done this before.”
Jamie yanked off his sweatshirt, “Measure away.” But his fingers had trouble with the drawstring on his pants. Kent finally reached out and pulled the knot loose. Pants fell to ankles, and the erotic possibility dawned on Kent.
He was the one who got aroused. He got to touch Jamie’s neck, his shoulders and arms, his big nipples; trailing the tape around his waist, across his crotch, around his butt. He did the job slowly, savoring Jamie’s skin.
He knelt and measured the calf, then softly said, “Widen your stance.” Then he measured Jamie’s thigh, which is biggest at the center of a man.
He looked up at Jamie, who casually handed him up.
Kent put the paper in his wallet, Jamie put his sweats back on. Kent sat, filled with a thousand different feelings of pleasure and pain. The waist was down to twenty-five and a half. He pictured muscles eaten alive, wanted to throw the paper away after all. If Jamie saw himself as a puny, pathetic, 97-pound weakling, Kent saw a bodymind that never gave up, a fierce and deadly competitor.
An athlete, by God. Stop letting this Gay thing work on your mind, Jamie, enough already. Jeez, how will I ever break through? ***
It changed things a little; Jamie got freer with his body, stopped wearing sweats to work out. Then there were days when his body was okay, but his mind went on holiday. He’d forget between the family room and the kitchen why he went to the kitchen. Kent would have to say, “You wanted ice water.”
There was an episode about cardinals on the power line, where Jamie ordered a hundred pounds of bird seed C.O.D., no cash and no feeders in the yard. Even with feeders, he’d forget to fill them.
Caregiving hurts. Kent couldn’t stand to see Jamie reduced to such lunacy. Kent’s mother had to step in and help her son relax, “He’s making good progress. You’re pressing, let the game come to you.”
That ushered in some golden days when Jamie was as sharp as his old self. Sarcastic, witty, intelligent, intense; the boy wasn’t easy to live with, but he was fun to be around. Kent never stopped believing Jamie’d come back.
On the last hot day of summer, Kent drove his pickup to Tad Lincoln Drive and beheld a wondrous sight: Jamie rollerblading up the street towards him, wearing nothing but those tight yellow workout trunks, blond hair flying. They waved to each other, then Kent slammed the brakes and yanked the wheel.
Jamie skated up, surveyed the damage. “Mom needed a new one anyway.” He skated inside as the state trooper backed up and tried again. Kent’s cowcatcher toppled Thelma’s mailbox.
***
They watched some TV but their tastes clashed, one voting for Bravo, one for the Nashville Network; one for C-SPAN, one for the Comedy Channel; one for “Keeping Up Appearances,” one for “Taxi”; one for “Now, Voyager,” one for “Shootout in Little Tokyo,” hi-yah, chop chop chop, kablooie!
Jamie tried to turn Kent on to the university’s classical radio station. When a talky program finally came on, Kent tuned in Kick-Ass 98 and his buddy gritted his teeth shut. When Kent went to the bathroom, Jamie mashed the minus button.
On his way back Kent noticed, in the sewing room, photos on the wall: Thelma, Indiana’s Junior Miss; Danny and colleagues on the set of “NFL Today,” Stone giving a speech to a big crowd of businessmen— Jamie a few years ago, blond and shimmering, muscled and tanned, in a suit with no shirt underneath, “L’Uomo Vogue.” The most dangerous homosexual in America.
***
In mid-October, a sunny day when Jamie could travel longer, they drove north to Jasper-Pulaski State Wildlife Area to see the migration of the sandhill cranes. Jamie had never heard of them, though their staging area was only 30 miles from Willow Slough. “Are they big birds?”
“Huge, a yard tall, with wingspans over seven feet and bright red foreheads. Northwest Indiana is their most important stopover. They spend winters in Georgia and Florida, then fly in big flocks every spring to their nesting grounds in the upper Midwest and Canada. You should see them during mating season, they do this hilarious dance, bob their heads and jump up, then they land and bob again and throw twigs over their shoulders, males and females both. They’re so eager to get started they’re practicing building their nests. They always stop here, ten, fifteen thousand of them—if we maintain their habitat.”
