Nyte Flyte
The Donald Strachey Mysteries
Donald Strachey/Timmy Callahan
***The following stories appear in chronological order according to movieverse timeline.***
* Judgement Call
* A Definitive Answer -or- Ten Times Donald Strachey Asks a Question and One Time He Answers It
* Mr. Obvious
* X-Ray
* Of Marmosets and Men
* Handyman
* Shadow and Light
* In a Word
* Whipped
* Seven Year Itch
* Indian Food
* Send In the Clowns
* Summer Rain
* Mile Markers
* A Roach By Any Other Name
* And In the Darkness Bind Them
* A Fine Line
* State of Grace
* A Definitive Answer -or- Ten Times Donald Strachey Asks a Question and One Time He Answers It
* Mr. Obvious
* X-Ray
* Of Marmosets and Men
* Handyman
* Shadow and Light
* In a Word
* Whipped
* Seven Year Itch
* Indian Food
* Send In the Clowns
* Summer Rain
* Mile Markers
* A Roach By Any Other Name
* And In the Darkness Bind Them
* A Fine Line
* State of Grace
Judgment Call
3850 words
I suppose it’s fair to say that politics is in my blood.
My father is a Republican congressman. His father was, too, and my great-grandfather served three terms in the senate. Sharp-minded decision makers all, each attributed his success to one common factor: They were exemplary judges of character.
From as far back as I can remember, people have assured me that I am not.
I do well enough in a professional capacity, of course. I have to. As a political aide, I spend a good deal of time acting as a P.R. man, fielding offers and requests, suggestions and complaints, not only hearing a speaker’s words but listening for and evaluating the greater truth behind them. It’s an acquired skill that relies on analytical observation of speech patterns and body language, a solid working knowledge of human psychology, and an elusive element I can only describe as gut instinct. Over the years, I think I’ve become pretty competent at it, so much so that some of the most influential men and women in the state have trusted me to help propel their careers and safeguard their interests.
I just wish I had the same gift for safeguarding my own.
For many years, my love life resembled a comedy of errors, though in the end no one was laughing, least of all me. I don’t have a naturally suspicious nature. It’s not who I am, and for the most part, that’s just fine with me. I like being a nice person, a kind and accepting person. I like being me, even if that does mean occasionally missing warning flags other people seem to spot so effortlessly. Most of the time, my faulty judgment calls result in nothing worse than a badly bruised ego, though once I had to cover minor -- though considerably more tangible -- souvenirs of a date gone awry with the time-honored “I walked into a doorframe” excuse.
In addition to being a poor judge of character, I’m an uninspired liar, it would seem.
“You’re too trusting,” my friends told me. “You take everything and everyone at face value. You’re a walking magnet for losers, users, and abusers. Come on, Tim, how can a sharp guy like you be so naïve?”
I really wished I knew. After the “doorframe” incident, my self-confidence reached an all-time low. I found myself spending most of my evenings home alone, huddled under a blanket in front of the television, drowning my sorrows in vodka martinis and endless marathons of Turner Classic Movies.
It wasn’t as if I never received any offers. I was constantly fielding invitations to dinners and plays, weekend getaways and even -- God forbid -- sporting events. I know I’m a reasonably attractive guy, and I try to be friendly and outgoing and a good listener. People respond to that. But who should I say yes to and who should I turn down with a polite, yet very firm, no? Who genuinely liked me and who simply wanted sex? Who shared my interests and who only pretended to? Who should I feel safe with and who represented a hidden danger? Every time I accepted a date, I seemed to be taking both my life and my heart into my hands.
The moment I met that walking contradiction named Donald Strachey, I knew I was treading on dangerous ground. He was nothing at all like my usual type -- short rather than tall, fair rather than dark, slightly younger rather than considerably older, rough-edged rather than refined -- which made my instant, aching attraction to him all the more devastating. He knocked me off balance, this battle-scarred, socially awkward bad boy, and that scared me to death. The only thing that scared me more was the fact that I couldn’t seem to get him off my mind.
He was wrong for me, absolutely and inarguably wrong on every level and in every way. Even someone as hopelessly optimistic as I am could understand that much. I was a morning person and he was a night owl. I was passionate about social issues, while he remained blissfully, determinedly ignorant that they even existed. I was relentlessly punctual, and his interpretation of time seemed creative at best. While I like to think that we were each warriors in our own way, words and reason have always been my weapons of choice. Donald relied on his fists, both on the job and off. What‘s more, he seemed to enjoy it.
Dear God, the man actually carried a gun.
The thing that bothered me most, though, was the fact that I’d always longed for what gay men are told we shouldn’t want because it means conforming to the straight standard. I wanted exclusivity. I wanted monogamy and long-term commitment. I wanted marriage -- old-fashioned, boring, conformist marriage to a man who loved me with all his heart and never wanted to be with anyone else. According to local legend, all Donald Strachey wanted was to “get off and get out.” So why did my instincts -- my flawed, unreliable instincts -- assure me that against all odds, the man all of gay Albany called “Mr. Wrong” might just turn out to be my very own Mr. Right?
* * * *
Before I made a fool of myself and ended up with yet another bruise to my ego or worse, I had to get a grip on my emotions and look at this thing logically. What are the quickest and most effective ways to judge a man’s character? That had been the subject of dinner table discussions in my family for as long as I could remember. My grandfather, the senior statesman, had always claimed it was by the quality of his handshake.
“You can tell what a man’s made of by the way he grips your hand,” he would say. “Strong men have strong handshakes. If he crushes your hand, it means he’s aggressive and controlling. He’ll push you around if you let him. If his grip’s weak and wishy-washy, it means he is, too. And if he refuses to shake at all, I’d worry if I were you. A man who won’t shake hands like a gentleman is no gentleman at all. He can’t be trusted.”
The first time I met Donald, it was in a professional capacity. He’d been recommended to me by a friend, who assured me he was both competent and discreet and that he charged reasonable rates. Still, considering his reputation, I’d braced myself to deal with someone who was surly and abrasive, or worse, frankly combative. To my surprise, he was courteous and professional. When I made a small joke, he laughed aloud, and his sharp features seemed to soften around the edges, making him seem warm and accessible. In that instant, I realized I liked him a lot.
I also found him wildly attractive.
He shook my hand when the meeting ended, but only because I initiated it. If he hesitated before taking my outstretched hand in his, he only did so for an instant, recovering so quickly that I wondered later if the hesitation had been a figment of my imagination, a byproduct of my own insecurities. His grip was firm enough to meet Grandfather’s standards, but tellingly brief, so much so that I suppose it should have set off warning bells in my head.
Still, I didn’t get the impression that it indicated a lack of trustworthiness on his part. Instead, it made me wonder if the reverse were true, if somewhere along the line, he’d lost the capacity to trust. According to the rumor mill, his frequent sexual encounters were fast and to the point, involving a bare-bones minimum of physical contact. Had something happened to him, something so traumatic it made him uncomfortable with intimacy on any level? Perhaps even the everyday act of offering his hand to a stranger required a leap of faith so huge it unnerved him to take it.
Either way, he was hardly viable relationship material. Yet his hand -- small for a man’s and oddly childlike in spite of its obvious strength -- felt so good to me, and the residual warmth of his palm against mine seemed to linger for hours afterward. Later that night as I lay in bed reading, I paused between pages and brushed my palm with my fingertips, convinced that something of his warmth still remained.
* * * *
“The eyes are more than just the window to the soul,” my mother once told me. “They have direct lines to the heart and head as well. People lie with words and sometimes with actions, but not with their eyes. Never with their eyes.”
Donald Strachey’s eyes were the purest blue I’d ever seen, though it took some time for me to get a direct view of them. During our second meeting, I caught him watching me out of the corner of his eye more than once, though he quickly looked away whenever I noticed. He was checking me out, but in a way that seemed quietly appreciative rather than overtly lewd. I can’t say I minded. I was a healthy gay man in the prime of my life, and I hadn’t had a date in weeks.
As the meeting progressed, he continued to shoot quick sideways glances in my direction to punctuate what he was saying, but he never actually achieved eye-to-eye contact. It was annoying and disconcerting, to say the least. I could hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head, saying, “Be careful around that man, darling. If he won’t look you in the eye, it’s because he has something to hide.”
She was right, of course. Donald was hiding something, and that something was pain. As we got to know each other, he gradually relaxed and allowed me to gaze into those wide, bright eyes of his. What I saw there was such a mixed bag of anger and intelligence and grief and humor and naked longing that I knew it would take a lifetime to sort it all out.
Secrets. He was a man of secrets. They weren’t the type that would hurt me, I decided, but they plagued him, lurking in the dark and lonely corners of his mind. I wanted to know each one of them, to expose them for what they were, to force them out of the shadows and into the light. More than anything else, I wanted to see the look in his eyes as he watched them turn to ash and blow away like B-movie vampires in the morning sun.
* * * *
“Shoes,” my father had often reminded me. “You can tell everything you need to know about a man when you look at his shoes.”
As far as I could tell, Donald only owned one pair of shoes, nondescript black oxfords made of that abomination known as “pleather.” Every bit as worn out and uncared for as his frayed tie, threadbare jacket and rumpled trousers, they’d obviously been down a long, hard road. They looked tired and uncomfortable and on the verge of falling apart. When he caught me staring at them, his cheeks colored. In a gesture that tugged almost painfully at my heart, he began rubbing the creased toe of his right shoe against the back of his left pants leg as if he hoped to bring back a little of its long-lost shine. I found myself longing to bring back a little of his, as well.
* * * *
“A man who can’t keep his money straight in his wallet isn’t a man at all,” my maternal grandfather, a self-made businessman, was fond of saying. “He’s nothing but an animal. He’s unorganized and he’s sloppy. He’s got no respect for himself, and he’ll have no respect for you. Show me somebody who can’t be bothered to put his bills in order and face them, and I’ll show you somebody who can’t be bothered to wipe his own ass.”
The first time Donald and I went out to dinner and a movie, he insisted on paying. I felt bad about it, because I could tell from his clothes and his dilapidated deathtrap of a car that he hardly had money to burn. Still, it gave me a chance to put Grampa Al’s theory to the test. I was a few inches taller than he was, so when he fished out a twenty for our movie tickets, I was able to see the contents of his wallet quite clearly. The wallet itself was in worse shape than his shoes, but as he did a quick inventory of its contents, I could see that they were immaculate. A few ones, a five and a ten, and three more twenties were lined up in ascending order, all as neatly faced as the contents of a bank teller’s drawer. Obviously, his personal hygiene had to be above reproach.
I didn’t have to see inside his wallet to know that, of course. Standing right beside him in that packed line of moviegoers, I could smell his cheap aftershave and a hint of shampoo, but all the discount store toiletries in the world couldn’t hide the faint, slightly sweet earthiness of Donald himself. He smelled like autumn mornings and sunlight and the promise of sex. Forgetting myself, I closed my eyes briefly and simply breathed, captivated by his pheromonal mating call.
He cleared his throat. My eyes flew open, and I felt a prickle of heat spread across my face. One dark blond eyebrow arched upward, and a grin he seemed to be fighting to suppress broke free, transforming his quirky good looks into something so beautiful and perfect it took my breath away. What could I do?
I grinned back.
* * * *
When I look back on the people who’ve had the greatest influence in my life, my grandmother, Liz, invariably tops the list. She taught me to appreciate good music -- though I never had her gift for making it -- and how to waltz, how to discreetly nap with my eyes open when the conversation was dull and how to tend bar like a pro. She was my co-conspirator and my confidant, and she seldom let more than a handful of days pass without calling me for some late-night dish.
“So the congressman’s wife wasn’t cheating on him after all?” she said. “A pity. I’ve known Morley Fletcher since he and your father were caught skinny-dipping with the Jansen sisters at their eighth grade graduation party. He was no prize back then, and I shudder to think what time and gravity have done to him by now. His wife is a lovely girl, and she could have done better.”
“Somehow, I have a hard time imagining either my boss or my father naked, let alone naked outdoors during a social event.”
“Block it from your mind,” she advised. “Republicans were never meant to remove their clothes either in public or in private. In Morley’s case, they should have been spot-welded to his body the second he entered puberty.”
“Grandfather was a Republican,” I reminded her.
“What are you drinking?”
I swirled the pale liquid in my glass and took a sip before answering. “A moderately priced Riesling. You?”
“A martini, of course. Katie made a pitcher before retiring. Hers are passable, but decidedly sub-par compared to yours. Your grandfather may have been a Republican, but he was an exception to the rule. In spite of his misguided political affiliations, he was a truly remarkable man, and he stripped like a God. But that’s neither here nor there. I want to hear about him.”
“Him? Which him do you mean, Grandmother?”
“You’ve never been able to bluff worth a damn; that’s why I always beat you at poker. I’m referring to that handsome young detective….”
“He’s a private investigator, actually.”
“Don’t correct your elders. It isn’t polite. I mean that handsome young man you hired to follow the honorable Mrs. Fletcher, of course. The one you’ve been terribly careful not to mention during this conversation.”
Elizabeth Callahan, Bloodhound At Large. I smiled and sipped my drink. “How do you know he’s handsome?”
“Because I know you. Now stop beating around the bush and share a little gossip. Have the two of you -- What’s the term they use now? -- hooked up yet?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, precisely?”
I wasn’t precisely sure, and I told her as much. “We’ve had lunch together a couple of times and talked on the phone quite a bit. We took a short walk in the park one afternoon when he was between meetings with clients, and that was nice. One night we shared a dance. We’ve only been on one official date, though.”
“And?”
I was grateful she couldn’t see the big, foolish smile that spread across my face, though knowing Grandmother, she probably heard it loud and clear over the phone line. “And…it was wonderful.”
“It was, or he was?”
“Both.”
“But?”
Have I mentioned that the woman was a bloodhound? “The chemistry is definitely there, but he has issues.”
“Does anyone not have issues?”
“I just don’t know if I can trust my instincts with this one. I’ve made so many bad judgment calls with the men I’ve dated….”
“You haven’t been dating men. You’ve been dating idiots and scoundrels.”
“That‘s my point. How do I know that he’s not one, too?”
“The same way I knew with your grandfather. He’ll touch you.”
“They all touched me, Grandmother.”
“Stop pretending to be obtuse, because I’m not buying into it. He’ll touch you in a way no one’s ever touched you before. You’ll know it when it happens, my dear. And you’ll never doubt that he’s the one again.”
After we said goodnight, I decided to turn the television on while I savored the rest of my wine, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate on what I was watching. I was thinking of Donald, of course, and of what my grandmother had said. I knew she hadn’t been referring to physical touches, but even in that regard, he was in a completely different league from his predecessors. He wasn’t the most articulate man I’d ever dated, but there was something about the way his fingers curled around mine in the theater, the way he lightly pressed his hand against the small of my back as he held a door open for me or took my elbow as we crossed the street that communicated his feelings more effectively than words ever could.
Other men had gone through the motions of being chivalrous, of course, but with them, the gestures had seemed heavy-handed and forced, a slightly condescending territorial display staged for the benefit of whoever might be watching. With Donald, it all seemed natural and respectful and surprisingly tender. He may have been a diamond in the rough, but he was still a diamond, all the same.
We went out on our second date a few nights later, and of course, that’s the night that will live forever in infamy. In spite of the fact that I was absolutely furious with him and humiliated through and through, I confiscated his keys and drove him home. As much as I would have liked to have left him slumped inside that cold and cramped little car to sleep it off, I saw him safely inside his apartment, even going so far as to steady him as he vomited those fourteen martinis he’d guzzled and murmur reassurances while he clung to me and moaned. Once he was done, I cleaned him up as well as I could, then wrestled him out of his clothes and poured him into bed.
I was bathing his face with a cool cloth, wondering how I could get a cab at that hour and if I even had enough cash on me to cover the fare if I did, when he wormed one hand free of the covers and touched my cheek with trembling fingers.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
That makes two of us, I wanted to say. But something in that shaky voice and even shakier touch made me bite the words back, and I simply nodded instead.
“I hurt you,“ he said. “Never gonna forgive myself for hurting you.”
His hand fell away, and he rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Yet the ghost of his touch remained, tingling like a phantom limb. I thought again of our first date, of how gentle and considerate he’d been and how good he’d made me feel. I was still angry and my feelings were hurt, but not to the point where it erased the sense of potential -- the sense of absolutely rightness -- I felt when his eyes or hands or lips met mine. In a moment of absolute clarity, I realized that if I walked out on him, I’d spend the rest of my life aching for a part of myself I’d left behind.
If he couldn’t forgive himself, I suppose I had to do it for him.
I slipped off my jacket and shoes and placed my folded glasses on the nightstand, then climbed into bed and spooned with him, my chest pressed against his back and my arms encircling him in a loose embrace. “Just give me fair warning if you think you’re going to throw up again,” I grumbled. “I don’t have a change of clothes with me, and when we passed your floor’s laundry room, I noticed an Out of Order sign on the door. It would be a long, cold bus ride back to my side of town in nothing but a topcoat and a pair of socks.”
The chills had set in, and now his whole body was shaking. He hugged my arms to his chest. “I know you‘re really pissed at me,” he said, his teeth chattering. “You should be pissed. Why are you letting me off the hook?”
“I’m not letting you off. You’re going to be hearing about this night for a long time to come.”
He was quiet after that, but I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I’d thrown him for a loop, and considering how much alcohol he‘d consumed over the course of the evening, it was probably going to take a while for him to process it. Finally, he said, “I thought you were going to leave me. I’d leave me. I was a real asshole tonight. I wouldn‘t blame you, you know. If you walked out the door and never came back.”
“Believe me, I thought about it.”
He rolled over so he could see me, and the look on his face was so lost and confused I felt the last of my anger dissipate. I tugged him closer and wrapped him in my arms again. He didn‘t smell like autumn mornings and sunlight anymore, but I supposed I could deal with it.
“It’s all right, baby,” I said.
“But what made you decide….”
“Let’s just say that after weighing all the evidence at my disposal, I made a judgment call.”
As it turns out, it was the smartest one I ever made.
My father is a Republican congressman. His father was, too, and my great-grandfather served three terms in the senate. Sharp-minded decision makers all, each attributed his success to one common factor: They were exemplary judges of character.
From as far back as I can remember, people have assured me that I am not.
I do well enough in a professional capacity, of course. I have to. As a political aide, I spend a good deal of time acting as a P.R. man, fielding offers and requests, suggestions and complaints, not only hearing a speaker’s words but listening for and evaluating the greater truth behind them. It’s an acquired skill that relies on analytical observation of speech patterns and body language, a solid working knowledge of human psychology, and an elusive element I can only describe as gut instinct. Over the years, I think I’ve become pretty competent at it, so much so that some of the most influential men and women in the state have trusted me to help propel their careers and safeguard their interests.
I just wish I had the same gift for safeguarding my own.
For many years, my love life resembled a comedy of errors, though in the end no one was laughing, least of all me. I don’t have a naturally suspicious nature. It’s not who I am, and for the most part, that’s just fine with me. I like being a nice person, a kind and accepting person. I like being me, even if that does mean occasionally missing warning flags other people seem to spot so effortlessly. Most of the time, my faulty judgment calls result in nothing worse than a badly bruised ego, though once I had to cover minor -- though considerably more tangible -- souvenirs of a date gone awry with the time-honored “I walked into a doorframe” excuse.
In addition to being a poor judge of character, I’m an uninspired liar, it would seem.
“You’re too trusting,” my friends told me. “You take everything and everyone at face value. You’re a walking magnet for losers, users, and abusers. Come on, Tim, how can a sharp guy like you be so naïve?”
I really wished I knew. After the “doorframe” incident, my self-confidence reached an all-time low. I found myself spending most of my evenings home alone, huddled under a blanket in front of the television, drowning my sorrows in vodka martinis and endless marathons of Turner Classic Movies.
It wasn’t as if I never received any offers. I was constantly fielding invitations to dinners and plays, weekend getaways and even -- God forbid -- sporting events. I know I’m a reasonably attractive guy, and I try to be friendly and outgoing and a good listener. People respond to that. But who should I say yes to and who should I turn down with a polite, yet very firm, no? Who genuinely liked me and who simply wanted sex? Who shared my interests and who only pretended to? Who should I feel safe with and who represented a hidden danger? Every time I accepted a date, I seemed to be taking both my life and my heart into my hands.
The moment I met that walking contradiction named Donald Strachey, I knew I was treading on dangerous ground. He was nothing at all like my usual type -- short rather than tall, fair rather than dark, slightly younger rather than considerably older, rough-edged rather than refined -- which made my instant, aching attraction to him all the more devastating. He knocked me off balance, this battle-scarred, socially awkward bad boy, and that scared me to death. The only thing that scared me more was the fact that I couldn’t seem to get him off my mind.
He was wrong for me, absolutely and inarguably wrong on every level and in every way. Even someone as hopelessly optimistic as I am could understand that much. I was a morning person and he was a night owl. I was passionate about social issues, while he remained blissfully, determinedly ignorant that they even existed. I was relentlessly punctual, and his interpretation of time seemed creative at best. While I like to think that we were each warriors in our own way, words and reason have always been my weapons of choice. Donald relied on his fists, both on the job and off. What‘s more, he seemed to enjoy it.
Dear God, the man actually carried a gun.
The thing that bothered me most, though, was the fact that I’d always longed for what gay men are told we shouldn’t want because it means conforming to the straight standard. I wanted exclusivity. I wanted monogamy and long-term commitment. I wanted marriage -- old-fashioned, boring, conformist marriage to a man who loved me with all his heart and never wanted to be with anyone else. According to local legend, all Donald Strachey wanted was to “get off and get out.” So why did my instincts -- my flawed, unreliable instincts -- assure me that against all odds, the man all of gay Albany called “Mr. Wrong” might just turn out to be my very own Mr. Right?
* * * *
Before I made a fool of myself and ended up with yet another bruise to my ego or worse, I had to get a grip on my emotions and look at this thing logically. What are the quickest and most effective ways to judge a man’s character? That had been the subject of dinner table discussions in my family for as long as I could remember. My grandfather, the senior statesman, had always claimed it was by the quality of his handshake.
“You can tell what a man’s made of by the way he grips your hand,” he would say. “Strong men have strong handshakes. If he crushes your hand, it means he’s aggressive and controlling. He’ll push you around if you let him. If his grip’s weak and wishy-washy, it means he is, too. And if he refuses to shake at all, I’d worry if I were you. A man who won’t shake hands like a gentleman is no gentleman at all. He can’t be trusted.”
The first time I met Donald, it was in a professional capacity. He’d been recommended to me by a friend, who assured me he was both competent and discreet and that he charged reasonable rates. Still, considering his reputation, I’d braced myself to deal with someone who was surly and abrasive, or worse, frankly combative. To my surprise, he was courteous and professional. When I made a small joke, he laughed aloud, and his sharp features seemed to soften around the edges, making him seem warm and accessible. In that instant, I realized I liked him a lot.
I also found him wildly attractive.
He shook my hand when the meeting ended, but only because I initiated it. If he hesitated before taking my outstretched hand in his, he only did so for an instant, recovering so quickly that I wondered later if the hesitation had been a figment of my imagination, a byproduct of my own insecurities. His grip was firm enough to meet Grandfather’s standards, but tellingly brief, so much so that I suppose it should have set off warning bells in my head.
Still, I didn’t get the impression that it indicated a lack of trustworthiness on his part. Instead, it made me wonder if the reverse were true, if somewhere along the line, he’d lost the capacity to trust. According to the rumor mill, his frequent sexual encounters were fast and to the point, involving a bare-bones minimum of physical contact. Had something happened to him, something so traumatic it made him uncomfortable with intimacy on any level? Perhaps even the everyday act of offering his hand to a stranger required a leap of faith so huge it unnerved him to take it.
Either way, he was hardly viable relationship material. Yet his hand -- small for a man’s and oddly childlike in spite of its obvious strength -- felt so good to me, and the residual warmth of his palm against mine seemed to linger for hours afterward. Later that night as I lay in bed reading, I paused between pages and brushed my palm with my fingertips, convinced that something of his warmth still remained.
* * * *
“The eyes are more than just the window to the soul,” my mother once told me. “They have direct lines to the heart and head as well. People lie with words and sometimes with actions, but not with their eyes. Never with their eyes.”
Donald Strachey’s eyes were the purest blue I’d ever seen, though it took some time for me to get a direct view of them. During our second meeting, I caught him watching me out of the corner of his eye more than once, though he quickly looked away whenever I noticed. He was checking me out, but in a way that seemed quietly appreciative rather than overtly lewd. I can’t say I minded. I was a healthy gay man in the prime of my life, and I hadn’t had a date in weeks.
As the meeting progressed, he continued to shoot quick sideways glances in my direction to punctuate what he was saying, but he never actually achieved eye-to-eye contact. It was annoying and disconcerting, to say the least. I could hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head, saying, “Be careful around that man, darling. If he won’t look you in the eye, it’s because he has something to hide.”
She was right, of course. Donald was hiding something, and that something was pain. As we got to know each other, he gradually relaxed and allowed me to gaze into those wide, bright eyes of his. What I saw there was such a mixed bag of anger and intelligence and grief and humor and naked longing that I knew it would take a lifetime to sort it all out.
Secrets. He was a man of secrets. They weren’t the type that would hurt me, I decided, but they plagued him, lurking in the dark and lonely corners of his mind. I wanted to know each one of them, to expose them for what they were, to force them out of the shadows and into the light. More than anything else, I wanted to see the look in his eyes as he watched them turn to ash and blow away like B-movie vampires in the morning sun.
* * * *
“Shoes,” my father had often reminded me. “You can tell everything you need to know about a man when you look at his shoes.”
As far as I could tell, Donald only owned one pair of shoes, nondescript black oxfords made of that abomination known as “pleather.” Every bit as worn out and uncared for as his frayed tie, threadbare jacket and rumpled trousers, they’d obviously been down a long, hard road. They looked tired and uncomfortable and on the verge of falling apart. When he caught me staring at them, his cheeks colored. In a gesture that tugged almost painfully at my heart, he began rubbing the creased toe of his right shoe against the back of his left pants leg as if he hoped to bring back a little of its long-lost shine. I found myself longing to bring back a little of his, as well.
* * * *
“A man who can’t keep his money straight in his wallet isn’t a man at all,” my maternal grandfather, a self-made businessman, was fond of saying. “He’s nothing but an animal. He’s unorganized and he’s sloppy. He’s got no respect for himself, and he’ll have no respect for you. Show me somebody who can’t be bothered to put his bills in order and face them, and I’ll show you somebody who can’t be bothered to wipe his own ass.”
The first time Donald and I went out to dinner and a movie, he insisted on paying. I felt bad about it, because I could tell from his clothes and his dilapidated deathtrap of a car that he hardly had money to burn. Still, it gave me a chance to put Grampa Al’s theory to the test. I was a few inches taller than he was, so when he fished out a twenty for our movie tickets, I was able to see the contents of his wallet quite clearly. The wallet itself was in worse shape than his shoes, but as he did a quick inventory of its contents, I could see that they were immaculate. A few ones, a five and a ten, and three more twenties were lined up in ascending order, all as neatly faced as the contents of a bank teller’s drawer. Obviously, his personal hygiene had to be above reproach.
I didn’t have to see inside his wallet to know that, of course. Standing right beside him in that packed line of moviegoers, I could smell his cheap aftershave and a hint of shampoo, but all the discount store toiletries in the world couldn’t hide the faint, slightly sweet earthiness of Donald himself. He smelled like autumn mornings and sunlight and the promise of sex. Forgetting myself, I closed my eyes briefly and simply breathed, captivated by his pheromonal mating call.
He cleared his throat. My eyes flew open, and I felt a prickle of heat spread across my face. One dark blond eyebrow arched upward, and a grin he seemed to be fighting to suppress broke free, transforming his quirky good looks into something so beautiful and perfect it took my breath away. What could I do?
I grinned back.
* * * *
When I look back on the people who’ve had the greatest influence in my life, my grandmother, Liz, invariably tops the list. She taught me to appreciate good music -- though I never had her gift for making it -- and how to waltz, how to discreetly nap with my eyes open when the conversation was dull and how to tend bar like a pro. She was my co-conspirator and my confidant, and she seldom let more than a handful of days pass without calling me for some late-night dish.
“So the congressman’s wife wasn’t cheating on him after all?” she said. “A pity. I’ve known Morley Fletcher since he and your father were caught skinny-dipping with the Jansen sisters at their eighth grade graduation party. He was no prize back then, and I shudder to think what time and gravity have done to him by now. His wife is a lovely girl, and she could have done better.”
“Somehow, I have a hard time imagining either my boss or my father naked, let alone naked outdoors during a social event.”
“Block it from your mind,” she advised. “Republicans were never meant to remove their clothes either in public or in private. In Morley’s case, they should have been spot-welded to his body the second he entered puberty.”
“Grandfather was a Republican,” I reminded her.
“What are you drinking?”
I swirled the pale liquid in my glass and took a sip before answering. “A moderately priced Riesling. You?”
“A martini, of course. Katie made a pitcher before retiring. Hers are passable, but decidedly sub-par compared to yours. Your grandfather may have been a Republican, but he was an exception to the rule. In spite of his misguided political affiliations, he was a truly remarkable man, and he stripped like a God. But that’s neither here nor there. I want to hear about him.”
“Him? Which him do you mean, Grandmother?”
“You’ve never been able to bluff worth a damn; that’s why I always beat you at poker. I’m referring to that handsome young detective….”
“He’s a private investigator, actually.”
“Don’t correct your elders. It isn’t polite. I mean that handsome young man you hired to follow the honorable Mrs. Fletcher, of course. The one you’ve been terribly careful not to mention during this conversation.”
Elizabeth Callahan, Bloodhound At Large. I smiled and sipped my drink. “How do you know he’s handsome?”
“Because I know you. Now stop beating around the bush and share a little gossip. Have the two of you -- What’s the term they use now? -- hooked up yet?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, precisely?”
I wasn’t precisely sure, and I told her as much. “We’ve had lunch together a couple of times and talked on the phone quite a bit. We took a short walk in the park one afternoon when he was between meetings with clients, and that was nice. One night we shared a dance. We’ve only been on one official date, though.”
“And?”
I was grateful she couldn’t see the big, foolish smile that spread across my face, though knowing Grandmother, she probably heard it loud and clear over the phone line. “And…it was wonderful.”
“It was, or he was?”
“Both.”
“But?”
Have I mentioned that the woman was a bloodhound? “The chemistry is definitely there, but he has issues.”
“Does anyone not have issues?”
“I just don’t know if I can trust my instincts with this one. I’ve made so many bad judgment calls with the men I’ve dated….”
“You haven’t been dating men. You’ve been dating idiots and scoundrels.”
“That‘s my point. How do I know that he’s not one, too?”
“The same way I knew with your grandfather. He’ll touch you.”
“They all touched me, Grandmother.”
“Stop pretending to be obtuse, because I’m not buying into it. He’ll touch you in a way no one’s ever touched you before. You’ll know it when it happens, my dear. And you’ll never doubt that he’s the one again.”
After we said goodnight, I decided to turn the television on while I savored the rest of my wine, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate on what I was watching. I was thinking of Donald, of course, and of what my grandmother had said. I knew she hadn’t been referring to physical touches, but even in that regard, he was in a completely different league from his predecessors. He wasn’t the most articulate man I’d ever dated, but there was something about the way his fingers curled around mine in the theater, the way he lightly pressed his hand against the small of my back as he held a door open for me or took my elbow as we crossed the street that communicated his feelings more effectively than words ever could.
Other men had gone through the motions of being chivalrous, of course, but with them, the gestures had seemed heavy-handed and forced, a slightly condescending territorial display staged for the benefit of whoever might be watching. With Donald, it all seemed natural and respectful and surprisingly tender. He may have been a diamond in the rough, but he was still a diamond, all the same.
We went out on our second date a few nights later, and of course, that’s the night that will live forever in infamy. In spite of the fact that I was absolutely furious with him and humiliated through and through, I confiscated his keys and drove him home. As much as I would have liked to have left him slumped inside that cold and cramped little car to sleep it off, I saw him safely inside his apartment, even going so far as to steady him as he vomited those fourteen martinis he’d guzzled and murmur reassurances while he clung to me and moaned. Once he was done, I cleaned him up as well as I could, then wrestled him out of his clothes and poured him into bed.
I was bathing his face with a cool cloth, wondering how I could get a cab at that hour and if I even had enough cash on me to cover the fare if I did, when he wormed one hand free of the covers and touched my cheek with trembling fingers.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
That makes two of us, I wanted to say. But something in that shaky voice and even shakier touch made me bite the words back, and I simply nodded instead.
“I hurt you,“ he said. “Never gonna forgive myself for hurting you.”
His hand fell away, and he rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Yet the ghost of his touch remained, tingling like a phantom limb. I thought again of our first date, of how gentle and considerate he’d been and how good he’d made me feel. I was still angry and my feelings were hurt, but not to the point where it erased the sense of potential -- the sense of absolutely rightness -- I felt when his eyes or hands or lips met mine. In a moment of absolute clarity, I realized that if I walked out on him, I’d spend the rest of my life aching for a part of myself I’d left behind.
If he couldn’t forgive himself, I suppose I had to do it for him.
I slipped off my jacket and shoes and placed my folded glasses on the nightstand, then climbed into bed and spooned with him, my chest pressed against his back and my arms encircling him in a loose embrace. “Just give me fair warning if you think you’re going to throw up again,” I grumbled. “I don’t have a change of clothes with me, and when we passed your floor’s laundry room, I noticed an Out of Order sign on the door. It would be a long, cold bus ride back to my side of town in nothing but a topcoat and a pair of socks.”
The chills had set in, and now his whole body was shaking. He hugged my arms to his chest. “I know you‘re really pissed at me,” he said, his teeth chattering. “You should be pissed. Why are you letting me off the hook?”
“I’m not letting you off. You’re going to be hearing about this night for a long time to come.”
He was quiet after that, but I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I’d thrown him for a loop, and considering how much alcohol he‘d consumed over the course of the evening, it was probably going to take a while for him to process it. Finally, he said, “I thought you were going to leave me. I’d leave me. I was a real asshole tonight. I wouldn‘t blame you, you know. If you walked out the door and never came back.”
“Believe me, I thought about it.”
He rolled over so he could see me, and the look on his face was so lost and confused I felt the last of my anger dissipate. I tugged him closer and wrapped him in my arms again. He didn‘t smell like autumn mornings and sunlight anymore, but I supposed I could deal with it.
“It’s all right, baby,” I said.
“But what made you decide….”
“Let’s just say that after weighing all the evidence at my disposal, I made a judgment call.”
As it turns out, it was the smartest one I ever made.
A Definitive Answer -or- Ten Times Donald Strachey Asks a Question and One Time He Answers It
I hate PDAs almost as much as I hate winter in New York. Timothy Callahan loves them both -- I can tell that much without him having to say a word. Not that he‘s shy about expressing himself. Oh, hell no. I doubt if the guy ever had a thought he didn‘t feel honor-bound to share, which is pretty much fine with me. I‘ve never been worth a damn at polite chit-chat, but I can just sit there and listen like a pro. He keeps up his end of the conversation and most of mine, too, which saves me the trouble of having to sound smarter than I am for his benefit. And you know what? I honest-to-God like hearing him talk. He’s funny in a weird, random kind of way. And his voice…damn. Just fucking damn.
I get through dinner and a movie okay without doing or saying anything stupid enough to scare him off, which is more than I expect, really, considering I have zilch in the way of experience when it comes to this dating thing. My original game plan was to wine him and dine him, then to get him back to my apartment to work up a good, healthy sweat. But Timmy’s not exactly the kind of guy who hops in the sack with every idiot who takes him out for cheap lasagna and a flick at the second-run theater -- I know that without having to be told, too. Timmy’s the kind of guy who wants to be courted, who wants to feel like sex means more than just a good time between the sheets.
For the first time in a hell of a long time, I’m starting to wonder if I might be that kind of guy, too.
So here we are, wandering around the park at midnight, and I don’t know which is falling faster, the temperature or the snow. We aren’t working up much of a sweat out here, that’s for damned sure. I’m freezing my ass off, if you wanna know the truth, but I’m trying to hide it because I don’t want him to think I’m a wimp. A few other couples are out walking, too, all straight and pretty much velcroed together, and all clearly as insane as we are to be out here on a night like this. Some of them shoot us a quick glance as they walk past, but I’m pretty sure none of them see us -- you know. As an us.
I’m working pretty hard to make sure they don’t. This gay thing, it’s an easy enough fit at the clubs or in the back seat of some random guy’s car, but this is public, we’re out in public, where people can stare and judge and maybe make smartass comments. So I’m being careful as hell to keep a respectable distance between us, not holding hands or anything, even though I’m pretty sure Timmy would like to.
If nobody else was around, I think I‘d kind of like to, too.
We find a bench and decide to sit for a while, close but not quite touching, and just watch the snow fall. Except we’re watching each other instead, not exactly sure where to take it from here. Timmy’s smiling that shy, sweet smile of his. The only thing shy about the guy is his smile, and damned if it doesn’t do something to make me feel really weird but really good at the same time. Protective. It makes me feel protective, which is a new one for me. It makes me want to take care of him, to fight his battles for him -- not that I think he needs me to, but still. More than anything, it makes me want to touch him. Not in a sexual way, necessarily, though that’s sure as shit out there, too. More in a romantic way, the way people touch each other in movies just as the music swells and the scene fades to black.
The way he’s watching me, I know that’s what he wants, too. I’ve got this guy’s number, see. There’s not a doubt in my mind that he’s a romantic through and through. He‘s sharp, though, and he‘s probably figured out by now how backward I am about this stuff, so he’s leaving it up to me to make the first move.
So what the hell. I scoot closer and put an arm around him, then cup his face in my free hand. It’s my first kiss since Kyle, and as different from those frantic, horny attempts to swallow each other’s tongues as night is from day. Another couple walks by, but I barely notice, because Timmy’s lips are soft against mine and warm and so instantly addictive I just want to go on kissing them forever, lost in a sweetness I’ve never known before.
Finally, we pull apart, both of us kind of shocked, I think, by the intensity of what we just shared. I’m sure as hell not feeling the cold anymore, I can tell you that much. More people approach -- a bunch of young guys horsing around. They’re all elbowing each other and snickering, and one of them makes a remark so nasty it would normally turn my stomach inside out or maybe even tempt me to pound the little shit’s face into hamburger. Instead, I just laugh softly and hold Timmy closer.
Timmy’s smile is still in place, but it’s starting to look a little forced because I can’t seem to stop laughing long enough to let him in on the joke. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m laughing at him. But how can I explain that I suddenly feel free of something that’s been weighing me down for as long as I can remember, that all the relief and joy and whatever else is going on inside me has to find some kind of release? His lips part, probably because he’s about to ask what’s so freaking funny, but I cover his mouth with my own, and we don’t break for conversation or anything else for a good long time.
When oxygen deprivation finally gets the best of us, I carefully remove his glasses and stick them in my coat pocket, then lean forward until our foreheads are touching. His eyes haven’t quite glazed over, but they’re pretty damned close. Somehow, he manages to look exhausted and revved and shell-shocked and happy to the point of delirium all at once.
There aren’t enough words in the English language to describe how I feel.
“So this is love?” I ask myself as I lick a fat snowflake off the tip of his nose.
* * * *
I fucked up. There’s no getting around that one.
I wake up the afternoon after our second date, hung over and ashamed and so alone it makes my stomach ache. Because he’s a certifiable saint, Timmy took care of me when I got sick and then spent the night, or at least most of it, slipping out at the ass crack of dawn for an early meeting with his boss. Nothing happened, of course. How could it? I was so stupid drunk I couldn‘t have gotten it up if I‘d wanted to. And for the first time in my life, I really didn‘t want to. As corny as it sounds, I want our first time to be better than that, for it to be something special.
Not that I really believe there’s going to be a first time for us now. Timmy didn‘t kiss me goodbye when he took off, not that I blame him. I know I probably smell like a fucking distillery, and who‘d want to put their mouth anywhere near that? “Go back to sleep,” he said, tucking the covers around my shoulders the way Grammy Rosa did when I was a little kid. “I’ll talk to you later.”
If he has any sense, he’ll never speak to me again.
I find a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the cupboard and pour myself a double. Hair of the dog and all that. My mouth tastes a little better afterwards, but the rest of me still feels like shit. A shower would probably help, but I don’t have the energy for it.
It was only our second date. It’s not like I have anything invested in the guy, right? God knows I’m not the relationship type, so why should I care if it‘s over before it really begins? But when I think of never hearing his voice again or holding his hand in mine, not tasting his smile or smelling his cologne or seeing those cornflower blue eyes crinkle at the corners behind glasses that look geeky and sexy at the same time, I do care. I care so fucking much that the pain of it drowns out the heavy metal drummer who’s pounding away inside my skull. Almost.
“So this is love?” I wonder, wincing as I nurse my throbbing head.
* * * *
I head into the men’s room, half drunk and needing to piss. I take care of business at the urinal and start to head back to the bar for another round when the lanky redhead I’ve been eyeballing all night sidles up to me and grabs my crotch. We’re not exactly strangers, Red and me, and we’ve played this game a couple of times before.
My head’s swimming from the five or six shots I’ve knocked back, and that -- combined with the pounding techno music and the overwhelming cloud of testosterone-rich sweat mixed with amyl nitrate that permeates the place -- has my dick performing on auto-pilot. Red pulls me into a cubicle and drops to his knees, fumbling at my fly. He’s sloppy drunk, and from the way he’s acting, probably high on something a helluva lot stronger than poppers, too. I can practically hear his brain cells self-destructing, not that it matters. The last thing I’m interested in is the guy’s mind.
Before I know it, I’m hard as a rock, shoving him back just long enough to deal with the zipper myself and slip on a condom. I close my eyes and brace myself against the cold metal of the stall door, hear him moan in expectation, maybe moan a little myself.
As his mouth closes on my cock, my eyes fly open, and I look down at all that red hair. It’s the wrong color, the wrong texture, just plain wrong. My gorge rises. I shove Red away and start puking my guts up as he scrambles to get out of the line of fire.
I haven’t had the guts to call Timmy since our second date and he’s probably forgotten I even exist, but I’m still so fucked up I can’t even enjoy a little no-strings head without going to pieces. And the scary thing is, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enjoy it again.
“So this is love?” I groan between waves of nausea, wanting to kick myself.
* * * *
Timmy walks out of the bathroom naked, not strutting, exactly, but with nothing bashful about him except for that smile.
I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful in all my life.
This night’s been a long time coming, and the last thing I want to do is rush it. We walk into each other’s arms and just stand there, nuzzling and cuddling, trading soft, deep kisses as if we’ve got all the time in the world before us. I’m almost scared to hope that maybe, just maybe, we do.
For the first time since Kyle, I really want to please someone, to give instead of take, to make him feel every bit as good as he looks. I stretch out on the bed and draw Timmy down beside me, cradling him in my arms, worshiping every inch of that long, lean body of his with my lips and tongue, my mouth and hands, and with every scrap of feeling left in my heart. “Beautiful,“ I whisper. “So beautiful.“ I slowly kiss and nip and lick my way down his happy trail, rub my cheek against the soft, dark hairs on his belly, smell his smell, wallow in his warmth.
“So this is love?” I murmur, taking his bobbing cock into my mouth.
* * * *
I can’t get rid of my last client in time to pick Timmy up at work, but at least I’m able to meet his bus so he won’t have to walk the last few blocks alone. It’s a nice night, and I’m thinking we can stop by the corner deli for turkey subs and maybe a couple of slices of their homemade pecan pie on the way back to his place. But when it‘s Timmy‘s turn to get off the bus, the next guy in line jostles him from behind. Timmy’s foot slips off the bottom step, and he barely grabs the handrail in time to keep from falling. “Fucking faggot,” the guy mutters, shoving his way past.
I lurch forward, knowing damned well that if I get my hands on that prick I’ll be facing murder charges, and that’s just A-okay with me. But Timmy regains his balance and closes a hand on my wrist, stopping me dead in my tracks. I’m not sure which shocks me more, knowing I’m willing to face a life sentence at Attica for ripping some douchebag’s heart out and shoving it up his ass because he pushed my boyfriend and called him a fag, or the fact that Timmy has the power to hold me back with just a touch when I’m as mad as I’ve ever been in my whole fucking life.
“So this is love?” I seethe, clenching my fists so hard they ache.
* * * *
I’m a slob. I’ve known that particular fact about myself for a long time now. It‘s not exactly a secret as far as Timmy‘s concerned, either, but that doesn’t keep him from looking horrified as he watches me scoop a pile of dirty clothes off the bathroom floor and haul it toward the laundry room. I hear his footsteps following behind me at what I’m sure he considers a safe distance.
“I said I’d do it,” I snap. Still, he hovers over me, handing over a sock I dropped and clicking his tongue like a disapproving aunt as I separate the lights from the darks. When I set the water temperature to “hot” he makes a distressed sound, and I quickly switch the dial to “warm” instead and pour in the detergent. Apparently satisfied, he walks away.
“So this is love?” I grumble, wondering if he‘ll leave me alone now so I can watch the rest of the game in peace. But I remember to add the fabric softener, all the same.
* * * *
I never listen to the radio when I’m driving, but for some reason I turn it on today. Like the rest of my car, the sound system’s not worth shit, but I catch snatches of a breaking news report between spurts of static.
The bottom drops out of my world.
A few minutes ago, someone fired off a round at Timmy’s new boss, Senator Glassman, as she addressed a group of students at Saint Rose. She’s uninjured, but one of her aides isn’t so lucky. He’s being rushed to Albany Memorial, the reporter states in the same perky tone she’d use to update traffic information or predict the weather. His name’s being withheld, pending notification of kin.
Pending notification of kin.
In less than a heartbeat, I’m speed-dialing Timmy’s number. He doesn’t pick up, and that feeds my fear. I toss my cell onto the seat and do a U-turn, nearly taking out a couple of jaywalkers in business suits, not that I care. All I care about is the growing panic inside me, and the knowledge that if Timmy’s dead, I might as well be, too.
My phone chirps, and I snatch it up again and flip it open. The text message consists of three words -- the only three words in the whole English language I give a damn about seeing at this moment in time.
