When the deer devours the wolf - 1. The timid doe

Joe’s Convenience is the last gas station before the state’s hunting reserve – or the closest, if living nearby. As I head back to the truck to grab my wallet, in the silence that only happens at an unremarkable gas station in rural Wisconsin, leaves rustle in the bushes. I creep close. A deer – or a doe? She stares with huge dark eyes reflecting a sunset during suppertime. She’s beautiful and graceful. I hear her snort. Her ears stand. Snort, breath, silence. I’m so close I almost touch. Then, a single gunshot booms. She looks at the convenience store’s fluorescent lights before sprinting into the bushes.

It's not the first time I've heard a gunshot. My heart races but I don’t panic. I've trained myself not to. My nostrils flare. The evening air is cold with acrid notes of gasoline. It's spring in Wisconsin but the silence after the boom is remarkable here in peacetime or during war in Afghanistan, on a hot desert midday, sand scraping my cheeks and more than twenty pounds of gear on me, the stock of the M16 digging into my shoulder as our unit hunted for the source of the gunshot.

The gunshot came from the store. Mikey’s there. As I pass, a woman rushes back into her red SUV and drives off. I creep towards the door, back against the wall and crouch below the windows. The black door is to my left. I hear sounds, a commotion. I can’t make out what it is. Mikey is in there. My hands and jaw clench. I peer through the gap between the stickers of lottos and credit cards glued to the glass of the door painted black.

The gunman barks orders. A mess of candy and chocolate bars lies scattered on the floor. The gun points to a person I can't see. The gunman’s eyes narrow. He’s angry.

Mikey sits in his wheelchair behind the gunman. Mikey, who once stood at 6'4” and was noticed in every room, now sits at 5'2” and invisible below everyone's eyes.

The gunman bends over the counter and reaches into the cash register. A second passes before Mikey rams into the gunman's legs from behind, and grabs the attacker with arms and biceps that still belong to a man who's 6'4”. The gunman falls behind the wheelchair, and they both tumble out – but Mikey squeezes the gunman in a choke hold. The black gun, a Baby Glock, slides out of the gunman's gloved palm.

I rip open the door and bells clank at my entrance. The cashier is a skinny boy who, with a pony tail and glasses, looks more like a computer nerd. His eyes stare at hole in the wall a feet from him. I pick up the gun, and hold it with bold hands and point to the thief, but aim at the thief’s legs. Mikey is not behind there. “Did you call the police?” I ask.

“No,” the cashier stammers.

“Why the fuck not?” Mikey screams. I hear the cashier pick up a phone.

A woman rushes to us. She’s blond with makeup that’s flawless like on TV. Do I know her from somewhere? “Are we safe now?” she asks.

“Safe,” Mike says with a grin as his veiny bicep continues to constrict the thief’s neck.

“You’re a hero,” she exclaims. “A true American hero!”

Mikey’s eyes look at me. “Did you hear that Rodel? No one said I was a hero coming back from Afghanistan in a wheelchair, but stopping this thieving mother fucker, I’m an American hero!” Veins pop from Mikey’s biceps as he squeezes. A gurgle escapes, choked with phlegm.

“You’re a veteran?” exclaims the woman. “I’m Megyn Jones from WTAZ. I present the weather, although I’m starting to branch –” She stops halfway when she sees the red and blue siren lights rotate in the distance. “Can I do a story about this?”

“Sure,” Mikey says with a grin. “The camera loves me.”

I bend down to whisper to the former gunman. “Are you going to give up and cooperate?” The gunman is a white man in his 40s. His pink face glistens with sweat. He can barely move his head but manages a faint nod. “Mikey, you can let him go.”

“Nah Rodel,” my buddy says. “I’m gonna keep playing with him till the cops put him in cuffs.”

Two cops enter with guns pointed. One’s white and the other’s black. I hold my hands up but they scream at me.

“Drop the gun!” commands the white cop while pointing a pistol right at me. I know when to obey a frightened man, and slowly bend down with eyes never leaving the white cop's gaze. Darkness and shadow suddenly tackle me, and the black cop bends my wrists behind my back. The handcuff's cold metal chills my wrists. “The thief is the white guy!” I yell. This is what happens when your mother is Chinese and father Filipino – I look Hispanic.

