Out The Door - 1. Chapter 1

Stark comes to mind when looking into Brandon’s bedroom: bare white walls lacking any decoration, no pictures, posters, or anything else; white bedspread pulled taut as if he was in boot camp, I’ve dropped a quarter and it bounced; two white throw rugs seem to float on a crisply polished hardwood floor; white mini-blinds always closed to prevent sunlight from brightening the room; the nightstand, bureau, and desk lack any adornment or anything that might indicate they were used by a twelve year old boy.

He is lying on his back on the floor beside his bed with his head resting on a throw rug moved from its usual place only for that purpose. He has always been small for his age, and his Spiderman pajamas do a good job of hiding his too thin body. He’s crying. He’s been crying for over an hour with barely a sound. Only his ragged breathing, the tears cascading down his cheeks, the sniffling snot filled nose, a faint thump as he bangs his fists against the floor give any hint to my son’s bleak state of mind.

This isn’t a tantrum. Those are much louder as he moves about hitting furniture, walls, or anyone unlucky enough to be close to him, all the while screaming out words that don’t seem to make sense unless you know how Brandon sees the world. He hasn’t had a tantrum in a couple years, maybe because he simply outgrew them.

This is simply frustration, his way of tearing anger out of him. He wants to be bigger, taller, more athletic, anything other than a little boy who looks three years younger than he is. He wants to have friends who value him for who he is not what he looks like. He wants to grow up a little faster than he is now or will in the future.

I’m not certain whether he is aware of my presence. I heard the barely audible thumping in my office downstairs and came up to his room knowing what I’d find. Is it right to pity your child for being dealt the wrong set of gene combinations making him appear significantly different from his siblings to where people assume he’s adopted?

Sitting down on the floor beside him, I use my handkerchief to daub his eyes and wipe the snot oozing out his nose. He opens his gray eyes, staring up at me as I brush a bang of his black hair out of his left eye. He needs a haircut, but refuses to go back to my barber because he has to sit in the kiddy booster seat.

Brandon climbs onto my lap wrapping his arms around me and laying his head against my shoulder. He is softly weeping now. I have no idea what set him off this time and will probably never know. We will talk about what he does, not why he did it. Sadness hangs above us as I start a story to calm his heart faster than anything I know.

“The little people came from Europe traveling on the same boat as your great-grandparents.”

“Grampy Lars? And …”

“No, Grampy Lars’ mother and father.”

“Oh. I don’t know them, do I?”

“No, Brandon, they both died when you were still a baby.”

“Did Suzy and Paul and Carly know them?”

“Carly stayed at their house a couple of times when he was a baby.”

“Did he meet the little people?”

“I don’t know, you’d have to ask him. Do you feel a little better, Brandon?”

“A little. This afternoon when we were walking home from school Tommy said I was a shrimp and couldn’t play with him and his friends anymore.”

“Don’t you have other friends?”

“Some, but Tommy was my best friend.”

“Oh, Brandon, how I wish life could be easier for you.”

“I love you Daddy.”

“I love you, too, son.”

That’s about as far as we ever get with any story I start with Brandon. He’s probing and questioning me about all the details to where I never get further than the introduction. I am happy, though, that he told me what was brothering him. Maybe he is growing up, if only a little.

Suzy is standing at the door. Sometimes she’ll come and rescue Brandon, too. We trade off. She’s a senior this year and will be going back east to her mother’s alma mater next year.

That’ll leave only me and Brandon in the house. Paul and Carly or their wives stop by now and then, and I suspect they might come more often, but this house will be too big for only two. I’d like to downsize, but there are so many memories in this old house, so many ghosts.

The kids would probably complain a lot more than I, but I think new surroundings might help Brandon. He, of all the children, has been the most dear to his mother, God bless her, and I; and, I think if she were here now she would agree this big old house is too big for Brandon. He needs something more to his size like a three bedroom rambler, maybe something in a development with lots of kids; or, maybe a small bungalow in a small town with only a few kids, fewer to antagonize him with their ridicule about his diminutive stature.

I’ve come from my bedroom heading down to the kitchen when I stop at Brandon’s open door and see him standing naked in the exact middle of his room. We know it’s the middle because he carefully measured the room’s circumference, taped out intersecting lines, and marked the spot with straight pin he glued into a tiny hole he drilled in the floor. The head of that pin is the only adornment in his room. There is an expertly tied noose around his neck and he is holding up the rope end with his right hand held up toward the ceiling. He suddenly drops to the floor as if falling through a trapdoor.

He lies crumpled on his left side with his legs pulled up. His left arm is not bent in an unusual angle, but it absorbed most of the impact and must be hurting. The audible bone jarring thud when he hit concerns me more than the noose around his neck. “I’m only practicing to commit suicide, Daddy,” he told me the last time I caught him doing this. Even his psychiatrist didn’t seem too concerned about Brandon’s need to act out his death, “Brandon isn’t suicidal. He is a very honest young man and would have said if he was in earnest to end his life. Of all of Brandon’s issues, this is the least you need to worry about.” Yet, his preoccupation with dying a horrible death bothers me. I think his psychiatrist should have said, “Seeing his mother die affected him more than either of us knows. Until he’s able to express his feelings about that in a logical manner, you have to expect more unusual behaviors.”

I kneel behind my son and place a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move to acknowledge my touch. Tears are dribbling out of his eyes and his ragged breathing are enough for me to know he is hurting. There is a little puddle of urine in front of him. My first thought is another trip to the emergency room may be in order, but first the noose has to be removed.

“No, Daddy, stop,” Brandon whispers. Wincing, he rolls onto his back and tries to do it himself, but his left arm isn’t cooperating. He can barely move it.

What parent listens to a child in such an incident? My hands are working the knot loose as he begins a soft wail deep in his throat. He painfully grimaces as I pull the rope from around his neck. There is a visible ring of chafed skin from the rough rope. Whether my son is suicidal or not, he’s getting better at pretending he is.

The arm is in a cast when Brandon comes home from the hospital a couple days later. He would have been home earlier, except his psychiatrist changed his medications. He seems sleepier than before.

Tommy, the straggly haired former best friend, is standing at our back door talking to Suzy. He turns to look at the car as I come to a stop.

“Bran, are you okay, little buddy?” Tommy asks, opening Brandon’s door.

“I’m,” Brandon starts before turning to me with tears in his eyes.

“He’s a little tired right now, Tommy,” I say.

Suzy helps her brother out of the car and into the house.

“Is he okay, Mr. Peterson?”

“Tommy, he doesn’t like it when you say he’s little.”

“Oh.”

An uncomfortable moment passes as neither of us can figure out what to say next. Tommy, who lives two houses down across the street, the last street on the west side of town before the cornfields start, is wearing a pair of faded, torn blue jeans of generic origin and a t-shirt that’s seen better days. He’s been Brandon’s friend since before kindergarten, but he is growing into a jock like his older brothers and father. He is very good at baseball and is a terror on the basketball court, but football will be his proudest letter in high school. He’ll have cheerleaders hanging off his arms, a souped-up car, and all the other accoutrements of a popular student. Hopefully, he’ll have a little compassion for Brandon.

“Can I go up to his room?” Tommy asks. His voice is soft like a little kid who has suddenly realized kittens are not toys.

“Tommy, try to remember Brandon is very sensitive right now about not growing up as fast as other boys.”

“Oh, okay, I can do that.”

He is away in a flash, the screen door slapping loudly against the jamb. I should fix that someday, or have Johnson, the neighborhood handyman take a look at it. That’s one of the hassles of having a big, old house, all of the little things that always seem needing attention. It could keep a man busier than he desires.

Ever since Bran’s mom died he’s been getting weirder and weirder. His room is like the inside of a tin can or an empty box because there is absolutely nothing on the walls, no pictures, no posters, nothing and there isn’t anything on his desk, chest of drawers, or nightstand. Everything is white or natural wood. It’s so plain, empty like a desert. It scares me sometimes when I go in there and see him sitting on his bed staring off into nothing. Just like today when he came home from the hospital and was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. I could tell he’d been crying, again. Bran cries a lot like a little baby, but I guess that’s okay since his mom is dead and all.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Can I write my name on your cast?”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do, silly.”

“Don’t call me names.”

“Okay.”

I can’t remember Bran ever telling me not to do something. He’s always so laid back about everything. He wasn’t, of course, before his mom died, but now he hardly says anything to anybody. He’s not a lot of fun to be around most of the time.

“Do you have a marker or something?”

“No, nothing like that. Go ask Suzy.”

