The Boy from Milfrey Junction A Short Story Jon Rutherford Copyright 2012 Jon Rutherford Smashwords Edition Smashwords Edition, License Notes: Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. However, it remains the copyrighted property of its author. If you enjoyed this ebook, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author and many, many others. Thank you for your support. Note: This story contains sexual references that are sure to offend some readers. It also contains harsh and profane (in other words, realistic, everyday) language and adult themes that many would consider unsuitable for readers under 18. It also has numerous examples of people being kind to one another, which is probably even more threatening for a lot of readers offended by the other stuff. This is a work of pure fiction. The Boy from Milfrey Junction A Short Story Clay told me over breakfast this morning that he thought I should write about him and me. It seemed like a good idea. School’s not back in session yet, so I have lots of time for writing. When I’m finished, he wants to see how hard it is for him to read it. His head’s still messed up pretty badly, but he’s not staggering as often now, and he says reading’s a little easier. I’m glad; he’s worked really hard on that almost every day we’ve been together. He still can’t do figures though. Well, that’s why they make pocket calculators. He stutters about the same as in those first days, at least no worse. If coping with what I write here proves too tough for him, I’ll just read it aloud to him over a couple of evenings, sitting together out on the porch swing with our iced tea. If he thinks it’s good enough to be worth the bother. All right, then. I’ll start with the day Clay and I first met. ~~~ It was a blistering hot August afternoon almost exactly one year ago. I was just leaving State Street High, on downtown’s edge, where I’d made a presentation about “Assertiveness” to a group of senior citizens that get together bi-weekly for cultural and educational events, including lectures and informal presentations like mine. I stepped out of the air-conditioned school building and got slammed in the face by heat like a blast furnace — downright alarming in its ferocity. This was one of those days the Weather Service warns people about, just shy of the ones where they break out the red exclamation marks and make all kinds of racket over the weather radio, and urge you to “Stay indoors!” Well, that’s the Midwest. I owed myself a reward. I’d done a good job, and even been thanked enthusiastically by some of the seniors on my way out. I might as well treat myself to a tasty junk-food drink before walking the eight sweaty blocks back home. So I set out for the Cash-’n-Dash a block away. By the time I reached the convenience store, I was already drenched under my arms, and sweat was drizzling down my forehead and dripping off my nose. I was glad I’d had the intelligence to bring along a big bandanna, even if it was in shocking pink. I used it to mop up with hastily as I mounted the four concrete steps from the public sidewalk to the walkway in front of the store. On the top step I recoiled as an indescribably vile odor, sweetish yet fetid and penetrating, assaulted me. Was there a dead dog or cat nearby? But then I remembered all too well what the dead-animal smell was like. And even that might be preferable to this stench. Then it dawned on me what the one thing is that makes such a godawful smell: homo sapiens, my own fragile species. Sure enough, squatting out of sight of the clerks inside the store, but near enough to its entrance that customers couldn’t miss him (by sight as well as otherwise), was a young man, scarcely more than a boy by the look of him, and so filthy of both skin and clothing that it was difficult at first to be sure of either age or gender. I swear you could see shimmering waves of stench rising from him. He sat crouched, his back against the fake marble skirting of the building. The youth looked up at me as, despite my abhorrence of his stink, I started to pass in front of him to enter the Cash-’n-Dash. His eyes were those of a coal miner at the end of his shift, unsettling in the contrast of their whites with the rest of his blackened face. Despite all the dirt I thought I could make out an expression of wistful hopefulness. But I saw more plainly that despair of the homeless who’ve lost the security and society they once enjoyed, along with most of those human pleasures that surely, if only for a few key moments in their lives, had once been theirs. After that eye contact, I couldn’t take another step. Not because I wanted to linger and appreciate with a connoisseur's absorption the stench of this young outcast, but because something inside me said that to ignore the boy would feel so wrong that I’d certainly regret it later, and even find it troubling my sleep. I felt compelled at least to offer one or two words to show I’d taken notice of him as a fellow human and didn’t despise him. No matter how he smelled or looked, and regardless of my repulsion, he was human, and in need. He didn’t seem to be begging. He didn’t even hold out a hand. But he said, “Sir... Will you do s-something for me, please?” “If I can,” I said, teetering between anger at having been, as I now felt, trapped, and something an awful lot like compassion. I forced myself to crouch down to his level, despite the even more appalling stench. “They w-won’t let me go in there,” said the young man, with a little nod towards the nearby door. “I’m too dirty, and I guess I smell bad, too. Can you — w-would you — bring me a carton of chocolate milk, or just regular if that’s all they have, or at least something to drink? I’ve got money.” He opened one greasy hand to show two crumpled, badly worn dollar bills. His hand was shaking. “Hey, that’s okay, bud, just hold onto it,” I said. “I’ll bring you something. It should only take a minute.” Overcoming new revulsion, I gently folded the boy’s fingers back over the bills, give his hand a friendly squeeze, and smiled. At least I hoped I was smiling. The boy smiled briefly, too. Beneath all that filth and grime I could see it was a shy but open, sweet smile. His eyes, for a split-second, showed both surprise and hope. Damn, I’ll never forget that look. A swell of compassion swept away my idiotic anger. I even had to bite my lip. As I entered the store under the scrutiny of half a dozen security cameras, I wondered uneasily if I was now bearing so much of the young man’s stench on my own skin and clothing that I, too, would be told to leave. There was no way I could tell. My sense of smell had been overloaded and rendered useless. I was relieved when neither the two clerks on checkout nor any of the three or four customers I had to pass on my way to the drinks section, took notice of me. They did have chocolate milk, in 8-ounce cartons. But the containers didn’t even feel cold, just barely cool. I pictured tainted milk making the poor guy sick. That’s all he needed. I brought a carton over to one of the clerks behind the counter. “Would you feel this?” I said. “Shouldn’t it be a lot colder?” “Oh, fu — uh, my gosh,” said the brawny youngster, likely a student at Upper State U’s urban campus just to our west. He looked embarrassed and sounded apologetic. “I bet that cooler’s failed again. Thanks for the tip. We’ve got more in back. Let me go get you one.” He left his computer terminal and hurried away towards the big walk-in cold storage, slapping a magnetic “Out of Service” sign on the faulty cooler on the way. In a few seconds he emerged carrying two pint-size, ice-cold chocolate milks. “You can have these for the price of one eight-ouncer,” he said. “Hey, thanks for turning in that rogue cooler.” I paid the price of one eight-ounce carton and started to leave with my thirty-two ounces, well pleased. I retraced a few steps and picked up a really decent-looking salami and cheese Italian-style sandwich with tomato and lettuce, some corn chips, and one of those giant cookies, paid, and went out to the walkway. I eased myself down beside the crouching boy like before, this time to sit beside him, my back to the wall. I couldn’t smell the foul odor nearly as strongly. And I knew he probably couldn’t detect it at all. I guess that’s a kind of defense our body — at least our sense of smell — has. Or maybe it’s a defect in evolution. The kid’s eyes and mouth opened wide when I handed him the sandwich, the chips, the cookie, and a pint of chocolate milk. