Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  “I know that guy,” Matt said.

  I sighed, perhaps tinged with a touch of jealousy. Bobby was a looker — a real fine looker and he was looking now — fishing, even. No, trawling, although he sat beside a plain looking man, who squinted at us.

  “Perry?” Matt said.

  The man stirred.

  “Who is that?” I asked, surprised. “I thought you meant . . .”

  “No. It’s Perry Chaplin. He works up at Gamma Rex. He’s been to Axum Labs for some training and . . . he’s real good, but I didn’t know . . .”

  “Matthew Kieler,” Perry said, greeting Matt formally.

  “I’m surprised.”

  “To see me here,” Perry said. “Secret life. But I knew you were . . . and I was meaning to come out the next time I was . . .”

  “No need now. This is my . . .” Matt hesitated.

  “Martin,” I said. “Is that darling with you, because I’ve seen him at The Cavern?”

  “Bobby,” Perry called.

  Bobby strutted over and immediately latched onto Matt’s hand. I felt like knocking him on his ass — his gorgeous bubble butted ass.

  “Cowboy,” Bobby said, his eyes riveting. “I’ve seen you around.” He cocked his head and winked. “Not enough for my tastes, but some of you is better than none of you.”

  “Stop it, Bobby,” Perry said. “He’s such a kidder.”

  “Then you two are together,” I said, not asking, but announcing.

  Perry flashed his hand. A commitment ring. Bobby reluctantly flashed his, and then winked again. I noticed that Bobby was either very drunk or unsteady.

  “Get me a Cosmo,” he said to Perry.

  “I don’t think so. You weren’t supposed to have the first.”

  First? He must have meant Tenth, but Bobby just shrugged and drifted back to the couch. I noticed that he had a birthmark on his neck, just beneath his right ear. Matt saw it also, because he was suddenly distressed as if that blemish spoiled the perfect Adonis notion that was Bobby Anselm.

  I had to sit, so I elected to keep Bobby company, but he wasn’t much company. In fact, he had no interest in me at all. He just winked at the old gargoyles and occasionally moistened his lips in Matt’s direction. Matt and Perry babbled in code. They were building the next generation of information technology right there in the heart of the night trade. They were oblivious to it. I just drank and drank, and soon, I was oblivious to them all. I do remember glancing down at Bobby, who had fallen asleep. I got a good look at that birthmark. God had some sense of humor created such a perfect creature only to despoil him at the last moment — the mark of Cain. I was really drunk. I heard Perry Chaplin say I had better get him home, and then Matt echo the sentiment — mine too.

  Fortunately, we didn’t need to walk. Well, I couldn’t walk if the place was on fire. Perry offered to drop us off at the B&B. I vaguely remember the trip, except that Bobby must have found in me a comfy cushion, because he snored away on my shoulder. We arrived and I do remember trying to negotiate the fence instead of the gate, and yelling I’ve got to piss. I wandered through the garden uncaring of where I aimed. I just had to go. I heard the upstairs window open and Leslie cry out. Is that you, Martin? I heard the echo What are they doing? from Ginger. He’s pissing on the cats. And sure enough, they were scurrying to the four corners. Matt howled, and then tugged me toward the porch.

  “You like him,” I said or I think I said.

  “Who? Perry? He’s a colleague.”

  “Collie? No, not him. I mean . . . Bob . . . Bobby.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Really. Me? I’m nuts. I saw the way he looked at you, and I saw you starin’ back. I mean, his cotton candy, that one. He’s got eyes.”

  Bobby’s eyes drew the world to his soul. No one could resist them. They winked and flirted with everyone he saw. He underscored this with a smile that blossomed.

  “Bullshit,” I said, holding onto to Matt for dear life. “He’s not so pretty, you know. He’s got a wine splotch, you know. It’s hidden unless you know where . . . well, I saw it.”

  “I feel sorrow for him, Pumpkin, that’s all.”

  “Sorry. Bullshit.”

  Matt straightened me up. I remember that just before I passed out.

  “He’s sick, Martin. He’s very sick.”

