Flannelwood

by Raymond Luczak

  I dreamed he had slipped behind my back and wrapped his chilly arms around me while I snuggled a little closer to your back. I was forever torn, my dreams made of haze and gauze, between love and death.

  The next morning you surprised me when I found you sucking my cock. It was usually you who’d take my hand and place it on your erection first. It was then I knew things between us would be all right again. I shot volumes when I gazed into your eyes as you engulfed me, never letting up, never letting me go.

  In the beginning of our weekends together, I talked a lot. I was nervous. I didn’t know what else to do. I hadn’t felt comfortable with your silences, but I learned to trust that you were still interested. After all, you were the one who’d always made the call and who’d driven down to the city and picked me up.

  The last few weekends together we didn’t talk much. There wasn’t any need to, or it was because I’d sensed that if I did, you’d pull further away from me. With each progressive weekend together, silence became your de facto answer to everything. If you spoke, it was with ecstatic moans and grunts.

  I ended up knowing so little about you.

  The gaps in your background have vested you with power. A famous photo editor said he preferred photographs with a bit of shadow in them. With that bit of mystery within the frame, we had to strain our eyes a bit more to look into such dark areas for clues that weren’t there as wont our human nature, our quest for knowledge. We had been tricked into staring at a photograph a bit longer than a photograph that hid nothing.

  Had you tricked me?

  Or was I the future you were afraid would come take the familiar night away from your hands, render you powerless like the help less larvae plucked out of the soil at dawn? My heart is not a bird. My heart has sprung forth from the land itself, the same earth on which you and I stand. Could you feel it rumble like an earthquake, right along the San Andreas Fault of my heart, shaking the foundation of your house miles away? Shake, shake harder. Wake up from the lull of your past. My heart, made of many layers of geological stories, is full of tremors. I am the nightmare of seismology.

  My bed when I try to sleep is filled with aftershocks of you. Let the sky fall into shards. Let me be your umbrella.

  You said you didn’t want to go anywhere for New Year’s Eve. No time for that party-hearty. You didn’t want anyone around for Christmas either. You didn’t venture an explanation.

  Still, I’d gotten you those cigars for Christmas, which sat in my closet. Maybe I was being too hopeful.

  That day I decided to walk all over the city. A bit of snow had fallen, but it wasn’t enough to stop traffic dead in its tracks. The snow was light and puffy. It reminded me of dandelion whiskers, ready to scatter with each stamp of foot on the sidewalk. There weren’t many cars, so I felt a bit at peace. The city felt different when it was quiet with its stores closed. It was beautiful.

  I thought about watching a movie on my laptop, but when I realized I was only three blocks away from the Eagle, I decided what the hell. I figured the bar would be dead.

  I couldn’t be more wrong. There were a lot of guys I hadn’t seen before. They had apparently come from out of town to visit their relatives. I saw Ted, a guy I’d dated once in college when he was quite skinny, but we discovered to our embarrassment we weren’t sexually compatible. I detoured around the bar to the smoking patio outside to see if there was anyone I knew.

  I was surprised to find you standing there all by yourself. You were in jeans and a leather jacket, puffing away on a cigar. “What are you doing here? I thought you wanted to spend Christmas alone.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “You could’ve called me.”

  You shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to mess up your Christmas.”

  “I’ve been alone all day. I thought you knew my dad doesn’t want me around.”

  You closed your eyes briefly. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Wanna come over to my place? You’ve never seen my room. Besides, I’d love to introduce you to my housemates.”

  “No. Not tonight.” You kept glancing at the entrance. It was as if you were afraid that others would catch us talking.

  “Were you expecting somebody?”

  “No. Just . . .” You looked at me. “I just need to be alone. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  When I left, I thought for sure that we’d never meet again. If you had officially broken up with me, I think I’d have been okay with it.

  I was very surprised when you called me later that week on Friday morning. “Wanna come up for the weekend?”

  “Um, I didn’t think . . . well, here’s the thing. I didn’t think you were going to call me again so I decided to work all weekend.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can’t read your mind. You have to tell me in advance. A lot of people don’t like my boss, so they quit. I’m the one who has to put out fires all the time.”

  You said nothing.

  “You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you wanna get together for New Year’s . . .”

  “No. I’ll call you later.”

  You called me again the following Wednesday, two days early. “You free this weekend?”

  “Yes.”

  On our ride up north, I wanted so much to hold your hand and tell you that you were all right. I was filled with a great sadness. Were you going to break up with me then? I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t want to know.

  Yet the sex that night was mind-blowing.

  It dawned on me that you were trying to tell me things. You spoke in the tongue of silences, and I moaned. The rhythms of our hands and bodies in sync were beautiful.

  I felt all right with the world. I thought we’d survived this horrible misunderstanding.

  Then the gas heat went out the next morning. You didn’t know how low your cylinder of propane gas had gotten, so you cursed yourself. You made a few phone calls.

  I tried to appease you in between calls while you leafed through an old copy of the Yellow Pages. I was surprised that anyone still used them.

  You waved me away.

  By then, we were both wearing many layers. My nose felt like an ice cube.

