Winning the Lottery - 39. Chapter 39 - The power of a good blowjob

Two weeks passed. There was no change in the Robert-Keno situation; the standoff continued. The old cliché says that time heals all wounds, but this wasn’t the case for Robert. Certainly, his mood improved marginally; he brooded less. However, during his time off he rarely left the property any more. At best, he’d take a mat to the beach and listen to music in the sun. Probably sad music. My-man-done-me-wrong music.

Then one day something odd happened. Our security supervisor visited us bringing news of sorts. He opened his laptop and we watched an interesting video. Although filmed on multiple cameras it had been edited into a linear narrative. Keno’s truck entered our lane and proceeded to the lot we’d just purchased. Keno got out, leaned against the front fender and just looked. He didn’t move for fifteen minutes, then he got back in his truck and drove away.

“This is good, right?” I said.

Derrick lifted an eyebrow neither agreeing nor disagreeing with me.

The security supervisor, however, disagreed strongly. “We need to take this as a serious threat,” he opined. “We know that Keno and Robert broke up, and...well...sometimes that can do funny things to a man’s head. Although technically Keno didn’t trespass he as good as did. This is stalking behavior....”

I frowned. I didn’t agree with him but didn’t contradict him. Rather, I waited to see what more he had to say. His job was to protect us, he said. They were going to keep a close eye on Keno. Although I didn’t necessarily agree with his assessment of the situation, I respected his professional opinion. Bitter experience had taught us to comply unquestioningly with security’s ‘recommendations.’ (And if we didn’t, we’d have gramps to contend with, and that wasn’t something Derrick and I relished!)

“What action are you...we...taking?” asked Derrick.

“We’re treating this as an ‘orange’ situation,” he replied. “That means increased round-the-clock security—foot patrols, extra monitoring. Visible escorts for the immediate family including Robert.”

“Are we going to tell Robert?” I asked.

“For now, no. His...uh...response could be unpredictable and potentially precipitate a crisis.”

“Ugh,” said Derrick, looking at me, “it’s going to be a bitch keeping this secret from Robert.”

Robert was told only that the threat was an increased threat level, and he promised to be extra vigilant on our behalf. That he didn’t display the least curiosity about the situation (beyond ensuring our safety) only reinforced our view of his disinterest in life. Classic depression.

A few days after that, we were going through our morning routine. Robert had set out the usual breakfast of fruit and cereal. Dane, not quite fully awake yet, and having stubbornly refused a helping of fruit, was munching through his cereal. Robert was reviewing the day’s schedule with Derrick and me. His phone rang. We’d come to arrangement about Robert’s phone calls. He’d check his call display, and if it was something important—for instance something that would impact the day’s schedule—he’d answer, otherwise, he’d send the call directly to voicemail.

This time he did neither. A pained expression washed over his face. He glared at the phone like it was a coiled rattlesnake and the ringtone was its warning rattle.

Derrick and I stared with wide, questioning eyes.

I could see Robert losing color—the blood was draining from his face. A classic vagus nerve response to shock. He was close to fainting. He needed to sit down STAT.

“Robert!” I ordered. “Sit down. Now!” I pulled one of the bar chairs up to his bum and pushed him onto it.

“What’s wrong?” said Derrick.

Dane, sensing something very much not boring was happening, stopped munching and gaped.

“It’s K...K...Keno,” uttered Robert.

“Well, for God’s sake, answer it!” I hissed, gesticulating wildly at the phone with my right hand.

Talk about DEFCON 1.

“H...Hello?”

Robert listened for a few seconds; his brows drew down in puzzlement. He took a long shuddering breath. He shook his head from side to side as if denying what he was hearing. His face crumbled, his chin trembled, and tears began to flow like a river from his eyes. He sobbed and gasped, unable to speak. He took the phone from his ear and looked at it like it was poison.

We peered at Robert in stunned silence.

What hurtful thing was Keno saying to Robert?

In defense of Robert, I became incensed. I’d had enough of Keno’s nonsense. Damn him! It was all very well to stay out of Robert’s love life, but if Keno was bent on hurting him I’d bloody well intervene. I snatched the phone from Robert’s hand fully intending to rip Keno a new asshole. Nobody—nobody!—was going to get away with maltreat our Robert like that!

I grabbed the phone from Robert’s hand. “You jerk!” I said into it with all the outrage I could muster.

“Uh...” came the timid response. Was that a woman’s voice I was hearing?

“Who’s this?” I said.