It wasn’t me.
The phone slips from my hand and hits the floorboard, disappearing under the seat. Somehow, I manage to pull over before I lose it completely. I bang my head on the steering wheel, pound my fists on the dash, choking and cursing as I bawl like a fucking baby. I know Timmy has to be taking this hard. I know I need to get it together, to text him back and tell him I’m on my way. He has to know that he can lean on me, that I’ll be by his side to help him deal with the loss of a colleague, maybe even somebody he counts as a friend. But for now, all I can do is clutch that steering wheel and cry. In less than a minute, my life has been taken away from me and given back, and it’s too much, just too goddamned much to bear.
“So this is love?” I gasp between sobs.
* * * *
Me, nervous? Hardly.
Scared shitless is more to the point.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and Timothy’s mom is driving up for a late brunch. We’ve talked on the phone and she seems nice enough. We’ve even waved and smiled at each other a couple of times over Timmy’s webcam. But we’ve never met before. Not met met. Not in person.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Moving in together is one thing, but I’m just not the tea-and-crumpets-with-somebody’s-mommy-on-a-Sunday-afternoon kind of guy. I don’t do polite chit-chat. I don’t do any kind of chit-chat. I make a really shitty first impression. What if she doesn’t like me? What if she hates me? What if she calls Timmy afterward and says something that’ll finally bring him to his senses?
I haven’t been this freaking terrified since Timmy pulled that little black notebook out of his pocket and started taking notes on our second date.
I finish vacuuming the living room rug just as the doorbell rings. “Honey, can you get the door for me?” Timmy calls from the kitchen, where he’s busy churning out enough tea and crumpets to feed a Third World country. Or maybe he’s just making coffee and putting the finishing touches on that sausage and egg casserole I like so much. Who the hell knows? For that matter, who the hell cares? My stomach’s tied in so many knots I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again.
I make a half-assed attempt to wrap the power cord before shoving Timmy’s new Kirby into the closet. He spent more on that damned sweeper than I did on my car. Not for the first time, I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. The doorbell rings a second time. “Honey?” he calls again.
I force myself to walk to the door. This is stupid. The way I’m acting is just stupid. I pause for a moment, close my eyes, take a deep breath. The bell rings a third time and Timmy calls my name. Both are starting to sound pretty pissed off.
“So this is love?” I mutter, turning the doorknob with a not-quite-steady hand.
* * * *
The longer Timmy and I are together, the better the sex gets. Like any couple, we have our quickies, our sleepy grope sessions at two a.m, our get-our-rocks-off-and-get-to-sleep moments. Most of the time, though, there‘s a hell of a lot more to it than that. And nine times out of ten, it‘s because Timmy makes it that way.
Tonight he‘s in a creative mood, and he tries something we‘ve never done before. It takes me by surprise and sends me over the edge so hard and fast I‘m not sure whether I‘m dying or being reborn. Maybe a little of each. Afterward, I’m wiped out and done in, ready to call it a night. But after a moment’s breather, his hand cups my balls, and I realize part of me, at least, isn’t nearly as tired as I thought.
“So this is love?“ I growl in his ear, prepping myself for the second round.
* * * *
It’s our six month anniversary, and I promised I’d be home by 6:00 at the latest.
Correction: it was our anniversary. Now it’s three in the morning, and here I am, dragging my bone-weary, battered and bloody ass up the two flights of stairs to our apartment because the fucking elevator picked this night of all nights to break down. My gun disappeared around the time the guy with the baseball bat finished tenderizing my head like a slab of fresh meat, and my cell phone and car keys disappeared right along with it. Tell ya what, two and half miles is a helluva long way to walk in the freezing rain when you can’t see thanks to the blood in your eyes, can’t breathe thanks to the blood clogging your nose, and everything from your neck up has just been reduced to extra lean ground round. I would’ve sprung for a taxi, but no cabbie in his right mind would pick up somebody who looks like me on the wrong side of town in the middle of an ice storm in the middle of the night. Besides, somewhere between Babe Ruth hitting a home run on my skull and he and his girlfriend taking turns kicking me in the ribs, I seem to have lost my wallet as well.
I’m really hoping Timmy has long since written me off as a lost cause and gone to bed, but no such luck. He must be pulling an all-night stake-out in the living room and listening for my footsteps in the corridor, because before my hand even touches the knob, the door flies open and he glares at me. Then he takes in my gore-fest of a face and the combination of ice and frozen blood spiking my hair. Without saying a word, he pulls me close, cradling me gently in his arms as if he’s scared hugging too hard might actually make me break.
“Baby,” he murmurs, his lips warm against my frigid skin. “Oh, baby.”
Something’s definitely cracking -- I can hear it -- but it’s just the quarter-inch layer of sleet covering the tattered remains of my coat. I try to tell him I’m sorry, but my teeth won’t stop chattering.
Timmy gets us both inside and locks the door, then peels off my crunchy coat and leaves it to melt on the living room floor. Then he leads me to the bathroom where he starts running a hot bath. He tells me to get undressed, but my fingers are so numb I can’t seem to move them anymore. He undresses me himself, easing me out of my clothes and sucking in a sharp breath when he takes in the bruises on my chest and sides, the gash on my right knee, the nasty cut just below my left clavicle.
“Oh, baby,” he says again. “You need a doctor.”
“No,” I tell him, though I’m shaking so hard I doubt if he can make out a word I’m saying. “I don’t want…I just need….”
He shushes me and somehow gets me into the warm water, supporting my weight as he manually lifts first my left leg and then my right over the edge of the tub and forces me to sit, because the world’s gone dark and fuzzy, and my limbs don‘t feel like they‘re connected to me anymore. Once I’m more or less settled, he disappears, leaving me bereft. With him gone, it feels like I’m alone in the ice storm again. I hunch forward, trying to get as much of my body underwater as I can. Everything hurts. A couple of minutes later, he reappears with the first aid kit in one hand and a steaming blue mug in the other. When he holds the mug to my lips, I taste coffee, bitter and stale, like it’s been sitting on the warmer all night. It feels good going down, though, hot and strong, and once I get my hands working again, I take it from him and sip it slowly.
I still can’t seem to stop shaking.
Leaving the first aid kit on the vanity, he strips and joins me in the tub. The water’s red and so disgusting looking I’m surprised he’s willing to get in with me. He doesn’t so much as flinch, though, just opens the drain and lets some out, then starts refilling it with fresh, gradually increasing the temperature until it’s as hot as I can stand it. He fusses with the shower curtain, pulling it closed to keep the steam in. When I finish the coffee, he takes the mug from me and sets it aside, then reaches for a washcloth and starts tentatively dabbing the blood off my face. I realize he hasn’t asked what happened. Maybe he figures he’s better off not knowing. Or maybe seeing me in this kind of shape tells him all he needs to know.
My teeth finally stop chattering, but I‘m still shaking so hard the water sloshes, and in spite of the shower curtain, I‘m sure some of it must be running onto the floor.
“Aren’t you mad at me?” I know how pathetic I gotta sound, but I’m past caring.
“Oh, no. Oh God, baby, no.” He drops the washcloth and scoots closer, wrapping his arms and legs around my body, guarding me from phantom attackers like a living shield. I hear him gulp back something that sounds like a sob. “I’m just so glad you’re home.” Tears well in his eyes, and it hits me harder than a baseball bat to the skull -- those tears are for me. As far as I can tell, nobody’s ever shed a tear over me before.
“So this is love?” I whisper, filled with wonder, as he gently kisses my swollen lips.
* * * *
Another Saturday night, another boring political function. Hazards of the trade, as Timmy would say, when you’re married to a New York senator’s chief aide. Still, I bitch and moan the way I always do, while Timmy rolls his eyes and threatens me with domestic violence. These verbal brawls of ours are purely recreational, of course, though you can’t expect casual observers to understand that. Needless to say, that’s half the fun.
I get the feeling somebody’s staring at us, and sure enough, it’s a high-priced lawyer named Edward D’Arcy. I’ve had dealings with the guy a time or two over the past couple of years, though hardly in a business capacity. I know he has a wife at home, plus a couple of teenaged kids and an older son in medical school, but that doesn’t stop him from playing around with boys on the side. The last time he offered, I’d just moved in with Timmy, and my playing around days were done. I turned D’Arcy down politely at first, then not so politely when he didn’t seem to catch the hint. He didn’t handle the rejection particularly well, as I recall.
Now he’s sauntering toward us, wearing a patronizing smirk I’d really love to wipe off his face for him. But I’m in the brand new monkey suit Timmy made me buy -- not just rent, but honest-to-God buy -- and he’d probably kill me if I messed it up while physically assaulting this pompous-assed ambulance chaser at his la-ti-da fundraiser. So I just stand my ground and smirk right back.
“So this is love?” ol’ Eddie asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. He gives Timmy a long, condescending look clearly calculated to make my blood boil.
In another place and time, I would’ve cleaned his clock for him right then and there. But this is here and this is now, and I sure as hell don’t want to embarrass my honey. So I just look at Timmy and he looks at me, and we smile and lace our fingers together. As I raise his hand to my lips and kiss it with every ounce of tenderness in me, my eyes lock on Ed‘s.
“You bet your ass it is,” I say.
I get through dinner and a movie okay without doing or saying anything stupid enough to scare him off, which is more than I expect, really, considering I have zilch in the way of experience when it comes to this dating thing. My original game plan was to wine him and dine him, then to get him back to my apartment to work up a good, healthy sweat. But Timmy’s not exactly the kind of guy who hops in the sack with every idiot who takes him out for cheap lasagna and a flick at the second-run theater -- I know that without having to be told, too. Timmy’s the kind of guy who wants to be courted, who wants to feel like sex means more than just a good time between the sheets.
For the first time in a hell of a long time, I’m starting to wonder if I might be that kind of guy, too.
So here we are, wandering around the park at midnight, and I don’t know which is falling faster, the temperature or the snow. We aren’t working up much of a sweat out here, that’s for damned sure. I’m freezing my ass off, if you wanna know the truth, but I’m trying to hide it because I don’t want him to think I’m a wimp. A few other couples are out walking, too, all straight and pretty much velcroed together, and all clearly as insane as we are to be out here on a night like this. Some of them shoot us a quick glance as they walk past, but I’m pretty sure none of them see us -- you know. As an us.
I’m working pretty hard to make sure they don’t. This gay thing, it’s an easy enough fit at the clubs or in the back seat of some random guy’s car, but this is public, we’re out in public, where people can stare and judge and maybe make smartass comments. So I’m being careful as hell to keep a respectable distance between us, not holding hands or anything, even though I’m pretty sure Timmy would like to.
If nobody else was around, I think I‘d kind of like to, too.
We find a bench and decide to sit for a while, close but not quite touching, and just watch the snow fall. Except we’re watching each other instead, not exactly sure where to take it from here. Timmy’s smiling that shy, sweet smile of his. The only thing shy about the guy is his smile, and damned if it doesn’t do something to make me feel really weird but really good at the same time. Protective. It makes me feel protective, which is a new one for me. It makes me want to take care of him, to fight his battles for him -- not that I think he needs me to, but still. More than anything, it makes me want to touch him. Not in a sexual way, necessarily, though that’s sure as shit out there, too. More in a romantic way, the way people touch each other in movies just as the music swells and the scene fades to black.
The way he’s watching me, I know that’s what he wants, too. I’ve got this guy’s number, see. There’s not a doubt in my mind that he’s a romantic through and through. He‘s sharp, though, and he‘s probably figured out by now how backward I am about this stuff, so he’s leaving it up to me to make the first move.
So what the hell. I scoot closer and put an arm around him, then cup his face in my free hand. It’s my first kiss since Kyle, and as different from those frantic, horny attempts to swallow each other’s tongues as night is from day. Another couple walks by, but I barely notice, because Timmy’s lips are soft against mine and warm and so instantly addictive I just want to go on kissing them forever, lost in a sweetness I’ve never known before.
Finally, we pull apart, both of us kind of shocked, I think, by the intensity of what we just shared. I’m sure as hell not feeling the cold anymore, I can tell you that much. More people approach -- a bunch of young guys horsing around. They’re all elbowing each other and snickering, and one of them makes a remark so nasty it would normally turn my stomach inside out or maybe even tempt me to pound the little shit’s face into hamburger. Instead, I just laugh softly and hold Timmy closer.
Timmy’s smile is still in place, but it’s starting to look a little forced because I can’t seem to stop laughing long enough to let him in on the joke. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m laughing at him. But how can I explain that I suddenly feel free of something that’s been weighing me down for as long as I can remember, that all the relief and joy and whatever else is going on inside me has to find some kind of release? His lips part, probably because he’s about to ask what’s so freaking funny, but I cover his mouth with my own, and we don’t break for conversation or anything else for a good long time.
When oxygen deprivation finally gets the best of us, I carefully remove his glasses and stick them in my coat pocket, then lean forward until our foreheads are touching. His eyes haven’t quite glazed over, but they’re pretty damned close. Somehow, he manages to look exhausted and revved and shell-shocked and happy to the point of delirium all at once.
There aren’t enough words in the English language to describe how I feel.
“So this is love?” I ask myself as I lick a fat snowflake off the tip of his nose.
* * * *
I fucked up. There’s no getting around that one.
I wake up the afternoon after our second date, hung over and ashamed and so alone it makes my stomach ache. Because he’s a certifiable saint, Timmy took care of me when I got sick and then spent the night, or at least most of it, slipping out at the ass crack of dawn for an early meeting with his boss. Nothing happened, of course. How could it? I was so stupid drunk I couldn‘t have gotten it up if I‘d wanted to. And for the first time in my life, I really didn‘t want to. As corny as it sounds, I want our first time to be better than that, for it to be something special.
Not that I really believe there’s going to be a first time for us now. Timmy didn‘t kiss me goodbye when he took off, not that I blame him. I know I probably smell like a fucking distillery, and who‘d want to put their mouth anywhere near that? “Go back to sleep,” he said, tucking the covers around my shoulders the way Grammy Rosa did when I was a little kid. “I’ll talk to you later.”
If he has any sense, he’ll never speak to me again.
I find a bottle of Maker’s Mark in the cupboard and pour myself a double. Hair of the dog and all that. My mouth tastes a little better afterwards, but the rest of me still feels like shit. A shower would probably help, but I don’t have the energy for it.
It was only our second date. It’s not like I have anything invested in the guy, right? God knows I’m not the relationship type, so why should I care if it‘s over before it really begins? But when I think of never hearing his voice again or holding his hand in mine, not tasting his smile or smelling his cologne or seeing those cornflower blue eyes crinkle at the corners behind glasses that look geeky and sexy at the same time, I do care. I care so fucking much that the pain of it drowns out the heavy metal drummer who’s pounding away inside my skull. Almost.
“So this is love?” I wonder, wincing as I nurse my throbbing head.
* * * *
I head into the men’s room, half drunk and needing to piss. I take care of business at the urinal and start to head back to the bar for another round when the lanky redhead I’ve been eyeballing all night sidles up to me and grabs my crotch. We’re not exactly strangers, Red and me, and we’ve played this game a couple of times before.
My head’s swimming from the five or six shots I’ve knocked back, and that -- combined with the pounding techno music and the overwhelming cloud of testosterone-rich sweat mixed with amyl nitrate that permeates the place -- has my dick performing on auto-pilot. Red pulls me into a cubicle and drops to his knees, fumbling at my fly. He’s sloppy drunk, and from the way he’s acting, probably high on something a helluva lot stronger than poppers, too. I can practically hear his brain cells self-destructing, not that it matters. The last thing I’m interested in is the guy’s mind.
Before I know it, I’m hard as a rock, shoving him back just long enough to deal with the zipper myself and slip on a condom. I close my eyes and brace myself against the cold metal of the stall door, hear him moan in expectation, maybe moan a little myself.
As his mouth closes on my cock, my eyes fly open, and I look down at all that red hair. It’s the wrong color, the wrong texture, just plain wrong. My gorge rises. I shove Red away and start puking my guts up as he scrambles to get out of the line of fire.
I haven’t had the guts to call Timmy since our second date and he’s probably forgotten I even exist, but I’m still so fucked up I can’t even enjoy a little no-strings head without going to pieces. And the scary thing is, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enjoy it again.
“So this is love?” I groan between waves of nausea, wanting to kick myself.
* * * *
Timmy walks out of the bathroom naked, not strutting, exactly, but with nothing bashful about him except for that smile.
I’ve never seen anything so fucking beautiful in all my life.
This night’s been a long time coming, and the last thing I want to do is rush it. We walk into each other’s arms and just stand there, nuzzling and cuddling, trading soft, deep kisses as if we’ve got all the time in the world before us. I’m almost scared to hope that maybe, just maybe, we do.
For the first time since Kyle, I really want to please someone, to give instead of take, to make him feel every bit as good as he looks. I stretch out on the bed and draw Timmy down beside me, cradling him in my arms, worshiping every inch of that long, lean body of his with my lips and tongue, my mouth and hands, and with every scrap of feeling left in my heart. “Beautiful,“ I whisper. “So beautiful.“ I slowly kiss and nip and lick my way down his happy trail, rub my cheek against the soft, dark hairs on his belly, smell his smell, wallow in his warmth.
“So this is love?” I murmur, taking his bobbing cock into my mouth.
* * * *
I can’t get rid of my last client in time to pick Timmy up at work, but at least I’m able to meet his bus so he won’t have to walk the last few blocks alone. It’s a nice night, and I’m thinking we can stop by the corner deli for turkey subs and maybe a couple of slices of their homemade pecan pie on the way back to his place. But when it‘s Timmy‘s turn to get off the bus, the next guy in line jostles him from behind. Timmy’s foot slips off the bottom step, and he barely grabs the handrail in time to keep from falling. “Fucking faggot,” the guy mutters, shoving his way past.
I lurch forward, knowing damned well that if I get my hands on that prick I’ll be facing murder charges, and that’s just A-okay with me. But Timmy regains his balance and closes a hand on my wrist, stopping me dead in my tracks. I’m not sure which shocks me more, knowing I’m willing to face a life sentence at Attica for ripping some douchebag’s heart out and shoving it up his ass because he pushed my boyfriend and called him a fag, or the fact that Timmy has the power to hold me back with just a touch when I’m as mad as I’ve ever been in my whole fucking life.
“So this is love?” I seethe, clenching my fists so hard they ache.
* * * *
I’m a slob. I’ve known that particular fact about myself for a long time now. It‘s not exactly a secret as far as Timmy‘s concerned, either, but that doesn’t keep him from looking horrified as he watches me scoop a pile of dirty clothes off the bathroom floor and haul it toward the laundry room. I hear his footsteps following behind me at what I’m sure he considers a safe distance.
“I said I’d do it,” I snap. Still, he hovers over me, handing over a sock I dropped and clicking his tongue like a disapproving aunt as I separate the lights from the darks. When I set the water temperature to “hot” he makes a distressed sound, and I quickly switch the dial to “warm” instead and pour in the detergent. Apparently satisfied, he walks away.
“So this is love?” I grumble, wondering if he‘ll leave me alone now so I can watch the rest of the game in peace. But I remember to add the fabric softener, all the same.
* * * *
I never listen to the radio when I’m driving, but for some reason I turn it on today. Like the rest of my car, the sound system’s not worth shit, but I catch snatches of a breaking news report between spurts of static.
The bottom drops out of my world.
A few minutes ago, someone fired off a round at Timmy’s new boss, Senator Glassman, as she addressed a group of students at Saint Rose. She’s uninjured, but one of her aides isn’t so lucky. He’s being rushed to Albany Memorial, the reporter states in the same perky tone she’d use to update traffic information or predict the weather. His name’s being withheld, pending notification of kin.
Pending notification of kin.
In less than a heartbeat, I’m speed-dialing Timmy’s number. He doesn’t pick up, and that feeds my fear. I toss my cell onto the seat and do a U-turn, nearly taking out a couple of jaywalkers in business suits, not that I care. All I care about is the growing panic inside me, and the knowledge that if Timmy’s dead, I might as well be, too.
My phone chirps, and I snatch it up again and flip it open. The text message consists of three words -- the only three words in the whole English language I give a damn about seeing at this moment in time.
It wasn’t me.
The phone slips from my hand and hits the floorboard, disappearing under the seat. Somehow, I manage to pull over before I lose it completely. I bang my head on the steering wheel, pound my fists on the dash, choking and cursing as I bawl like a fucking baby. I know Timmy has to be taking this hard. I know I need to get it together, to text him back and tell him I’m on my way. He has to know that he can lean on me, that I’ll be by his side to help him deal with the loss of a colleague, maybe even somebody he counts as a friend. But for now, all I can do is clutch that steering wheel and cry. In less than a minute, my life has been taken away from me and given back, and it’s too much, just too goddamned much to bear.
“So this is love?” I gasp between sobs.
* * * *
Me, nervous? Hardly.
Scared shitless is more to the point.
It’s Sunday afternoon, and Timothy’s mom is driving up for a late brunch. We’ve talked on the phone and she seems nice enough. We’ve even waved and smiled at each other a couple of times over Timmy’s webcam. But we’ve never met before. Not met met. Not in person.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Moving in together is one thing, but I’m just not the tea-and-crumpets-with-somebody’s-mommy-on-a-Sunday-afternoon kind of guy. I don’t do polite chit-chat. I don’t do any kind of chit-chat. I make a really shitty first impression. What if she doesn’t like me? What if she hates me? What if she calls Timmy afterward and says something that’ll finally bring him to his senses?
I haven’t been this freaking terrified since Timmy pulled that little black notebook out of his pocket and started taking notes on our second date.
I finish vacuuming the living room rug just as the doorbell rings. “Honey, can you get the door for me?” Timmy calls from the kitchen, where he’s busy churning out enough tea and crumpets to feed a Third World country. Or maybe he’s just making coffee and putting the finishing touches on that sausage and egg casserole I like so much. Who the hell knows? For that matter, who the hell cares? My stomach’s tied in so many knots I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again.
I make a half-assed attempt to wrap the power cord before shoving Timmy’s new Kirby into the closet. He spent more on that damned sweeper than I did on my car. Not for the first time, I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. The doorbell rings a second time. “Honey?” he calls again.
I force myself to walk to the door. This is stupid. The way I’m acting is just stupid. I pause for a moment, close my eyes, take a deep breath. The bell rings a third time and Timmy calls my name. Both are starting to sound pretty pissed off.
“So this is love?” I mutter, turning the doorknob with a not-quite-steady hand.
* * * *
The longer Timmy and I are together, the better the sex gets. Like any couple, we have our quickies, our sleepy grope sessions at two a.m, our get-our-rocks-off-and-get-to-sleep moments. Most of the time, though, there‘s a hell of a lot more to it than that. And nine times out of ten, it‘s because Timmy makes it that way.
Tonight he‘s in a creative mood, and he tries something we‘ve never done before. It takes me by surprise and sends me over the edge so hard and fast I‘m not sure whether I‘m dying or being reborn. Maybe a little of each. Afterward, I’m wiped out and done in, ready to call it a night. But after a moment’s breather, his hand cups my balls, and I realize part of me, at least, isn’t nearly as tired as I thought.
“So this is love?“ I growl in his ear, prepping myself for the second round.
* * * *
It’s our six month anniversary, and I promised I’d be home by 6:00 at the latest.
Correction: it was our anniversary. Now it’s three in the morning, and here I am, dragging my bone-weary, battered and bloody ass up the two flights of stairs to our apartment because the fucking elevator picked this night of all nights to break down. My gun disappeared around the time the guy with the baseball bat finished tenderizing my head like a slab of fresh meat, and my cell phone and car keys disappeared right along with it. Tell ya what, two and half miles is a helluva long way to walk in the freezing rain when you can’t see thanks to the blood in your eyes, can’t breathe thanks to the blood clogging your nose, and everything from your neck up has just been reduced to extra lean ground round. I would’ve sprung for a taxi, but no cabbie in his right mind would pick up somebody who looks like me on the wrong side of town in the middle of an ice storm in the middle of the night. Besides, somewhere between Babe Ruth hitting a home run on my skull and he and his girlfriend taking turns kicking me in the ribs, I seem to have lost my wallet as well.
I’m really hoping Timmy has long since written me off as a lost cause and gone to bed, but no such luck. He must be pulling an all-night stake-out in the living room and listening for my footsteps in the corridor, because before my hand even touches the knob, the door flies open and he glares at me. Then he takes in my gore-fest of a face and the combination of ice and frozen blood spiking my hair. Without saying a word, he pulls me close, cradling me gently in his arms as if he’s scared hugging too hard might actually make me break.
“Baby,” he murmurs, his lips warm against my frigid skin. “Oh, baby.”
Something’s definitely cracking -- I can hear it -- but it’s just the quarter-inch layer of sleet covering the tattered remains of my coat. I try to tell him I’m sorry, but my teeth won’t stop chattering.
Timmy gets us both inside and locks the door, then peels off my crunchy coat and leaves it to melt on the living room floor. Then he leads me to the bathroom where he starts running a hot bath. He tells me to get undressed, but my fingers are so numb I can’t seem to move them anymore. He undresses me himself, easing me out of my clothes and sucking in a sharp breath when he takes in the bruises on my chest and sides, the gash on my right knee, the nasty cut just below my left clavicle.
“Oh, baby,” he says again. “You need a doctor.”
“No,” I tell him, though I’m shaking so hard I doubt if he can make out a word I’m saying. “I don’t want…I just need….”
He shushes me and somehow gets me into the warm water, supporting my weight as he manually lifts first my left leg and then my right over the edge of the tub and forces me to sit, because the world’s gone dark and fuzzy, and my limbs don‘t feel like they‘re connected to me anymore. Once I’m more or less settled, he disappears, leaving me bereft. With him gone, it feels like I’m alone in the ice storm again. I hunch forward, trying to get as much of my body underwater as I can. Everything hurts. A couple of minutes later, he reappears with the first aid kit in one hand and a steaming blue mug in the other. When he holds the mug to my lips, I taste coffee, bitter and stale, like it’s been sitting on the warmer all night. It feels good going down, though, hot and strong, and once I get my hands working again, I take it from him and sip it slowly.
I still can’t seem to stop shaking.
Leaving the first aid kit on the vanity, he strips and joins me in the tub. The water’s red and so disgusting looking I’m surprised he’s willing to get in with me. He doesn’t so much as flinch, though, just opens the drain and lets some out, then starts refilling it with fresh, gradually increasing the temperature until it’s as hot as I can stand it. He fusses with the shower curtain, pulling it closed to keep the steam in. When I finish the coffee, he takes the mug from me and sets it aside, then reaches for a washcloth and starts tentatively dabbing the blood off my face. I realize he hasn’t asked what happened. Maybe he figures he’s better off not knowing. Or maybe seeing me in this kind of shape tells him all he needs to know.
My teeth finally stop chattering, but I‘m still shaking so hard the water sloshes, and in spite of the shower curtain, I‘m sure some of it must be running onto the floor.
“Aren’t you mad at me?” I know how pathetic I gotta sound, but I’m past caring.
“Oh, no. Oh God, baby, no.” He drops the washcloth and scoots closer, wrapping his arms and legs around my body, guarding me from phantom attackers like a living shield. I hear him gulp back something that sounds like a sob. “I’m just so glad you’re home.” Tears well in his eyes, and it hits me harder than a baseball bat to the skull -- those tears are for me. As far as I can tell, nobody’s ever shed a tear over me before.
“So this is love?” I whisper, filled with wonder, as he gently kisses my swollen lips.
* * * *
Another Saturday night, another boring political function. Hazards of the trade, as Timmy would say, when you’re married to a New York senator’s chief aide. Still, I bitch and moan the way I always do, while Timmy rolls his eyes and threatens me with domestic violence. These verbal brawls of ours are purely recreational, of course, though you can’t expect casual observers to understand that. Needless to say, that’s half the fun.
I get the feeling somebody’s staring at us, and sure enough, it’s a high-priced lawyer named Edward D’Arcy. I’ve had dealings with the guy a time or two over the past couple of years, though hardly in a business capacity. I know he has a wife at home, plus a couple of teenaged kids and an older son in medical school, but that doesn’t stop him from playing around with boys on the side. The last time he offered, I’d just moved in with Timmy, and my playing around days were done. I turned D’Arcy down politely at first, then not so politely when he didn’t seem to catch the hint. He didn’t handle the rejection particularly well, as I recall.
Now he’s sauntering toward us, wearing a patronizing smirk I’d really love to wipe off his face for him. But I’m in the brand new monkey suit Timmy made me buy -- not just rent, but honest-to-God buy -- and he’d probably kill me if I messed it up while physically assaulting this pompous-assed ambulance chaser at his la-ti-da fundraiser. So I just stand my ground and smirk right back.
“So this is love?” ol’ Eddie asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. He gives Timmy a long, condescending look clearly calculated to make my blood boil.
In another place and time, I would’ve cleaned his clock for him right then and there. But this is here and this is now, and I sure as hell don’t want to embarrass my honey. So I just look at Timmy and he looks at me, and we smile and lace our fingers together. As I raise his hand to my lips and kiss it with every ounce of tenderness in me, my eyes lock on Ed‘s.
“You bet your ass it is,” I say.
Mr. Obvious
2900 words
Throughout my life, I’ve invested a helluva lot of time and effort into not appearing “too obvious.”
You wouldn’t believe it now, but I haven’t always been so cool about being gay. After what happened in the army, who can blame me? Not so long ago, the very idea of being on either the giving or receiving end of a P.D.A. would shrivel my balls, and I’d be embarrassed as hell if I saw two guys lip-lock in public -- and not just because I took other people’s negative comments about it personally. If you wanna know the truth, it would make me feel like shit. Not because I was disgusted with the lovers, lucky bastards that they were, but because I was disgusted with myself. The truth is, they made me feel inadequate as hell, because I knew I didn’t have the guts to do what they were doing, to stand tall and be myself and damn the torpedoes.
For me, being gay used to mean sneaking around in the dark, holing up in the back room of a bar or in some cruddy restroom in the park with whatever anonymous piece of meat was willing to provide a hand or a head job. All physical contact took place through a thin layer of latex as we exchanged as few words as possible and no bodily fluids whatsoever. It scares me to think how long I might have gone on like that with my head up my ass instead of square on my shoulders where it belongs. But one day when I least expected it, Timothy Callahan waltzed into my life and made me rethink my priorities.
Timmy, see, he blows my mind, and he does it pretty much on a daily basis. That someone like him can actually love someone like me. Not just love, but love, you know? And that he can be so goddamned proud of me, proud to be with me, to be seen with me, proud that I’m his and he’s mine. So proud he can hardly contain it, that it’s practically running out his ears, oozing out his pores, obvious as hell to anyone who sees us together.
In the face of all that pride, it’s hard to hang onto shame, let me tell you. I’m not saying I’m a quick study, because I’m not. And I’m not saying it’s been an overnight process, because it hasn’t. But you know what? Bit by bit, the shame in me has been leeched out and replaced by pride as well. Pride in Timmy, of course. Pride in being his and him being mine. Pride that I’ve got something in me that he wants and loves and even needs, that I fill him up the way he fills me. Pride that we complete each other in a way no one else ever has or ever will.. Pride in myself, finally, because that’s what it comes down to in the end, isn’t it?
Pride in me.
* * * *
The first Saturday in August, barely noon and already 100 degrees in the shade. You’d think I’d still be curled up in bed with Timmy, the AC struggling to turn our new apartment into a happy meat locker as we make a little heat of our own. Instead, I’m sweltering out here on the sidewalk, a few blocks down from the capitol building, because Timmy needed to put in a half day wrapping up some special project the senator has him slaving away on. He thinks I’m waiting for him at home, unpacking boxes or setting up the computer maybe, or more likely just being lazy and sleeping in. Instead, I’ve decided to surprise him and take him to lunch at his favorite cafe, then to a movie or even some snorefest at the museum if that’s where the mood takes him. I’ve got a few bucks saved back, so if he’s game, after that we’ll swing by the apartment to change. Then it’s drinks and dancing, and a late supper out. He’s really been busting ass the past couple of weeks between the job, the move, and dealing with the day-to-day chaos that‘s part of the package when you shack up with someone like me. I just want to spoil him a little bit. Kind of thank him, I guess, for the way he always spoils me.
As I walk along, wilting faster than the scraggly herb garden Timmy’s been trying to resuscitate in our kitchen window box, I wonder why the city always smells like crunchy socks this time of year. You know, the ones you wear for four days straight because doing laundry doesn’t exactly top your list of great ways to spend your day off -- provided you ever have a day off -- and you’re too damned broke to go out and buy fresh ones to tide you over. When they finally get so rank you’d rather just go without and get blisters, they lie under the bed or in a corner somewhere, yellowing and stiff, until the world ends or someone gets around to cleaning the place, whichever comes first. Most of my life, I’ve pretty much lived a crunchy sock existence, but since I hooked up with Timmy, you could say change has been in the wind. Now I hardly ever get a whiff of that old, familiar smell anymore, unless I come downtown, or if a couple of weeks have gone by since Timmy last tossed my office. What can I say? Nobody’s perfect.
I come to a halt curbside and shift impatiently, waiting for the light to change. I glance at my watch, worrying that Timmy might make it to the bus stop before I do and catch a ride home, spoiling my big surprise. I inspect the bouquet of carnations mixed with baby’s breath in my hand, relieved to see that they’re holding up under the heat better than I am. Like some of those old movies Timmy’s so crazy about, the flowers have been “colorized” -- purple, orange, green, blue, red -- more colors than in a Crayola box, and not a single shade that occurs in nature. Yeah, I know. They’re kinda loud. But I like loud, and if Timmy has any issues with my taste in flowers, he’s never bothered mentioning it to me. Whether it’s a single, perfect rose or an armful of half-priced leftovers I pick up at the grocery store at the end of the night, getting flowers from me always makes Timmy happy. Which, of course, makes me happy.
For me, happiness has been a concept that’s taken some getting used to, like the absence of sock funk under the bed or having a warm body to curl up next to when I drag myself home at three a.m. after spending the night in a chilly car, documenting the fact that some middle-aged housewife really is popping her husband’s best friend. But I am getting used to it, getting to depend on it, if you want to know the truth. Getting to the point where I almost believe that maybe, if I play my cards right and don‘t do anything stupid to remind Timmy that he could have anyone on the planet and doesn‘t have to settle for the likes of me, happiness just might be here to stay.
So I’m standing here at the curb, a little nervous but in a good way, because it’s nervous excitement over my plans for the day, just feeling happy about the fact that I’m happy, when someone jostles my arm, almost making me drop Timmy’s bouquet. A toxic cloud of bourbon mixed with eau de armpit makes my nose hairs scream and run for cover, forcing me to suck air through my mouth. I look down into bloodshot eyes hung about four inches closer to the ground than my own and bite back the urge to start something with the greasy-haired hillbilly who’s pulled me out of my happy place.
“Whoa, dude, don’t wantcha dropping those! They’re gonna be your ticket to a night of sweet stuff between the sheets, am I right?”
I give a non-committal shrug and try to ease away, but he’s not taking the hint. Instead, he closes the distance between us, eyeballing the flowers intently. “Whatcha got waiting, man? A hot little blond piece of ass, maybe? Or is she a brunette? Brunettes are sloppy lays, dude. I mean, anything‘ll do if you‘re hard up enough, but….”
He’s pissing me off, and I’m not exactly doing a great job of hiding it. About half a second before I wade in with my fists and start defending Timmy’s honor, his buddy -- half a head taller and twice as greasy -- jerks him away. “Shut up, Lester. You can’t spell ‘brunette,’ let alone get one in the sack with you. Leave the guy alone, wouldja? At least he’s not some candy-assed queer like that waiter last night. Remember? The one who held your hand all nice when he handed you the check?”
“If he’d touched me one more time, I woulda knocked his faggety ass into next week. Fucking queer, swishing around and acting like he owned the place. How can he stand looking himself in the mirror, knowing it’s obvious as hell he lets himself get reamed by other guys? Other guys, man! Doesn’t it make you wanna puke?”
“It’s disgusting, all right. Swear to God, man, this city’s full of it. Look around you. I’ve never seen so many fags in my life. I’m telling you, I can’t wait til the convention’s over and we can head back to Kentucky. At least back home, most of the fairies have sense enough to stay in the closet where they belong.”
“The nasty bastards are always hollering for special rights, that’s what gets me. They have too goddamned many rights now. Hitler had the right idea, man. Toss ‘em into the ovens and turn on the gas….”
Swallowing back bile, I grit my teeth and keep my mouth shut, wishing the goddamned light would change because I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take. Forcing myself to focus on something besides Lester from Kentucky, I stare across the street and finally spot Timmy about half a block down, bopping along toward the bus stop in his happy Timmy way, briefcase swinging, an extra little glad-to-be-alive hop in every step he takes. He’s wearing his new summer suit, a soft dove gray with lavender pinstripes, complete with lavender shirt and a royal purple tie that nobody -- and I do mean nobody -- but Timmy could pull off. Even from this distance, he looks good enough to eat, all trim and handsome and professional looking, and cool as the proverbial cucumber in spite of this miserable weather.
I really want to kick myself for not dressing up a little, because I’m gonna look like a poor relation next to him in my combat boots, cut-offs, and faded AC/DC shirt. Then another thought hits me and I feel like a total piece of shit even as I think it, because just for half a second, I wish he wouldn’t spot me, that I could turn tail and run and never have to live through the inevitable moment when these two rebels without a clue beside me put two and two together and realize Tim’s with me. The moment when all that ignorance and hate’s gonna turn on me full blast, because they can’t help seeing what everybody else sees when they lay eyes on Timmy, my beautiful, brilliant, kind-hearted Timmy.
I love him. God knows I love him with all my heart. But he’s just so fucking obvious.
Right on cue, Lester nudges his buddy and hisses through the gap between his front teeth, “Oh my god, dude, do you see that?”
“The pansy in purple? I see him all right. Jesus H. Christ, what self-respecting fruit would parade around like that in the middle of the day?”
“That’s why the Lord invented A.I.D.S, man. Faggot control, pure and simple….”
I can’t hear the rest thanks to the blood pounding in my ears. I’m feeling about fifteen different things at once, and that last remark congeals it all into a flaming mass of white-hot fury. I clench my fists, ready to turn around and kick some redneck ass, when Timmy spots me and wriggles his fingers in that little kid wave of his, his face splitting into a big, sweet smile that brings all the insane crap running through my head to a screeching halt. And in that instant, my anger’s gone, replaced by a surge of purest pride.
See, Timmy doesn’t think of himself as a brave man. All this time, he’s been treating me like I’m some kind of hero because I’ve put in my time dodging sniper fire in Kuwait, because I know how to use a gun and occasionally come out on the winning end of a slugfest with some piece of back-alley scum. But what I realize as I watch the best thing that ever happened to me strolling -- no, bouncing -- along the sidewalk in my direction, is that he’s the one with the balls in the family. Sure, I can handle myself in a fist fight. But it takes a helluva lot more courage for Timmy to live every day of his life as just him, as an out, gay, professional man who’s in public view 24/7, without pretense or apology, in this crummy-assed society of ours. Timmy doesn’t wave any rainbow flags, and I seriously doubt if he’s ever marched in a parade. What he does instead is just quietly go about his business with honesty and honor, standing as tall as any man can hope to stand and damning every torpedo the world can fire in his direction. That, and assume with that blind faith of his that I’m doing the same.
You know what? From here on out, that‘s exactly the way it‘s gonna be.
Those two sterling examples of subhuman slime are still carrying on about death camps for fags or whatever, but I’ve stopped worrying about what they’re thinking or saying, or what they’d like to take away from me if they had the power to do it. Just like that, all I care about is the fact that I’m jumping out of my skin excited, in a hurry for the light to change so I can get my hands on Timmy and give him a little taste of what he means to me. I pull a single carnation, bright purple like his tie, out of the bunch and snap the stem off so it’s a manageable length, twirling it in my fingers in anticipation. When the light finally turns, I’m off like a shot, sprinting across the street, laughing and free in a way I’ve never been free before.
In that spooky way he has of knowing exactly what I’m about to do ten seconds before I do it, Timmy pauses in the middle of the crosswalk and opens his arms wide, feet spread apart as he braces for the body slam he sees coming his way. We connect with a mutual ooof as I all but bowl him over and nail him with the biggest, sloppiest kiss I have to offer. Then I’m spinning him and laughing even louder, and he’s laughing with me, hugging me just as hard as I’m hugging him. But the light’s about to turn again, so I break it off and do a quick trade, grabbing his briefcase for him and handing over the bouquet, taking an extra second to slip that crazy purple carnation into his buttonhole.
We link arms and hustle back the way I came, back toward the not-so-good ol’ boys who are closing in on us fast, staring us down and looking like they’d give anything to catch us in a dark alley instead of in the middle of a crowded street so they could pound us both into hamburger the way the good Lord intended. I tuck their faces away in my mental filing cabinet of possible suspects, thinking that if they decide to follow us and start something later, I might just have to do a little pounding of my own. But I don’t waste much time thinking about that, because I’m with Timmy and life is good, and he’s giving my arm happy little squeezes, looking pleased as punch to have his nice suit rumpled by an underdressed, sweaty lunatic in the middle of a city crosswalk on a Saturday afternoon.
“Well, hello to you, too!” he says, holding the flowers up to his nose for a quick sniff, his grin as big and goofy as I know mine’s gotta be. “What’s the occasion?”
As Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber pass us, glaring, I look the tall one dead in the eye and flip him off just subtly enough to escape Timmy’s attention, then answer my honey’s question loud and clear enough for them to hear me, for anyone within a ten-foot radius to hear me.
“No occasion, sweetheart. It’s just because I love you. Isn’t it obvious?”
You wouldn’t believe it now, but I haven’t always been so cool about being gay. After what happened in the army, who can blame me? Not so long ago, the very idea of being on either the giving or receiving end of a P.D.A. would shrivel my balls, and I’d be embarrassed as hell if I saw two guys lip-lock in public -- and not just because I took other people’s negative comments about it personally. If you wanna know the truth, it would make me feel like shit. Not because I was disgusted with the lovers, lucky bastards that they were, but because I was disgusted with myself. The truth is, they made me feel inadequate as hell, because I knew I didn’t have the guts to do what they were doing, to stand tall and be myself and damn the torpedoes.
For me, being gay used to mean sneaking around in the dark, holing up in the back room of a bar or in some cruddy restroom in the park with whatever anonymous piece of meat was willing to provide a hand or a head job. All physical contact took place through a thin layer of latex as we exchanged as few words as possible and no bodily fluids whatsoever. It scares me to think how long I might have gone on like that with my head up my ass instead of square on my shoulders where it belongs. But one day when I least expected it, Timothy Callahan waltzed into my life and made me rethink my priorities.
Timmy, see, he blows my mind, and he does it pretty much on a daily basis. That someone like him can actually love someone like me. Not just love, but love, you know? And that he can be so goddamned proud of me, proud to be with me, to be seen with me, proud that I’m his and he’s mine. So proud he can hardly contain it, that it’s practically running out his ears, oozing out his pores, obvious as hell to anyone who sees us together.
In the face of all that pride, it’s hard to hang onto shame, let me tell you. I’m not saying I’m a quick study, because I’m not. And I’m not saying it’s been an overnight process, because it hasn’t. But you know what? Bit by bit, the shame in me has been leeched out and replaced by pride as well. Pride in Timmy, of course. Pride in being his and him being mine. Pride that I’ve got something in me that he wants and loves and even needs, that I fill him up the way he fills me. Pride that we complete each other in a way no one else ever has or ever will.. Pride in myself, finally, because that’s what it comes down to in the end, isn’t it?
Pride in me.
* * * *
The first Saturday in August, barely noon and already 100 degrees in the shade. You’d think I’d still be curled up in bed with Timmy, the AC struggling to turn our new apartment into a happy meat locker as we make a little heat of our own. Instead, I’m sweltering out here on the sidewalk, a few blocks down from the capitol building, because Timmy needed to put in a half day wrapping up some special project the senator has him slaving away on. He thinks I’m waiting for him at home, unpacking boxes or setting up the computer maybe, or more likely just being lazy and sleeping in. Instead, I’ve decided to surprise him and take him to lunch at his favorite cafe, then to a movie or even some snorefest at the museum if that’s where the mood takes him. I’ve got a few bucks saved back, so if he’s game, after that we’ll swing by the apartment to change. Then it’s drinks and dancing, and a late supper out. He’s really been busting ass the past couple of weeks between the job, the move, and dealing with the day-to-day chaos that‘s part of the package when you shack up with someone like me. I just want to spoil him a little bit. Kind of thank him, I guess, for the way he always spoils me.
As I walk along, wilting faster than the scraggly herb garden Timmy’s been trying to resuscitate in our kitchen window box, I wonder why the city always smells like crunchy socks this time of year. You know, the ones you wear for four days straight because doing laundry doesn’t exactly top your list of great ways to spend your day off -- provided you ever have a day off -- and you’re too damned broke to go out and buy fresh ones to tide you over. When they finally get so rank you’d rather just go without and get blisters, they lie under the bed or in a corner somewhere, yellowing and stiff, until the world ends or someone gets around to cleaning the place, whichever comes first. Most of my life, I’ve pretty much lived a crunchy sock existence, but since I hooked up with Timmy, you could say change has been in the wind. Now I hardly ever get a whiff of that old, familiar smell anymore, unless I come downtown, or if a couple of weeks have gone by since Timmy last tossed my office. What can I say? Nobody’s perfect.
I come to a halt curbside and shift impatiently, waiting for the light to change. I glance at my watch, worrying that Timmy might make it to the bus stop before I do and catch a ride home, spoiling my big surprise. I inspect the bouquet of carnations mixed with baby’s breath in my hand, relieved to see that they’re holding up under the heat better than I am. Like some of those old movies Timmy’s so crazy about, the flowers have been “colorized” -- purple, orange, green, blue, red -- more colors than in a Crayola box, and not a single shade that occurs in nature. Yeah, I know. They’re kinda loud. But I like loud, and if Timmy has any issues with my taste in flowers, he’s never bothered mentioning it to me. Whether it’s a single, perfect rose or an armful of half-priced leftovers I pick up at the grocery store at the end of the night, getting flowers from me always makes Timmy happy. Which, of course, makes me happy.