I like Bran’s sister Suzy. She dated my brother Tim before he went off to play football in college this year. He said they were in love and were going to marry when he got out of college and started playing pro football. He had a new girlfriend two weeks after he busted his leg in football practice, but Suzy acts like they weren’t ever friends. She’s cool like that and she had a bunch of markers all different colors. I took a purple one. It smelled like grape juice when I wrote, “Get Well Right Now! Tommy Fairfield.”

“Did you tell your dad about wanting to play soccer?”

“Not yet.”

“Come on, Bran, you gotta play some kind of sport. People are going to start thinking you’re queer or something weird like Norman Winchell.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“People are going to think you are.”

“Will you?”

“You know I won’t do that.”

“You said I was a shrimp and couldn’t be around you anymore.”

“That’s because I was with Dean and Schuyler. You know they don’t like you.”

“I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“You miss her a lot don’t you?”

“Yeah, a little, but mostly I can’t stop thinking about the accident.”

He started crying. I didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t blubbering or anything that bad, but I didn’t know what to do to make him stop. So I held his hand and he smiled at me. After a little while he went to sleep and I left.

His mom died in a car accident. She was bringing Bran back from the doctor or something and a big piece of lumber fell off a truck up on the overpass by Webster Park. It fell down and went through the roof of their Explorer. I’ve had a couple nightmares myself about getting hit with that piece of lumber. The Explorer ran off the road and rolled onto its side. Bran was thrown onto his mom’s dead body. Her head had been crushed by the piece of lumber. Bran had to lie on her with her blood all over him until the firemen could cut him out. I guess I’d be weird, too, if that happened to me and my mom.

I felt bad about just leaving Bran like that so I went and talked to Suzy for awhile. I think she likes me a lot better than she ever liked Tim. She’s dating Steve Connelly, but she still likes me best. She’s pretty cool for a girl.

“He started crying and then went to sleep.”

“What did you say this time to make him cry?”

“I didn’t say anything, honest. He said he was thinking about your mom and the accident. Don’t tell anybody, but I held his hand until he went to sleep.”

“I guess you’re okay after all, Tommy Fairfield.”

She kissed me on the cheek. She kissed me. Well, not like she kissed Tim or like she’s probably kissing Steve, but Suzy kissed me. See, I said she was cool.

Oh, to be young again. Tommy has Brandon out on the back lawn trying to teach him how to play soccer. They’ll be starting seventh grade next week and Tommy has decided Brandon needs to play some kind of sport in school. Soccer seems to be the logical choice, but Brandon will be behind all the kids who’ve been playing since they were old enough to walk. He’s just never been big enough, always a couple years behind in physical development, but Tommy is insistent and Brandon seems willing to go along with him. I can only hope everything will turn out for the best.

Outside hot, humid air bears down on all who venture anywhere beyond air conditioning. I don’t know how the boys are able to keep going. Brandon and I are home after two weeks in New York settling Suzy in at her Aunt Jennie’s until college starts in another week. She’s luckier than most, I suppose, having a relative close to the school so she doesn’t have to live in the dorms, although I never had a problem. She had her choice, so I hope it works out for her.

I suspect this big, old house is closing in on both of us. Doors and vents remain shut on rooms no longer used. Dorothea, who comes in twice a week to do the laundry and cleaning, was complaining the other day of not having much to do as Brandon and I seem to be cleaner than most men in town. I took that as a compliment. Having money to pay others to do the dirty work has its advantages, most of all not having to go outside at this time of year.

The screen door slaps against the jamb and then once, again. I don’t know why the boys can’t come in together, but it’s almost like they enjoy hearing that grating sound. They are wearing only shorts, socks, and sneakers standing at the door to my office, two twelve year old boys too dangerous not to have some supervision on any summer day. Only, they don’t look like two twelve year olds more like one twelve year old and an eight or nine year old, who is small for his age.

“Mr. Peterson, I have to go home now. My mother is taking me in for my sports physical.”

“Thanks for coming over, Tommy.”

“Yeah, Tommy, thanks for helping me.”

“What are best friends for?”

And, then, Tommy is gone. Poof! One minute there are two boys at my door, and practically in the blink of an eye the screen door slaps shut and there is only my sweaty son.

“Go take a shower and cool off.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Brandon is probably big enough to play with seven or eight year olds, not his own age group. He’s just too damn small and not eating correctly because of his mother’s death isn’t helping at all. He’s short, skinny and not developing as fast as he wants.

A thud from upstairs breaks my concentration and I’m running for the stairs. Brandon is hanging from the banister with a hastily tied rope tight around his neck. His body is quivering as death quickly approaches. I’m holding him with one hand and trying to get the rope from around his neck with the other. He’s barely breathing.

“Mr. Peterson? I forgot … Oh shit, Bran.”

“Tommy call 9-1-1.”

“Yes, sir, dialing now. Come on answer damn it, come on answer. Why don’t they … Yeah, we need an ambulance. It’s my friend Brandon. No, this isn’t a joke. Please …”

“This is Charles Peterson, Thirteen Twenty-five South … Yes, that’s us, we need an ambulance. My son, Brandon, has tried to commit suicide. Oh, dear God in heaven, please hurry … Yes, he’s still breathing … Hanging … No, I don’t think so … Yes … Tommy go open the front door … Yes, I can hear the siren now, it’s just around the corner.”

I like our new home here in California, but it’s a long way from where we used to live. Now, we’re living only about thirty miles from Gramma Nora and her new husband, Jean. He’s from France so his name sounds like John, but with a French accent. I like California, but the winter isn’t like we had back in Iowa. I think I’ll miss the snow, but there aren’t any stairs in this house. I can’t hang myself like I did last summer.

I have a new psychiatrist. He talks to me like I’m a kid, not like I’m some little adult. I like that. He says I shouldn’t pretend I’m trying to kill myself, it will only give me bad ideas. I like that, too. I’m seeing a new hormone doctor, too. I’m going to a medical school so I can see an expert. She says I’m not going to be as tall as I want, but I’ll be close. I guess that’s okay. I’m tired of looking like a little boy who didn’t grow up.

The kids here are mostly nice, except for a few and they’re mean to everyone, so it’s not just me being picked on by practically the whole school. I grew up with all those kids back in Iowa and every one of them, except Tommy, always acted as if there was something wrong with me because I was little, always picking on the little boy. Well, I got tired of it and tried to fix everything.

My new psychiatrist is helping me understand why I had to try to kill myself and why I shouldn’t have; and, why killing myself to keep all those kids from picking on me wasn’t logical. My old psychiatrist used the word logical a lot, but I hardly ever hear my new psychiatrist use it when talking to me. I think we’re going to work pretty good together.

Daddy and I are at the airport waiting for Tommy’s airplane to land. Daddy paid for his ticket to come out for a few days during Christmas break. I’ve never had a chance to thank Tommy in person for helping Daddy to save my life. I was in a special ward at the hospital where they keep crazy people like me. Then Daddy decided we needed to come out here to California and I never got a chance to say goodbye to Tommy.

I hope he still likes me because I’m not playing soccer out here. Daddy joined a swimming club and my instructor said I could be racing in a couple months depending on what my doctors say. I guess I don’t have to be big to swim in races. I just have to be a good swimmer. I like that.

I can’t remember much about the accident anymore. I have to think really hard, but my psychiatrist says I don’t have to do that if it makes me cry. Did I say I like my new psychiatrist?

Also, I can’t remember the sound of Mommy’s voice. When I try to remember her I can see her talking to me, but I can’t hear her anymore. That makes me sad, but my psychiatrist says that it’s okay to be sad sometimes.

Daddy seems happier out here, too. We do lots of things together now. I like that, too.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“We don’t have to go back to Iowa, do we?”

“I can’t think of any reason to do that anytime soon.”

“Good, I like it here. Look over there! It’s Tommy!”

---

Author's Chapter Notes:
The college in this story does not exist, but it is based, in part, on another small college in Southeastern Washington State that is known to have produced a number of Nobel laureates. The town does not exist, but there is a historical site known as Fort Okanogan. It is located at the confluence of the Okanogoan and Columbia Rivers in North Central Washington State.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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II

Snow always seems to fall at night here. I see the little crystals dancing on a light breeze in the security light outside my bedroom window. The wind always seems to be blowing here, whether with snow, rain, drizzle, or bright sun. My roommate is sleeping across the room. From his bed you can’t see the snow dance.

A bottle of sleeping pills patiently waits on my nightstand beside a tumbler full of water. They’re my father’s, prescribed by a charlatan my father keeps going to no matter how many times the guy is arrested for overprescribing drugs. When Dad was actively taking them, I’d slip one or two out of his bottle and put them in mine. I’m not on sleeping pills. Although you might say I will end up asleep after taking the whole bottle. That will only be a temporary condition prior to death.