Surprise....it wasn’t Keno, it was his mother. Haltingly, through tears, she told me that she was at the hospital’s emergency department. Keno had been in a bad accident. The police car he was driving had apparently spun out of control on a wet patch on the Pali Highway. It crashed through a guardrail and slithered down a hundred foot embankment. Keno had sustained multiple injuries (I could only imagine how many, and how severe that type of trauma could inflict) and the attending doctor had told her that he might not live. Keno’s only utterance, in a short moment of lucidity, had been, “Robert...” Keno’s mother was asking, that since Keno was asking for him, if Robert would come to the hospital.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll bring him myself. We’ll be there in less than half an hour. Tell Keno that Robert is on his way. He may be unconscious, but he might understand. It just might be the thing he needs to hear to prevent him from giving up.” I’d seen it a few times. Some poor soul was standing on the lip of the Grand Canyon of Death and a loved one’s voice was all that was needed to stop from him from falling into the abyss.

I had a love-hate relationship with my Bentley. It was a lovely, comfortable car but just a little on the pretentious side for my taste. But this time I was glad for its powerful engine and quick acceleration as I sped toward the hospital with Robert sitting rigidly in the passenger seat, hands clasped in prayer.

I careened into the forecourt of the emergency department, threw the shift into park, and we jumped out of the idling car. There was the usual contingent of smokers outside the no-smoking perimeter; I rushed up to one of them and pushed a hundred dollar bill into his hand. “Park the car, will you?” I said before running through the hospital doors. Frankly, I didn’t care if he stole the damn thing. It was only a car.

Naturally—Murphy’s Law—a new receptionist didn’t know who I was, which caused a few minutes of delay while I threw around my authority and found someone who did. We were finally ushered in to the ward, past a concerned looking man and woman—Kenos parents?—just as he was being wheeled from X-Ray to the operating theatre. Not surprisingly, looked like shit. He was tubed and wired to kingdom come. His face was pale, cut and bruised. His scalp was covered with a tight bandage cap. His neck was braced. My quick, professional, assessment of him was not optimistic.

Robert and I followed the gurney at a rapid clip while the young resident, trying to impress me, threw medical Latin around like confetti. Robert would understand little; I’d translate it into English for him later.

When we stopped at the elevator I said to Robert, “You’ve only got a few seconds to talk to Keno. Tell him not to give up. Promise him anything if he’ll hang on and live. I know he’s unconscious, but your voice might register. Go!”

“Keno, my love, can you hear me. Stay with me okay. I can’t live without you!”

The elevator chimed and the door began to open. “We can’t go any further Robert. It’s closing statement time,” I said. “Make it good.”

“Robert gently gripped Keno’s fingers. “Keno, if you come back to me I’ll give you the world’s most supreme blowjob! I promise!”

The resident looked a little surprised. I laughed. Robert had just made the best closing statement I’d ever heard.

Robert’s hand was pulled from Keno’s as the elevator swallowed its fragile cargo.

Robert put his hands over his tear-streaked face and made little keening, choking sounds. He couldn’t catch his breath, so I gently stroked his back hoping he’d accept the comfort.

“I know,” I said. “It’s horrible, and it’s scary, but the medical personnel are excellent. They’ll do their best for Keno....”

“No! That’s...not...why...I’m...crying...,” Robert managed to say between sputtering breaths.

“Tell me,” I said.

“When...when I told him about the...b...b...blowjob...” Robert, distraught, was unable to continue for a good minute. I waited patiently, continuing to rub his back. Finally, he was able to draw a deep breath. “When I said that.... He moved his fingers.... He heard me!” At that, Robert broke down completely. His legs gave out and he slumped to the floor with his back against the wall and his head on his drawn-up knees.

I comforted him as best I could while he fought to regain his composure. I prayed that Keno’s hand twitch was in response to Robert’s words. If it was—and that was a big if—it boded very well for Keno’s recovery!

Robert eventually calmed and I escorted him back to the waiting room to face Keno’s anxious parents. They turned their questioning eyes to me.

I explained that Keno was in surgery and would likely be there for several hours. I was careful not to give any prognosis or divulge any medical information that wasn’t mine to give. They’d obviously been briefed on the seriousness of Keno’s injuries by the emergency room staff; their anxiety was understandable. Anything I could say—medically—would only add to that anxiety My words of comfort were vague.

I urged them not to stay at the hospital, telling them it would be several hours before they would hear any news—that it was best to go home and get some rest. My advice was based on logic, but my experience told me that distraught loved ones usually didn’t embrace logic. They would rather hold an uncomfortable vigil in the hospital waiting room, their bums going numb on poorly upholstered chairs and their stomachs rotted by stale coffee and cafeteria sandwiches. Leaving the hospital would seem disloyal, and loved ones were always a little superstitious that their lack of presence would bring disaster.

