Stronger Than Lions - 18. Thou Mayest

I recovered quickly.

After a few days at my place Chris dragged me into The Thing and drove me to his house.

‘Into your Speedo,’ he said as we walked into his room. ‘We’re going to the pool. I brought your kit.’

‘Why? It’s freezing out.’

‘We have solar heating, bru.'

'I don't think I should be getting into a pool any time soon.'

'It will be good for you to move your body a bit, just a little. If you’re good, you get a reward.’

I cocked my head to the side. ‘What sort of reward?’

He raised a corner of his mouth. ‘The sort of reward that can happen when my mother is out for the whole day having job interviews,’ he said, shucking off his shorts and shirt. He winked at me. ‘C’mon. Off with those clothes.’ He handed me my gym bag.

‘Can’t I wear one of your boardshorts?’

‘No, I wanna perv over my boyfriend’s hot body.’

‘More like bruised, broken body,’ I said, sticking my tongue out.

We ambled to the pool. Steam rose from the surface of the water and trickled upwards into the crisp autumn morning. He sat me down on the step and wrapped his legs around mine. The water was warmer than I thought. He grabbed hold of my arms, slowly stretching them out and rotating the joints. I winced every time a muscle flared over a healing spot but he egged me on, guiding my breathing, easing me into the water.

At one point he cupped a hand on my inner thigh and brushed against my hardness.

'You did that deliberately.'

'Maybe. I see someone’s happy about that.’

‘You’re pretty good at this,’ I said.

‘We get taught basic physio in rugby.’

‘I doubt it’s up this close and personal.’

‘No, but there are some porn videos that—shut up, you, go try swim a length.’

I pushed myself off. It was a bit sore, but not much more than the day after a hard gym session. I managed two slow lengths.

‘Well done.' He jumped in and swam towards me and grabbed my arm. 'You out of breath?'

I shook my head.

'Try a bit more if you like.’

I launched myself into freestyle and before I knew it, I’d managed another two lengths.

‘See, you just needed a bit of warming up. But that's enough. Into the shower with you.’

‘Only if you come with.’

‘Obviously.’

* * *

‘Don’t get dressed,’ he said as I towelled myself off. ‘Go lie down.’

'Finally. I've wanted cuddles all day.'

‘Actually, I thought I'd give you a massage.’

‘A massage?’

‘It'll be good for you. I promise I’ll stop if you don’t like it." He patted the bed. C'mon, bru. Face down.'

I did as he said, a little nervous. I heard him open something and rub his hands together. He placed them on my shoulders. They were warm and smelled of chlorine from the pool and coconut oil and arnica extract. He was gentle, avoiding my bruises.

‘Is this all part of basic physio?’ I said, feeling my dick rage against the mattress.

‘No, but it’s part of basic boyfriend,’ he shot back.

‘Why are you so good to me?’ I asked in a low moan.

‘Because I love you, you dickhead.’

He straddled me as I drifted into a distant galaxy of calm. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew he was whispering in my ear, telling me to turn over.

I felt him press himself on top of me. He began a trail of gentle kisses from my forehead, to my nose, past my chin, along my neck, across my chest, down to my belly.

‘Cal,’ he sighed, ‘you’re so damn beautiful.’

He took hold of me, as he had done many times before. I let out a deep groan, and I felt his breath warm against my loins.

‘So this is how a happy ending plays out,’ I said idiotically.

‘Maybe a bit more than that today, bru,’ he said, his voice a rasp.

I opened my eyes. His mouth was up close to where he was holding me. There was a wild, protean look on his face.

'May I?" he asked, and pressed a kiss to my tip.

I stared down, unable to move for a few seconds, then mustered a nod.

He took me into his mouth. I was jolted by a current that arced between the base of my spine and, now, the base of all natural logarithms. He reached up a hand and stroked my chest. I squirmed and twitched.

He settled into a slow, steady rhythm. I put a hand on his head and mussed the golden wavy locks.

I opened my eyes and the spectacle sent the torrent welling up inside me.

‘Dude… I’m gonna…’

He made a thumbs-up sign and pushed down on my chest with his free hand.