“I got the thief,” says Mikey with the authority of someone who's white, blond, and blue-eyed.

“We're gonna take them both in,” the white cop says. I’m lead to the police cruiser by the black cop as he reads me my rights. “Watch your head,” he says and I slump into the backseat. It smells like leather and a potpourri stink from unwashed bodies. I see the cops talk to the attendant before arresting the real gunman. The WTAZ van arrives as the white gunman is shoved beside me.

I look at the thief. He sneers then spits at me. “Fuck you,” he mutters. My hands are cuffed and try to wipe the spit with my shoulder. There's a spot I can't reach.

I gaze back as the car lurches forward. The TV lights are bright, and from the black framed glass door, I see Mikey sit in his wheelchair, chest puffed out, and basked in a halo as the camera rolls.

***

The bathroom's flourescent light flickers, and basks my skin even more so than the black ink used to take my fingerprints. The digital machine stopped working after taking the gunman's prints, so I had to wait in handcuffs as the junior officer rummaged through the storage locker. As the ink runs clockwise down the drain, I dig underneath my nails with one index finger to completely clean my hands.

One more finger to go, and the young cop walks in, and without a word, stands at the urinal beside the sink. As he fishes out his cock, I can see unkempt brown pubes peeking through the zipper. I stop scrubbing underneath my nails, and dare to stare. I want to see the shape, its length, whether cut or uncut. But his hands block the rest, and when his hands shake the last drops of piss, he says, “Aren't you free to go?”

“Cleaning my hands of the ink,” I stammer. He walks behind me, stares at my pink and raw hands, and shakes his head. Before he can say anything, I mutter, “Done.” I walk out with wet hands. I remember the spit, and wipe that off my nose before drying on my thighs.

My hips bump into the side of a desk as I navigate to the payphone in this small precinct. Pick up Mikey. Twenty four rings. I hang up and retrieve the quarter. I bang the coin against the plastic. Who else can I call in fucking Dodgeville?

A woman with blonde hair tied into pony tail looks at me. She wears a pant suit on a Friday evening. Why is she still here? Aren't these suit-types supposed to be gone by two on Fridays? She talks to the cop from the bathroom and he looks at me with a furrow of his brow. She puts on a coat and walks to me with a briefcase in hand. “Mr Magpantay?” she asks me.

I stop banging the coin. “Yes?”

“I'm Deborah McCulloch,” she says while extending her hand. I hate shaking hands but comply. “Tristan told me about what happened, and where you live. I’m heading that way. Do you need a ride home?” Why does she want to help? “I’m a public defendant and that was bad law enforcement.”

I nod and we walk outside. I follow her to a dark green Toyota Tercel. Mikey can't drive anymore, so the truck must still be at the gas station. “The truck's still at Joe’s Convenience.”

“It's along the way. I'll drop you off there,” she says. “The door's open.” When I'm inside, my feet touch empty fast food bags. “Sorry about the mess.” She only starts driving once I have my seat belt.

“I'm glad there are no Chick-fil-A bags,” I say.

Deborah turns on her headlights. “Don’t get me started on the politics of fast food,” she says while shaking her head. There’s the ticking of the signal light as we merge onto the highway. “The entire precinct was talking about your friend Mike Schroder and how he stopped my client and is not only a hero, but a veteran. How do you know Mr Schroder?”

“We were bunkmates during basic training,” I answer.

“You’re a veteran too?” she says. “No one ever mentioned that. Army?” I nod. “I wouldn’t have guessed that about you,” she continues. “I’ve met a few ex-army types and you’re not like them.”

“I was a medic,” I say.

“Mr Schroder bruised my client’s neck pretty bad with that choke hold. Sometimes I can guilt the prosecution into a lighter plea bargain because of excessive force, but Herman doesn’t have any sympathy for schizophrenic meth addicts.”

“I tried to get Mikey to ease up,” I add. “But he does what he wants to.”

“Of course Mr Schroder isn't charged with anything,” she says, “being a white male with pri –” I see movement of shadows on the highway shoulder half a mile away, and four legs spring onto the highway. The car's headlights shine on brown fur, pointed ears, and eyes that grow wide in the light. Deborah shrieks and slams on the brakes, but the deer doesn't move. I reach over and honk her horn. The doe’s ears twitch and suddenly gallops towards the highway median, and disappears into more bushes.

