Miles

by Carriere, Adam Henry

  "Nope." I shrugged my shoulders. I honestly didn't.

  My baseball buddy and friend glanced down at his cheap and wet Converse All-Star gym shoes, silly looking red things, if you asked me. "X's and O's?! I know you know!" He looked back up at me and smiled. "They're hugs."

  With a blush, I asked, "Then what does an X stand for?"

  Brennan blushed back. "A kiss."

  Hugs and kisses? I looked at the card again and felt myself shiver as a rare and welcome tide of warmth poured across me inside of Dad's greatcoat.

  "Haven't you ever written anyone a card or letter?" Actually, I hadn't. Silly poetry and worse stories, yeah, but none of that. Until the last couple of months, who would I have written to, anyway? "You're just making me say it all out loud."

  "What?" I tapped the top of Brennan's head with the card, yellow envelope and all.

  "I want to give you a hug."

  Camera.

  I began to laugh, but stopped when Brennan seemed hurt. He didn't look away, however. I ignored the distant sound of a ringing phone inside of the house. I wanted to hold him, too. "Me, too."

  The time and the place didn't seem important. I don't remember if it was still snowing, or how cold it was, or felt. I'm not even sure what kind of look I had on my face, but I can remember every detail on Brennan's: his long, blond hair, slicked back over his head and over his ears, dark from the moisture of the falling snow, the reddish tint on his ears and nose from the wind, the slight quivering of his bottom lip, the small wagon train of freckles at the top of his cheeks, and the wide open pair of bright green books that left themselves open for me to see, books that watched me read them with indulgence and a touch of desperation.

  He was beautiful.

  "Remember what you talked about? You know, after Confession?" I nodded, at once admiring and resenting how calm Brennan appeared as he looked into my eyes when he spoke. I felt like the little boy with the violin I had written about, the one in the courtyard, turning to stone as an angel carried me in their arms and music swirled up in the background, except that the music now was the invisible bridge connecting my eyes, and heart, with Brennan's. He started pointing his thumb at both of us. "So am I." His voice suddenly disappeared into a whisper. "Me, too."

  I closed my eyes for a moment and lifted my head toward the heavens I was pretty sure were hiding behind all those winter clouds. Brennan stepped forward, put his arms around me, and pressed us softly together.

  Action.

  It wasn't like our first, hurried, awkward hug. It was weird the way one of his arms went across the top of my shoulders and neck, and the other went under my arm and around my back, weird like that was the correct way to hug and we’d been doing it for years, not seconds. The sides of our faces rubbed together like chilled fleshy pieces of jigsaw. He slid one of his legs in between mine under the open greatcoat. Our bodies, despite our winter layers of coats and shirts and t-shirts and long underwear, fitted around each other perfectly. We stood in each other's arms, closer than even Nicolasha and I had, longer than I ever hugged anyone before.

  It had to be the best hug anyone ever got, and it came from someone I had only known as a nice smile and a fearsome split-finger pitch, someone, I then realized in a second warm flash deep in my heart, I was going to be friends with for, yes, "a long time to come."

  "I'm sorry I couldn't get here sooner," Brennan softly told me in my ear.

  "That's okay," I murmured from his neck. "You're here now. I couldn't ask for anything else." Well...maybe just one other thing.

  We reluctantly pulled away from each other. Brennan reached up and straightened my scarf under the collar of the greatcoat he looked over with envy. "It's, uh, really been a rough end of the year for you." Yes, I nodded with a blank, almost stoic look on my face, it kind of had. "Well, tomorrow's a new year." He wrapped an arm over my shoulders and shook me gently, smiling his way through my mock stoicism. "And we're new friends, right?"

  I nodded again, holding open the front door for my new friend to enter. Warmth from the house poured over us as we shut out the cold and snow behind the closed door and headed into the family room to start a fire, which would soon include that damned flocked tree.

  Flash.

  * * *

  X V I I

  Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

  Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

  More than cool reason ever comprehends.

  The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

  Are of imagination all compact.

