“What’s wrong with him, Jack? You know, don’t you?”
Jack pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. “Yeah.”
When he didn’t say anything more, Lance prodded, “Well? I thought we were all buds.”
Jack nodded. “We are. It’s just… you can’t tell Arthur, okay?”
Lance nodded. “Okay.”
“Mark’s in love with him.” It was almost a whisper.
Lance took a moment to process that, and then his lower jaw dropped. “Arthur?”
Jack nodded, his heart tight, his breathing almost coming in gasps.
Lance was stunned. He knew Mark idolized Arthur like he did, but he’d thought it was for the same reason. That’s why he’d been a little jealous. But this? He’d had no clue. It made him feel… he wasn’t sure, but his heart beat faster.
“But,” he began, almost stammering, “but Arthur’s not, you know, gay.”
Jack nodded again. “I know, and so does Mark.”
Jack reached with tremulous fingers to push the hair away from Lance’s eyes so he could gaze right into them. He needed his friend to understand what he was saying, not just so Lance could comprehend Mark, but so he could understand him too. Those haunting green eyes gazed at him from beneath the flowing hair like uncertain question marks.
Jack sighed. “It sounds crazy, I know, but Mark and me, well, we hadn’t, you know, had sex with anyone before being out there on the streets, so all the guys we been with were older, like Arthur, you know… grown men. So that’s what Mark’s used to, ’cept he’s used to men treating him like shit. I never got as much shit cuz I’m big, and the johns figured I might beat the crap outta ’em. But Mark, he’s small and sweet natured and… anyway, Arthur’s a good man who treats Mark like he’s special. So, Mark fell for him.”
Lance turned away, dumbfounded by this news, but suddenly replaying in his mind Mark’s up and down moods these past weeks beneath the light of these new revelations. He looked at Jack and shook his head with incredulity, thinking how horrific these guys must have had it out on the streets, and feeling deep down a powerful kinship with them because of his own past. But at least his torment had ended when he was nine.
His dazed heart tight with insecurity, Lance asked, “What can we do for him?”
Jack shrugged, and his own eyes welled up. Despite his skittishness at touching Jack’s naked torso, Lance cautiously slipped his arm over his friend’s shoulders, and they sat together. The closeness felt good to Lance, natural and necessary. After all, pain needed to be touched before it could be healed.
“You still haven’t told him, have you?”
Jack shook his head again, not wanting to look up, not wanting Lance to see his tears, not wanting to look weak. Instead, he threw his own arm over the younger boy’s shoulders and pulled him in tightly.
Lance shivered, both loving and hating that embrace, that press of Jack’s strong arm wrapped around him, the warmth of Jack’s skin seeping beneath his tunic and filling up his heart. He felt fluttery and dirty all at the same time.
He hated himself. But he didn’t resist.
He couldn’t push Jack away, not in his hour of need. And he didn’t want to, anyway. He liked holding Jack and comforting him. He liked the closeness.
No, needed it.
And so, like Lance had done with Mark so many weeks before, they sat huddled together in mutual pain and despair, each deep within his own thoughts, each pondering what the future held for all of them.
JENNY sat on a newly refurbished bench, courtesy of Arthur’s crusade, in Eucalyptus Park under a mournful crescent moon, lamenting the fact that she hadn’t even spoken with Arthur, or Lance, since the night of their first interview. She gazed sadly at a brand-new mural painted on the retaining wall before her. It depicted Lance proudly holding up the banner with Arthur on horseback behind him.
She knew she’d made a connection with Arthur. She’d felt it, and so had he, and she’d been hoping he’d call her, ask her to help, make her part of his campaign, not because she needed the attention, but because he’d want her near. Because he felt… well, something for her. But she hadn’t even spoken with him and had only seen him on television.