No one knows I’m suicidal, again. There’s an ugly scar around my neck from the last time I tried to end it all. I was only twelve and almost scored, but Dad caught me before I dropped over the edge. My roommate, Tommy, was there, too. We’re in our freshman year at Fort Okanogan College. It’s snowing and I’m having a hard time trying to decide if tonight is right for an exit.

The first time, back in Iowa, I was grieving for my mother. We, she and I, had been to Des Moines to see an endocrinologist because I wasn’t growing and when we turned off the interstate outside of Brinkman a big piece of lumber fell off a truck on the overpass just as we were going under. It fell through the roof of Mommy’s car and went through her head and didn’t stop until it smashed into the floor. The car went out of control and rolled onto its side. I was thrown down onto her. I couldn’t get away from her. She was a bloody mess with a big piece of lumber shoved into her body. I couldn’t get away until the paramedics arrived. I couldn’t live with that memory, so I put a rope around my neck, tied it to the banister and jumped to the floor. Why my neck didn’t break when the rope snapped is a mystery. Maybe I was too young to die. Maybe I was too little, didn’t have enough weight to snap my neck. It certainly left a big enough scar, though.

Well, I’m definitely older now, old enough to get it right, this time. Only, I’m not certain I want to do this. I have to, whether I want to or not, but I don’t want to end my life right now. Tommy and I were best friends up until that time. We might have remained best friends if Dad hadn’t moved out to California to be with his mother as she died of cancer. We saw each other over the years and wrote, too, but that isn’t the same as living almost directly across the street. The only reason we’re here together is Brinkman High School football went 0 and 12 last year and being such a tiny school—only thirty-eight graduating seniors—Tommy didn’t have a chance in hell of getting any kind of athletic scholarship anywhere, so we opted for a college where athletic ability was way down on the list for incoming freshmen.

You see, Tommy wanted to renew our friendship and he wanted to get out of Iowa. This school is about as out of Iowa as you can get and still be in the contiguous forty-eight states. We’re so far out in the woods you have to drive nearly three hours to get to the nearest Wal-Mart, and it’s not even a SuperStore. Yet, this school has more MacArthur scholars, more Nobel laureates, and more Pulitzer Prize winners than any small college its size. It’s rumored they won’t look at an application if the GPA is less than 4.0, but that’s being silly considering they let me in. Of course, Dad is president of the Orange County Alumni Association, so maybe that had a little to do with my application slipping through. On the other hand, Tommy never had anything less than 4.0 since kindergarten. He’s about as perfect as you can get; except for one minor flaw. He’s gay. He doesn’t know I know, but then he doesn’t know I’m suicidal, either.

“What the fuck! No! Stop it!”

Oh, yeah, Tommy has nightmares, too. He refuses to say what they’re about, but I can only think the worst happened to him as a child. Maybe it’s nothing at all, except indigestion.

“No!”

“Hush, Tommy, it’s all right,” I whisper as I caress his shoulders. He’s hot and sweaty as if he’d just come in from a run.

“Don’t!”

“Shush, it’s all right.” He has too many muscles to be having these bad dreams.

“Oh, damn, Brandon, you can’t imagine,” Tommy says rolling away from me, terror still lingering in his eyes.

“Tell me, Tommy, tell me what it was about. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what these dreams are about.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Tommy says, rolling onto his side facing away from me.

That’s a first. Usually it’s something like, “I can’t really remember what was happening.” But, tonight, the night when I almost get up the nerve to kill myself he says I wouldn’t understand. What am I not going to understand? That’s he’s gay? Hell, I’d rather be gay than suicidal. If I was gay, we would be sleeping together like Kevin and Derek down the hall, but I’m not, or I don’t think I am, so we’re in a room where they put straight guys.

“How about giving me a chance,” I say, lying down behind him and draping my arm over him like I did when we were little kids on sleepovers. We always slept in the same bed right up until a week before I tried to hang myself. And, no, we didn’t do any of that sexual stuff you’re always reading about little boys doing to each other in the dead of night. We were raised in Iowa where kids don’t get involved with sex until they’re at least thirty or get married, or ask their mother’s permission, but who would stupid enough to do that.

There’s a light knock on our door. That’ll be either Dr. Jorgenson or his wife, Dr. Sorenson. She kept her maiden name because she was famous before they were married and didn’t want to go through the hassle of reestablishing her reputation. This is their house; and, like most of the Queen Anne style homes on Professors’ Row there are number of “special” students living in the extra rooms. I’m “special” because the good doctors are my godparents. Tommy is more “special” because he was valedictorian and a super-jock. We’re in the same room because his first roommate opted to stay in the dorm instead of living around a bunch of “special” students.

“Another nightmare?” Dr. Sorenson asks, holding her red and black plaid, flannel dressing gown closed at the neck because a couple snaps are missing. She’s not much over five feet tall and wiry with the temperament of Camarones a La Diabla with shrimp that have sat in the sun for a couple days. She may be all warm and enticing up front, but cross her and you’ll wish you’d eaten bad shrimp instead.

“Yeah.”

“Did he tell you, this time?”

“No! You know he won’t do that.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“A lot of good that’ll do.”

“What?” She asks, no longer whispering.

“Sorry, go, try, be my guest. I’ll put on a robe and go down to kitchen.”

I swear she would’ve slapped me silly because I’m not that much taller than her or any bigger. For a child psychologist, she’s not likely to spare the rod. I know because this isn’t the first time I’ve spent some time in their home. Imagine growing up and having your friends tell about how wonderful camp was while all you can say is you spent your vacation at your godparents’ home in an out of the way small college town. It wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t camp either. Their kids are the ages of my brothers and sister, so there weren’t any kids around my age except for this weirdo Russian kid from across the back alley whose parents were kicked out of the Soviet Union for being intellectual threats to the state. Sergei was born after they arrived in Fort Okanogan so he’s all-American except being able to speak four languages fluently, which is about as un-American as you can get. He’s a junior at Cal Poly, not more than fifteen miles from my home in California, but then Sergei is weird like that. We’re the same age, but he’s two years ahead of me in school. Weird, but very, very smart.

“Sent you away, huh?” Dr. Jorgenson says as I walk into the kitchen. He’s sitting at a little dinette where they usually eat when there aren’t any students in the house. His robe is open exposing his hairy chest and big gut. I’ve never seen him wear pajama tops. He wears the bottoms, but never the tops. I don’t think you can buy pajamas without the tops, but maybe he knows someone in the garment industry.

“She’s going to try to talk to him.”

“She’s talked to him before.”

“And, don’t tell me what’s going on around here.”

“None of your business, Chipper.” That’s his nickname for me. No, I don’t know where he picked it up, but I’ve been Chipper for as longer as I can remember. So chipper, I want kill myself.

“But, Tommy’s my friend.”

“Life’s a bitch, then you die.”

“Yeah.” Little does he know how close to the truth he is. I wonder if they suspect I’m capable to doing myself in at any moment. Maybe that’s Dad’s plan, put me somewhere friends can watch me. Oh, shit! I left the bottle of sleeping pills on my nightstand. Oh, fuck!

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Not getting any, huh?”

“No girlfriend.”

“Gay, huh?”

“No! Not that either.”

“What’s the matter, Chipper?”

“Nothing.” God, I swear the man can read me like a book. He’s always been like that. Set me on his lap and he knows all my problems. He’s not even a psychologist. System analysis is his field, pretty good at it too, I guess. He’d have to be good to be married to Dr. Sorenson. She’d slap the shit out of him if he wasn’t.

“Homesick?”

“A little.”

“I thought you liked it here.”

“The weather stinks.”

“It’ll get better long about the vernal equinox. It always does. You and Tommy getting along?”

“Sort of. He doesn’t share a lot of things with me.”

“Like his nightmares.”

“Yeah and something else.”

“You know about the something else, do you? I thought you were too naïve for that kind of stuff.”

“I’m from California, Dr. Jorgenson.”

“Born and raised in Iowa.”

“That doesn’t make me a dolt.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would considering who raised you.”

“I know he’s, uh, you know.”

“Yes, I do, know.”

“You do? Did he tell you? See, he tells everyone and leaves me in the dark.”

“Maybe there’s more to it than that. You ever think he might have a reason for not telling you?”

“Yeah, he’s afraid I might walk away from him.”

“You’re too good of a kid for him to do that.”

Smack!