  One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,

  That is the madman.

  A Midsummer Night's Dream

  "Hello?"

  "Young man, I've been calling all afternoon."

  "Hi, Unc. Where are you?"

  "The Schloss. Where've you been?"

  Pause. "I took a walk."

  His pause. "To Hyde Park?"

  Giggle. "No, not that far."

  "I'm having some trouble putting my affairs in order. I don't think I'll be back down until some time next week."

  "That's okay. I'll be fine."

  "Are you sure? You can come up here and miss some more school, if you'd like."

  "It sounds fun, Uncle, but I'm actually looking forward to going back to class. It'll keep my mind busy."

  His second pause. "I understand. You really like that university place, don't you?"

  "Yeah, I do. A lot. I don't know why, though. They work us like we were serfs there!"

  "Have you thought about just staying on there at the university itself?"

  "Well, yeah, I did, for a while, until my Literature teacher breathed on me about it. He said I should go someplace totally foreign to me. A whole new world, he keeps saying. Sticking around wouldn't be much of a change for me. Besides, I think I'm ready for some new geography, now."

  Mutual silence.

  "You're right. Pretty smart guy for being seventeen."

  "Sixteen, Unc."

  "What's a year or two between family?" We both giggle. "I should set fire to this place for the insurance money."

  "Well? Why don't you?"

  "That little rag would probably sue me for that, too."

  "Who?"

  "Veronica. Or Sybll. I should call her Sybll to her face and see if any more hidden personalities fall out of her hair. Psychotic wench."

  I giggled again. "Should I ask what she's suing you for, Uncle Alex?"

  "Hah! The usual! 'Mental anguish' or some other twaddle!" I heard a wine bottle pop. "I personally think she smelled some of that money you've come into, and flipped when I said no."

  "To my money?"

  "No, nephew, to marrying her. What you do with the money is your affair."

  "A responsible adult would keep it their affair until I finished college, or started a career, or got married. Something like that."

  "Oh, yes! Now you sound like some of those mummies we're related to." I laughed. Uncle Alex didn't. "Have you even picked out a college, yet?"

  "No."

  "What are you going to take up, besides space, once you break down and pick one?"

  "Writing, or poetry. Something like that."

  "Something like that. Fine. Something like that, someplace presumably in North America. Right?"

  "Well, yeah, I guess."

  "You guess. You guess you'll take up writing or poetry or something like that at some college or university someplace in the Western Hemisphere."

  "Fine! I'm going to the University of Geneva! I'm going to major in French language, and minor in 16th Century English Literature! Is that okay, Unc?"

  "I'd go to the Sorbonne myself. Paris nightlife rather puts anything in Switzerland to shame." He took a short drink. "The point, dear heart, is that you can't possibly be expected to have any idea about what you want the rest of your life to be, or where you want it to take place, or why you do, which is the only really important question you can ever ask yourself. Not at your age, despite that brain
of yours. Even if the rest of your life begins next year, or whatever."

  Uncle Alex wasn't drunk, but it didn't sound like it was his first bottle of wine or champagne, either. The only time he became overly contemplative or philosophical was after a full bottle of wine. I loved him when he got like that. Unc talked about things no one else wanted to think about, much less talk about, and he did so in such a brutally common-sensical way that it drove anyone who tried to argue with him nuts.

  "I think the rest of my life began a few days ago, Unc."

  I looked at the bits of flock that had fallen from the grate inside the bright and crackling fireplace, and suddenly thought of Brennan.

  His third pause. "You're a clever little bugger, aren't you?"

  "I hope so, Unc. I can't do a whole lot else, except hit a baseball and write poetry nobody understands!"

  "Send some of it up to me. I'll read it. If I don't get it, I'll hit a bottle of port. After that rot, I can figure out anything. Even a prenuptial agreement."

  "Really?"

  "No, not at all. Can't stand the stuff. Just wanted to lead you along. Yes, of course, I mean it! Send them first thing the post office opens. And don't send anything you haven't copied."