She knew she could call him—she’d called many men in her time. If she wanted something, she went after it. But it’s not like Arthur had a cell phone… or did he? She supposed he might now, so his kids could keep in contact with him. And it’s not like she didn’t know where he lived. With all the media hovering about, she marveled that his hideout hadn’t been discovered. The police had been called off; she knew that. The sleazy, oily mayor had assured the public that the incident at the pizza parlor had been “an unfortunate misunderstanding, and would not happen again.” Yeah, Jenny had snorted at the TV, because he made you and the LAPD look like idiots.
Arthur was busy too—that was more than obvious. Swamped would be a better word. He just didn’t have much time—no, he didn’t have any time for socializing. That must be why he hadn’t called on her. She’d give him a little longer, she decided. Then, if he still didn’t call on her, well, she’d just have to call on him.
THE following morning, Lance drifted out of sleep into an uncertain wakefulness, forgetting for a moment, where he was. Then he felt the heavily muscled arm draped around him and remembered. He nudged Jack, and the older boy awoke, his face still streaked with dried tears. Disengaging themselves stiffly, they rose to stretch their legs, and Jack flexed and unflexed his arms to get the circulation going.
As Lance stood up, two envelopes dropped from his tunic and fluttered to the ground by Jack’s bare feet.
Jack noticed also. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Lance replied as he stooped to retrieve them. “Two letters. One’s addressed to Arthur, and the other… to you.”
He handed Jack the plain white envelope with “Jack” written in florid, almost calligraphic style on the front.
Jack gasped. “That’s Mark’s writing!” He tore open the letter and began to read, his mouth dropping open in shock, his face dissolving into sorrow.
“What is it?” Lance asked breathlessly, fear gripping his heart like a clenched fist.
Fresh tears dropping from his eyes, Jack silently handed over the letter.
Lance took the paper and quickly read it. He could almost hear Mark’s gentle voice as he did.
Dearest Jacky,
I know you’re gonna be pissed at me for ditching you, but I gotta get out, and you know why. I just can’t be around him no more. I’m goin’ back to the streets where I’ll get treated like the lousy stinking faggot I am. That’s all I deserve. My parents were right about me—I’m worthless. Arthur was way too good for me. But you, Jacky, you’re a real somebody, and you got a home there with him and the rest. You got a future. Oh, and Lance, tell him I’m sorry, too. He’s a good friend, like you, better’n I deserve. And he’s really awesome, and I know you think so cuz you told me. So if it turns out, you know, that he’s gay, you two would be good for each other.
Lance blushed at that part, but Jack didn’t even notice.
Have a good life. I love you, too, Jacky. You’ll always be my hero. Never ever forget that.
Your best bud, Mark.
Lance slowly dropped his arm and looked at Jack, his eyes welling with grief, his heart smothered in sadness. “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m so sorry. We gotta go tell Arthur.”
Jack nodded but didn’t move. Lance gently put a hand to his friend’s bare back to nudge him along, but Jack whirled and enveloped Lance in a crushing hug, sobbing into the smaller boy’s tunic, holding on as though fearful of falling. Lance held him and comforted him and allowed the tears to flow. His own regrets filled his heart and pressed him into Jack’s body more tightly, almost with desperation. Guilt washed over him in waves of anguish as Jack’s tears brushed against his neck and soaked into his tunic like rain.
Lance thought of Mark, of the boy’s gentle, shy little smil
e that had always tickled something deep within him, thought of the way Mark had so readily kept his secret, even from Jack. He’d come to genuinely love Mark for that loyalty, that goodness, but had never said it, had never truly made the blond boy a part of him.
So he stood, feeling empty and heartless, clutching tightly to Jack, supporting the boy’s profound sorrow, and allowing his friend some time to cry out the pain before they had to go and tell the others about Mark.
IN THE HUB, there was the usual bustling activity of boys rushing around, grabbing items of clothing, prepping their weapons, gathering supplies for the day’s march. A number of them were polishing armor or swords, while others hung wet laundry on the lines or took dry laundry down, folded it, and passed it out to those just emerging from the sleeping tunnels.
Arthur sat on his throne enjoying a calm moment, tossing a football to a delighted Chris.
Lance and Jack entered soberly, Jack still shirtless and tear-streaked, Lance rumpled and sorrowful and afraid.