I steered Robert toward the cafeteria, sat him at a table and fetched two disgustingly burned coffees. “Do you want me to tell you what the resident said?” I asked.

“Yes...”

“Keno has several serious injuries. One badly broken leg, one not so badly broken leg. Several ribs are broken, his chest was crushed, causing a collapsed lung. By some miracle, and because he’s in good shape, his heart didn’t stop. His left arm is badly broken. He scull is cracked and there’s some minor brain hemorrhaging. He’s bruised externally, of course. You saw that. But he’s also got some bruising internally--his liver and kidneys. He lost a lot of blood before they transfused him, and no one can be certain of the long-term effects of that. I’m surprised his spleen didn’t rupture, but apparently it didn’t. Each one of those injuries is, by itself, treatable. However, given the extent of his injuries I’d say his chance of survival is about 51%. Robert, the one percent in his favor is your blowjob promise, and his response to that. You did well. I’m giving you some hope Robert, but if you’re a praying man it wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of that too.

Hours and hours later, Keno, still alive, and hanging on by a thread, was transferred to the intensive care ward to begin a long, arduous recovery. Barring any unforeseen setbacks, he’d live.

The head surgeon had imparted the good news to the several members of Keno’s family now crowding the waiting room.

Robert and I stood apart, mostly ignored by the family. The situation infuriated me. Once again, the gay lover—significant other—was relegated to a marginal role. The family had decided that the Keno’s mother would remain and sit vigil at his bedside. I spoke up.

“Excuse me!” I said. “Keno asked for Robert. I mean no disrespect for Keno’s family, but I think Robert should share the bedside vigil with Keno’s mother. As much as Keno loves his family, it’s Robert he’ll want to see when he wakes up.” Several pairs of surprised—and some outraged—eyes were turned in my direction.

I glared back, daring anyone to contradict me. My gaze came to rest on the family’s matriarch, Mrs. Williams. I could tell by her bearing and the others’ deference to her that she was The Ruler. My eyes locked on hers knowing that my implicit power trumped hers. Was I being a bully? Perhaps, but I was determined that Robert’s rights—and the rights of all gay loved ones—be acknowledged.

Mrs. Williams gave her head a decisive nod and said, “C’mon Robert. We gotta go and watch over our boy.”

Robert told me later that just as they were to enter Keno’s room she stopped him and said, “Now before we go in there, tell me truthfully: are you and Keno going to sort out this mess you’re in?”

He told her that yes, they’d sort it out.

Keno’s room was stark but clean. Robert immediately dubbed it ‘the blue room.’ Its floor, walls, curtains and bed linens were in various shades of blue. Even the screen displaying Keno’s life signs shone blue. Was blue supposed to inspire hope and optimism? It sure seemed more the color of depression or despair.

And there, on the bed was Keno, or a version of Keno looking a little like the Pillsbury dough boy with arms and legs puffed like hot sausages with inflatable splints. There were various wires and tubes coming and going. One, particularly odious, draining into a piss bag dangling from the bedside.

Keno’s normal shiny-as-a new-penny complexion looked tarnished to mud brown and green.

Mother and lover cautiously approached the bed. Robert stood back to let Mrs. Williams touch Keno first, which she did on the hand. Robert could see her mouth trying for form words but no sound except for her raspy breath emerged. She looked to Robert, her eyes seeking comfort? Guidance? Lord, she loves her son so much. What could he do to help her? What hope could he offer?

“It’s okay, Mrs. Williams. I’m sure he knows you’re here.” Robert approached the bed gently easing Mrs. Williams out of the way. He gently stroked Keno’s cheek. “Keno, it’s Robert. Can you hear me? Your mama and I are here. We’re going to be here to keep you in line. No giving up, you hear? Keno, I love you. You’re going to get better...and strong.” He leant down and whispered in Keno’s ear, “The blowjob offer still stands. It’s worth getting better just for that, hmmm?”

Keno lay comatose for the better part of three days. Robert refused to leave his side except to use the room’s toilet. He subsisted on stale cafeteria sandwiches and cold coffee. He slept on and off in the chair beside Keno’s bed and spent hours speaking quietly to Keno about everything and nothing. Keno’s mother and father came when they could staying for an hour here or there and always extracting a promise from Robert when they left to call if there were any changes. The hospital routines went on around him.