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Thank you! Wow...are you sure I can’t p-pay you at least something?” “No, you can’t,” I said, giving his shoulder a good-natured shake. His begrimed T shirt felt greasy and sticky-slick under my fingers. It had once displayed a “Ghostbusters” ghost silkscreened on the front, the paint now cracked and peeling, half worn away. He wore tattered jeans about a size too big for his skinny form, and a pair of ragged sneakers; no socks. His matted, fairly close-cut hair was probably brown. When he’d smiled, I noticed a missing eye tooth. There was a deep inch-long scar, not too old, over his left eyebrow. None the less, I could see the kid was likely good-looking. He needed mainly about thirty more pounds on his scrawny frame — and above all, a good long, soapy scrub. Without a word the boy dispatched most of the food in a few eager gulps and then started more slowly sipping the chocolate milk, while I joined him. How long since he last ate? I wondered. We drank in silence. I could hear his stomach gurgle and growl its protest. Or maybe appreciation. About a third of the way into my milk, I finally ventured, “My name’s Michael. I teach psychology in the high school up the street and at the junior college.” “I’m Clayton,” said the boy. “But everybody c-c-calls me Clay.” “Glad to meet you, Clay,” I said. I accepted his hand and shook it, battling the urge to wipe my own on my bandanna or pants leg afterward. “Uh... I hope you won’t mind too much if I ask, but isn’t there someplace you could clean up a little, so you could go into stores?” “I don’t know how or where I could,” he said, between a sip of milk and another bite of sandwich. As odd as it sounded, the way he’d put it, I somehow knew he was telling the truth. Then I thought, For that matter, would I know, in his situation? If they, understandably, won’t let me into a store, will a coin laundry treat me any differently? And even if they do let me into the laundry, if my only clothes are those I’m wearing, how the hell can I wash them there? And will they welcome my taking a sponge bath in a rest room they already despair of keeping halfway clean? The answers I came up with were far from encouraging. The combined effect of the shock of the guy’s horrendous stench, the stress of forcing myself to deal with him, and, perhaps above all, my perplexity, completely unprecedented, over the puzzle of how to clean and maintain one’s clothes and body if you aren’t in the mainstream, in the loop, of our society — all these, added to the afternoon’s burdensome heat, were making me feel dizzy and a little faint. There’s a park across the street from the Cash-’n-Dash, one with a couple of big fountains and lots of shade trees. “Hey,” I said, “Shall we take our drinks over to the park where it’s a lot cooler?” I didn’t care if he thought I was trying to pick him up. I needed some cooling, but I also didn’t intend to abandon the kid. Not yet anyway. “Sh-sure,” he said. He stood up, unsteady on his feet, dropped the sandwich and chips wrappers in a waste receptacle, and started toward the park. I followed close behind. He staggered badly stepping off the curb, and I put out a hand to steady him. He was not drunk. I’m intimately familiar with drunks and drunkenness — take my word for it. He was probably suffering from the heat and from not having eaten all day, as well as from dehydration, I thought. He walked fairly steadily the rest of the way and soon we were seated downwind of one of the big fountains, under a towering oak tree’s grateful shade. I pitied people downwind of us, but not too much. They presumably had homes to go to, with air conditioning. And plenty of food. Clay was quiet. He’d finished his milk by now, and I, mine. There was a waste container right beside us. He stood and disposed of our cartons in it. I noticed that he cautiously stirred up and peered at the contents of the container as he did. With a shake of his head he returned to his place beside me on the park bench. On the way across the street I’d made, to my own surprise, a snap decision. I hoped I wouldn’t regret it. “Clay,” I said, resting my hand on his shoulder again, “This is a terrible day to be out and about with no shelter. Why don’t you come home with me and stay where it’s cool for one night. I’ve got two bedrooms; and, no, this is not a pickup. Okay? I’d just like to help, even if it’s only for this one day. How about it?” He looked uncertain. “Hey, I really want to do this. It’s on the up-and-up, no strings, I give you my word. Please let me help, Clay.” I couldn’t tell if he was thinking it over, or just having trouble letting the words sink in. Finally he spoke. “Okay, then,” he said. He smiled shyly again. “Thanks, man. I don’t run into many people like you. Most people just...well, anyway, thanks. It’ll feel nice to be indoors for a while.” “All right! Listen, I’ve got a washer and dryer, so you can even clean your clothes. Sound good?” “Wow, that sounds great. I really appreciate it...Michael. That was your n-name, right?” “Yes. Let’s start now. It’s not going to get anything but hotter for three or four hours yet, so let’s head for the air conditioning and all that good stuff. It’s eight blocks, and there’s not much shade, but I think we can make it. Wait here a moment though, okay?” I dashed across the street and bought two bottles of chilled water at the Cash-’n-Dash. Soon we were on the road to my place. We walked the eight largely uphill blocks at a slow pace. It was far too hot to do otherwise, even though going slow meant more exposure to the sun. I think there are two trees along the way. Maybe it’s only one and a half. Anyway, we paused under a tree to guzzle some of our cold water. “I’ll bet it’s over a hundred,” I said. My bandanna was sopping by now, and Clay’s T shirt was clinging to his scrawny torso like shrink wrap. “I saw a bank th-th-thermometer back there, and it said 102.” I poured some of my water over Clay’s head. He did the same for me. We both laughed. With the help of the bottled water, we made it to my house without collapsing. Even so, my heart was pounding, and I imagined Clay’s must be too, maybe even harder. Then again, he was what, 19? Twenty? And I was 37. So maybe it all evened out. Or something. It was bliss to feel the air conditioning quietly do its job. Even just the semi-dark of my little living room was a delight after the brutal sun. I saw Clay staring all around him as though he’d never seen such luxury. And my home, though comfortable enough, is far from what I think of as high-class. We went to the kitchen where I got us both big plastic tumblers of cold water. I had to refill his right away. “Clay, I’ll show you the bathroom. Take as long as you want, bud, and make yourself comfortable. Just toss your clothes out into the hallway here, and I’ll come pick them up in a few minutes and start up the laundry. If you need anything, yell. But I think everything’s there: bath gel, soap if you like that better, shampoo, washcloths, towels, a robe — but, best of all, water!” He laughed. There was that smile again; and this time it didn’t go away. “Thanks again, M-Michael. Oh, man, this is wonderful.” While Clay soaked and bathed, I got the guest bedroom ready and started the laundry. There’s a makeshift unenclosed shower in the basement. I used it to bathe, then changed into khaki cargo shorts, a short-sleeved Hawaiian print shirt, and flip-flop sandals. I rummaged a bit and came up with an old pair of sandals for Clay. Upstairs again, refreshed by my shower and the cool indoors air, and with Clay still in his bath (I could hear splashing now and then), I sagged down into my usual easy chair in the living room intending to slog dutifully through a few pages of a boring psychology journal I’d made the mistake of subscribing to. I woke with a start. The journal had tumbled face down onto the carpet. Clay was gently shaking my shoulder. His fingers felt soft and warm through the light cotton shirt. The boy, now wearing my white terry-cloth bathrobe, was utterly transformed. My surprise and pleasure must have shown, for he laughed softly. He took a step back so I could appraise him better. “Yeah,” he said, “It’s the new me. I h-hope you don’t mind me waking you up. I guess you kind of dozed off.” “I must have. Wow. Clay, I’m not sure I’d recognize you on the street now. You sure that’s you?” We both laughed this time. He had that unselfconscious, infectious laugh of a late teen. I couldn’t take my eyes off him: He was simply gorgeous. “I think so. God, I gotta say this is the best I’ve felt in... I don’t know how long. I feel like I’m in a dream. I appreciate this so much, ...Michael. Was that your name, did I get it right? I promise I’ll try and pay you back. Somehow.” He sounded suddenly uneasy saying this last: tentative, as if he was afraid I would have second thoughts and tell him to go. He’s probably pretty much forgotten how to trust people, I thought. If he ever knew how. “Hey, man, I wouldn’t accept any payment, so you can just forget that. Seeing you like this is a reward for me. And yes, it’s Michael, or just Mike, whichever.” He was fiddling nervously with the sash of my bathrobe. The robe sagged loosely from his skinny shoulders and the sleeves were an inch too long, but he looked good in it regardless. Despite his nervousness, he couldn’t stop beaming with pleasure at what that simple bath had done for him. “Why don’t you have a seat,” I said. “Relax a while. How much do you reckon you walk in a day, anyway?” He sat on the edge of the other easy chair, placed beside mine but angled for easy conversation. For some reason it made me happy that he hadn’t chosen the sofa across the room. “I dunno, maybe seven or eight miles, maybe more? Sometimes less, though, like when it’s raining and I feel lucky just to find a dry spot I won’t get booted out of right away.” “Damn, Clay, you sure do lead a life of uncertainty, don’t you.” “You said it.” He looked away and seemed lost in thought for a long moment. