Destiny - a novel - 14. Chapter 14: Shame

Chapter 14: Shame

The crowd of people sporting 'staff' and 'visitor' badges around their necks is thinnest about mid-afternoon, so that's the time Jack and I go on our strolls through the hospital building.

I walk behind him, pushing his wheelchair, while he sits bundled up, right arm extended to pull his IV stand along with us.

"You need any new magazines?" I ask, leaning in close to his ear.

After a small group of lab-coat wearing folk glide past us coming the other way, Jack pivots his head to the side and tells me, "I could go for a few. I want 360 Gamer and Tiger Beat."

"Tiger Beat! Jack, you know I love you, but seriously, Tiger Beat is like a glossy rag for preteen girls to ogle all the new-boy celebs!"

"Your point being..?"

"My point being, 'Shut up, Linc, and just do it.'"

"Damn right. Besides, we can ogle all the cute teen celeb boys together…"

Even from behind I can tell he's smirking; I guess words spoken through a good-natured grin sound happier. Why wouldn't they?

"Ok, Jack. That sounds like a plan."

We move through a pair of wide double doors standing open and enter the atrium area. Once again, I am struck by the contrast of rich wood tones and sharp metal glints. When we first began spending time here, the light coming through the glass ceiling four stories above was dull, but since the weather has turned cold, clear and dry, the white marble floor is a sea of brightness.

I push Jack towards the center, intending to go to our 'usual spot' where lounge chairs are arranged and I can park my boy's vehicle right next to one and hold his hand.

"Wait!" Jack calls out. "Let's go check out that display." He points in the direction of the gift shop, and I silently wish his keen eyes had not spotted that particular bit of color and flash.

"Ok, babe." I spin his wheels around 90-degrees, and aim his chair straight for the wide storefront of the hospital's main gift shop. A series of large display tables have been pushed together, and rising above various groups of chocolates and teddy bears is a papier-mâché cupid. He's been gilded from bow-tip to air-borne toe with red gold leaf, which has been rubbed to an immaculate burnish. He's a little larger than the typical three-year-old toddler, and appears just as mischievous with his Mona Lisa grin and coiled muscles pulled back to wound somebody's heart with his rakishly cocked arrow.

His right leg, kicked back in mid-flight takeoff, and a demure swath of fabric hide his delicate little assets from full view. Supporting him from a belly-button position is a golden rod that sinks down towards the table and is quickly hidden by the displays.

"Valentine's Day is only a couple days away, Lincoln."

He says my name in a lingering admixture of teasing and entreaty.

"I know, Jack."

We get up to the central table, and I can stop being Jack's little engine that could for awhile. I move around to watch his face. As he gazes over chocolate boxes – plain ones, beribboned ones, classic heart-shaped ones – there is wonder and connection in my beautiful boyfriend's Bambi-browns. The only profoundly sad part for me is that Jack can't have any of them right now. That kills me; that's the reason why I wish he had never noticed this display of 'forbidden fruit.'

I lay my palm flat on the bare skin of his arm and squat down on my haunches besides him. "Kid, next Valentine's Day, I'll buy you this whole damn display, don’t you doubt it."

By the stunned look he suddenly shoots my way, it seems I have made him speechless.

"We'll have many Valentine's Days together too, Jack. Many."

He nods and glances back up at Love flying over our heads.

I lean in and kiss him on the cheek before standing up and repositioning his chair to the left side of the central table. Here, vases full of bouquets of chocolate roses punctuate a bleacher-like display of teddy bears – larger ones on bottom, and then graduated up to tiny critters on the top tiers. They are a cosmopolitan mix: some are white with big embroidered red hearts, others are chocolate-brown with single stem felt roses in their paws, while a few are golden and offer a plush cardio-shaped pillow for the beloved with outstretched arms.

"Do you want a teddy bear, Jack?"

He shakes his head.

"Can I get you – "

His hand comes up to halt me. I swing around and crouch down in front of him again, my hands coming to rest on his knees. Jack looks serious.

"Linc, I know you, and I do not want you to do anything elaborate for me on Valentine's Day."

I pat his leg a little bit, feeling some color rise on my neck and cheeks. I chuckle, "You don’t get to decide, babe. I do." I emphasize this simple fact with an eyebrow flare, and that makes my boyfriend smile – much to my relief.