The room disintegrated. There were stars, comets, quasars. It felt like forever. As the world reassembled itself I saw him still swallowing, licking me clean.

‘Hm, better than I expected,’ he said, his voice detached and curious. He hoisted himself up so that his face met mine.

Our lips locked and I tasted myself on him.

‘You swallowed.'

‘I did, I did. It's not that bad, actually.’ He turned on his side and making lazy circles with his finger on my chest. He started stroking himself with his other hand. 'Enjoyed that, did you?' His eyes gleamed.

‘And then some,' I said, shivering a little. 'But you haven’t had any attention. Let me.’

I pushed him on his back and had him in my hand.

I waited for the light-headedness to settle as I played with him.

But I found I couldn’t stop at that. Before I knew it, I had him at my mouth.

‘Oh God... are you sure, bru?'

‘I’m sure.’

'Hell yeah.'

It felt strange, but wonderful; he was so tender and yet so hard. He looked angelic as the midmorning sunlight bathed his face.

I had watched enough porn to get a general idea of how to go at things. So had he, evidently, as I became aware of the raw warmth still tingling on my spent dick.

I kept teasing him, now a little faster, now a little slower. He couldn’t handle it. His body convulsed and I gagged briefly as he erupted into my mouth. He made no sound. It tasted much milder than I expected.

I looked up. He was crying. I scrambled up to him, wiping his eyes, kissing his face, tasting more salt.

‘Cal,’ he sighed, ‘That was... I love you, man.’

‘You too, Number One. You too.’

We were silent for a while, feeling our chests rising and falling against each other.

He propped himself up on his arms and blew out his cheeks. ‘Fuck, bru,' he said with a little chuckle. 'Been a long time that I’ve come that hard before.'

‘Really?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

’I don't normally even get there with a blow job. So, pretty fuckin' well done.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Beginner’s luck, maybe? Which means you have it too, since you fucking drained me.'

'Pretty sure I rehydrated you in kind,' he said, flopping back on the bed and staring lazily at the ceiling. I laid my head on his chest and yawned. We spooned and interlocked our legs.

The room was heady with the scent of the ocean as we fell asleep, the scent of the ocean we had made.

* * *

It was Sunday and the holidays were over. It was a clear night and I was aiming the telescope at the Pleiades when my father came up to me. There was an envelope in his hand.

‘I completely forgot with all the things that happened over the week. This came for you the other day. I signed for it. I hope you don’t mind.’

He gave the large brown Manila envelope to me casually and walked away.

It was addressed to me by registered mail and marked “CONFIDENTIAL”. There was a logo on one of the corners that read ‘Ndwanda, Kahn & Hutchinson, Attorneys’.

My heart beat fast. I tore it open and found a typewritten note with the firm’s letterhead. I read quickly:

Dear Mr MacLeod

As per the wishes of your late mother, Susanna Magdalena Rousseau MacLeod, we, the appointed executors of her estate, have been instructed to deliver the enclosed letter to you on your eighteenth birthday.

Sincerely

Abduragman Khan

Executor of Trust

Est. Late Susanna Magdalena Rousseau-MacLeod

I was trembling as I rummaged inside the package and found another envelope. I saw the flowing cursive hand I knew so well, written with her beloved Mont Blanc:

Caleb

I sat down on the floor and carefully opened it. Shaking a little, I splayed open the crisp folded sheets and began to read:

My darling boy

If you are reading this letter, then it means that I am already gone. It was not my intention to be melodramatic but I really wanted you to at least have a little something just from me on your birthday. I want to reach out to you from where I am right now. Picture it perhaps as a wormhole through space-time. I know how much you love your astrophysics.

18. EIGHTEEN! I can’t believe my baby is a man now. I hope you have had a wonderful day and that you like the telescope. Your dad and I have been planning this for a while now and as I write this we’ve just ordered it from the States. Snapshot: it’s a cold July night, nearly midnight, I can see a star outside my window (or perhaps it is a planet—you’d be able to tell me.) Both you and your father are fast asleep. I feel good today; no pain, just tired, and you brought me a lovely cup of tea earlier. I can hear you shifting in your sleep in your room right now. You make the best cups of tea. It’s a gift. Continue making lots of tea; it is appropriate for most occasions.

