Thirty Two Faces - 3. Conflicted

I shouldn’t be looking at him this way.

I wake up and see him from our shared balcony. Rippling arms spring him out of the pool. Evening sun casts a golden glow upon his skin. Water drips as he emerges, from his broad hairy chest to his sculpted narrow waist before sliding over the tip of his wiggling bulge.

I look away only to turn back and steal another glance.

“Babe!”

A thick arm waves at me from the sun deck below.

He catches me staring at him drying himself with the towel. No point hiding now. I wave back awkwardly.

Keep my eyes away. I’m risking too much. From this distance, I have no excuse for staring, for there is nothing to see but smiles, hands and crotch.

I realize it is his shoulders that captivate me. Strong shoulders and gentle eyes. They encapsulate everything about him that I find dear. Maybe I won’t feel this way about him if I get broad shoulders like that or if I’m as tall as he is. I would feel safe then, and I wouldn’t look to him for protection.

Don’t look at him this way, he will hate you! I think to myself.

He walks up the stairs, and the muscles on those shoulders undulate. His eyes gleam, and he smiles. My resolve steels, and I look away, scurrying back into my room, closing my balcony door and curtains.

Things will be fine once he’s clothed.

Then I realize I’m wrong.

My eyes keep roving back to those shoulders over dinner, in plain sight of Mom and Dad. The same image keeps appearing in my head. I remember how he pulled me behind his body to shield me from the bullies, and all I could see from there were his strong broad shoulders. The three bullies were completely hidden from sight.

Leaning on those shoulders made me feel very safe.

“Heard you had a rough day.” Dad spoke.

He cuts his portobello steak with a sleek, long, silver knife. Mom pours some red wine into his glass, and he nods at her and smiles.

Meanwhile, I am cutting my portobello mushroom into tiny neat squares.

“Stop playing with your food,” Mom says.

I look up at Mom, but I don’t reply. I wasn’t playing with it; I’m doing something important. Cutting the mushroom into squares calms me down and keeps my eyes away from my brother’s shoulders at the same time.

“Babe, Dad is talking to you,”

I look at Samuel then look at Dad again. Is he expecting a response from me?

I remember he said he heard that I had a rough day, presumably from Samuel. Since it is true, and Samuel has already told him, I wonder what he wants to know.

“I’m sorry, Dad. You heard correctly.”

Awkward stares across the table again.

I ignore all of them and continue slicing my mushroom. It looks so much better now: neat little tiny cubes lining up on my plate like a battalion of soldiers.

Samuel leans over to me and points to the seventh mushroom cube on the left in the third row.

“That square bit looks a bit bigger than the rest.”

I hold the plate at a different angle and frown. “No, it’s not.”

“I’m just teasing you, silly. Are you going to eat your food or not? We have about…” he looks at his watch and says, “39 hours, 15 minutes and 21 – no, 20 seconds left.”

Our minds turn to more urgent priorities after dinner. We wasted a day pursuing a false lead, and now we are back to the drawing board. The conclusion for today is that we have interpreted the noisiest part of town incorrectly. Samuel slams the thick environmental report on the dining room table, and both of us examine it with a fine comb.

I am saved by Jell-O after dinner. Mom serves it for dessert and places two bowls on the table. Instead of ogling Samuel’s shoulders, his bowl of red squishy Jell-O is screaming for my attention, instead. I already had my share of Jell-O, but Samuel’s dessert is still untouched.

In the midst of the distraction of me throwing longing glances at the Jell-O, Samuel’s shoulders, the report and his face, we run our arguments back and forth while he sneaks glances at Dad’s face to see if we’re on the right track. He still hasn’t touched his Jell-O.

He says, “We shouldn’t read the average noise level by location; the average is done over 24 hours.”

“Check the breakdown by the hour, then? Between 1-2 pm since it’s the meeting time?”

He takes a side glance at Dad and then makes a slight frown toward me. It means our guess is off.

I say, “How about this table showing noise by landmarks? The airport and railway are around 130 decibels.”

“Seriously, are you trying to kill your son?” Samuel looks at Dad and speaks in an accusing tone.

