Protector of Children - 18. Chapter 18: Lucas and Mark--Part II

Lucas & Mark—Part II

Monday, December 24

I was up at three o’clock, as usual. Mark slept in, as usual. He woke at six, after I posted my blog. While I drank coffee, Mark sat at the computer eating cereal and reading my blog. He always read my blog.

“Mark? I need to run some errands, today. Do you suppose you can entertain yourself?”

“I can go with you,” he said.

“Not on all of them.”

“And just why not?”

I couldn’t come up with an answer. The real reason was that I wanted to get a Christmas gift for him, but I didn’t want to tell him that.

A phone call put my answer off for a bit. It was Mark’s mother. She’d finished one shift, and would get breakfast and a nap at the hospital before she had to go back on duty, and were we getting along, okay. Mark chatted with her for a minute, but didn’t say anything about Mars, gods, or legal papers.

It was ten by the time we finished breakfast (Mark’s second breakfast) at the Waffle Place. The only things healthy about the breakfast were the buckwheat waffles, but we managed to offset that with an ocean of butter and syrup. I resolved, once again, to fix vegetables for lunch.

This was the last day I could get a gift for Mark. I knew what I wanted to buy: a book I’d heard about and thought he’d like to have. It was a republication of James Burke’s Connections. Mark liked history, and especially the oddities of history. If anything was odder than the connections Burke drew between things like the lateen sail and refrigeration and the atomic bomb I didn’t know what it might be. The bookstore down the street would have the book, maybe even the DVD. But how was I to get them without tipping my hand? Or, without making Mark think I didn’t want his company?

I thought about the O. Henry story of the woman who sold her hair to a wigmaker in order to buy a fob for her husband’s watch and the husband who sold his watch to buy his wife combs for her hair. I thought about how foolish it was of me to worry about how Mark might see this particular mission, and made a decision.

“Mark? I need to have some time alone to get your Christmas present. I know what I want to give you, but you can’t be there when I get it.”

“You don’t have to get me anything!” he said. I knew that would be his reaction.

“I know that, Mark. I don’t have to get you anything. But I want to get you something. There’s a big difference between have to and want to. And that’s important to me.”

I let Mark come with me to the bookstore. Mark was an avid reader, and the notion of buying him a book wasn’t unusual enough to spoil what I hoped would be a surprise. He agreed to wait near the front of the store while I shopped.

The clerk was helpful without being patronizing. He spoke to me as if I weren’t blind, and didn’t seem to think it unusual that I was looking for a print book and a video. He found both the book and the DVD, and wrapped them for me.

 

Mark’s bath that afternoon was like all others—until I lifted him from the water onto my lap. “Lucas?” he said. I turned my face toward his voice, and he kissed me. Hard. On the lips. And, he put one arm behind my head and pushed so that I couldn’t break away. I didn’t try very hard, but when I felt his tongue pressing against my lips, I resisted.

Still, we were both breathing heavily when the kiss ended. Not since I was blinded at age ten had I wanted so badly to see anyone. I wanted to see the expression on Mark’s face. I wanted to know if his eyes were open. Was he looking at me? Was he smiling? Was he happy? Was he horrified? Was he afraid—afraid of what he’d done? Afraid of what I might feel? Afraid that we could not be friends after this?

“Lucas, I love you. I love you so much!”

I heard his sincerity and a little fear.

“Mark, I love you. Please do not be afraid.”

“You know I’m afraid?”

“Mark, we’ve been friends since you were eight years old. I’ve held you during thunderstorms and when there was a gang shootout in the street. I’ve held you when you woke up from nightmares. I know when you’re afraid. I know when you’re happy, too. I can hear that in your voice. I think you’re happy, too.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Are you happy?”

“Yes, Mark. I am happy.”

I rubbed him with the terry towel while I spoke. “We talked about love; we need to talk about happiness, too. And, we need to talk about kisses. Not tonight, though. Soon.”

 

The fringes of the winter storm that had blanketed the Dakotas and much of the central USA reached Chicago that afternoon. Sleet spattered against the windows before snow began to fall. Mark and I cuddled on the couch under a quilted blanket, listened to the wind, and played Botticelli.

“My name is Botticelli, and I am D,” Mark said.

“Were you a Prime Minister to Queen Victoria?” I asked.