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so we just sat there in silence. His profile was handsome. More than handsome. His bushy brown hair, toweled dry after his bath, had been trimmed recently, and well. In fact, it looked professionally done and downright sexy, as was the three-day stubble now visible. I hadn’t thought to offer my razor; now, I didn’t intend to. I could smell faintly the body gel he’d used for his bath. Gone like a bad dream was the nigh-unbearable, sweetly fetid stench that had played a large part in getting the boy banned from the Cash-’n-Dash. But I hadn’t failed to notice that he’d been unsure of my name a couple of times now; that he tended to stutter and to pause while he searched for ordinary words. And that he’d staggered noticeably crossing that street to the park, as well as several times during our walk home. Heat stress? Or something more organic? “Well, your clothes are probably about ready for the dryer,” I said at last. “Don’t you have any more?” Too late I thought, where would he keep them? “Maybe,” he said with a rueful half-chuckle. “If somebody hasn’t made off with them by now. I left a box of stuff down where I usually sleep, under that big bridge.” He must mean the Ensley Bridge, over the river downtown, I thought. “Oh, boy. I hope you didn’t leave anything really valuable down there.” “Nah. Besides a couple of shirts and stuff, just a can of soup, a couple of paperbacks, a roll or two of toilet paper, a wristwatch that went south on me; that’s about it,” he said. He blushed when he mentioned the toilet paper. “I don’t mean to be prying, Clay, and just tell me to shut up if you want. But I’m interested to hear how you get along day by day, if you want to talk about it.” “That’s okay, I don’t mind,” he said. He was beginning to make good eye contact now, with his lively light green eyes; and a half smile had replaced his momentary nervous frown. “But the answer to that’s pretty short and sweet: with difficulty. That’s how.” Woops. I’d walked right into that, I realized, and decided I’d do well to change the subject. I felt grateful he’d put the brakes on before I got totally patronizing. “Shall we go check on those clothes?” “Sure.” We descended the stairs to the basement, where the washer and dryer, the furnace and water heater, a workbench, and about fifteen years’ worth of mostly useless crap reside. The washer shuddered to a halt just as we reached the machines. I tossed the spun-dry, still damp clothes into the dryer. “It’ll be another forty-five minutes or so,” I said. “This is so cool, that you have all this,” said Clay, looking all around in genuine wonderment as he had upstairs. I’d never thought of it in quite that way, but he was right. It was cool. And I was lucky. ~~~ While Clay’s shirt and jeans and boxers spun in the dryer, I showed him the rest of the house: the little study; the utility and storage room; and the two bedrooms, with the one for guests all ready for him with fresh bedding, the bedside clock set correctly for the first time in a couple of years, and even some of those miniature chocolate bars in a bowl beside the clock. I’d checked the reading lamp, too, to make sure it still worked. I’d opened the vent for the heating and cooling, normally kept shut along with the room itself, and the bedroom was already becoming pleasantly cool. A ratty old leather billfold had fallen out of his jeans pocket when I picked up the dirty clothes, and I’d placed it on the table by the bed for him along with his pocket change. We listened to a little jazz in the living room. Then we watched a couple of pretty funny old cartoons on DVD. The clothes came out of the dryer without any advanced signs of disintegration. That was a relief. I’d gladly have given him some of mine, but I outsized him too far. He stood about 5’7” at most, and was skinny, even scrawny, no doubt from malnutrition as much as want of food. Nevertheless, he was, to my eyes, simply beautiful. A lot of the beauty radiated from within. Clay was showing himself to be gentle, thoughtful, and open. What I’d call a good soul. I’d felt glad when he agreed to come home with me, and now I was finding myself doubly happy to have him there where he could enjoy one cool, safe night indoors. He dressed in his freshly laundered clothes while I made a pitcher of iced tea. When he came into the kitchen I suggested taking the tea out to the front porch. There’s an old-fashioned swing suspended by rusty chains from the porch ceiling, as well as a comfortable lawn chair and a little table. And a couple of pots of hopelessly withered verbena. I’d put some thin tortilla chips and salsa for dipping in two bowls. Clay carried those. I sat on the swing so Clay could have the chair. But instead he scooted the table nearer, and sat down beside me on the swing. “Oh, man, are these ever good,” he said, trying the tortilla chips without dip. “They’re from a little Mexican place not far from here. They make them fresh every day. These are from yesterday.” He dipped one and tasted. “Whew!” he said. “That stuff’s hot, but it’s great!” He sounded comical trying to get the words out with his mouth full. I couldn’t help laughing, and he joined in after he managed to swallow. “Same source,” I said. “Like to go there for dinner, maybe?” He thought a moment. “Yeah, I would, but I’m afraid it’d be too rich. I’d probably just chuck it right up. Sorry to be crude. Anyway, I’ve only got about five dollars and that’s all.” “Don’t worry about money,” I said, “but you’re right, it might be too rich with way too much fat. What would you like? We can have just about anything, and we don’t need to eat out.” I’ve been told I make a really decent macaroni salad, and after some discussion we ended up with that, spiced extra mild; lentil soup, pre-grilled boneless chicken breast, and, for dessert, ample servings of fat-free lemon sherbet. We took our sherbet out onto the porch. It wasn’t much cooler yet, but now, at least, there was a fair breeze. Again Clay sat down beside me on the swing, and we took turns pushing it lazily with one foot each as twilight slowly settled in. I lit a couple of citronella candles. They keep only the more timid mosquitoes at bay, but I figured Clay must be well used to mosquito bites anyway. “So...you teach, what is it, again?” “Psychology, at State Street High and nights at the junior college — adult continuing education. Almost fifteen years now. I’m licensed to practice as a consulting psychologist, but I decided long ago I much prefer teaching. Nowadays I only take a client when I think I can really help. It’s a fair loss of income, but I sleep better.” “I got through h-high school before I...” He trailed off and I didn’t pursue. We rocked, leisurely ate the last of our sherbet, and admired the mosquitoes’ ironclad resolve not to let citronella stand in their way. There weren’t all that many, though, and it was worth swatting or shooing them away from time to time, to enjoy the cool evening, birdsong, and the scent of new-mown grass. Rafael, the pudgy, bespectacled eighth-grader from down the block that I paid to mow in the summer, had tended to the lawn in the early afternoon. The now cooling breeze even delivered a hint of roses from the garden next door. “I don’t know if you want to hear...” Another silence. “Sure I do, Clay,” I said quietly. So he turned towards me and told his story. ~~~ Like I said, I made it through high school. That was in Milfrey Junction, Missouri; I doubt you’ve ever heard of the place. Hell, I doubt anybody outside Milfrey Junction ever heard of it. You had to look twice and not blink to spot downtown if you were passing through. There was a sheriff and a couple of near-retirement deputies in Franning, about fifteen minutes away if you didn’t mind breaking the speed limit. There was a volunteer fire department of, oh, say five guys, but that was on a good day when nobody was off sick or fishing. There was one doctor, and he was pretty young, too; but he mainly depended on patients that lived on farms all around. And there were fewer farms and fewer patients every year. No movies, no library; it was amazing there were schools, but there were, two little frame buildings side by side, elementary and high, and a flagpole out front. I think there were seven or eight other kids in my graduating class. Well, anyway, I made it through high school. And it seemed to me the teachers were good ones. How they came to be stuck in Milfrey Junction I have no idea. You’re the psychologist: Could that be what they call masochism? Did I say that right? I heard it in some movie. Every now and then my parents would loosen up enough to let me go with my best friend Preston to a movie in Franning, or visit the library there. We’d tell them it was some wholesome movie and luckily they never checked to see if it really was. ’Cause usually it wasn’t. Pres was a year older and worked at the lumber yard just outside town and had his own car. I didn’t even know how to drive, and I still don’t. If mom and dad had known some of the stuff Pres and some of us other kids got up to, I guarantee I’d never have got to see him again ever. It wasn’t really awful bad, what we did. Some dope — I mean just marijuana, not the other stuff — quite a bit of alcohol, but not all that often; and of course sex. No stealing and stuff, though. No vandalism. We didn’t have anything against anybody. We just wanted some fun, that’s all. But our parents’ idea of fun was going to church all the time. God. We were really, really careful about the weed and alcohol and super sneaky about the sex because, well, all the parents and for all I know everybody over eighteen in that town belonged to an ultra-Bible-thumper congregation down in Laws Creek, ten or twelve miles south. I never liked the marijuana; all it ever did was make me hungry. Alcohol I could take or leave, but I bet I never drank more than three or four times all through school because I was so scared my folks would hear a slur in my speech, or smell the booze when I couldn’t — and maybe, too, just ’cause I knew they thought it was wrong, real, real wrong. But to them just about everything was wrong. That’s what they were brainwashed to believe. It wasn’t hard to make them go along with that crap, because they’d already got drilled into their heads that thinking for yourself was another thing that was wrong. Even in junior high I knew they were basically nuts with all those screwed-up beliefs, but I was scared of them because... Well, because. Maybe I should leave it at that. At least they never landed me in the hospital. I did mess around quite a bit with girls when I got the chance. Some would come up from Laws Creek or over from Franning pretty regularly, and there were a few hometown ones, too. We’d all party, Pres and five or six other boys including me, and those girls. Our parents thought we were at Bible study followed by sleepovers. I can’t believe what we got by with — lucky for us. But Pres, he didn’t go for the sex stuff. He’d just find a girl that he knew