Dad’s face is plastered to his Jell-O pudding and almost too perfectly still. Samuel turns to me and grins; I understand what that smile means.

A long shadow is cast into my room as I write in my journal the reflections for the day, the Jell-O cup empty at a corner of the table. I find my brother standing at my door, his hands on the doorway, his face hidden by shadows. He’s all ready to head out – stylish dress shirt and pressed fitted pants. He’s meeting a girl, I think. I’m not sure how long he stood there watching me but when I notice him, he says,

“Is there something on your mind, Babe?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Something I can’t know?”

“Yes.”

“I thought we’re best friends.”

Silence.

“Are you still mad at me for going to California?”

Silence again. I stop typing.

“I ate your Jell-O.”

He laughs. “Is that it? You can have it; I don’t mind.”

My brother doesn’t understand. I am not supposed to eat the Jell-O because I am only allowed one sweet food a day. He knows that. If I had given in to temptation, then what is there to stop me from lusting over him? No one understands how serious it is.

The breeze cuts into my face as I jog alone in the dark.

Twilight is my favorite time of the day when I am the only one in the world. In the pre-dawn darkness, the lonesome road smells of dew, dust, and dreams. No loud noises, no need to keep constant vigilance about how to behave around others. In this silence, these precious minutes before the breaking dawn, are the moments when I am free from fear. No watchful eyes on me, no people to watch out for.

Don’t get too used to him, I keep reminding myself. He will be gone after this summer, and I don’t want to go through the whole disappointment again. Just like his footprints – the wind, the rain, and the countless people who cross his path will eventually erode any traces of their existence. At most, I can only hope that he comes back for the next summer. And after that, wherever he goes, I won’t be able to follow. This desert land and quiet town is where I will stay for the rest of my life. The same jogging path, the same pool, the same park –familiarity is what makes me feel safe at home.

I am surprised to find my brother awake when I return. He was out till pretty late last night. His hair is in a mess when I find him brushing his teeth in our shared bathroom, his eyes barely open. I stand and wait for him to leave before I shower. But after he brushes his teeth, he starts to shave and then he washes his face. He looks up when he catches me staring,

“You need to use the sink?”

No, I was waiting for him to leave before I shower, but I suddenly realize that it would look very suspicious to be shy around him. Then without a word, I step into the shower, fully clothed, and pull the curtains closed before I start stripping.

After showering, we pack sandwiches in cellophane wrap, coffee in flasks, apples and cans of beer into our backpacks, the silenced music from his iPod blaring through his headphones. We get into his car with our bags full of supplies, preparing to spend the whole day outside to crack the mission.

Our first destination is the airport.

We drive past the Flaming Gorge on our way. It is a living irony of nature when you find a vast reservoir smack in the middle of a desert: blue water brimming with fish, yet surrounded by barren red rocks and desert. Just like my brother, so close, yet so untouchable.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He turns to the window and slows the car down.

“Red and blue, like water inside fire.”

The gorge stretches all the way to Utah, to lush forests and all kinds of wildlife.

“Red, blue and green,” he corrects, “If you go further down river.”

I smile and look out. He lowers the car window so that we can have a better view outside.

“We should come here someday to camp or fish. What do you think?”

We never went camping alone before. The whole idea of sleeping alone with him, far away from our parents’ prying eyes, puts all sorts of dirty thoughts in my head. I chuckle.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sunglasses on his face, wind running through his short tousled hair and billowy lumberjack shirt. I can stare at him all day.

And I’m dying to tell him.

“It’s private.”

He hints a smile, “And you’re not telling me?”

“And I’m not telling you.” I repeat.

“And he’s not telling me.” He repeats in disbelief.

I like the way he repeats what I have said. Doing so reminds me of how the girls flirt with him – brushing against him accidentally at first, but becoming intentional when they do it the second and third time. Just like the way he used to dry my hair with the towel after we swim – gently rubbing the sides, then stroking back and forth around my head until the message gets to me loud and clear: that every stroke and brush is a token of his affection.