For me, happiness has been a concept that’s taken some getting used to, like the absence of sock funk under the bed or having a warm body to curl up next to when I drag myself home at three a.m. after spending the night in a chilly car, documenting the fact that some middle-aged housewife really is popping her husband’s best friend. But I am getting used to it, getting to depend on it, if you want to know the truth. Getting to the point where I almost believe that maybe, if I play my cards right and don‘t do anything stupid to remind Timmy that he could have anyone on the planet and doesn‘t have to settle for the likes of me, happiness just might be here to stay.
So I’m standing here at the curb, a little nervous but in a good way, because it’s nervous excitement over my plans for the day, just feeling happy about the fact that I’m happy, when someone jostles my arm, almost making me drop Timmy’s bouquet. A toxic cloud of bourbon mixed with eau de armpit makes my nose hairs scream and run for cover, forcing me to suck air through my mouth. I look down into bloodshot eyes hung about four inches closer to the ground than my own and bite back the urge to start something with the greasy-haired hillbilly who’s pulled me out of my happy place.
“Whoa, dude, don’t wantcha dropping those! They’re gonna be your ticket to a night of sweet stuff between the sheets, am I right?”
I give a non-committal shrug and try to ease away, but he’s not taking the hint. Instead, he closes the distance between us, eyeballing the flowers intently. “Whatcha got waiting, man? A hot little blond piece of ass, maybe? Or is she a brunette? Brunettes are sloppy lays, dude. I mean, anything‘ll do if you‘re hard up enough, but….”
He’s pissing me off, and I’m not exactly doing a great job of hiding it. About half a second before I wade in with my fists and start defending Timmy’s honor, his buddy -- half a head taller and twice as greasy -- jerks him away. “Shut up, Lester. You can’t spell ‘brunette,’ let alone get one in the sack with you. Leave the guy alone, wouldja? At least he’s not some candy-assed queer like that waiter last night. Remember? The one who held your hand all nice when he handed you the check?”
“If he’d touched me one more time, I woulda knocked his faggety ass into next week. Fucking queer, swishing around and acting like he owned the place. How can he stand looking himself in the mirror, knowing it’s obvious as hell he lets himself get reamed by other guys? Other guys, man! Doesn’t it make you wanna puke?”
“It’s disgusting, all right. Swear to God, man, this city’s full of it. Look around you. I’ve never seen so many fags in my life. I’m telling you, I can’t wait til the convention’s over and we can head back to Kentucky. At least back home, most of the fairies have sense enough to stay in the closet where they belong.”
“The nasty bastards are always hollering for special rights, that’s what gets me. They have too goddamned many rights now. Hitler had the right idea, man. Toss ‘em into the ovens and turn on the gas….”
Swallowing back bile, I grit my teeth and keep my mouth shut, wishing the goddamned light would change because I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take. Forcing myself to focus on something besides Lester from Kentucky, I stare across the street and finally spot Timmy about half a block down, bopping along toward the bus stop in his happy Timmy way, briefcase swinging, an extra little glad-to-be-alive hop in every step he takes. He’s wearing his new summer suit, a soft dove gray with lavender pinstripes, complete with lavender shirt and a royal purple tie that nobody -- and I do mean nobody -- but Timmy could pull off. Even from this distance, he looks good enough to eat, all trim and handsome and professional looking, and cool as the proverbial cucumber in spite of this miserable weather.
I really want to kick myself for not dressing up a little, because I’m gonna look like a poor relation next to him in my combat boots, cut-offs, and faded AC/DC shirt. Then another thought hits me and I feel like a total piece of shit even as I think it, because just for half a second, I wish he wouldn’t spot me, that I could turn tail and run and never have to live through the inevitable moment when these two rebels without a clue beside me put two and two together and realize Tim’s with me. The moment when all that ignorance and hate’s gonna turn on me full blast, because they can’t help seeing what everybody else sees when they lay eyes on Timmy, my beautiful, brilliant, kind-hearted Timmy.
I love him. God knows I love him with all my heart. But he’s just so fucking obvious.
Right on cue, Lester nudges his buddy and hisses through the gap between his front teeth, “Oh my god, dude, do you see that?”
“The pansy in purple? I see him all right. Jesus H. Christ, what self-respecting fruit would parade around like that in the middle of the day?”
“That’s why the Lord invented A.I.D.S, man. Faggot control, pure and simple….”
I can’t hear the rest thanks to the blood pounding in my ears. I’m feeling about fifteen different things at once, and that last remark congeals it all into a flaming mass of white-hot fury. I clench my fists, ready to turn around and kick some redneck ass, when Timmy spots me and wriggles his fingers in that little kid wave of his, his face splitting into a big, sweet smile that brings all the insane crap running through my head to a screeching halt. And in that instant, my anger’s gone, replaced by a surge of purest pride.
See, Timmy doesn’t think of himself as a brave man. All this time, he’s been treating me like I’m some kind of hero because I’ve put in my time dodging sniper fire in Kuwait, because I know how to use a gun and occasionally come out on the winning end of a slugfest with some piece of back-alley scum. But what I realize as I watch the best thing that ever happened to me strolling -- no, bouncing -- along the sidewalk in my direction, is that he’s the one with the balls in the family. Sure, I can handle myself in a fist fight. But it takes a helluva lot more courage for Timmy to live every day of his life as just him, as an out, gay, professional man who’s in public view 24/7, without pretense or apology, in this crummy-assed society of ours. Timmy doesn’t wave any rainbow flags, and I seriously doubt if he’s ever marched in a parade. What he does instead is just quietly go about his business with honesty and honor, standing as tall as any man can hope to stand and damning every torpedo the world can fire in his direction. That, and assume with that blind faith of his that I’m doing the same.
You know what? From here on out, that‘s exactly the way it‘s gonna be.
Those two sterling examples of subhuman slime are still carrying on about death camps for fags or whatever, but I’ve stopped worrying about what they’re thinking or saying, or what they’d like to take away from me if they had the power to do it. Just like that, all I care about is the fact that I’m jumping out of my skin excited, in a hurry for the light to change so I can get my hands on Timmy and give him a little taste of what he means to me. I pull a single carnation, bright purple like his tie, out of the bunch and snap the stem off so it’s a manageable length, twirling it in my fingers in anticipation. When the light finally turns, I’m off like a shot, sprinting across the street, laughing and free in a way I’ve never been free before.
In that spooky way he has of knowing exactly what I’m about to do ten seconds before I do it, Timmy pauses in the middle of the crosswalk and opens his arms wide, feet spread apart as he braces for the body slam he sees coming his way. We connect with a mutual ooof as I all but bowl him over and nail him with the biggest, sloppiest kiss I have to offer. Then I’m spinning him and laughing even louder, and he’s laughing with me, hugging me just as hard as I’m hugging him. But the light’s about to turn again, so I break it off and do a quick trade, grabbing his briefcase for him and handing over the bouquet, taking an extra second to slip that crazy purple carnation into his buttonhole.
We link arms and hustle back the way I came, back toward the not-so-good ol’ boys who are closing in on us fast, staring us down and looking like they’d give anything to catch us in a dark alley instead of in the middle of a crowded street so they could pound us both into hamburger the way the good Lord intended. I tuck their faces away in my mental filing cabinet of possible suspects, thinking that if they decide to follow us and start something later, I might just have to do a little pounding of my own. But I don’t waste much time thinking about that, because I’m with Timmy and life is good, and he’s giving my arm happy little squeezes, looking pleased as punch to have his nice suit rumpled by an underdressed, sweaty lunatic in the middle of a city crosswalk on a Saturday afternoon.
“Well, hello to you, too!” he says, holding the flowers up to his nose for a quick sniff, his grin as big and goofy as I know mine’s gotta be. “What’s the occasion?”
As Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber pass us, glaring, I look the tall one dead in the eye and flip him off just subtly enough to escape Timmy’s attention, then answer my honey’s question loud and clear enough for them to hear me, for anyone within a ten-foot radius to hear me.
“No occasion, sweetheart. It’s just because I love you. Isn’t it obvious?”
X-ray
220 words
I run my hand over the smooth and curving softness of his side, trailing my fingertips. He shivers, but not in a bad way.
“Again,” he says, eyes shut, face alight.
I oblige, of course. I’ve never been known to turn down a request – at least not from him. I love him.
“I love you,” he murmurs, echoing my thoughts. I shiver, too. My mind is murky territory, even for me. But not for him. He sees inside my head with crystal clarity, as if those cornflower blue eyes of his have x-ray vision, and in spite of their myopia, see what no one else can. What no one else has any business seeing.
I stroke his side again, more slowly this time, raising goosebumps. He shivers again, opens his eyes, kisses me. Smooth as his side and even warmer, his lips tease mine, brushing them softly side-to-side, up and down. His tongue flicks the corners of my mouth, parts my lips, lightly traces the edges of my teeth. We lose ourselves in a kiss that lasts forever, or at least seems to. When we come up for air, he sighs and nuzzles my neck. I hear, “I love you,” again without him having to say a word. Maybe I have x-ray vision, too.
Or maybe he’s just that smooth.
“Again,” he says, eyes shut, face alight.
I oblige, of course. I’ve never been known to turn down a request – at least not from him. I love him.
“I love you,” he murmurs, echoing my thoughts. I shiver, too. My mind is murky territory, even for me. But not for him. He sees inside my head with crystal clarity, as if those cornflower blue eyes of his have x-ray vision, and in spite of their myopia, see what no one else can. What no one else has any business seeing.
I stroke his side again, more slowly this time, raising goosebumps. He shivers again, opens his eyes, kisses me. Smooth as his side and even warmer, his lips tease mine, brushing them softly side-to-side, up and down. His tongue flicks the corners of my mouth, parts my lips, lightly traces the edges of my teeth. We lose ourselves in a kiss that lasts forever, or at least seems to. When we come up for air, he sighs and nuzzles my neck. I hear, “I love you,” again without him having to say a word. Maybe I have x-ray vision, too.
Or maybe he’s just that smooth.
Of Marmosets and Men
(a wee faerie tale)
3850 words
Once Upon A Time, in a far away land known as Albany, there lived a handsome politician known as Saint Timmy the Good. Timmy was as intelligent as he was handsome, and he had a kind and loving heart, but it beat for one man alone, and that was his husband, Sir Donald the Brave. Donald loved Timmy fiercely and well, and the two of them worked very hard together to build a good life. They lived in a fixer-upper house with a big fireplace and a leaky roof, and they sometimes had to sleep with a pan in the bed to catch the rain. There wasn’t always enough money to go around, and they sometimes worried about how the repairs would be made or if the bills would be paid. But it really didn’t matter. Donald brought Timmy flowers at the end of the day, and they danced together in the firelight before bed. They held each other in the night, snug in each other’s arms, Timmy petting Donald’s golden hair as Donald gently stroked Timmy’s cheek with restless fingers. They felt safe and warm in their fixer-upper house with the big fireplace and the leaky roof, and they were happy.
Donald’s love was a special gift in Timmy’s life, and he treasured it always. But Timmy had another gift as well, and that was The Gift of Understanding. He knew that although Donald was quick-witted and strong, he sometimes felt things that were too big to express. So Timmy learned to listen with his heart as well as his ears, and whenever Donald felt Something Big, Timmy heard him and understood.
One day, Donald was hired by a very angry and vengeful man called RutKa, who wreaked havoc wherever he went. RutKa was a Bitter Deceiver who used Donald as a pawn in his game of deceit, so when he stole off to Foreign Lands, Timmy and Donald were both glad to see him go. But what they didn’t realize was that RutKa was a powerful magician and a jealous one, and he coveted The Gift of Understanding that Donald and Timmy shared. Eventually, RutKa’s boyfriend, Loyal Eddie the Dense, became tired of the magician’s bitterness and deceptions and left him for a gentle-eyed boy whose only magic was that he had a loving heart. They ran off to a tropical island somewhere, and to this day they can be found there still, swimming in the surf and making love on the beach, truly living Happily Ever After.
From the day Eddie left, however, RutKa’s bitterness grew, and he coveted more and more The Gift of Understanding that Donald and Timmy shared. Because he could not stand to see such happiness in the world when he had none, he began to work magic from afar, spying on them through his Crystal Candy Dish and casting spells to bring hardship into their lives. Timmy’s SUV broke down and he had to take the bus to work. Donald was shot by a client’s wife and nearly died -- though of course Timmy’s love pulled him through! Repairs weren’t made and bills went unpaid. Their little dog, Watson, was hit by a car. Still, Donald and Timmy had each other and The Gift of Understanding. They still held each other in the night, feeling safe and warm in their fixer-upper house with the big fireplace and the leaky roof, and they were happy.
The longer RutKa watched them, the more jealous and angry he became. How dare they still be happy when he was not? How dare they share warmth and comfort and love when he had none? Finally, he could stand it no longer. He sent his Shadow into their house one morning after Timmy had left for work and found Donald still in bed, caressing Timmy’s pillow in his sleep with restless fingers. In Shadow Form he loomed over Donald, hating him and the Gift of Understanding he and Timmy shared, and became determined to end that Understanding once and for all. Swelling with a rage that grew so dark and fearsome it blocked out every glimmer of light in the room, he cast A Great and Terrible Spell, muttering:
Too clever for his own good, this detective may be
Quick and agile as a monkey, he
So let the outside reflect what lies within
And see how well Timmy understands him then!
When Timmy came home from work that evening, he was glad to see Donald’s car parked outside. He thought pleasant thoughts of a long night spent together, dancing in the firelight and making love in their warm bed. But when he stepped inside and called Donald’s name, there was no answer. Everything looked the same as it had that morning, but everything suddenly felt terribly wrong.
“Donald?” Timmy called, still clutching his briefcase in his right hand. “Donald? Honey, please answer me!” But the only response was a soft scuffling sound behind him. Spinning, he looked down to see a tiny, golden-haired monkey crouching on the floor by his feet. It was wearing one of Donald’s ugliest ties!
Timmy couldn’t help laughing at the sight. “Hello, little monkey,” he said. “What are you doing here?” Then the monkey gazed up at him with sky blue eyes -- a color you generally do not see in monkeys! -- and reached out with both hands.
“EeeeepEeeeep,” it chirped softly. “Eeeeeeeeep.”
Timmy thought that must certainly be the saddest sound ever a monkey could make. And because he had the Gift of Understanding, he heard that soft, sad sound with his heart as well as his ears, and his briefcase hit the floor with a THUD!
“Donald!” Timmy cried, scooping Donaldmonkey off the floor and cuddling him close. “Oh, baby, what happened to you? How long have you been like this? And why in the world are you wearing that awful tie but no pants?”
“Eeeeep,” Donaldmonkey replied in his soft, sad voice. “Eeeeeeeep!” Timmy continued to listen with his heart as well as his ears, nodding and petting Donaldmonkey’s soft golden fur, and he heard and understood.
At heart, Timmy had always been a very practical man. “When we find RutKa, we’ll make him change you back,” he said at last, “but until then, we have to make sure you’re taken care of properly.” So he made a loincloth for Donaldmonkey out of a pair of his own good linen handkerchiefs, for even a small monkey must be decently dressed if he is to appear in public, after all. With a pair of scissors, he snipped off the end of the dangling tie so it would no longer get tangled with Donaldmonkey’s feet. Then Timmy tucked Donaldmonkey into the breast of his suit jacket so he would feel warm and safe next to him, and they went out.
Their first stop was at a children’s clothing store, where they purchased two pair of the tiniest preemie-sized jeans they could find, plus a few tee shirts -- one with a red race car on it, because the colors matched the stripes in Donaldmonkey‘s tie. After that, they found a pet store that specialized in exotic animals and left with two large shopping bags filled with canned marmoset food. Finally, they stopped by the grocery, buying apples and oranges and bananas and grapes for Donaldmonkey and a pre-made salad for Timmy. As they drove past Taco Bell on the way home, Donaldmonkey became very excited, jumping up and down in his seat and pointing..
“Eeeeeeep!” said Donaldmonkey, pressing his face against the window glass. “EeeeeeeepEeeeepEeeeeeeeeeeep!”
Timmy kept driving. “We’ll eat when we get home,” he said firmly. “You know that place always gives you gas. Besides, monkeys don’t eat tacos.”
Donaldmonkey chirped in protest.
“Not burritos or Nachos Bell Grande, either,” Timmy said. “And before you ask, Mexican pizza is definitely out of the question as well. The man at the pet store said you’re a Golden Lion Tamarin, and that you need to eat fruit and lizards and bugs. I won’t have you eating insects, at least not in front of our friends, and we’ll have to have a long talk about the lizard issue. But you can have all the fruit you want, and we have all these nice cans of marmoset food. I know how hungry you must be, so I’ll warm up a can for you as soon as we get home. Unless you’d rather eat it cold?”
Slumping down in his seat, Donaldmonkey crossed his furry arms across his chest and chittered mournfully.
“You’ll just have to get used to it,” Timmy said. “Unless we can find RutKa and convince him to reverse this spell, I have a feeling there are a lot of changes you’re going to have to get used to. We both are.”
The next morning, Timmy called the senator and told her he wouldn’t be in the office until noon. He and Donaldmonkey ate a long, leisurely breakfast together, sharing a big bowl of fresh fruit and a few strips of bacon, which Timmy thought might be a reasonable substitute for lizards, at least for the time being. Once they were done, he dressed Donaldmonkey in his new jeans and race car shirt, then added the snipped-off tie, thinking that it made him look quite professional. He took him to the veterinarian‘s office, holding his paw and murmuring reassurances as Donaldmonkey endured the indignity of having his temperature taken with a thermometer that was not of the oral variety. Dr. Morgan checked his heart and teeth, then palpitated his abdomen and checked his reflexes. When he was done, he suggested a rabies vaccination. Donaldmonkey chattered unhappily when he saw the needle, but he held onto Timmy’s finger and made it through the shot without squirming once. When he was done, Dr. Morgan gave him a slice of apple as a reward.
“A pity about your little dog,” Dr. Morgan told Timmy, “but you have a fine, healthy monkey here. I never would have pegged you as a monkey man, but I’m sure he’ll be wonderful company for you on those nights when your partner…Ronald, is it?…works those long hours you’ve told me about. He’s a detective, I believe?”
“Private investigator,” Timmy corrected. “His name is Donald. And Dr. Morgan, this monkey is my husband.”
Dr. Morgan laughed merrily. “Considering the long hours I put in here, I’m sure my wife feels the same way about our French poodle, Pierre. I can’t imagine what Ronald would think of the comparison, though. Now, I see no sign of parasitic infection in your little friend here, but I would recommend a routine worming, just to be on the safe side.”
Raising his voice slightly to be heard over Donaldmonkey’s indignant chirping, Timmy said, “I think we’ll skip the worming, if you don’t mind. He may not be much of a housekeeper, but his personal hygiene has always been impeccable. I can assure you that he’s quite clean, both inside and out.”
“Well, as long as you’re willing to take the risk,” the vet said, scribbling on their chart. “And speaking of risks, I notice he hasn’t been altered. We’re running a special on spaying and neutering this month, you know. My receptionist can set up an appointment for you today, if you like. Or if you’d rather discuss it with Ronald first, I can give you a coupon for fifteen percent off that‘s good until the end of June….”
With a muffled shriek, Donaldmonkey scrambled up Timmy’s arm and disappeared inside his jacket. Timmy could feel him shaking in there, plucking at his chest with restless monkey fingers.
“Donald,” Timmy said evenly. “Not Ronald. Donald. And I wouldn’t dream of having him altered. I was being quite serious, Dr. Morgan. This monkey is my husband!”
“Of course he is,” Dr. Morgan said, writing another note on their chart. But he watched Timmy out of the corner of his eye, just the same.
After they left Dr. Morgan, Timmy dropped Donaldmonkey by his office with a promise to pick him up at 5:30 before he continued on to work. They were going to have to do something about the car situation. Timmy’s SUV wouldn’t be drivable until they could save enough money for a new transmission, and while he could easily take the bus, Donaldmonkey quite obviously could not. He’d simply have to keep chauffeuring them both around town in Donald’s old car until they figured something out. Perhaps with a tall enough booster seat and extra-long extensions for the gas pedal and brake, Donaldmonkey might be able to….
As Timmy worried about their transportation problem, Donaldmonkey spent the afternoon on the computer, emailing his contacts in Foreign Lands and doing research, trying to find out where RutKa might be. To his delight, he found that his keyboarding speed had nearly doubled since he could type now with his toes as well as his fingers, and he thought that once he located RutKa, his newfound agility and climbing skills might come in handy. Still, he missed his old body and would be glad to have it back again. Though his typing speed was at an all-time high and he could text like a demon, he found life considerably more difficult without opposable thumbs and was disappointed to discover that, in spite of what he’d always been led to believe, not all monkeys have prehensile tails after all. He missed tacos and his morning coffee, and he missed feeling solid and strong enough to be protective of Timmy. He couldn’t wait to find RutKa so things could go back to the way they were before.
But RutKa, the old Deceiver, was using A Charm of Hiding, and he could not be found.
As time went by, Timmy and Donaldmonkey adjusted to the way things were -- at least in most ways. Donaldmonkey still took pictures of cheating housewives and solved the occasional mystery, though he relied on the computer to deliver his findings rather than doing it face-to-face. Timmy still dragged him to political functions and swore he looked quite handsome in the little tuxedo their friend Zachary, who was a tailor, had made especially for him. They still had dinner with friends, and if anyone noticed The Change, they were too polite to comment on it. Donaldmonkey still gave Timmy flowers -- though he had to pick them out of the garden now instead of buying them, because most florists in the land of Albany hesitate to do business with tiny, golden-haired monkeys -- and they still danced in the firelight before bed. If he needed something he couldn’t provide for himself, he chirped to Timmy in his soft, sad monkey voice. As always, Timmy heard with his heart as well as his ears, and as always, he understood.
Donaldmonkey searched for RutKa every day -- online, through contacts and informants both at home and in Foreign Lands, on every street corner and in every alley. But The Charm of Hiding was a powerful one, and still RutKa could not be found. They were making the best of it, Timmy and he, but they both missed the way things used to be. Timmy missed hearing Donald sing in the shower and the sight of his wedding ring on his finger instead of tied to a piece of string around his neck. Donaldmonkey still missed tacos and his morning coffee, and he missed the pleased smile on Timmy’s face when he held a door open for him or helped him into his coat. They both missed sex, which was just impossible to manage for so very many reasons, and kissing, which Donaldmonkey would have been willing to try but Timmy avoided -- perhaps because he had caught Donaldmonkey snacking on Japanese beetles in the garden one day and thought it was unsanitary.
But if they couldn’t make love, Donaldmonkey and his handsome Timmy still showed it in other ways. They still had each other, and Timmy still had The Gift of Understanding. They still held each other through the night, with Donaldmonkey nestled snug and secure in Timmy’s arms, stroking Timmy’s cheek with restless monkey fingers as Timmy petted his soft golden fur. They still slept safe and warm in their fixer-upper house with the big fireplace and the leaky roof. In spite of RutKa’s Great and Terrible Spell, they were still happy. Not with the circumstances, certainly, but always and forever with each other.
Though they could not find RutKa, the Bitter Deceiver watched them constantly, either spying on them through his Crystal Candy Dish or materializing above them as they slept, observing their happiness with ever-growing spite. How dare they still love each other after The Great and Terrible Spell he had cast? How dare Timmy hear mere monkey chatterings yet understand so much more? How dare Donaldmonkey still know warmth and comfort when he, a great magician, had none? How dare he!
And so the Bitter Deceiver’s jealousy and rage grew like a living thing, consuming his every waking thought, consuming him. Finally, quite mad with envy, he decided to do The Most Horrible Thing Imaginable. He decided to take The One Thing Donaldmonkey Loved Most away forever.
To be continued.
(Ha ha…just kidding!)
Very late one night, when Donaldmonkey was just coming home from a long evening spent perched on a fourth-story windowsill watching a bad man have sex with someone other than his boyfriend, he found Timmy in the living room in his blue-striped pajamas and navy blue robe, staring down the barrel of RutKa’s gun.
“Eeeeeeeeeep!” Donaldmonkey cried, scurrying toward Timmy. “EeeeeepEeeeeepEeeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
“No, Donald!” Timmy shouted. “RutKa’s insane! He’s going to kill us both! You have to run!”
“Not both,” the Bitter Deceiver told him. “Just you. You understand too much, Saint Timmy the Good, but at the same time, not enough. You could have ended The Great and Terrible Spell anytime you wanted to, but you were too stupid to see the way. Instead, you were content to spend eternity with what, a monkey? Why should this animal know warmth and comfort and understanding and love when I have none? Eddie left me, me, the greatest and most powerful of magicians, yet you’ve stayed by the side of this filthy, chittering, chattering baboon. It’s not fair, and I’m not going to allow it any longer. Without you here to take care of him, he’ll be dead in a week. Or he’ll end up in a zoo, which is where a creature like this belongs. Who do you think will understand him then?”
“He’s not filthy!” Timmy protested. “He’s very clean! And he is not a baboon! He’s a Golden Lion Tamarin, a species of monkey indigenous to South America, which has….”
“SHUT UP!” The Deceiver was in a fearful rage, shaking so hard his gun wobbled. “I made him like this. I know exactly what he is. And I know what you are, too. A dead man!” With that, he drew a bead on Timmy’s forehead and cocked the gun.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!” Donaldmonkey leaped toward Rutka, latching onto the barrel of the gun and knocking it out of his hand just as it went off. The revolver hit the floor and so did Donaldmonkey, who lay still.
“NO!” cried Timmy as he dropped to his knees beside Donaldmonkey, lifting the limp, furry body in his arms. “You can’t leave me, Donald! I love you too much!” Sobbing, he petted the soft golden fur, pressed his lips to the silent monkey mouth and kissed him gently. And in that instant, a Glorious Transformation took place. The room filled with a clear, bright light so intense it brought the Bitter Deceiver to his knees, burning away the darkness that was his power, leaving him limp, helpless, defeated. The lips beneath Timmy’s own stirred softly, returning the kiss. Blue eyes flew open, gazing up at him with warmth and love. And the body in his arms grew heavy and firm, taking on a more familiar form.
“Donald, you’re alive!” he cried, sobbing with joy now instead of grief. “You’re alive, and you’re you again!”
“I always was me, sweetheart,” Donald told him. “In spite of everything, you never doubted that. You listened to me with your heart as well as your ears, and you understood.”
“RutKa was right. I didn’t understand enough,” Timmy said. “It was the kiss that changed you back. If only I’d kissed you before! It just seemed….”
“Really weird and awkward to plant a big wet one on a hairy set of monkey lips, especially when I had Japanese beetles on my breath?” Donald asked, grinning.
“I…I suppose so. But the solution was so obvious, and I should have….”
“Your kiss came when I needed it the most. It gave me my body back, and the love that came with it gave me back my life. Don’t you ever apologize for loving me the way you do, Timmy. I won‘t stand for it.”
In the presence of all that light and love, The Bitter Deceiver’s dark powers continued to diminish until they withered inside him, shrinking like the hard, dead thing that had once been his heart. He shrank with them, growing smaller and smaller until he was as tiny and insubstantial as a dust speck on the breeze. He drifted through a crack in the window, never to be seen or heard from again.
So with RutKa finally out of their lives, what became of Saint Timmy the Good and Sir Donald the Brave? Well, the first thing Donald did, as you might imagine, was remove his wedding ring from the string around his neck and return it to his right hand where it belonged. Then he put on a robe and made martinis while Timmy tried his best to get monkey blood out of their living room rug. Deciding to give up and just call CarpetTech first thing in the morning, Timmy joined Donald on the couch for drinks and a cuddle, then led him to the bedroom, where they made love until dawn.
They spent a long and joyful lifetime together, these two good, brave men, and they never lost The Gift of Understanding that they shared. Eventually, they left the fixer-upper house with the big fireplace and the leaky roof and moved to a place where they didn’t have to catch rainwater in a pan as they lay in their bed. Donald’s business grew and they had more money, but occasionally times were still tight, and they worried whether they could afford to spend a week frolicking on the beach from time to time and still make sure all the bills were paid.
But it really didn’t matter. Donald never stopped bringing Timmy flowers, and they never stopped dancing in the firelight. They slept all the nights of their lives away in each other’s arms, safe and warm, with Timmy petting Donald’s golden hair as Donald gently stroked Timmy’s cheek with restless fingers.
And they were happy.
Donald’s love was a special gift in Timmy’s life, and he treasured it always. But Timmy had another gift as well, and that was The Gift of Understanding. He knew that although Donald was quick-witted and strong, he sometimes felt things that were too big to express. So Timmy learned to listen with his heart as well as his ears, and whenever Donald felt Something Big, Timmy heard him and understood.
One day, Donald was hired by a very angry and vengeful man called RutKa, who wreaked havoc wherever he went. RutKa was a Bitter Deceiver who used Donald as a pawn in his game of deceit, so when he stole off to Foreign Lands, Timmy and Donald were both glad to see him go. But what they didn’t realize was that RutKa was a powerful magician and a jealous one, and he coveted The Gift of Understanding that Donald and Timmy shared. Eventually, RutKa’s boyfriend, Loyal Eddie the Dense, became tired of the magician’s bitterness and deceptions and left him for a gentle-eyed boy whose only magic was that he had a loving heart. They ran off to a tropical island somewhere, and to this day they can be found there still, swimming in the surf and making love on the beach, truly living Happily Ever After.
From the day Eddie left, however, RutKa’s bitterness grew, and he coveted more and more The Gift of Understanding that Donald and Timmy shared. Because he could not stand to see such happiness in the world when he had none, he began to work magic from afar, spying on them through his Crystal Candy Dish and casting spells to bring hardship into their lives. Timmy’s SUV broke down and he had to take the bus to work. Donald was shot by a client’s wife and nearly died -- though of course Timmy’s love pulled him through! Repairs weren’t made and bills went unpaid. Their little dog, Watson, was hit by a car. Still, Donald and Timmy had each other and The Gift of Understanding. They still held each other in the night, feeling safe and warm in their fixer-upper house with the big fireplace and the leaky roof, and they were happy.
The longer RutKa watched them, the more jealous and angry he became. How dare they still be happy when he was not? How dare they share warmth and comfort and love when he had none? Finally, he could stand it no longer. He sent his Shadow into their house one morning after Timmy had left for work and found Donald still in bed, caressing Timmy’s pillow in his sleep with restless fingers. In Shadow Form he loomed over Donald, hating him and the Gift of Understanding he and Timmy shared, and became determined to end that Understanding once and for all. Swelling with a rage that grew so dark and fearsome it blocked out every glimmer of light in the room, he cast A Great and Terrible Spell, muttering:
Too clever for his own good, this detective may be
Quick and agile as a monkey, he
So let the outside reflect what lies within
And see how well Timmy understands him then!
When Timmy came home from work that evening, he was glad to see Donald’s car parked outside. He thought pleasant thoughts of a long night spent together, dancing in the firelight and making love in their warm bed. But when he stepped inside and called Donald’s name, there was no answer. Everything looked the same as it had that morning, but everything suddenly felt terribly wrong.
“Donald?” Timmy called, still clutching his briefcase in his right hand. “Donald? Honey, please answer me!” But the only response was a soft scuffling sound behind him. Spinning, he looked down to see a tiny, golden-haired monkey crouching on the floor by his feet. It was wearing one of Donald’s ugliest ties!
Timmy couldn’t help laughing at the sight. “Hello, little monkey,” he said. “What are you doing here?” Then the monkey gazed up at him with sky blue eyes -- a color you generally do not see in monkeys! -- and reached out with both hands.
“EeeeepEeeeep,” it chirped softly. “Eeeeeeeeep.”
Timmy thought that must certainly be the saddest sound ever a monkey could make. And because he had the Gift of Understanding, he heard that soft, sad sound with his heart as well as his ears, and his briefcase hit the floor with a THUD!
“Donald!” Timmy cried, scooping Donaldmonkey off the floor and cuddling him close. “Oh, baby, what happened to you? How long have you been like this? And why in the world are you wearing that awful tie but no pants?”
“Eeeeep,” Donaldmonkey replied in his soft, sad voice. “Eeeeeeeep!” Timmy continued to listen with his heart as well as his ears, nodding and petting Donaldmonkey’s soft golden fur, and he heard and understood.
At heart, Timmy had always been a very practical man. “When we find RutKa, we’ll make him change you back,” he said at last, “but until then, we have to make sure you’re taken care of properly.” So he made a loincloth for Donaldmonkey out of a pair of his own good linen handkerchiefs, for even a small monkey must be decently dressed if he is to appear in public, after all. With a pair of scissors, he snipped off the end of the dangling tie so it would no longer get tangled with Donaldmonkey’s feet. Then Timmy tucked Donaldmonkey into the breast of his suit jacket so he would feel warm and safe next to him, and they went out.
Their first stop was at a children’s clothing store, where they purchased two pair of the tiniest preemie-sized jeans they could find, plus a few tee shirts -- one with a red race car on it, because the colors matched the stripes in Donaldmonkey‘s tie. After that, they found a pet store that specialized in exotic animals and left with two large shopping bags filled with canned marmoset food. Finally, they stopped by the grocery, buying apples and oranges and bananas and grapes for Donaldmonkey and a pre-made salad for Timmy. As they drove past Taco Bell on the way home, Donaldmonkey became very excited, jumping up and down in his seat and pointing..
“Eeeeeeep!” said Donaldmonkey, pressing his face against the window glass. “EeeeeeeepEeeeepEeeeeeeeeeeep!”
Timmy kept driving. “We’ll eat when we get home,” he said firmly. “You know that place always gives you gas. Besides, monkeys don’t eat tacos.”
Donaldmonkey chirped in protest.
“Not burritos or Nachos Bell Grande, either,” Timmy said. “And before you ask, Mexican pizza is definitely out of the question as well. The man at the pet store said you’re a Golden Lion Tamarin, and that you need to eat fruit and lizards and bugs. I won’t have you eating insects, at least not in front of our friends, and we’ll have to have a long talk about the lizard issue. But you can have all the fruit you want, and we have all these nice cans of marmoset food. I know how hungry you must be, so I’ll warm up a can for you as soon as we get home. Unless you’d rather eat it cold?”
Slumping down in his seat, Donaldmonkey crossed his furry arms across his chest and chittered mournfully.
“You’ll just have to get used to it,” Timmy said. “Unless we can find RutKa and convince him to reverse this spell, I have a feeling there are a lot of changes you’re going to have to get used to. We both are.”
The next morning, Timmy called the senator and told her he wouldn’t be in the office until noon. He and Donaldmonkey ate a long, leisurely breakfast together, sharing a big bowl of fresh fruit and a few strips of bacon, which Timmy thought might be a reasonable substitute for lizards, at least for the time being. Once they were done, he dressed Donaldmonkey in his new jeans and race car shirt, then added the snipped-off tie, thinking that it made him look quite professional. He took him to the veterinarian‘s office, holding his paw and murmuring reassurances as Donaldmonkey endured the indignity of having his temperature taken with a thermometer that was not of the oral variety. Dr. Morgan checked his heart and teeth, then palpitated his abdomen and checked his reflexes. When he was done, he suggested a rabies vaccination. Donaldmonkey chattered unhappily when he saw the needle, but he held onto Timmy’s finger and made it through the shot without squirming once. When he was done, Dr. Morgan gave him a slice of apple as a reward.
“A pity about your little dog,” Dr. Morgan told Timmy, “but you have a fine, healthy monkey here. I never would have pegged you as a monkey man, but I’m sure he’ll be wonderful company for you on those nights when your partner…Ronald, is it?…works those long hours you’ve told me about. He’s a detective, I believe?”
“Private investigator,” Timmy corrected. “His name is Donald. And Dr. Morgan, this monkey is my husband.”
Dr. Morgan laughed merrily. “Considering the long hours I put in here, I’m sure my wife feels the same way about our French poodle, Pierre. I can’t imagine what Ronald would think of the comparison, though. Now, I see no sign of parasitic infection in your little friend here, but I would recommend a routine worming, just to be on the safe side.”
Raising his voice slightly to be heard over Donaldmonkey’s indignant chirping, Timmy said, “I think we’ll skip the worming, if you don’t mind. He may not be much of a housekeeper, but his personal hygiene has always been impeccable. I can assure you that he’s quite clean, both inside and out.”
“Well, as long as you’re willing to take the risk,” the vet said, scribbling on their chart. “And speaking of risks, I notice he hasn’t been altered. We’re running a special on spaying and neutering this month, you know. My receptionist can set up an appointment for you today, if you like. Or if you’d rather discuss it with Ronald first, I can give you a coupon for fifteen percent off that‘s good until the end of June….”
With a muffled shriek, Donaldmonkey scrambled up Timmy’s arm and disappeared inside his jacket. Timmy could feel him shaking in there, plucking at his chest with restless monkey fingers.
“Donald,” Timmy said evenly. “Not Ronald. Donald. And I wouldn’t dream of having him altered. I was being quite serious, Dr. Morgan. This monkey is my husband!”
“Of course he is,” Dr. Morgan said, writing another note on their chart. But he watched Timmy out of the corner of his eye, just the same.
After they left Dr. Morgan, Timmy dropped Donaldmonkey by his office with a promise to pick him up at 5:30 before he continued on to work. They were going to have to do something about the car situation. Timmy’s SUV wouldn’t be drivable until they could save enough money for a new transmission, and while he could easily take the bus, Donaldmonkey quite obviously could not. He’d simply have to keep chauffeuring them both around town in Donald’s old car until they figured something out. Perhaps with a tall enough booster seat and extra-long extensions for the gas pedal and brake, Donaldmonkey might be able to….
As Timmy worried about their transportation problem, Donaldmonkey spent the afternoon on the computer, emailing his contacts in Foreign Lands and doing research, trying to find out where RutKa might be. To his delight, he found that his keyboarding speed had nearly doubled since he could type now with his toes as well as his fingers, and he thought that once he located RutKa, his newfound agility and climbing skills might come in handy. Still, he missed his old body and would be glad to have it back again. Though his typing speed was at an all-time high and he could text like a demon, he found life considerably more difficult without opposable thumbs and was disappointed to discover that, in spite of what he’d always been led to believe, not all monkeys have prehensile tails after all. He missed tacos and his morning coffee, and he missed feeling solid and strong enough to be protective of Timmy. He couldn’t wait to find RutKa so things could go back to the way they were before.
But RutKa, the old Deceiver, was using A Charm of Hiding, and he could not be found.
As time went by, Timmy and Donaldmonkey adjusted to the way things were -- at least in most ways. Donaldmonkey still took pictures of cheating housewives and solved the occasional mystery, though he relied on the computer to deliver his findings rather than doing it face-to-face. Timmy still dragged him to political functions and swore he looked quite handsome in the little tuxedo their friend Zachary, who was a tailor, had made especially for him. They still had dinner with friends, and if anyone noticed The Change, they were too polite to comment on it. Donaldmonkey still gave Timmy flowers -- though he had to pick them out of the garden now instead of buying them, because most florists in the land of Albany hesitate to do business with tiny, golden-haired monkeys -- and they still danced in the firelight before bed. If he needed something he couldn’t provide for himself, he chirped to Timmy in his soft, sad monkey voice. As always, Timmy heard with his heart as well as his ears, and as always, he understood.
Donaldmonkey searched for RutKa every day -- online, through contacts and informants both at home and in Foreign Lands, on every street corner and in every alley. But The Charm of Hiding was a powerful one, and still RutKa could not be found. They were making the best of it, Timmy and he, but they both missed the way things used to be. Timmy missed hearing Donald sing in the shower and the sight of his wedding ring on his finger instead of tied to a piece of string around his neck. Donaldmonkey still missed tacos and his morning coffee, and he missed the pleased smile on Timmy’s face when he held a door open for him or helped him into his coat. They both missed sex, which was just impossible to manage for so very many reasons, and kissing, which Donaldmonkey would have been willing to try but Timmy avoided -- perhaps because he had caught Donaldmonkey snacking on Japanese beetles in the garden one day and thought it was unsanitary.
But if they couldn’t make love, Donaldmonkey and his handsome Timmy still showed it in other ways. They still had each other, and Timmy still had The Gift of Understanding. They still held each other through the night, with Donaldmonkey nestled snug and secure in Timmy’s arms, stroking Timmy’s cheek with restless monkey fingers as Timmy petted his soft golden fur. They still slept safe and warm in their fixer-upper house with the big fireplace and the leaky roof. In spite of RutKa’s Great and Terrible Spell, they were still happy. Not with the circumstances, certainly, but always and forever with each other.
Though they could not find RutKa, the Bitter Deceiver watched them constantly, either spying on them through his Crystal Candy Dish or materializing above them as they slept, observing their happiness with ever-growing spite. How dare they still love each other after The Great and Terrible Spell he had cast? How dare Timmy hear mere monkey chatterings yet understand so much more? How dare Donaldmonkey still know warmth and comfort when he, a great magician, had none? How dare he!
And so the Bitter Deceiver’s jealousy and rage grew like a living thing, consuming his every waking thought, consuming him. Finally, quite mad with envy, he decided to do The Most Horrible Thing Imaginable. He decided to take The One Thing Donaldmonkey Loved Most away forever.
To be continued.
(Ha ha…just kidding!)
Very late one night, when Donaldmonkey was just coming home from a long evening spent perched on a fourth-story windowsill watching a bad man have sex with someone other than his boyfriend, he found Timmy in the living room in his blue-striped pajamas and navy blue robe, staring down the barrel of RutKa’s gun.
“Eeeeeeeeeep!” Donaldmonkey cried, scurrying toward Timmy. “EeeeeepEeeeeepEeeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
“No, Donald!” Timmy shouted. “RutKa’s insane! He’s going to kill us both! You have to run!”
“Not both,” the Bitter Deceiver told him. “Just you. You understand too much, Saint Timmy the Good, but at the same time, not enough. You could have ended The Great and Terrible Spell anytime you wanted to, but you were too stupid to see the way. Instead, you were content to spend eternity with what, a monkey? Why should this animal know warmth and comfort and understanding and love when I have none? Eddie left me, me, the greatest and most powerful of magicians, yet you’ve stayed by the side of this filthy, chittering, chattering baboon. It’s not fair, and I’m not going to allow it any longer. Without you here to take care of him, he’ll be dead in a week. Or he’ll end up in a zoo, which is where a creature like this belongs. Who do you think will understand him then?”
“He’s not filthy!” Timmy protested. “He’s very clean! And he is not a baboon! He’s a Golden Lion Tamarin, a species of monkey indigenous to South America, which has….”
“SHUT UP!” The Deceiver was in a fearful rage, shaking so hard his gun wobbled. “I made him like this. I know exactly what he is. And I know what you are, too. A dead man!” With that, he drew a bead on Timmy’s forehead and cocked the gun.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!” Donaldmonkey leaped toward Rutka, latching onto the barrel of the gun and knocking it out of his hand just as it went off. The revolver hit the floor and so did Donaldmonkey, who lay still.
“NO!” cried Timmy as he dropped to his knees beside Donaldmonkey, lifting the limp, furry body in his arms. “You can’t leave me, Donald! I love you too much!” Sobbing, he petted the soft golden fur, pressed his lips to the silent monkey mouth and kissed him gently. And in that instant, a Glorious Transformation took place. The room filled with a clear, bright light so intense it brought the Bitter Deceiver to his knees, burning away the darkness that was his power, leaving him limp, helpless, defeated. The lips beneath Timmy’s own stirred softly, returning the kiss. Blue eyes flew open, gazing up at him with warmth and love. And the body in his arms grew heavy and firm, taking on a more familiar form.
“Donald, you’re alive!” he cried, sobbing with joy now instead of grief. “You’re alive, and you’re you again!”
“I always was me, sweetheart,” Donald told him. “In spite of everything, you never doubted that. You listened to me with your heart as well as your ears, and you understood.”
“RutKa was right. I didn’t understand enough,” Timmy said. “It was the kiss that changed you back. If only I’d kissed you before! It just seemed….”
“Really weird and awkward to plant a big wet one on a hairy set of monkey lips, especially when I had Japanese beetles on my breath?” Donald asked, grinning.
“I…I suppose so. But the solution was so obvious, and I should have….”
“Your kiss came when I needed it the most. It gave me my body back, and the love that came with it gave me back my life. Don’t you ever apologize for loving me the way you do, Timmy. I won‘t stand for it.”
In the presence of all that light and love, The Bitter Deceiver’s dark powers continued to diminish until they withered inside him, shrinking like the hard, dead thing that had once been his heart. He shrank with them, growing smaller and smaller until he was as tiny and insubstantial as a dust speck on the breeze. He drifted through a crack in the window, never to be seen or heard from again.
So with RutKa finally out of their lives, what became of Saint Timmy the Good and Sir Donald the Brave? Well, the first thing Donald did, as you might imagine, was remove his wedding ring from the string around his neck and return it to his right hand where it belonged. Then he put on a robe and made martinis while Timmy tried his best to get monkey blood out of their living room rug. Deciding to give up and just call CarpetTech first thing in the morning, Timmy joined Donald on the couch for drinks and a cuddle, then led him to the bedroom, where they made love until dawn.
They spent a long and joyful lifetime together, these two good, brave men, and they never lost The Gift of Understanding that they shared. Eventually, they left the fixer-upper house with the big fireplace and the leaky roof and moved to a place where they didn’t have to catch rainwater in a pan as they lay in their bed. Donald’s business grew and they had more money, but occasionally times were still tight, and they worried whether they could afford to spend a week frolicking on the beach from time to time and still make sure all the bills were paid.
But it really didn’t matter. Donald never stopped bringing Timmy flowers, and they never stopped dancing in the firelight. They slept all the nights of their lives away in each other’s arms, safe and warm, with Timmy petting Donald’s golden hair as Donald gently stroked Timmy’s cheek with restless fingers.