Dr. Sorenson is standing inches from me. The pill bottle, my pill bottle, is still quivering from her slamming it onto the table. I’ve never figured out how mothers can sneak up on kids, even those who aren’t theirs. It’s like there’s this cosmic cloud hanging around them that makes them invisible until the last minute. I can hear her breathing. She’s mad, probably a little disappointed, too.

“I’ll leave you two,” Dr. Jorgenson says sliding out of the dinette.

“No, you’d better stay.” He scoots back to his place. He knows better than to not do what his wife tells him. He’s at least a foot taller, but she’s boss. I wonder if she’s on top when they have sex. She’s so domineering, I can’t imagine her being fucked. She seems the kind of woman who’d make you give her an orgasm or two before letting you enjoy whatever pleasure you were seeking.

“What are these, young man?” She’s pissed, I can hear it in her voice. I’ve been spanked a couple times after she’s called me a young man. Warm and cuddly, then, Wham! your butt’s hers.

“Phenobarbital.”

“I see.”

“Sounds like you’re a little more than homesick,” Dr. Jorgenson says. “We’ve been talking.”

“This isn’t your prescription, is it?”

“No, they’re some of Dad’s.”

“They’re mine, now.”

“I figured as much.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Brandon Walter Peterson. I don’t want to have to send you home.”

“Did Tommy tell you what’s bothering him? As if I should know.”

“We’re not talking about Tommy. We’re talking about why you have a bottle of barbiturates on your nightstand.”

“It’s pretty obvious, if you think about it.” Well, it is. If you’ve got a bottle of sleeping pills that wasn’t prescribed to you, you’re either a druggy or like me, suicidal. Both of them are staring at me. Maybe, just maybe, they didn’t figure it out.

“Okay. Look, I haven’t taken any. Okay? Not one. Actually, I was going to take the whole bottle at once, if you really need to know. I just haven’t gotten up the nerve to do it, yet.”

“Oh,” Dr. Sorenson says, like she didn’t even think I was suicidal.

Oh, my God! She was actually thinking I was a druggy. Well, I’m in for it now. Back home to the psychiatrist and isn’t he going to be pissed. So much for getting the best college education money can buy. Well, actually I get it practically free since Dad’s teaching at a college and education for dependents is one of those benefit thingies. Dad’s going to be pissed, too. We’ve had this little pact between us since the last time. I tell him if I’m thinking about leaving permanently and he gives me a little more love. It’s been working pretty good up until now. Maybe I am a little homesick.

I swear the sun has been shining for a month and summer is two months away. I guess the sage brush up on the hills around here wasn’t put there for decoration. It’s so dry here, desert like, but at least I get to be with Bran, again. He was my best friend back in Iowa, until he moved to California. We’ve stayed in contact, but I guess we drifted apart a little being so far away from each other. It was my idea we apply here at Fort Okanogan College. When he told me his godparents were here and his dad is president of some sort of alumni club or something I figured he wouldn’t have any problem getting accepted. His grades aren’t the best in the world. They’re okay, over 3.5, but when college admissions are down to deciding who gets in and who doesn’t a couple ins might help.

We’re living in his godparents’ house because I had the smarts and he’s their godson. He’d have been in the dorm if they hadn’t insisted he live in their house. Actually, he’s supposed to be living in the extra bedroom in the basement, but my original roommate chickened out at the last minute and the school said it was okay for Bran to share with me. I think us being friends, close friends, might have helped with that, too.

Have you ever played croquet? The Jorgenson-Sorenson’s have this huge backyard where we set up the game and play nearly every Sunday afternoon. Everybody in the house plays, except Bran because he can’t handle losing. He gets really depressed and doesn’t talk for days, which isn’t good if you’re attending a topflight college and classroom discussion is not only encouraged, but damn near required. I feel sorry for him, but that’s the way he is.

He’s been like this ever since last winter when Dr. Sorenson found out he’s suicidal, again. She was going to send him home, but then figured she could treat him just about as well as anyone. I don’t know, though. They don’t seem to have a very good patient/therapist relationship. Under her tough exterior, she’s about as warm and cuddly as a pissed off porcupine. Bran isn’t much help, either, because when he’s depressed he can be a down right bitchy.

“Will you go for a walk, with me?” Bran asks, lightly touching my forearm with his fingers.

“What?” Damn, he snuck up on me. I didn’t even know he was down here. Usually, he’s sulking up in our room or down in the basement TV room watching mostly snow. There’s a UHF translator up on the ridgeline across the river, but reception is iffy as best, even on clear, sunny days.

“Will you go for a walk, with me?”

“Now?”

“Well, yeah.”

“But, I’m ahead.”

“Is winning a croquet match that important?” He walks away heading toward the back gate.

“Hey, guys, I’ve got to go with Bran,” I say to Derek, Kevin, and Disel who also live here. Derek and Kevin are juniors, gay, and in love. They have a queen size bed in their room. Disel is a sophomore from New Jersey and has a huge tattoo of an eagle across her back. She claims everyone on her mother’s side of the family is black, but she’s so Nordic in appearance she could be from Minnesota. She, also, claims to be a lesbian, but none of us have seen her anywhere near another girl on campus. Counting Derek, Kevin, and Disel, there are seven homosexuals in our house. The school seems to think Dr. Sorenson, being a psychologist, is better suited to dealing with non-heterosexual student issues. I’ve been in enough sessions with her because of my nightmares to know she doesn’t give a shit who or what you’re fucking.

“Hey, farm boy, tell the wimp he owes me for doing the dishes for him last night,” Disel says. Of all the residents, besides me, she’s probably Bran’s best friend here. Although she won’t ever admit it, she has a kind heart and gentle spirit. She has a black belt in karate, too.

“I thought he was doing them for you tonight?”

“Yeah, well, you tell him he owes me.”

“Tell him yourself, bitch.”

“Up yours, farm boy.”

“You’d better hurry, Tommy, he’s probably playing in traffic right now,” Kevin says. He doesn’t give Bran any slack for being suicidal. He’s okay, but everything is a joke. Ha ha! Look, you best friend killed himself. Ha ha!

Bran is at the end of the alley. From this far away he still looks like a little boy. He’s so precious to me. I want to take him in my arms and hold him, protecting him from whatever keeps troubling his mind.

“You saw I was in the middle of a game,” I say as I near him.

“We need to talk, now,” he says turning to go across Bancroft towards a small park on the next block.

“Why can’t we talk at the house?”

“I don’t want to embarrass you in front of the others. I don’t know who else you haven’t told.”

“Bran, stop,” I say grabbing at his slender, pale arm. We’re in the middle of the street, but there’s no traffic as Bancroft only goes between Professor’s Row and Fifth Street on this block. “What’s so damned secret you can’t tell me at the house?”

“I know you’re gay. I don’t know why you haven’t told me, but I know and you can’t deny it.”

“Gay? What do you mean I’m gay?”

“See? I knew you’d deny it. Well, Mr. Sports Athlete, I know your secret. I thought we were going back to being best friends, but you’re keeping secrets from me already. Well, you can’t keep this one from me any longer.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not,” I say as my fist slams into his face. Oh, my God! I hit Bran. Oh, Jesus in heaven, I hit him, but I’m not gay and I don’t know where he got that idea. I thought we were friends, but how can he say that about me.

“Where have you been?” Dr. Sorenson asks as I walk toward the front steps. She has grass stains on her bare knees. She’s been gardening, again. She says it calms her down. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Down by the river in a willow thicket, thinking,” I say, wincing at the pain in my nose and upper lip.

“Two days?”

“It’s been that long?”

“He’s gone. I don’t know what you said to him, but he’s gone.”

It’s as if she’s blocking my way into the house. I’m hungry and thirsty. And, I’m dirty. I need a shower right now.

“Are you listening to me? Tommy’s gone. Went back home.”

“What?”

“What happened between you two?”

“He hit me.”

“Because?”

“I told him I knew he is gay; and, he hit me.”

“What makes you think he’s gay?”

“He is, I just know. He talks in his sleep when he’s having those nightmares. He talks about someone having sex with him.”

“He’s talking about his brother Jacob abusing him.”

“What?”

“Tommy was abused by his oldest brother, Jacob, until a couple years ago.”

“Jacob? But, Jacob said he … Oh, God, no! Jacob said! … Jacob. No! Don’t touch me. Please, Jacob. … No! Don’t do that. … Oh, God, don’t! … I won’t tell. Please.”

“Brandon? Brandon! Stop!” She slaps me. I thought they only did that in movies, but I can’t stop. I can only fall down and pull myself into a ball at her feet. It’s all coming back to me.