He looks at me suspiciously. I suppress my grin by solving some equations in my head. Better be more careful in case he sees through me.

We stop one mile away from the airport at an old diner by the roadside. I tell him that the noise comes from the landing plane when it is 100 feet above. Based on the velocity and flight routes, this diner should be the noisiest spot, not the airport itself.

Look for Mr X.

The diner is inconspicuously located along a rather quiet road towards the airport. It could be mistaken for a large trailer home if not for the diner sign. The paint is faded and cracking. One of the letters on the sign is also missing. The diner is out of business. That explains the weeds and the surrounding trash.

“Let’s look around to see if Dad left any clues behind,” Samuel says.

He goes to the back of the building while I check the front. Windows, walls, parking lot. There are no obvious clues, except for the neon sign above:

_avier’s Diner

Xavier’s Diner? Does the missing X mean something?

I stare at the sign until I feel a huge shadow passing over me.

A loud rumble approaches from above, roaring and sweeping everything like a whirlwind: leaflets, plastic cups, leaves, debris from the ground. I look up and lose my balance when the massive shadow appears to dive towards me.

A pair of hands grabs my shoulders, startling me until I recognize the familiar scent. Samuel holds my head down to his chest and holds me tightly until the roaring sound fades.

“You alright?”

I nod.

“Still scared now?”

His forehead knocks against mine gently, and he smiles. He used to do that when I was scared.

I’m still scared, not by the plane, but by the trembles and palpitations I feel when he holds me. I pull away immediately and brush the leaves from my clothes.

“What’s wrong with you?” he seems pissed.

“I’m sorry...”

I mutter a weak apology and rush back towards the car. I have second thoughts; I turn back and give him an awkward hug. I must have been too sudden because he looks puzzled. I didn’t really know what I was feeling then except that I shouldn’t get too close, but I didn’t want to upset him at the same time.

“Hey, don’t keep things to yourself, okay. That’s what I’m for.”

We drive past the Red Desert on our way to the railway station, our next lead for the quest. Wind blows through our hair and faces; across the vast plains, a herd of wild horses gallops in the distance. He stops the car, and both of us sit on top, chewing sandwiches and sipping coffee. Acres of rolling land unfold before us, grasses dancing in the wind, unencumbered blue skies above; I am lost in this vastness, I feel Samuel’s damp skin as he rests a hand over my shoulders.

Broad smiles on his face as he leans back and relaxes. He seems so okay with everything. Leaving home is okay, coming back is okay, watching the galloping horses with an arm around me is okay – nothing ever seems to faze him.

I envy him.

When we reach the railway station, he takes out the headset and asks me to put it on. The station is nothing more than a glorified wooden shed that smells of gas, coal and burnt grass. The waiting room is small and worn, nothing much there except for a small ticket counter and a red-haired, plump, bespectacled lady manning it. Few trains head this way, except for the ones transporting coal. There is only one departing train to Cheyenne each day for passengers and one arriving in the afternoon from there. The headset seems unnecessary, but if any place is noisy in Sweetwater County, it will be here.

The pale-yellow paint is flaking off the wall, and on the far end hangs a frayed, green notice board that has not been updated since 1992. There is a faded poster for a theatre play that says the Life and Death of Malik Shabazz; scribbles and graffiti cover it. Other than us, there are two straggling travelers waiting for their train.

“We’re supposed to look for Mr X; that’s where they are meeting,” Samuel says.

“You think it could be one of them?” I point to the two passengers waiting for their train.

“Nah. The email was sent on Monday; no reason for him to be here.”

Another dead end, it seems.

Our shadows lengthen as the afternoon sun descends. After searching the place for the fourth time, we look at each other, hoping that the other would have better luck. He shakes his head and slumps his shoulders.

19 hours, 3 minutes and 2 seconds left to the deadline.

It’s not that I want the present so badly, but I want to relive that long forgotten camaraderie after our triumphant missions: all the intimate privileges that I used to have – the leaps of joy, the sleepovers, the never ending hugs that I no longer feel safe to give freely these days. That is what I really want.