And they were happy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
***Note*** As Timmy was trying to tell The Bitter Deceiver before he was so rudely interrupted, Golden Lion Tamarins (also known as Golden Marmosets) are squirrel-sized monkeys indigenous to South America. Their tails are very long but not prehensile, and, as Donaldmonkey was rather frustrated to discover, they lack opposable thumbs. Unless they are sounding out a warning or trying to gather their family around, their vocalizations primarily take the form of soft chirps. They are highly intelligent as well as quite social and industrious, and as a general rule, they tend to be monogamous.
o(^-^)o
Handyman
13300 words
“Have I ever mentioned that I really hate summer in New York?” Donald groused into his cell phone as he slid into the driver’s seat of his rental. Out of consideration for Timmy’s hearing, he suppressed a yelp when the over-heated vinyl proceeded to broil his backside through his thin summer trousers. A single droplet of sweat slid off the end of his nose and hit the steering wheel. He registered genuine surprise when it failed to sizzle on contact.
Half a moment of silence, then Timmy replied, sounding cool and unruffled. “Did you like it any better back in Warren when you were growing up?”
“No, hating summer‘s pretty much been a lifetime obsession with me.”
Another small silence. Donald could just picture Timmy, crisp and immaculate in his air-conditioned office, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his glasses, as if that could bring their conversation into sharper focus. The thought of Timmy luxuriating in Freon-enhanced comfort while he was barely one step away from heatstroke should have pissed him off. Instead, it made him smile in spite of himself.
“I thought it was winter you hated,” Timmy said.
“I hate that, too.”
“Darling, is there any time of year you actually enjoy?”
Donald thought long and hard about that one. “April 29th is usually good,” he said at last. “If the weather holds, I can deal with May 7th, too. And September 23rd if we’re having an early fall.”
“And if we’re having a late one?” Timmy asked, and Donald could clearly hear the smile in his partner’s voice. It made his own grow bigger.
“October 20th is about as far as I’m willing to commit.”
Timmy was laughing by then, which meant Donald couldn‘t help laughing along in spite of the second degree burn on his posterior. No matter what kind of mood he was in, spending a few minutes on the phone with Timothy Callahan always made him feel better.
“Are you working late tonight?” Timmy asked.
“No, I’m ready to call it a day. Want me to pick you up?”
“You can pick me up anytime you like, handsome. Are you still in the rental?”
“Yeah, they‘re not done with the bodywork on mine yet.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Hey!”
“It’s ninety-five in the shade, Donald. At least you’re driving something with a working air conditioner for a change.”
“Well, don’t get used to it, because the guy at the garage promised I’d be back in Old Reliable by this time tomorrow.”
Timmy snorted delicately. “The gentleman who rammed your car may have been a crude, foul-mouthed philanderer, but at least he had insurance.”
“Lousy insurance,” Donald said. “They sprang for the oldest and crappiest rental car on the road. I have no idea why they didn’t haul this heap to the scrap yard years ago. It looks like a leftover from some 70s cop show. Besides, it burned my ass.”
“It burned….”
“My ass. I’ve probably got blisters. I can feel them swelling back there as we speak.”
“Should I ask?”
“If I say no, will you still kiss it and make it better?”
“Of course. And I’ll ice it down for you as soon as we get home.”
Visions of himself lying facedown on their bed with a naked Timmy bending over him, expertly applying ice to a few choice patches of overheated skin flashed before Donald’s eyes. They’d played around with ice before, and once with a grape Popsicle, which had been silly and messy and fun. In spite of the fact that Timmy had grumbled afterward about purple stains on the new sheets, they’d both found the experience highly…stimulating.
“Be right there,” Donald said, his voice not quite as steady as it had been a moment before. He snapped his phone shut and started the engine, then cranked up the AC, pointing the vents toward the passenger seat, hoping to cool off that particular slab of sizzling vinyl before Timmy got in. As for his own charbroiled posterior…well…they’d just have to make a pit stop for freezer treats on the way home. Cherry this time. Definitely cherry.
* * * *
The evening progressed nicely -- or at least as nicely as an evening can progress when the thermometer’s stuck in the mid-90s and the central air hasn’t worked in weeks.Still, they had their fun with the Popsicles and lay naked together afterward in the cherry-scented darkness, trying to catch a breeze so scant it barely made the curtains flutter. They talked quietly as they lay there, not having a conversation, exactly, just keeping a meandering stream of words flowing between them. They discussed Timmy’s day and their friend Jon’s upcoming move, even laughed a little about the man who’d rammed Donald’s car after having been caught in bed with his brother’s wife -- all the while carefully avoiding any mention of home repair. That subject was every bit as sticky as their Popsicle-stained sheets.
They’d stretched John Rutka’s money far enough to get the roof fixed and the fireplace finished, but all too soon, Donald and Timmy’d found themselves right back where they started, with a fixer-upper house and a bank account so empty you could watch tumbleweeds blowing down the center of it. The work progressed in fits and starts, with Allison and Bobbie Jo tackling the high priority issues like bad wiring and major plumbing repairs whenever Timmy could guarantee a check large enough to cover their expenses. The smaller annoyances would just have to wait.
But they didn’t wait. Not for long, anyway. The toilet in the downstairs bathroom that seemed to run constantly suddenly fell silent, and the flickering light above the vanity in the master bath burned steadily for the first time in months. The leaky showerhead that had driven Donald crazy for so long stopped dripping, and the cracked window near their bed -- the one the wind had whistled through night after night last winter -- sported new glass and a fresh coat of paint. There was no more money in their checking account than there had been before, so Donald wasn’t sure where the cash for all those small repairs was coming from. Whenever he asked, Timmy became noticeably, if subtly, evasive and quickly changed the subject.
Donald wasn’t worried, though. After all, it wasn’t his department. Mowing the grass and taking out the trash, disposing of dead rodents in the attic traps and writing MORE PEANUT BUTTER ASAP!!! on the grocery list were his jobs, while juggling the books, dealing with laundry and overseeing the renovations were Timmy’s. Most of the time, Donald was more than happy to leave him to it.
Occasionally, though, just occasionally, Donald would wonder how they were affording all this. And for that matter, who they were paying to do it. When he thanked Bobby Jo for finally replacing the cracked window pane, she shrugged and said she didn’t do it. And when he waylaid Allison as she tore out some bad wiring in the laundry room and told her how happy he was that the toilet was no longer singing to them 24/7, she told him it wasn’t her work.
“Not your work?”
“Nope. Tim’s always bitching about our prices being too high, so I guess he decided to sub the small jobs out.”
“Sub them out!”
“That means he’s assuming the role of general contractor and hiring….”
“I know what it means, Allison. I just didn’t realize Timmy did.”
Allison laughed at him but kept on working. “It doesn’t bother us one way or another. We never make much money off the nickel and dime jobs anyway.”
But if Bobby Jo and Allison weren’t making money off them, who was?
As one July day sweated its way into the next, Donald noticed that he wasn’t coming home to find work in progress the way he once had. The odd jobs that no one seemed willing to take credit for all seemed to be completed while he was away -- either on evenings when he pulled a late night surveillance gig, or on the rare weekend when a case took him out of town. With the exception of the heating and air guy who’d performed last rites on their central air unit and an occasional Chicks With Bricks sighting, he hadn‘t spotted a handyman anywhere near the place.
July turned into August, and the temperature kept climbing. Timmy bought a window fan for their bedroom, so at least the muggy air was in motion when they tried to sleep. Since his car was out of the shop, Donald was back to cruising the streets of Albany without AC as well, but he had beer in the fridge and Timmy between the sheets, so life was good. They worked their way through their stash of cherry Popsicles in record time, followed by orange, then a repeat of their old favorite, grape. A sense of order seemed to return to their lives. Renovations were still being done, albeit at a plodding pace. Their dinnertime conversation was rarely interrupted by the sound of bandsaws or sledgehammers anymore, and they could actually walk through the front door without tripping over toolboxes and extension cords. For the first time in months, they were able to enjoy quiet time together in their own home. Donald wasn’t complaining, not one bit. But he was curious.
One day, he came home to the smell of drywall dust, and found Bobbie Jo and Allison in the gutted laundry room, hanging sheetrock. “Hey, ladies!” he said, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief so he wouldn’t choke to death on the white cloud they’d created. “Thanks for finally replacing the water line to the dishwasher. I’m morally opposed to doing dishes myself, but it sure makes Timmy’s life easier.”
“Didn’t do it,” Bobby Jo said through her filter mask. “We’ve been out of town.“
“Where to this time? Pride month’s over, so there shouldn’t be any more lesbian biker rallies for you two to ride in or rainbow-colored floats to ride on for a while.”
“Smartass,” Allison said. “We just got back from the Menses Faire in Antioch.”
“Menses Fair? Is that where a bunch of women stand out in a field and PMS together?”
“Smartass,” she said again. “It’s a musical event, a celebration of women and song, a week where we can free ourselves from the constraints of this oppressive, male-dominated society and raise our voices….”
“If you didn‘t replace that hose, who did?” Donald interrupted, knowing that if he didn’t nip her lecture in the bud, he’d be hearing about the evils of male oppression for hours. “I haven’t seen anybody but you guys around here in weeks.” He’d never seen anyone else around, period. But for some reason, he was reluctant to admit that to her.
“Probably the little guy,” Bobby Jo suggested.
“The little guy?”
“Yeah, we’ve run into him a couple of times,” Allison agreed. “Young blond guy, about your size but lighter build. Looks too pretty to get his hands dirty, if you ask me.”
“Any idea what his name is or what kind of work he does?”
“Tim’s never exactly offered to introduce us. And I’ve never seen him actually do anything, have you, babe?”
“Nope,” said Bobbie Jo. “As a matter of fact, that husband of yours always seems to be in a big hurry to hustle him out the door once we come through. Guess he’s worried about professional jealousy or something like that. Which is crazy. We have more than enough work to keep us busy this summer, and it’s not like we make anything….”
“On those nickel and dime jobs. Yeah, you’d rather hold out for the chance to gouge us on the big ones instead,“ Donald said, sticking out his tongue to make them laugh. He loitered there for a few more minutes, shooting the breeze as he watched them work, then left them to finish the job in peace. Yet something about the conversation nagged at him, like a splinter beneath his skin that he couldn’t see but couldn’t quite forget about either, because it prickled every time he poked it. Donald didn’t poke it, at least not intentionally. But every once in a while he felt that telltale prickle just the same.
A few days passed, and all seemed quiet on the home improvement front. Then he received a mid-morning text from Timmy saying he’d left the office and planned on working from home for the rest of the day. Donald speed-dialed his cell.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, hello to you, too! Why do you immediately assume something’s wrong just because I….”
“Because you never do, that’s why. Are you sick? If you need me to, I can….”
“Honey, I’m fine. It’s a slow week at the office with the senator on vacation, so I thought I could be bored at home just as easily as I could there.”
“I swear, Timothy, if you have a migraine coming on and aren’t telling me….”
“I’m perfectly fine, Donald. Now go find an alley to skulk in and I’ll see you tonight. I know it‘s asking a lot, but try not to worry, okay?”
But Donald did worry. Timmy hardly ever left work early, and on the rare occasions when he did, he usually showed up at Donald’s office, suggesting an impromptu coffee date, or if the P.I. business was in a lull, a leisurely lunch followed by what they both euphemistically referred to as “dessert.” The fact that he hadn’t suggested either was another splinter under Donald’s skin, and this one didn’t wait to be poked to make its presence known. By 2:30, the prickle had become a jab, so he gave up all pretense of work and headed home.
He wasn’t spying on Timmy. Not at all. He was simply looking into a matter of some concern, proving to himself that he had nothing to worry about. As it turned out, his timing couldn’t have been better. Just as he pulled up in front of their house, a lithe young man hurried out the front door and bounded toward a red pickup parked across the street. Craning his neck, Donald caught a glimpse of finely chiseled features framed by shoulder length blond hair before the truck pulled away. Something about the guy struck Donald as vaguely familiar, but if he’d seen him before, he couldn’t remember when or where. Pretty, Allison had said. Well, that was definitely a face you could call pretty. He was groping for a notebook and pen so he could write down the number on the truck’s license plate -- though he couldn’t have explained to anyone, least of all himself, why he would want to -- when he heard a quavering voice call his name.
“Strachey! I say Strachey! Is it hot enough for ya?” It was Norris Crandall, the biggest pain in the ass on the block. Resplendent in yellow plaid shorts, black dress socks with garters and an ancient pair of golf shoes, the old man trotted toward Donald at a pretty good clip, waving his arms and brandishing a rake.
Swallowing his frustration at being interrupted, Donald did his best to sound sociable. “It passed hot enough about twenty degrees ago. How’ve you been, Mr. Crandall?” he asked, cranking his voice a decibel or two above the norm to compensate for his neighbor’s hearing loss.
“Not worth a shit, Strachey. I’ve got a bone to pick with that boyfriend of yours.”
“What‘s the matter now?” Donald asked, not sure he really wanted to know. Once you got him going, the old geezer was harder to get rid of than herpes and about three times as annoying. Besides, it irked him that Crandall never called Timmy by name, though he was definitely an improvement over the guy from their old apartment complex, a greasy-haired gnome named Ripley, who’d once made the mistake of referring to Timmy as “your little missus.” Donald had made it perfectly clear that further disparaging remarks about his husband wouldn’t be tolerated, and Ripley’d been careful to keep a civil tongue in his head ever since. Timmy, thank God, had never seemed to make the connection between the gashes on his partner’s knuckles and their neighbor’s sudden dental deficit.
“That plumber of yours is heading off again, and I still don’t have his name and number!”
“My plumber?”
“The blond! The skinny blond pretty-boy! Your boyfriend promised to get me his name and number over a week ago, and he hasn’t done it yet!”
For the briefest of instants, Donald pictured Crandall, knobby knees trembling and liver-spotted hands nervously clutching a bouquet of posies, inviting the skinny blond pretty-boy out on a date. He shook his head to clear it. The heat was getting to him. It had to be the heat. “You mean the guy who just drove away in the red truck?”
“Hell yeah, I mean the guy in the red truck! He’s the one who fixed your john, isn’t he?”
“Beats me,” Donald said. “Timmy’s the one who handles that stuff. You’d be better off asking him.”
“I did ask him, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Last time that guy was over here, I asked your boyfriend if he’d gotten that singing toilet of yours fixed, and he said it was working just fine. Said it didn’t set him back much, either. I told him I was glad to hear it, because I had a leaky drain pipe that needed seeing to, and I didn’t want to pay an arm and a leg to get it done. He said he’d have to look up the guy‘s name and number, which sounded kinda fishy at the time, seeing as how they’d been acting awful familiar, if you know what I mean.”
Something inside Donald closed up tight, and it took him several seconds of very deliberate breathing to get it to open up enough for him to speak. “No, Mr. Crandall, I don’t think I do. Want to fill me in?”
“I’m not saying a word. Your ways aren’t my ways, Strachey, and I thank the good Lord for that. But I consider myself an enlightened man. Hell, I’m willing to hire a queer plumber, aren’t I? So if you can get that boyfriend of yours to cough up that young fella‘s number, I‘ll get out of your hair and do just that.”
“I’ll ask him now,” Donald said. “If you don’t mind waiting….”
“I’ve waited over a week already, so what’s a few more minutes?” Using his rake as a walking stick, Crandall followed Donald to the front door and settled his bony, plaid-covered backside on the stoop. “Just don’t take all day about it, you hear? It’s not like I’m getting any younger.”
Trying very hard not to think, Donald stepped inside and hurried up the stairs, calling Timmy‘s name. He walked into their bedroom just in time to see Timmy emerging from the master bath, looking flushed and flustered and still damp from the shower.
“Donald! You startled me! What are you doing home so early?”
“It’s been a slow day for me, too, so I thought I’d call it quits early and check on you.”
“Check on me?” Maybe it was a trick of the light, but it seemed as though Timmy’s flush deepened.
“You never play hooky from work unless you take me along for the ride. I know you said you weren’t sick, but….”
“I told you I was fine, Donald. I just wanted to catch up on a few things around here. Honestly, you should have called before you did this. I didn’t expect you home for at least another hour.”
“Didn’t realize I needed to make an appointment to see my own husband in my own house,” Donald muttered as Timmy scurried about the room, snatching stray pieces of clothing off the floor. Timmy never threw dirty clothes on the floor. He always folded them with military precision and stacked them neatly in their sanitized and deodorized hampers -- one for socks and underwear, one for shirts and slacks. A third hamper was designated for sheets and handkerchiefs, a combo that never made particular sense to Donald, unless it was because they were both more or less square-shaped. Towels didn’t have a hamper; they were an entity unto themselves. God help the bleary-eyed P.I. who stepped out of the shower at three a.m. and tossed a damp towel anywhere except directly into the washing machine.
When Timmy realized Donald was staring at him in shock, he stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“Nothing.” For the second time that afternoon, Donald found himself shaking his head to clear it. “Nothing,” he repeated. “Crandall’s waiting for me. He said you were gonna let him know how to get in touch with our plumber.”
“Plum…oh, that. Yes. Just a moment.” Timmy hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. They settled on his nightstand, and after another moment of hesitation, he walked over to it and picked up the phone book -- not his black address book where he usually kept that sort of information, Donald noted, but the phone book -- and flipped through the yellow pages, then scribbled a name and number onto a notepad.
“That is the guy I saw pulling away from here a few minutes ago, right? The one who worked on the toilet and the shower head?”
“He’s helped out with a number of things around here,” Timmy said.
Determined to abide by his new policy of not thinking, Donald carefully refrained from noticing the fact that Timmy eyes didn’t quite meet his as he tore the top sheet off the notepad and handed it to him.
* * * *
A summer storm blew in that night, bringing with it a cold front that dropped the temperature into the low 80s for the next few days. As the humidity decreased, so did Donald’s anxiety level. It seemed easier not to think when the days were bright and clear, and the air drifting through their bedroom window at night was fresher, softer than it had been in weeks. Progress around the house seemed to have reached a stopping point, which was more than fine as far as he was concerned. It was a good time for the two of them, a quiet time, a time of peace.
Since both of their workloads were lighter than normal, they found time to meet for lunch at sidewalk cafes or brown bag it together in the park, watching geese war with ducks over territorial rights and bread crumbs. More often than not, Donald made it home by the time Timmy did, and they were able to spend most of their evenings together. They deadheaded the fading petunias in the flower bed and performed CPR on the snapdragons, watered the tomato plants and organically treated them for Japanese beetles, trimmed the shrubs and grilled out in the late summer twilight and took Watson for long, rambling walks after dark. Donald still hated the season, he told himself, still longed for cooler weather and signs of fall. But he’d survived summer in Kuwait, so he supposed he could deal with it in Albany as well. He could deal with anything, as long as he had Timmy by his side.
One night, as they sat in the back porch glider watching the sun go down, Timmy said, “We really should enclose this porch someday. Wouldn’t it be nice to have screens to let the air in during the summer and glass panels to keep the cold out during the winter?”
“And bug zappers to keep these little bloodsuckers away year round,” Donald said, swatting a mosquito as it sank its proboscis into his forearm. He scored a direct hit and smiled in satisfaction, wiping a rust-colored smear off his fair skin. “Since we’re dreaming here, we might as well put in a pool while we’re at it.”
“Preferably surrounded by a privacy fence, so we don’t send Mr. Crandall into cardiac arrest when we skinny dip in the moonlight.”
“I don’t think Crandall can see that far, sweetheart, especially after dark.”
Timmy laced his fingers through Donald‘s and leaned into him, realigning his long frame so he could rest his head against the shorter man‘s shoulder. “He has binoculars, you know. I’ve seen him using them. Believe me, he’d be watching every move we made.”
“His wife’s been gone a long time. Maybe he wouldn’t be happy just watching. Maybe he’d want to climb the fence and join in.”
Timmy shuddered. “Okay, maybe a pool’s not the best idea. The yard’s not really big enough, anyway. Maybe we should consider a hot tub instead. A small one, with plenty of space for two people, but not nearly enough room for three.”
“We could put it right there on the patio,” Donald said, pointing, “and soak in it on those long winter nights, making love as the snow comes down.”
Timmy squeezed Donald’s fingers. “Like we did on our honeymoon,” he said softly.
“Like we did on our honeymoon.”
They were quiet for a while, content. Suddenly, Timmy sat upright and scowled in disapproval. “That patio is so plain. It’s just a big, ugly concrete slab, isn’t it?”
“Timmy,” Donald said. He was all too familiar with that note of determination in his partner‘s voice.
“Before we even think about putting a hot tub on it, we’ll have to give it a face lift.”
“Timothy….”
“Just something simple to dress it up, like adding a border. Brick, maybe, or tile.”
“Dreaming’s one thing, but we’re overextended as it is. Major issues first, remember? We get the big stuff out of the way, then we’ll talk about tile borders and anything else you want to do to the back yard. We’re both on the same page here, right?” Donald nudged him. “Right?”
“Right,” Timmy agreed, giving Donald’s fingers another reassuring squeeze. But as he gazed across the yard, a speculative smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
* * * *
Soon the mercury level was on the rebound, of course, and Donald’s business was as well. He took on a couple of new cases, quick and easy jobs that didn’t pay much, but at least they paid. When he endorsed the checks and turned them over to Timmy, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I think these ought to go toward our air conditioning fund. When I break a sweat in the bedroom, I should do it because of all the wild and kinky stuff you’re doing to me, not because it feels like an oven in there.”
With a smile and a nod, Timmy agreed.
The next morning, Donald met with a prospective client, a prominent lawyer named Millsap, who wanted him to gather evidence supporting the defense of his client, an equally prominent and deeply closeted local businessman, who was currently on the slab for the attempted rape and aggravated assault of a much younger male employee. Normally, Donald wouldn’t have thought twice about taking on that kind of case. It’d give him a welcome break from working the cheating housewife circuit, and it paid -- holy shit, it paid -- more than his last five cases combined. He’d have to be a drooling idiot to turn it down.
Still, he waffled. He’d have to kick-start the investigation by leaving the next morning for the Bronx -- the Bronx, of all the ungodly places -- where the plaintiff had been hanging out in the aftermath of what Millsap referred to as “the alleged incident.“ The kid in question, Trent Roebuck, was a bona fide looker, no doubt about that, but his rep as an opportunist stretched across his young life like forty miles of bad road. Donald would spend the next week or two undercover, getting as close to Roebuck as he could without compromising his wedding vows, hopefully winning both his trust and an admission that the rape charges ware a scam.
It wasn’t as if he and Timothy never spent a night apart. Both of their jobs required a certain amount of travel -- hazards of the trade, as Timmy would say. Still, neither of them exactly enjoyed the separation. As romantic a notion as three a.m. phone sex and falling asleep to the sound of your partner’s voice with your cell still pressed to your ear might be, it was no substitute for the real deal. And the photos of Roebuck’s fine-featured face and shaggy blond hair reminded Donald of someone else, someone whose very existence he’d been doggedly forcing himself to ignore. In spite of his firm non-thinking rule, Donald’s brain had kicked in and kicked in hard. As much as they needed the money, the thought of leaving Timmy in the hands of some elusive blond handyman for a week or more made him just a little bit queasy.
Queasy or not, the size of the check Millsap waved under Donald’s nose cast the deciding vote. As soon as he got home, he packed his suitcase -- or at least Timmy packed it for him, painstakingly folding shirts and trousers so they wouldn’t wrinkle, then tucking every pair of socks and shorts Donald owned into a duffel and throwing in a few of his own for good measure. After dinner, Timmy reached into the freezer, grinning, and pulled out something sweet on a stick -- banana this time -- then treated him to a bon voyage party neither of them would soon forget. But even as Donald watched Timmy lap a puddle of banana-flavored runoff out of his navel, images of the guy he’d secretly dubbed “Toilet Boy” kept running through his mind. That, and the look of surprise -- or could it have been guilt mixed with panic? -- on Timmy’s face when Donald caught him coming out of the shower.
Donald spent the next week and a half sweating, and not just because August in the Bronx was even more sticky and miserable than August in Albany. When he wasn’t flirting up that annoying little shit, Roebuck, he holed up in his rented room, sucking on an endless procession of freezer treats and wondering if Timmy missed him as much as he missed Timmy. The second Roebuck coughed up a confession, Donald turned in his key and made a beeline for home.
Normally, he would have called Timmy’s cell and given him a heads-up that he was on his way, but he decided to surprise him instead. Surprise a pretty-boy plumber, too, maybe. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Timmy, because he did. Timmy loved him. He knew that Timmy loved him, just sure as downtown Albany smells like sweaty socks in the summertime. If Timmy’s feelings for him ever changed, he‘d sense it in a heartbeat. Donald trusted his husband completely and absolutely, with his life and with his heart. But he also trusted his instincts. There was something going on, something he was pretty damned sure he didn’t like, and it was time to get to the bottom of it.
* * * *
“Strachey!” Crandall called before Donald had a chance to get his bags our of the car. “Hey, Strachey! I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”
Not again. Hefting the duffel over his shoulder with a sigh, he slammed the trunk shut and turned to face his neighbor. “Hey there, Mr. Crandall. Ever get that faucet fixed?”
“Drain pipe, Strachey. It was a drain pipe. And let me tell you, I had to shell out half my social security check to do it!”
It had been a long drive up I-87, with traffic creeping along at 45 mph or less between Newburgh and Kingston thanks to narrowed lanes and road construction. Donald was sweat-soaked and tired, and now the late afternoon sun beat down on his head, frying the few functioning brain cells he had left. Christ, it was way too hot for this. Making what he hoped would pass as a sympathetic noise, he began rolling his suitcase toward the front porch, where he could at least listen to the old boy’s tirade in the shade.
“Sorry to hear it,” he said, forcing himself to sound civil when he felt anything but. “We’re on a shoestring budget ourselves, and Timmy’s usually pretty thorough about screening the people we use and making sure they charge reasonable rates.“
“Maybe that’s so with the folks he hires, but the ones he recommends are a different matter.”
Donald turned to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy who came to my house never worked for you, Strachey. According to him, he’s never even heard of you. And I’m telling you now, I don’t much like being jerked around like this. Not by some armed robber calling himself a plumber, and not by you and yours.”
“I don’t understand. Timmy gave me his name….“
“Sounds like your boyfriend’s jerking you around, too, if you ask me. This fella wasn’t the one I see messing around over at your place all the time. He was an old fart like me. Gray-haired with a big pot belly. Chain smokes, too, which I didn’t appreciate in my house. Louise, God rest her soul, would’ve rather died than had a cigarette stinking up her clean kitchen. Hell, I don’t imagine that boyfriend of yours woulda let him through the door, either, as fussy as he is.“
Something rose in Donald’s throat and refused to go down, no matter how hard he swallowed. “But the blond guy….”
“Huh. You just missed him. He and your boyfriend were messing around in the back yard most of the morning. I was trimming my back hedge and trying to keep a watch out, you know, just in case. But my eyes aren’t what they used to be and my damned binoculars got busted, so I couldn’t really tell what they were up to. They kept disappearing behind that old shed of yours, I know that much. About fifteen minutes before you got here, they hauled four or five boxes of stuff out to that red pickup.”
“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”
“How the hell should I know? I told you my binoculars are busted, didn’t I? I damn near threw my hip out again, getting around the side of my house in time to see him leave. Couldn’t catch much of the conversation -- my hearing’s not what it used to be, you know -- but he hugged that partner of yours hard as you please right there by the curb in front of God and everybody. Told him to call him Saturday if he was free.”
“He said what?” Donald asked, his mind spinning.
“Jesus, Strachey, folks’d think you’re the deaf one instead of me! He told your boyfriend he was looking forward to seeing him again, and when Tommy….“
“Timmy,“ Donald said firmly.
“When Timmy said he hardly ever knew when you’d be working and when you wouldn’t, Blondie said, ‘Be sure to call me Saturday morning if you’re free.‘ Then he drove away in that truck of his, music blaring fit to make your ears bleed. Some kinda longhair stuff.”
“Think hard, Mr. Crandall. Is there anything else you remember hearing?
“That’s all I know and more than I should be passing on. You know damned good and well I mind my own business and don’t pry into other people’s affairs,” Crandall concluded, putting a spin on the word “affairs” that made Donald long to wring his scrawny neck.
“Spit it out,” Donald ground out through teeth clenched so tight it made his jaw ached. “What are you trying to say?”
“A word to the wise, Strachey. That young fella’s working on a helluva lot more than plumbing, if you ask me. Working on your boyfriend’s own personal plumbing, maybe.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Timmy would never lie to me. And Timmy wouldn’t…Timmy would never….”
“Right. And you make your living off a bunch of poor dopes who say the same thing until you prove ‘em wrong. Take it from me, sonny boy. There’s no such thing as never.”
* * * *
Donald stood on the front porch for a long time after Crandall left, gripping the white railing for support as his gut clenched even harder than his teeth. Sweat trickled down his back and soaked his pits, leaving wide, wet patches on his blue button-down shirt. He knew he should go inside and start asking questions, talk this thing through with Timmy until they were both hoarse and exhausted and whatever was going on here made some kind of sense. But he was overheated and pissed off and about half a step away from freaking out, and he knew his communication skills went all to hell when he upset. He needed to calm the hell down and get the facts straight before he started hurling a bunch of wild accusations at what he knew -- knew -- was an innocent man.
Evidence. That’s what he needed. Evidence. Gathering it was what he did all day, every day, and there was no reason he shouldn’t treat this case like any other mystery he had to solve. Time to stop carrying on like a suspicious husband and act like a pro.
Once the pain in his belly settled into a dull ache that wasn’t going anywhere for a while, he left his luggage on the front steps and walked around the side of the house, into the sanctuary of their back yard. He wasn’t sure what clues he hoped to find back there, but it seemed a logical place to start. His eyes took their good, sweet time making the adjustment from glaring sun to soft shade, and at first, everything seemed to be exactly the same as it had been before he’d left town. Then he spotted the elegant blue, green and tan mosaic patio border, and his brain started racing like a hamster on a well-oiled wheel.
His first reaction was a rush of relief. Overwhelming, almost giddy relief.
But as he took in the finally detailed pattern, assessed the time and craftsmanship and completely unjustifiable expense it would take to produce something as unique and beautifully executed as that, the relief morphed into fury. They’d talked about this, damn it, agreed that landscaping aesthetics needed to go on the back burner until the necessities were taken care of. Yet the second his back was turned, Timmy’d gone right ahead and….
The storm door swung open and Watson barreled toward him, yelping a welcome, with Timmy hot on his heels. “You’re home! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home!” Familiar arms enveloped him in an enthusiastic hug and refused to let go for a very long time. “I’ve missed you,” Timmy murmured. “It’s so good to have you back.”
At first, Donald just stood there, stiff and unyielding in his husband’s embrace. Then the warmth and absolute sincerity in Timmy’s voice penetrated the layers of anger and doubt, and Donald caved. He returned the hug as hard as he dared, pressing his sweaty face against the cologne-scented haven that was Timmy’s neck. “I missed you, too,” he said, his voice not quite breaking.
Timmy pulled back enough to look at him. “Donald?”
“I’m all right,” Donald said, pressing his face against Timmy’s neck once more. “I‘m just really hot and really tired. Don’t look so worried, okay? I’ll always be all right as long as I have you to come home to.”
“Are you sure?” Timmy asked.
Donald had never been more sure of anything in his entire life.
* * * *
Forty-five minutes later, they were lounging on the revamped patio in lawn chairs, sipping ice-cold martinis. While Timmy unpacked his luggage and mixed the drinks, Donald had showered and changed into a clean wifebeater and cut-offs, and he felt fresher and more determinedly relaxed than he had in half a month. It felt good to just hang out there in the shade with Timmy, watching the light breeze ruffle a renegade strand of his soft, dark hair. This was his life, he told himself. This was the only part of it that mattered. Being with Timmy, spending down time with him, loving him and being loved. Why had he let Crandall get to him the way he had? Okay, so Toilet Boy only appeared on the scene when he was away, and okay, there had been some mix-up concerning the plumber, but that was just a coincidence, wasn’t it? Nothing to get in a twist about, and nothing that should make him suspicious of Timmy, his beautiful Timmy, who was without a doubt the best thing that had ever happened to him.
From time to time, Donald caught a glimpse of old man Crandall peeping at them over the top of his hedge. He deliberately caught Timmy’s hand and raised it to his lips, then settled it against his chest, where he cradled it gently. With a pleased smile, Timmy leaned over for an affectionate peck, then settled in as close as their chair arms allowed and asked about Donald’s trip. Between long pulls on his drink, Donald filled him in. He knew Timmy enjoyed hearing about his cases, loved being privy to any and all parts of his life. He usually went out of his way to make a good story out of it, but that evening his mind just wasn’t on the case.
Timmy looked good enough to eat in his mint green polo and khaki shorts, and in spite of his utter physical and emotional exhaustion, Donald was having a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself. His feet, too, for that matter. Giving in to temptation, he trailed a bare foot down hairy, lightly muscled calves and pried Timmy’s soft moccasins off one by one with his big toe. Once Timmy’s feet were bare, Donald tickled them with his own as Timmy laughed and twitched and begged for mercy. It wasn’t as if Donald had him trapped. He could have shifted positions at any time, moved those longer legs of his so his feet would be out of Donald’s range. But he didn’t. In all the years they’d been together, he’d never pulled away from Donald, not even once. And in spite of all the gut-wrenching waves of insecurity that had been sweeping over him that summer, Donald knew that he never would.
At last, Donald relented and turned the tickle into a caress, then tangled their toes together. “Always did like playing footsie with you,” he said.
“So I see. Happy now that you‘ve gotten that out of your system?” Timmy asked, still sounding a little breathless.
“I’m with you, aren’t I?”
“I was worried about you earlier. You seemed to be in such an odd mood when you first got here.”
“I was just in a pissy mood from spending half the day stuck in traffic on the thruway. I’m over it now, so let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Okay. I still wish you’d let me know you were coming, though. I would have fixed something special for your welcome home dinner. There are ribeyes in the freezer, but they’ll take half the night to thaw. I didn’t see much point in stocking up on groceries when you weren’t going to be here, so there’s not much else to eat except some leftover chicken salad and that fruit compote you like. And eggs and cheese, of course, and a few fresh tomatoes on the windowsill. We could always make omelets if you’d prefer something warm.”
“You get whatever you want, honey. I’m not really hungry.”
“But you’re always hungry,” Timmy said, instantly on the alert.
“I’m feeling kinda off tonight. Between the heat and the aggravation, my stomach’s been acting sort of dicey. I don’t think putting food in it would be the best idea right now.”
“So you’re pouring alcohol into it instead?”
“Strictly for medicinal purposes. Your martinis always cure what ails me, as my old man used to say as he killed off a fifth.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know about that, but if you drink enough of them, you’ll definitely forget what was wrong with you in the first place.”
Donald drained his glass and captured Timmy’s hand again, then closed his eyes, yawning. He was starting to nod off when Timmy asked, “Did you notice anything different out here, by any chance?”
Donald’s pried one eye open, then closed it again. “I noticed.”
“You don’t like it,” Timmy said, sounding oddly hurt.
Donald sighed. Apparently, the discussion he’d been hoping to avoid wasn’t going to wait for another night. “It’s not that I don’t like it, Timothy.”
“Well, good. I thought the person who laid the tiles did a rather nice job.”
“Too nice. That’s the problem. Work like this doesn’t come cheap. Considering the situation we’re in, juggling the mortgage and all the repairs we’re looking at, we don’t need to be shelling out this kind of cash right now, especially since we agreed the cosmetic stuff should wait. Jesus, Timmy, this house needs major surgery just to stay alive, and you blew all our savings on a nose job!”
“I didn’t blow our savings,” Timmy said, looking stricken. “Adding the border wasn‘t nearly as expensive as you might think. The materials cost little of nothing, and the labor….”
“The labor had to cost two grand at least!”
“I would never spend that kind of money without talking to you first. The cost of this project was negligible.”
Donald snorted. “Contractors don’t work for negligible wages, Timothy. Allison and Bobbie Jo….”
“Allison and Bobbie Jo didn’t do this,” Timmy said quietly.
“Then who did?”
“Just….”
“Just what?”
“Just a handyman.”
“The same one who fixed our toilet?”
“Yes.”
“But not the one you recommended to Crandall?”
Timmy’s reply was barely audible. “No.”
“Exactly who is that little blond shit, anyway? Crandall says he had his hands all over you in the middle of the front yard earlier today. All I’ve ever seen of him is the tailgate of his truck as he drives away, yet he’s been hanging around here for weeks, apparently. How weird is that? How well do you know this guy, anyway?”
For a few seconds, Timmy just sat there blinking at him, looking for all the world like someone who had fallen behind in a race for his life and had no idea how he was ever going to catch up. “I only met him recently, but we’re becoming friends,” he said at last. “We come from very different worlds, but he seems to think we have a lot in common….”
“I bet he does,” Donald said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And he does all this stuff for free, out of the kindness of his….”
Before Donald could finish, Timmy was gone, sprinting inside the house and back out again before the storm door had a chance to ease closed. He tossed two booklets into Donald’s lap. “The man who’s been doing odd jobs around here isn’t a professional contractor, Don. He’s just someone with time on his hands who likes to keep busy and help people out when he has the chance. Apart from buying materials and paying Allison for the work she and Bobby Jo did in the laundry room, I haven’t spent a dime on this house in weeks. Take a look at our checkbook and savings account ledger if you don’t believe me.”
Donald’s hands wavered over the booklets, not quite touching them. Then he was out of the chair and reaching for Timmy, pulling him close and squeezing hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a really shitty day. I hate this rotten weather and the pileups on the thruway and Crandall always sticking his nose in our business and this fucking renovation that’s never, ever going to end. Most of all, I hate it when I have to be away from you. You don‘t have to prove anything to me. I believe you.”
Long, soothing fingers found their way into his hair, and Timmy’s lips brushed his cheek. “It’s okay, baby. I’m sorry you had such a bad day.”
“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It’s just that nothing’s ever really for free, Timmy. You say this guy…this guy I’ve never even met…is doing all this work without expecting some sort of payoff, but I don’t buy it. I know I’m a suspicious bastard and a total asshole, but I can’t help it. That’s not the way the world works. Nobody thinks that way anymore. Nobody but you, at least.”
“Don, there’s something….” Timmy began, but Donald cut him off with a kiss, hard and a little bit frantic, followed by another and another, each one deeper and more insistent, until there was nothing left to do, nothing either of them could possibly do, but stumble inside and up the stairs, clinging together wordlessly. Their lovemaking was always intense, and after they’d been apart for a while, it was always more so. But that night there was something different about it, something raw and desperate and needy. It served as a catharsis of sorts, and as they lay together in the aftermath, bathed in sweat and thoroughly exhausted, Donald realized it was the most effort he’d put into anything since mid-May when the temperature first topped 80. He’d marked his territory, re-staked his claim, and he felt pretty goddamned good about it.
“That was absolutely incredible,” Timmy told him. “I thought you said you were feeling a little off tonight.”
“I seem to be back on again,” Donald admitted.
Long after Timmy had fallen asleep, still cradled possessively against his chest in spite of the heat, Donald lay awake, his mind gong around and around like the ice cream truck on its afternoon circuit through the neighborhood, playing “Turkey in the Straw” in an endless loop. Clearly, his non-thinking days had come to an end.
What he’d tried to tell Crandall was simple fact -- Timmy didn’t cheat. Period. It just wasn’t his nature. And he sure as hell didn’t lie. He never lied, not even when it would be safer than telling the truth, smarter, or more polite. Over the years, Donald had come to the conclusion that Timmy was physically incapable of it, the way some people were incapable of wiggling their ears, curling their tongues, or rolling their Rs when they tried to speak Spanish. And he certainly wasn’t stupid. Far from it. But even after all those years in politics, after all those years of being shown bits and pieces of the seamier side of the world through Donald’s eyes, he still had a sense of innocence about him, an unquestioning trust that left the door wide open for other people’s deceit.
Donald wasn’t sure what Toilet Boywanted from Timmy, but he had a pretty good idea, and the more he thought about it, the more pissed off he got. The situation was bound to come to a head soon, and if it didn’t, he might just have to give it a shove.
* * * *
Donald had been sitting in his office for almost an hour, listening to his rickety window unit splutter and cough as it emitted sporadic gusts of dank, air. A fresh trickle of moisture followed the path of a rust-colored stain down the wall and pooled on the floor. Not for the first time, he envisioned Timmy weeping over his corpse as the coroner scribbled “Legionnaires’ Disease” in bold red letters on his clipboard. Then another vision took over, one of Timmy, puffy-eyed and wearing funeral attire, finding the strength to go on in the arms of a faceless blond holding a crescent wrench. He shuddered, and for the fifth time in as many minutes, glanced at his watch.
Nine-thirty came and went, and still no client. It was Saturday morning, the first Saturday since he’d been home from that armpit of civilization known as the Bronx. He should still be in bed with Timmy, happily snoring away in his arms -- or better yet, working his way through their supply of frozen fruity goodness. But this was a repeat client who’d claimed it was an emergency, and while Donald wasn’t wild about getting sucked into unspecified emergencies on Saturday mornings when he could still be snuggled between the sheets with his honey, he couldn’t afford to snub his nose at a repeat client.
Some emergency. Nine-thirty turned into nine-forty, and Donald decided he’d been stood up. He dialed the guy’s cell but got no answer, then dialed it again and was sent straight to voicemail. The client and his “emergency” must have kissed and made up, and were probably saying I’m sorry with the help of a case of condoms and a bucket full of lube. Fair enough. Time to give Timmy a head’s up that he was on his way home and call this pathetic waste of weekend sleeping-in-time a wrap.
But still he sat here, thinking. Toilet Boy had told Timmy to call him Saturday if he was free, and as far as Timmy knew, Donald was going to be gone for most of the day. As he’d kissed him goodbye, Donald had apologized for deserting him on what should have been a mutual day off, but Timmy had told him not to worry, that he’d make use of the time by getting some things accomplished around the house.
Get things accomplished. With Timmy, that could mean anything from throwing a couple of loads of laundry into the washer to hiring a six-man crew to start digging a hole big enough for that swimming pool they’d been dreaming about. Would he call Toilet Boy and invite him over to help? And if he did, would the little shit finally make his move, figuring when the P.I. is away, the handyman can play?
If he did, Timmy would send him packing. Donald had no doubt about that. But he dearly wished he could have the pleasure of showing the sneaky blond bastard the door himself.
He glanced at his watch again. Five minutes til ten. Timmy would definitely be up and running by now, all showered and shaved and smelling nice, dressed in something comfortable and casual, maybe the green polo from the other night. Was Toilet Boy there already, checking out those long swimmer’s legs in their khaki shorts?
Thinking, still thinking. Always a dangerous business, according to Timmy. It was still pretty early. If it had been Timmy who was planning a little afternoon delight, he’d expect the festivities to start promptly at noon. But who knew if Toilet Boy shared Timmy’s immaculate sense of timing. Should he head that way now, or should he kill a little more time here and give the situation at home a chance to develop?
The window unit snarked and sneezed a fine spray of rust-colored droplets at him, then fell ominously silent. Alarmed by the scent of scorched wiring, he pulled the plug and quickly stepped back, half expecting to see it burst into flames. When it didn’t, he gave the top of the until a few good, hard whacks with the flat of his hand, though he wasn’t sure what he expected that to accomplish. It was a guy thing: if something stops working, hit it. When he tried to plug it in again, sparks flew, and he hastily disconnected it. Taking it as a sign, Donald left the cord dangling and headed for home.
Donald parked his car on a cross street several blocks down from their house and traveled the rest of the way on foot, cursing his decision to dress professionally for his non-client every step of the way. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet but already hot as hell, and between the tie that was choking him and the sports coat that seemed to weigh him down, he began to seriously doubt that he could make it home before succumbing to heat stroke. As he rounded the corner, he spotted Toilet Boy’s truck in front of their house, its candy apple red paint glistening in the sun like a drag queen’s sequins. In spite of the heat and the tie and his desire to follow through on the stealthy approach, it took everything in him to keep from breaking into a run.
He cut behind houses and scrambled over back fences, reminding himself to keep his head and stay low. He had a brief but nasty run-in with the Winston’s Great Dane, Benjamin, who apparently took exception to red-faced and sweaty private eyes intruding upon his morning inspection of the next-door neighbor’s begonias, and he got a startled glance from one of the Cissell kids, who was standing in the middle of a blue plastic wading pool, attempting to either drown or bathe an angry cat. When he reached Crandall’s yard, he paused long enough to catch his breath and peel off his suit and tie, then left them hanging on the old man’s hedgerow, promising himself he would come back for them later, once he finished giving Toilet Boy the old heave-ho.
There were no signs of activity in his own yard, so Donald sidled up to the back of the house, ducking under one open window and then another, trying to get a fix on where his husband and their future former handyman might be. He could hear someone moving around in the kitchen and the occasional clang of what sounded like metal on metal, but no voices, which seemed strange. If Timmy had someone to talk to, you better believe he would be talking, chatting away about the weather or his job or the price of eggs in China -- whatever. Unless Toilet Boy had in trapped in a corner and was trying to occupy his mouth in other ways.
To hell with the stealthy approach.
He slipped his key into the lock and eased in the front door, keeping one eye open for blond interlopers and another for Watson, whose joyful barks of welcome could spoil a quiet entry like nobody’s business. The dog was nowhere in sight, thank God, and neither was anyone else. Donald pressed his back to the wall and just listened, straining to hear a creak of floorboard on the landing overhead, the rustle of clothing near the staircase, any indication whatsoever that someone might come up behind him at any moment and catch him in the awkward position of trying to play super sleuth in his own home. Except for a few indistinct bumps and scuffling sounds coming from the kitchen, the house seemed to be empty.
More bumps accompanied by a metallic clatter, then Timmy’s voice, cursing softly. Toeing his shoes off by the fireplace, Donald inched his way around the staircase, then froze in his tracks as the kitchen came into view. There stood Timmy, or at least the mutant the pod people had left in Timmy’s place, decked out in a Hard Rock Café tee-shirt, faded Wranglers and a leather tool pouch, doing a damned good impersonation of someone who was in the middle of fixing the kitchen sink.
Toilet Boy was nowhere in sight, not that Donald would have noticed if he had been. He only had eyes for Timmy. The well-worn denim of those inexpensive, working man’s jeans fit him like a second skin, hugging his perfectly sculpted ass and turning every movement of his long, strong legs into an act of seduction. Donald had always appreciated Tim’s slender fitness, but Jesus, the way the short sleeves of that ratty old shirt showed off his firm biceps, the way the dark cotton clung to his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the way the stretched-out neck of the thing displayed the small hollow at the base of his throat. Donald licked his lips. He knew from experience that it would taste both salty and sweet, with a unique tang that was all Timmy’s own. He watched for a while, silent and disbelieving, his shock mixed with amusement mixed with arousal.