  We stayed in your warmed-up truck and listened to the radio for a long while, waiting for the delivery man. You had to pay extra for same-day delivery.

  Finally, the truck showed up. The lanky delivery guy simply rolled the barrel around your house. He asked you if you’d turned off the connection to the tank from inside the house. You went inside, and you hollered through the window. It didn’t take him long to replace the empty barrel and roll it back to his truck.

  You didn’t make conversation. You just watched us through the window.

  The delivery guy didn’t pay you much attention. He had a long brown beard. He wore an oversized snowmobile jacket, an old pair of jeans, and the tan-orange Red Wing boots. I hadn’t seen anyone wear those in a long time. He reminded me of my hometown. He grinned goofily at me whenever you looked away. I couldn’t figure out why until it hit me. He was attracted to me! Not you—me! I couldn’t believe it.

  There was no way I could be hotter than you.

  But he didn’t glance at you. I don’t know if it was because you were standing there with a glum face or because he didn’t like your size. I didn’t care. Someone had actually found me attractive.

  I smiled back.

  “You from around here?”

  “No. I’m from the city. I’m just staying with James.”

  “Hey. You can turn it back on,” he yelled out to you.

  “Got it!” You disappeared from the window. “Done!”

  He nodded acknowledgment at you, and he pocketed his tools as he looked at me. “Well. See you later.”

  You came outside. “Thanks.” You tipped him a ten from your wallet.

  While we waited for the house to heat up again, you turned to me. “Don’t do that to him.”

  “What? What ar
e you talking about?”

  “You were looking at him. Don’t be so obvious.”

  “What? He was obvious about looking at me.”

  “He can’t be gay.”

  “My gaydar went orange alert on him.”

  “Just—just don’t.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  I harrumphed.

  Don’t you remember that conversation?

  I sure do. If you hadn’t cared one way or another, we wouldn’t have had that conversation. It was because of that delivery guy I chose to stay with you.

  That night you held me a bit longer than usual, and it was then time for you to pull away and sleep. I dreamed of us standing together in tuxedos in a church and holding hands as a minister intoned words: “You are now husbands. You may now kiss each other.” You swooped me into your arms and kissed me in front of everyone. I looked up into your eyes, and they were so full of emotion. You were suddenly conversant in the language of eyes. You did love me!

  I felt like Irene in My Man Godfrey when she realized that Godfrey had to be in love with her even after he’s doused her with a sudden shower. She ran around the house, saying, “He loves me, he loves me, he loves me!”

  Instead I had to content myself with a deep sleep.

  The next morning it seemed as if you’d changed back to the old gruff James. What had happened in your dreams? You never said.

  Through the winding forest of yonder, just beyond where you lived, I rode a horse of many spots. It was a fine draft horse, constructed of impressively thick hindquarters and sturdy legs. From the way it moved, surely and nimbly in spite of its brute bulk, I knew it loved me. It chose our path well, for it did not go where branches would nick my face. I could close my eyes and rest my head on its neck, and it would not dare nudge me awake as it carried me through the mottled shade. I felt the full bask of summer hold me close, much like the way my first love did, yes, he did hold me close and not let me go even in the first blink of dawn, and I inhaled the cologne of musk and sweat as I bobbed, a happy child in overgrown clothes, with its mane tickling my nose with each trot. But it did not awaken me at all for I felt blanketed. Then it stopped. It began to breathe heavily. I scratched my eyes open and saw through the fog before us the opening, the private place of self-worship where you let loose the incense of cigar, of trees broken and grayed in the snuff of coal. I tried not to cough on the remaining wisp of acrid smoke still arising from the ground. What had died? The fog slowly lifted its veil, and there you were on the ground before the remains of the log where you liked to sit, the skeleton of you lying with your hands behind your skull, I knew it was you, it had to be you, the bones for your right foot were missing. I screamed, and the fog dropped like sandbags around us until it was heavy with night. No moon, no stars, no wind. Pure black. Not even a sound anywhere. My dear horse began to buck, whinnying like angry whistles; then it shot straight ahead, not caring whether the branches were too low for me. I held on fiercely, like my fingers gripping the edge of ledge sixty stories above pavement, with blood weeping out of my eyes. My horse’s name is Melancholia, and it won’t let me get off.

  In the aftermath of your last phone call, everyone wondered out loud if spring was ever going to arrive. I looked out at the gray skies when I wasn’t busy behind the counter. It was full of clouds, and I thought of the way your cigar smoke had cast a spell over me. Your breath, flavored with not only you but the alchemy of tobacco leaves hung to dry and then rolled, flowed like a river rushing upstream into my nose until I couldn’t smell anything else but you.

  When I closed my eyes, I felt the walls of my coffeehouse around us pull away and the winds rushing in to cradle the two of us off your bed. Our tongues couldn’t, wouldn’t stop tasting each other. As we floated up, I felt the gentle sprinkle of snow, not cold but warm as kisses, dance around our bodies. Our hands kept moving all over each other as we puffed on each other’s tongue, and our exhalations of smoke and oxygen arose like question marks and exclamation points rolled into one. Zero gravity made us only giddy, and our erections glistened as we looped around each other. Below us were your house and the great stretch of land beyond.