We stop at the shoulder. Deborah turns on her emergency lights after turning off the engine. “Oh my God.” Her breaths are deep. She clutches onto the steering wheel and doesn't move. “Last month my uncle died when his car hit a deer.” I can tell her eyes aren't looking at anything in particular, just the distance. “I could have died. My daughter...” She looks at me now. She cries and her arms shake despite gripping onto the wheel.

“It's intense the first time,” I say. “But you're safe now.” Should I touch her shoulder? As I lean in, she folds into me through the seat belt. Her chest trembles and my arms wrap around her. It's been so long since I held someone. I smell her shampoo and her perfume, something with flowers. I haven’t smelled a woman’s scent in a very long time. I close my eyes and the tears run down the sides of my cheeks.

When she breaks the embrace, she wipes her eyes while looking back on the road. Her fingers wrap around the keys again to turn on the engine, but then stop. “First time? There's been others?” She shakes her head. “You were in the army, of course there was more than one time.”

“The first time I couldn't really see it,” I say. “We were in a convoy of trucks, and I was sitting in the rear truck. I'm a medic so I'm always near the back. I hear shooting. I know it's one of our rifles. We got out, armed and ready. On the road ahead there was this Afghani man with his head shot. Mikey had killed the man because he didn't stop. Even though he was flat on the ground, I saw the explosives bulging around his chest. If Mikey hadn't taken action, we would have been dead.”

“Mikey was,” she begins, but then corrects herself, “is a brave man.”

I shake my head. “You were right the first time,” I say. “Mikey changed since the incident. He drinks most of the time. That's why we were at the gas station. He'd run out of rye.”

“What happened?” Deborah asks. I debate whether to tell her, but I haven't been able to tell this to anyone before, and with the tears drying on my eyes, I need to tell someone.

“Mikey will tell you differently,” I begin. “He'll say he chased after a guy who threw a grenade at us, and that's when he stepped on a mine. But it was different. He chased after a woman not wearing a headscarf. She had light brown hair and blue eyes. That's something rare in Afghanistan, and the Taliban knew that. Why wasn't she wearing a headscarf? Mikey didn't ask that question. He chased after her, and when I heard the explosion, I knew what happened. But it didn't prepare me for what I actually saw.” I close my eyes and only see darkness. I force myself to only see darkness. But red drips in. The screaming. The smell of burnt flesh like steak on the grill forgotten, left to burn and char.

She hugs me. “I'm sorry to hear that. It's tragic. Maybe with today, the brave Mikey has returned.”

“Hopefully,” I say. Should I tell her the rest? That after that day, I found solace in the lips of the Arabic translator, that he was the last one I held? Should I tell her that his touch lead me to fields of red poppies, and my eventual dishonorable discharge?

Deborah starts the engine. No. Some things I need to guard for myself.

I’m alone as I wave goodbye and walk towards the truck, a silver Ford F-150 parked far away from the others. Mikey doesn’t want others to see that he needs help to get out. Help from me.

Mikey bought the truck with inherited money. Truck and house from his mom, and no photos from the father save one. There are family photos of me with my father in those photography studios with painted blue backgrounds. Same pose, same smile without the eyes. It was my dad's idea. He wanted to put something in his office to show that he was a family man. The photo was all he needed – and all he had. In these photos, my left hand always clasped and hid my right, and starting when I was thirteen, I stuck out my middle finger on my right hand but still hidden with my left. But when I turned sixteen, I didn't hide it. Or that I was gay.

As I reach the driver's door, my left hand reaches into my pockets for my keys. I only feel lint. “Fuck.” I glare around me and no one's around. I just want to go home. I'm tired, alone, and from the thought of walking a grueling mile, I scream and kick the Ford's tire. Fuck you Mikey. You and your shitty bottles of rye.

I walk. I've walked before. I must continue walking down the road that merges to the highway.

“I'm glad I doubled back.” It's a dark green Tercel. Deborah smiles when I get in, her hair no longer tied and flows around her shoulders. “What happened?”

“Keys fell out,” I mutter. “I hate these pants.” Slacks from the discount clothes shop. She doesn't ask why I don't get new ones, and I sense she knows.

