Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

  Cold.

  Hot.

  Dizzy.

  “Here,” he said, handing me the paper. “Like this.”

  I forced my eyes to look away from his face, down to the paper.

  The first word I read was: Taepoons. There was a square. Then, Liert. There was a circle with four lines in the middle. When I read the last word, I caught on. Tablespoons. Three small squares.

  These were cooking measures.

  Nick was watching me. “That’s how I do it, O’Reilly.”

  I thought about the book on his nightstand. How many hours would it take to map out every single recipe this way?

  “It’s impressive,” I said. “You do-do this a lot? I mean, with every wo-word?”

  “The ones I need, yeah.”

  Every thing Nick says is clear. As if every single word has been assessed for quality. For purpose. There’s no gray about him. I never lose track. I always know what page we’re on.

  Like reading a picture book.

  “Gotta go.” He was already on his feet. Towering over me. “You got what you need out of me, right?”

  I need you. I need you. I need you.

  “Yes. I think so-so.”

  Nick stretched his arms out and then jumped over the couch. “Anyways, the rest, you can always make up.”

  I stared down at the paper in my hand.

  *

  The nerve of him.

  I haven’t socialized with anyone in years.

  The only people I ever see are all in Nathan’s circle of power executives, or divorced fag hags. One lousy happy hour, and he flips. Have I ever complained about his overpacked schedule, his weekend getaways, his evening meetings?

  The man’s life is one big PR event.

  I go out for drinks with Jake, and come home to find Ike Turner sitting in our living room.

  Nathan hit me. Whacked me right across the mouth. Yes, I hit him right back. How mature is that? The two of us rumbling in our living room like some kind of boxing exhibition.

  “You crazy little paddy!”

  “You imperialistic bastard!”

  The awful thing ended in a very anticlimactic manner. I stepped on the remote and Michael Bolton’s voice shot out of the sound system.

  Some corny love song Nathan insists is good.

  At the sound of it, Nathan’s eyes filled up. “Baby.” His voice cracked. His lips quivered. I should have been moved, but you haven’t seen Nathan when he’s crying. Not a pretty picture. Very messy too.

  I was still quite wired, but willing to let it go. I tucked my shirt back into my pants and sucked in a long breath.

  “Der—” Nathan’s nose was running. “How can you accuse me like that? How, baby?” His pitch was high. Dramatic. “You know I would never do you like that. What we have is sacred to me. Der, look at me.”

  He always makes me look at him. I guess he prefers lying to me straight in the face.

  “You know, Derek—” His tone had shifted. “Maybe I should be the suspicious one. I mean, I’m never home. And you have shown absolutely no interest in the wedding planning, nor the engagement.” His dark brown eyes sharpened. “Hell, you haven’t even told your aunt yet. I’m starting to think you might be having some doubts.”

  Then came the conveniently-slotted silence.

  I picked up the remote to turn the abominable whining down, and sat on the edge of the couch. My mind drifted for a moment, and binding itself to the past, it guided my thoughts through a darkroom where pictures hung here and there. My inner eye roamed over them: Boone shooting down the hill on his bike. Johan pulling a fast checkmate on me. Aunt Frannie licking the back of a spoon full of vanilla frosting. Helga Lund’s strawberry jam lips. JF. David. Sebastian. Coach Angelos.

  And Nick, my Nordic King, my gypsy warrior, singing “Heartbreak Hotel” into a broomstick.

  “Derek? Where are you right now?”

  I glanced up. “Huh?”

  “What is up with you lately? You keep staring into space like you’re watching a fucking movie in your head.” Nathan sat by me. “Talk to me. Let me in a little. Is that too much to ask out of you? For your trust, a little faith in my ability to understand you? You think I’m beneath it?”

  Finally some authenticity in his voice. I began to warm.