preferred to talk, and they’d go off by themselves and maybe take a walk or just sit and talk somewhere else while the rest of us... You know. I was one horny young dude, Mike. I realize now it’s only by luck I never got somebody pregnant. Man, if that had ever happened, I’d probably be dead now, one way or another. God, sometimes we’d end up screwing, most of us, six or seven times in a night. No shit. What dopes we were. But most of us lucked out. Pres never chewed me out about it or judged anybody, though. Just kind of kept to himself those times. He’d always drive me home that night or next morning, depending on what story we’d told our folks. It even got so I’d jerk off every three or four mornings through my pajamas or underwear onto my bedsheets at home, just so my mom would think I was still having wet dreams when she went to do the laundry. ’Cause I wasn’t having them anymore, between the partying and jacking off in the toilet at school and stuff. And I didn’t know what I could say if I got asked about it. And you may not think so, but I would, I guarantee. Hey, but I didn’t intend to get quite that graphic. Sorry. Anyway, one day mom found a book by Bertrand Russell I’d hidden in my room that I’d got from the bookmobile, I think, or maybe on a trip with Preston to the library in Franning. Once she found out over the phone from the preacher who this Bertrand Russell was, the shit hit the religious fan big time, let me tell you. Oh, man... Well, I made the mistake of mouthing off in answer to what mom and dad were tossing my way on that little issue — it was a few weeks after graduation — and so next day they told me to get out and never come back and to thank the ever-so-loving Lord I wasn’t already roasting in his ever-so-loving eternal hellfire. I guess they still expect me to start sizzling any minute, though. And that’s when my life got started slippery-sliding right downhill, so to speak. The railroad still sends freight trains through Milfrey Junction, and I said goodbye to Pres, and jumped in a boxcar, and led that life for a few months. Talk about an education. Whew. And...Mike, you know how you’re always hearing about all those missing kids and stuff? Well, let me tell you just so you know: Lots of those kids are never ever coming back. There’s stuff I’ve seen and heard that I dream about every night. Oh, man, really bad stuff. But I don’t want to talk any more about that. Anyway, one afternoon we were rolling along at a pretty fair clip in Arkansas, I think it was, and I got in a fight with another dude riding in the car; he was about three times my size, plus I don’t know the first thing about how to fight. I don’t even remember now what it was about. Next thing I knew I was waking up face down in mud in the bottom of a little rocky gully beside the tracks and it was night already, and cold as shit, and I was shaking all over. And I had mostly-dried blood all over my shirt. The blood had to have been mine. More cuts and bruises than I could count. One ankle twisted. Everything I looked at for a few days looked double. And that fight, or else the fall it led up to, is where this scar over my eye came from. I even coughed up some blood for a day or two. Well, all I knew at first was that I’d got hurt, and hurt bad. I couldn’t remember how, and I just sensed it more than anything. Finally I decided it was my head that got damaged the most, because I kept losing my balance a lot. I still do, quite a bit. And there was this awful ringing and roaring in my ears and this huge old lump on one side of my head, but luckily that went away eventually. The roaring didn’t, though. And, oh, yeah, one tooth came up missing, but it wasn’t one I particularly counted on. After a few weeks I remembered some about the fight. I guess I fell out the boxcar door, or else the big dude pushed me. I don’t know if I was already out cold, or if that happened when I hit the ground and rolled down into that gully. I can’t think straight now and then, ever since that happened; can’t do figures at all; I have trouble reading. For a while I couldn’t even remember for sure who I was or a lot of other stuff, if you can imagine that, but I think that’s cleared up, mostly. I was so glad when I remembered Pres. I’d hate like anything to forget him. But sometimes it’s hard for me to think of words I know I want to say. And I stutter now, but not as much as at first, thank goodness. I never did stutter at all, before. I don’t think there’s a job anywhere I could work at and hold, or anybody dumb or sucker enough to hire me. A lot of times I can’t seem to keep my mind on things more than a couple of minutes, unless it’s like “I’m hungry” or “I need a bathroom” and like that, pretty basic stuff. I just drift from day to day and sometimes I get lucky and hop on a boxcar, but not if it’s moving at all, not anymore I can’t. And, yeah, they’ve got railroad detectives that will kick your ass off of trains, but you’d be surprised how often they don’t, too. And I know they know we’re there, at least most of the time, but — I don’t guess it’s out of feeling sorry, more likely laziness, but who knows — sometimes they just look the other way and let us be and then it’s not such a bad way to travel, all in all. One of them even bought a couple of us Christmas dinner in a layover town, so they’re not all bad guys. I’ll probably climb on another boxcar in a week or so, and just go wherever it takes me or till I get put off the train again. But I’m not good at all the stuff a lot of homeless seem to know by second nature. For example, I hate it when people are mean, and I don’t want to fight and don’t know how and don’t particularly want to learn, but you almost need to know if you’re going to survive, I’m finding that out more all the time, sad to say. And, Mike, you saw how filthy I was when you came and stopped and helped me. I just didn’t know what to do about it. I don’t think I ever will be good at figuring things out, really. I guess it was that fight and then falling or getting pushed off the train, but, again, who knows. It could be some of the beatings at home, or maybe I was just born fucking dumb. That’s the most likely. When they won’t let me in stores so I can spend handout money on food, I take what I can get from Dumpsters or even trash cans along the street or at night behind people’s houses. I’ve even stolen a little. Food, that is. I don’t know how else to manage. I don’t think I’m a worthless person, at least I hope not, but I guess I come pretty damn close. Anyway, that’s my story. Your turn. ~~~ In a way, I was not surprised by Clay’s story. In another, more personal way, I felt stunned and dismayed. If he was telling the truth, and I had no reason at all to think he wasn’t, then... Then he sounded fairly doomed to a life of handouts, insecurity, inescapable victimization, and distress. And that was just the good part. Was there anything I could do? Was there anything anybody could do? Even if the neurological damage that was apparent from his description could be diagnosed, he had no insurance, just arriving at a diagnosis would be a costly proposition, and then there was more than likely no treatment for it anyway. I couldn’t afford to pay for that kind of testing for him, let alone months of treatment, even if he wanted it, and even if there was a chance it would do some good — and I very much doubted it would. The only alternative I could think of, within the realm of practicality, was one I was almost afraid to consider. It might interfere with my nice, cozy daily routine, after all. But consider it I would. After all, I’d more or less resolved not to pretend he wasn’t there. I really only meant it for the chocolate milk and a couple of kind words, at first. Now I meant it in general. It didn’t take long for me to use up “my turn.” Born thirty-seven years ago, only child, never married, Master’s in record time from NYU-Buffalo, teaching in our city for going on fifteen years now. Managed to get my doctorate while teaching. Hard to believe now I was ever that energetic. Those were the days — I guess. I like teaching. I respect young people and am convinced they get a very raw deal in this society. There’s not much I can do about that, except to be a teacher they can respect in return, and who gives them something worthwhile to think about — after they graduate, as well as between classes. I think I’ve succeeded in those goals, at least in a few cases. I don’t expect to be some miracle-worker. But there have been times, outside class, that I’ve been able to say a comforting word or make a practical suggestion to a student in distress, and it’s made all the difference, and they’ve told me so. And at those times, no miracle worker could feel more elated. Those little triumphs make it all worthwhile, more than pay for those shit days we all experience in teaching. And, surely, in every other job. No hobbies; I like cats and tolerate dogs but don’t have either. I read, watch lots of movies, streaming or on DVD or sometimes even in theaters. I sleep, I go to work and teach, I come home and do it all over again. Well, so much for my turn. Sure, there was more I could have told him about my life, but it could either wait, or not get said. And it wasn’t all that exciting. Nowhere near what Clay had apparently lived through already. Oh, I did find out in that conversation on the porch why Clay’s hair was so well cut. Another homeless man of 40 or so, a barber till he fell on hard times due both to drugs and lack of work, had kept his expensive tools — scissors, etc. — and by some miracle they hadn’t been stolen, yet. He had cut Clay’s hair in exchange for a blow job. The interesting though not too surprising part, I guess, is that it was the barber that eagerly took the active role. A win-win situation for my new friend, I guess you could say. Clay did tell me he’d