“Have you eaten?” she asks. I shake my head and close my eyes shut. Darkness. When you're dishonorably discharged, you have nothing. I have nothing but the clothes I was discharged in.

We’re silent until we've driven a few miles to a late night diner. I order the steak dinner with extra fries. I douse my fries in ketchup, and slurp that up.

She sips her coffee, then says, “Where's your family?”

“In San Diego,” I answer. “But they don't want anything to do with me. Actually my father. I sometimes write letters to my mom's work to let her know I'm OK. I even sent her postcards of cities I hitchhiked to until I joined the army.”

“Where did you go?”

“Phoenix, Austin, New Orleans.”

“Before the army, so how old were you?”

“Seventeen.”

Her eyebrows rise. “What's the story with you and your father?”

I make red circles with a fry skewered on my fork. I bring it to my lips, chew, and as I stare into Deborah, I know I can tell her this. “I'm gay and my father wanted nothing to do with me after finding out.”

“How does a seventeen year old survive in San Diego, Phoenix, and New Orleans?”

I shake my head. “You know very well what he did, what he had to do. He mortgaged his youth to survive.” The last morsel of steak is now cold and disgusting, but I force it down. “But he read, and spent as much time as possible at the library. The time spent hitchhiking were some of the best – and worst – times of his life.”

Deborah pays and we drive. We listen to bland pop music until we arrive at Mikey's inherited house. I'm about to leave the car, but she grabs my hand with both of hers. “I'm only a public defendant with decades of student loans to pay off,” she says, “but if you need anything, call me.” She gives me her card, simply printed with just her name and information and on thin paper.

“Thank you,” I say. I put her card inside my pant pocket. I walk up the hill to the bungalow with Deborah's headlights illuminating the way. The main door is flush with the ground and I try the door. It opens. This is one benefit of living in the middle of nowhere.

I wave at Deborah. She flashes her lights, then drives off. I see her headlights snake through the woods. Before going inside, I stare at the stars. It's a crescent moon. It's a moment of peace before embarking inside.

The living room is quiet except for the creaking door. Mikey sleeps in his wheelchair. Mikey's head droops to the left, and both hands lay in his lap with palms up like he supplicates. Today he drinks from a mug, and “World's Greatest Mother” lays a foot away with a puddle of rye staining the beige carpet. There's a half empty bottle on the coffee table. Whoever took Mikey home was generous.

I push him into the master bedroom. When he's like this, nothing will wake him until well into the afternoon. I stop the wheelchair and park it on the side closest to the bathroom although Mikey won't wake up in the night if he has to go. I sit on the bed to take off my boots. My eyes glance at Mikey, still in his wheelchair. He's already balding, but still handsome with cheeks the color of ripe peaches. He's gained weight but his large frame absorbs bulk well. He wears a V neck shirt, and it exposes my favourite part of him – that area where the striation of his neck muscles meet his collar bone, the cleft between his pecs just visible. I imagine what it'd be like to slide my tongue down and journey beyond.

Standing on my knees on the bed, I straddle Mikey between my arms. Even without legs, Mikey is a heavy man. I tuck my arms in his armpits, and hoist Mikey from his chair while rotating so Mikey lands on his back. I fall on top, and I'm so close I could kiss him. I smell his lips. Cigarettes? Mikey doesn't smoke.

I get off the bed, and walk to the closet. He hates it when I do this, but I hate cleaning up after him. I grab a pair of adult diapers. Mikey wears these mesh shorts without pockets in them. He likes them because they have the Badgers on them, his new favorite team in his new favorite sport basketball. He can't watch football anymore.

I pull the shorts off, and he doesn't wear underwear. Every time I see his scars, I’m overwhelmed. I was there, I should have stopped him. I should have protected him. I should have saved him. I didn't.

The scars on his right appendage are almost beautiful, undulating and smooth like sand dunes. But the left appendage is more sinister. It got infected and never healed properly with red gashes from where the scar tissue couldn't grow and protect. There is also Mikey's penis. He used to brag about how big his cock was, and in the showers, I saw it dangle heavy and sway momentously like a clock pendulum. But shards of the explosion severed his cock, and although the doctors were able to resect the head of his penis back on, it now resembled a tree stump with a shrivelled penis head emerging from the center.