I sit on the railway bench, knees knocking together, head down and nose into the clue sheet, refusing to look at the resignation on his face.

“Let’s give up.”

He finally says it.

And his next words slice like a knife.

“It’s only a game.”

But it isn’t one to me.

He kneels down, both hands on my shoulders and says to my face,

“I’ll get you another present if I have to.”

“It’s not about the present.”

He brushes a hand on my face and says, “I know, Babe, I know.”

We are exhausted by the time we get home – damp shirts stuck to our skin, sandy dust in our hair. I smell almost like him. From the look on his face, I guess he’ll need a break, too. It will be a long night working away because we’re stuck, and time is running out. Tomorrow noon is the deadline, so I want to ask him what time we should resume the quest.

Outside his room, I find him talking over the phone.

Hey, Mindy, I’m sorry I can’t meet you tonight.

I can’t tomorrow, either. It’s my brother’s birthday.

No, no. I’m not going out with Sarah, I swear.

​Of course, you can come.

Hey, c’mon. I’ll make it up this weekend, okay? At my place.

He sees me by his door and beckons me to come in.

I walk away, instead.

Who am I kidding? I won’t even stand a chance! Better to get him out of my system before I go crazy. I walk away as soon as he notices me entering the bathroom to strip all the filth away, turning the cold water on full blast. I rest a hand on the wall, letting the icy shower hit my face, every drop like a dart perforating me.

This will wake me up.

But instead, I remember his warmth when he places a hand over my shoulders. And I find myself jerking off to the memory of his shoulders, remembering his musky scent.

I don’t understand what I want from him exactly.

Is it his approval and affection? Or is my desire spawned from his absence, just like an amputee feeling a phantom limb to reconnect with what he had lost? I know what my body wants for certain. I want my body to be fused into his again, to melt into him, to become him or a part of him, just like the complete surrender I felt at the airport.

I get out of the bathroom and find him sprawling over my bed with his iPad and the clues. My hand tightens the towel around my waist, feeling glad to have relieved myself before I came out.

“You sure took your time to shower.” He taps on his watch. “We have less than sixteen hours”

I avoid his glance and grab a pair of shorts from the drawer, turning my back to him.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he says.

I slip on the shorts immediately when I realize he’s looking at me.

“Why are you acting all shy?”

I catch a glimpse of his face. He suspects.

“N-No, I’m not.” I fidget and look away.

“Yes, you are. You’ve been acting all weird since I got home.”

He takes the towel from me and starts drying my body. I feel naked and vulnerable right next to his body. He barks commands at me,

Lift your arms.

Turn around.

Put on a shirt.

My face is burning hot by the time he’s done, and the reflection in the mirror shows how red my cheeks, ears and shoulders are. I just hope he’ll think it’s from all that manhandling. The rough terrycloth towel brushes against my skin and hair systematically; the pattern and movements are familiar, just like how Mom did it for me a long time ago. Even she has accepted the fact that I’ve grown up, but Samuel still treats me like his ten-year-old kid brother. He doesn’t let me go until he’s fully satisfied that I’m dry enough.

I thought he was about to comment on my acting weird again, but fortunately his mind is on the mission.

“I’ve been thinking,” he sits on the bed and takes out a cigarette. “Dad normally requires us to apply knowledge from all fields to solve puzzles. We’ve cracked the first code with prime numbers – mathematics. We’ve used physics to work out the required altitude for the planes: 100 feet above the ground. But nothing on history, literature or anything of that sort.”

“What about the reference number? We haven't figured out what it’s for. Maybe it has something to do with the humanities,” I say.

“That’s what I was thinking. It might be a reference to a library book?” He looks at me before he flicks the lighter.

I grab my iPad and log onto the Public Library website and key in the reference number. The title The Biography of Malcom X comes up.

“That must be Mr X!” I say.

“But it doesn’t make sense…? Isn’t the library supposed to be quiet?”

The email says to meet next to Mr X, which we presumed to be the location of the book. However, it also says to meet at the noisiest part of town.

“Maybe the clue lies inside the book?” I ask.

“Arrgh… More reading again?” He takes a drag and frowns.