offered to reciprocate; but the guy said, “Hey, that’s okay. I know it’s not your thing, Clay. Thanks, though.” Clay said the barber seemed a decent, good-hearted guy who was always trying to help his friends despite his drug habit. I wondered how long he would survive. I was, as you’ve guessed, already feeling fond of Clay. I’d started feeling that way even as we’d walked to my place in the killer heat. Even when he was still stinking and filthy I was, I knew, losing my heart to the kid. Now, this is a long-standing habit of mine, and I can’t seem to help it. I’m a sucker for vulnerable guys. They make me vulnerable. More even than them, usually. I can’t seem to help it, true, but, just as important, I don’t want to help it. It seems to me that fondness, and even love, are good things, and I wonder that they’re not more popular, and practiced more often. Why is that, do you suppose? It wasn’t late; only about 8:00. “How about a movie?” I said. “Feel up to one?” “Sure, I do. I feel way better than anytime since leaving home. And I didn’t always feel so good there, let me tell you. A movie would be great, Mike. I haven’t seen one since the last time with Pres.” “Let’s go see one, then,” I said. “I guess you know about the Great Depression?” “Yeah, we had it in American history. Didn’t it come after the big stock-market crash in 1929, and last around ten years? Why?” “Right. Well, movies were more popular then than ever before or since. Know why?” “No. Let me guess. Were they cheap and that’s all people could afford?” “Well, yes, in part, but the main reason was that movies offered a way for people to forget their troubles for an hour or so, and, man, did they have plenty of troubles to want to forget in those days. “Clay, as tough as your life is — and I gotta say it’s an award-winner — millions of people in those days had lives almost as difficult. Movies were like a drug for them. A good drug.” “Wow. And they still do that, don’t they, movies I mean. Help people f-forget.” “They do indeed. Hmm. Could that be partly why we’re going to go see one tonight, do you think?” He laughed and nodded. I wanted to laugh with him, but couldn’t. I was too worried about what was going to happen to Clay if he did take off again in the morning. God, now I just didn’t want that to happen. For the good of both of us. So I hugged him instead. He hugged me back. Then after a couple of seconds he gently slipped his arms around me again and, without a word, just held me close for what seemed like a long time. It had cooled off considerably by now. Clay’s body felt warm and solid and welcome. I could faintly hear his breath, and feel the calm, slow beating of his heart. ~~~ We got lucky and saw at the Rialto, downtown, a thriller, a recent one, too, that was actually thrilling, at least part of the time. The rest of the time, Clay said later, it was interesting, so all in all it was a success. I have no doubt it helped Clay take his mind off some of his troubles. I wish I could say the same for myself, but throughout the movie I was preoccupied with the pro’s and con’s of My Plan. (Fanfare, please.) More than once Clay elbowed me to draw my attention to something that especially struck him in the film, and I’d have to kind of wake up and try to remember where I was and what the movie was about. Then I’d fall back into muddled musing. I simply couldn’t decide. I knew what I wanted to do, but it scared me. Yet I needed to decide before morning. Well, to my surprise, and relief, I ended up deciding as we were walking out of the theater. Clay was looking relaxed and bright-eyed and happy. For the first time, he looked like a normal teenager. The old-fashioned blinking incandescent lights of the movie house marquee cast crazy lights and shadows everywhere on the sidewalk, and you could still smell that seductive scent of fresh popcorn from just inside the theater. Clay slung his arm around my waist and gave me a little playful squeeze as we turned our steps toward home. That did it. I made my decision. “Clay, listen. I want you to think about something, okay? Don’t answer right now, but I want to know in the morning for sure, yes or no. “I want you to stay with me indefinitely. I’m going to be frank now: I don’t think you’ll survive another year on the street, and it’s worrying the shit out of me. I just don’t want you hurt again, or worse, buddy. You’ll be safe with me. It’ll give you time to think some things over and maybe even enjoy life for a change while you do it. And I hope you know I won’t try anything. I just don’t do that. “I don’t want to make it sound like I think you’re helpless. But I’m certain you need somebody willing to help you, damn it. That fight and fall messed you up, you told me so yourself. Neither of us can doubt that your head got badly screwed up somehow. Things like that either fix themselves or they don’t get fixed. And damn it, bud, this thing hasn’t fixed itself yet, has it? “Clay, I already like you one hell of a lot. I feel so lucky to have met you. I want to be your friend and help however I can, at least a little while longer. And I hope you’ll decide to let me.” It was finally cooling off noticeably, and quickly: a cold front had been predicted to move in, and it looked like the prediction was holding true. It was as pleasant as an autumn evening now, even though it was a mid-August night. I saw Clay shiver a little. Maybe it was from uncertainty or even fear. I had no way of knowing. But it was probably just the cold front. He didn’t have any body fat for insulation, after all. “So what do you think? I don’t mean your decision. But in general. Does what I suggested make sense? Will you consider it?” “Yeah, Mike, it makes a lot of sense. And I really appreciate it. I like you a lot, too. A whole lot. You remind me so much of Pres. I never expected to meet anybody else like him. So I feel lucky, too, really lucky. “B-but I’m afraid you’re going to think later that I set you up, so I could get a place to stay. Took advantage of you. You’ve been so good to me today: How do you know I don’t want to ride that for all it’s worth?” “Well, then, what if we agree either one of us can just call it quits at a moment’s notice, without prejudice, as they say in law – without blame on either side.” I hoped I wasn’t sounding desperate — or maybe foolish. But I had to answer with something. “I don’t know, Mike. I never heard of anything like this, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea. It sounds good, but I’m worried what you’d think later. I’m afraid I’d just be in your way but you wouldn’t want to tell me ’cause you didn’t want to hurt my feelings or something. “I want you to remember me and like me the way you do now, not think of me as some jerk that tried to take advantage of you.” “Clay, I just can’t imagine that happening. I think it’s as nearly impossible as anything can be.” “Did you say I need to tell you in the morning?” “Yes. So we don’t just put it off. So you don’t take off tomorrow and leave me sitting there feeling like a fool because I didn’t at least try to convince you to stay. So we know what’s what.” I paused. I stopped walking and took hold of him by the shoulders. We stood under a street lamp, eye-to-eye. “Clay, I feel certain I’m doing right to trust you. I don’t think for one moment you’d set me up. I don’t think you’d do that to anybody. You’re just not like that. Hell, I don’t think you’re even capable of it. You’re just too good at heart. “And one other thing. If you decide to leave tomorrow, that’s fine, I want you to do what you think is right, or what you want to do. But I’ll be so sorry to see you go. So damn sorry. I mean it.” “Thanks, Mike. I promise to think it all over tonight and tell you in the morning like you said. “I don’t think anybody ever cared as much about me as you do, unless it was Pres. I think he would have giv — well, he cared a whole lot. But I can tell you do too, and however it turns out tomorrow, I want you to know I’ll always remember what you did for me today. Always. No shit. “Mike, you could have just walked on past me this afternoon. And nothing wrong with that, either. But you didn’t, man. You didn’t. And that’s something I won’t ever forget as long as I live.” Something seemed to get caught in my throat at that point; I couldn’t articulate a single word, so I just hugged Clay again and then we walked on in silence as the temperature continued to fall. We reached my house. It was still not really late, and neither of us had any plans for tomorrow — unless Clay decided to leave, that is. So we listened to some more music and then I made hot tea, and found us a lightweight blanket, and we sat on the porch again and swung in the swing under the warmth of the blanket, and talked about growing up and life on the road and about my life as a teacher and as a gay man (he’d figured from the first moment at the Cash-’n-Dash that I was gay, but I figured I’d better make the fact unambiguous). “I hope you don’t have trouble with that,” I said, pretty sure he wouldn’t. “Hell, no, Mike. I didn’t know any gay guys back home, unless... Unless maybe Pres. Sometimes I wonder. Anyway, that doesn’t matter; I love Pres more than I could ever say, and I always will. “But, hey, I bet I’ve met a couple of dozen guys said they were gay, on the road this last year and more, and we get along way better than I do with the other guys. Lots of those are crazy, or brutal, or both. Especially the younger ones. The gay guys and I generally just sit back and watch the other ones beat the living crap out of each other. We always watch out for one another, watch each other’s back like they say. That’s what Pres used to do, too. He watched out for me, always. “I only knew one gay dude that sometimes got violent. But, man, his head was totally screwed up. AIDS and drugs. Poor guy. He didn’t live long. I guess maybe it