“No, I am not Disraeli.” I had failed to stump him.

“Were you nominated to be Obama’s Secretary of HHS and withdrew over controversy about failure to report and pay income taxes?”

“Huh! I lost track of the crooks and cheats Obama appointed . . . I don’t know.”

“Tom Daschle,” I said. I had stumped him with a “D” question. Now I could ask a twenty-questions style yes-or-no question.

“Are you living?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t very helpful; by the rules, fictional characters were always living.

“Did you write Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?”

“I am not Roald Dahl.” Again, I’d not stumped him.

It took well more than twenty questions to stump Mark often enough to ask the yes or no questions that finally narrowed down his character to Dasher, Dancer, or Donner. At that point, I conceded the game, and Mark tuned the TV to a channel showing the Alistair Sim version of Dickens’s Christmas Carol. When the film ended, Mark kissed my cheek.

“I love you, Daddy. Merry Christmas.”

I hesitated, then kissed Mark’s cheek. It was a chaste kiss, as I felt his had been. “Merry Christmas, Son. I love you.”

Tuesday, December 25

Mark’s mother called just after six AM, as soon as her shift was over. “I knew you’d be awake,” she said. “I just checked your blog and saw what you had posted. Mark still asleep?”

I told her that he was, and said something about having to threaten him with Santa’s disapproval if he didn’t go to bed by midnight, last night. She laughed. “Do you suppose you could keep him a little longer? I want to get home and clean up a little before inviting the two of you to come up for breakfast and Christmas morning stuff. Breakfast won’t be much—I’ll stop for bagels on the way home. I don’t have to be back until tonight. Will you keep Mark another night?”

I said I would, and she said she would call me when she was ready.

At nine-thirty, I pushed Mark down the hall to his apartment. The smell of warm bagels and coffee guided me. Mark wanted to open presents, but his mother insisted he wait until she and I had eaten. I don’t think Mark ate anything. He was too excited.

He saved my gift for last. I must have read him right, because he seemed overjoyed. But.

“This is too much!” he said. I know what he was thinking: it had cost a great deal more than the latte he had bought me.

“Not really,” I said. “It’s kind of a selfish present because I want to enjoy it with you. I hope you will read some of the book to me, and let me listen as you watch the video.” I knew he’d have to do the latter: he didn’t have a DVD player.

“Alice,” I said after she’d refilled our coffee cups and brought hot chocolate for Mark. “There’s something we need to talk about. It has to do with Mark’s father.”

I heard Mark’s gasp and a moan. “No . . . .”

“You asked,” I said, “and we agreed.

“Alice, Mark’s father visited us in the coffee shop on Sunday. I know who he is. Mars.”

Now it was Alice who gasped.

Before she could speak, I continued. “You had told Mark just the day before. He didn’t believe you until he saw Mars and saw that he was something magical. Alice? He was cruel to Mark; he threatened me. And, in the end, he rejected Mark because he was crippled. He rejected Mark, saying that he and I deserved one another because we were both disabled. He abrogated his role as Mark’s father. And he gave that job to me.”

I held out the papers Aiden had delivered. “I found this hard to believe until a demi-god visited my apartment and delivered these papers.”

I listened while she flipped through the papers. She didn’t sound happy when she spoke.

“Mark, I’m sorry this came out this way. I had hoped that your father—yes, he’s Mars, the soldiers’ god—would come to you, would accept you, and would be a real father. We can’t stay here, any longer. If he threatened you—”

“He didn’t threaten me! He threatened Lucas. He threw me away!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alice said. “We cannot stay here. I can find a job anywhere. As soon as I give notice, we’ll move somewhere he can’t find you.”

“Mama! He found me in a coffee shop! Aiden found me in Lucas’s apartment. He’s a god for god’s sake! It doesn’t matter where we move.”

I heard the catch in Mark’s voice when he said, “And I want Lucas to be my daddy.”

“Alice, Mark is right. Mars would find you, anywhere you went. It would be expensive to move; you wouldn’t get as good a job as you have now, and you wouldn’t have anyone to take care of Mark when you had to work at night—and you know you would, at least to start.”

There may have been a catch in my voice when I added, “And I’ve already promised Mark that I would be his daddy.”