"Well, just remember, you've already wooed and won me, sexy beast. So, no need to go all out."

I can't help but laugh out loud as I rise to my feet.

"Speaking of wooing," I ask. "Did Dawn tell you about Jackson's rooftop picnic for her?"

"Sure did."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"Was she suitably impressed? Was she set back on her heels by my brother's efforts?"

"You know as well as I do that Dawn's not the sentimental type, but if I have to guess, I feel pretty confident she's quietly succumbing to the Oliver family magic. Who wouldn't?"

I begin to push Jack around the display, and we slowly drink in the entire 360 experience. "I believe that Jackson has something up his sleeve for Dawn's Valentine's Day."

"Oh, yeah. What?"

"Can't tell you. You'll just blab it to Dawn – you know you will – so, I can't spoil my bro's 'big move.'" I laugh and Jack joins in.

We roll into the wood-paneled bookstore-slash-magazine stand next door, and my boy points out which boy-band rag and joystick-head broadsheet he wants. I buy them, plus a pack of Chiclets chewing gum, before we head out to our usual seating place.

I park Jack, locking the handbrakes against the gray rubber of his wheels. I leave his plastic sack of magazines dangling through the handhold opening on the grip of his chair, and slide into the lounge seat on his left side. Our hands immediately, effortlessly, come out and hold one another. We're just quiet for a while, enjoying a bit of warmth streaking our cat-like faces from the skylight above and people-watching staff and visitors shuffling along.

After a few minutes of that, Jack asks, "Do you notice it? Do you see how people avoid 'looking' at sickness?"

"What do you mean?"

"People here, they'll glance in our direction, see me, and then quickly turn away. It's as if they do not want to see illness out of fear, so they avoid looking it in the eye."

In a quiet moment of reflection – one in which I observed the way people are indulging in fleeting looks, and then stiffening the way they move approaching us – I have to agree. "I'll admit I see what you're talking about, but in the same light, you'll have to admit it's nothing personal."

"True. It's all so impersonal – I'll readily concede that."

Damn. I've put my foot in it and made Jack sad.

"Jack, sweetheart, did I ever tell you about my first love?"

He shakes his head, his eyes growing wonder-smitten with intrigue.

"Well, at fifteen, a few months before I ran from home, I was walking across campus at Berkeley, on this one particular trail an out football player teammate of mine told me about, and met this guy. A closeted political sciences student, I fell head over heels for the dark-haired, serious-type boy with a Mona Lisa smile, and for the one who taught me how to fuck him – deep.

"I considered him my boyfriend; I loved him. So his rejection of me via text that he had 'decided' not to be queer because it would be a liability to his University Republican Committee nomination as chapter president devastated me." I laugh scornfully. "The fucker reduced me to a 'liability,' and here I was, dumb kid, thinking that he cared even half as much for me as I did for him. His betrayal, Jack, really messed me up."

"I'm sorry he broke your heart, Lincoln."

"But, sweetheart, do you know why I'm telling you this?"

He shakes his head.

"It's because, I've had heartache in my life, and I vow to you right here and now that I will never inflict that level of pain on you. I love you, and I know you love me back just as much."

"Okay, Lincoln. You know I trust you."

Jack must be able to read my silent concerns, for he suddenly changes the subject by glancing up.

"Look," he says. "All the holiday glitz is down and packed away for next year."

"Yes, Jack. It was a very impressive Christmas tree."

"Somehow I wish it could have stayed up longer."

"Why's that, babe?" I'm suspicious of the pending reply.

He holds my gaze plaintively. "I just wish for more time, Lincoln. That's all."

Near tears, I raise up Jack's hand to kiss it. Then I inhale some determination through my nose. "I want to marry you, Jack Shaw. So, we'll have plenty of time, do not worry about that."

"You want to marry me..?" A totally inappropriate smirk lifts one side of Jack's face. "Why, cuz you can't live without me, or something?"

"Hell yeah, I want to marry you. And the reason is a simple one: I love you, Jack Shaw. You're the one for me, now and always."

Jack tears up and kisses the back of my hand. "Ditto, Lincoln Oliver."

"So…" I draw out the 'oh' sound. "We engaged, or what?"