was just as well.” I guess I felt relieved. Yet a part of me wished that he were gay, too. That was probably only natural, but it didn’t please me that I felt that way. It felt selfish and mean. And I think it was. I wondered, if he stayed on for any length of time, if that would be a problem for me. I thought about it for about ten seconds and decided I had no idea if it would be or not. I could never know unless it actually happened. And so, for the moment, it didn’t matter one bit. The mention of Pres started Clay talking about his hometown best friend: how Pres tried to shield him, when he could, from what, it was becoming all too obvious, amounted to serious and probably criminal parental abuse. How the boy showered Clay with little presents, and would sometimes buy him dinner at a good cafe in Franning (Clay’s parents thought he was at a friend’s studying, or at one of those handy fictional Bible-study sessions). And he told me how Pres’s face grew dark once when, during one of their gatherings, another boy started ranting about how evil gay men were, and what they should have done to them. Pres scarcely said two more words that night, and when Clay was getting out of Pres’s car after Pres drove him home in silence, he was pretty sure he could see, in the light from the dashboard, tears on his friend’s face. It began to be plain to me that Pres loved his buddy with something beyond the protective kind of love and caring that had meant so much to Clay, and always would. I began to see Pres as gay and stymied, head-over-heels in a romantic but secret, and doomed, way in addition to truly and selflessly wanting to serve Clay’s welfare. If ever I should meet Pres, as unlikely as that clearly was — I would feel like getting down on my knees and thanking him for caring about Clay for those years they’d been friends. It was past midnight now. Just before we went back into the house to get ready for bed, Clay finished the sentence he’d started earlier in the evening when he was speaking of Pres. “I think he would have given his life for me, Mike. Really, truly. That’s how much he cared.” “Let’s go inside,” I said, giving him a little shoulder squeeze. “If you’ll carry the tea stuff, I’ll take care of the blanket and the candles.” ~~~ Next morning, when I got out of bed and was making my bleary-eyed way to the bathroom, I found Clay waiting for me in the hallway. “Hey,” I said. “Good morning. How long have you been standing here, anyway?” “I dunno. I couldn’t sleep. Mike, I want to stay on, if you’ll still have me. I thought about it last night in bed and decided, but I was scared to go tell you. I still am, but that’s what I decided.” He laughed nervously. “So now you can tell me to get the hell out, I guess.” “You know better than that. I’m more glad than you can know that you decided the way you did. I think it’s the right decision. You can still change your mind anytime, but I hope to hell you don’t.” I took hold of him and squeezed him so tight it must have hurt, just for a moment. Words couldn’t say what I felt. “Now I’ve got to get to the bathroom before this carpet needs some serious cleaning. Want to go pour out some orange juice? You can find the glasses, I think.” We ate breakfast at the table in the kitchen. Clay’s nervousness had evaporated. I think he found it really hard to believe anybody would want him around, but he’d finally got it through his head that he’d met somebody who really did. Talk found its way back to his days in Milfrey Junction and with Pres, the only place he’d ever really known, and the only true friend he’d ever had. “His eyes were so pretty, Mike.” “Pres’s?” “Yeah. And sometimes he’d just take and hold me tight like he never wanted to lose me. He was so strong... Well, I guess he’d have to be, working in a lumber yard, wouldn’t he. Anyway, that felt so good when he’d hold onto me like that. “I don’t think my mom or dad ever touched me once unless it was for a beating that, hell, half the time I never even knew what I did wrong. Maybe nothing. Maybe it was just to be beating up on somebody, for all I know. “Religious people can be really mean, Mike. I’m telling you.” “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Clay.” “Well, like I said the other night, at least I never ended up in the hospital.” We ate in silence for a while. “Yeah,” he took up, “when he’d hold me close like that I could feel how he cared. I don’t know how or why, it was just there, that feeling that Pres really cared even if nobody else did, and even if he never said a word about it. But he did, once or twice. He told me. “Oh, God, I’d feel like staying there in his arms forever, Mike. I felt safe and happy like I never did alone, especially at home.” He was quiet for a few seconds. He didn’t look particularly moved; I think he’d relived those moments with Pres so many times they had become as familiar as his shoes. “You don’t think that makes me gay, do you?” I couldn’t keep from chuckling. “No, I think it makes you human. Don’t you?” “Maybe that’s what it is.” “Besides, gay is just another word. When it comes right down to it, we’re not words. We’re living beings.” “Yeah, that’s what I think, too.” ~~~ I made it clear to Clay from the start that he was not hired help; he owed me nothing for living with me. It had been my idea, I was assuming responsibility for it, and if he wanted to help around the house, he could, but he was under no obligation. We could discuss later trying out vocational rehabilitation; he was convinced nobody would ever hire him, but I wasn’t at all sure about that. He had an abysmal self-image, largely on account of the environment of hatred, neglect, and abuse he’d endured for all those years. The head injury might or might not get in the way of employment. There was really only one way to be sure, but that was down the road a ways. The main thing I wanted for him, for the first several weeks at least, was to feel he could take it easy, be in a safe place, and have leisure to think things over and get accustomed to being valued for a change. He insisted from the first day on doing all of the house-cleaning and at least some of the cooking — if I’d show him how to cook. I was glad to. And it was encouraging to see that he picked up cooking skills with an ease neither of us had expected. I could tell he was happy doing those things. It’s one thing to tell somebody they owe you nothing — and to mean it; but quite another for that person to be able to live on those terms without feeling uneasy. Now Clay felt he was doing something helpful, and not being a freeloader or “taking advantage” of me as he’d told me, that first night, he was afraid I’d come to think. One weekend we made a trip to Frontier Town, a recreated 1840’s pioneer village several miles out of town. I rented a car for the weekend. Clay was excited to see all the exhibits, the largely authentic buildings made with hand-hewn boards and nails, glassblowing, blacksmithing, and so forth. He almost wore me out making me take pictures. I finally just handed him the camera, after thirty seconds of photography lessons. On another, we visited the art museum and he was nothing less than awestruck at the sight of the paintings, statuary, prints — not to mention the gallery rooms themselves, the like of which he’d never even imagined. He said he wanted to find out a lot more about what he’d seen. I said I’d be glad to help him with searches on the Web. The Milfrey Junction schools had not had a single computer for students, which was not surprising. He had never even touched one, till he learned to use mine. We made a few picnic outings down by the river and elsewhere. He made all the arrangements for one of those himself, including inviting by phone, at my request, a couple of my gay colleagues, and preparing all the food, and found himself delighted at what he had had no idea he could accomplish. I asked him to choose clothing for himself and then bought every single item he’d selected. It was the first time in his life he’d had good clothes to wear. Though he picked nothing but reasonably (or even low-) priced brands, he fretted that he’d caused me to spend too much. He was still having a tough time with reading, could not do figures at all (and has not succeeded in recovering that ability to this day), and showed other effects of that fall from the train. Still, he was happier than ever in his life, lost no opportunity to tell me so, must have hugged me impulsively a dozen times a week, and for my part, I found his company a pleasure unlike any I’d ever experienced. On the whole, we lived as equals. I wanted it that way, and I’m sure Clay did, too. One night in early October, I think it was, we’d been on what we knew would be one of our last picnics of the year, with cold weather pretty obviously just around the corner. After that, we’d taken in a pretty good movie at the Rialto and had dinner out, at La Fiorella, a little Italian restaurant not far from my place, where the food, the management, and the company are topnotch. By the time we finally got home, it was after eleven pm. I had school the next day, so it was my bedtime. Clay decided to turn in, too. Often he would stay up later, trying to improve his reading ability by sheer force of will, but with pretty disappointing results so far. We generally parted in the hallway, from where we went to our separate bedrooms. “Well, good-night, Clay.” “Good-night, Mike. Thanks for the the picnic and the movie and that great restaurant.” We’d both just reached the doors to our bedrooms, when Clay said, “Mike?” “Yes?” “Mike, if you want, I can sleep with you, you know. I don’t mind. Really.” I’d been afraid of something like this, yet I wasn’t the least little bit prepared. “Well, Clay...” I had to think hard for a moment. “Clay, in a way that would be really great, and I know I’d like it, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be right. After all, I told you this was a no-strings deal, and I need to keep my word. You know what I mean?” “I guess.” How so much disappointment could be crammed into two syllables, I have no idea, but he managed to do it. I couldn’t let him go to bed feeling he’d said the wrong thing or that, worse yet, I didn’t really like him after all. “Hey, Clay.” “Yeah.” “Come here, bud.” He walked the five or six steps it took with head down, as though in defeat. I hugged him to me, and, like Pres, I didn’t let go. At first he just stood there but after a bit he put his arms around me, too. I could hear him crying and trying to stifle the sound. It never really works. “Clay.” I squeezed him even tighter for a moment. “Clay, I love you, guy, and I want to protect you and let you have this chance to feel safe and enjoy life for a change, I don’t know how long, I have no idea. That part’s up to you, like I said before, because I don’t have the least intention of telling you to go. You can stay as long as you want to. And leave whenever you want. You already know that. Please don’t think I don’t care about you just because I think we...that it’s best to have some limits. Okay?” “Yeah, I guess.” The words came between sobs and still carried that tone of disappointment or defeat. And I could tell he wasn’t at all convinced. “Hey. You’re of age, you’re level-headed even if you are kind of screwed-up sometimes...” Clay laughed even as he kept sobbing. “...so in that way there’s nothing wrong with the idea. But what would be wrong is that it would look like I was betraying you, not doing what I promised that day. Going back on my word.” “Look like that to who, Mike? Who?” said Clay. Now he sounded pissed off. But at least the sobs were over. I had to think, again. I was beginning to resent having to think. All I really wanted was to live with Clay for as long as he wanted, and for him to be happy. Thinking only got in the way. “Shit, Clay, I don’t know. Anybody. Me. You, even if you don’t think so now. Don’t ask such hard questions, okay?” We both were able to laugh, a little. I still held him tight. He still held me. I don’t think either of us was in any rush at all to separate. “No, I wouldn’t see it that way, Mike. No way. I don’t think it has anything to do with your word. So I wish you wouldn’t say that. That’s just an excuse, man. You’ve kept your word and besides I never asked you to give it to me in the first place. Did I?” “Clay, what good is it to quibble about this? Let’s just go to bed and forget about it. I love you and I care about you, and I’m not to going to abandon you, you know that. Why can’t we just leave it at that?” “What if I say no, I won’t go to bed. What if I don’t let go of you. What will you do then?” “Oh, God, Clay, don’t be so difficult. This isn’t like you.” “Maybe it is, though. Maybe I can be pretty tough when I need to be. Or even just want to be.” “I can tickle you and make you let go, buddy.” “I’m not ticklish.” “Wanna bet?” “Sure!” I let go — he didn’t, though — and tickled, expertly as I thought, under his arm. Then I tried the back of his neck. He just held tighter. Of course I couldn’t reach his feet; too bad; that almost always works. The first two places produced no reaction at all. Maybe he really wasn’t ticklish. What then? As a last resort I reached gingerly under the waistband of his on-loan pajamas, the ones from that very first night weeks earlier, almost two sizes too big for him, so he’d even had to turn up the cuffs — and tickled the sensitive skin just inside the hipbone at the very top of the groin. But I was not going to reach one millimeter farther down. Still no result. And still he wouldn’t let go. It didn’t feel like he was tiring, either. “Clay, let go now. This is silly and it isn’t getting us anywhere.” “No.” “Please, Clay.” “No. Not till we’re in bed together or else asleep right here. No way, Mike.” I didn’t want to resort to force. I would not do it. He’d been on the receiving end of way too much of that already, both abroad, and most shamefully, at home. It seemed like such a simple situation, yet I had no idea what to do. I tried slipping down and out of his embrace but he just held on even tighter, and sank down with me to the carpet. Eventually there we were, sitting up against the hallway wall, and he was holding me as tight as before. Then, out of nowhere, I was suddenly flooded by a feeling of deep, unquestioning, and seemingly inexhaustible love for him. I’d never felt anything remotely like it. It was electrifying. It made what I’d already felt seem trivial. I wondered later if it was how Jacob felt wrestling with his angel. Or maybe I was the first and only person in the history of the world to feel that way. All I knew was that the love I felt seemed limitless — and that, like Pres, I was ready, if need be, to give my life for him. “Clay, I... I’m...” I couldn’t go on. I wanted to tell him I was on fire with love for him, but I couldn’t say another word. Now I was the one sobbing, only from sheer, painful, ecstatic love, not disappointment and frustration. I threw my arms around him, and we sat there on the hallway floor, embracing each other without another word — all night. All that damn night long. And the feeling never went away. My legs got tired. My arms started getting numb. Finally I fell asleep, I don’t know when. I don’t know if he ever slept, or if he just kept up his bizarre vigil all those hours. My God, he could be tough. I’d had no idea. No idea. When I finally woke, groggy, disoriented, squirming to go take a piss, and every bit as much in love as before, he was still holding tight. And he was sleeping. ~~~ The weeks rolled on and there seemed no end to our happiness. It’s as though we’d always been meant to be together, but it had just taken a long time for fate to arrange things. I still resisted the idea of sleeping together, and Clay seemed gradually to grow reconciled to my refusal. Eventually it seemed not to matter anymore. He gave every indication of being perfectly happy — probably the happiest ever in his young life, except for those moments when Pres was holding him tight with the affection his parents had never once granted him, if they had it to give in the first place, which would have astonished and baffled me. Clay’s birthday was the first week in November, and I had been mulling over an idea for a present. Around mid-October, I made a couple of phone calls and a few arrangements. If it worked out, I knew Clay would be pleased. To put it mildly. The day of his birthday, I “discovered” that we were out of a few things in the kitchen. I asked if he’d mind walking over to the supermarket, about five blocks away, to pick them up for me while I attended to some class papers I really had to have graded by next morning, getting them out of the way so we could celebrate his birthday unimpeded. Of course he said he’d be glad to, and I gave him enough money and sent him on his way. He should be gone for almost an hour, maybe even a little longer, I figured. That would give me time for what I wanted to do. I strung foil streamers artistically — okay, clumsily, but I prefer to call it “artistically” — across the living-room from wall to wall, five of them. From the streamers hung multi-colored foil letters spelling out “HAPPY BIRTHDAY CLAY” and a big red foil “21” out in front of the letters. I brought an old card table up from the basement, covered it with a checkered tablecloth, and set out the layer cake with its twenty-one candles ready for lighting, three plates and forks, a knife for cutting the cake, three tumblers — also in the basement, I’d found a box with those gaily painted tumblers from the 50s, with circles and stripes — an insulated ice bucket full of ice, a stack of party-style paper napkins. I tried hard to think if I’d forgotten anything. No, I decided, that part was done. There was ginger ale and fruit punch in the refrigerator. All I had to do was wait. With luck, things would happen in the right order. If not, they’d still be okay — as long as the one vital ingredient didn’t fail me. And it didn’t. The doorbell rang. Soon all was ready. When Clay got back and stepped into the living room, he stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed, and almost dropped the grocery sack. I took it from him. “Happy birthday, pal,” I said. “And may you have many more of them.” “Oh — ,” he said. “I — this is the first time I ever — . I don’t know what to say.” He sounded like he was about to cry, so I just hugged him hoping that would keep him from it; of course it didn’t. “Clay, this isn’t quite all,” I said. “Look at the table. What’s wrong with that picture?” He wiped his eyes and looked at the table, puzzled. Then he said, “Why three of everything?” I don’t think he had a clue. I know he didn’t. That’s what I wanted, of course. I stepped behind him and covered his eyes with my hands. He giggled nervously, unsure about what was going on. I found out later he’d never even been to a birthday party before, let alone had one of his own — his parents, of course, and seemingly most of the others in that wonderful town, thought parties, and birthday celebrations, and gifts, the work of the devil. Uh-huh. And apparently child abuse was the Lord’s work in their eyes. “Could somebody come out here and explain things to this poor boy?” I said loudly. Clay found his eyes covered by another big pair of hands, replacing mine. “Happy birthday, buddy.” The voice was soft and calm and — loving is the word that comes to mind. “Ohmigod, it can’t be...” said Clay. He reached up and touched the hands and knew. He turned and he and Pres embraced for what must have been a good minute, without one word. Meanwhile, I withdrew into the kitchen with the groceries Clay had brought. I’d let them deal with the heavy emotions by themselves. It was no