This was Timothy J. Callahan, chief aide to a New York State senator, the man who put on Brooks Brothers’ casual wear and dress shoes just to putter around the house, who hadn’t missed an appointment for his bi-monthly manicure in over six years and who never, ever got his hands dirty. Yet here he was, swearing and sweating and oozing testosterone out of every pore, selecting pliers and wrenches from his tool belt with an easy confidence that suggested -- dear God! -- that suggested he actually knew what to do with them. The very thought made Donald’s balls twitch.
Timmy disappeared beneath the sink, and Donald heard more bumps, grunts, and banging. A few moments passed, and Timmy cursed again -- not so softly this time -- and came up bleeding. Donald caught a side view of him sucking a smashed knuckle, and was about to surge forward to provide triage and a kiss, when Timmy simply gave the battered hand a couple of vigorous shakes and started rummaging through the open tool box on the counter. No fuss, no intricate cleanup procedure involving antiseptic and wads of cotton, just a minimal amount of swearing and on with business as usual. Once he’d found a larger wrench, he rubbed his hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat, than peeled off his shirt and mopped his face with it before casually tossing it aside.
That did it.
Forgetting all about the pickup out front and his little spy mission, Donald silently stripped, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. As the ice cream truck drove past, clanging “Pop Goes the Weasel” at top volume, he padded around the island and hovered behind Timmy, who was leaning into the cubby beneath the sink once more. Grinning, Donald just waited. When Timmy straightened up, Donald snaked his arms around his waist and squeezed hard, growling, “Want some ice cream, little boy?” into his ear.
The wrench clattered against the floor as Timmy leapt to his feet with a startled yelp, his face blanching from the fright even as the tips of his ears turned scarlet. “Donald! You scared the life out of me! I thought you were going to be dealing with a new case all day, some sort of huge emergency.“
“Oh, I am, I am,” Donald assured him, pulling Timmy close enough to steady him, since he looked like he could use some steadying, and taking the opportunity to nip one of those over-warm ears.
Once Timmy regained his composure, he took in Donald’s nudity and his obvious state of excitement and managed a shaky smile. “I assume this means I’m currently under surveillance,“ he said.
“Always,” Donald breathed into his mouth, nailing him to the spot with a no-nonsense kiss. “Who are you,“ he asked once he’d left Timmy as breathless as he felt himself, “and what have you done with my husband?“
“He’s right here,” Timmy said, “and he’s never going to get the sink unclogged if you keep doing that.”
“The sink can wait. You’ve got a helluva lot of explaining to do. In all the years we‘ve been together, you never told me you knew how to do…” Donald gestured toward the tool pouch and the sink, “…all this.”
“Well, I do have a reputation to uphold,” Tim said, lightly trailing his fingers down Donald’s chest and belly until they settled in the dark blond thatch between his thighs, drawing a protracted moan from Donald.
“I’m gonna uphold more than your reputation if you keep that up.” Shifting slightly, Donald nudged Timmy’s legs apart with his knee and pressed upward, eliciting a moan from Timmy as well. “So, the leaky shower head?”
“That was me.”
“The bad ballast over the bar? The toilet that wouldn’t stop running? The cracked glass in the bedroom window?”
Timmy acknowledged his guilt with a self-depreciating smile and a shrug.
“And the fancy patio border I read you the riot act over? That was you, too?”
“Sometimes I like to go dumpster diving behind the home improvement store,” Timmy admitted. “They were throwing away whole boxes of tile that had been broken during shipment. When I asked, they said it was mine if I wanted to haul it away. So I took a hammer and broke the tiles into smaller pieces and came up with a design I liked, then bought a couple of bags of concrete mix….”
Donald whistled long and low. The idea of Timothy -- his refined, fastidious Timothy -- poking around in someone else’s garbage! The very thought was outrageous. It was insane. It was making him hornier than he’d been in a month of Sundays.
Even with every window open, the house felt like a sauna. Donald was pouring sweat, which was nothing unusual, but he decided that this one time, he really didn’t mind the heat so much. Almost seven years together, and the sight of Timmy’s bare, lightly muscled torso still made his breath catch. He buried his face in a patch of dark, slightly damp chest hair, happily nuzzling. When he perspired, he was pretty sure he smelled like…well…sweat. Timmy just smelled clean and faintly earthy, like the lawn first thing in the morning after they’d left the sprinkler on overnight. Donald was seriously considering dropping to his knees and burying his face in another patch of damp curls, when he heard a distinct thump in the hallway and froze in an instant of sheer panic. Shit! He’d forgotten all about the red truck and Toilet Boy and the reason he’d been lurking in the threshold like an idiot, spying on his own husband in their own kitchen on a Saturday morning. Then there was a familiar scrabble of claws followed by a yap of greeting, and something warm and hairy attached itself to his right ankle.
Watson.
Donald stooped to give the dog a brief pat. “Uh, there’s nobody else in the house, is there?” he asked once his heart stopped thudding long enough for him to speak. “I saw a truck out front….”
“And when you suspect we have guests, your first instinct is to strip down to your socks and molest your husband as he unclogs the kitchen sink?”
“Something like that,” Donald said sheepishly. But who….”
“The truck belongs to Paul, of course. He’s loaning it to us for the weekend so we can help Jon and Marty move tomorrow, remember?”
“Paul?”
“The senator’s brother,” Timmy prompted.
“Senator Glassman has a brother?”
Timmy rolled his eyes. “Paul Glassman, Donald. Ring any bells?”
Donald racked his brain. “You mean Paul Glassman, the boy wonder violinist...”
“Cellist.”
“…boy wonder cellist, the one we were supposed to go see perform until I…”
“Yes?”
“…until I got a pressing case at the last minute and had to let you go with your mother instead,” Donald finished hastily.
Timmy folded his arms across his chest and just waited.
“I knew that guy looked familiar! I remember seeing his picture on the program you brought home. Damn, he’s really ho….”
Timmy’s left eyebrow shot up.
“Young! He’s really young. To be Senator Glassman’s brother, I mean.”
“Half-brother,” Timmy said coolly, “from her father’s second marriage. I told you all about this when I bought the concert tickets. Honestly, Donald, do you ever listen to a word I say?”
“But honey,” Donald protested, “I pay attention to everything you tell me! Except when it’s something long and complicated about politics and I’m really, really tired, maybe. Or…“ he grinned apologetically, a wheedling note creeping into his voice, “….detailed stuff about your boss‘s artsy-fartsy relatives.”
Timmy’s eyebrow climbed even higher, threatening to disappear into his hairline. “Donald.” The word was delivered in the world-weary tone of an English teacher who’d asked his students to write love sonnets and found his desk covered in stacks of dirty limericks instead.
Donald hung his head. “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”
“Darling, right now you’re so far beyond screwed, screwed asks your advice on how to dress.”
Donald just blinked at him for several seconds. Then he cracked up. He laughed harder than he’d laughed in a very long time, doubled over and guffawing helplessly until tears rolled down his cheeks. Timmy calmly watched him cackle, his lips twitching at the corners and his eyebrow gradually returning to its original position. His hand settled on Donald’s shoulder, squeezing gently.
“Breathe,” he advised.
“I’m sorry,” Donald choked out, wiping his eyes. “I’m an idiot. I know this. But when I saw him pulling away from the house that day, and you were just coming out of the shower and acting so weird, I thought…”
“Yes?”
“Never mind what I thought,” Donald said hastily.
Tim grinned. “You remember Stephen Platt, don’t you?”
“That’s the guy the senator’s been dating, right? Silver hair, nice suits, old money.”
“Very old money, and a very nice man. He’s planning to propose to her on her birthday, which happens to be next Saturday. You do remember what Saturday is, don’t you?“
“Ummmm…the day before Sunday?“
“Donald….“
“All right, all right, “Donald said, laughing. “It’s the night of that big fundraiser you’ve been planning. My tux is already at the cleaners, so chill.”
“Mr. Platt and I have been conspiring with Paul a bit. After they announce their engagement that evening, Paul’s going to surprise her with a special performance to commemorate the occasion. It’s all very hush-hush. We didn’t want to take a chance on tipping off the senator and ruining the surprise, so Paul’s been coming here to iron out the details rather than meeting me at the office.“
“Sure hope she says yes when Platt pops the question.”
“Oh, she will. She loves him. I have no doubt of that.”
“So Senator Glassman’s about to become Senator Platt. Good for her. Even if she doesn’t appreciate my awesome taste in ties, she’s a nice person and I’m happy for her. But none of this explains why Mr. Crandall said that guy was playing human octopus with you in the front yard the other day.”
“He said that?” Timmy’s eyes were wide with shock.
Donald did a quick replay of his conversation with Crandall. “Well, no. Not in those words, exactly,” he admitted. “He said the guy hugged you. I guess I kinda let my imagination fill in the details.”
“Paul and I are friends, Donald. We have a lot in common, similar backgrounds, taste in books and music, that sort of thing. You know, he told me that when he was a little boy, he even fantasized about entering the priesthood before he realized that music was his true vocation. He’s really looking forward to meeting you, by the way. He’d offered to take us to dinner at Lombardo’s tonight, but I told him you’d probably have to work.”
“You are an evil, deceitful man. You lied to me. I can’t believe you actually lied to me. You told me he was a plumber.“
“No, you told me he was a plumber. I simply said he’d been helping out around here this summer, and he has. In spite of being artsy-fartsy, as you call it, Paul’s just a regular guy, and when’s he’s taking a break from the music, he likes to do all the things regular guys like to do. He’s taken quite an interest in our home renovation project and offered to help out more than once. He really shouldn’t work with tools because of the risk of injuring his hands, but he doesn’t mind putting his truck to good use from time to time. He picks up supplies for me, hauls trash to the landfill, that sort of thing. I had a bit of a mess leftover after the patio project, and it was all hidden away in boxes behind the storage shed. I was worried you might finally decide to do something about the overgrown lawn before I had a chance to do away with the evidence.“
“Maybe you should call him back and tell him we’re on for tonight. I’m kinda looking forward to meeting this guy.”
“If we don’t see him tonight, you’ll get your opportunity next weekend. He and his girlfriend are sitting next to us at the fundraiser.”
“Girlfriend? Get outta here! You mean he’s actually….”
“Straight as an arrow,” Timmy said.
“I give up,” Donald said, laughing again. “You’re definitely a man of mystery, Mr. Callahan. And obviously one of many talents.”
“Well, I do consider myself rather versatile. You know how practical my mother is. She insisted that Kelly and I both learn our way around the kitchen…“
“Which is why you’re such a kick-ass good cook.”
“Which is exactly why I’m such a kick-ass good cook. And whenever we visited her parents, she made sure we spent a lot of time puttering around in the workshop with Grandpa Al. Mother didn’t want either of us to get caught with our pants down, so to speak.”
“You’re caught, all right,” Donald told him, suddenly gasping and squirming -- but in an undeniably good way -- because Timmy had scooped up his balls in one very capable hand and was squeezing them firmly. “As for the rest….”
He assaulted Timmy’s fly, allowing Timmy to assist with the belt when he fumbled, fingers trembling with excitement. But when Tim started to unstrap the tool pouch as well, Donald caught his hand. “Oh, no. That stays,” he said, watching his partner’s cornflower eyes turn to blue smoke the way they always did when he was in rut. Closing in on him for another thorough kiss, he shoved Timmy’s jeans down to his knees and fondled him tenderly. Then his mouth was on Timmy’s throat, first biting that hot little indention he’d had his eye on earlier, then sucking on it greedily.
“I think it’s great that you can do all this,” he said when he finally came up for air. “I’m pretty much a danger to myself and others when I have a hammer or drill in my hands, and I just assumed it was the same with you. Why all the secrecy?”
Timmy tipped his head back and sighed with pleasure as Donald went back to ravaging his neck. “I almost told you when you got so angry with me over the mosaic, but then we got distracted, and I decided to just let it go. It was rather fun, having a little secret. I enjoyed being useful, seeing things that annoyed you like that noisy toilet and making them right. Oh yes, right there,” he breathed as Donald’s tongue traced a moist trail down to his nipple. “But you’ve always had a certain image of me, and it didn’t involve hammers or socket sets, to say the least. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about all this.”
Donald paused in the middle of rolling a tender nub between his teeth and glanced up at him. “I don’t get it.”
Timmy looked slightly uncomfortable. “There’s always been a certain…dynamic between us, Don. You bring me flowers, hold doors open for me, help me on with my coat. You like being the chivalrous one, the protective one, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like being on the receiving end of that kind of attention. You’re the only one who’s ever treated me that way, you know. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel loved.”
“And you’ve been worried that if I saw the big, bad, butch side of you, and wouldn’t get the door for you anymore?”
“Sounds rather ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but my ego isn’t that fragile. I can hold my own with a guy who knows a Phillips from a flathead. Hell, I’ve been doing it for years without knowing it, haven’t I? So you like being a weekend warrior. Go for it. I’ll still open doors for you, and I’ll still take out the trash and deal with the mousetraps in the attic.“ Laughing softly, he wrapped Timmy in a tight hug when he shuddered at the mention of his least favorite rodent. “I’m still gonna bring you flowers, and I’m still gonna help you with your jacket…and your tool belt. In case you haven’t noticed, I find all this kind of…hot.”
Timmy’s hands slid over Donald’s buttocks, giving them a playful squeeze. “The fact hasn’t escaped my attention.” Then he slipped a finger into the crevice between those two pale cheeks, smiling when Donald shivered in spite of the heat. “And with all the money I’ve been saving by doing these little jobs myself, we can finally afford to get the air conditioning fixed. I’ll call Brown’s Heating and Air Monday morning and schedule an appointment for them to put in a new unit. And since we have a bit extra saved back, maybe you could take a few days off. I have some vacation time coming, and I was thinking that after the fundraiser, we could go to Poughkeepsie for a few days. It doesn’t feel quite the same there since Grandmother’s been gone, but my parents will be out of town and we’ll have the house to ourselves. We can swim in the lake and work on our tans….”
“I don’t tan, Timmy. I just speckle and burn.”
“We’ll use plenty of sunscreen so you can work on a nice speckle while I work on my tan. Phil can serve us his signature Mojitos while we lounge in the shade in our hammocks…”
“Hammock,” Donald insisted. “We’re going to share one hammock.”
“…and Katie will be there to cook all our favorite dishes. I assume you’ll want gallon buckets of hollandaise sauce served at every meal?”
“Of course. And Popsicles for dessert. Boxes and boxes of cherry Popsicles.”
“I’ll tell Nancy to stock a freezer full.”
“Have I ever mentioned that I really love summer in New York?“ Since he was feeling less steady on his feet with every passing second, Donald sank to his knees and nuzzled Timmy’s crotch, rubbing his face against that beautifully erect cock and making it bob. Getting harder by the moment, he drank in the rich leather scent of the pouch, the metallic bite of the tools, the faintest essence of eco-friendly soap mixed with that clean, familiar heat he’d recognize anywhere as Timothy himself.
“I thought you hated summer.”
“Honey, as long as I can work up a sweat with you, summer’s just fine with me.”
“But you said….”
“Forget what I said. Chalk it up to temporary insanity.”
Timmy chuckled. “I really love you, Donald. Even if you are insane. And not just temporarily.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart. And I think I’m gonna love having a handyman in the family. But you’re not the only one, you know,” Donald said, licking his lips. “I can be pretty handy myself.”
Then he took Timmy into his mouth and spent the rest of the day proving his point.
Half a moment of silence, then Timmy replied, sounding cool and unruffled. “Did you like it any better back in Warren when you were growing up?”
“No, hating summer‘s pretty much been a lifetime obsession with me.”
Another small silence. Donald could just picture Timmy, crisp and immaculate in his air-conditioned office, leaning back in his chair and adjusting his glasses, as if that could bring their conversation into sharper focus. The thought of Timmy luxuriating in Freon-enhanced comfort while he was barely one step away from heatstroke should have pissed him off. Instead, it made him smile in spite of himself.
“I thought it was winter you hated,” Timmy said.
“I hate that, too.”
“Darling, is there any time of year you actually enjoy?”
Donald thought long and hard about that one. “April 29th is usually good,” he said at last. “If the weather holds, I can deal with May 7th, too. And September 23rd if we’re having an early fall.”
“And if we’re having a late one?” Timmy asked, and Donald could clearly hear the smile in his partner’s voice. It made his own grow bigger.
“October 20th is about as far as I’m willing to commit.”
Timmy was laughing by then, which meant Donald couldn‘t help laughing along in spite of the second degree burn on his posterior. No matter what kind of mood he was in, spending a few minutes on the phone with Timothy Callahan always made him feel better.
“Are you working late tonight?” Timmy asked.
“No, I’m ready to call it a day. Want me to pick you up?”
“You can pick me up anytime you like, handsome. Are you still in the rental?”
“Yeah, they‘re not done with the bodywork on mine yet.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Hey!”
“It’s ninety-five in the shade, Donald. At least you’re driving something with a working air conditioner for a change.”
“Well, don’t get used to it, because the guy at the garage promised I’d be back in Old Reliable by this time tomorrow.”
Timmy snorted delicately. “The gentleman who rammed your car may have been a crude, foul-mouthed philanderer, but at least he had insurance.”
“Lousy insurance,” Donald said. “They sprang for the oldest and crappiest rental car on the road. I have no idea why they didn’t haul this heap to the scrap yard years ago. It looks like a leftover from some 70s cop show. Besides, it burned my ass.”
“It burned….”
“My ass. I’ve probably got blisters. I can feel them swelling back there as we speak.”
“Should I ask?”
“If I say no, will you still kiss it and make it better?”
“Of course. And I’ll ice it down for you as soon as we get home.”
Visions of himself lying facedown on their bed with a naked Timmy bending over him, expertly applying ice to a few choice patches of overheated skin flashed before Donald’s eyes. They’d played around with ice before, and once with a grape Popsicle, which had been silly and messy and fun. In spite of the fact that Timmy had grumbled afterward about purple stains on the new sheets, they’d both found the experience highly…stimulating.
“Be right there,” Donald said, his voice not quite as steady as it had been a moment before. He snapped his phone shut and started the engine, then cranked up the AC, pointing the vents toward the passenger seat, hoping to cool off that particular slab of sizzling vinyl before Timmy got in. As for his own charbroiled posterior…well…they’d just have to make a pit stop for freezer treats on the way home. Cherry this time. Definitely cherry.
* * * *
The evening progressed nicely -- or at least as nicely as an evening can progress when the thermometer’s stuck in the mid-90s and the central air hasn’t worked in weeks.Still, they had their fun with the Popsicles and lay naked together afterward in the cherry-scented darkness, trying to catch a breeze so scant it barely made the curtains flutter. They talked quietly as they lay there, not having a conversation, exactly, just keeping a meandering stream of words flowing between them. They discussed Timmy’s day and their friend Jon’s upcoming move, even laughed a little about the man who’d rammed Donald’s car after having been caught in bed with his brother’s wife -- all the while carefully avoiding any mention of home repair. That subject was every bit as sticky as their Popsicle-stained sheets.
They’d stretched John Rutka’s money far enough to get the roof fixed and the fireplace finished, but all too soon, Donald and Timmy’d found themselves right back where they started, with a fixer-upper house and a bank account so empty you could watch tumbleweeds blowing down the center of it. The work progressed in fits and starts, with Allison and Bobbie Jo tackling the high priority issues like bad wiring and major plumbing repairs whenever Timmy could guarantee a check large enough to cover their expenses. The smaller annoyances would just have to wait.
But they didn’t wait. Not for long, anyway. The toilet in the downstairs bathroom that seemed to run constantly suddenly fell silent, and the flickering light above the vanity in the master bath burned steadily for the first time in months. The leaky showerhead that had driven Donald crazy for so long stopped dripping, and the cracked window near their bed -- the one the wind had whistled through night after night last winter -- sported new glass and a fresh coat of paint. There was no more money in their checking account than there had been before, so Donald wasn’t sure where the cash for all those small repairs was coming from. Whenever he asked, Timmy became noticeably, if subtly, evasive and quickly changed the subject.
Donald wasn’t worried, though. After all, it wasn’t his department. Mowing the grass and taking out the trash, disposing of dead rodents in the attic traps and writing MORE PEANUT BUTTER ASAP!!! on the grocery list were his jobs, while juggling the books, dealing with laundry and overseeing the renovations were Timmy’s. Most of the time, Donald was more than happy to leave him to it.
Occasionally, though, just occasionally, Donald would wonder how they were affording all this. And for that matter, who they were paying to do it. When he thanked Bobby Jo for finally replacing the cracked window pane, she shrugged and said she didn’t do it. And when he waylaid Allison as she tore out some bad wiring in the laundry room and told her how happy he was that the toilet was no longer singing to them 24/7, she told him it wasn’t her work.
“Not your work?”
“Nope. Tim’s always bitching about our prices being too high, so I guess he decided to sub the small jobs out.”
“Sub them out!”
“That means he’s assuming the role of general contractor and hiring….”
“I know what it means, Allison. I just didn’t realize Timmy did.”
Allison laughed at him but kept on working. “It doesn’t bother us one way or another. We never make much money off the nickel and dime jobs anyway.”
But if Bobby Jo and Allison weren’t making money off them, who was?
As one July day sweated its way into the next, Donald noticed that he wasn’t coming home to find work in progress the way he once had. The odd jobs that no one seemed willing to take credit for all seemed to be completed while he was away -- either on evenings when he pulled a late night surveillance gig, or on the rare weekend when a case took him out of town. With the exception of the heating and air guy who’d performed last rites on their central air unit and an occasional Chicks With Bricks sighting, he hadn‘t spotted a handyman anywhere near the place.
July turned into August, and the temperature kept climbing. Timmy bought a window fan for their bedroom, so at least the muggy air was in motion when they tried to sleep. Since his car was out of the shop, Donald was back to cruising the streets of Albany without AC as well, but he had beer in the fridge and Timmy between the sheets, so life was good. They worked their way through their stash of cherry Popsicles in record time, followed by orange, then a repeat of their old favorite, grape. A sense of order seemed to return to their lives. Renovations were still being done, albeit at a plodding pace. Their dinnertime conversation was rarely interrupted by the sound of bandsaws or sledgehammers anymore, and they could actually walk through the front door without tripping over toolboxes and extension cords. For the first time in months, they were able to enjoy quiet time together in their own home. Donald wasn’t complaining, not one bit. But he was curious.
One day, he came home to the smell of drywall dust, and found Bobbie Jo and Allison in the gutted laundry room, hanging sheetrock. “Hey, ladies!” he said, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief so he wouldn’t choke to death on the white cloud they’d created. “Thanks for finally replacing the water line to the dishwasher. I’m morally opposed to doing dishes myself, but it sure makes Timmy’s life easier.”
“Didn’t do it,” Bobby Jo said through her filter mask. “We’ve been out of town.“
“Where to this time? Pride month’s over, so there shouldn’t be any more lesbian biker rallies for you two to ride in or rainbow-colored floats to ride on for a while.”
“Smartass,” Allison said. “We just got back from the Menses Faire in Antioch.”
“Menses Fair? Is that where a bunch of women stand out in a field and PMS together?”
“Smartass,” she said again. “It’s a musical event, a celebration of women and song, a week where we can free ourselves from the constraints of this oppressive, male-dominated society and raise our voices….”
“If you didn‘t replace that hose, who did?” Donald interrupted, knowing that if he didn’t nip her lecture in the bud, he’d be hearing about the evils of male oppression for hours. “I haven’t seen anybody but you guys around here in weeks.” He’d never seen anyone else around, period. But for some reason, he was reluctant to admit that to her.
“Probably the little guy,” Bobby Jo suggested.
“The little guy?”
“Yeah, we’ve run into him a couple of times,” Allison agreed. “Young blond guy, about your size but lighter build. Looks too pretty to get his hands dirty, if you ask me.”
“Any idea what his name is or what kind of work he does?”
“Tim’s never exactly offered to introduce us. And I’ve never seen him actually do anything, have you, babe?”
“Nope,” said Bobbie Jo. “As a matter of fact, that husband of yours always seems to be in a big hurry to hustle him out the door once we come through. Guess he’s worried about professional jealousy or something like that. Which is crazy. We have more than enough work to keep us busy this summer, and it’s not like we make anything….”
“On those nickel and dime jobs. Yeah, you’d rather hold out for the chance to gouge us on the big ones instead,“ Donald said, sticking out his tongue to make them laugh. He loitered there for a few more minutes, shooting the breeze as he watched them work, then left them to finish the job in peace. Yet something about the conversation nagged at him, like a splinter beneath his skin that he couldn’t see but couldn’t quite forget about either, because it prickled every time he poked it. Donald didn’t poke it, at least not intentionally. But every once in a while he felt that telltale prickle just the same.
A few days passed, and all seemed quiet on the home improvement front. Then he received a mid-morning text from Timmy saying he’d left the office and planned on working from home for the rest of the day. Donald speed-dialed his cell.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, hello to you, too! Why do you immediately assume something’s wrong just because I….”
“Because you never do, that’s why. Are you sick? If you need me to, I can….”
“Honey, I’m fine. It’s a slow week at the office with the senator on vacation, so I thought I could be bored at home just as easily as I could there.”
“I swear, Timothy, if you have a migraine coming on and aren’t telling me….”
“I’m perfectly fine, Donald. Now go find an alley to skulk in and I’ll see you tonight. I know it‘s asking a lot, but try not to worry, okay?”
But Donald did worry. Timmy hardly ever left work early, and on the rare occasions when he did, he usually showed up at Donald’s office, suggesting an impromptu coffee date, or if the P.I. business was in a lull, a leisurely lunch followed by what they both euphemistically referred to as “dessert.” The fact that he hadn’t suggested either was another splinter under Donald’s skin, and this one didn’t wait to be poked to make its presence known. By 2:30, the prickle had become a jab, so he gave up all pretense of work and headed home.
He wasn’t spying on Timmy. Not at all. He was simply looking into a matter of some concern, proving to himself that he had nothing to worry about. As it turned out, his timing couldn’t have been better. Just as he pulled up in front of their house, a lithe young man hurried out the front door and bounded toward a red pickup parked across the street. Craning his neck, Donald caught a glimpse of finely chiseled features framed by shoulder length blond hair before the truck pulled away. Something about the guy struck Donald as vaguely familiar, but if he’d seen him before, he couldn’t remember when or where. Pretty, Allison had said. Well, that was definitely a face you could call pretty. He was groping for a notebook and pen so he could write down the number on the truck’s license plate -- though he couldn’t have explained to anyone, least of all himself, why he would want to -- when he heard a quavering voice call his name.
“Strachey! I say Strachey! Is it hot enough for ya?” It was Norris Crandall, the biggest pain in the ass on the block. Resplendent in yellow plaid shorts, black dress socks with garters and an ancient pair of golf shoes, the old man trotted toward Donald at a pretty good clip, waving his arms and brandishing a rake.
Swallowing his frustration at being interrupted, Donald did his best to sound sociable. “It passed hot enough about twenty degrees ago. How’ve you been, Mr. Crandall?” he asked, cranking his voice a decibel or two above the norm to compensate for his neighbor’s hearing loss.
“Not worth a shit, Strachey. I’ve got a bone to pick with that boyfriend of yours.”
“What‘s the matter now?” Donald asked, not sure he really wanted to know. Once you got him going, the old geezer was harder to get rid of than herpes and about three times as annoying. Besides, it irked him that Crandall never called Timmy by name, though he was definitely an improvement over the guy from their old apartment complex, a greasy-haired gnome named Ripley, who’d once made the mistake of referring to Timmy as “your little missus.” Donald had made it perfectly clear that further disparaging remarks about his husband wouldn’t be tolerated, and Ripley’d been careful to keep a civil tongue in his head ever since. Timmy, thank God, had never seemed to make the connection between the gashes on his partner’s knuckles and their neighbor’s sudden dental deficit.
“That plumber of yours is heading off again, and I still don’t have his name and number!”
“My plumber?”
“The blond! The skinny blond pretty-boy! Your boyfriend promised to get me his name and number over a week ago, and he hasn’t done it yet!”
For the briefest of instants, Donald pictured Crandall, knobby knees trembling and liver-spotted hands nervously clutching a bouquet of posies, inviting the skinny blond pretty-boy out on a date. He shook his head to clear it. The heat was getting to him. It had to be the heat. “You mean the guy who just drove away in the red truck?”
“Hell yeah, I mean the guy in the red truck! He’s the one who fixed your john, isn’t he?”
“Beats me,” Donald said. “Timmy’s the one who handles that stuff. You’d be better off asking him.”
“I did ask him, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Last time that guy was over here, I asked your boyfriend if he’d gotten that singing toilet of yours fixed, and he said it was working just fine. Said it didn’t set him back much, either. I told him I was glad to hear it, because I had a leaky drain pipe that needed seeing to, and I didn’t want to pay an arm and a leg to get it done. He said he’d have to look up the guy‘s name and number, which sounded kinda fishy at the time, seeing as how they’d been acting awful familiar, if you know what I mean.”
Something inside Donald closed up tight, and it took him several seconds of very deliberate breathing to get it to open up enough for him to speak. “No, Mr. Crandall, I don’t think I do. Want to fill me in?”
“I’m not saying a word. Your ways aren’t my ways, Strachey, and I thank the good Lord for that. But I consider myself an enlightened man. Hell, I’m willing to hire a queer plumber, aren’t I? So if you can get that boyfriend of yours to cough up that young fella‘s number, I‘ll get out of your hair and do just that.”
“I’ll ask him now,” Donald said. “If you don’t mind waiting….”
“I’ve waited over a week already, so what’s a few more minutes?” Using his rake as a walking stick, Crandall followed Donald to the front door and settled his bony, plaid-covered backside on the stoop. “Just don’t take all day about it, you hear? It’s not like I’m getting any younger.”
Trying very hard not to think, Donald stepped inside and hurried up the stairs, calling Timmy‘s name. He walked into their bedroom just in time to see Timmy emerging from the master bath, looking flushed and flustered and still damp from the shower.
“Donald! You startled me! What are you doing home so early?”
“It’s been a slow day for me, too, so I thought I’d call it quits early and check on you.”
“Check on me?” Maybe it was a trick of the light, but it seemed as though Timmy’s flush deepened.
“You never play hooky from work unless you take me along for the ride. I know you said you weren’t sick, but….”
“I told you I was fine, Donald. I just wanted to catch up on a few things around here. Honestly, you should have called before you did this. I didn’t expect you home for at least another hour.”
“Didn’t realize I needed to make an appointment to see my own husband in my own house,” Donald muttered as Timmy scurried about the room, snatching stray pieces of clothing off the floor. Timmy never threw dirty clothes on the floor. He always folded them with military precision and stacked them neatly in their sanitized and deodorized hampers -- one for socks and underwear, one for shirts and slacks. A third hamper was designated for sheets and handkerchiefs, a combo that never made particular sense to Donald, unless it was because they were both more or less square-shaped. Towels didn’t have a hamper; they were an entity unto themselves. God help the bleary-eyed P.I. who stepped out of the shower at three a.m. and tossed a damp towel anywhere except directly into the washing machine.
When Timmy realized Donald was staring at him in shock, he stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“Nothing.” For the second time that afternoon, Donald found himself shaking his head to clear it. “Nothing,” he repeated. “Crandall’s waiting for me. He said you were gonna let him know how to get in touch with our plumber.”
“Plum…oh, that. Yes. Just a moment.” Timmy hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. They settled on his nightstand, and after another moment of hesitation, he walked over to it and picked up the phone book -- not his black address book where he usually kept that sort of information, Donald noted, but the phone book -- and flipped through the yellow pages, then scribbled a name and number onto a notepad.
“That is the guy I saw pulling away from here a few minutes ago, right? The one who worked on the toilet and the shower head?”
“He’s helped out with a number of things around here,” Timmy said.
Determined to abide by his new policy of not thinking, Donald carefully refrained from noticing the fact that Timmy eyes didn’t quite meet his as he tore the top sheet off the notepad and handed it to him.
* * * *
A summer storm blew in that night, bringing with it a cold front that dropped the temperature into the low 80s for the next few days. As the humidity decreased, so did Donald’s anxiety level. It seemed easier not to think when the days were bright and clear, and the air drifting through their bedroom window at night was fresher, softer than it had been in weeks. Progress around the house seemed to have reached a stopping point, which was more than fine as far as he was concerned. It was a good time for the two of them, a quiet time, a time of peace.
Since both of their workloads were lighter than normal, they found time to meet for lunch at sidewalk cafes or brown bag it together in the park, watching geese war with ducks over territorial rights and bread crumbs. More often than not, Donald made it home by the time Timmy did, and they were able to spend most of their evenings together. They deadheaded the fading petunias in the flower bed and performed CPR on the snapdragons, watered the tomato plants and organically treated them for Japanese beetles, trimmed the shrubs and grilled out in the late summer twilight and took Watson for long, rambling walks after dark. Donald still hated the season, he told himself, still longed for cooler weather and signs of fall. But he’d survived summer in Kuwait, so he supposed he could deal with it in Albany as well. He could deal with anything, as long as he had Timmy by his side.
One night, as they sat in the back porch glider watching the sun go down, Timmy said, “We really should enclose this porch someday. Wouldn’t it be nice to have screens to let the air in during the summer and glass panels to keep the cold out during the winter?”
“And bug zappers to keep these little bloodsuckers away year round,” Donald said, swatting a mosquito as it sank its proboscis into his forearm. He scored a direct hit and smiled in satisfaction, wiping a rust-colored smear off his fair skin. “Since we’re dreaming here, we might as well put in a pool while we’re at it.”
“Preferably surrounded by a privacy fence, so we don’t send Mr. Crandall into cardiac arrest when we skinny dip in the moonlight.”
“I don’t think Crandall can see that far, sweetheart, especially after dark.”
Timmy laced his fingers through Donald‘s and leaned into him, realigning his long frame so he could rest his head against the shorter man‘s shoulder. “He has binoculars, you know. I’ve seen him using them. Believe me, he’d be watching every move we made.”
“His wife’s been gone a long time. Maybe he wouldn’t be happy just watching. Maybe he’d want to climb the fence and join in.”
Timmy shuddered. “Okay, maybe a pool’s not the best idea. The yard’s not really big enough, anyway. Maybe we should consider a hot tub instead. A small one, with plenty of space for two people, but not nearly enough room for three.”
“We could put it right there on the patio,” Donald said, pointing, “and soak in it on those long winter nights, making love as the snow comes down.”
Timmy squeezed Donald’s fingers. “Like we did on our honeymoon,” he said softly.
“Like we did on our honeymoon.”
They were quiet for a while, content. Suddenly, Timmy sat upright and scowled in disapproval. “That patio is so plain. It’s just a big, ugly concrete slab, isn’t it?”
“Timmy,” Donald said. He was all too familiar with that note of determination in his partner‘s voice.
“Before we even think about putting a hot tub on it, we’ll have to give it a face lift.”
“Timothy….”
“Just something simple to dress it up, like adding a border. Brick, maybe, or tile.”
“Dreaming’s one thing, but we’re overextended as it is. Major issues first, remember? We get the big stuff out of the way, then we’ll talk about tile borders and anything else you want to do to the back yard. We’re both on the same page here, right?” Donald nudged him. “Right?”
“Right,” Timmy agreed, giving Donald’s fingers another reassuring squeeze. But as he gazed across the yard, a speculative smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
* * * *
Soon the mercury level was on the rebound, of course, and Donald’s business was as well. He took on a couple of new cases, quick and easy jobs that didn’t pay much, but at least they paid. When he endorsed the checks and turned them over to Timmy, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I think these ought to go toward our air conditioning fund. When I break a sweat in the bedroom, I should do it because of all the wild and kinky stuff you’re doing to me, not because it feels like an oven in there.”
With a smile and a nod, Timmy agreed.
The next morning, Donald met with a prospective client, a prominent lawyer named Millsap, who wanted him to gather evidence supporting the defense of his client, an equally prominent and deeply closeted local businessman, who was currently on the slab for the attempted rape and aggravated assault of a much younger male employee. Normally, Donald wouldn’t have thought twice about taking on that kind of case. It’d give him a welcome break from working the cheating housewife circuit, and it paid -- holy shit, it paid -- more than his last five cases combined. He’d have to be a drooling idiot to turn it down.
Still, he waffled. He’d have to kick-start the investigation by leaving the next morning for the Bronx -- the Bronx, of all the ungodly places -- where the plaintiff had been hanging out in the aftermath of what Millsap referred to as “the alleged incident.“ The kid in question, Trent Roebuck, was a bona fide looker, no doubt about that, but his rep as an opportunist stretched across his young life like forty miles of bad road. Donald would spend the next week or two undercover, getting as close to Roebuck as he could without compromising his wedding vows, hopefully winning both his trust and an admission that the rape charges ware a scam.
It wasn’t as if he and Timothy never spent a night apart. Both of their jobs required a certain amount of travel -- hazards of the trade, as Timmy would say. Still, neither of them exactly enjoyed the separation. As romantic a notion as three a.m. phone sex and falling asleep to the sound of your partner’s voice with your cell still pressed to your ear might be, it was no substitute for the real deal. And the photos of Roebuck’s fine-featured face and shaggy blond hair reminded Donald of someone else, someone whose very existence he’d been doggedly forcing himself to ignore. In spite of his firm non-thinking rule, Donald’s brain had kicked in and kicked in hard. As much as they needed the money, the thought of leaving Timmy in the hands of some elusive blond handyman for a week or more made him just a little bit queasy.
Queasy or not, the size of the check Millsap waved under Donald’s nose cast the deciding vote. As soon as he got home, he packed his suitcase -- or at least Timmy packed it for him, painstakingly folding shirts and trousers so they wouldn’t wrinkle, then tucking every pair of socks and shorts Donald owned into a duffel and throwing in a few of his own for good measure. After dinner, Timmy reached into the freezer, grinning, and pulled out something sweet on a stick -- banana this time -- then treated him to a bon voyage party neither of them would soon forget. But even as Donald watched Timmy lap a puddle of banana-flavored runoff out of his navel, images of the guy he’d secretly dubbed “Toilet Boy” kept running through his mind. That, and the look of surprise -- or could it have been guilt mixed with panic? -- on Timmy’s face when Donald caught him coming out of the shower.
Donald spent the next week and a half sweating, and not just because August in the Bronx was even more sticky and miserable than August in Albany. When he wasn’t flirting up that annoying little shit, Roebuck, he holed up in his rented room, sucking on an endless procession of freezer treats and wondering if Timmy missed him as much as he missed Timmy. The second Roebuck coughed up a confession, Donald turned in his key and made a beeline for home.
Normally, he would have called Timmy’s cell and given him a heads-up that he was on his way, but he decided to surprise him instead. Surprise a pretty-boy plumber, too, maybe. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Timmy, because he did. Timmy loved him. He knew that Timmy loved him, just sure as downtown Albany smells like sweaty socks in the summertime. If Timmy’s feelings for him ever changed, he‘d sense it in a heartbeat. Donald trusted his husband completely and absolutely, with his life and with his heart. But he also trusted his instincts. There was something going on, something he was pretty damned sure he didn’t like, and it was time to get to the bottom of it.
* * * *
“Strachey!” Crandall called before Donald had a chance to get his bags our of the car. “Hey, Strachey! I’ve got a bone to pick with you!”
Not again. Hefting the duffel over his shoulder with a sigh, he slammed the trunk shut and turned to face his neighbor. “Hey there, Mr. Crandall. Ever get that faucet fixed?”
“Drain pipe, Strachey. It was a drain pipe. And let me tell you, I had to shell out half my social security check to do it!”
It had been a long drive up I-87, with traffic creeping along at 45 mph or less between Newburgh and Kingston thanks to narrowed lanes and road construction. Donald was sweat-soaked and tired, and now the late afternoon sun beat down on his head, frying the few functioning brain cells he had left. Christ, it was way too hot for this. Making what he hoped would pass as a sympathetic noise, he began rolling his suitcase toward the front porch, where he could at least listen to the old boy’s tirade in the shade.
“Sorry to hear it,” he said, forcing himself to sound civil when he felt anything but. “We’re on a shoestring budget ourselves, and Timmy’s usually pretty thorough about screening the people we use and making sure they charge reasonable rates.“
“Maybe that’s so with the folks he hires, but the ones he recommends are a different matter.”
Donald turned to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy who came to my house never worked for you, Strachey. According to him, he’s never even heard of you. And I’m telling you now, I don’t much like being jerked around like this. Not by some armed robber calling himself a plumber, and not by you and yours.”
“I don’t understand. Timmy gave me his name….“
“Sounds like your boyfriend’s jerking you around, too, if you ask me. This fella wasn’t the one I see messing around over at your place all the time. He was an old fart like me. Gray-haired with a big pot belly. Chain smokes, too, which I didn’t appreciate in my house. Louise, God rest her soul, would’ve rather died than had a cigarette stinking up her clean kitchen. Hell, I don’t imagine that boyfriend of yours woulda let him through the door, either, as fussy as he is.“
Something rose in Donald’s throat and refused to go down, no matter how hard he swallowed. “But the blond guy….”
“Huh. You just missed him. He and your boyfriend were messing around in the back yard most of the morning. I was trimming my back hedge and trying to keep a watch out, you know, just in case. But my eyes aren’t what they used to be and my damned binoculars got busted, so I couldn’t really tell what they were up to. They kept disappearing behind that old shed of yours, I know that much. About fifteen minutes before you got here, they hauled four or five boxes of stuff out to that red pickup.”
“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”
“How the hell should I know? I told you my binoculars are busted, didn’t I? I damn near threw my hip out again, getting around the side of my house in time to see him leave. Couldn’t catch much of the conversation -- my hearing’s not what it used to be, you know -- but he hugged that partner of yours hard as you please right there by the curb in front of God and everybody. Told him to call him Saturday if he was free.”
“He said what?” Donald asked, his mind spinning.
“Jesus, Strachey, folks’d think you’re the deaf one instead of me! He told your boyfriend he was looking forward to seeing him again, and when Tommy….“
“Timmy,“ Donald said firmly.
“When Timmy said he hardly ever knew when you’d be working and when you wouldn’t, Blondie said, ‘Be sure to call me Saturday morning if you’re free.‘ Then he drove away in that truck of his, music blaring fit to make your ears bleed. Some kinda longhair stuff.”
“Think hard, Mr. Crandall. Is there anything else you remember hearing?
“That’s all I know and more than I should be passing on. You know damned good and well I mind my own business and don’t pry into other people’s affairs,” Crandall concluded, putting a spin on the word “affairs” that made Donald long to wring his scrawny neck.
“Spit it out,” Donald ground out through teeth clenched so tight it made his jaw ached. “What are you trying to say?”
“A word to the wise, Strachey. That young fella’s working on a helluva lot more than plumbing, if you ask me. Working on your boyfriend’s own personal plumbing, maybe.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Timmy would never lie to me. And Timmy wouldn’t…Timmy would never….”
“Right. And you make your living off a bunch of poor dopes who say the same thing until you prove ‘em wrong. Take it from me, sonny boy. There’s no such thing as never.”
* * * *
Donald stood on the front porch for a long time after Crandall left, gripping the white railing for support as his gut clenched even harder than his teeth. Sweat trickled down his back and soaked his pits, leaving wide, wet patches on his blue button-down shirt. He knew he should go inside and start asking questions, talk this thing through with Timmy until they were both hoarse and exhausted and whatever was going on here made some kind of sense. But he was overheated and pissed off and about half a step away from freaking out, and he knew his communication skills went all to hell when he upset. He needed to calm the hell down and get the facts straight before he started hurling a bunch of wild accusations at what he knew -- knew -- was an innocent man.
Evidence. That’s what he needed. Evidence. Gathering it was what he did all day, every day, and there was no reason he shouldn’t treat this case like any other mystery he had to solve. Time to stop carrying on like a suspicious husband and act like a pro.
Once the pain in his belly settled into a dull ache that wasn’t going anywhere for a while, he left his luggage on the front steps and walked around the side of the house, into the sanctuary of their back yard. He wasn’t sure what clues he hoped to find back there, but it seemed a logical place to start. His eyes took their good, sweet time making the adjustment from glaring sun to soft shade, and at first, everything seemed to be exactly the same as it had been before he’d left town. Then he spotted the elegant blue, green and tan mosaic patio border, and his brain started racing like a hamster on a well-oiled wheel.
His first reaction was a rush of relief. Overwhelming, almost giddy relief.
But as he took in the finally detailed pattern, assessed the time and craftsmanship and completely unjustifiable expense it would take to produce something as unique and beautifully executed as that, the relief morphed into fury. They’d talked about this, damn it, agreed that landscaping aesthetics needed to go on the back burner until the necessities were taken care of. Yet the second his back was turned, Timmy’d gone right ahead and….
The storm door swung open and Watson barreled toward him, yelping a welcome, with Timmy hot on his heels. “You’re home! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home!” Familiar arms enveloped him in an enthusiastic hug and refused to let go for a very long time. “I’ve missed you,” Timmy murmured. “It’s so good to have you back.”
At first, Donald just stood there, stiff and unyielding in his husband’s embrace. Then the warmth and absolute sincerity in Timmy’s voice penetrated the layers of anger and doubt, and Donald caved. He returned the hug as hard as he dared, pressing his sweaty face against the cologne-scented haven that was Timmy’s neck. “I missed you, too,” he said, his voice not quite breaking.
Timmy pulled back enough to look at him. “Donald?”
“I’m all right,” Donald said, pressing his face against Timmy’s neck once more. “I‘m just really hot and really tired. Don’t look so worried, okay? I’ll always be all right as long as I have you to come home to.”
“Are you sure?” Timmy asked.
Donald had never been more sure of anything in his entire life.