  We coasted through the woods right into that special clearing of yours. Even though we were naked, we didn’t feel a hint of chill. The furnace of love deep in the pits of our souls had been churning out so much heat that even in a land of ice, our tongues tasted only of fire. I floated a moment above you before I landed gently on your chest. I heard the thunder of your heart beating, and I saw the lightning of fear in your eyes.

  You suddenly pushed me off you, and I sailed backward through the sky.

  I didn’t take my eyes off you. Oh, what had I done to you?

  The snowflakes that had felt like warm kisses had turned into sandpapery gravel spitting all over my body.

  You lay there, unmoving.

  I landed a few miles away.

  Even though I was shivering to my sure death, I plodded on through the snow back to you. The trees turned its backs against me, and the winds whipped daggers across my body until my bleeding formed into icicled scabs. Still, I felt the fire of you burning away deep inside me.

  When I finally got into the clearing, I found you dead. You had turned into blue marble. You’d crossed your arms across your chest. I was afraid to touch your chest as it was covered with ice. It would surely peel away the last layer of skin off my palms. Shivering and feeling ready to go blind, I gazed upon your face. A tear, steaming hot from my eye, dribbled down and splattered across your lips.

  The film of ice that had shellacked your body melted, and it didn’t stop melting until you’d become a life raft upon which I floated. The waves kept rising, spreading so far out that we were the only people bobbing on the great sea of nowhere. The sun of dawn rose up in the east, and it was then you’d finally opened your eyes.

  You smiled and leaned up for a kiss.

  When our lips met, we felt suckered into a quicksilver storm of waves gushing higher than buildings, but we were safe inside an invisible bubble. As we rolled in the roiling of sea and storm, we laughed. Nothing could hurt us now. We had the crazy notion of making love no matter what, and that was what we did. We moaned, screamed, ejaculated over and over again. Together we were invincible.

  Then the winds stopped raging.

  We floated on the waves, which were dropping like gravity.

  We held on to each other as the water seeped quickly into the parched earth.

  When our bubble touched the mud, it cracked. We were lucky that its shards didn’t cut our skin.

  We got up, and we walked hand in hand across the renewed land. We followed the evening sun, back into the dark forest behind your house, and it was then we’d lost touch with each other. We’d become ghosts, unable to kiss again no matter how much we wanted to. The chill of your presence shielding the flame of your heart turned me into ice.

  Some nights I awaken, wondering if I’ve become an ice statue.

  One February weekend the windchill dropped to thirty-three below zero. Your house was a bit drafty, which you hadn’t much minded, but this time you kept the bedroom window firmly closed. You piled two more quilts on top of the bed. It was so cold that I left my T-shirt and long johns and socks on. But you? You had to stay completely naked. I couldn’t believe it. The fur on your body felt knitted, yes, but I didn’t think it was enough to keep you warm.

  Under the heavy blankets, you pulled me close to you, and you didn’t push me away after a few moments. I rested my head on your chest, right over your heart.

  I nearly cried when I could hear your heartbeat so clearly. I breathed in your sweaty and furry scent. You made me nearly drunk.

  Somehow in the middle of my cautious breathing, you kissed me softly on the head.

  Don’t you remember doing that? I think you were afraid of jolting me awake.

  By the time I woke up, you had already showered and dressed for the day.


  Never thought of how you’d cuddled me until now, not until I wrapped my arms around my big fat pillows and pretended they were you that I was holding, resting my face against your flannelled back and closing my eyes. In our last month together, you took to cuddling me for longer than just a few minutes, each time longer than the previous night. I never timed the duration of your cuddles, but I remember thinking how odd you were to make the first move by wrapping your arms around me, pulling me close. You must’ve known you were going to let me go; it was just a question of when. If that was the case, how cruel, how savage you were! You didn’t once raise the possibility, the concerns, whatever they were, that prompted you to make that phone call. You didn’t temper my passion; not raising your hand as in Hey, let’s talk about this, as in a warning, is just as bad as not telling me why. My dreams are full of floating question marks swimming about like schools of fish: dazzling, but ultimately devoid of answers. You are nothing there.

  My bed is cold, unbearably so, even with the heat going full blast. Come melt me with a kiss, the first of many to trigger a tsunami of passion; any excuse, even a lie, will do as long as I see you again, rubbing my face across the contours of your chest, inhaling the residue of sweat and musk embedded in the fur. I am an ice cube waiting in your hand.

  Your house is small in reality, but it looms large as a mansion in my dreams.

  There, as we come closer to your house, the malls and the chain food restaurants fall away into ever increasing swaths of farmland and forest shucking the cornhusks of suburbia.

  There the evergreens huddle together in shades of green and gray.

  There the crossroads with a single yellow sign point left and right. The road on the right takes us past a dingy tavern laced with crud-covered neon and a rust-lined gas station half a mile apart.

  There another turn on the right: the road sings like a transistor radio from long ago, filled with songs familiar as gloves on your hands.

  There by the road is your mailbox post. Painted black with a red flag. I want to be the letter you never thought you would get but did.