“Don’t Jacob. Please,” I cry as remembered pain burns through my body, again. I can’t imagine I’m still hurting as if it is happening to me right now. It’s all coming back to me on the front step to the house. The agony Jacob put me through. “He said if I didn’t come back, he’d do this to Tommy. He said I had to come back to him. Oh, God, it hurt. I hurt. Oh, God, make him stop.”

“Brandon?”

“Tommy wasn’t home. He’d gone to Des Moines with his father for a part for their truck. Only Jacob was home. He was in college, but came home often. I went inside with him and he, and he, he, he held me down, and he pulled my pants down, and he… He said if I didn’t come back he would do it to Tommy, too. I had to go back, don’t you see? I had to. Only, Mommy took me to Des Moines to the doctor that day and then she died. I had her blood all over my face. I could taste her blood in my mouth and there were other bits of her head all over me. I couldn’t get away, but I had to go back because Jacob was going to do it to Tommy. I had to protect him. Only, I couldn’t keep going back. I couldn’t let him keep doing that to me. So, I took the rope in my closet, put it around my neck … Oh my God! It wasn’t because of Mommy. I didn’t hang myself because I saw Mommy die. Don’t you see? It was because Jacob was going to … Don’t you see, I couldn’t let him do that to me anymore.”

---

III

The cab horn breaks my concentration. The Sunday crossword puzzle is barely half done. The gutters gurgle from an unceasing winter rain. It’s been a long, long time since we’ve seen each other. I linger a moment, then I’m out the door to grab two of Tommy’s bags while he picks up the other two.

“You’re looking great,” I say to my best friend from Iowa. “I’m sorry about you getting cut.”

“I’m not. If I hadn’t, I’d be playing in Cleveland right now. It’s snowing there. No, that kid who replaced me can have that shit.”

“Okay, so, other than not wanting to play anymore, how is my favorite all-pro halfback?”

“Sore, mostly, but the rain feels nice.”

“That’s because you don’t live here. It’ll rain tomorrow, the day after that, the next day, ad infinitum.”

“Kind of like the way the wind always blows in Fort Okanogan?”

“Yes, exactly.”

He does look tired, worn out from five and half years running around a green field waiting for a football to fall into his hands. His eyes look uncomfortable behind glasses that weren’t there when we graduated from college, but seem to be on his face every time we meet. His heavily muscled body seems a little shrunken from than the last time, as if he isn’t working out enough to keep his body toned.

“I’m surprised you came,” I say, setting his bags down in the foyer. “What are your plans?”

“Finish my doctorate and start teaching, I guess. Or, is it the other way around?”

“It’s usually the other way. Any prospects?”

“I’m supposed to meet with a Dr. Archmont at North Park tomorrow afternoon.”

“Dickie Archmont? You’re trying to get on at my school?”

“Why not, we’re best friends, aren’t we?”

“Forever,” I say as he pulls me into a hug. Twenty-eight years and we’re still as close as when we first met. If I was gay, I’d kiss him.

“You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed you since I was here last,” he says in my ear. Then, before I can react, I feel his lips on mine. It’s only for a moment, but the feeling is intense.

“What was that?” I ask, pulling out of his embrace. Almost immediately my pro football player turns into a little puppy who’s been caught playing in the shoe closet. I reach out and touch his unshaven chin, but he turns his head away. “Why did you kiss me? Come on, Tommy, if you remember, you’re the one who hit me because ... .”

“Damn it, Bran, I love you. Okay? I’m not admitting I’m gay, okay? I just love you and wanted to kiss you.”

“That was nice, Tommy. No, it was very nice. Actually, I was thinking the exact thing when you did it. I think I want to kiss you. Then you do it. You were always more impetuous.”

His arms are around me pulling us together, again.

“I’m not admitting anything. I just want to be close to you, right now.”

His lips are against mine, again. I don’t pull away as a nearly forgotten emotion sweeps over me. I’m in the arms of my best friend and I don’t care what it might look like, as if anyone can see us.

“Have you thought about where you’re going to live?” I ask, all the time thinking what it would be like to have him here in this house with me.

“Yeah, I assumed I’d live with you.”

“Oh, God! You did it, again.”

“We’re meant for one another.”

“Sleep in the same bed?”

“Isn’t that how we did it before?”

“Yeah, before both of us were too scared of others thinking we were gay.”

“You definitely thought I was.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you?”

“If I love only one man in the whole world, does that mean I’m gay?”

“No, I think there’s more to it than just loving me.”

“Then I’m not admitting I’m gay.”

“And, I’m not either, but I do love you very much. Come on, I’ve got the fire turned on in the den. We can snuggle on the sofa and enjoy a wonderful single malt Scotch that cost me too much.”

Bran’s house is, I guess, what I expected a single man to own. Older, pre-war, wood, with a modest yard, no view, and six blocks from North Park College where he is an Assistant Professor of History. There are three bedrooms, one of which he remodeled into a den with a gas fireplace, all his books, and a desk. The other small bedroom is fitted out to be a guest room, not that he expects that many guests to show up at his door. There’s a full bath in the hall between the bedrooms and the kitchen and a three-quarter bath, Bran added, off the master bedroom. The kitchen has all the gadgets because he loves to cook. Being raised by only his father from twelve to graduation from high school, force him to learn a lot of domestic skills most boys probably never expect to use. When you think about it, Bran would make a good wife for any man who would have him; and, no, you can’t have him, he’s mine.

He’s still as short and skimpily muscled as he’s always been. Straight, black hair clipped to a half-inch crew cut. His hands are, well, I guess you might say they’re petite or maybe dainty. Of course, that’s from having one of the human growth deficiency syndromes and parents and a country doctor who thought he just had a small stature. By the time they figure out it was a medical condition, it was nearly too late for Bran. He never made past five-six, but he looks stretched out like he grew unevenly; or, maybe that’s because he’s so skinny, not concentration camp starved, but extremely slender, dainty, I guess.

That bottle of very good Scotch is standing unceremoniously in the wastebasket beside Bran’s desk. We’re standing in our boxers in the master bedroom trying to decide who gets which side of the bed. What I can’t figure out is why he has a king size bed. It’s just him so why does he need a big bed that takes up so much space.

“When we slept in your bed you slept by the wall,” Bran says. He’s very close to me, so close the hair on his arm is tickling me.

“I slept there so I wouldn’t fall out of bed.”

“I never fell out.”

“Because you clung to me like an octopus.”

“I liked the feel of your body.”

“You know, that is so gay.”

“But, we’re not, so it’s okay.”

“Don’t get poetic with me. Which side do you want?”

“Well, there’s no wall, so I guess I’ll take the middle and you can pick a side.”

“I’m bigger, I get the middle. You’re going to cling to me anyway.”

“Okay. Can I have a hug and, uh, kiss before we go to bed?”

“God, Bran, you’re so gay sometimes. Come here, Chipper.”

“You remembered!”

“And, I know where he got it, too.”

“Where?”

“Chip off the old block. It was his nickname for his oldest boy. Then you came along and he tagged you with it, too.”

Our embrace is long, longer than I expected. When we kiss it is very different from the first time in the foyer. There is more passion enveloping us. I don’t know if Bran realizes it, but I think we’re getting very close to being sexual. Then I do something foolish. I swoop him up and set him on the bed. Then lean down to kiss him. His hands are rubbing my chest and abs. He is pulling me down on top of him.

I can’t believe both of us had orgasms while we were kissing. Well, we were pretty charged up, but we’re supposed to be straight and here we are making love to each other. Tommy is so big, muscular, but gentle, too. I hope he liked it as much as I did. I hope he doesn’t think I’m gay because of what happened.

A lot of people on campus think I’m gay. Practically every queer has hit on me, or so it seems. I guess it’s because I’m so short and small. I still look like a little boy until you get up close and see I have the face of an adult.

Won’t everybody be surprised when I introduce Tommy as my boyfriend? Especially with that name which is his actual first name. It’s on his birth certificate, Tommy Reginald Fairfield. Don’t even think about calling him Reggie. He’s Tommy R. Fairfield. And, he doesn’t go by Tom, either.

Tommy is playing with my right nipple. It tickles.

“You’re making me feel gay doing that.”

“Happy gay or queer gay.”

“Both, but I’m not certain I want the other one.”

“Do other men turn you on?”

“No.”

“Then you’re not gay. We’re just weird. We’re, uh, singularly gay, as in only attracted to one man. How’s that for a future psychology PhD?”

“Works for me. Hold me.”

His arms are so strong I don’t want us to be apart ever again.

