by Eric Arvin
“Yes, sir,” Sarah said as she turned for her room.
“Sarah,” her father called after her as he seated himself again. The sofa creaked in discomfort. “Don’t keep me waiting too long.” He breathed heavily, looking uncomfortable and out-of-place on the small couch.
“Yes, sir,” she repeated. She struggled down the hall to her room, no longer Queen of the Night Sky. The euphoria of the forest and the night was gone, completely overshadowed by a giant, hulking bear of a man who never smiled. She was his again. The Baptist minister’s daughter.
SOMETHING WAS displaced, running counterclockwise to the norm, and Wilder wanted to know what it was. He didn’t sleep all night. He sat on one of the wooden benches in the quad. It was uncomfortable and wet from the snow. The discomfort seeped through his clothing and pierced his skin like cold, steel fingers.
Wilder observed a shift in the campus night air as an invisible web cast down over the trees and the ground. Invisible, but he knew it was there. He saw the melting, felt the strange breeze. He heard the whisper of more invasive changes to come. Everything so out of season, so out of sorts. It was his world that was melting.
He knew by heart certain rules about how things worked, about why they did what they did. But now, what is happening? A season changing before my eyes? In one night? The weather had been cold. A snowstorm was entirely justified. But a spring storm? A freak melting in a night? The world was all out of sorts, out of his mastery, out of his way of believing.
Reclined on the wooden bench, Wilder watched as one views the horrors in a nightmare, following and fearing but all the time believing it’s not real. At any moment, he would be able to wake himself and resume dwelling in a more reassuring and familiar macrocosm. Every clump of snow that dropped to the ground from a tree branch startled him, and then he would rebuke himself for allowing himself to be shaken. He stiffened with every uncanny gust of breeze that brushed by him. It was a bombardment of strange sensations to him. Wholly unacceptable, all of them.
Wilder scarcely noticed the first break of light that announced morning. He only felt the breeze grow stronger and heard the sound of dripping grow steadily more chorus-like, a fluid refrain.
After many hours, the campus finally came alive again with students. Their number was small at first, only the most earnest going to class in the early morning, but then growing. Some gave him curious looks as they passed. Some didn’t really care to notice him at all. Their indifference would have angered him a great deal if he hadn’t been so distracted by the degrading condition of his world.
Eventually, he pulled himself up from the bench. His legs and back were stiff, and his eyes blurred. He roamed aimlessly around the quad, stopping occasionally to watch some of its hapless inhabitants, yet disregarding them all. Every one of them seemed so ridiculously content to pass off the weather as some obscure anomaly, some strangeness that transpired on occasion. But Wilder knew it was not that at all. The strange weather was a significant change in atmospheric conduct, like the setting in of an ice age, only inverted.
He walked near the chapel just in time to see Sarah race off, leaving Ashley on the steps alone. He didn’t care to look at Ashley any longer than necessary, so he meandered elsewhere. In time, he tired of his promenade. It was an absurd thing to be doing anyway, he thought. What has gotten into me?
As he turned to make his way back to Raven Hall, he came face-to-face with Tony, a brick wall he could easily knock down. This strange, nightmarish morning might be reclaimed after all. But he didn’t sense any restlessness in Tony as he passed by, as if he wasn’t concerned at all. In fact, Tony looked directly at him as if in challenge. Wilder pivoted around and called after him.
“Tony,” he said in a smug, assured voice.
Tony turned to face him.
“What’s up?” Wilder said, hoping to get something, some sort of rise to assure him of his own ability, his own control.
“Not much, Wilder,” Tony said. His voice was steady. “How are you?” It was mocking. Tony even smiled.
Wilder stared for a moment, his expression unaltered. Tony was not going to let him have his victory after all. Wilder was prone to fleeting flashes of doubt, and Tony had just caused such a flash. Wilder huffed out an arrogant little laugh and neared the football star.
“Why such a good mood? If I were you, I don’t think I would be smiling like that.”
“Then thank God you’re not me,” Tony said with a polite smile. “You wouldn’t survive being me.”