  I don’t remember much after than, except that Ginger caught me as I passed out, and she probably marshaled me up to bed, because I heard a whisper on the wind, between the yelping of wet cats.

  “And we didn’t invite you here to be good. We want you to be bad — so very bad.”

  3

  When I pried my eyes open the next morning, I was alone in bed. The light assaulted me with a new definition of torture and I saw everything in rainbow colors, although not in the correct order — all of them simultaneously. My stomach rumbled, but not for food. I thought I was giving birth to the Alien. I sat up, but could get no further. I guessed that this day would not be as much fun as yesterday.

  The door cracked open and a cowboy-hatted head peered in.

  “What time is it?” I belched.

  “Half past one,” Matt said.

  He crept in. Respect was always a hallmark of this gentleman and he evidently appreciated my condition. But half past one?

  “I’ve slept too long, and the day is shot now.”

  Matt sat beside me on the bed. He scrunched my shoulder and kissed my forehead. Good thing, because my mouth tasted like Rommel’s army had been through it, tanks and all, a taste I didn’t want to share with anyone.

  “You were hammered last night.”

  “No shit, Jose”

  “Do you remember pissing on the cats?”

  I shook my head. That I remembered. I also remembered a flirtatious little kid trying to attract my cowboy.

  “Where’ve you been?” I asked. Tart. Unabashedly accusative.

  “Out.”

  “Out where?”

  “Shopping.”

  “I bet.”

  Matt sighed. It was a bit too mortifying for me. I shuffled back under the counterpane. I guess I pouted, prissy little bitch that I can be at times.

  “Now, Pumpkin, if you think I had any interest in anyone in that place but you . . .”

  “And computers.”

  “And computers.”

  I could deal with computers. Computers and Luis, but that was the limit. He hugged me. Then his hand drifted by my bloodshot eyes. He held a ring between his fingers. A commitment ring. I sat up . . . quickly.

  “I thought . . .” he said.

  “I love your thinking.”

  I put my hand out. He slipped the ring on me, a beautiful gold band that hurt to look at. Still, it could have been drilled into my nose and I would have been just as happy. Then he handed me another ring.

  “Do me now.”

  I grabbed the ring and thrust it on his finger. I slammed him into a hug hold, and kissed him long and hard — Rommel be damned.

  “I’ll do you,” I said. “I’ll do you and do you until the cows come home.”

  “Or ‘til the cats dry off.”

  He laughed and we spent the rest of the day in bed.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Pope’s Nose

  1

  Summer drifted into fall. The birds began taking wing and the leaves turned in glorious pageantry. I loved the fall, because it heralded the Yule season. I wasn’t much for Thanksgiving as Viv never cooked and, if we celebrated it because her current squeeze was a traditionalist, it would be in a restaurant. Perhaps that was for the best. Turkey has been known to be lethal if not prepared well and Viv could have lapsed into a festive accident if given a roasting pan and a baster. However, this year was different. I looked forward to Thanksgiving, because it was at the Kielers.

  “Just wait ‘til you taste that dressing,” Matt said. “Mom’s touch is in every morsel. There’s nothing like it here or even on Mount Olympus.”

  Sounded gr
eat. I was a little home keeper, but I was better at thawed frozen foods than from-scratch banquets. While I was happy that Matt was tasting his mother’s dressing already, I had some anxiety. Viv was invited. I didn’t think she’d come, but she was between beaus and surprised me by enthusiastically accepting. Now Viv was fine company for the likes of me. I was her little shithead, after all. However, to traipse her out before the Kielers — that was a source of heartburn.

  “She’ll be fine,” Matt assured me.

  He had managed a great relationship with Viv. She nicknamed him Harpooner, because he had managed to fish me out of the sea. I also suspected that she gave him that nickname for other reasons best left in the shadows. They got along famously. However, Louise Kieler was . . . a lady — a regular plantation belle without the southern prejudice — gracious and hospitable. To toss Viv into the works just might change the Kieler’s perception of me, which was warm and sociable.