I’ve been writing a lot in the past few weeks until the early hours of the morning, hoping you wouldn’t catch onto what I was doing: but the secret’s out now. This is not the first letter I’ve written to you, but it’s the first you’ll receive. There are letters for Sarah and your dad too which will come on their birthdays. I’m trying to write as many as I can—sure, it’s partly therapeutic for me but it’s my small way of wanting to be with you all as the years recede. Because I know you’ll be wanting to read them all at once, I have let the lawyers control strictly when they will arrive.

I’m not going to lie. Cancer is nasty—it’s fucking awful and chemo is shit. Yes, I want you to know that your mother can swear. And drink. And I spit well too. I was a barefoot tomboy running around catching frogs with your Uncle Joe when we were little pipsqueaks on Grandpa and Grandma’s farm in the Karoo. So yes, this thing I have to live with is a bastard. But it’s also just a disease, and there is no one to blame. The worst thing about the chemo is the exhaustion. Dr van der Schyff and his team have been wonderful. The pain has honestly been well-controlled. (God bless morphine!)

Of course I have days when I’m scared. But I’ve never lost hope. By hope I meant I’ve never lost a will to live, not yet. I read a great quote recently: just because people are dying doesn’t mean they have to stop living. (Permit me to put you on one last searing maternal guilt trip and ask you to stop smoking! I know you’ve been, and I understand why. But please quit. But enjoy your last one, think of me, and tell yourself no tumour should ever going to get hold of your lungs, at least.)

I am a truly blessed woman. I married the love of my life and I have the two most wonderful children in the world who are compassionate and intelligent. I’ve travelled to wonderful places, met amazing people and helped turn a small regional paper into an important city daily. In essence I have lived, and now I invite you all to do the same.

My boy—you will always be my boy—I could not have asked for a better son. You are a precious gift. The doctors thought I’d never be able to have another child after the complications when your sister was born. We didn’t worry; we were so happy to have a perfect baby girl. And then, six years later, you came along. Sarah tried to take up knitting to make you a cap for your bald little head and made a right royal mess and nearly poked her eye out. She insisted on wearing her favourite yellow polka dot dress just for you the day you came home, and I didn’t have the heart to explain to her that babies can’t see that far.

I know that seeing me ill has been a terrible strain on all of you. There is nothing you should or should not have done. I have never felt alone during this process. Angry, yes. Depressed at times, sure. In pain, sometimes… not even that often.

My biggest sadness is that I am not going to be here on so many occasions—birthdays, Christmases, weddings, graduations. But I know how proud and delighted I would have been. Listen to your own feelings—they will surface at different times and in different ways for all of you. With all the frightening stuff I’ve seen as a journalist, I’ve learned that there is no set formula for dealing with grief or trauma. Everyone’s process is different.

They say it comes in waves. I know you can swim them. Be angry. Cry. Jump up and down. Talk. It is easier for me, leaving you behind than it is for you. I don’t think I could have coped with the loss of a child, whereas all children who grow up must deal with their parents parting. My exit has just come a little sooner. It’s part of the natural law.

As we face mortality, of course, our thoughts turn towards big ideas—is there an afterlife? Does God exist? If he does, why the hell is this happening to me?

I’m afraid you will have to figure this all out for yourself. I would rather you be a good atheist than a bad Christian. I have come to the conclusion that God does exist, but this has not been a frantic return to the fold because my days are numbered. No. I have seen the way you gaze out at the night sky, and how your father looks so proud when he sees all of us, and how Sarah lights up a room with her gentle presence. That is enough to convince me.

But, please, don’t take my word for it! Question everything, Caleb. Break things down and analyse them, for then you can build them back up into something meaningful. And don’t be afraid to live a little. There is a passion in you that hides itself. Do not be afraid of it—it is part of you.