  I realized Uncle Alex was the first relative to ask for some of my poetry to read, and it made me feel like I was Czar of the Russias. "Okay. Thanks, Unc."

  "No problem. By the way, happy New Year. I'm getting drunk to bring in the new decade. You should, too. It'll make the old one look better."

  "A friend of mine is spending the night here."

  "Then get drunk together. Incoherence is much more fun when you share it with someone." His fourth and final pause. "Is it that teacher friend of yours?"

  My second but very large, fearful, and defensive pause. Uncle Alex was pretty clever, too. "No. It's one of the guys I play baseball with."

  "Well, don't play tonight if you're going to get drunk. Bats and baseballs and beer don't mix, unless you've got upper deck seats and there's a Yankee fan close by." We laughed together. "And don't you dare touch that Corvette. Do you hear me?"

  "Oh, yeah? What if I got all the cash I could earlier today, and I'm planning the ultimate road trip, a crime spree across the country? What then?"

  "Set the house on fire for the insurance. There's better money in it, and it's a whole hell of a lot easier to pull off than armed robberies, of which the only worthwhile ones are Federal offenses, and who needs that?"

  "There's a much better grade of cell-mate in a Federal prison, Uncle Alex."

  "Ah, yes, Club Fed. Think of all the interesting senators and bankers you'll meet."

  I heard the front door open and close. "My friend is here." Brennan waved at me from the kitchen with a large Army backpack slung over his shoulder.

  "Go start your drunk. Call me sometime tomorrow. Late."

  "I will. Take care."

  Uncle Alex grunted his reply. We hung up without saying "I love you" or anything else awkward.

  *

  "Are you ready to go?" I put my hands on Brennan's arms. They were shaking. "What's up? What's the matter?"

  He shook his head with a smile. "Nothing. I'm just cold."

  "Do you want a different coat to wear?"

  "I'm fine. Thank you, though."

  "Okay, how about another hug to warm you up?"

  He blushed and smiled anew. "I'd like that."

  "Me, too." I held Brennan until he stopped shaking. Our arms reluctantly withdrew from the other's body, but we kept standing very close and face-to-face. "How come you only put hugs on your Christmas card?"

  The blush on Brennan's face began to look permanent. His arms began to shake again. "I was too scared to ask for a kiss." He lowered his head to my shoulder, with his lips close to my neck. "I still am."

  Brennan took a step backwards. "That's okay," I sighed. "I guess I'm scared, too." I wanted to wrap my arms around his entire body like Nicolasha did to me on the last day of school, but Brennan beat me to it.

  It was just as good as a kiss.

  *

  The movie theater was surprisingly crowded. I didn't think very many people would be interested in a Woody Allen double feature on New Year's Eve, besides me and my reluctant companion, who had never seen any of Mr. Allen's films before.

  The local screen had only just converted itself into a revival house, of sorts, instead of what it had been, a last port of call for films that everyone had already seen, or had no intention to in the first place. It was actually a homey sort of place, not too big, not too small, clean, featuring good sound, seats that weren't completely useless, a nice downtown location in the business center of the neighboring suburb to our north, and the trademark of excellence of all real movie theaters - a single screen.

  We sat in the back row, taking up the four-seat aisle on the far right for ourselves. An older couple sat in the row in front of us. Movie-going couples of all ages filled the big aisle in the middle. Everyone enjoyed the management's quaint slices of free angel cake and cheap cold duck and the overheated warmth of the dark auditorium.

  Brennan and I were the only pair of young guys watching the movie as a couple, which derailed my train of thought, even thinking the word ‘couple’.

  "Manhattan" was fabulous. Brennan laughed throughout the whole movie, and seemed to enjoy the Gershwin music as I much as I did. The black-and-white photography that filled up those loving Panavision frames blew me away, but not as much as the fact the film hadn't won a single Oscar.

  During intermission, I waited for Brennan to come back from the men's room before I went myself. I don't know why. It embarrassed us both.