  “She’ll be fine,” Matt reassured. “My mother has lived a bit also. She’s no prude. Besides, Viv might surprise us all.”

  “You mean she might use fuck only every fifth word instead of every other one. Remind me to have a talk with her.”

  “Why spoil things,” Matt said. He chuckled.

  “You want her to embarrass your family,” I said.

  “You’d be the only one turning red, Pumpkin. My family has an open door to the world,”

  That was true enough. It would be wonderful to have a whole family in one place on one day a year. However, I still thought it advisable to give Viv a heads-up.

  “These people are very stylish, Viv. They never curse. They live a well ordered life.”

  “Fuck, are they alive?” she asked. “And how did their little darling queer son get to know the ropes if they didn’t use curse words. Shit, shithead, I’m not used to being turned off in this way.”

  “Please.”

  She rolled her eyes and tossed her stringy hair about in a sweep, but she agreed. In fact, she showed up ahead of us, dressed with less fringe and mascara. She waved to me when we came in (not giving me the usual shithead greeting, although she did call Matt Harpooner). Viv was subdued, but I could see she was seething to ask the Kielers a thousand questions. She actually would have pulled it off if Louise had been more prudent when we sat around the dining room table.

  Before the feast was brought forth, we all joined hands for the Thanksgiving prayer, which I’m sure the head of the household would have deliver. However, when all heads bowed, Mrs. Kieler relinquished her rights.

  “Vivian,” she said,

  “Viv.”

  “Viv, as our honored guest, would you lead us in prayer?”

  “Shit,” Viv said. “You’re gonna make me work for this grub?”

  There was a flutter around the table and my heart sank to my knees.

  “Well, I guess that’s the price for a good meal. So, are you ready? Everyone shut your eyes and think happy thoughts. God, it’s me, Viv Powers, and I say so because it’s been a long time — a real long time, and You just might not remember me. But thanks for everything — the food, these friends, stuff, and my little shithead, here. All of it. Amen.”

  Mr. Kieler cleared his throat and the feast began. I nearly had a stroke, but Matt and Mary giggled — and not quietly, I might add, which loosened Viv up more.

  “What?” Viv asked. “Like you don’t have things to be thankful for, Harpooner.”

  He blushed, but things were less tense after that, now that Viv had cut the cheese, so to speak.

  2

  I love Louise’s cooking. I remembered once that Viv opened a can of condensed soup for a visiting truck driver, but that was as far as she had ever gotten into a kitchen. But the Kieler Thanksgiving was a meal that tightened my pants; and we’re not talking just good cooking. Presentation reigned here. The bird was crisp and decorated with cranberries. Sam carved it like a ritual akin to a Roman decanting. He recalled every past Thanksgiving. Remember when Granmer Kieler put the pineapple in the turkey and it exploded when she cut into it. And Mother, this is better than last year’s, and I know it, because the Pope’s Nose is browner.

  The side dishes were not just side dishes. Each was garnished with parsley and walnuts and paprika and drizzled honey. The yams were not merely cooked, but presented. There was a sauce for everything, from the asparagus to the mince pie. Yes, I had a tightened waistline and opened up a button, as rude as that might sound. Still Louise pushed plate after plate of goodness at me until I finally pushed back from the table and retreated to the living room. However, as I headed toward Matt and Mary, I heard Viv rattling the dishes.

  “Let me kelp ya with the clean-up, Louise.”

  I shuddered. I pictured the leftovers sliding into the trash pail and the heritage glasses dropping and shattering. I reversed course and grabbed my mater’s arm.

  “Come sit with Matt and me,” I yammered.

  “Yes, relax,” Louise said. “It’s under control.”

  Sam was ushered into the kitchen, and Mary was summoned. Everything seemed settled on that score. Viv plopped beside Matt and gave him a little tickle.

  “Some digs your folks have here, Harpooner,” she said.

  “Don’t break a nail, now,” Matt said.

  She immediately recouped and examined her priceless sculptured daggers. Matt settled into a stare out the window, while I tried to decide whether to sit on his lap or drag Viv out of her seat. I decided to do the lap thing just as Mary returned with Sam in tow. They appeared unsettled.