I had thrown my strongest arguments at Mark’s mother. So had he. She understood that my being Mark’s daddy did not include being her husband. “It’s no worse, and probably a lot better, than divorced parents sharing joint custody,” I said. “The kids are frequently pawns in the continuing animosity between their parents. Our relationship is much different. You’re still the only legal parent; these documents give me authority only to order emergency medical treatment if you cannot be contacted. I have no other power.”

Finally, she agreed. “For now,” she said. “I’ll think about this again, and we’ll talk, again.”

 

The temperatures in Maryland, Northern Virginia, and the District of Columbia dropped to below freezing, and the predicted rain turned to ice. Some power lines broke under their own weight; others from tree branches laden with ice that fell on them. People with heat pumps were without heat; people with gas furnaces found the safety interlocks prevented the furnaces from working unless they also had electricity. The few score who died of carbon monoxide poisoning after circumventing the interlocks were a blip among the hundreds who froze to death. Congresspersons issued statements from the comfort of their homes. Republicans blamed the Obama administration; Democrats blamed the Bush administration and the Republicans who had failed to support the pork-filled bills to ostensibly fund FEMA. No one thought to blame the failure of the congress to fund replacement weather satellites, or the congressional leaders who didn’t believe in global climate change.

The president, comfortable in 80-degree Hawaii, nevertheless wore a FEMA jacket when he issued a statement of condolence and assured everyone listening that he felt their pain, and that the full power of the federal government would be mobilized to help them. There were few specifics.

Wednesday December 26

Mark’s mother had called at six o’clock. She and Mark spoke for a while. Afterwards, he came into the bathroom where I was shaving. “She asked if I could stay with you today and tonight. I told her yes. Is that okay?”

I said that it was.

It was barely eight o’clock when the doorbell rang for the second time in seven years.

“It’s him!” Mark said. I followed his progress from the sound of his voice and the tiny squeak of the left front wheel.

“It’s he,” I corrected automatically. “And who is he? Don’t let anyone in who you don’t know—”

Too late, I heard the door open.

“Aiden!” That was Mark. I thought I heard a kiss, but knew that couldn’t be right.

“This is Dike,” I heard Aiden say. “She’s the judge who signed those papers. She’s also goddess of Justice. And this is Apollo.”

“Um, the guy at the computer with the blank look on his face is my daddy, Lucas,” Mark said.

“Lucas, named by Mars to be the modern Prometheus. I’m pleased to meet you. I have read your blog every day for years.” That was a woman’s voice, and it was directly in front of me. I stood, and held out my hand. It was taken, briefly. A god reads my blog?

“I am happy to meet you, Your Honor.”

“Please call me Dike. Mark said you know who we are?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Hi, Lucas. I’m Apollo.” Another handshake. It was a small hand, and the voice was that of a child. I was puzzled, but had no time to wonder.

“I’m not long on hospitality, but there should be bottled water and sodas in the refrigerator,” I said. “I could make coffee?”

“No, thank you, Lucas,” Dike said. “There is little time, and much to say.

“Lucas, please listen and save your doubts and questions for later. You have accepted that I am Dike, goddess of Justice. Please also accept Apollo, who has many Authorities and Attributes, and you know Aiden, our twelve-year-old legal department. We came at Mark’s request to help you resolve your problem.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had a problem,” I said, hoping Mark understood I was talking to him.

He did. “The problem is,” he said, “that Mother has decided to move. She told me on the phone this morning. She said because you were blind, you couldn’t protect me! I know you can, but she wouldn’t believe me. And I can’t tell her about us, and if I did, it would probably make her even more want to move.”

“You brought in some high-powered help,” I said. What did he tell them about us? That we love each other more than a daddy and son should love one another? More than a man and a boy were allowed to love one another? I couldn’t say any of that.

“I only called Aiden! He said I could!”

“It was my idea to ask the others,” Aiden said. “I really am only twelve . . . .”

“Lucas, there is one thing that we can do immediately that might help Mark’s mother change her mind,” the voice was that of the child who had introduced himself as Apollo, but the words were of someone older. I almost missed it when he said, “I can remove the block to your sight; I can make you see, again. But only with your permission.”

“Of course . . . .” I said, and then caught myself. Aiden had said before that there’s always a catch, and that things were never as they seemed.

“But at what cost?” I asked. “What’s the catch?”