* * * *
Forty-five minutes later, they were lounging on the revamped patio in lawn chairs, sipping ice-cold martinis. While Timmy unpacked his luggage and mixed the drinks, Donald had showered and changed into a clean wifebeater and cut-offs, and he felt fresher and more determinedly relaxed than he had in half a month. It felt good to just hang out there in the shade with Timmy, watching the light breeze ruffle a renegade strand of his soft, dark hair. This was his life, he told himself. This was the only part of it that mattered. Being with Timmy, spending down time with him, loving him and being loved. Why had he let Crandall get to him the way he had? Okay, so Toilet Boy only appeared on the scene when he was away, and okay, there had been some mix-up concerning the plumber, but that was just a coincidence, wasn’t it? Nothing to get in a twist about, and nothing that should make him suspicious of Timmy, his beautiful Timmy, who was without a doubt the best thing that had ever happened to him.
From time to time, Donald caught a glimpse of old man Crandall peeping at them over the top of his hedge. He deliberately caught Timmy’s hand and raised it to his lips, then settled it against his chest, where he cradled it gently. With a pleased smile, Timmy leaned over for an affectionate peck, then settled in as close as their chair arms allowed and asked about Donald’s trip. Between long pulls on his drink, Donald filled him in. He knew Timmy enjoyed hearing about his cases, loved being privy to any and all parts of his life. He usually went out of his way to make a good story out of it, but that evening his mind just wasn’t on the case.
Timmy looked good enough to eat in his mint green polo and khaki shorts, and in spite of his utter physical and emotional exhaustion, Donald was having a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself. His feet, too, for that matter. Giving in to temptation, he trailed a bare foot down hairy, lightly muscled calves and pried Timmy’s soft moccasins off one by one with his big toe. Once Timmy’s feet were bare, Donald tickled them with his own as Timmy laughed and twitched and begged for mercy. It wasn’t as if Donald had him trapped. He could have shifted positions at any time, moved those longer legs of his so his feet would be out of Donald’s range. But he didn’t. In all the years they’d been together, he’d never pulled away from Donald, not even once. And in spite of all the gut-wrenching waves of insecurity that had been sweeping over him that summer, Donald knew that he never would.
At last, Donald relented and turned the tickle into a caress, then tangled their toes together. “Always did like playing footsie with you,” he said.
“So I see. Happy now that you‘ve gotten that out of your system?” Timmy asked, still sounding a little breathless.
“I’m with you, aren’t I?”
“I was worried about you earlier. You seemed to be in such an odd mood when you first got here.”
“I was just in a pissy mood from spending half the day stuck in traffic on the thruway. I’m over it now, so let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
“Okay. I still wish you’d let me know you were coming, though. I would have fixed something special for your welcome home dinner. There are ribeyes in the freezer, but they’ll take half the night to thaw. I didn’t see much point in stocking up on groceries when you weren’t going to be here, so there’s not much else to eat except some leftover chicken salad and that fruit compote you like. And eggs and cheese, of course, and a few fresh tomatoes on the windowsill. We could always make omelets if you’d prefer something warm.”
“You get whatever you want, honey. I’m not really hungry.”
“But you’re always hungry,” Timmy said, instantly on the alert.
“I’m feeling kinda off tonight. Between the heat and the aggravation, my stomach’s been acting sort of dicey. I don’t think putting food in it would be the best idea right now.”
“So you’re pouring alcohol into it instead?”
“Strictly for medicinal purposes. Your martinis always cure what ails me, as my old man used to say as he killed off a fifth.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know about that, but if you drink enough of them, you’ll definitely forget what was wrong with you in the first place.”
Donald drained his glass and captured Timmy’s hand again, then closed his eyes, yawning. He was starting to nod off when Timmy asked, “Did you notice anything different out here, by any chance?”
Donald’s pried one eye open, then closed it again. “I noticed.”
“You don’t like it,” Timmy said, sounding oddly hurt.
Donald sighed. Apparently, the discussion he’d been hoping to avoid wasn’t going to wait for another night. “It’s not that I don’t like it, Timothy.”
“Well, good. I thought the person who laid the tiles did a rather nice job.”
“Too nice. That’s the problem. Work like this doesn’t come cheap. Considering the situation we’re in, juggling the mortgage and all the repairs we’re looking at, we don’t need to be shelling out this kind of cash right now, especially since we agreed the cosmetic stuff should wait. Jesus, Timmy, this house needs major surgery just to stay alive, and you blew all our savings on a nose job!”
“I didn’t blow our savings,” Timmy said, looking stricken. “Adding the border wasn‘t nearly as expensive as you might think. The materials cost little of nothing, and the labor….”
“The labor had to cost two grand at least!”
“I would never spend that kind of money without talking to you first. The cost of this project was negligible.”
Donald snorted. “Contractors don’t work for negligible wages, Timothy. Allison and Bobbie Jo….”
“Allison and Bobbie Jo didn’t do this,” Timmy said quietly.
“Then who did?”
“Just….”
“Just what?”
“Just a handyman.”
“The same one who fixed our toilet?”
“Yes.”
“But not the one you recommended to Crandall?”
Timmy’s reply was barely audible. “No.”
“Exactly who is that little blond shit, anyway? Crandall says he had his hands all over you in the middle of the front yard earlier today. All I’ve ever seen of him is the tailgate of his truck as he drives away, yet he’s been hanging around here for weeks, apparently. How weird is that? How well do you know this guy, anyway?”
For a few seconds, Timmy just sat there blinking at him, looking for all the world like someone who had fallen behind in a race for his life and had no idea how he was ever going to catch up. “I only met him recently, but we’re becoming friends,” he said at last. “We come from very different worlds, but he seems to think we have a lot in common….”
“I bet he does,” Donald said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And he does all this stuff for free, out of the kindness of his….”
Before Donald could finish, Timmy was gone, sprinting inside the house and back out again before the storm door had a chance to ease closed. He tossed two booklets into Donald’s lap. “The man who’s been doing odd jobs around here isn’t a professional contractor, Don. He’s just someone with time on his hands who likes to keep busy and help people out when he has the chance. Apart from buying materials and paying Allison for the work she and Bobby Jo did in the laundry room, I haven’t spent a dime on this house in weeks. Take a look at our checkbook and savings account ledger if you don’t believe me.”
Donald’s hands wavered over the booklets, not quite touching them. Then he was out of the chair and reaching for Timmy, pulling him close and squeezing hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve had a really shitty day. I hate this rotten weather and the pileups on the thruway and Crandall always sticking his nose in our business and this fucking renovation that’s never, ever going to end. Most of all, I hate it when I have to be away from you. You don‘t have to prove anything to me. I believe you.”
Long, soothing fingers found their way into his hair, and Timmy’s lips brushed his cheek. “It’s okay, baby. I’m sorry you had such a bad day.”
“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It’s just that nothing’s ever really for free, Timmy. You say this guy…this guy I’ve never even met…is doing all this work without expecting some sort of payoff, but I don’t buy it. I know I’m a suspicious bastard and a total asshole, but I can’t help it. That’s not the way the world works. Nobody thinks that way anymore. Nobody but you, at least.”
“Don, there’s something….” Timmy began, but Donald cut him off with a kiss, hard and a little bit frantic, followed by another and another, each one deeper and more insistent, until there was nothing left to do, nothing either of them could possibly do, but stumble inside and up the stairs, clinging together wordlessly. Their lovemaking was always intense, and after they’d been apart for a while, it was always more so. But that night there was something different about it, something raw and desperate and needy. It served as a catharsis of sorts, and as they lay together in the aftermath, bathed in sweat and thoroughly exhausted, Donald realized it was the most effort he’d put into anything since mid-May when the temperature first topped 80. He’d marked his territory, re-staked his claim, and he felt pretty goddamned good about it.
“That was absolutely incredible,” Timmy told him. “I thought you said you were feeling a little off tonight.”
“I seem to be back on again,” Donald admitted.
Long after Timmy had fallen asleep, still cradled possessively against his chest in spite of the heat, Donald lay awake, his mind gong around and around like the ice cream truck on its afternoon circuit through the neighborhood, playing “Turkey in the Straw” in an endless loop. Clearly, his non-thinking days had come to an end.
What he’d tried to tell Crandall was simple fact -- Timmy didn’t cheat. Period. It just wasn’t his nature. And he sure as hell didn’t lie. He never lied, not even when it would be safer than telling the truth, smarter, or more polite. Over the years, Donald had come to the conclusion that Timmy was physically incapable of it, the way some people were incapable of wiggling their ears, curling their tongues, or rolling their Rs when they tried to speak Spanish. And he certainly wasn’t stupid. Far from it. But even after all those years in politics, after all those years of being shown bits and pieces of the seamier side of the world through Donald’s eyes, he still had a sense of innocence about him, an unquestioning trust that left the door wide open for other people’s deceit.
Donald wasn’t sure what Toilet Boywanted from Timmy, but he had a pretty good idea, and the more he thought about it, the more pissed off he got. The situation was bound to come to a head soon, and if it didn’t, he might just have to give it a shove.
* * * *
Donald had been sitting in his office for almost an hour, listening to his rickety window unit splutter and cough as it emitted sporadic gusts of dank, air. A fresh trickle of moisture followed the path of a rust-colored stain down the wall and pooled on the floor. Not for the first time, he envisioned Timmy weeping over his corpse as the coroner scribbled “Legionnaires’ Disease” in bold red letters on his clipboard. Then another vision took over, one of Timmy, puffy-eyed and wearing funeral attire, finding the strength to go on in the arms of a faceless blond holding a crescent wrench. He shuddered, and for the fifth time in as many minutes, glanced at his watch.
Nine-thirty came and went, and still no client. It was Saturday morning, the first Saturday since he’d been home from that armpit of civilization known as the Bronx. He should still be in bed with Timmy, happily snoring away in his arms -- or better yet, working his way through their supply of frozen fruity goodness. But this was a repeat client who’d claimed it was an emergency, and while Donald wasn’t wild about getting sucked into unspecified emergencies on Saturday mornings when he could still be snuggled between the sheets with his honey, he couldn’t afford to snub his nose at a repeat client.
Some emergency. Nine-thirty turned into nine-forty, and Donald decided he’d been stood up. He dialed the guy’s cell but got no answer, then dialed it again and was sent straight to voicemail. The client and his “emergency” must have kissed and made up, and were probably saying I’m sorry with the help of a case of condoms and a bucket full of lube. Fair enough. Time to give Timmy a head’s up that he was on his way home and call this pathetic waste of weekend sleeping-in-time a wrap.
But still he sat here, thinking. Toilet Boy had told Timmy to call him Saturday if he was free, and as far as Timmy knew, Donald was going to be gone for most of the day. As he’d kissed him goodbye, Donald had apologized for deserting him on what should have been a mutual day off, but Timmy had told him not to worry, that he’d make use of the time by getting some things accomplished around the house.
Get things accomplished. With Timmy, that could mean anything from throwing a couple of loads of laundry into the washer to hiring a six-man crew to start digging a hole big enough for that swimming pool they’d been dreaming about. Would he call Toilet Boy and invite him over to help? And if he did, would the little shit finally make his move, figuring when the P.I. is away, the handyman can play?
If he did, Timmy would send him packing. Donald had no doubt about that. But he dearly wished he could have the pleasure of showing the sneaky blond bastard the door himself.
He glanced at his watch again. Five minutes til ten. Timmy would definitely be up and running by now, all showered and shaved and smelling nice, dressed in something comfortable and casual, maybe the green polo from the other night. Was Toilet Boy there already, checking out those long swimmer’s legs in their khaki shorts?
Thinking, still thinking. Always a dangerous business, according to Timmy. It was still pretty early. If it had been Timmy who was planning a little afternoon delight, he’d expect the festivities to start promptly at noon. But who knew if Toilet Boy shared Timmy’s immaculate sense of timing. Should he head that way now, or should he kill a little more time here and give the situation at home a chance to develop?
The window unit snarked and sneezed a fine spray of rust-colored droplets at him, then fell ominously silent. Alarmed by the scent of scorched wiring, he pulled the plug and quickly stepped back, half expecting to see it burst into flames. When it didn’t, he gave the top of the until a few good, hard whacks with the flat of his hand, though he wasn’t sure what he expected that to accomplish. It was a guy thing: if something stops working, hit it. When he tried to plug it in again, sparks flew, and he hastily disconnected it. Taking it as a sign, Donald left the cord dangling and headed for home.
Donald parked his car on a cross street several blocks down from their house and traveled the rest of the way on foot, cursing his decision to dress professionally for his non-client every step of the way. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet but already hot as hell, and between the tie that was choking him and the sports coat that seemed to weigh him down, he began to seriously doubt that he could make it home before succumbing to heat stroke. As he rounded the corner, he spotted Toilet Boy’s truck in front of their house, its candy apple red paint glistening in the sun like a drag queen’s sequins. In spite of the heat and the tie and his desire to follow through on the stealthy approach, it took everything in him to keep from breaking into a run.
He cut behind houses and scrambled over back fences, reminding himself to keep his head and stay low. He had a brief but nasty run-in with the Winston’s Great Dane, Benjamin, who apparently took exception to red-faced and sweaty private eyes intruding upon his morning inspection of the next-door neighbor’s begonias, and he got a startled glance from one of the Cissell kids, who was standing in the middle of a blue plastic wading pool, attempting to either drown or bathe an angry cat. When he reached Crandall’s yard, he paused long enough to catch his breath and peel off his suit and tie, then left them hanging on the old man’s hedgerow, promising himself he would come back for them later, once he finished giving Toilet Boy the old heave-ho.
There were no signs of activity in his own yard, so Donald sidled up to the back of the house, ducking under one open window and then another, trying to get a fix on where his husband and their future former handyman might be. He could hear someone moving around in the kitchen and the occasional clang of what sounded like metal on metal, but no voices, which seemed strange. If Timmy had someone to talk to, you better believe he would be talking, chatting away about the weather or his job or the price of eggs in China -- whatever. Unless Toilet Boy had in trapped in a corner and was trying to occupy his mouth in other ways.
To hell with the stealthy approach.
He slipped his key into the lock and eased in the front door, keeping one eye open for blond interlopers and another for Watson, whose joyful barks of welcome could spoil a quiet entry like nobody’s business. The dog was nowhere in sight, thank God, and neither was anyone else. Donald pressed his back to the wall and just listened, straining to hear a creak of floorboard on the landing overhead, the rustle of clothing near the staircase, any indication whatsoever that someone might come up behind him at any moment and catch him in the awkward position of trying to play super sleuth in his own home. Except for a few indistinct bumps and scuffling sounds coming from the kitchen, the house seemed to be empty.
More bumps accompanied by a metallic clatter, then Timmy’s voice, cursing softly. Toeing his shoes off by the fireplace, Donald inched his way around the staircase, then froze in his tracks as the kitchen came into view. There stood Timmy, or at least the mutant the pod people had left in Timmy’s place, decked out in a Hard Rock Café tee-shirt, faded Wranglers and a leather tool pouch, doing a damned good impersonation of someone who was in the middle of fixing the kitchen sink.
Toilet Boy was nowhere in sight, not that Donald would have noticed if he had been. He only had eyes for Timmy. The well-worn denim of those inexpensive, working man’s jeans fit him like a second skin, hugging his perfectly sculpted ass and turning every movement of his long, strong legs into an act of seduction. Donald had always appreciated Tim’s slender fitness, but Jesus, the way the short sleeves of that ratty old shirt showed off his firm biceps, the way the dark cotton clung to his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the way the stretched-out neck of the thing displayed the small hollow at the base of his throat. Donald licked his lips. He knew from experience that it would taste both salty and sweet, with a unique tang that was all Timmy’s own. He watched for a while, silent and disbelieving, his shock mixed with amusement mixed with arousal.
This was Timothy J. Callahan, chief aide to a New York State senator, the man who put on Brooks Brothers’ casual wear and dress shoes just to putter around the house, who hadn’t missed an appointment for his bi-monthly manicure in over six years and who never, ever got his hands dirty. Yet here he was, swearing and sweating and oozing testosterone out of every pore, selecting pliers and wrenches from his tool belt with an easy confidence that suggested -- dear God! -- that suggested he actually knew what to do with them. The very thought made Donald’s balls twitch.
Timmy disappeared beneath the sink, and Donald heard more bumps, grunts, and banging. A few moments passed, and Timmy cursed again -- not so softly this time -- and came up bleeding. Donald caught a side view of him sucking a smashed knuckle, and was about to surge forward to provide triage and a kiss, when Timmy simply gave the battered hand a couple of vigorous shakes and started rummaging through the open tool box on the counter. No fuss, no intricate cleanup procedure involving antiseptic and wads of cotton, just a minimal amount of swearing and on with business as usual. Once he’d found a larger wrench, he rubbed his hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat, than peeled off his shirt and mopped his face with it before casually tossing it aside.
That did it.
Forgetting all about the pickup out front and his little spy mission, Donald silently stripped, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor. As the ice cream truck drove past, clanging “Pop Goes the Weasel” at top volume, he padded around the island and hovered behind Timmy, who was leaning into the cubby beneath the sink once more. Grinning, Donald just waited. When Timmy straightened up, Donald snaked his arms around his waist and squeezed hard, growling, “Want some ice cream, little boy?” into his ear.
The wrench clattered against the floor as Timmy leapt to his feet with a startled yelp, his face blanching from the fright even as the tips of his ears turned scarlet. “Donald! You scared the life out of me! I thought you were going to be dealing with a new case all day, some sort of huge emergency.“
“Oh, I am, I am,” Donald assured him, pulling Timmy close enough to steady him, since he looked like he could use some steadying, and taking the opportunity to nip one of those over-warm ears.
Once Timmy regained his composure, he took in Donald’s nudity and his obvious state of excitement and managed a shaky smile. “I assume this means I’m currently under surveillance,“ he said.
“Always,” Donald breathed into his mouth, nailing him to the spot with a no-nonsense kiss. “Who are you,“ he asked once he’d left Timmy as breathless as he felt himself, “and what have you done with my husband?“
“He’s right here,” Timmy said, “and he’s never going to get the sink unclogged if you keep doing that.”
“The sink can wait. You’ve got a helluva lot of explaining to do. In all the years we‘ve been together, you never told me you knew how to do…” Donald gestured toward the tool pouch and the sink, “…all this.”
“Well, I do have a reputation to uphold,” Tim said, lightly trailing his fingers down Donald’s chest and belly until they settled in the dark blond thatch between his thighs, drawing a protracted moan from Donald.
“I’m gonna uphold more than your reputation if you keep that up.” Shifting slightly, Donald nudged Timmy’s legs apart with his knee and pressed upward, eliciting a moan from Timmy as well. “So, the leaky shower head?”
“That was me.”
“The bad ballast over the bar? The toilet that wouldn’t stop running? The cracked glass in the bedroom window?”
Timmy acknowledged his guilt with a self-depreciating smile and a shrug.
“And the fancy patio border I read you the riot act over? That was you, too?”
“Sometimes I like to go dumpster diving behind the home improvement store,” Timmy admitted. “They were throwing away whole boxes of tile that had been broken during shipment. When I asked, they said it was mine if I wanted to haul it away. So I took a hammer and broke the tiles into smaller pieces and came up with a design I liked, then bought a couple of bags of concrete mix….”
Donald whistled long and low. The idea of Timothy -- his refined, fastidious Timothy -- poking around in someone else’s garbage! The very thought was outrageous. It was insane. It was making him hornier than he’d been in a month of Sundays.
Even with every window open, the house felt like a sauna. Donald was pouring sweat, which was nothing unusual, but he decided that this one time, he really didn’t mind the heat so much. Almost seven years together, and the sight of Timmy’s bare, lightly muscled torso still made his breath catch. He buried his face in a patch of dark, slightly damp chest hair, happily nuzzling. When he perspired, he was pretty sure he smelled like…well…sweat. Timmy just smelled clean and faintly earthy, like the lawn first thing in the morning after they’d left the sprinkler on overnight. Donald was seriously considering dropping to his knees and burying his face in another patch of damp curls, when he heard a distinct thump in the hallway and froze in an instant of sheer panic. Shit! He’d forgotten all about the red truck and Toilet Boy and the reason he’d been lurking in the threshold like an idiot, spying on his own husband in their own kitchen on a Saturday morning. Then there was a familiar scrabble of claws followed by a yap of greeting, and something warm and hairy attached itself to his right ankle.
Watson.
Donald stooped to give the dog a brief pat. “Uh, there’s nobody else in the house, is there?” he asked once his heart stopped thudding long enough for him to speak. “I saw a truck out front….”
“And when you suspect we have guests, your first instinct is to strip down to your socks and molest your husband as he unclogs the kitchen sink?”
“Something like that,” Donald said sheepishly. But who….”
“The truck belongs to Paul, of course. He’s loaning it to us for the weekend so we can help Jon and Marty move tomorrow, remember?”
“Paul?”
“The senator’s brother,” Timmy prompted.
“Senator Glassman has a brother?”
Timmy rolled his eyes. “Paul Glassman, Donald. Ring any bells?”
Donald racked his brain. “You mean Paul Glassman, the boy wonder violinist...”
“Cellist.”
“…boy wonder cellist, the one we were supposed to go see perform until I…”
“Yes?”
“…until I got a pressing case at the last minute and had to let you go with your mother instead,” Donald finished hastily.
Timmy folded his arms across his chest and just waited.
“I knew that guy looked familiar! I remember seeing his picture on the program you brought home. Damn, he’s really ho….”
Timmy’s left eyebrow shot up.
“Young! He’s really young. To be Senator Glassman’s brother, I mean.”
“Half-brother,” Timmy said coolly, “from her father’s second marriage. I told you all about this when I bought the concert tickets. Honestly, Donald, do you ever listen to a word I say?”
“But honey,” Donald protested, “I pay attention to everything you tell me! Except when it’s something long and complicated about politics and I’m really, really tired, maybe. Or…“ he grinned apologetically, a wheedling note creeping into his voice, “….detailed stuff about your boss‘s artsy-fartsy relatives.”
Timmy’s eyebrow climbed even higher, threatening to disappear into his hairline. “Donald.” The word was delivered in the world-weary tone of an English teacher who’d asked his students to write love sonnets and found his desk covered in stacks of dirty limericks instead.
Donald hung his head. “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”
“Darling, right now you’re so far beyond screwed, screwed asks your advice on how to dress.”
Donald just blinked at him for several seconds. Then he cracked up. He laughed harder than he’d laughed in a very long time, doubled over and guffawing helplessly until tears rolled down his cheeks. Timmy calmly watched him cackle, his lips twitching at the corners and his eyebrow gradually returning to its original position. His hand settled on Donald’s shoulder, squeezing gently.
“Breathe,” he advised.
“I’m sorry,” Donald choked out, wiping his eyes. “I’m an idiot. I know this. But when I saw him pulling away from the house that day, and you were just coming out of the shower and acting so weird, I thought…”
“Yes?”
“Never mind what I thought,” Donald said hastily.
Tim grinned. “You remember Stephen Platt, don’t you?”
“That’s the guy the senator’s been dating, right? Silver hair, nice suits, old money.”
“Very old money, and a very nice man. He’s planning to propose to her on her birthday, which happens to be next Saturday. You do remember what Saturday is, don’t you?“
“Ummmm…the day before Sunday?“
“Donald….“
“All right, all right, “Donald said, laughing. “It’s the night of that big fundraiser you’ve been planning. My tux is already at the cleaners, so chill.”
“Mr. Platt and I have been conspiring with Paul a bit. After they announce their engagement that evening, Paul’s going to surprise her with a special performance to commemorate the occasion. It’s all very hush-hush. We didn’t want to take a chance on tipping off the senator and ruining the surprise, so Paul’s been coming here to iron out the details rather than meeting me at the office.“
“Sure hope she says yes when Platt pops the question.”
“Oh, she will. She loves him. I have no doubt of that.”
“So Senator Glassman’s about to become Senator Platt. Good for her. Even if she doesn’t appreciate my awesome taste in ties, she’s a nice person and I’m happy for her. But none of this explains why Mr. Crandall said that guy was playing human octopus with you in the front yard the other day.”
“He said that?” Timmy’s eyes were wide with shock.
Donald did a quick replay of his conversation with Crandall. “Well, no. Not in those words, exactly,” he admitted. “He said the guy hugged you. I guess I kinda let my imagination fill in the details.”
“Paul and I are friends, Donald. We have a lot in common, similar backgrounds, taste in books and music, that sort of thing. You know, he told me that when he was a little boy, he even fantasized about entering the priesthood before he realized that music was his true vocation. He’s really looking forward to meeting you, by the way. He’d offered to take us to dinner at Lombardo’s tonight, but I told him you’d probably have to work.”
“You are an evil, deceitful man. You lied to me. I can’t believe you actually lied to me. You told me he was a plumber.“
“No, you told me he was a plumber. I simply said he’d been helping out around here this summer, and he has. In spite of being artsy-fartsy, as you call it, Paul’s just a regular guy, and when’s he’s taking a break from the music, he likes to do all the things regular guys like to do. He’s taken quite an interest in our home renovation project and offered to help out more than once. He really shouldn’t work with tools because of the risk of injuring his hands, but he doesn’t mind putting his truck to good use from time to time. He picks up supplies for me, hauls trash to the landfill, that sort of thing. I had a bit of a mess leftover after the patio project, and it was all hidden away in boxes behind the storage shed. I was worried you might finally decide to do something about the overgrown lawn before I had a chance to do away with the evidence.“
“Maybe you should call him back and tell him we’re on for tonight. I’m kinda looking forward to meeting this guy.”
“If we don’t see him tonight, you’ll get your opportunity next weekend. He and his girlfriend are sitting next to us at the fundraiser.”
“Girlfriend? Get outta here! You mean he’s actually….”
“Straight as an arrow,” Timmy said.
“I give up,” Donald said, laughing again. “You’re definitely a man of mystery, Mr. Callahan. And obviously one of many talents.”
“Well, I do consider myself rather versatile. You know how practical my mother is. She insisted that Kelly and I both learn our way around the kitchen…“
“Which is why you’re such a kick-ass good cook.”
“Which is exactly why I’m such a kick-ass good cook. And whenever we visited her parents, she made sure we spent a lot of time puttering around in the workshop with Grandpa Al. Mother didn’t want either of us to get caught with our pants down, so to speak.”
“You’re caught, all right,” Donald told him, suddenly gasping and squirming -- but in an undeniably good way -- because Timmy had scooped up his balls in one very capable hand and was squeezing them firmly. “As for the rest….”
He assaulted Timmy’s fly, allowing Timmy to assist with the belt when he fumbled, fingers trembling with excitement. But when Tim started to unstrap the tool pouch as well, Donald caught his hand. “Oh, no. That stays,” he said, watching his partner’s cornflower eyes turn to blue smoke the way they always did when he was in rut. Closing in on him for another thorough kiss, he shoved Timmy’s jeans down to his knees and fondled him tenderly. Then his mouth was on Timmy’s throat, first biting that hot little indention he’d had his eye on earlier, then sucking on it greedily.
“I think it’s great that you can do all this,” he said when he finally came up for air. “I’m pretty much a danger to myself and others when I have a hammer or drill in my hands, and I just assumed it was the same with you. Why all the secrecy?”
Timmy tipped his head back and sighed with pleasure as Donald went back to ravaging his neck. “I almost told you when you got so angry with me over the mosaic, but then we got distracted, and I decided to just let it go. It was rather fun, having a little secret. I enjoyed being useful, seeing things that annoyed you like that noisy toilet and making them right. Oh yes, right there,” he breathed as Donald’s tongue traced a moist trail down to his nipple. “But you’ve always had a certain image of me, and it didn’t involve hammers or socket sets, to say the least. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about all this.”
Donald paused in the middle of rolling a tender nub between his teeth and glanced up at him. “I don’t get it.”
Timmy looked slightly uncomfortable. “There’s always been a certain…dynamic between us, Don. You bring me flowers, hold doors open for me, help me on with my coat. You like being the chivalrous one, the protective one, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like being on the receiving end of that kind of attention. You’re the only one who’s ever treated me that way, you know. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel loved.”
“And you’ve been worried that if I saw the big, bad, butch side of you, and wouldn’t get the door for you anymore?”
“Sounds rather ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“Sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but my ego isn’t that fragile. I can hold my own with a guy who knows a Phillips from a flathead. Hell, I’ve been doing it for years without knowing it, haven’t I? So you like being a weekend warrior. Go for it. I’ll still open doors for you, and I’ll still take out the trash and deal with the mousetraps in the attic.“ Laughing softly, he wrapped Timmy in a tight hug when he shuddered at the mention of his least favorite rodent. “I’m still gonna bring you flowers, and I’m still gonna help you with your jacket…and your tool belt. In case you haven’t noticed, I find all this kind of…hot.”
Timmy’s hands slid over Donald’s buttocks, giving them a playful squeeze. “The fact hasn’t escaped my attention.” Then he slipped a finger into the crevice between those two pale cheeks, smiling when Donald shivered in spite of the heat. “And with all the money I’ve been saving by doing these little jobs myself, we can finally afford to get the air conditioning fixed. I’ll call Brown’s Heating and Air Monday morning and schedule an appointment for them to put in a new unit. And since we have a bit extra saved back, maybe you could take a few days off. I have some vacation time coming, and I was thinking that after the fundraiser, we could go to Poughkeepsie for a few days. It doesn’t feel quite the same there since Grandmother’s been gone, but my parents will be out of town and we’ll have the house to ourselves. We can swim in the lake and work on our tans….”
“I don’t tan, Timmy. I just speckle and burn.”
“We’ll use plenty of sunscreen so you can work on a nice speckle while I work on my tan. Phil can serve us his signature Mojitos while we lounge in the shade in our hammocks…”
“Hammock,” Donald insisted. “We’re going to share one hammock.”
“…and Katie will be there to cook all our favorite dishes. I assume you’ll want gallon buckets of hollandaise sauce served at every meal?”
“Of course. And Popsicles for dessert. Boxes and boxes of cherry Popsicles.”
“I’ll tell Nancy to stock a freezer full.”
“Have I ever mentioned that I really love summer in New York?“ Since he was feeling less steady on his feet with every passing second, Donald sank to his knees and nuzzled Timmy’s crotch, rubbing his face against that beautifully erect cock and making it bob. Getting harder by the moment, he drank in the rich leather scent of the pouch, the metallic bite of the tools, the faintest essence of eco-friendly soap mixed with that clean, familiar heat he’d recognize anywhere as Timothy himself.
“I thought you hated summer.”
“Honey, as long as I can work up a sweat with you, summer’s just fine with me.”
“But you said….”
“Forget what I said. Chalk it up to temporary insanity.”
Timmy chuckled. “I really love you, Donald. Even if you are insane. And not just temporarily.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart. And I think I’m gonna love having a handyman in the family. But you’re not the only one, you know,” Donald said, licking his lips. “I can be pretty handy myself.”
Then he took Timmy into his mouth and spent the rest of the day proving his point.
Shadow and Light
8500 words
No one’s smile could match Timmy’s.
When Donald Strachey met Timothy Callahan, the first thing he noticed was that Timmy didn’t smile the way other men smile. He didn’t “smile” at all, as Donald had previously understood the definition of the word. He beamed, eyes shining and face illuminated from within, his sweet, toothy grin stretched impossibly wide as he bounced on his toes or walked with that extra little hop in his step, the very epitome of joyful celebration. Donald’s heart always did a back flip when he saw Timmy alight, and it was a very rare thing for him not to jump right in and join the party.
For years, that more-than-a-smile had been Donald’s beacon, illuminating the dark corners of his world, leaving no nook or cranny in which any but the most tenacious of ghosts could hide. But Timmy had stopped smiling, and now those old, grim spectres, always opportunistic, took advantage of the deepening shadows to hover near.
It hadn’t happened overnight. Of that much, at least, Donald was certain. As attuned to each other as they were, he would have noticed a sudden change and been on it like a duck on a June bug, as his Grammy Rosa used to say. But this was something gradual, something insidious that had crept up on him while he wasn’t watching, slowly dimming the light of his life until he awoke one day, blinking in confusion and dismay, oppressed by the encroaching darkness.
It wasn’t as if they were fighting, though Donald almost wished they were. Their fights had always been loudly vocal and -- though neither of them would admit it -- largely recreational, brief but spirited flashes in the pan that cleared the air and provided the excuse for equally spirited make-up sex. And it wasn’t as if Donald sensed Timmy was pissed at him. Tim got pissed off more often than most people change underwear, but it was a fond and forgiving kind of pissed that flared then faded as soon as Timmy got whatever it was off his chest. Timmy wasn’t one to bottle up his emotions, thank God. Clear as a mountain stream and just as exuberant, he was every bit as easy to see through, and the bubble and sparkle of his personality in turns exhilarated Donald and soothed his spirit. Usually.
Now there seemed to be an almost palpable sadness about Tim that colored every moment they shared together. Formerly an irrepressible chatterbox, Timmy became silent and pensive, leaning over the kitchen counter and aimlessly tracing patterns in the granite, glassy-eyed and unaware, or standing at the front window and staring out into the night, hugging himself as if he were cold, lost in a place where Donald couldn’t follow. If Donald made a sudden sound or touched him without warning, he’d start, looking flustered as a slow burn splotched his cheeks, and avert his gaze, unable to mask the sorrow in his eyes.
Oh, Timmy still went through the motions. He remained affectionate and attentive, keeping Donald’s dinner warm and his martinis cold, clean underwear and socks readily available and life organized and comfortable to a degree Donald could never achieve on his own. He still responded willingly enough to any and all romantic overtures, although when Donald thought about it, he realized it had been a long time since Tim had initiated anything from a cozy cuddle on the couch to a mad grappling between the sheets. Timmy had never been a passive partner before. Surprisingly wanton beneath that prim exterior and emotionally needy, he usually was, if anything, the antithesis of passive.
But what worried -- no, frightened -- Donald the most was the dimming of that heart-catching smile. Timmy still laughed politely at events social or political, chuckled -- albeit anemically -- at Donald’s teasing. His eyes still crinkled at the corners, his lips curved upward and parted, revealing a gleaming row of immaculately maintained teeth. Mechanically and anatomically, all was as it should be. Yet there was no doubt in Donald’s mind that on a deeper level, something was wrong, all wrong.
Donald, being Donald, hounded him for answers. “What is it?” he asked again and again. “Spill it, Timothy. Is it me? Is it something I’ve done?”
“Of course not,” Timmy inevitably replied, touching Donald’s hand or giving him a peck on the cheek that was meant to be reassuring, but fell woefully short of the mark. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
Fighting a growing panic, Donald tried to remedy the situation as best he could. He’d been burning a lot of midnight oil lately, trying to build the business and get the two of them on firmer financial ground. It was possible -- probable, even -- that Timmy was feeling neglected. So he surprised him with flowers and impromptu dinners out, concert tickets and walks in the park. He made a real effort to pick up after himself, and he dumped the more routine after-hours surveillance gigs in Kenny’s moderately capable lap, assuring that for the first time in all their years together, he spent more evenings home with Timmy than not. On the rare occasions when he was the first to make it home from work, he had a pitcher of martinis made or a bottle of pinot noir chilling, and met Timmy at the door with a tender smile, a warm hug, and soft jazz playing in the background. Toning down the bitchiness factor, he pulled on the penguin suit and escorted Timmy to endless fundraisers and other mind-numbing political events with nary a whine nor a whimper, doing his level best to look less bored than he felt as he shadowed his spouse on the interminable meet-and-greet circuit.
God help him, he even tried to cook.
Timmy responded to it all with mouth curving in that pseudo-smile that never reached his eyes, a vague brush of lips against his cheek and a murmured thanks. All the while Donald felt him drifting farther away, his light growing ever fainter until it was in danger of winking out.
For Donald, sleep became a thing of the past. The nightmares that Timmy’s warm and steadying presence had gradually neutralized over the years now returned with a vengeance, filling his nights with surrealistic visions of fear and pain and irreparable loss. Ghosts long banished returned to taunt him: An endless army of one night stands reminding him that he wasn’t relationship material. His parents, long dead and still resonating disapproval, finally vindicated now that his marriage to Timmy seemed to be on the same downhill slide everything else he‘d attempted to do with his life had taken. And Kyle, always and forever Kyle….
Telling Timmy about Kyle had freed Donald in ways he’d never imagined. Sobbing out his pain in Timmy’s arms had purged him of the poison that had eaten away at him since Kuwait. Timmy had listened without jealousy or judgment, murmuring endearments and cradling him close through the second longest night of his life. The next morning, Donald had emerged drained but more optimistic than he’d ever been before, sure beyond all doubt that with the shameful secret between them gone at last, he and Timmy were assured a future filled with love and light. Now, less than three months later, that light was all but out, and Donald’s darkest fears held him hostage as never before.
One evening, Timmy stood at the sink for a good five minutes after the last dish was washed, just rubbing his fingers together under a weak stream of water, looking so heartbroken Donald’s own heart all but shattered in empathy. Enough was enough.
“This is killing me,“ Donald said, wrapping his arms around Timmy’s waist from behind and pressing his face hard between the taller man’s shoulder blades. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?“ Sighing, Timmy turned off the water and leaned back into the embrace. Then he pulled away and delivered the most chilling statement any man can hear from the person he plans to spend the rest of his life with.
“We need to talk.”
* * * *
Donald’s stomach clenched at the tone of Timmy’s voice as much as the words themselves, though they were bad enough. When Timmy had something to say, he just said it without preamble. He wasn’t a fan of melodramatic build-ups any more than Donald was. Just how bad could this be?
“Okay,” Donald managed to say evenly enough. He slid onto a barstool and pulled another one out, indicating that Timmy should join him. “So…let’s talk.”
Timmy squared his shoulders as if preparing for battle. He cleared his throat. “Not here. In the other room, I think.”
Numb, Donald nodded. He lead the way into the living room and sank down onto the couch, taking little comfort from its familiar, butt-hugging embrace. Again, he gestured for Timmy to join him, and again Timmy squared his shoulders, cleared his throat.
In a gesture that went straight to Donald’s heart, Timmy’s shoulders suddenly slumped and he jammed his hands into his pockets, folding into a defensive posture Donald had seen often enough for warning bells to go off inside his head. “Sweetheart….”
Flinching as if he’d been dealt a blow, Timmy pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes hard, grinding his fingers into them with such force Donald was afraid he might actually injure himself. “Oh God, this is so hard,” he said so softly Donald had to strain to hear him.
“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. We always do,” Donald said, surprised that his voice sounded as steady as it did. Steady was the last thing he was feeling. “Come sit with me,” he said, extending a hand that betrayed him with the slightest of tremors. “Come on, honey. You’re freaking me out here.”
Timmy drew a deep breath, making a visible effort to steady himself. He sat stiffly by Donald‘s side with his hands folded in his lap, not quite looking at him. “I’ve been happy with you, Donald. I want you to know that.”
“I’ve been happy with you, too. I think you do know that.”
“I hope so. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, really. So that’s why I need to ask now if you think it’s time for…” Timmy paused, searching for words, “…for a natural progression to take place.”
Something cold and steely clenched in the pit of Donald’s stomach. “Exactly what kind of progression are we talking about?”
“A tearing down of boundaries.”
Donald reached for Timmy’s hand, pulling it into his own lap, where it lay limp and unresponsive, a cool, perfectly manicured, lifeless thing nestled between his palms. He squeezed it, panic mounting when it didn’t squeeze back. “I didn’t think there were any boundaries left between us,” he managed to say at last.
“I’m not referring to boundaries between us. What I’m suggesting is an… exploration of larger possibilities.”
“Timmy….”
“I want to see our partnership continue, Don.”
Partnership. Donald made note of the word choice. Not Marriage. When had it stopped being a marriage? “So do I!”
“Recently, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s only one way to assure that.”
“Timmy….”
Timothy stared down at their joined hands, unable to meet Donald’s eyes. “I’ve been wondering if you were wanting to consider the possibility of an open relationship.”
Donald’s mind shut down, refusing to process Timmy’s words. “Open? Open to what?”
“Open to other people.”
Donald’s stomach clenched again, this time hard enough to send him running, scrambling up the stairs in a desperate attempt to get as far away from Timothy as he could before losing it completely. Dashing through their bedroom, he slammed the door of the master bath and fell to his knees, gagging and choking, watching his dinner and his dreams disappear down the cold porcelain throat of the toilet. This can not be happening, he told himself as he clung, shaking, to the toilet. This can not possibly be happening. Timmy was all about commitment, all about devotion, all about investing everything he had into the ideal of happily-ever-after. With Timmy, he’d always been enough -- good enough, smart enough, strong enough, enough in bed, enough to lean on, enough to love -- just plain enough. When had that changed? When had Timmy started wanting more, needing more, maybe even -- and the thought made him retch again miserably -- actively seeking more? When had his heart, sorry battered thing that it was, stopped being safe in Timmy’s hands? He wanted to know, yet he didn’t, sure that as painful as the wondering was, hearing the wrong answer would be much worse.
Donald lost track of time, sitting there on the bathroom floor, oblivious to the smell of vomit, the sour taste in his mouth, the wetness running down his cheeks, unchecked and unnoticed. He realized he was waiting, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Just waiting. Waiting for some comfort, some release, some…something. Someone.
Timmy. He was waiting for Timmy to come check on him. For Timmy to fall to the floor and gather him in his arms and tell him that he was wrong, that he didn’t want anyone else, that he never had and never would, that he’d rather die than rip their life apart this way. But as the minutes ticked by and Timmy didn’t come, it grew horribly apparent that he wasn’t going to come, that in all likelihood Timmy would never come for him again. The certainty hardened into a painful fist, cramping his stomach and squeezing the air out of his lungs. He had to get out of there.
Forcing himself to stand on legs that still shook uncontrollably, he flushed the toilet and washed his hands and face, then grabbed his toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth until his gums bled, unable to wash the taste of abandonment from his mouth. Grabbing his deodorant and shaving gear, he stumbled into the bedroom. He snatched his old duffel bag out of the closet and started stuffing clothing into it without rhyme or reason, not even noticing what he was grabbing, intent on simply filling the damned bag and getting the hell out. He yanked open the top drawer on his side of the bed and it flew loose from its stand, contents spilling across the floor. Dropping to his knees, he gathered handfuls of socks and underwear, pausing when his hand fell on the small box he’d kept hidden there. For a moment he held it, his face twisted in purest pain. Then he was on his feet and hurling the box with all his might, sending it crashing into the mirror.
Flying glass stung his face, glittered against his shirt, crunched underfoot. But Donald barely noticed, let alone cared. His hand fell on a framed photograph -- the two of them in suits, happy and hopeful, on the day of their commitment ceremony. Tasting bile, he clutched the photo and drew back his hand, intending to hurl it as well. He couldn’t do it. Gagging on a sob, he dropped the picture into his bag instead and closed it with a vicious yank on the zipper. Then he was thundering down the stairs and out the door, barely glancing at Timmy, who still sat right where he’d left him, staring down at his folded hands.
Donald jerked the car door open and tossed his bag into the passenger seat, then slid in after it, grabbing the door handle and intending to slam it closed with a cathartic bang. But a pair of slender hands clutched it, white-knuckled and surprisingly strong, holding it in place.
“Let go,” Donald ground out through teeth clenched so tight white hot bolts of pain shot through his jaw.
“Donald, please wait. Don’t do this.”
“You don’t want ME to do this? What the fuck? You want an open marriage? Well buddy, you got it. It’s as wide open as you could want. Now…get…your…hands…off…my…fucking…door.”
Slowly, Timmy released the door and let his hands fall to his sides, his face a study in misery. For the briefest instant, Donald softened, longed to reach out to him and pull him close, squeezing him hard enough to drive the pain out of him forever. But then he hardened, and a part of him, a part he loathed even then, thought, Good. I’m glad he hurts. Let him see how the other half lives. Then the door closed and he was peeling out of the driveway, nearly slamming into the neighbor’s Buick because he didn’t see it, couldn’t see anything, in fact, except the stricken look on Timmy’s face.
* * * *
Donald drove in circles for nearly an hour, trying to figure out where the hell to go from there. He couldn’t go to office because that’s the first place Timmy would look, if he cared to look, which was a toss-up at that point. He wanted to get a room and a fifth, not necessarily in that order, and quietly melt down someplace where he couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be heard, couldn’t be the object of curiosity or amusement, or worse, pity. But he didn’t have any cash on him and couldn’t use their credit card because Timothy was undoubtedly smart enough to trace the charges and figure out where to find him. So he used an ATM and stocked up at the liquor store, then checked into the crummiest sleep-cheap the city had to offer, because Timothy, the anal retentive bastard, had set their withdrawal limit at a hundred dollars per twenty-four hour period, and there was no way to override that. No way in hell.
He spent that night swilling Maker’s Mark out of a brown paper bag and the next day puking, too disgusted with himself to face his own reflection in the mirror, let alone go to the office or start sorting out the mess he‘d made of his life. Around eight o’clock that evening, he filled the sink with cold water and held his head under until he could think clearly enough to drive, then left the room for the first time. His first stop was the ATM machine followed by a second hand store, where he picked up a pair of table lamps and a drop light, because even with all the lights in his room on, it was still too dark, too filled with shadow and achingly real memories. He dropped by a mini mart for beer and a ham sandwich and to gas up the car, then swung by the same liquor store he’d hit the night before, stocking up on Maker’s and, just for the hell of it, a fifth of Jim Beam as well.
Because, as he saw it, he had no choice in the matter, he drove by the house, idling at the end of the block for some time and staring up at the second story windows, willing a light to click on, a familiar shadow to appear, in silhouette, against the bedroom shades. But the house remained dark and depressingly still, so he returned to the motel, where he spent another night drinking, this time alternating shots of Beam with the Maker’s, chasing each with a tepid bottle of Bud. The ham sandwich, already well past its prime, rotted quietly on the dash of his car.
He slept through most of the next day, arising that evening to a room ablaze with light that didn’t even begin to penetrate the darkness inside him. He forced himself to shower and shave, then left the room once more, his mind set on finding himself a pretty piece of young male ass. But as he searched bar after bar, his eyes kept locking on the still beautiful but not so young, the dark haired and fine-featured and visibly upscale. They were pretty, all so pretty, but all fell short of the mark because every last one of them was just a weak and washed-out version of the one he wanted, the only one he could ever want.
Timmy.
Admitting defeat, he finally dragged himself back to his car and forced himself to pick up the cell phone he’d tossed aside two days before. There were 37 messages in all, two from Kenny and the rest from Timmy. Some of them sounded flat, some angry, some frantic, and the final one, left earlier that evening, heart-wrenchingly broken, all consisting of the same concise plea: “Call me, Donald. Please. Just call me.”