  “Shit, Derek.” He reached for my fingers, and I let him hold my hand. “You think I don’t hear you moaning in your sleep? You think I don’t see the circles under your eyes? You’re fighting something. Let me fight with you. Der, you can’t do everything alone all the time. You don’t need to be so strong—”

  “Nathan—”

  But that’s all I had to say.

  “Come here.” He pulled me close and kissed my head. “I love you. And I’m not messing around on you. I swear, baby. I swear on my father’s grave.”

  “You hate your father.”

  He laughed and his chest shook against my cheek. “Good point,” he said. “Okay then, I swear on our love.”

  If you swear on the very thing you’re destroying, doesn’t that cancel everything out?

  Chapter Five

  Dear Bump,

  One morning, just minutes after the red sunlight had flooded my bedroom, I crept out of the room and tiptoed to the washroom.

  I closed the door behind me and sat on the cold ceramic floor, with my back against the door.

  I couldn’t feel my body anymore. Not even my head.

  I knew I was alive because my heart was pounding.

  Nick.

  How can I love someone so much, but be invisible to him?

  I closed my eyes and tried to make my heart stop beating. I prayed to God, “Make this heartbeat be the last.”

  But it never was.

  There was always another one, then another, and another, until all I could hear and feel was my stupid heart thundering inside me. I clenched my fists, bit down on my lip, and prayed harder.

  It never stopped.

  I slapped my chest.

  It kept beating.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  I slapped it harder.

  Boom.

  Harder still.

  Boom. Boom.

  I hit it again and again, but it kept beating, so I hit it again.

  And again.

  With my palm, then my closed fist, but it kept going like a ghost drum.

  Going without a soul, or an order.

  I pounded my chest, pounding now with both fists, hitting until the air was knocked out of me, and with every strike, my head bounced against the door, but I kept hitting and slapping my chest. My neck. My face. My head. Banging myself up. My nose. My mouth.

  I need you.

  There was blood now. On my hands and fingers. But I couldn’t feel anything.

  So I kept hitting.

  “Open the door! Baby, open the door!”

  The last blow brought an explosion of color. Some purple, some white.

  Then darkness.

  The first thing I saw when I came to was the deep blue Arctic Sea dripping down into my eyes.

  “Hey.” whispered Nick.

  I was floating. Moving along the surface of the world. The sky raced by. Bare trees. Buildings. Flashing above me. Voices hummed near my head.

  “Johan. Slow down.” I recognized Aunt Frannie’s voice.

  I moved my tongue inside my mouth, except it wasn’t really my mouth, just a bruise stretched over my gums and teeth. I moved my fingers. A sharp pain rippled up my arms, then stabbed me hard in the throat.

  I moaned.

  “It’s okay,” whispered Nick. “It’s cool.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Dad, faster. He passed out again.”

  I moaned. “Mom.”

  Then something soft moved over my head. A gentle touch full of restraint.

  “Mom.” I moaned louder.

  “It’s okay.” Nick whispered again. “I got you now.”

  There were fingers in my hair, brushing my bangs gently out
of my face, and every time those fingers grazed my forehead, the pain let up a little. I tried opening my eyes again. I focused my gaze. “Where am I?”

  Aunt Frannie’s voice streamed to me. “On your way to the hospital. How do you feel, baby? Can you see? Can you feel everything on your body?”

  I moved a little. I could feel everything. “It hurts.”

  Nick chuckled softly, and his stomach shook against my neck.

  I was lying on his lap, and those fingers caressing my hair so sweetly were his fingers.

  “O’Reilly,” he said quietly. “The way that it stands, you’re gonna have to start talking a little more.”

  I looked up to his face. My heart leaped. My lips trembled. “I’m scared, Nick.”

  “Don’t cry, O’Reilly. Everybody’s scared. Everybody.”

  The tears stung my eyes. “But not Boone.” I tried not to choke on the sob in my throat.

  Nick’s blue gaze drifted. He stared out the car window. “No. Not Boone.”

  I closed my eyes again, listening to the tires rolling on the street—listening to Nick breathe against me. The pain in my face and neck was like a pulse, beating in time with my own heart. I tightened my jaw and fists.