“Arthur, Mark’s gone.” Lance announced, and his desperate tone immediately sent a chill down Arthur’s back. He stood and handed the football to Chris.
“Go on and get ready, Sir Christopher. We’ll be leaving soon.”
“Okay, I doth go,” chirped the small boy. He looked at Jack and saw the boy crying. “It’s okay, Jack, I was just playing with Arthur cuz I couldn’t find you. You’re still the best player I ever saw.”
Lance nodded to the little boy. “Thanks, Chris, but he’ll be okay. Go get ready now.”
“Sure, Lance.” And off he went.
Arthur eyed the two boys with concern. “What hath happened to Mark?”
Lance glanced at Jack, but the older boy remained silent. “He took off, ran away,” he explained, quashing another wave of remorse. “We found these letters when we woke up this morning.”
He held out the letters. Arthur’s eyebrows shot up with worry. “We?”
Suddenly realizing what Arthur might be thinking, or perhaps just feeling his own paranoia that Arthur might be thinking it, Lance blushed and flipped his hair from his eyes so the man would know he wasn’t lying. “We just fell asleep talking, that’s all. Mark left this letter for you.”
He handed the letter to Arthur, who slipped out the paper and gazed a moment at the beautiful flowing script, suddenly realizing he’d never known Mark had such a gift. The writing was almost artistic. What else had he missed about that boy?
He sighed heavily and read the letter aloud:
Dear Arthur,
I never met no one like you. You got me offa drugs, which I was glad about cuz they really dragged me down. And I know you love me like a friend or a nephew or something. But I love you more than that, see, and it hurts so much to be around you knowing you can’t feel the same way. So I gotta bail, Arthur, an’ I’m sorry. Methinks thou hast been the best thing in my life, and the worst. I love you, Arthur, with all my heart. Farewell.
Your errant knight, Mark
Jack broke down again and began to cry, and Lance reached out to enfold him. Arthur dropped into his throne in shock. He’d had no idea. Was he that blind? Had he grown so enamored of the greater cause that he’d lost the ability to see, really see, these children?
“Thou didst know of his feelings?” He looked at both boys. Lance shook his head, but Jack nodded weakly.
“Yeah.”
“Forsooth, Sir Jack, why didst thou not tell me?” Arthur exclaimed, his own chest tight with emotion. “Why didst Mark not come to me? I would not condemn him for feeling love.”
“He was embarrassed, Arthur.” Jack sniffled. “He knew you couldn’t love him like he wanted, and he was afraid that… you might hate him. I told ’im you wouldn’t but….”
Arthur stood resolutely, his heart burning with determination and a hint of doom he wished not to see. This could not stand. He could not lose one of those he’d been given. “I must find him.”
“You can’t, Arthur,” Lance insisted, still cradling the hopeless Jack. “You got the crusade ta run and all these other guys to watch over. The needs of the whole company, remember?”
Arthur sighed deeply, suddenly recognizing the problem with that philosophy. “Thou art right, of course, Sir Lance. But at times it doth be a difficult precept to hold fast to.”
Jack pulled his face away from Lance’s comforting shoulder and turned to the king. “I’ll go after him,” he said, releasing Lance and swiping tears away with the back of his hand. “I know the places he’d probably go. I’ll find him.”
“I’m going too,” Lance insisted, and Jack looked over at him, deep gratitude filling his poignant eyes. “If that’s all right with you, Arthur?”
Part of Lance hoped Arthur would say no, that he was much too valuable, that he was needed to lead. The selfish part, he told himself. No one is indispensable to the cause, Arthur had said before. Even me.
The king looked grave, his mind on his failures rather than his successes. And he said the wrong thing. “Of course, Sir Lance. Anyone can carry the banner.”
Lance flinched as though he’d been slapped and punched at the same time, and the blood drained from his face. Is that what he’d been reduced to—banner carrier? After all he and Arthur had shared?
But Arthur was too distraught to notice his error. Nay, didn’t even realize he’d made one until it was far too late.