Suddenly unable to bear the separation any longer, he shoved the car into gear and raced home, having no idea what he was going to say or do once he arrived there but knowing beyond a doubt that “there” was the only place in the world he needed to be. His heart sank as he pulled into the driveway. The house looked every bit as dark and lifeless as he’d felt himself the past couple of days. But it was late; maybe Timmy had simply given up for the night and gone to bed. Stung by guilt at the thought of Timmy lying alone in the darkness of that cold bed, worried sick about him and wondering where he‘d gone, he barreled through the front door and took the stairs two at a time, calling Timmy’s name in a voice hoarse with emotion.
But Timmy wasn’t there. The house was as dead and deserted as it had appeared from the outside. A quick inventory found Tim’s toothbrush in its place, his suitcase and shaving kit undisturbed on the top shelf of the closet, his briefcase by the front door. As he rushed from room to room, Donald clicked on light switch after light switch in a frantic effort to banish the darkness. But all the light in the world didn’t seem to be enough without Timmy there. Thoroughly spooked, Donald returned to their bedroom and sat on Timmy’s side of the bed, fingering the edge of his pillowcase as he tried to gather his thoughts. All of Timmy’s things were where they should be. Nothing was missing. As late as it was, Timmy had simply stepped out for a bit, not -- and Donald shuddered at the very thought -- not taken off for good. But it was past midnight, and Timmy was no night owl. At this hour, where in the hell could he have gone?
Forcefully pushing aside the suspicion that Timmy might not just be out, but out with someone else, Donald wandered down to the kitchen, his mind on knocking back a tumbler of vodka to steady himself. But as he reached for the bottle of Belvedere, a thought struck him. Setting the bottle on the counter, he stuck his hand into the small cubby under the bar, the one where Timmy kept Watson’s leash and collar, his dish and rubber ball and his favorite old chew toy. As he’d suspected, the leash was missing.
Back in the car, Donald began combing the neighborhood, following the paths where Timmy had once taken Watson on their nightly strolls. He knew Timmy still missed the dog terribly, and he also knew -- though Timmy didn’t know he knew -- that when Timmy was upset or depressed, he’d wander their old route late at night, his hand gripping Watson’s leash in his pocket. Judging from the tone of his last message, Timmy was both upset and depressed, so….
It had begun misting by the time he’d left the house, and now a light but steady rain was falling. The decrepit wiper blades left wet streaks across his line of vision. Timmy hated getting wet. The thought of him caught blocks from home, slogging along miserably as the rain soaked his clothes caused Donald to fret further. He increased his speed, rubbing at the fogged-up windshield in an effort to see. He’d made the rounds twice and was ready to have a third go of it when he finally spotted a hint of motion in the light of a streetlamp. It was Timmy, inching along the opposite side of the street, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched forward against the rain. Skidding to a stop in the middle of the intersection, Donald rolled down a window and called his name.
Timmy halted and turned slowly, head tilting to the side as he searched for the origin of the voice. When he spotted Donald’s car he just stood there, frozen in the one soft pool of light in that dark and desolate wasteland. Visibly gathering himself, he stepped into the street.
Donald felt the truck’s presence before he saw it, and was out of his car and hurtling forward before his mind registered the screech of tires, the sight of Timmy’s form thrown out of the light and going down, crumpling into the shadows.
Something between a wail and a roar ripped the inside of Donald’s throat. He shot across the street, oblivious to the threat of oncoming traffic, and hit the pavement hard, a sickeningly sharp pain shooting through his right knee as it connected with asphalt. But that was nothing to the pain of Timmy’s limp, unresponsive silence as Donald hefted him into his arms, alternately pleading with him to open his eyes and roaring inarticulately. The driver of the pickup, a thin-faced adolescent, chanted OhGodOhGodOhGod in a reedy voice as he fumbled with his cell phone. Donald snatched it out of his hands and dialed 911, then shoved it back at him and shut him out, shut it all out -- the rain, the noise, the distant sound of sirens, narrowing his world down to Timmy, to just Timmy, to the necessity of holding onto Timmy, because as long as he didn’t let go, Timmy would be all right.
He had to be.
When the EMTs arrived, they had to physically pry Donald’s fingers loose from Timmy arms in order to load him into the ambulance. Wailing inconsolably at the loss, Donald tried to scramble in after him, but his right knee gave and he sprawled in the street, his fingers clutching empty air where Timmy had been only moments before. Then two pair of burly arms gathered him up, and he was hefted into the ambulance as well.
* * * *
Hours later, Donald hovered over Timmy’s bed, swaying weakly on the crutches he’s been given, close, but not quite close enough to touch. He wanted to touch, wanted it fiercely, but since the rules between them had obviously changed, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
God, his knee hurt. He’d broken it, shattered the kneecap, but had allowed only the bare-bones minimum treatment during triage, assuring the resident in E.R. that he’d have it seen to properly once Timmy was out of the woods. Amid much head shaking and protests, he’d been granted a run of painkillers he still hadn’t bothered to take, because through some twisted logic he couldn’t explain, even to himself, it seemed wrong to feel better when Timmy’s life could be hanging in the balance. No danger. In addition to the shooting pains coursing through his knee, his head ached, as did his chest and belly, all three plaguing him with a tense and throbbing misery that could only be relieved by the sight of Timmy’s eyes fluttering open.
Dawn had come and gone, but night still hung heavy over the room, making Donald shiver. The rain continued; there would probably be little sun that day. Only a single soft light glowed over the head of the bed, leaving most of the room in bitter, accusing shadow. Donald kept his eyes away from the corners, afraid of what he might see there.
It seemed several lifetimes had passed since the accident. Timmy’d been rushed to E.R. and then to surgery to repair -- what? A torn liver? A ruptured spleen? The surgeon had spoken to him at length about the procedure, but the details ran together in his head like so many tears in the rain. He’d grasped the basics: internal bleeding, broken ribs and wrist and nose, a compound fracture in his leg and a concussion. The long and short of it was that when Timmy awoke he was going to be in pain, a lot of it, and that he’d carry scars to remind him of it for the rest of his life.
It was all Donald’s fault. All of it. And even if Timmy did manage to forgive him for it, he knew deep down that he’d never, ever be able to forgive himself.
At least Timmy was going to be all right -- eventually. The bones would mend, the incisions would heal, the pain would fade and vanish. But would they ever be all right again? Were they even a they anymore, or were they just two not-quite-strangers who’d hurt and disappointed each other, never to hold or touch or soothe each other again? Could Donald even survive on his own anymore? Did he even have the heart to try?
In the aftermath of Kyle, Donald had trudged through the motions of living in an apathetic fog, eating most of his meals cold out of cans or boxes, fucking anything that would hold still long enough and not insist on the pretense of affection, drinking himself to sleep every night and awaking hung over and disgusted with himself every morning. Then Timmy had come along and taken charge of his life, sorting his socks and dressing his wounds, making sure he ate and slept at reasonably regular intervals, bringing a sense of order to his world, a feeling of permanence and at long last, peace. And he’d done it all with a quiet, non-threatening efficiency that Donald, who knew himself to be the least subtle of men, couldn’t help but admire. Healer, organizer, guardian of his heart, that was Timothy. How could he go on without that clear, bright light in his life?
Timmy made a small sound in his sleep, shifted his head on the pillow before settling once again. The nurse had assured Donald that he’d come to after the surgery, that he had been lucid and responsive, answering their questions and asking a few of his own before drifting off again. She hadn’t mentioned if any of his questions had been about Donald, and he didn’t ask, afraid of what her answer might be. If Timmy’d asked for him, there was still hope, but if not….
Timmy stirred again, wincing as he struggled up through the layers of trauma and drugs to regain consciousness. When his eyes finally opened, they were dilated and confused, darting around the room as he tried to get his bearings. He tried to lift his injured hand, flinched again, moaned softly. Donald wanted nothing more than to scoop him up right then and there, to beg his forgiveness and offer whatever comfort Timmy would allow, but he seemed to be frozen in place, unable to move or even speak past the lump in his throat. Then Timmy’s gaze settled on him and he swallowed, swallowed again, and finally managed a hoarse, “Hey.”
“Hey.” The response was weak and breathy, without inflection.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sick.”
Donald inched forward, eyeing the plastic basin on the bedside tray. “Think you’re gonna throw up?”
Timothy gulped, caught his breath. “Maybe. The room’s spinning. Everything hurts.”
“Do you need something for the pain? Should I call the nurse?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Come on, there’s no sense in hurting any more than you have to. Let me call her.”
“It doesn’t matter. Leave it alone, Don. I don’t want the nurse.”
“Okay.” Balancing on one crutch, Donald started to reach for Timmy’s hand but caught himself and jammed his fist in his pocket instead, not sure if he could stand the rejection if Timmy didn’t want him, didn’t want to be touched. He watched Tim take note, saw the wounded look in his eyes. Dammit, every call he made seemed to be the wrong one. Hesitantly, he took a step forward. “Do you remember what happened?”
“They said there was an accident.”
“Yeah. You were out walking in the rain. I was out looking for you, and when I called your name, you…you stepped out in front of a truck. God, Timmy, I am so sorry. I know I always seem to be saying that, but it’s true. I am so, so sorry.“
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, would you stop saying that? You could have been killed and it would have been my fault. If I’d been home with you instead of off sulking with my head up my ass, you wouldn’t have been out walking in the middle of the night and this would never have happened. How in the hell can you say it doesn’t matter?”
Timmy drew a measured breath. “I’m an adult, Donald, whether you choose to believe it or not. I make my own decisions and my own mistakes, and I live with it. You are not responsible for me. If I can get that through my thick head, I’m sure you can get it through yours.”
The effort of trying to talk was taking a toll on Tim. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and he caught his breath and held it, obviously trying to ride out the pain. But when Donald leaned forward to hush him, Timmy shot him an angry glare and continued. “One way or another, it doesn’t matter. None of this does. And excuse me if I sound maudlin, but at this point, I really don‘t see how anything could matter ever again.”
“Don’t you say that,” Donald said, fighting a rising panic. “Don’t you ever say that. You’re hurting now, but that’s gonna be over soon and I’ll get to take you home. You’ll feel better once I get you home.”
“Is it still home? For both of us?”
“Of course it is! Why would you even ask that?”
“You left me. I thought it might be for good. You wouldn’t return my calls….”
Donald took another step closer. “I left the situation, Timmy, not you. I was freaking out and scared I’d say or do something you wouldn’t be able to forgive. I admit I was acting like an idiot….”
Timmy didn‘t disagree. “Your reaction…took me by surprise.”
Donald studied his shoes, unable to meet Timmy’s eyes. “You took me by surprise. I knew you weren’t happy anymore, but….” he trailed off, not sure where to go from there. “I should have seen it coming, I guess. All these years of staying faithful to each other…it’s probably more than most gay couples manage. Hell, I make my living proving it’s more than most straight couples manage, too. At least you were honest with me. You made what I guess you thought was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, and I…”
“Left me.”
“I just had to get out for a while. I had to get my head around it. God, Timmy, the thought of you seeing other men…the thought of you wanting other men….”
Tim made a harsh, choking noise and Donald looked up to meet blue eyes wide with shock. “I do not want to see other men!”
Donald went weak in the knees. He closed the remaining distance between them, griping the bedrail to steady himself. “Then why the hell did you say you did?”
“I never said any such thing! I asked you if that was what you wanted, then you went crazy and ran out on me. It was for you, to give you some breathing room if you wanted it. I don’t want to share you, but if the only alternative is losing you….” Timmy swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
Donald stared down at him, replaying the conversation in his head. Could this be true? Could he have reacted to what he‘d thought he‘d heard rather than to what Timothy had actually said? Could all of this have been just some huge misunderstanding? “I don‘t want to lose you, either,” he said at last.
Tim was watching him closely, chewing on his bottom lip. “So I take it you’d like to see this relationship continue? You want to stay together in spite of all this?”
“Of course I do!”
“Good.” Tim closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath. “Good. This is hard for me, Donald. It’s not the way I was raised, and I’d be lying if I said I liked it. But if you sleep with other people, as long as you come home to me at the end of the night, I suppose I can deal with it. I’ll just have to deal with it.”
Donald felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. For what seemed an eternity he struggled, his chest on fire as he tried to remember how to breathe. Then Timmy opened his eyes and looked at him with such painful longing that the air rushed back in a tortuous gasp. When he released it, it was with the cry of a wounded animal.
“Why the bloody fucking hell would I want to sleep with anyone besides you? We’re married! Married! Do you have any idea what that means to me? The thought of touching anyone else like that…of letting them touch me…it makes me want to puke! What have I ever done, what have I ever said….”
“Trapped,” Tim said so quietly Donald could hardly hear him past the blood pounding in his ears. “You said you feel trapped.” Then he was crying and
Donald was crying, and somehow Donald was on the bed beside him, doing his best to tie himself in a knot around Timmy as they both sobbed and shook, clinging to each other in desperation.
* * * *
Donald clutched Timmy as hard as he dared, trying to force what was left of his protein-deprived, alcohol-addled brain cells to function. That was what this was all about? That night in the bar? How could he have not known that? And how could Timmy think….
“Not by you! Never by you! God, Timmy, I thought you understood. Before you came along, I was drowning. You taught me how to keep my head above water and breathe again. For the first time in years, you made me want to breathe.”
“I thought I was the one drowning you. I was so afraid you regretted this. That you regretted us. I’ve always tried to give you space when you need it, but….”
“I don’t want space! When you pull away it scares the hell out of me! Kyle pulled away and he….” Choking on the words, Donald burrowed into Timmy’s neck, torn by loud, hacking sobs that jarred them both.
“I am not Kyle! I’d never do that to you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never pull away from you again, I promise. Never again.”
Donald sobbed harder, clutching Timmy’s hair and hospital gown. Timmy wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair and holding him close, whispering words of comfort even though he was crying nearly as hard himself. Donald felt a surge of guilt, suspecting he should be the one comforting Timmy instead of the other way around. He was out of control and knew it, but there was nothing he could do but hang on for dear life and get it out, get it all out so neither of them would have to deal with it ever again.
They lay together afterward, wrung out and stunned, touching each other in little strokes and pats, each reassuring himself the other was still there. Donald’s eyes were dry at last, gritty and inflamed to the point where he heard the lids creak with every blink. Tears still ran down Timmy’s cheeks in a freefall, though he was silent, overwhelmed to the point of shellshock, it seemed. Every once in a while, Donald would dab away the moisture on Timmy’s face with his fingertips, softly touch his lips to Timmy’s, kiss his eyelids, repeat his name as if it were an endearment.
“When you said that word,” Timmy said, “that awful word, it floored me. Nothing ever scared me that bad in my whole life. With one word, you seemed to be rejecting your whole life, our life together, me.”
“Why the hell didn’t you just tell me? If this has been eating away at you all this time, why didn’t you just ask me what I meant? It’s not like you to bottle stuff up like that.”
“I suppose I was afraid of what the answer might be. Before we got together, you were such a free spirit sexually….”
“Free spirit? Hell, call it what it is, Timothy. I was a whore. I’m not proud of that part of my life, but I’ve always been honest with you about it. I must’ve fucked about a thousand guys back then, and I can’t remember a single face, never bothered to ask a single name. I never let any of them in. They weren’t even people to me. They were just body parts, and as long as I saw them that way….”
“As long as you saw them that way, they couldn’t hurt you the way Kyle did.”
Donald closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, his jaw clenching and unclenching in a steady rhythm. “Yeah,” he said at last. “That’s about the size of it.”
Donald felt gentle fingers brush his face then clutch spasmodically at his hair. “And now I’m the one who hurt you,” Timmy said in a broken voice. “I’m so sorry, Donald. There’s no excuse for me putting you through all this. I…” Timmy choked on the words, and Donald pressed their cheeks together, clinging to some half-formed notion that if he could just absorb the moisture there into his own skin, he’d draw the sadness out of Timmy as well. He’d seen Timmy cry a scant handful of times during their years together -- over the estrangement with his father, his grandmother’s death, a couple of Donald‘s more grisly injuries, the loss of Watson -- but not like this. Nothing like this.
“You screwed up and so did I. But none of it was on purpose. You don’t have it in you to hurt me or anyone else on purpose. That’s why I love you.”
“Still….”
“Still nothing. All you did was give me a taste of my own medicine.“ Donald said in a sudden burst of clarity. “I panicked and ran the first time you shut me out, but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to you all along, isn’t it? You’ve put up with me holding back and shutting you out for years, and I’ve never heard you complain once. You’ve been so patient with me. I don’t know how you put up with it.“
“I’ve never looked at it like that. I was just trying to give you what you need.”
“I need you,“ Donald said fervently. “And sometimes I need you to give me a good, hard kick in the ass. Honey, I am so sorry for every secret I’ve kept from you, for every time I’ve clammed up on you or made you feel like I didn’t trust you. And I’m so sorry we never talked out the trapped thing. I knew what that had to have done to you. I would have curled up in a ball and died if you’d said that to me. I was so wrapped up in myself and in that damned case that I never stopped to think what you might be going through. Jesus, how could I have been such a self-centered prick?”
“You’re not a prick,” Timmy said, stoking his face soothingly with his good hand. “I’m a busy man. I wouldn’t waste my time on a prick.”
“Yeah, well. It’s all gonna change now, you can put your money on that one. I‘m gonna make it up to you. And you’re going to sit down and shut up and let me, you got that? If you’re sure you still want me after everything I‘ve put you through, that is. If you still think I‘m worth hanging onto.”
Timmy‘s mouth quirked up at the corner. It wasn‘t quite a smile, but it came close. “Hanging onto you is the easiest thing in the world. Knowing when to let go is the hard part.”
“Then don’t do it. Don’t ever let go. God, Timmy, please. Don’t you ever let me go.” They clung together, exhausted and overwrought, with Donald barely maintaining the presence of mind to be careful of Timmy’s injuries when all he really wanted was to crawl beneath his very skin and never come out again. When he finally calmed down, he cupped Timmy’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “You know I’m lousy with words, but we need to be clear on something. I’ve never, ever felt trapped by you. When I said that, I was talking about my career and the choices that were taken away from me, the choices I should have had the chance to make on my own. I don’t regret where I ended up, just the way I got here. You’re not the only one who wouldn‘t trade his life with anyone, you got that? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I understand what you’re trying to say, but you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have some regrets. You lost the love of your life….”
“I lost the love of my youth, Timmy. I’ve got the love of my life right here, right now. And I’m never going to let you go again.”
They shifted so Timmy could settle more or less on his side, his head on Donald’s chest. He sucked in a sharp breath at the movement, moaned softly. Donald pressed the nurse’s call button then tugged his shirttail free, using it to mop first Timmy’s face and then his own. Timmy looked like bloody hell -- runny-nosed, waterlogged and battered within an inch of his life, red splotches burning like fever on his cheeks. If the way he was feeling was any indication, Donald figured he was pretty much in the same boat. When the nurse walked in, she gave them a hard look but didn’t comment, simply checked Tim’s incision and his vital signs, then switched out his IV bag and administered pain killer. Timmy clutched Donald’s arm the whole time, eyes locked on his as if seeking reassurance. It hurt him to think it might be some time before Timmy felt secure again, but Donald was going to make damned sure that it happened, and that it happened soon.
Once the nurse left, Donald stretched to turn out the light and settled in for the duration, wrapping himself around Timmy in what was not so much an embrace as a living body cast, one arm cradling Timmy’s broken wrist and the other looped around his waist, carefully positioned to avoid pressure on either the cracked ribs or the incision. Hisleft leg braced Timmy’s broken one while his own injured limb lay propped on top of Timmy’s good one, its nagging ache momentarily forgotten. Shifting them both inch by inch, irrationally convinced that if he moved too fast or was too rough, Timmy might actually break, he helped Timmy settle his head against his shoulder, his breath warm against Donald’s neck. They were small motions all, a subtle dance of sorts, carefully choreographed to anchor Timmy to him, to let him know that neither of them was going anywhere without the other in tow, not then, not ever.
Once the meds kicked in, Timmy slipped easily into sleep, his fingers tangled in Donald’s hair, mouth open and snoring softly because between the broken nose and the crying jag, he was too congested to breath properly. Exhausted to the core but afraid to shut his eyes, Donald stood guard, listening to the steady rain outside and soothing Timmy back under whenever a thunder clap threatened to wake him.
As he watched Timmy sleep, he contemplated the storms of his life, the ones he’d lived through in the past and this most recent one, the one he knew he couldn’t have weathered if they hadn’t settled this thing at last. All the while, ghosts fluttered in the corners like bats in a cave. The parents who’d foretold his failures. The teachers who’d assured the lonely, angry child that he was too lazy, too weak, too hostile to ever amount to anything. Army officials who eyed him with smug distaste as they handed him his discharge papers. And Kyle, most of all Kyle, who hovered in silent, sullen reproach, though Donald had long since committed his accusations to memory.
I loved you, Don. I trusted you. And look where it got me. You betrayed me.
No, Donald told him. No. You’re wrong. Lying would have been the betrayal. Denying what you meant to me would have been betrayal. I know what love is now. I’ve always known I was capable of giving it, though God knows what you did made me doubt myself. And Timmy’s spent years showing me what it feels like to receive it. I know you wanted me. In your own way, you probably even needed me. But you can’t do what you did and call it love. I would have walked through fire for you, but at the first sign of trouble, you left me in the cruelest, most cowardly, selfish way possible. War hero, my ass. Timmy’s ten times the man you were. My life’s as full as a life can get, and I’m not going to waste another second of it pining over what-ifs and feeling guilty over something that wasn’t my fault. I’m done with you. Go haunt somebody else.
Late in the afternoon, the storm broke, and though his back was to the window, Donald could tell by the shifting shadows that the cloud cover was thinning, that the sun was struggling to break through. Inexplicably relieved, he finally allowed himself to relax, carefully shifting so he could press an ear to Timmy’s chest. He heard the reassuring sound of Timmy’s heartbeat and became peripherally aware of his own, smiling sleepily as he realized the two were altering themselves subtly, each gradually falling in sync with the other. He closed his eyes, content, and felt himself beginning to drift, but was startled awake by a faint stirring against him. Timmy opened his eyes and blinked in momentary confusion.
“Hey, beautiful,“ Donald said softly, stroking Timmy’s cheek with his thumb. Then their gazes locked and Timmy smiled at him, really smiled for the first time in months, his expression one of forgiveness and trust and boundless love.
In that instant, the sun broke through the clouds, flooding the room with the purest light Donald had ever known, banishing the last of his ghosts forever.
When Donald Strachey met Timothy Callahan, the first thing he noticed was that Timmy didn’t smile the way other men smile. He didn’t “smile” at all, as Donald had previously understood the definition of the word. He beamed, eyes shining and face illuminated from within, his sweet, toothy grin stretched impossibly wide as he bounced on his toes or walked with that extra little hop in his step, the very epitome of joyful celebration. Donald’s heart always did a back flip when he saw Timmy alight, and it was a very rare thing for him not to jump right in and join the party.
For years, that more-than-a-smile had been Donald’s beacon, illuminating the dark corners of his world, leaving no nook or cranny in which any but the most tenacious of ghosts could hide. But Timmy had stopped smiling, and now those old, grim spectres, always opportunistic, took advantage of the deepening shadows to hover near.
It hadn’t happened overnight. Of that much, at least, Donald was certain. As attuned to each other as they were, he would have noticed a sudden change and been on it like a duck on a June bug, as his Grammy Rosa used to say. But this was something gradual, something insidious that had crept up on him while he wasn’t watching, slowly dimming the light of his life until he awoke one day, blinking in confusion and dismay, oppressed by the encroaching darkness.
It wasn’t as if they were fighting, though Donald almost wished they were. Their fights had always been loudly vocal and -- though neither of them would admit it -- largely recreational, brief but spirited flashes in the pan that cleared the air and provided the excuse for equally spirited make-up sex. And it wasn’t as if Donald sensed Timmy was pissed at him. Tim got pissed off more often than most people change underwear, but it was a fond and forgiving kind of pissed that flared then faded as soon as Timmy got whatever it was off his chest. Timmy wasn’t one to bottle up his emotions, thank God. Clear as a mountain stream and just as exuberant, he was every bit as easy to see through, and the bubble and sparkle of his personality in turns exhilarated Donald and soothed his spirit. Usually.
Now there seemed to be an almost palpable sadness about Tim that colored every moment they shared together. Formerly an irrepressible chatterbox, Timmy became silent and pensive, leaning over the kitchen counter and aimlessly tracing patterns in the granite, glassy-eyed and unaware, or standing at the front window and staring out into the night, hugging himself as if he were cold, lost in a place where Donald couldn’t follow. If Donald made a sudden sound or touched him without warning, he’d start, looking flustered as a slow burn splotched his cheeks, and avert his gaze, unable to mask the sorrow in his eyes.
Oh, Timmy still went through the motions. He remained affectionate and attentive, keeping Donald’s dinner warm and his martinis cold, clean underwear and socks readily available and life organized and comfortable to a degree Donald could never achieve on his own. He still responded willingly enough to any and all romantic overtures, although when Donald thought about it, he realized it had been a long time since Tim had initiated anything from a cozy cuddle on the couch to a mad grappling between the sheets. Timmy had never been a passive partner before. Surprisingly wanton beneath that prim exterior and emotionally needy, he usually was, if anything, the antithesis of passive.
But what worried -- no, frightened -- Donald the most was the dimming of that heart-catching smile. Timmy still laughed politely at events social or political, chuckled -- albeit anemically -- at Donald’s teasing. His eyes still crinkled at the corners, his lips curved upward and parted, revealing a gleaming row of immaculately maintained teeth. Mechanically and anatomically, all was as it should be. Yet there was no doubt in Donald’s mind that on a deeper level, something was wrong, all wrong.
Donald, being Donald, hounded him for answers. “What is it?” he asked again and again. “Spill it, Timothy. Is it me? Is it something I’ve done?”
“Of course not,” Timmy inevitably replied, touching Donald’s hand or giving him a peck on the cheek that was meant to be reassuring, but fell woefully short of the mark. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
Fighting a growing panic, Donald tried to remedy the situation as best he could. He’d been burning a lot of midnight oil lately, trying to build the business and get the two of them on firmer financial ground. It was possible -- probable, even -- that Timmy was feeling neglected. So he surprised him with flowers and impromptu dinners out, concert tickets and walks in the park. He made a real effort to pick up after himself, and he dumped the more routine after-hours surveillance gigs in Kenny’s moderately capable lap, assuring that for the first time in all their years together, he spent more evenings home with Timmy than not. On the rare occasions when he was the first to make it home from work, he had a pitcher of martinis made or a bottle of pinot noir chilling, and met Timmy at the door with a tender smile, a warm hug, and soft jazz playing in the background. Toning down the bitchiness factor, he pulled on the penguin suit and escorted Timmy to endless fundraisers and other mind-numbing political events with nary a whine nor a whimper, doing his level best to look less bored than he felt as he shadowed his spouse on the interminable meet-and-greet circuit.
God help him, he even tried to cook.
Timmy responded to it all with mouth curving in that pseudo-smile that never reached his eyes, a vague brush of lips against his cheek and a murmured thanks. All the while Donald felt him drifting farther away, his light growing ever fainter until it was in danger of winking out.
For Donald, sleep became a thing of the past. The nightmares that Timmy’s warm and steadying presence had gradually neutralized over the years now returned with a vengeance, filling his nights with surrealistic visions of fear and pain and irreparable loss. Ghosts long banished returned to taunt him: An endless army of one night stands reminding him that he wasn’t relationship material. His parents, long dead and still resonating disapproval, finally vindicated now that his marriage to Timmy seemed to be on the same downhill slide everything else he‘d attempted to do with his life had taken. And Kyle, always and forever Kyle….
Telling Timmy about Kyle had freed Donald in ways he’d never imagined. Sobbing out his pain in Timmy’s arms had purged him of the poison that had eaten away at him since Kuwait. Timmy had listened without jealousy or judgment, murmuring endearments and cradling him close through the second longest night of his life. The next morning, Donald had emerged drained but more optimistic than he’d ever been before, sure beyond all doubt that with the shameful secret between them gone at last, he and Timmy were assured a future filled with love and light. Now, less than three months later, that light was all but out, and Donald’s darkest fears held him hostage as never before.
One evening, Timmy stood at the sink for a good five minutes after the last dish was washed, just rubbing his fingers together under a weak stream of water, looking so heartbroken Donald’s own heart all but shattered in empathy. Enough was enough.
“This is killing me,“ Donald said, wrapping his arms around Timmy’s waist from behind and pressing his face hard between the taller man’s shoulder blades. “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?“ Sighing, Timmy turned off the water and leaned back into the embrace. Then he pulled away and delivered the most chilling statement any man can hear from the person he plans to spend the rest of his life with.
“We need to talk.”
* * * *
Donald’s stomach clenched at the tone of Timmy’s voice as much as the words themselves, though they were bad enough. When Timmy had something to say, he just said it without preamble. He wasn’t a fan of melodramatic build-ups any more than Donald was. Just how bad could this be?
“Okay,” Donald managed to say evenly enough. He slid onto a barstool and pulled another one out, indicating that Timmy should join him. “So…let’s talk.”
Timmy squared his shoulders as if preparing for battle. He cleared his throat. “Not here. In the other room, I think.”
Numb, Donald nodded. He lead the way into the living room and sank down onto the couch, taking little comfort from its familiar, butt-hugging embrace. Again, he gestured for Timmy to join him, and again Timmy squared his shoulders, cleared his throat.
In a gesture that went straight to Donald’s heart, Timmy’s shoulders suddenly slumped and he jammed his hands into his pockets, folding into a defensive posture Donald had seen often enough for warning bells to go off inside his head. “Sweetheart….”
Flinching as if he’d been dealt a blow, Timmy pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes hard, grinding his fingers into them with such force Donald was afraid he might actually injure himself. “Oh God, this is so hard,” he said so softly Donald had to strain to hear him.
“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. We always do,” Donald said, surprised that his voice sounded as steady as it did. Steady was the last thing he was feeling. “Come sit with me,” he said, extending a hand that betrayed him with the slightest of tremors. “Come on, honey. You’re freaking me out here.”
Timmy drew a deep breath, making a visible effort to steady himself. He sat stiffly by Donald‘s side with his hands folded in his lap, not quite looking at him. “I’ve been happy with you, Donald. I want you to know that.”
“I’ve been happy with you, too. I think you do know that.”
“I hope so. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, really. So that’s why I need to ask now if you think it’s time for…” Timmy paused, searching for words, “…for a natural progression to take place.”
Something cold and steely clenched in the pit of Donald’s stomach. “Exactly what kind of progression are we talking about?”
“A tearing down of boundaries.”
Donald reached for Timmy’s hand, pulling it into his own lap, where it lay limp and unresponsive, a cool, perfectly manicured, lifeless thing nestled between his palms. He squeezed it, panic mounting when it didn’t squeeze back. “I didn’t think there were any boundaries left between us,” he managed to say at last.
“I’m not referring to boundaries between us. What I’m suggesting is an… exploration of larger possibilities.”
“Timmy….”
“I want to see our partnership continue, Don.”
Partnership. Donald made note of the word choice. Not Marriage. When had it stopped being a marriage? “So do I!”
“Recently, I’ve begun to wonder if there’s only one way to assure that.”
“Timmy….”
Timothy stared down at their joined hands, unable to meet Donald’s eyes. “I’ve been wondering if you were wanting to consider the possibility of an open relationship.”
Donald’s mind shut down, refusing to process Timmy’s words. “Open? Open to what?”
“Open to other people.”
Donald’s stomach clenched again, this time hard enough to send him running, scrambling up the stairs in a desperate attempt to get as far away from Timothy as he could before losing it completely. Dashing through their bedroom, he slammed the door of the master bath and fell to his knees, gagging and choking, watching his dinner and his dreams disappear down the cold porcelain throat of the toilet. This can not be happening, he told himself as he clung, shaking, to the toilet. This can not possibly be happening. Timmy was all about commitment, all about devotion, all about investing everything he had into the ideal of happily-ever-after. With Timmy, he’d always been enough -- good enough, smart enough, strong enough, enough in bed, enough to lean on, enough to love -- just plain enough. When had that changed? When had Timmy started wanting more, needing more, maybe even -- and the thought made him retch again miserably -- actively seeking more? When had his heart, sorry battered thing that it was, stopped being safe in Timmy’s hands? He wanted to know, yet he didn’t, sure that as painful as the wondering was, hearing the wrong answer would be much worse.
Donald lost track of time, sitting there on the bathroom floor, oblivious to the smell of vomit, the sour taste in his mouth, the wetness running down his cheeks, unchecked and unnoticed. He realized he was waiting, though he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. Just waiting. Waiting for some comfort, some release, some…something. Someone.
Timmy. He was waiting for Timmy to come check on him. For Timmy to fall to the floor and gather him in his arms and tell him that he was wrong, that he didn’t want anyone else, that he never had and never would, that he’d rather die than rip their life apart this way. But as the minutes ticked by and Timmy didn’t come, it grew horribly apparent that he wasn’t going to come, that in all likelihood Timmy would never come for him again. The certainty hardened into a painful fist, cramping his stomach and squeezing the air out of his lungs. He had to get out of there.
Forcing himself to stand on legs that still shook uncontrollably, he flushed the toilet and washed his hands and face, then grabbed his toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth until his gums bled, unable to wash the taste of abandonment from his mouth. Grabbing his deodorant and shaving gear, he stumbled into the bedroom. He snatched his old duffel bag out of the closet and started stuffing clothing into it without rhyme or reason, not even noticing what he was grabbing, intent on simply filling the damned bag and getting the hell out. He yanked open the top drawer on his side of the bed and it flew loose from its stand, contents spilling across the floor. Dropping to his knees, he gathered handfuls of socks and underwear, pausing when his hand fell on the small box he’d kept hidden there. For a moment he held it, his face twisted in purest pain. Then he was on his feet and hurling the box with all his might, sending it crashing into the mirror.
Flying glass stung his face, glittered against his shirt, crunched underfoot. But Donald barely noticed, let alone cared. His hand fell on a framed photograph -- the two of them in suits, happy and hopeful, on the day of their commitment ceremony. Tasting bile, he clutched the photo and drew back his hand, intending to hurl it as well. He couldn’t do it. Gagging on a sob, he dropped the picture into his bag instead and closed it with a vicious yank on the zipper. Then he was thundering down the stairs and out the door, barely glancing at Timmy, who still sat right where he’d left him, staring down at his folded hands.
Donald jerked the car door open and tossed his bag into the passenger seat, then slid in after it, grabbing the door handle and intending to slam it closed with a cathartic bang. But a pair of slender hands clutched it, white-knuckled and surprisingly strong, holding it in place.
“Let go,” Donald ground out through teeth clenched so tight white hot bolts of pain shot through his jaw.
“Donald, please wait. Don’t do this.”
“You don’t want ME to do this? What the fuck? You want an open marriage? Well buddy, you got it. It’s as wide open as you could want. Now…get…your…hands…off…my…fucking…door.”
Slowly, Timmy released the door and let his hands fall to his sides, his face a study in misery. For the briefest instant, Donald softened, longed to reach out to him and pull him close, squeezing him hard enough to drive the pain out of him forever. But then he hardened, and a part of him, a part he loathed even then, thought, Good. I’m glad he hurts. Let him see how the other half lives. Then the door closed and he was peeling out of the driveway, nearly slamming into the neighbor’s Buick because he didn’t see it, couldn’t see anything, in fact, except the stricken look on Timmy’s face.
* * * *
Donald drove in circles for nearly an hour, trying to figure out where the hell to go from there. He couldn’t go to office because that’s the first place Timmy would look, if he cared to look, which was a toss-up at that point. He wanted to get a room and a fifth, not necessarily in that order, and quietly melt down someplace where he couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be heard, couldn’t be the object of curiosity or amusement, or worse, pity. But he didn’t have any cash on him and couldn’t use their credit card because Timothy was undoubtedly smart enough to trace the charges and figure out where to find him. So he used an ATM and stocked up at the liquor store, then checked into the crummiest sleep-cheap the city had to offer, because Timothy, the anal retentive bastard, had set their withdrawal limit at a hundred dollars per twenty-four hour period, and there was no way to override that. No way in hell.
He spent that night swilling Maker’s Mark out of a brown paper bag and the next day puking, too disgusted with himself to face his own reflection in the mirror, let alone go to the office or start sorting out the mess he‘d made of his life. Around eight o’clock that evening, he filled the sink with cold water and held his head under until he could think clearly enough to drive, then left the room for the first time. His first stop was the ATM machine followed by a second hand store, where he picked up a pair of table lamps and a drop light, because even with all the lights in his room on, it was still too dark, too filled with shadow and achingly real memories. He dropped by a mini mart for beer and a ham sandwich and to gas up the car, then swung by the same liquor store he’d hit the night before, stocking up on Maker’s and, just for the hell of it, a fifth of Jim Beam as well.
Because, as he saw it, he had no choice in the matter, he drove by the house, idling at the end of the block for some time and staring up at the second story windows, willing a light to click on, a familiar shadow to appear, in silhouette, against the bedroom shades. But the house remained dark and depressingly still, so he returned to the motel, where he spent another night drinking, this time alternating shots of Beam with the Maker’s, chasing each with a tepid bottle of Bud. The ham sandwich, already well past its prime, rotted quietly on the dash of his car.
He slept through most of the next day, arising that evening to a room ablaze with light that didn’t even begin to penetrate the darkness inside him. He forced himself to shower and shave, then left the room once more, his mind set on finding himself a pretty piece of young male ass. But as he searched bar after bar, his eyes kept locking on the still beautiful but not so young, the dark haired and fine-featured and visibly upscale. They were pretty, all so pretty, but all fell short of the mark because every last one of them was just a weak and washed-out version of the one he wanted, the only one he could ever want.
Timmy.
Admitting defeat, he finally dragged himself back to his car and forced himself to pick up the cell phone he’d tossed aside two days before. There were 37 messages in all, two from Kenny and the rest from Timmy. Some of them sounded flat, some angry, some frantic, and the final one, left earlier that evening, heart-wrenchingly broken, all consisting of the same concise plea: “Call me, Donald. Please. Just call me.”
Suddenly unable to bear the separation any longer, he shoved the car into gear and raced home, having no idea what he was going to say or do once he arrived there but knowing beyond a doubt that “there” was the only place in the world he needed to be. His heart sank as he pulled into the driveway. The house looked every bit as dark and lifeless as he’d felt himself the past couple of days. But it was late; maybe Timmy had simply given up for the night and gone to bed. Stung by guilt at the thought of Timmy lying alone in the darkness of that cold bed, worried sick about him and wondering where he‘d gone, he barreled through the front door and took the stairs two at a time, calling Timmy’s name in a voice hoarse with emotion.
But Timmy wasn’t there. The house was as dead and deserted as it had appeared from the outside. A quick inventory found Tim’s toothbrush in its place, his suitcase and shaving kit undisturbed on the top shelf of the closet, his briefcase by the front door. As he rushed from room to room, Donald clicked on light switch after light switch in a frantic effort to banish the darkness. But all the light in the world didn’t seem to be enough without Timmy there. Thoroughly spooked, Donald returned to their bedroom and sat on Timmy’s side of the bed, fingering the edge of his pillowcase as he tried to gather his thoughts. All of Timmy’s things were where they should be. Nothing was missing. As late as it was, Timmy had simply stepped out for a bit, not -- and Donald shuddered at the very thought -- not taken off for good. But it was past midnight, and Timmy was no night owl. At this hour, where in the hell could he have gone?
Forcefully pushing aside the suspicion that Timmy might not just be out, but out with someone else, Donald wandered down to the kitchen, his mind on knocking back a tumbler of vodka to steady himself. But as he reached for the bottle of Belvedere, a thought struck him. Setting the bottle on the counter, he stuck his hand into the small cubby under the bar, the one where Timmy kept Watson’s leash and collar, his dish and rubber ball and his favorite old chew toy. As he’d suspected, the leash was missing.
Back in the car, Donald began combing the neighborhood, following the paths where Timmy had once taken Watson on their nightly strolls. He knew Timmy still missed the dog terribly, and he also knew -- though Timmy didn’t know he knew -- that when Timmy was upset or depressed, he’d wander their old route late at night, his hand gripping Watson’s leash in his pocket. Judging from the tone of his last message, Timmy was both upset and depressed, so….
It had begun misting by the time he’d left the house, and now a light but steady rain was falling. The decrepit wiper blades left wet streaks across his line of vision. Timmy hated getting wet. The thought of him caught blocks from home, slogging along miserably as the rain soaked his clothes caused Donald to fret further. He increased his speed, rubbing at the fogged-up windshield in an effort to see. He’d made the rounds twice and was ready to have a third go of it when he finally spotted a hint of motion in the light of a streetlamp. It was Timmy, inching along the opposite side of the street, hands jammed in his pockets and shoulders hunched forward against the rain. Skidding to a stop in the middle of the intersection, Donald rolled down a window and called his name.
Timmy halted and turned slowly, head tilting to the side as he searched for the origin of the voice. When he spotted Donald’s car he just stood there, frozen in the one soft pool of light in that dark and desolate wasteland. Visibly gathering himself, he stepped into the street.
Donald felt the truck’s presence before he saw it, and was out of his car and hurtling forward before his mind registered the screech of tires, the sight of Timmy’s form thrown out of the light and going down, crumpling into the shadows.
Something between a wail and a roar ripped the inside of Donald’s throat. He shot across the street, oblivious to the threat of oncoming traffic, and hit the pavement hard, a sickeningly sharp pain shooting through his right knee as it connected with asphalt. But that was nothing to the pain of Timmy’s limp, unresponsive silence as Donald hefted him into his arms, alternately pleading with him to open his eyes and roaring inarticulately. The driver of the pickup, a thin-faced adolescent, chanted OhGodOhGodOhGod in a reedy voice as he fumbled with his cell phone. Donald snatched it out of his hands and dialed 911, then shoved it back at him and shut him out, shut it all out -- the rain, the noise, the distant sound of sirens, narrowing his world down to Timmy, to just Timmy, to the necessity of holding onto Timmy, because as long as he didn’t let go, Timmy would be all right.
He had to be.
When the EMTs arrived, they had to physically pry Donald’s fingers loose from Timmy arms in order to load him into the ambulance. Wailing inconsolably at the loss, Donald tried to scramble in after him, but his right knee gave and he sprawled in the street, his fingers clutching empty air where Timmy had been only moments before. Then two pair of burly arms gathered him up, and he was hefted into the ambulance as well.
* * * *
Hours later, Donald hovered over Timmy’s bed, swaying weakly on the crutches he’s been given, close, but not quite close enough to touch. He wanted to touch, wanted it fiercely, but since the rules between them had obviously changed, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
God, his knee hurt. He’d broken it, shattered the kneecap, but had allowed only the bare-bones minimum treatment during triage, assuring the resident in E.R. that he’d have it seen to properly once Timmy was out of the woods. Amid much head shaking and protests, he’d been granted a run of painkillers he still hadn’t bothered to take, because through some twisted logic he couldn’t explain, even to himself, it seemed wrong to feel better when Timmy’s life could be hanging in the balance. No danger. In addition to the shooting pains coursing through his knee, his head ached, as did his chest and belly, all three plaguing him with a tense and throbbing misery that could only be relieved by the sight of Timmy’s eyes fluttering open.
Dawn had come and gone, but night still hung heavy over the room, making Donald shiver. The rain continued; there would probably be little sun that day. Only a single soft light glowed over the head of the bed, leaving most of the room in bitter, accusing shadow. Donald kept his eyes away from the corners, afraid of what he might see there.
It seemed several lifetimes had passed since the accident. Timmy’d been rushed to E.R. and then to surgery to repair -- what? A torn liver? A ruptured spleen? The surgeon had spoken to him at length about the procedure, but the details ran together in his head like so many tears in the rain. He’d grasped the basics: internal bleeding, broken ribs and wrist and nose, a compound fracture in his leg and a concussion. The long and short of it was that when Timmy awoke he was going to be in pain, a lot of it, and that he’d carry scars to remind him of it for the rest of his life.
It was all Donald’s fault. All of it. And even if Timmy did manage to forgive him for it, he knew deep down that he’d never, ever be able to forgive himself.
At least Timmy was going to be all right -- eventually. The bones would mend, the incisions would heal, the pain would fade and vanish. But would they ever be all right again? Were they even a they anymore, or were they just two not-quite-strangers who’d hurt and disappointed each other, never to hold or touch or soothe each other again? Could Donald even survive on his own anymore? Did he even have the heart to try?
In the aftermath of Kyle, Donald had trudged through the motions of living in an apathetic fog, eating most of his meals cold out of cans or boxes, fucking anything that would hold still long enough and not insist on the pretense of affection, drinking himself to sleep every night and awaking hung over and disgusted with himself every morning. Then Timmy had come along and taken charge of his life, sorting his socks and dressing his wounds, making sure he ate and slept at reasonably regular intervals, bringing a sense of order to his world, a feeling of permanence and at long last, peace. And he’d done it all with a quiet, non-threatening efficiency that Donald, who knew himself to be the least subtle of men, couldn’t help but admire. Healer, organizer, guardian of his heart, that was Timothy. How could he go on without that clear, bright light in his life?
Timmy made a small sound in his sleep, shifted his head on the pillow before settling once again. The nurse had assured Donald that he’d come to after the surgery, that he had been lucid and responsive, answering their questions and asking a few of his own before drifting off again. She hadn’t mentioned if any of his questions had been about Donald, and he didn’t ask, afraid of what her answer might be. If Timmy’d asked for him, there was still hope, but if not….
Timmy stirred again, wincing as he struggled up through the layers of trauma and drugs to regain consciousness. When his eyes finally opened, they were dilated and confused, darting around the room as he tried to get his bearings. He tried to lift his injured hand, flinched again, moaned softly. Donald wanted nothing more than to scoop him up right then and there, to beg his forgiveness and offer whatever comfort Timmy would allow, but he seemed to be frozen in place, unable to move or even speak past the lump in his throat. Then Timmy’s gaze settled on him and he swallowed, swallowed again, and finally managed a hoarse, “Hey.”