I pull the diaper on him and then the covers with red flowers. I leave his bedroom and go to his old room, the one with football trophies and his bomber jacket nailed to the wall. This is where I sleep.

***

“Rodel, the phone for fuck's sake!” I wake up with a start. My eyes blink open to the ceiling and hear the ring from the kitchen phone. I jump and rush. “Hello?”

“Good morning. Mike Schroder?”

“He's,” I say while looking towards the hallway, “is unavailable. Can I take a message?”

“This is GTND, an ABC affiliate,” the voice says. “We'd like him to come to the studio so we can interview – ”

“He's coming,” I say as I see Mikey roll his wheelchair to barge into the kitchen, still wearing the clothes and diaper from last night. The grin on his face is something I haven't seen in a while.

I hand him the green phone receiver and imagine his mother talking for hours on end. Mikey enjoys talking. He relishes the small pleasantries that I force myself to endure. When he hangs up, Mikey says, “They showed me this morning on Good Morning America!” he yells while thrusting both arms in the air like he made a touchdown. “Can you drive me to Milwaukee for 3pm?”

“Sure,” I say. It's only 9:30 and I want to go back to bed. You weren't supposed to be up this early.

The phone rings again. After more pleasantries, Mikey says, “Milwaukee for 12:30!” The traffic shouldn't be so bad for a Saturday but I'll need to shower now. As I lather, I realize the truck is still parked at the gas station. I get out with a towel wrapped around my waist, and Mikey writes details on the back of an electricity bill. “The truck's still at Joe’s Convenience,” I say.

“You dumbass,” he sneers while looking at what he wrote. I stand there for a moment. He looks at me like he looks at one of his bottles of rye. “What the fuck Rodel? Go get my truck.”

I finish my shower and dress. The only other pair of clean pants I own are my combat fatigues, so I put those on. I open my door and see Mikey in his chair careen down the hallway, wearing a shirt with a tie trailing behind him. I take my time, but Mikey is too fast to be properly clean. “Why are you already dressed? I still need to pick up the truck.”

“Forget it,” he mutters. “A driver is here to pick me up. Fuck yeah!”

He opens the front door and the sun basks his body in light. There's a minivan with a ramp, and he wheels in with a giggle. I watch them drive off.

Mikey keeps a spare set of keys in his room with his gun. I turn to go to the room, and see the bottle of rye. That look Mikey gave me – I'm a thing to him, a tool that helps him get around. As soon as I'm not needed, he discards me. Why didn’t I see that before?

I sit on the green plush sofa with a white doiley throw cover. This house hasn't changed from Mikey's mother, and I hate it. But I have no choice and I detest myself for having no choices. Mikey lets me stay here because I'm the only one who would move to rural Wisconsin and help him until Veteran's Affairs evaluates his file. I feel so duped. The recruiter for the army said that as a medic, I could have a career as a civilian paramedic without mentioning that I'd have to re-certify and pay thousands in tuition. Thousands that I don’t have.

But I know the real reason why I moved and stayed – I love Mikey. I grab the rye, and drink from the bottle. I love Mikey just like the camera loves him. Or the news reporters. Or the men of the unit who loved Mikey with envy because they wanted to be him. What does my love mean to Mikey when he has love everywhere?

It's dark when I hear the door open. My head hurts and I don't want to move. “Who's that?” says a woman's voice.

“A buddy from my unit. He's cool. Let's go to my bedroom.”

I can hear the woman's high heels press through the carpet onto the floor boards like a muffled hiss. The door clicks closed. I hear her giggling through the thin door.

I should get up. I sway as I stumble to my bed. Fuck. I tip over to the right, but manage to extend my arm. My hand grazes a picture frame, and when I walk one more step, the picture plummets to the floor. It's the one photo of Mikey's family when he was one and sitting on his father's lap.

The giggling turns to a sudden shriek. Shit. Did they hear that?

The master bedroom door swings open. A redheaded woman stumbles out with only her black panties on. With her left hand, she tries to hold her high heels but her long fingernails means she tucks the shoes in her inner elbow and breast. Her other hand holds her crumpled dress and matching black bra. She barges past me, and her bra strap snags on my belt. She smells like the main floor of a department store.