  “What’s up, Sis?” Matt asked before I could sit.

  “Nothing, Newt. She won’t let us help.”

  “Leave her be,” Sam said. “Sometimes the preparations settle her into a sanctuary of suds and soapy water.”

  I glanced from Sam to Mary to Matt, and then decided that of the company, I was the only one with experience with suds and soapy water. So I eased my way through the dining room and crept quietly into the kitchen.

  Louise was standing in front of the sink. It was sudsy and soapy, but she wasn’t doing more than glancing over the surface as if she was trying to see the future or perhaps the past. I hated to disturb her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She turned. She’d been crying, her eyes red. Perhaps the preparation of this feast had taken its toll. I expected her to wave me off and I would have retreated, but she didn’t.

  “Martin,” she said, a sigh rattling her chest. She smiled dimly. “I’m okay. Thanksgivings take their toll on me.”

  “Lot’s of hard work, I know,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good.”

  “Thank you, but I have. I have tasted better.”

  She dipped her hands in the water, a plate immersed in the suds. She washed it as an afterthought, placing it in the rack. She handed me a dishtowel. I remember that it as a soft towel, more a bath towel than a tea cloth. I grasped the dish and began my task.

  “My mother would have twenty for dinner. Her turkey stuffing was unbelievable. I try to duplicate it, but some things go to the grave and stay only in the mind.” She washed another dish. “I miss her so, and yet at Thanksgiving, I pray for the mothers of this world who need to watch their children grow and then let them fly into the unknown. Yet, we know the road and we cannot tell them where the pitfalls lay. They wouldn’t believe us. Not for a second.”

  Suddenly, she turned. I thought she was going to chase me out.

  “You know, Luis used to come around at Thanksgiving, when we lived in Houston.” She touched my chin, the water dripping down my shirt. “He was such a beautiful child. Yes, his eyes were like emeralds. His smile charmed anyone it shone upon. He worried me so.”

  “Worried?”

  “Well, Luis was more like a daughter to me than a son. However, he had a disquieting fire that made Matthew unsettled at times. Life pulsed in his veins, but death called from the sidelines. Well, Luis is gone, his soul’s at rest.”

  “Ye
s,” I said.

  I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to stay there, even with the beck and call of household duties. This gracious lady, as refined as porcelain, had opened the kiln of her heart. It was fiery and unsettling. She must have sensed my discomfort.

  “I shouldn’t talk like this to you. I guess Luis crops up now and then between you two.”

  Odd. I always sensed Luis there, but Matt had never mentioned him again after that first night on that wintry volleyball court.

  “Actually, never,” I said.

  Louise frowned, but then blossomed into a smile.

  “I’m glad. Perhaps the issue is settled. All I want for my children is happiness and you make my Matthew happy.”

  I gazed into her eyes. They were Matt’s eyes. The tender charm that attracted me to my Cowboy that day over the tie counter was evident in this woman.

  “I love your son, Louise,” I said. “I love him beyond myself.”

  Her sorrow turned with the warmth of a summer’s day in autumn. Those eyes twinkled like a cloudless sky.

  “Now, I need to ask about your mother.”

  “Viv.”

  “Viv. Yes, Viv.”

  “Viv is Viv.”

  “Yes, but why does she call you . . .”

  I laughed. That’s all one can do when explaining why the woman who shot you out between her legs in those days of yore called you something that motorists on the New Jersey Turnpike shouted at one another.

  “It’s an endearment.”

  “I see. And you call her Viv. Never Mom or Mother or . . .”

  “Oh, I call her other names, but never Mom or Mother.”

  She chuckled.

  “Martin,” she said. “Sweet Martin.” She kissed my forehead, and then slipped the towel from my hands. “You may call me Mom.”

  3

  So we finished the dishes and listened to the chatter from the living room. It was a warm feeling to be among warm people . . . even Viv, who was giving a symposium on the art of sculpting nails. When the washing up was finished, we tackled the leftovers and the cling wrap.