They could hear the birds before they could see them. Kent drove to a handicapped parking spot next to the crane viewing shelter. Jamie climbed the steps slowly; he wasn’t very good with stairs yet. He got to the top and there before him was a meadow filled with a thousand light-gray sandhill cranes.
A stiff breeze blew right in his face and he quickly got cold, but they enjoyed the majestic birds through Kent’s telescope. Kent told how important the cranes were in the mythology of the native Miami Indians. “They called them twaa twaas, after their call. An old Miami legend says the cranes led them to victory against some marauding Cherokees. The cranes showed the Miamis the enemy’s whereabouts. A decisive battle was fought, with all but one enemy killed.”
“Twaa, twaa, twaa,” called the cranes overhead. And one or two of them did their little mating dance, even out of season, bob, hop, bob, toss—then check to make sure the mate was watching. If not, do it again!
Kent said the cranes all but disappeared from northern Indiana for decades because the Whites drained the wetlands; and bringing them back home, setting aside state preserves for them, was a huge triumph, paid for by outdoorsmen like himself. “We can’t undo what we did to the Miamis; but we can give them back their cranes.”
Between the birds and the words, Jamie was utterly moved. Plus there were cattails and prairie grasses in the park, and the state trooper even poached a little cutting of them so Jamie would always have a keepsake from home.
Kent loved breaking the law for his buddy.
He noticed Jamie’s fancy black leather jacket with braided accents and lace-up sides. Jamie looked like a little lawbreaker too. With that mind, that face and that body, the boy was dangerous, all right, a blond Hell’s Angel. Kent knew all about the angel; it was the hell part that turned him on.
On the way back, he asked if Jamie wanted to listen to some country music. “Okay, but there are some mispronunciations my ear can’t tolerate.” He thought country singers twanged it up to boost sales in Redneckville. “Let’s hope we don’t hear any.” So Kent kept it low and drove them down the highway.
Then a song came on and Jamie turned it up, “I know this one. Is it country?” Kent started singing along. He had an excellent voice, baritone to tenor, and this record was right up his range. Jamie’d sung this song alone in the car a hundred times too. He listened to Kent sing the melody, and suddenly Jamie started harmonizing with him. They drove down the road singing together.
Jamie was inventive, didn’t stick with the recorded version, added to it. Their bodies loosened and they sang, full-voiced and free, four minutes of unalloyed happiness.
Followed by a screaming commercial for someone’s carpet hut. Jamie yanked the radio off. “That was fun!” Kent said. “How’d you
pick out the harmony like that?”
“That’s just how I hear pop songs. I want to sing with the professional, not against him; I want to hear his or her performance too. But man, you’ve got a voice.”
“I love singing. It’s like sports to me, something you do with your body.”
“And your emotions, vocal dancing. I love to dance. Which I haven’t done in ages.”
Kent frowned, Yes, you have, Jamie.
He turned the radio back on, hoping for another song in common,
but none came. ***
One night was a total disaster. Kent rang the bell, Jamie let him in, Hi, Hi. Extremely subdued. They sat and Jamie stared into space, didn’t say a word for five minutes. “I’m sorry, Kent, I’m out of it.”
“What’s wrong, man?”
It took a long time for Jamie to say, “I’m in shock. In mourning.”
“I’m sorry. Something reminded you of your Mom?”
“No. I’m in mourning for Matthew Shepard.”
“Oh.”
Jamie stared at the black TV. Kent felt increasingly uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure what to say, how to help. Who was Matthew Shepard, and why the heck wouldn’t Jamie say anything? It seemed passive-aggressive almost. But Jamie was in mourning, he said so right out. “I’ll go. Let you grieve in peace.”
“No, Kent, don’t, you don’t have to go! Please stay.” Jamie didn’t know how to talk to a Straight cop about what happened.