“You know what else I would do if I were you?” Wilder said. “I would watch who I hung out with at night. Hanging out by trees with known faggots is no way to guard that manly, butch reputation of yours.”
He could see he had hit his mark. Anxiety flashed in Tony’s eyes once again. They twitched as if Wilder had jabbed them. Yet, the smile was still there. They stood face-to-face for a rooted half-minute.
“Long night, Wilder?” Tony quipped.
“What?” Wilder asked. Tony’s question was stupid. Distracting.
“Your eyes, man. You’ve got big black rings under them. Looks like you haven’t had any sleep.” He put a “friendly” arm around Wilder. “Since we are so close,” he said with a new, more positive tone, “I gotta tell you, bud, you look like shit.”
Then Tony turned and walked away, leaving Wilder stupefied, gazing after him.
SARAH HAD darted off in a frenzy to meet her father, leaving Ashley on the cold concrete steps of the chapel to watch the crisscrossing paths of the student body. He felt a twinge of sorrow for them. Most of them would never know what he and Sarah had been initiated into. Is it possible, he wondered, to live one’s whole life without actually being introduced to the world? To the real world? The one that has never existed in modern textbooks and lecture halls? The world that shall always remain shrouded behind vapors of myth and fairy stories?
Ashley rose and stretched, extending his arms out like great branches, his hands fleshy white flowers blossoming on the brachial ends. The night had left him invigorated, completely rested, and hungry. He hopped from the steps and made his way back through the dissipating snow and lambent winds to Sigma Gamma, thoughts of Sarah in the moonlight wafting through his mind. Then he thought of Dash, the reason they had escaped into the woods in the first place. He needed to speak with him.
The frat was mostly quiet. A couple guys lounged in the rec room, and a few milled about in the lobby, but the house was empty for the most part. Ashley headed to the kitchen and grabbed a bowl of cereal, taking it back outside where he could continue watching the snow melt.
Very strange, this air, he concluded. It didn’t seem as cool as it should be. It didn’t have the bite conventionally associated with wind and air in times of snow. The weather, the air, and the breeze all permitted one to sit in comfort on cold stone. Very strange, and yet perfectly in line with what had happened the night before. He smiled at the capriciousness of the world as he opened the back door.
Dash was seated on the steps, looking quite content with a cigarette in his hand. Dash, who had always been so adamant about healthy living, is smoking! It hit Ashley that this was the first time he had seen Dash since he learned he was dying.
The new smoker turned and half grinned as Ashley sat down beside him. Before Ashley could ask the obvious question, Dash answered it. “Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” he coughed, the smoke choking him up. “Got to say, I don’t get it. These things are nasty.” He inspected the cigarette he held with mild involvement.
“Well, I think you’ve got to smoke more than one to get it,” Ashley retorted. “It’s like eating snails or fish eggs.” He looked at Dash with brotherly affection and the sad knowledge of fugitive time.
Dashel held up the pack and examined it. “Well, no time like the present to start an addiction, huh? I’ve never had one, an addiction, I mean. Unless you count popping bubble-wrap. I love that.” They both chuckled. “Is it bothering you? I can put it ou
t,” he asked. Another cough.
“Naw. You’re fine. Go ahead,” Ashley said as he scooped some cereal into his mouth. The bowl was securely nestled between his legs. “Mmm. Crunchy,” he said, arching his brow as he chewed. He felt the awkwardness. He knew Dash felt it, too.
Dash took another puff, the smoke again snuffed away by a playful breeze. “Do you want to talk about it? About me being sick?” Dash asked.
“I want to, but I don’t know what to ask,” Ashley said. “I guess I could say what I feel… and dammit, Dash, I feel angry.” His voice took on a sharper edge. “Angry and hurt. I know I shouldn’t. I know this is no time for me to be rattling off selfish thoughts about my own mental well-being. But that’s mostly what’s been on my mind. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” His words might have been more forceful if not for the cereal in his mouth.