We’ve had our first big fight. Bran’s sister died last week. She and her husband were driving over to Ames and a semi ran a stop sign. Both of them were killed when it went right over them. I wanted to go with Bran to the funeral, but he wouldn’t have it. He was so adamant. I’ve never seen him so angry. Besides, I really liked Suzy and wanted to say goodbye, too; except Bran was not going to let me go. We yelled at each other. Then he packed himself off to the spare bedroom and slept there until leaving for Iowa. I can’t imagine what we’re going to do when he gets back.

Finally receiving my doctorate is kind of bittersweet. We were going down to the Oregon Coast to celebrate. Now, I don’t know if I’ll be living here when Bran returns. I can’t live with him if he won’t let us be together.

The house is so quiet without him around. These past few days were somewhat tolerable because at least he was in the house. Now, I can’t do much of anything except function at the most basic level. Sleep, work, and do what I have to in the bathroom are about the only things I can manage. Food doesn’t seem to be important at all. Only my students seem to have any degree of importance in my life. I guess I’m hooked on this teaching shtick, but it is becoming meaningless without Bran in my life.

I wonder if Bran felt like this when he was suicidal. I’m practically physically ill from missing him. It’s like everything is pressing in on me from all directions. To say I feel oppressed would be an understatement. Compressed is closer to the truth as it feels like an unbearable pressure is being applied to every part of my body. I’m being squeezed and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Simply put, I miss him more than I’ve ever missed him before. I guess having him in bed at night has changed our relationship. At this point in time, I can’t say if that is good or bad since he’s removed himself from my presence.

Looking at the calendar, I realize Bran has been gone exactly one week. How long does it take to bury someone? I don’t have any recent experiences in that area, so it puzzles me how he can be gone so long. Maybe he doesn’t miss me as much as I miss him. I don’t know if I can live with that, or not.

And, is suicide an answer? I am practically grieving for my missing love, yet I can’t imagine killing myself as a solution to that grief. Do you have to have a particular mindset to off yourself? How can killing yourself be a solution to any problem? And, yet, the grief I feel is practically unbearable. And, I don’t know what I’ll do if Bran tells me to move out. Could he end what we have as simply as that?

Suzy’s funeral was a very private affair as only family was invited. There was no announcement in the Des Moines Register or even the Brinkman Herald Republic. The Petersons are a very insular group that takes their religion a little bit further than radical conservative Christians. Suzy was buried between her cousin Em who died a couple years ago from a heroin overdose and great uncle Bert who was killed in a traffic accident in Plymouth, England, on the way to the ship that was to take him to Normandy. According to family lore, great uncle Bert was the kind of guy who would die on the way to a battle just to get out being killed by the enemy.

Afterwards, we all trooped back to the church for the reading of the will. Darren, Suzy’s husband, had been buried the day before over on the Johansen side of the cemetery, so his family were somewhat impatiently waiting for us. The only missing people were the three children, Darren Allen, IV, nine, Kathleen Teresa, seven, and little Dwayne Steven, three. Like outsiders, children are not welcome to Peterson-Johansen funerals; and, the truth be known, are barely tolerated at weddings.

Pastor Johansen stood at the head of the aisle and as unceremoniously as possible read, “Darren Allen, III, and Suzette Gizelle Johansen, in the presence of God and his holy seed and son, Jesus the Christ, do solemnly bequeath all of our worldly possessions to our children, as many as may be at the time of our death. Hereinafter, our children, if they are still minors under the law, will be raised by Brandon Walter Peterson, so help us God. Pray for our souls that we may join all in holy celebration on the final day.”

It took a moment for me to realize I had suddenly become a stepfather to my niece and nephews. I should have known that to begin with, after all I am the youngest son of my father and I’m over the age of twenty-one. Dad squeezed my shoulder. I don’t know for pity’s sake or for familial support. Without marrying anyone, I had suddenly become the father to three children.

Well, as far as I’m concerned family tradition sucks. What am I going to do with three kids? I’m certainly not going to move back to Iowa to raise them. And, what about Tommy?

I walk out of the church and no one follows me. This is one of those times in our family when the shock of sudden fatherhood makes or breaks a follower of our tiny sect. There’s a wooden bench in a little grove of birches down by the creek where contemplation is always welcome. Taking out my cell phone I slowly enter Tommy’s number.

“Huh?”

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Who’s this?”

“Brandon, what are you doing?”

“Looking at a pistol I bought the other day.”

“What do you mean you’re looking at a pistol?”

“You should know, Bran. Except maybe you don’t since you never used one of these things.”

“Tommy? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t live without you. It’s as simple as that. There’s no purpose in going on. You’re not coming back, so there’s nothing more I can do.”

“Tommy, are there bullets in the gun.”

“It’s a pistol, Bran. It’s not a gun. Yeah, I’ve put the bullets in, even though I only need one. I was thinking about putting it on automatic. I wonder if I can hold the trigger down long enough for more than one round. What do you think?”

“Tommy, please, don’t do this.”

“No, Bran, do you think I can get more than one round in my head before losing function in my hand? Come on, Bran, you’re the expert on suicide, tell me how I’m supposed to do this.”

“Why Tommy? Why do you have to do this?”

“Because you’ve left me and you’re not coming back.”

“But, I am coming back, Tommy. And, I’m bringing some kids with me. I’m going to need your help with them. Will you wait for me to come home? Will you wait for me, Tommy?”

“Kids? What’re you doing with kids?”

“Suzy’s kids, Tommy. I’m going to raise them, with your help, I hope. Will you help me?”

“I guess so.”

“Then I want you to put the gun, the pistol away. Take the bullets out and put the pistol somewhere out of sight. Will you do that for me, Tommy?”

“Okay.”

“And, Tommy, I’m going to call Dr. Edwards and tell him you’re going to be calling. I want you to go see Dr. Edwards. Will you do that for me?”

“Okay, your shrink, yeah, I suppose I’d better do that. You’ve got kids? We’ve got kids?”

“Yes, Tommy, we’re going to be fathers. Doesn’t that sound great?”

“Yeah, I suppose I’d better call your shrink. I feel tired, so tired.”

“Tommy? Tommy?”

“Dad? Where are you, Dad?”

“In here, Dwayne.” Of Darren and Suzy’s children, only Dwayne calls us Dad. We’re both Dad. “Hey, Dad?” Can elicit a response from either of us and Dwayne is as happy as a peach missed by the pickers whichever one of us gets to him first. What makes him so very special to me is that he, for whatever twist of genetics, is the spitting image of Bran, except without the growth deficiency. He’s Bran full grown, or will be in a few short years.

Darren the Fourth lasted almost a year before causing so many problems we felt it best to ship him off to his grandparents in Brinkman. Kathleen wasn’t sorry to see him go, but she’s always stayed a few moments away from both Bran and I. She graduated from North Park High last June and will be attending Iowa State.

I still can’t imagine we were actually permitted to have the children in our home. Of course, the Brethren of the Rock of Holy Jesus Crucified, or whatever they call themselves, were rather adamant Bran take up his familial duties as youngest uncle; and, there never seemed to be a question that either of us might be gay. It just didn’t seem to come up. Out here in North Park, Washington, everyone assumes we’re queer and are surprised we have the children in our home. It does help that neither Bran nor I are actually gay, I guess.

“Dad? Where are my cufflinks? The ones Kathy gave me for Christmas last year. You know?”

“No, I don’t know. They’re your cufflinks, where do you keep stuff like that? Don’t you have a jewelry box?”

“No, I don’t have a jewelry box. What do you think I am, uh, sorry.”

“Well, if you’re going to have cufflinks, rings on your fingers and in your ears, and whatever other metallic adornments you’re sticking, inserting, gluing to your body, you’d better find something to keep them in. Hell, get a tool box.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea. Can I ask you a question?”

“I don’t care if you don’t go out for football. Okay?”

“Brandon already spoke to you, huh?”

“Yes, and it doesn’t matter to me.”

“But you were a jock in school.”

“Yes, and all my brothers and my father were jocks, talked like jocks, lived like jocks and were jocks all the time, even after graduating from high school and college. Dwayne, I want you to be what you want. Do you think you have a chance making the cross country team?”

“Hell, oops, sorry, yeah, when I was out running this morning, I ran into Coach Chambers on his run and he said he’d already spoken to Mr. Reynolds, the PE instructor at Bigedic Middle School. He’s expecting me to be on the team. It’s that great?”

“Yes, son, it is.”

And, off he goes in search of cufflinks. He has less organization skills than I do. His room is a constant, ever changing jumble of books, CDs, DVDs, clothes, and Harold, our fox terrier, who insists on living in that mess. I guess being a father worked out for Bran and me, at least with Dwayne.