Trust your father. He is a good man. He is a big softie even though he doesn’t like speaking about emotional things. He is the most honest and loyal person I know. He may not say it, but he loves you so much.

I suspect that some children at school have been unkind to you and that this has been hard for you. It breaks my heart that this should happen, just because you don’t fit into some arbitrary pre-defined archetype of “manhood”. I’ll tell you what a man is: your father—who is so long-suffering, who makes me laugh, who is so proud of all of you that he cries when you are not looking—and who will always admit when he is wrong, as painful as that might be for him. Your father is not the most direct communicator—this is a MacLeod plague that I have been trying to exterminate since I married him. The scourge of his family is that they hide all their emotions. Enough of this! Let it out. Let it out. In this I hope some Rousseau genes will surface as you grow older.

Now that you are a man, I’m supposed to give you “pointers” for life, but to my immense pride I feel that you already figured them out. I know you are gentle, I know you are kind, I know you are shy at first but a warm and loyal friend. Look at Rob and Bella, each of whom regards you as a brother. Look after each other; good friends are the family you never knew you had.

I know you are what people would call a “late bloomer”. Do not feel awkward about this. At some stage you will be meeting people, and starting to date, and, well, yes…

…I don’t care about whatever person you end up with as long as she (or, perhaps, he) makes you happy, and that you make them happy... Love is wonderful, love is amazing. I am still head over heels in love with your father. Every day. Tell him that, because his birthday letter will only come in December.

Do not be concerned that I said “she, (or perhaps, he)”. I’m not insinuating anything. Sarah is getting these exact same lines.

I will say this, though. Beware that what you think love is does not consume you. A literature lesson from your book-loving mother: Friar Laurence warned Romeo and Juliet to “love moderately”, so that their passion does not burn up prematurely. Alas, we know their fates. My romance with your father has flickered from raging fire to slow burn, but the fire is always there. You have to attend to it, rake the coals, and add more wood from time to time.

I want you to do one thing as a favour to yourself: read the book from which your name comes. Even if you don’t read it all, concentrate on the second part. Specifically, I refer you to the passage where Lee (the housekeeper) and the ageing Adam have a conversation about the original Hebrew text of Genesis and they debate the translation of the word “Timshel”.

Why am I carrying on about this? Well, partly because the prednisone has given me bad insomnia tonight, and I am thoroughly enjoying this bottle of Caran d'Ache ink. “Timshel” is the imperative given to Cain after he was branded and cast out after murdering Abel. Yet God gave him a second chance. The word means “Thou Mayest”. You have a choice. “Thou mayest be good, Caleb.” And I already know you are. You have made me so happy, and so proud. It’s true, Steinbeck’s Caleb is full of faults but he is also blessed. If you have faults, they are the frequent moments where you so often do not value yourself and see the bright light that you shine on others.

Spoiler: the book ends with Adam finally giving his blessing to Caleb. Here, now, receive my little blessing, a blessing to see your light for what it is and live your life.

I want to think that I’ll be somewhere, as some type of energy, that I’ve just changed form, and that I’ll be looking out for you. Perhaps I’ll be one again with the universe, and you can imagine there is one special part in it that loved and loves and forever will love you. We get sombre about death. Think about Charon the ferryman rowing the souls across the Styx to the Isle of the Dead. Pretty grim stuff. Unless you think that, perhaps, at times, old Charon rows souls back to the land of the living too. Perhaps I have merely gone to rest awhile…

If you think I am in the heavens, look for me in the Sinus Iridium on the Moon with your telescope. It means “Bay of Rainbows”, and I’ve always loved that name.

My hand is a bit tired now and I will go make some more tea—goodness, it is 3am. Maybe I'll pop a sleeping tablet. Maybe I'll smoke a joint at the bottom of the garden in your grandmother's fur coat because I absolutely fucking can.

I love you more than anything in the world, the galaxy, the universe.

I wish you a life full of colour, free of guilt, full of adventure, with little regrets (the one who thinks there will be no regrets has sadly not read the terms and conditions.)

Go now.

Live.

Timshel!

Happy Birthday my precious boy

Your very proud mother