“It will mark you as one favored by the gods, although your Authorities and Attributes as Prometheus will mark you as one of the gods, so I’m not sure that’s important.” That was Dike’s voice.

Prometheus, again. That keeps coming up. Authorities and Attributes? She’s talking as if I really were Prometheus.

“You will see much more than just the images that reach your eyes,” Dike said. “You will see more clearly than before the evil that infests this world and which we are fighting.”

“You will receive—or find, I’m never quite sure—tasking to do good, to help the victims of evil,” Aiden said. “You will not be alone in this fight; we will be there alongside you.”

I was surprised to hear such a mature thought from a child.

“Wait! Please! I don’t understand this. Mars called me Prometheus, and Aiden said something about creating reality. Now you’re talking as if I were already he. He was . . . is one of the primordial gods, probably as powerful as any, even Zeus. I’m just a blind blogger, not a god.”

“The gods were created by humans,” Dike said. “They gave us powers—Authorities and Attributes. We are now independent of them but like you, we all were human at our beginnings. We, and a few others whom you will meet, have assumed the role of guardians and protectors of humanity.”

“Not all of the original gods are still with us,” the youthful voice that was Apollo added. “And some of those who are still here have retired or, worse, resigned themselves to despair at the state of humanity and its civilization. Prometheus, perhaps because he was instrumental in creating western civilization, despaired more than most, and left this plane millennia ago. We believe his powers will be bestowed on you. Yes, you are the modern Prometheus. It may take a while for you to realize this and to find your powers.”

“You have no choice,” Dike said. “It will happen.”

“Daddy? You have to do this.”

“Mark? Do you understand what you are asking?”

“No, Lucas . . . Daddy. I don’t understand it. But, I know it is good, and I know it has to be.”

“Very well,” I said. “Apollo? Thank you for your offer. You may, if you still will, restore my sight.” And then I’ll think about this Prometheus stuff.

 

Mark was crying. I watched, fascinated, as tears rolled down his cheeks. I reached for my handkerchief and handed it to him. What is real? Did I really wake up this morning or am I still asleep?

Mark’s legs? I wondered. Was there more than one miracle done here, today?

No. I watched as Mark locked the front wheels of the chair and pulled himself onto the couch beside me, then dragged his legs into place.

“Mark? What happened? What did you see?”

“You can see me, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can. I wish he had fixed you, instead,” I said. Got to get this on the table right away. He’s going to wonder and resent . . . .

“No. Better you than me,” he said. “I’ve never known what it’s like to walk. You used to be able to see. You miss that. I can’t miss what I’ve never known.”

 

Mark and Aiden sat side-by-side at the dining room table, and appeared to be engrossed in the take-out menu of the pizza place down the street. In any case, they were whispering and giggling. Apollo and I sat in the living room. Dike had left, and Apollo had transmogrified into a man, perhaps in his sixties, with white hair and beard. And a toga-thing that covered a great deal more than had the short tunic I first saw him wearing. I had been looking at him when he changed. He had winked.

“I examined Mark and found that I cannot heal him,” Apollo said in answer to my unspoken question. “Our Authorities—our powers—are supposed to be inviolate within our designated realm. I am supposed to have healing power, but it could do nothing for Mark. I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps because he is a demi-god?” I asked. “Perhaps—”

“No,” Apollo said. “There was something blocking me. I felt it. I believe it is something I have felt before. It is the power of the Moirai—the Fates.”

A bitter chill blew across my heart. I had accepted these gods and demi-gods. What better proof than what Apollo had done for me and then done to himself? I must, therefore accept the Fates and that they were somehow interfering with Mark. I didn’t think of it as doing their job, but as interfering.

“How do I get in touch with the Fates?” I asked.

“You don’t,” Apollo said. “No one does.”

Bull, I thought. If they’re real, then there must be a way to get in touch with them. Questioning and research.

 

Of course, the Fates were not in the phone book or, in any useful way, on the internet. I did read a great deal about them. They were three women—usually old women. One used a distaff and spindle to spin a thread—someone’s life. Another measured the thread and the length of the person’s life. The third cut the thread at the moment of the person’s death. There was no mention anywhere of their having authority to decide that a boy should be confined to a wheelchair, or being able to block another god’s power. None of this helped me find a way to contact them.