“Find him, my knights. That beeth thy quest. Find the lost one and return him to us.”
Jack nodded and turned to Lance, failing to notice the rejection pooling in those stunned green eyes, and then padded quickly out of The Hub. Bowing stiffly to Arthur, Lance forced himself to turn and haltingly follow.
THAT same morning, Gibson rose early, had breakfast, dressed casual for a change—just slacks and a pullover shirt and fancy basketball shoes—and hurried nervously out of his one-bedroom apartment. He had to see Justin, and that was that. His ex-wife, Sandra, told him the boy was gone all day every day with “that pretty awesome King Arthur guy” and the only time she ever saw him was early in the morning. She didn’t even care that Justin was ditching all or part of school most days, along with hundreds of other teens, to work with Arthur on the cleanups. That had started another argument.
“He didn’t do anything in school last year but sell drugs,” she’d told him pointedly over the phone, “and don’t tell me you had no idea.”
Actually, he had had no idea, not until he’d seen Justin admit it on television that day. How had he so lost touch with his own boy? Hell, he knew some criminals better’n he knew his own kid! Rather than argue, he sighed and said, “I just want to see my son.”
“Good luck with that,” Sandra had said and hung up abruptly.
Gibson stood beside his expensive BMW parked outside his former Hancock Park, two-story house and anxiously drummed his fingers on the dark blue roof of the car. He’d thought for weeks what he would say when finally he got together with Justin. He’d practiced, promising to listen and not argue and not lose his temper.
The front door opened, and Justin excitedly leapt down the brickwork stairs and headed for the street. He looks so happy, Gibson thought. I never saw him look happy to be up this early in his life. The boy’s hair had grown out, and he looked good, healthy, and content. But then Justin spotted his dad, and the smile dropped, the mood darkened.
Afraid the boy would take off, Gibson said, “’Morning, Justin.”
Justin frowned and gazed at his father, who stood tensely with both hands thrust into his pockets. His father actually looked normal today, he thought, not buttoned up in those old-man suits he always wore.
Without approaching, Justin said, “I got things to do, Dad.”
“I’ve been trying to see you for weeks, son,” Gibson explained, and something in the voice surprised Justin. “Please, let’s talk a few minutes.”
Reluctantly, but curious at the change in his father’s demeanor, Justin strolled over and stood awkwardly before the older m
an, shuffling his feet uneasily. Both realized immediately that the son now eclipsed the father in height.
“Wow,” Gibson said with a whistle, “you’ve grown.”
Justin glanced away. “Yeah, thanks.”
Gibson eyed the boy’s attire: long-sleeved, black tunic, the standard brown leather pants and leather boots of Arthur’s army, and sighed. “Changed your look,” he said conversationally, choosing his words with care so as not to anger the boy. “I like it better than the sagging style,” and then realized when Justin glared at him that it was a dig. Why did he always do that?
“Uh, listen, son, I thought we might do something today after school,” Gibson tried again, “but your mom tells me you haven’t been going to school.”
Justin just laughed. “Good one, Dad. You already know I’m not cuz you been seeing me on TV. Mom tole me. So just cut the crap and say what’s on yer mind. I got people waitin’ on me.”
Gibson frowned, his temper rising. “You mean him, that crazy-ass King Arthur?”
Now Justin’s temper flared. “Yeah, I mean King Arthur, a man who done more for this city in five months than you done your whole life!”
That hurt. Gibson felt a knife in his back, twisting, but he fought for composure. “You know that’s unfair, Justin. You know I became a cop to help people, to help kids stay outta gangs and drugs because I saw too many of my friends go down for that. I did it for you, son, and your generation.”
Justin sneered. “And how well did that work out for ya, huh, Dad?”
Gibson glared at him and then relented. “I know about the drugs, and Dwayne. I did see that on TV.”
Justin laughed hollowly. “That when you finally figured it out? Some cop! I been sellin’ for almost a year, Dad, and hangin’ with the homies for three. Ever since you left!”
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