The hours stretched thin and echoed with thoughts. Robert wondered if he was somehow at fault for Keno’s accident. Gabe had told him about Keno’s visit to the property. Keno had something—but what?—on his mind. Did those thoughts contribute to the inattention that caused Keno to lose control of the car? If Keno didn’t make it that thought would haunt Robert forever. If only he hadn’t been so stubborn and intransigent about his job!

On the third day of the vigil Keno’s breathing and heart rate sped up. His head bobbled weakly from side to side on the pillow in agitation. The nurse came and explained that Keno was beginning to regain consciousness. He was starting to feel pain. The nurse injected morphine into the IV line. Keno settled down, his heart rate slowed and his color regained more lustre.

Robert sat tensely watching Keno hoping for a sign, a change—something! Eventually pent-up fatigue caused him to slump in the chair and drift off to sleep. A few minutes later he was startled awake by a premonitory feeling. His eyes snapped open to find Keno’s eyes open, studiously observing him.

“Keno?”

“Rrrrrr....Rob....”

“Yes, my love, it’s me.” Robert jumped up, leant over and rained kisses onto Keno’s face. “Oh Keno....Oh Keno!”

“R....” was all Keno managed before his eyes fluttered closed and he was once again asleep.

After that the situation improved markedly. Keno’s lucid periods gradually became longer. Everyone—family, friends, colleagues—breathed a collective sigh of relief. An MRI confirmed that the swelling on Keno’s brain had abated. He was going to make a full recovery!

Robert, of course, was elated—walking on cloud nine! Hopefully things would work out for them as a couple; that wasn’t certain yet. But one thing was for damn certain: the world was a better, brighter place with Keno in it.

When it became clear that Robert and Keno were, indeed, going to work out their differences and face life as a couple, Derrick and I offered the use of our guest cottage for Keno’s rehabilitation period. Keno, having learned his lesson, it seemed, accepted the offer graciously. Robert’s apartment was turned into a fully equipped physiotherapy suite where Keno worked daily with a physiotherapist.

Derrick, Dane and I walked a fine line between being supportive and helpful and becoming overbearing neighbor busybodies. Whatever we did seemed to work, and the atmosphere remained congenial. Keno, a strong man to start with, healed rapidly, soon navigating rather daringly on crutches. A little too daringly sometimes; I had visions of him going ass over teakettle into the pool, but he managed to avoid serious mishap as only those with innate athletic prowess can do.

A few weeks into the process, during a communal poolside barbeque Keno broke the jovial mood by asking in serious tones if he might speak to Derrick and I. “Of course,” we replied as one.

“About the lot...” he began before gathering his thoughts further. We waited for him to continue in deafening silence.

“Well...” he finally said. “I’m sorry for being such a shit about it.”

Dane gleefully informed Keno that he had to put a dollar into the swear jar.

“Yeah, well, anyway...um...is the offer still open?”

“Of course!” said Derrick.

“Well,” he reached over and took Robert’s hand. “Robert and I would like to um...accept...the offer...”

Derrick and I were elated at this news. Dane asked what we were talking about, and when we explained that Robert and Keno would build a house and live just down the street he whooped with joy. Keno, in the time he’d spent as our ‘guest,’ had become a sort of mythical superhero to Dane. And now he was going to be living next door!

By this time, the old house on the lot had been demolished; the lot graded flat and planted with grass. The men would have carte blanche to build whatever type of house they wanted.

“Any ideas on what kind of house you’d like?” asked Derrick.

“If it’s okay with you,” Robert said to Derrick and me, “We were talking about a more modern design. Cubes, cement construction, and lots of windows... Of course if you’d like us to stay more traditional, like your house, we’d do that. We’re easy one way or the other.”

It turns out that Robert and Keno had spent more than a little time ‘dreaming’ about the house they wanted. They’d been poring over architectural magazines. Robert, who was a good artist, had drawn a few sketches of what they had in mind. It was, we could see, all angles and planes, but the interior and exterior living spaces were designed with a livable, rather warm, scale. It looked perfect to me. And there were enough bedrooms and bathrooms to accommodate, dare we hope, a growing family.

Once Keno’s physiotherapy needs lessened, and he could attend a nearby outpatient facility, the equipment was removed from Robert’s apartment. They said they were more comfortable there than in the guest cottage. Robert showed up for work every morning with a satisfied smile.

Dane was a little put out by all the attention Robert and Keno were receiving—perfectly normal for a healthy child to feel a little jealousy when his parents’ attention was focussed elsewhere. His birthday was coming up and he demanded a party. After we explained the different consequences of demanding versus asking nicely, and he got over his pout, we agreed to the party.

A party? Hmmm....now wasn’t that an interesting idea?......