Unknowing, Mark found the answer. We were cuddled on the couch watching his DVD. When the first episode ended, he stopped the player.

“Lucas? Why are the gods so afraid that someone’s words will create reality?”

I didn’t have to think hard about that. It was straight out of one of my blogs on what motivates politicians. “My guess is that they’re afraid of a new reality in which they don’t have power. Power is a strong motivator. Second, they’re comfortable with this world. At least, with the way it is run. I can’t imagine they’d be comfortable with all the bad things that are going on, but it’s at least familiar. Familiarity and consistency are also powerful motivators, even though they may lull us into complacency. Third, I think the gods we’ve met are altruistic and like to do good things for people. The reward of knowing you’ve helped someone is also a powerful motivator. For politicians, it buys votes; for the gods, it buys feeling good.”

They said I might be able to change reality. They said Mars might have given me the ability to do that when he declared me to be Prometheus. I wonder if I can create a situation in which they’d have to find the Fates for me. I wonder if I can blackmail the gods.

The next morning I pulled from the files something I’d written earlier, posted it to my blog, and ignored yesterday’s posts. Then, I opened a new word-processor file and started typing.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The voice shook the windows and the walls, and probably woke Mark. I looked at the clock on the screen. 3:35. I’d been typing less than five minutes. I looked toward the voice. From long habit, I had not turned on any lights. The room was dark; the only light came from the computer screen. The figure that stood in the shadows was—shadowy.

“Doing my job,” I said. “Who are you, and what gives you the right to enter my home, yell at me, and wake Mark?”

“The boy’s still asleep, you are endangering him and many others, and I am Zeus.” He answered my questions in order of their importance. Interesting, that.

“Would you care for coffee?” I asked.

“I have the moral high ground here,” he said. “And I answered your questions. I believe you have the obligation by your own rules to answer mine.”

Oh yeah, what did I think I was doing.

“Actually, I was trying to reach you.” I clicked on the “save” icon and then the “don’t save changes” button. My words became loose electrons that would find random places in the innards of the computer.

“You chose a dangerous way of doing that,” he said. “Yes, thank you. I’ll have coffee.”

Zeus was apparently capable of reading my thoughts, as had been Mars, so our conversation was brief. He agreed, if I would agree to behave myself, that he would take me to visit the Fates where I could present my case.

“I can’t leave Mark alone,” I said.

“We’ll be gone less than the time between the beginning of a tick and its end,” he said. “Stand up, unless you want to fall on your butt.”

I stood quickly and we were in a wine cellar. Wine cellar? Zeus handed me a bottle with a hand-lettered label. In the dim light I read “Elderberry vintage 4,255.” The bottle was dusty and the lettering faded. It was clearly some years past 4,255.

Forty-two fifty-five? It did not occur to me until later to realize that the label hadn’t been in English, and wonder how I could read it.

“You don’t really think we use your common calendar, do you? Our calendar dates from a millennium before the founding of Troy.” Zeus snorted. He took three stemmed demitasse glasses from a shelf. “Ready?”

Before I could answer, we were on a white, pea-gravel path that led up a gentle slope. I heard and saw the sea to my left and behind me. Meadows stretched to mountains, misty on the right-hand horizon. I was no longer wearing sweats and a T-shirt but a tunic. Longer, I was glad to see, than the one Aiden wore, and Apollo had worn when I first saw him. Actually, I think the boys enjoyed showing off their bottoms.

For the first time since he had appeared in my apartment there was light enough for me to see Zeus, who walked up the hill at my side. He had the appearance of a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He, too, wore a tunic and sandals, although where my tunic was plain, his was decorated at the bottom, neckline, and sleeves with the Greek key in gold. He was quite handsome. Apparently, he caught that thought. “You’re spoken for,” he said. “Too bad. You’re right handsome, yourself.”

Before I could answer, the path made a turn and we were standing at the edge of a stone patio. At the far side were chairs on which three women sat. I didn’t have to see the distaff, spindle, bag of flax, and basket of yarn, nor the scissors on the table to know who they were.

“Why, it’s Zeus and Prometheus, and look Sisters, they’ve brought a gift. Is that Elderberry wine? It is! They must want something important.” Clotho laid her distaff on the table and stopped the rotation of the spindle, although she kept it suspended by one hand.