place for a third person. I could hear them talking in the living room but not what they were saying. After quite a while, Clay and Pres came into the kitchen, Pres, a good half foot taller than Clay, with an arm around Clay’s shoulders. Clay had given up on wiping tears away and just let them have their way for the time being. He had an almost wild look in his eyes. Pres looked very happy. “Mike, thank you.” Clay’s voice was unsteady. “I would never ever have thought this could happen. It’s the best present I’ll ever have, I know it is. I don’t know how you did this, but I can’t thank you enough. You must really — I mean — ” “Shh,” said Pres, laughing softly. “You’re just gonna embarrass everybody, little buddy. Hey, Mike, I can’t thank you enough either. This is a day I’ll never forget. You ought to get right into heaven for this, without even having to show ID.” “Yeah, but I bet I’ll still have to go through the metal detector,” I said. “I kinda thought it might make you two happy.” “That’s the biggest understatement I think I ever heard,” said Pres. We did away with most of the cake. Clay knew about the custom of blowing out the candles on your birthday cake and making a wish while you do it; he’d just never done it before. He succeeded, and got a little applause from Pres and me. “Did you make your wish?” said Pres. “Yeah, and it better come true, too.” “Well, you know, there’s no guarantees,” I put in. “We’ll see,” said Clay. The way he said that made me a little curious, but I soon forgot about it. We sat on the porch with candles and our ginger ale. It was November, but it was November in the always unpredictable Midwest, after all, and it just happened to be 70 degrees that day. It still wasn’t much less. Pres gave Clay a digital camera. I gave him a gift certificate good at just about every major store downtown. I had a cell phone for him that I intended to give him later. That is, if he was still here. When I’d invited Pres by phone a couple of weeks before, he’d told me he was getting married in January. Of course, Clay had no way of knowing that. Pres’s boss easily gave him three days off with pay for this trip: I’d spoken to his boss first, and been told Pres was far and away the best employee the man had ever had at the lumber yard. I reserved a good motel room for Pres’s arrival. I was taking some chances, and I knew it. For all I knew, Pres and Clay would take off together that same evening without any discussion, marriage or no marriage. Married life doesn’t kill friendships. Not always, anyway. I couldn’t read Clay’s mind. I did know with certainty that he had no desire ever to see Milfrey Junction again. On the other hand, nobody was dearer to him than Pres, so... I had no idea what to expect, and I was prepared — better say braced, I guess — for any eventuality. I knew I might be losing the companionship of the young man I now loved more than I’d ever loved anybody. But I also knew how much Pres meant to Clay, and I had made up my mind not too long after we’d met that I would bring them together again somehow if I possibly could. All evening long they said nothing about any joint plans. I began to wonder if they might be reticent because I was there. Neither could take his eyes off the other. Both seemed to be on a emotional high. I tried to think of a discreet way to leave them alone. Finally I just said, “I think I’ll leave you two to visit, and go in and do some reading and then probably go to bed. Pres, if you need anything, Clay can help you. Happy birthday again, bud. And, Pres, if you want to stay over, I imagine you can work it out with Clay. Okay? It’s been great meeting you.” And that was another understatement. I woke next morning and at first didn’t remember that, one way or another, this would probably prove to be a special morning. I might find a friendly note from Clay and Pres on the kitchen table saying they were headed back to Milfrey Junction and would give me a call soon after arrival, or something along those lines. For all I knew they might have left soon after I went to bed. Despite the day’s excitement, or maybe because of it, I’d fallen asleep within a few minutes of tucking myself in. Or maybe I’d find something entirely different. I had no idea what to expect, and had prepared myself as best I could for any foreseeable situation. I would do my best not to let Clay’s absence get me down. Would being reduced to a quivering mass of jelly count as being got down, I wondered? It may have felt like late spring the day before, on Clay’s birthday, but it was still November; the heat was on now, for it had become frigid again overnight. I could hear the blower for the forced air. I couldn’t see anything because it was probably only around six, the time I usually woke up, and it was still dark as night both outside and in. I felt a movement to my left. What the... I had a surge of fear. The first thing that occurred to me was that my house had been invaded. We were reading about home invasions more and more these days. I was already a bit fearful of them. My neighborhood was a good one, but these intruders seemed not to worry about neighborhood ratings. Good God — I had no weapon and even if I had had one, I probably wouldn’t have been able to use it, out of scruples or fear, probably fear. I felt there was nothing to lose. Except maybe my life. I groped for the bedside light. “Hey! Turn that thing out. It’s too bright!” I knew that voice. I was dumbfounded. There was Clay, lying placidly beside me in bed. For a moment I wondered if I’d stepped into an alternate universe without realizing it. “Clay? What the hell — What’s going on?” “Mike, you know how you and Pres had me make a wish when I blew the candles out on that birthday cake?” “Well, sure, but...” “This was my wish. I made it come true myself. Is that okay? This birthday stuff’s all new to me. “Anyway, we talked till, I dunno, maybe three am, and then he...he held me awhile just like he used to, and we said good-bye again, and he left to go back home. About five, I snuck in here. I did pretty good, didn’t I? You never even stopped snoring.” He sat up — in those on-loan pajamas that were still way too big for him — and put an arm around me. “Clay, I... I — Give me a minute to wake up. This isn’t fair, buddy. I don’t — ” “Oh, Mike,” said Clay softly. “Give up. You know it would be this way sooner or later. Why wait for something we both want? Huh? This is my birthday wish and the wish I’ve had ever since August. You know that. Please stop being so silly about...about us. G-g-grow up, will you, please?” He laughed. “Hey, I’m a psychologist, and you’re advising me to grow up? What do you know about anything, anyway?” I had to laugh, too. I reached over and tickled him. “You know I’m not ticklish. But I bet you are.” Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Very. ~~~ Well, my laptop battery gave out on me after about ten pages, so I had to leave the porch swing, where Clay was reading over my shoulder as I wrote, and bring my lemonade inside. Of course, he followed. I wrote most of the afternoon, knowing if I put off writing, I’d probably never finish this. That’s the way I am. Clay read about five or six pages of the printout in the evening, but then he said, “Hey, Mike, it’s starting to hurt my head. Why don’t you read it to me like you said you would.” So we kind of cuddled up on the sofa and I read the rest of it aloud. I cringed at the prose style quite a few times, but I guess the thing got the main ideas across, such as they were. When I’d finished, Clay said, “Do you think I’ll ever write like that, Mike?” He has even more trouble writing than reading, so far. “Quite a bit better, I would hope,” I said. “You’re working hard at it almost every night, bud, and you’re doing great. I know it’ll continue to get better, but it’s just going to take some time.” “Yeah.I hope I’m doing some good.” We just sat and enjoyed each other’s company for a while. Then, “Clay, what about Pres? You never said much after your birthday. You just said he was going back home.” “We’re going to keep in touch. I talked to him on the phone a couple of times. And he says he’s going to get a computer some day, and then maybe we can email or chat or something.” But it had been nine months already, and that didn’t sound like much contact — and Clay didn’t sound all that enthusiastic, either. I didn’t want to bear down for details. I just gave him a little squeeze and we continued to sit there side by side. After a while, Clay said, “Mike, it wasn’t really the same. It felt good when he held me that night, on my birthday, and it was wonderful to see him again, and we were both all excited, but... I know he felt it, too. It was like something wasn’t there anymore. Maybe I’ll see him again someday, but... But on the phone it was like we didn’t really have anything to talk about anymore. I dunno.” “Sometimes it’s that way,” I said. I knew, because it had happened to me, a couple of times. I think it’s common. I felt disappointment at what Clay had just told me, because I knew how important Pres had always been in his life. Now it looked like I was the focus, not Pres, just as Clay had rapidly become the focal point of my own happiness. I don’t think anybody ever knows how long these things will last. We’ve been together a year now, with no end in sight. From now on, one day will follow another, things will happen, there will be changes; but speculation is useless. We love each other. That’s what we know right now, tonight. And hopefully tomorrow. “I think it’s about bedtime,” I said. “Yeah,” said Clay. “I’ll tend to these candles for you.” The End. ~~~ About the writer: He lives in a large Midwest city, though not the fictional one that this story and several others take place in. He has never hopped a boxcar. He has, though, ridden trains he soon wished he’d never boarded.