It doesn’t matter who you ask, everybody pretty much agrees on the major defining moments in the lives of children. From all the firsts of childhood, to graduation from high school and college, children continue to amaze parents who provide a wholesome, encouraging environment for their growth to adulthood. While Tommy and I didn’t get to go agog over Dwayne’s early years, we were there with him as he took the later steps in his life. His choice to attend Fort Okanogan was no surprise, even though he had the grades, sports accomplishments, and SAT score to attend practically any university or military academy in the country. As the school’s motto says, excellence follows excellence.

“Doesn’t he look handsome?” Tommy asks as we watch Dwayne receive his walking papers from Dr. Sorenson, who didn’t surprise anyone when she accepted the board’s recommendation to accept the college’s presidency.

“Is all you can come up with is Dwayne is handsome? I would have figured at least a few more adjectives. Rhodes Scholar, for one, comes to mind.”

“And, gay, and beautiful, and what else do you want?”

“Actually, I’m a bit sorry you turned him gay. I would’ve thought you had more respect for my feelings toward the boy.”

“I turned him gay to protect him from you, so there, now you know.”

“Whatever happened to that boyfriend?”

“He went to Yale and flunked out. The last time Dwayne spoke to him he was waiting tables at some swanky bistro in Manhattan.”

“That’s a shame, he seemed to have potential.”

“Look, here he comes. Who’s that boy tagging along behind him?”

“Oh, yeah, well, I think you’ll be pleased.”

“Secrets! All the time keeping secrets from me.”

“Yes, certainly, that’s what we do in this relationship.”

“Dad? I like you to meet Whit. Whit, these are my dads, Dr. Peterson and Dr. Fairfield. They graduated from Fort Okanogan ages ago.”

“Pleased to meet you, my mother said she knew the both of you.”

“Your mother?” Tommy asks, looking at me expecting me to know and, of course, I do.

“Yeah, Disel Comber.”

“You’re Whit Comber? We have pictures of you!”

“My mother didn’t send you those pictures did she?”

“You know your mother, of course, she sent those pictures. Every Christmas we got a new one and you looked very uncomfortable every time.”

“Wouldn’t you in a full frontal nude photograph?”

“Dad? Do you know Whit’s going with me to Oxford.”

“I didn’t hear his name announced,” Tommy says, looking at me, again. I smile. That knowing smile.

“Does your mother know you’re …”

“Dad, she’s standing right over there talking to Dr. Jorgenson.”

“Come on, Tommy, lets go meet in the in-laws.”

And, she is as gracious as always. Artis, her partner and an avid Steelers fan, takes Tommy by the arm and off they go to discuss whatever football fans talk about in the off-season. The Jorgenson-Sorensons walk with us to their after graduation event, but I can’t help watching Dwayne and Whit practically fall all over themselves in a constant game of young love. I’m sure Tommy will agree with me, we made us a wonderful young man with the potential to do great things.

---

Author's Chapter Notes:
The last section of this chapter was inspired by the end of Flesh and Blood by Michael Cunningham, which is a very good novel if you haven't read it, yet.

---

IV

“Bran! Come here, we have a little boy on our porch.”

Is there some universal rule that states interruptions do not count unless you’re truly interrupted? I’m busy working on a birthday email to Dwayne and the doorbell does its obnoxious ditty. Tommy is gracious enough to answer it, but then he’s yelling at me. Well, there’s nothing to do except go see what’s so exciting. I swear, since turning eighty, Tommy’s gotten so old. It makes me wonder if he’ll see ninety. I’d hate to be sitting out on a beach watching my own sunset, alone.

He’s so precious looking, can’t be much over four and not an extra pound on him. Too long, sun streaked brown hair hangs in his eyes making him brush it away with one hand. A faint, nervous little child smile quivers his lips. His white t-shirt might have been clean earlier in the day when he put it on, but it will definitely be ready for the wash when takes it off for his bath. Cut-off blue jeans reveal skinny legs, too skinny if you ask me. He’s standing there on our front porch with a metal measuring cup in his other hand. I think he’s about ready to cry.

“Where did you get such a darling, little urchin?” I ask, squatting down to get closer to the little boy’s eyes. Just like dogs, little kids like it when you get down to their level, makes you less threatening.

“He showed up on his own,” Tommy says, moving away as if, like a dog, the child might bite his leg. “I think he wants something put in his cup.”

“Well, that’s obvious. Do you think he’s got a name?”

“I don’t know. I suppose you could ask him. You don’t think he hasn’t learned how to talk, do you?”

“No, he’s too dirty to be the silent type. What’s your name, little boy?”

“Conan,” the boy whispers. He doing a very good job of avoiding my eyes, but dirty fingers continue to brush his hair away.

“Conan, what a nice name for a nice little boy,” I say. I’m down on my knees since eighty year old hamstrings don’t like squatting. “You are nice, aren’t you Conan?”

“My Mommies say I’m not nice to my little sister.”

“Lesbians!” Tommy exclaims. “Oh, my god, we’ve got lesbians in the neighborhood.”

“Calm down Tommy, we don’t know that for certain. His parents may have divorced and remarried. He’d have two mommies that way.”

“You know that isn’t likely,” I say. I swear Tommy’s aversion to all things gay has gotten worse the older he gets.

“Conan? Do you want us to put some money in your cup?”

“No, Mommy Monica said, ‘Go ask the lady of house next door if we can borrow some, uh, some, uh, some.’” A little tear wells up in his eye and dribbles down his cheek.

“Oh, don’t cry, Conan,” I say reaching out to wipe away the tear with a finger. “I’m sorry to say we don’t have a lady of the house here. I guess you’ll have to ask one of us. What does your Mommy want us to put in the cup?”

“I forgot.”

“Is she making a cake?” Tommy asks as he turns as if to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a chair, this could take all day. You know how forgetful little boys are, you were one yourself a long time ago.”

“So were you, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me that, he’ll think we’re gay.”

“Conan, you don’t think we’re gay, do you?” I ask, but the boy only stares at me with a lot of confusion.

“Don’t ask him that!” Tommy exclaims.

“Oh, you worry too much,” I say. To tell the truth, I’m having too much fun with both of them. I’m kind of glad Tommy interrupted me.

“Now, Conan, what is your mommy doing?”

“Making cookies.”

“I like cookies, what kind is she making?”

“Uh, I forget.” Another tear dribbles down his cheek. At least he isn’t so scared something else dribbles.

“Oh, dear, well, I guess we’ll have to call her to find out, won’t we. Do you remember your telephone number?”

“Yes,” Conan whispers so softly I can barely hear.

“Like interviewing a shrub,” Tommy says from somewhere behind me.

“Stop it Tommy, you’re just jealous because he’s cuter than you.”

“All little boys are cute.”

“Not all of them,” I say thinking of the boy across the street who always gets what he wants and has all the extra weight to prove it.

“Will you get on and find out what we’re supposed to put in the cup,” Tommy says with his usual grating impatience.

“Here, Conan, enter your phone number in the cell phone. That way I won’t know it. You have to keep phone numbers secret. Right?”

“That’s what Mommy Ruth said,” Conan says as he pushes the buttons.

“Hello?” a soft female voice asks.

“Yes, this is Brandon Peterson, from next door,” I say. “I think we have your little boy on our front porch. He said your name was Monica.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Monica says. Her voice is stronger now as if earlier she might have been uncertain about answering the phone. “I told him to ask for the lady of the house.”

“Well, I’m sorry dear, but we don’t have one of those over here, not unless you count Millie, but she only comes in three mornings a week. Conan has a cup, but can’t remember what we’re supposed to put in it. Oh, oh, I think his little brother is coming up our sidewalk on his tricycle.”

“Oh, sorry, Ethan tries to stay close.”

“Conan said you’re making cookies.”

“Peanuts. Do you have any peanuts?”

“Salted or heart safe?”

“Heart safe?”

“No salt.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s funny.”

“Not to someone with high blood pressure,” I say craning my neck to wink at Tommy. His smirk tells me he isn’t impressed with my humor. “Yes, we can spare some unsalted peanuts, they’ll be perfect for your cookies. I tell you what, why don’t you and your, uh, the other adult in your house and your children come over this evening, we’d like to meet you.”

“My partner, Ruth, would like that very much,” Monica says. A slight change in her tone tells me she’s uncertain, though.

“Well, how about six-thirty, then? I think we have an extra jar of peanuts, it’s plastic so it won’t break when he drops it.”

“He’s a very careful boy.”

“He’s a boy, trust me, he’ll drop it. See you at six-thirty?”