“Won’t do you any good,” Atropos said. I knew her name meant unturnable. She would be the hardest to win to my cause.

“Now, ladies! I’ve come to bring you wine and introduce you to—”

“To a very bad boy! We saw what he wrote,” the middle one said. She would be Lachesis, the measurer. Now I had two to win to my cause.

Zeus seemed to be on my side. He ignored the bickering, set out the glasses, and took the bottle from me. The ladies waited until all three glasses were filled, but it was obvious they were anxious to taste the wine. Zeus refilled the glasses once, then again before speaking.

“Now, ladies, I would like you to listen to what Lucas has to say. I believe he has a point to be made.”

I told them about Mark and about Apollo not being able to heal him. “I love him so much, and I hate to see him this way. He’s been very stoic about it, but I know he’d like to be able to run and play like other little boys. Apollo said that there was something blocking him, and that he thought you could remove it. Please? Would you do that?”

Clotho began. “What will you do for us in return?”

I did not hesitate. “Anything that does not take me away from Mark.”

“A good answer—”

“Are you going to—”

“I thought we had agreed—”

The sisters exchanged sharp words and sharper looks. Atropos picked up her scissors.

“Ladies! Please!” Zeus said. He had changed. His appearance was older, harder. I heard thunder and thought of Mars in the coffee shop.

“You know the rules,” he said.

“Very well,” Clotho said. “Answer our riddles and we will see—”

“If he answers the riddles, you will remove the block,” Zeus said. He put his hand on the wine bottle. The women looked at one another, then nodded.

Clotho began. “At night we come without being invited; by day we steal away but are not stolen. Who are we?”

“The stars,” I said. That was too easy. I was afraid.

Lachesis was next. “It’s part of Heaven although it touches Earth; some say it has value, others say it’s of no worth. What is it?”

“A rainbow.” This, also, was too easy.

Atropos spoke. “I am a box with no corner of sides; yet I hold a golden treasure inside. What am I?”

A little harder. “An egg.”

“I have a cap but no head, a foot but no shoe. Who am I?”

Harder. “A mushroom.”

“I know all languages but speak only when spoken to. Who am I?”

“Echo,” I said. An easy one.

“I pass by but never stop. Who am I?”

“Time.” Another easy riddle.

“I am a long snake with a stinging bite; I stay coiled unless I must fight. Who am I?”

“A whip.”

“I have a mouth but do not speak, a bed but never sleep. Who am I?”

“A river.”

The women were silent. Zeus poured the last of the wine into their glasses. They were nodding. Atropos’ head dropped to her chest and she began snoring before she could pick up her glass.

“Call Apollo when you return. He will be able to heal the boy,” Lachesis said before she, too, fell asleep. Clotho smiled, laid her spindle beside the distaff, and closed her eyes. I resolved to find a way to bring them another bottle of Elderberry wine, but not any time soon.

Zeus frowned, but he didn’t seem angry—in fact, his frown was more pensive than angry. He looked at me and grinned. “I believe by your rules you owe me, big time. At least, you will after Apollo’s next visit. You told the Moirai you would do anything that did not require you to leave Mark. On their behalf, I claim that token.”

He correctly interpreted the look on my face. “Don’t worry. I am not a tyrant.”

Zeus disappeared before I could ask him about being called Prometheus. It hadn’t escaped me that Clotho had called me that name, as had Dike and Apollo. Zeus had heard her, but said nothing. On the other hand, it was Zeus who had punished Prometheus, and it was Zeus’ eagle that had eaten his liver. Yet Zeus seemed friendly to me. What was going on? What was the truth behind the fantastic? Was Prometheus that powerful? Or was there another reason?

 

The instant Zeus disappeared, I was back in my apartment. The doorbell rang. It was Apollo in his twelve-year-old aspect.

“Lucas? I’m glad you’re awake.” The boy yawned broadly. “It’s awfully early. Where did you get the tunic? Zeus said you’d gotten the block removed? Where’s Mark?” He yawned, again.

“Mark’s still asleep and I think you’re about half-asleep, yourself. Would you like some hot chocolate?”

Apollo nodded. The coffee I’d poured myself either ten minutes or two hours ago was still hot. I dumped what was left in Zeus’ cup and got out a new cup for Apollo, filled it with hot chocolate mix, and put a measuring cup of water in the microwave. Why do I have so many coffee cups? I wondered. It’s not as if I plan to entertain, or didn’t until a few days ago.