“What good would it have done? For what reason?” Dash asked. He sighed, extinguishing the cigarette in a tray that had been left out for the smokers in the house. “I guess I just didn’t want to be treated differently, Ash. You’re the only one who never treated me different, you know? I wanted to keep it like that.” He looked at Ashley with earnestness. “Dying is the most alone you’ll ever feel. It makes you feel more like a spectator, an outsider, than I ever thought possible. I saw how differently my dad’s friends treated him when he was dying. I don’t want that, Ash. Mortality scares the hell out of people. They back away in slow steps.”
“You kidding?” Ashley said as he jabbed at Dashel’s side. “There’s no way I would have treated you any differently. I mean, you’re still the skinny little curly-haired prostate tickler I—” He broke off. “Look, Dash. There’s no way, man. Remember, you always treated me like a human being. You were the only one on campus who did at first. Birds of a feather, my friend. I’m not treating you any differently, you big queer.”
Dash coughed out a laugh. “You’re right, Ash. I’m sorry. Next time I get a life-threatening disease, I’ll be sure to say something,” he smiled. Ashley laughed softly. “I truly am sorry, Ashley,” Dash said soberly.
“Shit! Gimme a hug, Dash,” Ashley demanded.
“What?” Dash grinned wider. “Your eyes are dilated. What are you on?”
“Just do it! I’m feeling very touchy-feely. It’s a different sensation, but I’m going to go with it.” Ashley put down his bowl, almost spilling the contents on the steps, and nearly leaped at Dash with arms wide spread.
They hugged until the bumpy gracelessness of the event was gone and only bare emotion remained. Ashley closed his eyes, feeling the measure of his best friend’s heart. Somewhere off in another place in his mind, he heard the pluck of a guitar string and the touch of a piano key. A Leonard Cohen song.
“Now, throw those damn cigarettes away,” Ashley said, still in the embrace. Dash chortled gently, and they let go of one another, wiping away tears with no shame. No fragment of learned male bravado had intruded into the moment. Even as Ashley let Dash go, he realized in the pit of his stomach, an ache telling him soon he would be forced to let go of Dash for good.
The sound of a cell phone broke the calm. The theme to The X-Files, downloaded from a website, was Ashley’s chosen ringtone. Dashel smiled at the choice of rings, shaking his head.
“This is Ash,” Ashley answered. “Hey, Sarah!” He looked over at Dash. “Just sitting here with Dash, eating. How’s your dad?”
“He’s in the restroom. We’re eating at the Shrimp House,” Sarah replied. “I just want this to be over,” she sighed. “How’s Dash?” There was a shakiness in her inquiry. Fear.
“He’s good. We’ve talked. Things are good,” Ashley said, looking at Dash who had pulled out another cigarette. “He’s taken up smoking.”
“Oh my God.” Sarah laughed. “Tell him to save me one. I’ll need it after this.” Her voice now sounded tired and debilitated. Badgered.
“You okay?” Ashley asked quietly, trying to keep his voice low. “You and your dad not getting along?”
“No. But then that’s nothing new. I’ll always be a disappointment, I guess.” Her voice cracked. Before Ashley could counter her words, she whispered hurriedly, “He’s back. I’ll talk to you later,” and then she hung up. Ashley put the phone back into his coat pocket.
“How is she?” Dash asked, still fingering the cigarette.
“Depressed,” Ashley said. “Her father must be a real son of a bitch, huh?”
“He’s somethin’,” Dash agreed. “I’ve met him. I don’t think he cared much for me. He didn’t seem to care much for anything.”
Ashley didn’t feel hungry anymore. He had not eaten much of the cereal. It lay in the bowl on the concrete. He wanted to help lift Sarah’s sagging spirits, a spiritual mission more important than any carnal fulfillment. He searched through his mind for sentiments or words he might say, but nothing came to him. Only overused platitudes and stock statements.
As they sat, a quicker, stronger wind whisked past the corner of the house and by the steps, snatching away the cigarette in Dash’s hand. It somersaulted in the air, flying high even as Dash grabbed for it. They watched, laughing as it landed beside the fraternity dumpster far opposite them, at which point the wind lulled once again.
A glint and a glimmer of something pointed up out of the ugly brown trash bin.