“Yes, we’ll be over and I’ll bring some of the cookies.”

“If Conan doesn’t eat them all.”

“No worry there, he doesn’t like peanut butter cookies. Well, I’ve got to go, the timer went off. Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Well?” Tommy asks.

“Well, what?” I ask, as I slowly get back on my feet. “Come on, boys, let’s go get your peanuts.

“Did you find out if the significant other is a man or woman?” Tommy asks as he herds the two little boys behind me on our way to the kitchen.

“They’re lesbians, just as you suspected.”

“Oh, god, they’ll think we’re gay,” Tommy says. “You know those people. That’s what they all think. Two men living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, touching each other when they don’t have to, it’s all the evidence they’ll need.”

“You forgot having sex. It’s a dead giveaway every time. When are you going to accept it? We kiss, sleep in the same bed, and have sex. You can’t get much more gay than that.”

“I’m not gay!” Tommy exclaims. There’s more anger is his voice than usual. He just doesn’t understand.

“You’re right, Tommy, I don’t think you are. After all these years of you loving me, I don’t think any of that means you’re gay.”

“Oh, shut up!” Tommy exclaims and walks toward our bedroom. He’ll sulk for the rest of the day.

I can’t believe Monica and Ruth have three children. Conan, the oldest, is over here practically more than at home, which I think Monica appreciates more than she’ll say. They’re the kind of next door neighbors I remembered back in Iowa. We’re friends and they’re willing to help Bran and I when we need something that age prevents us from doing, like cleaning the gutters. For lesbians, they aren’t as bad as I expected, actually they’re quite nice. Maybe I didn’t know what to expect.

Dwayne and Whit eventually adopted when they came back from England after spending nearly five years over there. I was beginning to wonder if they’d ever come back and then suddenly without any notice they’re on our doorstep. They found two wonderful boys, Archie and Isaac, and a beautiful little girl, Cherise. All three married and blessed Bran and I with eight great-grandchildren who’ve been in our lives a lot more than I might have expected. I guess it doesn’t really matter that Bran and I appear to be gay.

Dwayne’s oldest grandsons, Kyle and Caleb, are too involved with sports to help as much as they could, besides seeming to be uncomfortable being around to aging great-grandparents who just might be gay. They’re good boys, but Kyle acts as if he has a problem with Darren and Whit being gay and Bran and I living as if we were. Caleb, on the other hand, just might be following the family tradition.

Right now, Caleb is over here talking to Bran, behind a closed door, and I can only guess what they’re talking about. Personally, I think the boy is having an identity crisis due to unwelcome homosexual feelings, but I could be wrong. After all, I thought Dwayne was straight until he came out to me, a month after doing the same to Bran. Why don’t these kids trust me?

Bran doesn’t know it, but I have stage four prostate cancer. I’ve got maybe a year, probably less. I want to tell him, but I can’t seem to find the right time or place. This isn’t something you casually mention while shopping for scallions at the grocer; and, the longer I put it off the more symptomatic I’m becoming. I can’t imagine why he hasn’t asked what’s wrong with me. Maybe he’s in denial, too.

Conan is spending some time with me this afternoon. I found Dwayne’s old train set and layout down in the basement a couple weeks ago and Conan is helping me put it back together. He should be in school, but he got into a fight yesterday and has to stay home for a few days. At nine, he should be in fourth grade, but his natural mother had been an addict when she was pregnant and Conan has significant memory problems that were most likely caused by his exposure in the womb to those chemicals. He’s a very nice boy and is a nearly helpless target for the wrath of his classmates who are mostly a year younger. The school district has a special education program for children with similar problems, but he hasn’t advanced far enough to qualify. I told my lawyer to change my will so that there will be a trust fund set up for Conan after I’m gone. I have to leave some good behind.

It’s strange thinking about dying. Bran has been troubled with depression and suicidal thoughts since he was twelve and almost killed himself. I had my turn when I thought Bran and I were through, but now as my body slowly succumbs to the cancer spreading diseased prostate cells into nearly every major organ, I don’t have the slightest interest in leaving early. It wouldn’t be hard at all, just take too many pain pills and a dozen sleeping pills, then never wake up, but that would be horrible for Bran. He deserves a better death on my part. I’m just scared to tell him, knowing he may chose to end his life in grief over my passing.

“Are you sad?” Kyle asks as we wend our way through coastal rainforest toward a rocky headland jutting out into the Pacific Ocean.

“No, not as much as I expected,” I say, being careful where I put my feet. The last thing Kyle needs right now is an eighty-six year old man with a broken leg and two miles of forest trail back to his car. “Tommy had a great life. I’ll miss him lying next to me in our bed, but when you pass eighty the only thing left on your calendar is how you go out the door.”

“Do you think he’ll be happy here at the ocean?” Kyle asks as the air begins to lighten and a steady thud shakes the soul. We’re close to the waves pounding at the shore, but the ocean is still out of sight and hearing.

“These are only the ashes of his body. His spirit has gone on to wherever they go after death.”

“I’m kind of sad,” Kyle says. His voice tells me that, too. “I didn’t get to talk to him that much. He seemed troubled about, you know, things.”

“Well, I suppose it’s because Tommy never came to terms with our relationship,” I say as the forest suddenly stops and we’re standing on a smooth, rocky platform high above the water. Gulls soar above, riding wind currents thrown up by the cliffs around us.

“Yeah, he kept telling me he wasn’t gay and I shouldn’t think either of you were someone to talk to about, you know, thinking I might be gay.”

“Well, Kyle, I wish you would have come to me first, like Caleb.”

“Caleb isn’t, is he?” Kyle asks. I detect a slight sense of worry in his voice.

“We’re not going to talk about Caleb. You wanted to come with me to spread Tommy’s ashes. We can talk about Tommy, Tommy and me, or Tommy and you, but since Caleb didn’t want to come with us, we’re not going to discuss his sexual orientation.”

“Do you want me to drop them now?” Kyle says, thankfully changing the subject. The wind is brisk from the south and we’ve worked our way down a faint trail to a lower ledge on the north side of the bluff. Tommy will fall freely to be one with the Earth, again, as was his wish.

“Be careful, that edge may be unstable,” I say as Kyle walks out to the very edge of the cliff.

“I’ll be okay, it’s solid rock,” Kyle says. He opens the urn and pours out what is left of my lifelong best friend. “There, now he’s free to go to heaven.”

“Thank you, Kyle,” I say as I turn to climb back up and be further away from the edge. I can hear the siren song calling me to join Tommy.

“Are you afraid of heights?” Kyle asks. He is right behind me, ever watchful.

“No, afraid of jumping,” I say trying to sound humorous. It is too solemn an occasion to be sullied with my defective psyche.

“Like committing suicide?”

“Yeah, I’ve always had a problem with that.”

“Caleb wanted me to ask you if we can move in with you,” Kyle says. It is a good change of subject and I appreciate the boy’s attempt to get my mind off destructive thoughts. “It’s okay with our parents. Well, it’s okay with my dad.”

“Why do you want to live with an old man? You’re college freshmen, you should be having more fun than being around an old man.”

“Because we love you and care about you. Isn’t that enough?”

“It was enough for Tommy and me. Other than a couple years, we’ve been best friends for all our lives. Do you think it’s okay for best friends to live together?”

“If they love each other.”

“We did. I can honestly say we loved each other.”

“I’d like to think Caleb loves me as much,” Kyle says with a tone full of hope and maybe love, too.

A flight of white terns wheels above the incoming swells as a late April breeze freshens the morning air. On a high cliff, two slightly graying middle-aged men stand at the edge of the forest looking out over the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean stretching out to the horizon. A rain squall fills the air to the northwest with shimmering gray and silver. The men seem out of place wearing neckties, dress shirts, slacks, and hiking boots. One is carrying a dark, buffed metallic object. They are talking quietly as if trying not to disturb the scene.

“It’s surprising this place never changes,” Caleb says. “Do you want to say a few words?”

“I think everything was said at the funeral,” Kyle says. “If you take the lid, I’ll release him to join Whit.”

“I miss him,” Caleb says, wiping a teary eye with the back of his hand. “He was the best grandfather any boy could expect.”

“All of them will be here, together.”

“Good-bye Grandpa, give my love to Whit,” Caleb says, turning to look at the forest. “I can’t watch.”

“There, he’s free.”

“Hold me, please.”

“Come on, Caleb, turn around and watch the birds. I think it’s because of the birds that Tommy chose this place for all of them. For us, I expect, when the time comes.”

“Look over there. Isn’t that an eagle?”

“That’s a good sign.”

 

The End