“I should wake Mark,” I said after stirring the chocolate. “He will either wake at six, starving, or sleep until eleven and wake, starving.”

Mark knew something was different when I carried him into the living room rather than putting him in his wheelchair. I don’t think he noticed that I was wearing a tunic until I sat on the couch, with him in my lap, and he saw Apollo.

“Lucas? What’s going on?”

I hugged him and kissed his forehead. “Mark? Apollo couldn’t heal you, before, because something was blocking him. That has been removed. He’s going to fix your legs.”

“If that’s okay with you,” Apollo said.

“Really? Are you sure?” Mark asked.

“I’ve already looked,” Apollo said. “The block is gone. I’m sure. But—”

“No buts!” I said. “Not now. Zeus, the Fates, they said—”

“Easy, Lucas,” Apollo said. He spoke with his Authority, and the manner of the old man. “I have to explain the process. It’s different from healing you. You had been able to see when you were a child; the necessary brain development had occurred. Your sight was restored. Mark has never walked. The nerve paths that control his legs never developed. It will take time for him to learn to use his legs, even more time to learn how to walk and climb stairs and run. The muscles are present, but rudimentary and weak. He’ll have to do a lot of exercises. There’s a lot to be integrated into his nervous system. You’ll have to help. It will take weeks, maybe months. That’s the only but.”

Mark hugged me. “That’s okay, then. Isn’t it?”

I nodded.

 

“You can see me in the bathtub, now,” Mark said. It would be weeks before his legs were strong enough to push him up if he slid down into the water, so I maintained my vigil by the tub. I blushed.

“I like it when you look,” he said.

“That’s ’cause you get an erection when I look,” I said.

“That’s ’cause you love me, and I love you,” he said.

“Mark, that there’s more to love than sex. You do know that, don’t you?”

He reminded me of our game of truth or dare without the dare. “We didn’t either say anything about sex, then. Of course I know there’s more to love than sex, but there’s got to be that, too!”

 

It was a week later when Mark’s cries woke me. “It hurts! Lucas! It hurts.”

I didn’t waste time fumbling for a light but reached for him. “What hurts?”

“My leg, my leg.”

I felt his hands wrapped around his right leg just above the knee. Charlie horse—the therapist warned me. I replaced Mark’s hands with my own and began massaging the muscle. I felt the knot in one of the quadriceps, and focused on it. The knot had begun to loosen when the leg jerked and Mark nearly kneed me in the face. His scream would have wakened the neighbors, had we neighbors.

This time it was one of the hamstrings, either cramping in sympathy or pulled too tightly in reaction to the quadriceps. I rolled Mark over on his tummy and began massaging the back of his leg. The tightness went into the gluteus maximus; I massaged his buttocks. His cries faded to whimpers, and I felt the muscles relaxing. Then his entire body tensed and he cried out, “Oh! Oh, Lucas! Oh, fuck!”

“What’s wrong?”

Mark went limp. He was crying.

“Mark! What is wrong?”

“I just . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! It felt so good . . . you touching me . . . my penis . . . it was pushing against . . . it got hard . . . I came . . . oh, fuck! I made a mess . . .”

I was so relieved I wanted to laugh, but I dared not. I put my hand on the small of Mark’s back and rubbed, gently. “It’s okay, Mark, and don’t use the f-word.”

Then, I flipped on the light. Mark turned his head so I could see his face. It was bright red.

“It was bound to happen, sometime, Mark. You’re growing up. You’re producing seminal fluid. If you don’t masturbate you’re going to have wet dreams or other accidents. Come on, turn over. You’re still my little boy, and you’re not so big I can’t carry you to the tub.”

A month ago, it would have been a major chore to wash sheets and change the bed linen. Now, not only could I see what I was doing but Mark could help. I tossed Mark’s pajamas and the sheets into the washer and got out fresh. Less than an hour after Mark had wakened, we were back in bed with the lights out.

“Lucas?” Mark whispered. “I love you.”

I felt for his hand in the dark, and grasped it. “Mark, I love you.”

 

Mark knew I masturbated; I knew he masturbated. For me, it was furtive, quick, and other than an instant of physical release, highly unsatisfactory. I suspected it was the same for Mark. We were both frustrated; we were both unable to talk about it.