  Nick’s fingers moved inside my hair, but his touch was different.

  Distracted.

  I opened my eyes to look up at him.

  His eyes were fastened to the winter sky.

  We stopped.

  I was pulled away from his body and lifted into a chair, then rolled down a brightly lit hall.

  The doctor asked Aunt Frannie to leave.

  She hesitated by the door, then slowly turned around and left. “I’ll be right outside the door, hon.” Her voice was like a bell in a hurricane.

  The doctor shut the door. His colorless eyes looked like dried chickpeas crushed under Coke bottles.

  “Remove your gown, please.”

  I could hardly lift my arms, but I obeyed. I slipped the gown down my shoulders and pulled it off. I wondered if my underwear was clean.

  “Lie on your back, please.”

  The paper sheet rustled under my back. It was cold too.

  “Turn your face to the left.”

  The doctor’s hands were warm. His skin was loose, as if he wore a mask of secondhand skin.

  “Look into the light, please. Follow it.”

  I watched the light at the end of the black stick. Left. Right. Left. Up. Down. My teeth clattered. I bit my tongue twice. My back lifted from the table on account of my body shaking like a leaf.

  “Sit up.”

  I tried. I rose halfway, but fell back. My belly was soaked with fire. My hands were sore and bruised.

  “Hold my neck.” The doctor pulled me up. Gently. “Reach your arms out.” He helped me slip the gown back on and left the room.

  The shivers running through me had become too powerful for my body. They jerked it wildly, sending waves of hurt all through my arms and neck. I bent my knees, wrapped my arms around my legs, and held on as hard as I could, trying to contain the vibration.

  The doctor walked back in. He was carrying a large brown blanket, and when he wrapped it around my shoulders, my body loosened a little.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  My heart jumped.

  He dragged the chair closer and sat down. He removed the Coke bottles, and tucked them into his jacket pocket. “Do you play soccer?”

  I knew my eyebrows had met in the middle, because my forehead hurt.

  He leaned in. “I’m just asking because my grandson plays soccer. Thought maybe you knew him.”

  I don’t know anybody but the people I know.

  And I’ve never played soccer on account of my asthma.

  The doctor sighed.

  I figured I should ask his grandson’s name. That was the polite thing to do. I pulled the blanket closer to my chest. “What’s his na-name?”

  Something moved inside the doctor’s eyes. “Pete.”

  I don’t know anyone named Pete.

  The doctor’s beige eyes were steady on my face. “He’s your age. Eleven, right?”

  I nodded.

  “His dad is my son.”

  That makes sense.

  “Sometimes they have arguments. Just little things. They fight about Pete’s homework, or the mess in his bedroom.”

  My mouth was dry, but I was too shy to ask for a glass of water. I kept staring at the sink, hoping.

  “One time, my son came back from a very bad day at work. Pete had kept his soccer shoes on in the house. There was a trail of mud from the entrance, all the way to the living room.”

  I looked up.

  “My son was very angry. Not so much at Pete. Just angry about everything, but he hit Pete across the shoulder and slapped him in the face.”

  My lips came apart a bit. I sucked in a short breath.

  I felt warmer.

  “My son called me that night. He was crying.”

  Who ever heard of a grown man crying?

  “You see, my son felt terrible about what he had done. He thought the worst of himself. He asked me what he should do or say to make things better between him and his son.”

  There was a knock at the door. I looked over at it.

  So did the doctor. He rose. “Excuse me.”

  In the door frame stood a policeman. He was taller than a tree and his dark eyes found mine in a blink.

  The doctor shut the door behind him. I heard them talking outside the room, but couldn’t make out the words. I did hear my name twice.

  I looked down at my feet.

  Swung my legs under the table.

  The pain wasn’t that bad anymore. Maybe it had something to do with the white pills the nurse had asked me to swallow. I was feeling a lot better. I wondered if Nick and Johan were still in the hospital.