“Your bra,” I say, but she is already putting on her dress and heels before storming out.

My head turns. The door remains open, and through the window and the growing moon, I see Mikey prop himself up on his bed. He stares past the hallway, past me, and towards the front door. He's naked, and that deformed penis is hard.

I rip the bra off my belt and discard it. It lands besides the fallen picture frame.

With each deliberate step, I walk towards his naked body. He's by the edge of the bed, and mumbles, “I should have told her before.” It's not until I fall on my knees beside him that Mikey looks down at me. “What are you –”

“Shhh,” I say. His stubby cock entrances me. “I'll do what she won't.” I pause a moment, and can feel my own hard-on strain my fatigues. No objections. I take Mikey in my mouth, and tremble as I taste him.

It lasts only seconds before Mikey ejaculates. And it's only a second before Mikey pushes me away from him and I fall on my ass. I see the way he looks at me. His eyes don't waver from me, but for the first time, I see tears stream down his red face.

“I love you,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I don't.”

I cry. “I know.” I notice his wheelchair somehow got turned around and not in its spot. I get up, and am about to wheel things back in place but Mikey stops me.

“This is fucked up,” he says. “You, me, and this life. I'll never be normal.”

I have never been normal, and envied those that were. I can't fully comprehend what it means to lose the feeling of normal, of community, of belonging. “No, you'll never be normal.” This is simply the truth.

“Please get out,” Mikey says. I'm still with the wheelchair in both hands. “Please.”

I let go. “Good night,” I say.

“Goodbye Rodel,” Mikey says.

I leave and gently close the door. I walk only a few paces when I hear a drawer slide open. I take one more step when I comprehend the last words Mikey spoke, and just as I turn around, I hear another gunshot. This time I panic, and rush to open the bedroom door.

There's blood on the bed and Mikey is dead.

***

Deborah holds my hand as the casket is lowered and the pine coffin disappears behind stalks of grass. I wish it were raining now, but spring is in full bloom with sunlight filtered through sprouting leaves and I hear the echoing chirps of a few birds. I want it to rain because maybe then I'd feel something more than shock. He's not dead, Mikey is not dead.

We are the only ones. No camera crew, no flocks of admirers mourning the fallen hero because a hero does not take the cowardly way out.

We walk towards the car. No pop music or the radio during the drive, and Deborah’s cleaned everything. Halfway up the hill to the house, a doe munches on leaves. Deborah stops the car, and I get out. My steps are slow, and I crouch to be eye level. Her eyes look at me, and with one more step, she bows her head. I caress her neck. “You're beautiful,” I whisper.

She licks my hand before galloping away.

I look at Deborah. I know my eyes are wet. “For a moment, she loved me. For a moment, I was loved back.” I smile through the tears, knowing how good this feels.

I hug Deborah and say goodbye. “When you're ready to talk about what to do next, call me.” I nod and walk up the rest of the way.

Inside the house, I see Mikey's closed bedroom door. Deborah had cleaned it, but now alone, it calls to me. I'm drawn to it, shuffle my feet towards it, extend my hand – maybe when I open the door, Mikey will be there.

The door bell rings and I stop. Of course Mikey won't be there.

When I answer the front door, it looks like Mikey, but smaller and shorter than me. This man is older, hair thin and grey, and the eyes are the same shade of blue but with more wrinkles – he's lived many years, but laughed his way through them. “Hello. I'm looking for Mike.”

“You are?”

“Ralf Schroder,” he says. “I'm Mike's father.” It's hard to imagine a tiny man could have such a large son.

“Please sit,” I say. “I'm Rodel Magpantay, a friend. Something to drink?”

Ralf shakes his head and jingles his car keys. He sits down, and his feet touch the ground but just. “Nothing's changed.”

I sit on the loveseat opposite Ralf. I close my eyes. Tell him, just tell him. “Mike,” I say, enunciating each letter and trying to sound as dignified as possible, “took his life Saturday.” I place my face in my palms, and take deep breaths to stop myself from delving deeper into the sadness.

Ralf gets up, and paces around the coffee table. “I will take that drink.” I dry my palms on my pants, and look at him. The same eyes as Mikey but more tender. Ralf's tears drain into his quivering lip.