Apollo had visited and given instructions for what he called “deep tissue massage” to help develop Mark’s muscles—muscles that included those of the inner thigh and the buttocks. It was not practical for Mark to wear any clothing during this, and it was inevitable that he would get an erection. Since he was masturbating, there were no accidents, but we both became increasingly uncomfortable. It was Mark who broke the ice.

“Daddy? Why won’t you touch my penis? I know you want to! You know I want you to! Love isn’t just sex, but that’s part of it! I want to love you that way.”

That way. I knew what he meant. Mark and I had to face a big problem. We were in love, but I was a twenty-four-year-old man and he was only twelve. That didn’t seem to bother him, but it did bother me. He’s too young to know, to understand. I have an implicit responsibility to him and to his mother. And it’s explicit in the laws of this state and nation.

I knew that Mark browsed the internet when he visited. I’d never placed restrictions on that nor did I try to find out what he saw, but he did leave a window open on the computer once—a window to a gay web site. A very explicit web site, complete with videos.

Should I face him with this, or ignore it? I decided that if I mentioned it, I would open up a conversation I didn’t want to have. So, I ignored it. I could no longer ignore it or the conversation.

But, how to start?

“Mark, Son, we need to talk about sex and what’s considered normal and right.”

“No!” he said. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that it’s normal and right for me to want to fall in love with a girl, get married, and get her pregnant. All because that’s normal and right.”

His penis had detumesced. I knew he was upset.

“Well that isn’t all that’s normal and right,” he said.

I could not answer, but knew I would have to find a way to do so.

 

The next day, Alice called and asked me to come to her apartment. Mark was not there. The instant I closed the door, she started talking. Her arms were crossed, her brow was furrowed, and each word was hard and sharp.

“I’m a nurse, for god’s sake! I know body fluids and anatomy, and I know there’s no normal way for semen to get on the seat of Mark’s pajama bottoms unless you’re having intercourse with him and it’s leaking out his anus!”

“Alice, I swear I’ve never done anything inappropriate—”

“What’s your definition of appropriate? Is fucking a twelve-year-old boy appropriate? What have you done to my son?”

The slamming door startled us both. Mark’s face was white. “Mama! He never!”

“Of course you’d defend him. He’s brainwashed you. My baby! Come here. We’re going right to the hospital to see the proctologist—and have a rape nurse take swabs.”

Mark’s face turned even whiter. “No, Mama.” His voice was steady. “Lucas didn’t have sex with me and he didn’t brainwash me. I’m not that stupid! He refused to have sex with me when I asked, and I asked a lot. He wouldn’t even let me tongue kiss him! He said it would violate your trust and might hurt me. It’s true, Mama. It’s true.”

Mark’s control broke, and his body shook with sobs. “Please, Mama, please believe me?”

Alice nearly ran across the room, and took her son into her arms.

“Mark, I don’t know what to believe,” she said. “The evidence . . . your pajamas . . . I don’t know what to believe.”

“Occam’s razor, Mama,” Mark said. “Which is simpler, that Lucas stuck his penis in my, um, rectum and had an orgasm and I put on pajamas and, uh, leaked, or that I masturbated and cleaned myself up with a pair of dirty pajamas?”

“Did Lucas teach you that?”

“To masturbate?” Mark asked.

“No, silly, the part about Occam’s razor.”

Mark nodded. Alice sighed. “Mark, I’m sorry I doubted you. Lucas? I’m doubly sorry I doubted you. I cannot believe that you would spoil all you’ve done for Mark that way. I’m sorry. I jumped—”

“Stop, look, and listen,” Mark said. “Luke taught me that, too.”

Before he stopped giggling, Mark’s cell rang.

“It’s Aiden.” Mark smiled. “He’s going to be here in a few minutes. With Zeus.”

 

Disclaimer and Notes: The relationship between Lucas and Mark mirrors that of Gary and Nemesis (although the story of Lucas and Mark takes place about a year before Gary and Nemesis meet). (Yes, Aiden is, therefore, an anachronism. That will be explained.)

There is a significant difference between the two couples that can only be understood by reading the entire Nemesis story. How Lucas will deal with Mark’s age, and their age difference is critical, and will be dealt with appropriately as the story develops.