“What is that?” Ashley whispered to himself. He rose and walked to the dumpster, curious as a cat. “Gabriel’s wings,” he observed as he reached for the sheeny object. A smile crept across his face as he looked at them.
“What is it, Ash?”
“Gabriel’s wings,” Ashley said again. “He was wearing them at the party. You know, as a joke—Gabriel the angel. Wasn’t a terribly ingenious joke, but then Gabe’s not especially clever.”
IT WAS rounding three in the afternoon as Dash made his way through the soggy remnants of the spring snowstorm. His shoes made slurping noises with each step through the mush, splashing it onto the vast amounts of the sludge still on the ground. It would take a while for all of it to soak into the already saturated earth. The roads and walkways had been cleared as best they could. The school was private, so the state would not come to salt the drives. Verona’s grounds people did what they could with the limited salt they had, but students and faculty still braced themselves against a fall. And then fell anyway.
Dash was careful to stay in the snow, walking where he got the most traction. Getting hurt from a fall never entered his mind. He had known far worse pain than a tumble. He was thinking about his rendezvous with Tony at the Old Lady where he would take him by the hand and lead him down the hillside to the barge and the old ferry post on the beach. Tony would see the magic. Tony would understand. Yes, he was certain Tony would see it and sense it.
Dash wasn’t at the tree long before he heard footfalls crunching the snow. Tony made wide strides toward him, his broad shoulders and strong legs gouging paths through air and snow.
“I thought you might not come,” Dash said.
“I wanted to come. I’ve been looking forward to it, to seeing you alone,” Tony said. He had his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, his shoulders pulled up around his neck. “It’s colder over here than the rest of the campus,” he said, shivering and anxious. He seemed as if he were on a first date.
“It’s the river,” Dash explained. “The valley hills whip the wind back and forth until they escape up through the clearing here.” He put his hand on the old tree, palm flat. “The Old Lady can’t hold back all the wind in the valley. It blows over and around her, indifferent to her being here. But she stands guard anyway, watching the river.”
“She’s too old,” Tony said, scaling the ancient giant with his eyes. “She’s seen too many seasons, I guess. I bet when she was a younger tree, she was a tiger.” He smiled at Dash.
“You’re probably right,” Dash agreed, returning the smile. “I think they’ll cut her down soon, though. She’s dying.” He stared off into the vacancy of the still
and frigid river.
Tony shook his head. “Oh, I think she’s still got some fortitude in her. You wait and see. She’ll surprise us all.” He reached out to touch the tree, next to Dash. “I bet she’ll wait until right before the end and then bang! She’ll sprout with the most beautiful foliage of any tree in the valley or on campus.”
Dash wanted to kiss Tony hard. He wanted to squeeze him and say, Yes! Yes! You understand! but he held back.
He touched Tony on his coat sleeve, leaving his hand there to linger as he said, “Come on. I want to show you something very special. I think you’ll love it.”
Tony took hold of Dashel’s wrist gently, slowly wrapping his fingers around it. Dash’s heart quickened, and he felt flushed, as crimson as a schoolboy with a crush.
As Dash turned to lead Tony to the two pillars, the old entrance to the college, and the long trail downward to the rock beach, he gasped. Wilder Rawls stood in the center of the road. Yet, it wasn’t Wilder. He looked tired and unrested. His hair was unkempt, and his eyes red and ringed by shadow. It was Wilder as Dash had never seen him, and it was shocking. Wilder never looked anything but perfect. This Wilder looked half-crazed, almost empty but for a burning malevolence.
Dash felt Tony tense up as he caught sight of Wilder. His grip tightened around Dash’s wrist. Too tight. Painfully tight.
For a brief moment, there was a stillness before Wilder approached. He took small, stumbling steps through the thick muck as if he were drunk.
“I warned you!” he shouted at Tony. “Didn’t I warn you?”
Tony released his grip on Dashel’s wrist.
“Now, I have no choice. I’ll need to scan those images to your dear parents. Won’t they be appalled? Their all-American boy, a queer.”
“Wilder,” Dash spoke. “What the hell is wrong with you? Is your world so small and insignificant that you have to ruin other people’s lives? Are you so empty?”