My boyfriend's hand releases mine, goes to the side of my neck and draws our foreheads together. "I love you, my sexy beast."

After we kiss, Jack's eyes pull back with a new brightness. He adds, "Phew – I said you didn't have to do anything special for Valentine's Day, but come on, you could have waited until then to pop the question, LOL! Where's the ring? Where's the bended knee – and yes, of course I will marry you – where's the single red rose?"

I kiss him again, and never did two lips taste as sweet as those of my brand new fiancé. "Next Christmas, kid, we'll have our own tree to lie under, side by side and look up into all the twinkling lights and splendor together. Don’t you think we won't, ok?"

"No, Lincoln. I won't question it."

The sound of excited sneakers punishing the white marble floor suddenly comes from behind us. "Lincoln…" I hear my name and stand. Jackson and Dawn are running right for us – a blank look of horror animates their faces.

Out of breath and more agitated than ever, they get to Jack and me. Dawn pants, "It's all over the news!"

"What is?" I ask dumbfounded.

My brother cries out, "That they're coming!"

"Who?"

Jack's motion catches my attention. He raises his IV arm and grips onto my wrist, jerking my heart bracelet pretty hard. Before Dawn or Jackson can answer me, I glance down and see Jack's eyes are locked dead ahead of him. "They are," he says quietly.

I shift my focus to what Jack is watching, and see Sheriff McClusky and another uniformed potbellied man, who I instantly assume is the local deputy. They are just striding through the double glass doors from the public lobby and trailing a wake of suspicious-looking people with 'visitor' badges around their necks; they are suspicious because each one sports a video camera in their hands.

In a quick moment of lucid action, I disengage the magnet clasp of my heart bracelet and snap it around Jack's wrist; those vindictive fuckers won't get the chance to 'misplace' that.

The officers come right for us, creating a scene and pausing all the legit patients, staff and visitors in what they are doing. Everyone stands around and watches us.

McClusky strides up to me, halting only two feet from my face. His hands go to his belt, and I see his right index finger unsnap his gun holster – IDK, maybe that's only through force of habit. His gruff voice and sour breath speaks at me, like his attention is more interested in the video cameras casting a jittery pool of light in my eyes. "Are you Lincoln Henry Oliver of Los Angeles, California?"

"Yes," I say calmly. "You know I am."

The Santa Clara Sheriff – a white dude, about fifty, with light eyes and a salt-n-pepper crew cut – sticks out his hand and advances it towards my arm. He says, "Then you'll have to come with me." The man latches onto me like a vice, puts a lot of awkward pressure on my arm and twists me around. My shoes protest and almost trip me up because they can't reposition themselves as fast as this guy's aggressive movement demands. With the same unneeded strength, he forces my wrists to cross. He cuffs me, saying, "There's an outstanding warrant for your arrest in Ohio."

Media-makers crowd around taking pix, and shoot an endless stream of video. Horrified, I glance over to see them stopping in front of Jack to get a better angle on me; they are too close to stepping on his slippers and toes.

I get angry, Dawn partially screams, and Jackson assumes a defensive posture, like he's about to fistfight somebody.

Dawn cries out, "Where are you taking him?! What will you do with him!"

McClusky turns to her, re-snapping his gun holster. "He'll have an extradition hearing tomorrow, but that's only a formality." He concludes with more attention on the camera lenses than Dawn, "After his court-appointed surrender to me, it's back to Ohio to stand trial for the statutory rape of a minor."

The man's glance casts a contemptuous web of disgust over Jack's shocked face – so much for compassion for the alleged 'victim.' They can't even prop up their hypocritical game for more than two minutes at a time.

The other sheriff compels me to turn around by pushing on my bound wrists. "Miss," he says somewhat compassionately. "He'll be taken to the Santa Clara jail to await his extradition hearing."

The reporters throng around again. "Watch where you're going!" I partially shout out as they once more get close to hurting Jack. Their video lenses shift between shots of Jack and me – that makes me even more upset.

Jackson speaks up and starts shoving shoulders. "Good God, you media types swarm like shit-bloated flies down on the farm! Back off and give Jack some room!"

The group of reporters split into two groups, and Dawn and Jackson move to stand on either side of Jack's wheelchair.

Despite the physical restraint from the potbellied Santa Clara Sheriff against me – holding my wrists and arms – I crane my neck to watch Jack and say goodbye.