I come back with the half drunk bottle of rye and two glasses. I need a drink too. We're silent as we clink glasses. He looks directly into me.

“Mikey never talked about you,” I say. I never talk about my father either.

“Mike hated me,” Ralf says. “I don't blame him. How does a son love a father who left?”

“Why did you leave?”

He finishes his drink, and I pour him another. “'Fags don't raise babies.' That's what my ex-wife said to me when I came out to her. I had done everything for her. I took over this farm so we could stay in town and raise Mike together. Some days, my hands were blistered raw from working on the field. But she complained that we didn't make enough so when I went to Chicago to find a better job, and discovered who I truly was, I had to be honest. She spat that at me and I left that night.”

“My father threw me out,” I say. “I was seventeen. He didn't use words to show how much he hated me.” Bruises are worth a thousand words.

“How did you survive?” I look at him and don't answer. Don't make me say it. Instead, he pours me more. Another toast. “This house,” he continues, “is exactly as I remember but I feel like a stranger here.”

“I feel like a stranger everywhere,” I confess. I've slept on so many beds that weren't my own.

“I know what that feeling is like,” Ralf adds.

“When does that stop?”

“When you build a home with love.” He gets up, and walks towards the one framed photo where he's young and clutches onto an even younger Mikey. He picks it up from the ground. “This house was built on obligation. I see it in the furniture. I feel it in the walls. But with Claire and Mike gone,” he pauses for a moment, and touches Mikey's cheek with his index finger, “this house falls to me and I'm obliged to do something with it.” He looks at me, and I see Mikey stare at me from beyond. “You're just a friend?”

“I loved him.” I loved you. On the wall, there are photos in mismatched frames of you, the boy everyone loved. You as a child camping. Your first football game. And when you became a man, everyone still loved you. Your graduation photo draped in your panther bomber jacket. You grinning in your army fatigues. But then the photos stop. “I took care of him because I loved him.”

“What happened?” How much does Ralf know?

“Mikey lost his legs on a mine in the war,” I say. There's no need for gory details. “For the last year, he was waiting for prosthetic legs from Veteran's Affairs. I took care of him. The strain of not being the man he once was, that was too much.” I hear the faint echoes of that bullet, and guilt gnaws at me.

“I understand now.” He sits down, clutching the framed photograph. “I tried to keep contact. Years passed and I still wrote. Then I saw him on national news, the thing with his legs... and came as soon as I could. I even bought these for my son.” He fishes out a silver wrapped gift in white ribbon from his pocket. “They're aviator glasses.” He slides them to me. “They're yours if you want them. This house too. I have a life in Vermont. My husband and I have two dogs and a boat.”

I look around. I need a place to live. “There's a paramedic certification course in Milwaukee,” I begin. “It would be a long commute, but it'd only be a few months.” But I see that bedroom door, and I will always be haunted by what lurks behind it. “But there are too many memories to stay.”

The next morning, after coffee to chase away the rye, Ralf drives me to the Ford pick up truck. I throw my bag into the passenger seat, and prepare myself for a goodbye. Ralf stands beside me, his head reaching my nose.

“One more thing,” Ralf says. He gives me an envelope. “It's a check for your tuition. You took care of my son, and deserve this.”

I hug him but make sure our crotches don’t touch. One of those man hugs. Ralf smells like baked bread and sandalwood. “Thank you.”

“Call me when you're settled,” he says. I nod. I'll call Deborah too.

Inside, I turn on the truck. Gangsta rap plays from Mikey's CD. I eject it and put it in the glove compartment. The radio. NPR and a piano sonata. I read the note before I unwrap the gift. “To my son. I'm sorry I missed so many birthdays. Your father, Ralf.” I look at my face in the rear view mirror. The glasses suit me. They hide my mother's gentle Chinese eyes. All I see are my own dad's stern jaw and lips.

I wave goodbye as I drive. A full tank of gas, cash in my pocket, and a check worth thousands. I'm driving east towards the rising sun, towards the pink and blues of skies over Milwaukee. But at the last minute, I see my dad's lips curl, and I take the exit to head west where it's still night. San Diego, California. My father needs to see I'm no longer the meek boy he discarded in spite. And my mother, I need to see her. She’s the only love I have left.