“No, I should. It’s the right thing to do.” Kent stood, Jamie saw him to the door. “I’ll say a prayer.” And he left. Jamie felt even more bereft.
The next morning Kent found out exactly who Matt Shepard was; the Wyoming student horrifically brutalized a few nights ago, all of 5’3”, strung up, beaten savagely, left for dead. He never woke up from his coma. The whole country knew about it, Kent too; but it was “University of Wyoming” to the country, not the guy’s name; “hate crime,” not another of our sweet, smart, gentle boys. Kent kicked his own ass, All I had to do was ask.
Jamie answered the door again; Kent, giant mums, a card, “In memory of Matthew; in mourning with you.”
Tears. Gratitude. Quick departure. Suitcase.
That night when Kent came back, the mums weren’t just displayed on the dining room table, they were spotlit like the Empire State Building. Kent and Jamie didn’t talk about it, but for the first time Kent realized the punitive power, and therefore the deterrent effect, of a great, crimefighting Gay newspaper.
The next day he stood at attention and solemnly asked Major Slaughter for training in investigating hate crimes. ***
Jamie frowned, “You’re wearing trooper gear again. Bring your laundry, we’ll do it here.”
“But you don’t like doing laundry.”
“No, but maybe I’d feel useful for once.”
“My shirts have to be ironed, Jamie, it’s regulations.”
“Kent, ironing is a level of productivity I aspire to.”
Kent brought six huge duffel bags, as “we” turned into “you.” He wouldn’t be caught dead ironing, but he swore that Jamie was under no pressure whatsoever.
Slowly, Jamie found he liked doing laundry, when it was Kent’s. Every night Kent took home a few shirts, pressed jeans, bundled-up socks; jocks and underwear always found their way to the top of the pile. Every night Jamie slept in nothing but his KESSLER 22.
***
He listened to his mother’s Broadway CDs and could tell all the plots by heart; Kent turned out to be a sucker for musicals too. “At last, something in common,” Jamie exclaimed. They showed favorite movies to each other; for Jamie, “The Sound of Music,” for Kent, “Oliver.”
He took a risk, exposing himself like that. He’d never told anyone but his parents how much he loved that show from his toddler days. Jamie talked about everyone in the cast but the little blond star. Harry Secombe had a show on some Episcopal Channel they had back in Columbus, touring English churches and singing hymns. Kent had seen “Oliver” 46 times and never once noticed the man. But now he had to, and the fat old dude was pretty good. His big song was “Boy For Sale,” which had only broken Kent’s heart 46 times.
The bookmobile came by and Jamie found Dickens, Miss Austen and Ms. Brown, the later Jimmy Baldwin, Larry Duplechan, A Smile in His Lifetime. He sent Oliver Twist home with Kent, who tried to get into it, but it was “pretty thick. And it’s really, really old, Jamie. I mean, dusty. All those old-timey words? I know the story, but I still couldn’t figure out what he was saying half the time.”
You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him literate. Jamie shrugged and polished off the Twist boy again in a day and a half, loving every installment. Whit Miller, though, he savored like fine chocolates, no more than two chapters a night, at bedtime.
***
Under Kent’s supervision, Jamie learned to drive again, around the subdivision at 10 miles an hour. Honda’s Gay employee group in Marysville, Ohio once wrote him, “We all read you, you’re terrific. Our new Acura’s fabu, we’d love to build you one.” So he test-drove, and fell in love, and the car arrived with gifts, a vanity plate with his name, a rainbow decal, a copy of The Times signed by all the members. He wrote a story about them, “Out on the Assembly Line.” He cherished that car.
He turned on the radio, sped all the way up to 15. But the classical station played atonal dissonance; he hit Seek until something made him stop, sounding good, kicking ass. It was a love song, with intelligent lyrics, “Something That We Do.”
He started actively to listen to Kent’s music. If he ever found out in New York, poor Foster would die. But it was a fine song, by real talent, Jamie loved it; so did his buddy.
***
Jamie asked, “Thanksgiving’s coming; what do you typically do?” He loved to cook for the holidays.