The room smells of smoke and sweat. We doze off in my bed reading Malcom X’s life story. I don’t turn on the AC.

I hate reading, but non-fiction isn’t as bad as novels. Trying to visualize things that didn’t happen is very tiring because most of the time I’m not sure what they mean. At least, facts are easily verified and understood. However, this author writes the biography like a novel. He is so liberal with metaphors that I thought I was reading a National Geographic article.

‘Earth-shattering reforms.’

The first thing that came to my mind are policies that involves earthquakes.

‘Ground-breaking ideas’

More earthquakes...

‘Cold-blooded assassination’

Killer reptiles?

It is an irony that Dad makes me write with metaphors because that’s how people understand ideas efficiently. Metaphors are like super-summaries used by lazy people who don’t like to elaborate properly and don’t like to make those associations themselves. Reptiles are cold-blooded, and many are predators with bad reputations, so when you associate them with assassinations, people are supposed to understand that he was killed without compassion.

That’s why reading is really, really painful. And that is not a metaphor because I am actually experiencing a headache.

Samuel reads twice as fast as I do but falls asleep twice as soon.

Sometimes he pulls on his hair when he reads very old English texts, like Victorian novels and Shakespeare, who uses descriptions and parallels that are devoid of meaning to him.

I feel your pain, Babe.

He’d say that, pointing to his copy of Charles Dicken’s Hard Times; he said the author named the book very aptly because Samuel had a very hard time reading it. After hearing that, I didn’t dare to whine about Charlotte’s Web wrecking my brain. It’s a children’s book.

The clock shows 3:51 a.m. when my eyes open. My room is dark except for the lava lamps by the night stand. I feel the heaviness of his arm and leg thrown over my body; his sleeping face next to mine when I turned, and his lips slightly apart, tempting me to lean over and kiss him. I’ve never kissed anyone, before but everyone in school is doing it. I wonder if his lips taste like Jell-O.

Stop it.

I almost slap myself.

Taking a deep breath, I wiggle out slowly without waking him. My hands reach out to the iPad and resume reading the long and tedious biography. By 5:21 a.m., I come across a sentence that finally catches my attention:

….born Malcolm Little and also known as El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz,

I remember that name!

“Malik Shabazz! Malcom X is Malik Shabazz!”

Samuel rubs his eyes and tilts his head up from the pillows when I rock him vigorously.

“What is it, Babe?”

I grasp for breath, count to ten, compose myself, and then I explain,

“There is a poster at the railway station that says, Life and Death of Malik Shabazz. That’s their meeting spot! Next to Mr X!”

Samuel’s heavy eyes squint at me, “Are you sure? We won’t have time to check the library if we’re heading to the station again.”

“I’ll bet on it.”

Only six hours and thirty six minutes left. We have a couple of minutes more to sleep before we need to embark; the railway station won’t be open at this hour anyway.

The moment the alarm clock sounds, I drag Samuel out of bed to our shared bathroom. I literally shove the toothbrush into his mouth to get him started brushing. His face is still groggy and grumpy even after he washes it, so I grab some Snickers bars and beer, for him, from the fridge.

“Let’s hope we get it right this time.”

He taps his thumb on the steering wheel, one arm dangling out of the window. He smiles at me when he turns on the radio. I scratch my nose as I go over the clues again to check if we have missed anything important.

He nods along to the music and flicks my ear to get my attention.

“You look so cute when you’re engrossed.”

I need to tone down my smile. He would’ve seen everything: the flush, my quickened breaths and my face turning away a little too quickly.

You look so cute when you’re engrossed – repeats over and over in my head.

He smiles and leans back, like he’s found something he’s looking for. My heart is about to explode until I realize what caught his attention. Our destination lies ahead.

We reach the railway station at four minutes past seven. The car doors slammed behind us as we dash towards the notice board. We huddle around the poster, crane our necks and examine the little scribbles of graffiti on it.

“Look,” Samuel points to the top corner of the poster. I tiptoe and squint at the tiny words, my head standing barely above his shoulders.

It says: Collect tickets at counter with your names and verification number, JM.