  I was excited about seeing "Love and Death." Nicolasha had once mentioned in class that the soundtrack was entirely made up of music by Prokofiev, something I wasn't sure would work in a Woody Allen film, but wanted to check out, nonetheless. Well, what did I know? It was great! Lieutenant Kije was always a favorite of mine, and I doubted I would ever hear it again without thinking of Woody and the Grim Reaper dancing together through the woods as the film ended.

  Brennan remarked on the music more than once. I was excited about digging out my Prokofiev records and listening to them together.

  Near the end of the film, he quietly thanked me for bringing him to see the double feature. I took a deep breath and reached behind his shoulders, leaning over to whisper a reply in his ear. I didn't say anything, however. I kissed the side of his ear and ran my closed lips across his neck for a stolen moment before straightening myself in my seat and returning to the business on the screen.

  Brennan didn't move a muscle for a couple of minutes. "Thank you," he finally whispered, smiling at me in the near dark as he ran the palm of his warm hand over mine for too brief an instant.

  Dad's old Omega said the New Year would start in less than an hour, but it had already begun. For me, anyway. For Brennan, too, I hoped.

  *

  We sat on a large strip of cardboard we found in a dumpster near the town's commuter station and perched ourselves near the top of the incline where the train tracks were laid. There were people everywhere in the park below, our suburb's largest: families, couples young and old, partiers, cops to keep the partiers in line, and a few singles, who looked as lonely as I vaguely remembered feeling earlier that day. No one seemed to mind the thin layer of snow they were standing or sitting in (if they had brought lawn chairs), or went the economy route, like we did. Everyone was in too good of a mood to give any notice to the vile wind chill, which helped us to run to the park in good time before the fireworks began.

  Mom and Dad and me had never done this, I groused. We should have. Damn those asinine parties we had instead, cells of attorneys and nurses refusing to coagulate. Shabby substitutes for this here.

  We counted out loud with everyone else to midnight, and contented ourselves to shaking hands and patting shoulders with rue we could see on each other's faces. We weren't alone, or in the dark.

  "Happy New Ye
ar, dude."

  "Happy New Year, Brennan."

  We did sit very close to each other, for warmth and for the fun of doing it. I had given Brennan my beret to wear. Dad's greatcoat kept me a lot warmer than Brennan's Army surplus field jacket was keeping him. Brennan continued to scan the crowd of spectators below us, anxiously looking for any of our baseball buddies. I ran Handel’s Royal Fireworks through my mind as the multicolored explosions launched themselves into the starry black sky above us.

  "To Catch a Thief"-a-rama.

  Brennan suddenly turned and looked at me with serious, almost frightened eyes. A gigantic green hailstorm erupted in the icy heavens with a loud pop. "Kiss me. I don't care if anybody sees." Two bright red umbrellas of streaming light cascaded into the air, with the trumpet of sharp, staccato crackling, the sound of the world's largest firing squad opening fire. We didn’t stop until some of the saliva that was running down our mouths began to freeze.

  "I don't know if what I'm feeling is love,” Brennan panted, “but I know I want it to be."

  Flash. A stupendous flash of exploding silver balls fired upward towards the watching stars, accompanied by the shrill whistle of incoming artillery. But it wasn't as big or as loud as the flash I felt inside of me, inside of my hand as I squeezed Brennan's and more or less smiled.

  "Let's go home."

  *

  We started the second blaze of the night in the fireplace, which was filled almost to the grating with ashes from our earlier effort. It was the only light in the family room. I had taken our large Inuit mural, a patchwork of different Arctic animal furs Unc probably scored from some poor Eskimo over a bad bet, off of the wall and laid it at our feet. We moved into the other's arms at the same time, our second, perfect hug, before I took a step back and slowly undressed Brennan with hands I could barely keep from shaking. I left his socks on. I wasn't sure how to take them off with him still standing. He kept his face close to my body as he returned the gesture. He left my socks on, too. We threw ourselves onto the mural almost as one and wrapped the fur around us. The logs continued to crackle and burn in the fireplace.