“I work,” Kent shrugged. “Thanksgiving’s a washout for troopers. Wednesday I work a double, eight to midnight, then on the day itself I’m on noon to eight.”
“A detective pulls traffic?”
“The whole post does, busiest travel days of the year. Speeders on Wednesday, drunk wife-beaters on Thursday, mall patrol Friday and Saturday, then speeders again.”
So Jamie volunteered at a turkey dinner program for the poor and elderly, and got to be the captain of mashed potatoes. He helped serve 287 meals and gave thanks for all his blessings—especially a trooper on Ronald patrol.
***
They played video games to work on Jamie’s eye-hand coordination; Kent always won and Jamie always accused him of cheating. Kent bragged, “I can’t help it if you’re slow.” Competing was the finest thing they did together; they were both fierce about it, just one of them a little slow. They got into a habit of hitting each other like brothers do. Chattered like magpies and ate nonstop.
Kent was superior to Jamie in every game but one. Like all Hoosier homeowners, Thelma had a basketball hoop atop her garage; on the driveway her youngest son had painted a free throw line at 15 feet and a 3-point arc at 19’6”. Kent realized what he was up against when he saw two dozen Rawlings NCAA balls racked up in the garage. Every night they played Horse. Every night Jamie won, 5-4; but he cursed his misses, terrified he’d lost his shot.
He hadn’t, but he was uncoordinated rust. His shot slowly came back—with hours of practice while Kent was on duty. Then turnarounds, reverses, trick shots, Kent tried everything. He stood thirty feet away in the middle of Tad Lincoln Drive and miraculously sank a jumper; so did Jamie, eyes closed, trying not to smirk. Not once could Kent beat him. Scores dropped to 5-3, 5-2, even 5-1.
Kent hadn’t played basketball since high school, hated him—and played him hard every night, knowing how much Jamie loved it. Jamie could barely keep from screaming his delight. Yet he only said one insult per night, a competitor but nice about it.
Kent might not have liked him as well if he didn’t rub it in at least once. But the ego part of Kent was glad it was only once. He muttered, “You ai
n’t even five-ten.”
“I am too!” Jamie marched him right into the garage, stood in his stocking feet next to the wall, daring him to measure. “Be sure to mash down my hair!”
Kent made a mark.Measured. “Whaddayaknow,5’10”and a quarter.” Jamie jumped up and down like a madman over that longlost half-inch.
The next night Kent was getting skunked, the horse about to be saddled; Jamie grew nervous, but he made his shots. When 4-0 came, everything on the line, he dribbled from eight feet in the right side of the lane for a full minute. Kent knew something was up, so he had to use his final weapon. “You ain’t got the guts to try it and fail.”
“Ooh, fightin’ words. You can’t psych me, flatfoot. Prepare to meet your dee-struction.” Jamie gathered his confidence, visualized; then all at once he bounced the ball hard on the left side with a killer spin. The ball caromed off the concrete, back high above the board—as he leapt with all his might and jammed it home.
Kent stared, flabbergasted and screeching at a five-foot ten-inch comatose slam dunk.
Jamie got his own rebound, looked away. Kent came to him, grasped his shoulders; Jamie clutched the ball, looked up at him, a little scared. Softly Kent said, “Horse.”
Jamie smiled proudly, led him wordlessly inside. ***
Another opportunity lost; and Kent didn’t even realize it till two days later. You shoulda just kissed him, you retard!
Kissing, the thing Kent most wanted; the last thing he could make himself do.
54
Pillow
At the cabin, Kent got his sleep pattern back to normal. All those nights at the hospital had messed up his rhythm. Throughout the coma he’d fought off the image of Jamie hanging from the tree—naked, beautiful, spurting red. When Kent did nod off, he dreamt the same horrific nightmare. He could never run fast enough to get there on time, his legs were weighted down. He’d scream out, wake up.
Then Jamie woke up and took the nightmares away. It was over now, it was the past. Kent was good at consigning losses to the past. He came up with a new sleeping strategy.