“That’s Dad’s initials!” I yelp.

The balding man hands us a white envelope after we provide our names and our verification number. Inside, there are two tickets to Cheyenne on a train that departs today at 8:45 a.m.

“We made it in time!”

“Hey, Babe, slow down; we haven’t had a clue what to do in Cheyenne.”

We find ourselves a bench and take out all the clues to look for hints what we’re supposed to do in Cheyenne:

Two train tickets leaving at 8:45 a.m. from Rock Springs railway station.

An email from Robber1970 to Dad, meeting here, presumably to take something or pass something to each other.

An environment report, of which the only relevant page so far is the noise-level benchmark that serves as the clue.

Verification code which we have cracked and used to redeem the tickets.

And the library reference that helps us know what to look for in the railway station.

Nothing we haven’t used yet.

During the three-hour train ride, we discuss and debate over the possible things that need to be done.

“We still don’t know what we’re supposed to do there?” I bite my lips and pace around.

“Dad only gives us 15 minutes to complete it in Cheyenne. That means we don’t have to go far.”

“You’re right.” I quickly take out my iPad and open Google maps. I enlarged the Cheyenne map to look for shops, landmarks and anything within a one-mile radius of the railway station.

There are no other buildings close by.

“Maybe we’re supposed to stay in the station?” I ask.

“What if we’re supposed to look for someone and not something?” Samuel creases his brows.

“Maybe we’re meeting Robber1970?”

His eyes suddenly widen as he sits up, “Babe, how old is Uncle Rob this year?”

“43. Why?”

He points to 1970. Uncle Rob’s full name is Robert Benjamin Erwin.

I grab the sides of my head and laugh, “I- I can’t believe it.”

“We cracked it, Babe.” He bites his lower lip and smiles, raising his hand for a high five and then lowering it for a fist bump.

The train slows as it approaches our destination. Samuel points out the window, “Look, it’s Uncle Rob. He’s waving to us.”

I follow him when he runs out of the train towards our uncle. Uncle Rob tips his wide-brimmed hat and greets us with a smile on his thick moustached face.

“Well done, boys.” He pats us on the back, then turns to me and says, “Happy birthday, Keith.”

A small flat, rectangular box comes out from his jacket, neatly wrapped with a simple glossy, baby-blue wrapper, and cursive, handwritten, silver-inked words that read: For my sweet, sweet Babe.

And I can almost taste the sweetness on my lips. I will frame the wrapper and keep it with me.

Our smiling eyes meet, and Samuel points his chin at the present.

I carefully remove the wrapper and hold up the gift. It is an electronic photo book with thousands of memories Samuel and I shared over the past seventeen years. Many of the pictures were taken by Samuel.

My baby photos with him pulling my ears – some crying, some laughing.

I smile.

Two of us playing in the bathtub, fighting over our toys, cake smeared over our faces.

And I feel my throat swell.

Our selfies - victory shots when we cracked our first mission,

My intense face when I am doing his homework.

Eyes wet.

My sullen face looking out the window; he took it discreetly on the day before he left for college,

With every frame, he tells me that he knows all the moments that are significant to me. And I can’t describe this happiness. He understood all these moments and remembers everything. And it matters to him.

I wrap my arms around him and feel him lifting me off the ground.

When summer ends, I’ll probably cry my heart out, but right now I don’t care. I’ll let myself dream of him another day.

That’s all I’m asking, Samuel, just to look up and find you there.

I don’t realize I am holding onto him longer than I should.

Uncle Rob is staring.

It is too late now.

Feeling brazen and nothing left to lose, I stand on tiptoes to kiss his cheeks. From his expression, it must have come across as awkward, clumsy and almost rude.

Embarrassment, anger, confusion, amusement and then anger again – all these faces flash and are gone within a few seconds, too fast for me to comprehend what they mean. But this sequence of pissed and upset faces must not bode well.

He and Uncle Rob exchange a look, and then he lifts his hand.

I stumble back and cower, thinking he's about to hit me.

But instead, he ruffles my hair. And the both of them are laughing.