"It's all a misunderstanding, babe. Please – I beg of you – trust me on this, ok?"

"Yes, Lincoln. I do trust you, you know that."

That is comforting to hear him say. It gives me some strength to face the coming trials ahead of me. It's as if Jack is my own gym boy with Jesus at the Garden of Gethsemane. As I am being compelled to turn around again and face the glass of the distant double doors, I catch Jackson's eyes.

"Don't worry, bro!" He assures me. "I know what to do, and you can count on me."

I'm forced to walk forward. One final glance back and I can see Jack looking paler than ever and stressed to the max; Dawn is crying and Jackson opens his arms so she can nestle her hands and cheek against his chest.

The reporters trail me like chum from a shark boat, but just as we near the portal to the outside world, they all rush out ahead of the sheriffs and me. No doubt to take up 'good' positions on the other side to capture our exit.

The man making me walk pauses. He roughly jerks me around to face him. The Santa Clara Sheriff asks, "Do you want a coat to cover your head?"

"What?" I ask, catching McClusky's sneer at me.

The sheriff gripping me explains, "Look, son. I may not think you should be sleeping with minors, but beyond that door is a mass of TV cameras and big-name media personalities doing live broadcasts. In case you don’t know it, you are big news, and you are about to undergo a 'perp walk.'" The last part of his question becomes very honest and sincere. "Do you know what that means, son?"

I shake my head.

He goes on in the same nearly-kind voice, "You are the suspected perpetrator of a crime – a crime most people in this country think is the worst of the worst. Now, do you want your face to be covered? I have an extra jacket to do that, if you want."

I swallow down the hard lump in my throat. "Do you think Jack and I did anything wrong?"

I can tell by his reaction that the sheriff was not expecting that.

"Answer his question!" McClusky barks at me. "Yes or no to having your head covered?!"

I stare McClusky down and slowly shake my head. "No, the innocent don’t need to hide their faces, do they?"

The Santa Clara Sheriff tugs on my handcuffs to rotate my attention back to him. He asks, "So, you're ready then?"

"As ready as I'll ever be. Lead the way."

He pushes me and the doors slide open. A tidal wave of noise and confusing light-flashes engulf me. Amid broken shadows constantly in motion from handheld video cameras tossing puddles of overlapping light, I hear a bewildering array of voices saying my name all at once, followed up by horrible questions about my 'guilt' and my 'crime,' and about my 'betrayal' of Jack.

I recede into an internal world.

A series of flashbacks come, almost as if the lights strobing in front of me now are the flickering images of a movie. My feet stumble along the pavement with the local sheriff's firm command, but my mind shows me my life and world as it was, and as viewed, dream-like from an outsider's point of view.

I see my assault on my dad, smell the green grass he's laid low upon, and hear my grunts of frustrated anger at the man. I see my running away, of Jackson's face as he handed me my stuff and said goodbye, and then of hustling in L.A., and of the uncaring dates who looked at and rented me with who knows what fantasy in mind of the unobtainable boy they really wanted. I see Daddy's house and my friendship with Damien, and that kid's pitiful fall to meth. He turns mean, and worst of all, selfish. All his income goes to supporting his habit, and soon that need outpaces his drive to be free of it. He broke my heart as a friend. I see my first sight of Jack, feel my heart rate accelerate while I steal glimpses of his blue hair and soulful puppy-dog eyes over the rim of my soda cup. I see our rooftop lovemaking with the twilight blooming around us, and I inhale my boy's scent deeply, a scent I love as I come down to kiss him. I see the carousel ride, feel my hands supporting Jack around the waist as he reaches out for the brass ring. Then I see Jack getting sick, coming home to find him gone and Damien talking about reward money. But Dawn arrives like a miracle and figures out where we must go. I punch Damien because he tries to stop us, and I again feel sad because he broke my heart a second time as a one-time possible partner. I see me and Dawn finding Jack under the pier, the hospital, the flight to Ohio, and the sweet, final lovemaking with tears in my eyes.

I hold my head up high and walk proud. I'd do it all over again; after all, we're just two kids in love. I'm blessed to have Jack in the first place, and what is there about true love that I or anyone else should ever find 'shame' in? Nothing, that's what.