  I slid off the table and folded the blanket, then set it on the chair. I looked around for my clothes, but couldn’t find them. The gown was silly looking. There was no way I was going to be seen walking around in this dress. I sighed.

  What could I do to make this doctor give me back my clothes and send me home?

  The door swung open and the policeman walked in. The doctor was two steps behind. There was some color in the doctor’s grayish cheeks. “Derek. This man would like to talk to you for a moment. Just a few questions. Is that okay with you? Standard procedure.”

  Standard procedure. I liked the sound of that.

  The giant policeman smiled. He had big white teeth. “Good boy.”

  The doctor stood nervously by the door. “All right then,” he muttered before leaving.

  The policeman leaned against the sink. “Sit down son.” His voice was like Darth Vader’s, but without the noisy breathing. “Says here…” He squinted, staring at the clipboard in his humongous hand. “Says here…Your auntie found you in bad shape. Says you were unconscious and pretty banged up.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Doc says you don’t have anything broken. No signs of concussion. Nothing but some bruises, some marks.”

  I reached up and folded my fingers over my neck.

  The policeman lifted a finger to me. “Like that one there, for instance.”

  The heat raced from my belly up to my cheeks.

  He reached for my fingers and I flinched.

  “Easy now. Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.” His milk chocolate eyes moved all along my shoulder and neck, like a flashlight over the shadows. “You wanna know what I think?”

  My heart beat inside my ears.

  “Your friend. The Lund boy. We know him. He’s got a pretty good rap sheet for a kid his age. I’d almost say impressive.” He took a step back and leaned on the sink again. He rubbed his chin. “Your auntie says you were in some trouble, some brawl ’round Hallow’s eve. That true?”

  Why would Aunt Frannie tell on me like that? I felt my eyes harden.

  “That Lund boy was with you. Wasn’t he?”

  Something was
crawling up my chest, tightening all the loose ends inside me. My jaw locked.

  I jerked my chin up.

  The policeman’s eyes darted back to my face. His furry eyebrows curled. “Well. Tell you what. I think he has somethin’ do to with this. I don’t know how, but I’m itchin’ to find out—”

  “No.” That word felt like ice on a fresh burn. I had to say it again and again. “No sir. No.”

  His gaze deepened. “No?”

  “No.”

  No. No. No. No. And no.

  That word felt like the only thing worth saying. I couldn’t stop it from shooting out of my mouth. “No.”

  Couldn’t let a yes ever betray me. “No. No. No!”

  My hand flew up. “No!” It hit my cheek. “No!”

  My hand bounced off my sore skin, coming at it again and again, but some force restrained it.

  Something strong enough to snap my wrist like a dry twig.

  It was the police officer’s fingers. “No more of that,” he whispered.

  I looked up. My hand had disappeared inside his. His eyes weren’t scanning anymore, they were looking. At me. At my face. My trembling lips.

  “Enough of that. No more, son.”

  My hand became putty. I let out some of the air in my lungs. “No,” I whispered again. “No.”

  He released my hand. “Okay. I believe you. Okay. The Lund boy is clean as a whistle in this here story. I got it. Okay? I got it.”

  “No.”

  “Kid, contrary to popular belief, you gotta have some kind of brains to be a cop. Okay? So I got the no part. I got it.”

  “My heart kept bea-beating.”

  He opened his mouth, and formed a word, but it hung on his lips, as if he had changed his mind. He cocked his head and stared into my eyes. “Talk to me,” he said quietly. “You can talk to me. That’s my job. You understand? I know how to listen. Talk to me.”

  I looked down at his tag, and my heart skipped a beat.

  Di Paglio.

  He was the one. The one who had come to school that afternoon. With the dog.

  “Bubba,” I murmured.

  A faint smile turned up his lips. “You know my furry partner.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve seen me before. At school maybe.”

  I nodded and sniffled.

  “See. I’m the good guys. I’m on your side. Talk to me.”