“Hey.” The response was weak and breathy, without inflection.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sick.”
Donald inched forward, eyeing the plastic basin on the bedside tray. “Think you’re gonna throw up?”
Timothy gulped, caught his breath. “Maybe. The room’s spinning. Everything hurts.”
“Do you need something for the pain? Should I call the nurse?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Come on, there’s no sense in hurting any more than you have to. Let me call her.”
“It doesn’t matter. Leave it alone, Don. I don’t want the nurse.”
“Okay.” Balancing on one crutch, Donald started to reach for Timmy’s hand but caught himself and jammed his fist in his pocket instead, not sure if he could stand the rejection if Timmy didn’t want him, didn’t want to be touched. He watched Tim take note, saw the wounded look in his eyes. Dammit, every call he made seemed to be the wrong one. Hesitantly, he took a step forward. “Do you remember what happened?”
“They said there was an accident.”
“Yeah. You were out walking in the rain. I was out looking for you, and when I called your name, you…you stepped out in front of a truck. God, Timmy, I am so sorry. I know I always seem to be saying that, but it’s true. I am so, so sorry.“
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, would you stop saying that? You could have been killed and it would have been my fault. If I’d been home with you instead of off sulking with my head up my ass, you wouldn’t have been out walking in the middle of the night and this would never have happened. How in the hell can you say it doesn’t matter?”
Timmy drew a measured breath. “I’m an adult, Donald, whether you choose to believe it or not. I make my own decisions and my own mistakes, and I live with it. You are not responsible for me. If I can get that through my thick head, I’m sure you can get it through yours.”
The effort of trying to talk was taking a toll on Tim. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and he caught his breath and held it, obviously trying to ride out the pain. But when Donald leaned forward to hush him, Timmy shot him an angry glare and continued. “One way or another, it doesn’t matter. None of this does. And excuse me if I sound maudlin, but at this point, I really don‘t see how anything could matter ever again.”
“Don’t you say that,” Donald said, fighting a rising panic. “Don’t you ever say that. You’re hurting now, but that’s gonna be over soon and I’ll get to take you home. You’ll feel better once I get you home.”
“Is it still home? For both of us?”
“Of course it is! Why would you even ask that?”
“You left me. I thought it might be for good. You wouldn’t return my calls….”
Donald took another step closer. “I left the situation, Timmy, not you. I was freaking out and scared I’d say or do something you wouldn’t be able to forgive. I admit I was acting like an idiot….”
Timmy didn‘t disagree. “Your reaction…took me by surprise.”
Donald studied his shoes, unable to meet Timmy’s eyes. “You took me by surprise. I knew you weren’t happy anymore, but….” he trailed off, not sure where to go from there. “I should have seen it coming, I guess. All these years of staying faithful to each other…it’s probably more than most gay couples manage. Hell, I make my living proving it’s more than most straight couples manage, too. At least you were honest with me. You made what I guess you thought was a perfectly reasonable suggestion, and I…”
“Left me.”
“I just had to get out for a while. I had to get my head around it. God, Timmy, the thought of you seeing other men…the thought of you wanting other men….”
Tim made a harsh, choking noise and Donald looked up to meet blue eyes wide with shock. “I do not want to see other men!”
Donald went weak in the knees. He closed the remaining distance between them, griping the bedrail to steady himself. “Then why the hell did you say you did?”
“I never said any such thing! I asked you if that was what you wanted, then you went crazy and ran out on me. It was for you, to give you some breathing room if you wanted it. I don’t want to share you, but if the only alternative is losing you….” Timmy swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
Donald stared down at him, replaying the conversation in his head. Could this be true? Could he have reacted to what he‘d thought he‘d heard rather than to what Timothy had actually said? Could all of this have been just some huge misunderstanding? “I don‘t want to lose you, either,” he said at last.
Tim was watching him closely, chewing on his bottom lip. “So I take it you’d like to see this relationship continue? You want to stay together in spite of all this?”
“Of course I do!”
“Good.” Tim closed his eyes and drew a shaky breath. “Good. This is hard for me, Donald. It’s not the way I was raised, and I’d be lying if I said I liked it. But if you sleep with other people, as long as you come home to me at the end of the night, I suppose I can deal with it. I’ll just have to deal with it.”
Donald felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. For what seemed an eternity he struggled, his chest on fire as he tried to remember how to breathe. Then Timmy opened his eyes and looked at him with such painful longing that the air rushed back in a tortuous gasp. When he released it, it was with the cry of a wounded animal.
“Why the bloody fucking hell would I want to sleep with anyone besides you? We’re married! Married! Do you have any idea what that means to me? The thought of touching anyone else like that…of letting them touch me…it makes me want to puke! What have I ever done, what have I ever said….”
“Trapped,” Tim said so quietly Donald could hardly hear him past the blood pounding in his ears. “You said you feel trapped.” Then he was crying and
Donald was crying, and somehow Donald was on the bed beside him, doing his best to tie himself in a knot around Timmy as they both sobbed and shook, clinging to each other in desperation.
* * * *
Donald clutched Timmy as hard as he dared, trying to force what was left of his protein-deprived, alcohol-addled brain cells to function. That was what this was all about? That night in the bar? How could he have not known that? And how could Timmy think….
“Not by you! Never by you! God, Timmy, I thought you understood. Before you came along, I was drowning. You taught me how to keep my head above water and breathe again. For the first time in years, you made me want to breathe.”
“I thought I was the one drowning you. I was so afraid you regretted this. That you regretted us. I’ve always tried to give you space when you need it, but….”
“I don’t want space! When you pull away it scares the hell out of me! Kyle pulled away and he….” Choking on the words, Donald burrowed into Timmy’s neck, torn by loud, hacking sobs that jarred them both.
“I am not Kyle! I’d never do that to you. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never pull away from you again, I promise. Never again.”
Donald sobbed harder, clutching Timmy’s hair and hospital gown. Timmy wrapped his arms around him, stroking his hair and holding him close, whispering words of comfort even though he was crying nearly as hard himself. Donald felt a surge of guilt, suspecting he should be the one comforting Timmy instead of the other way around. He was out of control and knew it, but there was nothing he could do but hang on for dear life and get it out, get it all out so neither of them would have to deal with it ever again.
They lay together afterward, wrung out and stunned, touching each other in little strokes and pats, each reassuring himself the other was still there. Donald’s eyes were dry at last, gritty and inflamed to the point where he heard the lids creak with every blink. Tears still ran down Timmy’s cheeks in a freefall, though he was silent, overwhelmed to the point of shellshock, it seemed. Every once in a while, Donald would dab away the moisture on Timmy’s face with his fingertips, softly touch his lips to Timmy’s, kiss his eyelids, repeat his name as if it were an endearment.
“When you said that word,” Timmy said, “that awful word, it floored me. Nothing ever scared me that bad in my whole life. With one word, you seemed to be rejecting your whole life, our life together, me.”
“Why the hell didn’t you just tell me? If this has been eating away at you all this time, why didn’t you just ask me what I meant? It’s not like you to bottle stuff up like that.”
“I suppose I was afraid of what the answer might be. Before we got together, you were such a free spirit sexually….”
“Free spirit? Hell, call it what it is, Timothy. I was a whore. I’m not proud of that part of my life, but I’ve always been honest with you about it. I must’ve fucked about a thousand guys back then, and I can’t remember a single face, never bothered to ask a single name. I never let any of them in. They weren’t even people to me. They were just body parts, and as long as I saw them that way….”
“As long as you saw them that way, they couldn’t hurt you the way Kyle did.”
Donald closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, his jaw clenching and unclenching in a steady rhythm. “Yeah,” he said at last. “That’s about the size of it.”
Donald felt gentle fingers brush his face then clutch spasmodically at his hair. “And now I’m the one who hurt you,” Timmy said in a broken voice. “I’m so sorry, Donald. There’s no excuse for me putting you through all this. I…” Timmy choked on the words, and Donald pressed their cheeks together, clinging to some half-formed notion that if he could just absorb the moisture there into his own skin, he’d draw the sadness out of Timmy as well. He’d seen Timmy cry a scant handful of times during their years together -- over the estrangement with his father, his grandmother’s death, a couple of Donald‘s more grisly injuries, the loss of Watson -- but not like this. Nothing like this.
“You screwed up and so did I. But none of it was on purpose. You don’t have it in you to hurt me or anyone else on purpose. That’s why I love you.”
“Still….”
“Still nothing. All you did was give me a taste of my own medicine.“ Donald said in a sudden burst of clarity. “I panicked and ran the first time you shut me out, but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing to you all along, isn’t it? You’ve put up with me holding back and shutting you out for years, and I’ve never heard you complain once. You’ve been so patient with me. I don’t know how you put up with it.“
“I’ve never looked at it like that. I was just trying to give you what you need.”
“I need you,“ Donald said fervently. “And sometimes I need you to give me a good, hard kick in the ass. Honey, I am so sorry for every secret I’ve kept from you, for every time I’ve clammed up on you or made you feel like I didn’t trust you. And I’m so sorry we never talked out the trapped thing. I knew what that had to have done to you. I would have curled up in a ball and died if you’d said that to me. I was so wrapped up in myself and in that damned case that I never stopped to think what you might be going through. Jesus, how could I have been such a self-centered prick?”
“You’re not a prick,” Timmy said, stoking his face soothingly with his good hand. “I’m a busy man. I wouldn’t waste my time on a prick.”
“Yeah, well. It’s all gonna change now, you can put your money on that one. I‘m gonna make it up to you. And you’re going to sit down and shut up and let me, you got that? If you’re sure you still want me after everything I‘ve put you through, that is. If you still think I‘m worth hanging onto.”
Timmy‘s mouth quirked up at the corner. It wasn‘t quite a smile, but it came close. “Hanging onto you is the easiest thing in the world. Knowing when to let go is the hard part.”
“Then don’t do it. Don’t ever let go. God, Timmy, please. Don’t you ever let me go.” They clung together, exhausted and overwrought, with Donald barely maintaining the presence of mind to be careful of Timmy’s injuries when all he really wanted was to crawl beneath his very skin and never come out again. When he finally calmed down, he cupped Timmy’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “You know I’m lousy with words, but we need to be clear on something. I’ve never, ever felt trapped by you. When I said that, I was talking about my career and the choices that were taken away from me, the choices I should have had the chance to make on my own. I don’t regret where I ended up, just the way I got here. You’re not the only one who wouldn‘t trade his life with anyone, you got that? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I understand what you’re trying to say, but you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t have some regrets. You lost the love of your life….”
“I lost the love of my youth, Timmy. I’ve got the love of my life right here, right now. And I’m never going to let you go again.”
They shifted so Timmy could settle more or less on his side, his head on Donald’s chest. He sucked in a sharp breath at the movement, moaned softly. Donald pressed the nurse’s call button then tugged his shirttail free, using it to mop first Timmy’s face and then his own. Timmy looked like bloody hell -- runny-nosed, waterlogged and battered within an inch of his life, red splotches burning like fever on his cheeks. If the way he was feeling was any indication, Donald figured he was pretty much in the same boat. When the nurse walked in, she gave them a hard look but didn’t comment, simply checked Tim’s incision and his vital signs, then switched out his IV bag and administered pain killer. Timmy clutched Donald’s arm the whole time, eyes locked on his as if seeking reassurance. It hurt him to think it might be some time before Timmy felt secure again, but Donald was going to make damned sure that it happened, and that it happened soon.
Once the nurse left, Donald stretched to turn out the light and settled in for the duration, wrapping himself around Timmy in what was not so much an embrace as a living body cast, one arm cradling Timmy’s broken wrist and the other looped around his waist, carefully positioned to avoid pressure on either the cracked ribs or the incision. Hisleft leg braced Timmy’s broken one while his own injured limb lay propped on top of Timmy’s good one, its nagging ache momentarily forgotten. Shifting them both inch by inch, irrationally convinced that if he moved too fast or was too rough, Timmy might actually break, he helped Timmy settle his head against his shoulder, his breath warm against Donald’s neck. They were small motions all, a subtle dance of sorts, carefully choreographed to anchor Timmy to him, to let him know that neither of them was going anywhere without the other in tow, not then, not ever.
Once the meds kicked in, Timmy slipped easily into sleep, his fingers tangled in Donald’s hair, mouth open and snoring softly because between the broken nose and the crying jag, he was too congested to breath properly. Exhausted to the core but afraid to shut his eyes, Donald stood guard, listening to the steady rain outside and soothing Timmy back under whenever a thunder clap threatened to wake him.
As he watched Timmy sleep, he contemplated the storms of his life, the ones he’d lived through in the past and this most recent one, the one he knew he couldn’t have weathered if they hadn’t settled this thing at last. All the while, ghosts fluttered in the corners like bats in a cave. The parents who’d foretold his failures. The teachers who’d assured the lonely, angry child that he was too lazy, too weak, too hostile to ever amount to anything. Army officials who eyed him with smug distaste as they handed him his discharge papers. And Kyle, most of all Kyle, who hovered in silent, sullen reproach, though Donald had long since committed his accusations to memory.
I loved you, Don. I trusted you. And look where it got me. You betrayed me.
No, Donald told him. No. You’re wrong. Lying would have been the betrayal. Denying what you meant to me would have been betrayal. I know what love is now. I’ve always known I was capable of giving it, though God knows what you did made me doubt myself. And Timmy’s spent years showing me what it feels like to receive it. I know you wanted me. In your own way, you probably even needed me. But you can’t do what you did and call it love. I would have walked through fire for you, but at the first sign of trouble, you left me in the cruelest, most cowardly, selfish way possible. War hero, my ass. Timmy’s ten times the man you were. My life’s as full as a life can get, and I’m not going to waste another second of it pining over what-ifs and feeling guilty over something that wasn’t my fault. I’m done with you. Go haunt somebody else.
Late in the afternoon, the storm broke, and though his back was to the window, Donald could tell by the shifting shadows that the cloud cover was thinning, that the sun was struggling to break through. Inexplicably relieved, he finally allowed himself to relax, carefully shifting so he could press an ear to Timmy’s chest. He heard the reassuring sound of Timmy’s heartbeat and became peripherally aware of his own, smiling sleepily as he realized the two were altering themselves subtly, each gradually falling in sync with the other. He closed his eyes, content, and felt himself beginning to drift, but was startled awake by a faint stirring against him. Timmy opened his eyes and blinked in momentary confusion.
“Hey, beautiful,“ Donald said softly, stroking Timmy’s cheek with his thumb. Then their gazes locked and Timmy smiled at him, really smiled for the first time in months, his expression one of forgiveness and trust and boundless love.
In that instant, the sun broke through the clouds, flooding the room with the purest light Donald had ever known, banishing the last of his ghosts forever.
In a Word
1250 words
“Honey?”
“mmmmrrrrrrrrr….”
“Hey, honey?”
“mrrrorpfttttt…wha???”
“Honey, are you awake?”
“Well, I certainly am now. What time is it?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Damn late.”
“My God, it’s four in the morning! Are you just getting in? Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
“Shhhh. Everything’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You don‘t sound fine. You sound…strange.”
“I’m okay, I promise. I’m tired and I probably smell like the inside of a dumpster, but….”
“Thank God! You don’t know how much I worry.”
“I do know, and I love you for it. I was just wondering….”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid. Go back to sleep.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. What is it?”
“If you had to pick one word to describe me to someone, what would it be?”
“You woke me up out of a sound sleep and scared me half out of my wits just to ask…?”
“Well…yeah. Please? I really want to know.”
“Right now, annoying comes to mind.”
“If you weren’t pissed off at me, I mean.”
. . . .
“Sweetheart?”
“Insane.”
“I said if you weren’t pissed off.”
“Childlike, then. But I suppose I might mean that in a reasonably good way.”
“I can live with that. What else?”
“Handsome, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And sexy.”
“I definitely like that one.”
“You can be quite chivalrous when the mood strikes you.”
“I always try to be chivalrous to you.”
“You are. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”
“Tell me the other reasons.”
“I thought you wanted me to describe you.”
“Tomato, tomahto. What else?”
“Well, let me see. Four a.m. Q&A sessions notwithstanding, you’re very considerate of my feelings. You’re also strong, intelligent, honest, faithful, affectionate….”
“I’m starting to sound like a boy scout.”
“Darling, I’d never, ever compare you to a boy scout.”
“Like a cocker spaniel, then.”
“Well, you do like to sit in my lap, and you’ve been known to get your muddy paws all over the furniture.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Why did you ask, anyway?”
. . . .
“Honey?”
“I dunno….”
“Yes, you do. You’ve been thinking again, and that’s never good. Now tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
“Well, three times this week, I’ve gotten calls from people who were referred to me by old clients.”
“That’s wonderful! You do such an outstanding job, your business can’t help but increase thanks to all that positive word of mouth.”
“Yeah, well. Not all of it’s exactly been positive.”
“What do you mean?”
“All three of them started the conversation in exactly the same way. ‘So-and-so says you’re a real asshole, but you’re a professional and you charge reasonable rates.’ Hey, what’s so funny?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that you were described that way to me -- nearly word for word, as I recall -- all those years ago when I hired you to follow Congressman Fletcher’s wife.”
“Peachy.”
“At least you’re consistent.”
. . . .
“Hey.”
. . . .
“Heyyyyy….”
“Is that how you’d describe me, too? As an asshole?”
“Of course not. I’d never dream of being that redundant.”
“I notice you’re not exactly saying I’m not one.”
“You’ve never acted like one to me. That’s all that matters. You’re the antithesis of an asshole, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You may have a rough exterior, but beneath that, you’re a very gentle, kind-hearted person. I feel like the luckiest man on earth to have someone like you in my life.”
“God, I love you!”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“I mean just that. Why do you love me? Now it’s your turn. What words would you use to describe me?”
“That’s easy! You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re prejudiced.”
“Maybe. But you’re still beautiful. And you’re the smartest guy I know.”
“That’s more than one word.”
“Intelligent, then. No, wait. Intellectual.”
“Go on.”
“You’re a good person. You’re kind to people, even when they don’t really deserve it. Especially to me.”
“It’s easy to be kind to you. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
. . . .
. . . .
“Mmmm…that feels nice….”
“I can make it feel a lot nicer.”
“Mmmmmm…ooooooohhhhhhh…no…no…wait! I want you….”
“I want you, too, sweetheart.”
“No! I mean…not yet. I want you to finish what we started….”
“Before I start what’s gonna take us the rest of the night to finish, you mean?”
“Something like that. How else would you describe me?”
“Well, you’re very particular about everything.”
“Are you calling me anal?”
“Par-tic-u-lar. Like the way you keep this place livable in spite of everything I do to mess it up. You keep up with my schedule better than I do. And you’re a really snappy dresser.”
“In a word, please.”
“All right, elegant, then. You’re elegant.”
“Oh, please!”
“Well, you are. And hot. Definitely hot.”
“I believe I’m currently at 98.6, just the same as you are.”
“Very funny. You know what I mean.
Tell me what you mean, handsome.”
“Oh my God, do you have any idea what you do to me when your voice goes all low and husky like that?”
“Well, of course. Why do you think I do it?”
“You are an evil, manipulative man.”
“So you’ve said on a number of occasions. Now who’s being redundant?”
“Some things bear repeating.”
“Hmm. Well, what else? In a word.”
“In a word, you’re…fuckable.”
“Excuse me?"
“Fuckable. You’re the most fuckable person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m going back to sleep now.”
“Hey, now. I meant that as a compliment.”
“I fail to see….”
“There’s this…softness about you….”
“Oh, good. I’m effeminate now….
“No! I didn’t mean it like that. I mean you’re accessible….”
“…and an easy lay….”
“Would you cut it out! I mean there’s nothing cold or distant about you. You’re always so warm and open toward me, and you always put me first, no matter what. I mean, sometimes I just want to have sex for the sake of having sex, you know? To scratch that itch.”
“I know you do.”
“And sometimes it’s because I’m stressed out and frustrated and need to blow off steam.”
“I know that, too. There are some nights when I don’t think you’d be able to sleep at all if you didn’t have some sort of release.”
“Exactly. And sometimes I start thinking about things I really shouldn’t waste my time thinking about, you know? Remembering things I’d be better off forgetting. And it still gets to me. It still…hurts…even though I know it shouldn’t, and the only thing that can make it stop is being close to you….”
“Oh, baby….”
. . . .
. . . .
“I always want to be close to you, no matter what else is going on. That’s what it all comes down to. Nothing I’ve ever done in my life has felt half as good as making love to you. I need it. I need you. And it’s like you’ve always understood that without me having to say a thing. In all these years, you’ve never turned me down, not even once, not even when you were tired or pissed off at me or not in the mood. You love me that much, and you’re always willing to show it, no matter what.”
“Let me show you now, baby.”
“We can show each other. Know what?“
“What?“
“I’m really glad you’re mine. That’s how I’d describe you, you know, if anybody’d ask. In a word….”
“In a word?”
“Mine.”
“mmmmrrrrrrrrr….”
“Hey, honey?”
“mrrrorpfttttt…wha???”
“Honey, are you awake?”
“Well, I certainly am now. What time is it?”
“Late.”
“How late?”
“Damn late.”
“My God, it’s four in the morning! Are you just getting in? Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
“Shhhh. Everything’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You don‘t sound fine. You sound…strange.”
“I’m okay, I promise. I’m tired and I probably smell like the inside of a dumpster, but….”
“Thank God! You don’t know how much I worry.”
“I do know, and I love you for it. I was just wondering….”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid. Go back to sleep.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. What is it?”
“If you had to pick one word to describe me to someone, what would it be?”
“You woke me up out of a sound sleep and scared me half out of my wits just to ask…?”
“Well…yeah. Please? I really want to know.”
“Right now, annoying comes to mind.”
“If you weren’t pissed off at me, I mean.”
. . . .
“Sweetheart?”
“Insane.”
“I said if you weren’t pissed off.”
“Childlike, then. But I suppose I might mean that in a reasonably good way.”
“I can live with that. What else?”
“Handsome, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And sexy.”
“I definitely like that one.”
“You can be quite chivalrous when the mood strikes you.”
“I always try to be chivalrous to you.”
“You are. It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”
“Tell me the other reasons.”
“I thought you wanted me to describe you.”
“Tomato, tomahto. What else?”
“Well, let me see. Four a.m. Q&A sessions notwithstanding, you’re very considerate of my feelings. You’re also strong, intelligent, honest, faithful, affectionate….”
“I’m starting to sound like a boy scout.”
“Darling, I’d never, ever compare you to a boy scout.”
“Like a cocker spaniel, then.”
“Well, you do like to sit in my lap, and you’ve been known to get your muddy paws all over the furniture.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“Why did you ask, anyway?”
. . . .
“Honey?”
“I dunno….”
“Yes, you do. You’ve been thinking again, and that’s never good. Now tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”
“Well, three times this week, I’ve gotten calls from people who were referred to me by old clients.”
“That’s wonderful! You do such an outstanding job, your business can’t help but increase thanks to all that positive word of mouth.”
“Yeah, well. Not all of it’s exactly been positive.”
“What do you mean?”
“All three of them started the conversation in exactly the same way. ‘So-and-so says you’re a real asshole, but you’re a professional and you charge reasonable rates.’ Hey, what’s so funny?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that you were described that way to me -- nearly word for word, as I recall -- all those years ago when I hired you to follow Congressman Fletcher’s wife.”
“Peachy.”
“At least you’re consistent.”
. . . .
“Hey.”
. . . .
“Heyyyyy….”
“Is that how you’d describe me, too? As an asshole?”
“Of course not. I’d never dream of being that redundant.”
“I notice you’re not exactly saying I’m not one.”
“You’ve never acted like one to me. That’s all that matters. You’re the antithesis of an asshole, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You may have a rough exterior, but beneath that, you’re a very gentle, kind-hearted person. I feel like the luckiest man on earth to have someone like you in my life.”
“God, I love you!”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“I mean just that. Why do you love me? Now it’s your turn. What words would you use to describe me?”
“That’s easy! You’re beautiful.”
“And you’re prejudiced.”
“Maybe. But you’re still beautiful. And you’re the smartest guy I know.”
“That’s more than one word.”
“Intelligent, then. No, wait. Intellectual.”
“Go on.”
“You’re a good person. You’re kind to people, even when they don’t really deserve it. Especially to me.”
“It’s easy to be kind to you. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
. . . .
. . . .
“Mmmm…that feels nice….”
“I can make it feel a lot nicer.”
“Mmmmmm…ooooooohhhhhhh…no…no…wait! I want you….”
“I want you, too, sweetheart.”
“No! I mean…not yet. I want you to finish what we started….”
“Before I start what’s gonna take us the rest of the night to finish, you mean?”
“Something like that. How else would you describe me?”
“Well, you’re very particular about everything.”
“Are you calling me anal?”
“Par-tic-u-lar. Like the way you keep this place livable in spite of everything I do to mess it up. You keep up with my schedule better than I do. And you’re a really snappy dresser.”
“In a word, please.”
“All right, elegant, then. You’re elegant.”
“Oh, please!”
“Well, you are. And hot. Definitely hot.”
“I believe I’m currently at 98.6, just the same as you are.”
“Very funny. You know what I mean.
Tell me what you mean, handsome.”
“Oh my God, do you have any idea what you do to me when your voice goes all low and husky like that?”
“Well, of course. Why do you think I do it?”
“You are an evil, manipulative man.”
“So you’ve said on a number of occasions. Now who’s being redundant?”
“Some things bear repeating.”
“Hmm. Well, what else? In a word.”
“In a word, you’re…fuckable.”
“Excuse me?"
“Fuckable. You’re the most fuckable person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m going back to sleep now.”
“Hey, now. I meant that as a compliment.”
“I fail to see….”
“There’s this…softness about you….”
“Oh, good. I’m effeminate now….
“No! I didn’t mean it like that. I mean you’re accessible….”
“…and an easy lay….”
“Would you cut it out! I mean there’s nothing cold or distant about you. You’re always so warm and open toward me, and you always put me first, no matter what. I mean, sometimes I just want to have sex for the sake of having sex, you know? To scratch that itch.”
“I know you do.”
“And sometimes it’s because I’m stressed out and frustrated and need to blow off steam.”
“I know that, too. There are some nights when I don’t think you’d be able to sleep at all if you didn’t have some sort of release.”
“Exactly. And sometimes I start thinking about things I really shouldn’t waste my time thinking about, you know? Remembering things I’d be better off forgetting. And it still gets to me. It still…hurts…even though I know it shouldn’t, and the only thing that can make it stop is being close to you….”
“Oh, baby….”
. . . .
. . . .
“I always want to be close to you, no matter what else is going on. That’s what it all comes down to. Nothing I’ve ever done in my life has felt half as good as making love to you. I need it. I need you. And it’s like you’ve always understood that without me having to say a thing. In all these years, you’ve never turned me down, not even once, not even when you were tired or pissed off at me or not in the mood. You love me that much, and you’re always willing to show it, no matter what.”
“Let me show you now, baby.”
“We can show each other. Know what?“
“What?“
“I’m really glad you’re mine. That’s how I’d describe you, you know, if anybody’d ask. In a word….”
“In a word?”
“Mine.”
Whipped
2050 words
"But I'm really not a cat person, Timmy," Donald protested, eyeing the scrawny black and white feline that circled his husband's feet, rubbing and trilling.
Donald was relaxing in the back porch glider, soaking up the last rays of evening sun after a long day of tedious research and dead ends, difficult clients and Kenny being...well...Kenny. He wanted to enjoy the remnants of the autumn evening curled around a cold martini and a warm Timothy, not necessarily in that order. Most of all, he wanted to shut off his over-stimulated brain for a while and just not think -- not about work or bills or the disturbing new rattle his car made while the engine idled, and especially not about cats.
"Cat person, dog person. There's no such thing, Donald," Timmy said, settling beside him and tucking an arm through his. "Animals are individuals, just like people are. Some suit us, some don't. And some simply need us."
"Timothy, we can't have a cat in the house. You're allergic, remember?"
Timmy considered the cat gravely. "I had him inside for half the afternoon, and I didn't sneeze once. I don't know what it is about him, but I seem to be immune to his dander."
"Still, you can't just take in any wild animal off the street, sweetheart. It's not safe."
The corner of Timmy's mouth twitched. "Funny, that's what all my friends said when they first met you."
"Oh, ha ha," Donald said, rolling his eyes. "I'm serious here. What if he has rabies?"
"He's perfectly healthy, Donald. The vet said...."
"The vet!"
"...that he's perfectly fine, and now that he's wormed and had all his shots...."
"His shots!"
"...and once I take him in to be neutered on Monday...."
"Timothy...."
"...he should be ready to begin a long and happy life with us. He is a bit underweight, but I think I can take care of that."
Laughing in spite of himself, Donald hooked his fingers through Timmy's belt loop and pulled him in close for a kiss. "Like you did with me, huh? I've gone up two pants sizes since I married you. Not that I'm complaining."
They spent some time in happy lip-lock, neither of them complaining at all. Then Donald heard a creaking meow and watched a two-tone bundle of skin, bones and fur land in Timmy's lap. The cat settled in the dip between Tim's thighs, purring loudly.
Grinning, Timmy nudged Donald's shoulder with his own. "He does rather remind me of you, come to think of it."
"Oh, really? How do you figure that?"
"Let's see. You're approximately the same height...."
"Hey!" Donald said, nudging him back.
"And you did more than your fair share of tomcatting around before we got together...."
"Yeah, but you managed to housebreak me pretty fast, didn't you?"
"Darling, you'll never be housebroken. But you never stray, and that's all that matters. The overflowing litter boxes and the occasional hairballs are things I've learn to live with."
In an instant, Donald's hands were under Timmy's shirt, fingers wriggling against his ribcage. Timmy yelped and doubled over, squirming helplessly. "He's very handsome," he gasped once Donald relented enough for him to draw a breath.
"That's more like it."
"He looks marvelous in his little tux, just like you do."
"Keep it up. We both know flattery will get you everywhere."
"Hmmm. He's also rather cocky and probably not above marking his territory when the situation warrants...."
Great, Donald thought. There goes the furniture. Not to mention the rugs, our shoes....
The cat pawed Timmy's chest, mewing for attention. "...and he's obviously the jealous type...."
"I am not the jealous...."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "The congressman's son who brushed a speck of dust off my lapel at the fundraiser last week and ended up with your drink all over his suit," he said quietly. "The deliveryman who winked at me and 'accidentally' got knocked off the porch. The old friend from college whose number was mysteriously blocked from my cell phone. My former assistant whose wife left him when she somehow learned...."
"All right, all right! Next subject, please!"
With a smug smile, Timmy settled against him once more.. "Oh, and I'm not sure, but I think he may be gay."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, he does seem to share your obsession with my crotch."
"Oh no, you don't!" Donald informed the cat, scooping him off Tim's lap and holding him at arm's length. "Mine!"
"He'd be good company for me," Timmy said wistfully. "You work so many nights, and since Watson's been gone...."
Caving as they'd both known he would from the beginning, Donald sighed. "All right, you win. You always do," he said with mock gruffness, affecting a put-upon air. But as Timmy and the cat both beamed at him, his grumpy facade crumbled, and an indulgent smile broke through. He gave Timmy a gentle shake. "I'm really, really glad you're not a girl," he said.
"Somehow, I've always rather considered that a given. Why now, in particular?"
"Because you have me wrapped so tight around your little finger it's disgusting. At least you're a guy, so no one can accuse me of being pussy-whipped."
Timmy laughed out loud at that one and reached over to stroke the cat, who had taken up residence in Donald's lap. "I thought Tuxedo Tom might be an appropriate name for him. What do you think?"
"I think it's a helluva mouthful when we're trying to call him to dinner. How about Tux? Short and sweet, whadda ya say?"
Timmy pulled him into a soft kiss. "Short and sweet," he murmured against Donald's lips. "Just the way I like them." Then he guided Donald's hand between his thighs, and they tabled their discussion of matters feline for a while.
Tux curled into a comfortable ball and calmly looked on without comment.
* * * *
Several weeks later, Donald arrived home from a late evening stakeout to find the house in an uproar. As he turned his key in the lock, he heard thumping and banging and a blood-curdling shriek that simultaneously made his heart stand still and his pulse race. Bursting through the door with his gun already half drawn, he was nearly bowled over by a burly intruder who was ricocheting around the room, frantically trying to rid himself of the no longer "slightly underweight" ball of fur and fury that had attached itself to his face. In the half-second it took Donald to assess the situation, he spotted Tim hunkered down in a corner, nursing his head in his hands. Blood oozed between his fingers, and his glasses dangled from one ear, broken and twisted.
The world turned red. Drawing a bead on the wildly careening intruder, Donald roared, "Freeze, asshole, or name your next of kin!"
But Asshole didn't freeze. Asshole couldn't, because four sets of madly flailing claws were shredding his face into crimson coleslaw. One of them -- the man or the cat, Donald couldn't tell which -- yowled eerily, and the besieged intruder staggered close enough for Donald to clip him behind the knee. Asshole went down and Tux went flying -- just in the nick of time, as it turned out, because the man's head hit the hearth with a sickening crack. His limbs convulsed a time or two, then he lay still.
In a heartbeat, Donald had him frisked and cuffed. Then he was on the floor with Timmy, pulling his moaning partner into his arms.
"Donald," Timmy groaned, clutching him with one hand while he continued to cradle his head in the other.
"It's okay, sweetheart, I'm here," Donald crooned, carefully keeping the fear out of his voice as he removed the broken glasses and felt Timmy over, searching for injuries. "What the hell happened, honey? What did he do to you?"
"I was unwrapping the new andirons," Timmy said, drawing a shaky breath. "The ones I ordered with the cats on the ends, remember? I was just taking them out of the box when this...this...Neanderthal came to the door and tried to force his way in. He said he was a client and that you'd asked him to meet you here, but that didn't seem right to me. When I pulled out my phone to call you, he shoved his way inside and started pushing me around, yelling something about his marriage and job being shot down the drain -- it didn't make sense. When I told him I was calling the police if he didn't leave, he grabbed an iron and attacked me with it. He hit me so hard I almost blacked out, then he was screaming and Tux was on him and screaming, too, and you came in and stared yelling...." Timmy trailed off, giving Donald a pitiful look. "My head hurts, Donald. My head really, really hurts."
"I bet it does," Donald said, continuing to examine Timmy with gentle fingers. He was scraped, battered and bruised, and a fair-sized goose egg was growing just above his left eyebrow. Though copious amounts of blood smeared Donald's hands and trickled into Timmy's eyes, it all seemed to come from one small scalp laceration. It would take stitches, he decided, and probably hurt like hell, but it wasn't life threatening. Mopping Timmy's face with his own shirtsleeve, he sighed in relief, then fished the phone out of his pocket and dialed 911, barking out requests for police and an ambulance while planting reassuring kisses on Timmy's forehead. The call made, he flipped the phone closed and cuddled Timmy closer, willing some semblance of calm to wash over him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Asshole shift and moan before settling back into less than blissful slumber. Briefly, he considered bringing him around long enough to clobber him over the head with an andiron, just to see if the big bastard took it as well as he dished it out, but then thought better of it. He vaguely remembered the guy, a night watchman named Bradshaw, whose employers had hired Donald to gather evidence that he was stealing and fencing company goods. Last he'd heard, Bradshaw was unemployed, with divorce and conviction both pending. Forcing his touch to remain gentle, Donald gritted his teeth, swallowing back a sudden wave of anger that was aimed at himself as much as it was at Bradshaw.
He'd done it again.
"I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart," he managed to say after a while.
"Don't be ridiculous," Timmy murmured, his breath warm against Donald's neck. "You charged in just in time, the way you always seem to. My own personal posse of one."
"Still your hero, huh?" Donald said wryly.
"Of course. Well, you and Tux." Timmy looked up suddenly, squinting myopically as he searched the room for his cat. "Where is he?" he asked. "He was trying to protect me. If he's hurt...."
As if in answer, a furry head insinuated itself between them, and Tux mewed plaintively. Together they scooped him up and cradled him between their chests as his purr rose to a crescendo.
"Good kitty!" Donald declared, meaning it with all his heart. "Good, good kitty! Honey, you can bring home a thousand cats if you want, as long as they...hey, what's so funny?"
Timmy had collapsed against him, shaking with silent laughter that quickly escalated into hearty, un-Timothy-like guffaws. He cackled until his eyes watered, gripping his head as if it might burst at any moment and flinching from the pain. Lips pressed together in consternation, Donald regarded him with no small amount of concern, fretting over the possibilities of head trauma and permanent injury to the brain.
When was that damned ambulance going to get there, anyway?
Finally, Timmy settled down and scrubbed his face against Donald's forearm, sopping up tears and more blood with the ruined shirtsleeve as he continued to chuckle softly.
"Care to let me in on the joke?" Donald asked, thoroughly confused.
Timmy shook his head and grinned through the gore on his face, then pulled Donald into a messy kiss. "It's not really a joke," he said, wincing even as his grin grew wider. "You were wrong, that's all."
"About?" Donald prompted, relieved to finally hear the wail of approaching sirens.
"The dynamics of our little family, darling." Tim tipped his head toward Tux, then toward Bradshaw's unconscious form, then back to Tux again. Wriggling blood-caked eyebrows at Donald, he leaned close for a conspiratory whisper. "Even in this all-male household, it appears someone managed to get pussy-whipped after all!"
Donald was relaxing in the back porch glider, soaking up the last rays of evening sun after a long day of tedious research and dead ends, difficult clients and Kenny being...well...Kenny. He wanted to enjoy the remnants of the autumn evening curled around a cold martini and a warm Timothy, not necessarily in that order. Most of all, he wanted to shut off his over-stimulated brain for a while and just not think -- not about work or bills or the disturbing new rattle his car made while the engine idled, and especially not about cats.
"Cat person, dog person. There's no such thing, Donald," Timmy said, settling beside him and tucking an arm through his. "Animals are individuals, just like people are. Some suit us, some don't. And some simply need us."
"Timothy, we can't have a cat in the house. You're allergic, remember?"
Timmy considered the cat gravely. "I had him inside for half the afternoon, and I didn't sneeze once. I don't know what it is about him, but I seem to be immune to his dander."
"Still, you can't just take in any wild animal off the street, sweetheart. It's not safe."
The corner of Timmy's mouth twitched. "Funny, that's what all my friends said when they first met you."
"Oh, ha ha," Donald said, rolling his eyes. "I'm serious here. What if he has rabies?"
"He's perfectly healthy, Donald. The vet said...."
"The vet!"
"...that he's perfectly fine, and now that he's wormed and had all his shots...."
"His shots!"
"...and once I take him in to be neutered on Monday...."
"Timothy...."
"...he should be ready to begin a long and happy life with us. He is a bit underweight, but I think I can take care of that."
Laughing in spite of himself, Donald hooked his fingers through Timmy's belt loop and pulled him in close for a kiss. "Like you did with me, huh? I've gone up two pants sizes since I married you. Not that I'm complaining."
They spent some time in happy lip-lock, neither of them complaining at all. Then Donald heard a creaking meow and watched a two-tone bundle of skin, bones and fur land in Timmy's lap. The cat settled in the dip between Tim's thighs, purring loudly.
Grinning, Timmy nudged Donald's shoulder with his own. "He does rather remind me of you, come to think of it."
"Oh, really? How do you figure that?"
"Let's see. You're approximately the same height...."
"Hey!" Donald said, nudging him back.
"And you did more than your fair share of tomcatting around before we got together...."
"Yeah, but you managed to housebreak me pretty fast, didn't you?"
"Darling, you'll never be housebroken. But you never stray, and that's all that matters. The overflowing litter boxes and the occasional hairballs are things I've learn to live with."
In an instant, Donald's hands were under Timmy's shirt, fingers wriggling against his ribcage. Timmy yelped and doubled over, squirming helplessly. "He's very handsome," he gasped once Donald relented enough for him to draw a breath.
"That's more like it."
"He looks marvelous in his little tux, just like you do."
"Keep it up. We both know flattery will get you everywhere."
"Hmmm. He's also rather cocky and probably not above marking his territory when the situation warrants...."
Great, Donald thought. There goes the furniture. Not to mention the rugs, our shoes....
The cat pawed Timmy's chest, mewing for attention. "...and he's obviously the jealous type...."
"I am not the jealous...."
Tim raised an eyebrow. "The congressman's son who brushed a speck of dust off my lapel at the fundraiser last week and ended up with your drink all over his suit," he said quietly. "The deliveryman who winked at me and 'accidentally' got knocked off the porch. The old friend from college whose number was mysteriously blocked from my cell phone. My former assistant whose wife left him when she somehow learned...."
"All right, all right! Next subject, please!"
With a smug smile, Timmy settled against him once more.. "Oh, and I'm not sure, but I think he may be gay."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, he does seem to share your obsession with my crotch."
"Oh no, you don't!" Donald informed the cat, scooping him off Tim's lap and holding him at arm's length. "Mine!"
"He'd be good company for me," Timmy said wistfully. "You work so many nights, and since Watson's been gone...."
Caving as they'd both known he would from the beginning, Donald sighed. "All right, you win. You always do," he said with mock gruffness, affecting a put-upon air. But as Timmy and the cat both beamed at him, his grumpy facade crumbled, and an indulgent smile broke through. He gave Timmy a gentle shake. "I'm really, really glad you're not a girl," he said.
"Somehow, I've always rather considered that a given. Why now, in particular?"
"Because you have me wrapped so tight around your little finger it's disgusting. At least you're a guy, so no one can accuse me of being pussy-whipped."
Timmy laughed out loud at that one and reached over to stroke the cat, who had taken up residence in Donald's lap. "I thought Tuxedo Tom might be an appropriate name for him. What do you think?"
"I think it's a helluva mouthful when we're trying to call him to dinner. How about Tux? Short and sweet, whadda ya say?"
Timmy pulled him into a soft kiss. "Short and sweet," he murmured against Donald's lips. "Just the way I like them." Then he guided Donald's hand between his thighs, and they tabled their discussion of matters feline for a while.
Tux curled into a comfortable ball and calmly looked on without comment.
* * * *
Several weeks later, Donald arrived home from a late evening stakeout to find the house in an uproar. As he turned his key in the lock, he heard thumping and banging and a blood-curdling shriek that simultaneously made his heart stand still and his pulse race. Bursting through the door with his gun already half drawn, he was nearly bowled over by a burly intruder who was ricocheting around the room, frantically trying to rid himself of the no longer "slightly underweight" ball of fur and fury that had attached itself to his face. In the half-second it took Donald to assess the situation, he spotted Tim hunkered down in a corner, nursing his head in his hands. Blood oozed between his fingers, and his glasses dangled from one ear, broken and twisted.
The world turned red. Drawing a bead on the wildly careening intruder, Donald roared, "Freeze, asshole, or name your next of kin!"
But Asshole didn't freeze. Asshole couldn't, because four sets of madly flailing claws were shredding his face into crimson coleslaw. One of them -- the man or the cat, Donald couldn't tell which -- yowled eerily, and the besieged intruder staggered close enough for Donald to clip him behind the knee. Asshole went down and Tux went flying -- just in the nick of time, as it turned out, because the man's head hit the hearth with a sickening crack. His limbs convulsed a time or two, then he lay still.
In a heartbeat, Donald had him frisked and cuffed. Then he was on the floor with Timmy, pulling his moaning partner into his arms.
"Donald," Timmy groaned, clutching him with one hand while he continued to cradle his head in the other.
"It's okay, sweetheart, I'm here," Donald crooned, carefully keeping the fear out of his voice as he removed the broken glasses and felt Timmy over, searching for injuries. "What the hell happened, honey? What did he do to you?"
"I was unwrapping the new andirons," Timmy said, drawing a shaky breath. "The ones I ordered with the cats on the ends, remember? I was just taking them out of the box when this...this...Neanderthal came to the door and tried to force his way in. He said he was a client and that you'd asked him to meet you here, but that didn't seem right to me. When I pulled out my phone to call you, he shoved his way inside and started pushing me around, yelling something about his marriage and job being shot down the drain -- it didn't make sense. When I told him I was calling the police if he didn't leave, he grabbed an iron and attacked me with it. He hit me so hard I almost blacked out, then he was screaming and Tux was on him and screaming, too, and you came in and stared yelling...." Timmy trailed off, giving Donald a pitiful look. "My head hurts, Donald. My head really, really hurts."
"I bet it does," Donald said, continuing to examine Timmy with gentle fingers. He was scraped, battered and bruised, and a fair-sized goose egg was growing just above his left eyebrow. Though copious amounts of blood smeared Donald's hands and trickled into Timmy's eyes, it all seemed to come from one small scalp laceration. It would take stitches, he decided, and probably hurt like hell, but it wasn't life threatening. Mopping Timmy's face with his own shirtsleeve, he sighed in relief, then fished the phone out of his pocket and dialed 911, barking out requests for police and an ambulance while planting reassuring kisses on Timmy's forehead. The call made, he flipped the phone closed and cuddled Timmy closer, willing some semblance of calm to wash over him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Asshole shift and moan before settling back into less than blissful slumber. Briefly, he considered bringing him around long enough to clobber him over the head with an andiron, just to see if the big bastard took it as well as he dished it out, but then thought better of it. He vaguely remembered the guy, a night watchman named Bradshaw, whose employers had hired Donald to gather evidence that he was stealing and fencing company goods. Last he'd heard, Bradshaw was unemployed, with divorce and conviction both pending. Forcing his touch to remain gentle, Donald gritted his teeth, swallowing back a sudden wave of anger that was aimed at himself as much as it was at Bradshaw.
He'd done it again.
"I'm so, so sorry, sweetheart," he managed to say after a while.
"Don't be ridiculous," Timmy murmured, his breath warm against Donald's neck. "You charged in just in time, the way you always seem to. My own personal posse of one."
"Still your hero, huh?" Donald said wryly.
"Of course. Well, you and Tux." Timmy looked up suddenly, squinting myopically as he searched the room for his cat. "Where is he?" he asked. "He was trying to protect me. If he's hurt...."
As if in answer, a furry head insinuated itself between them, and Tux mewed plaintively. Together they scooped him up and cradled him between their chests as his purr rose to a crescendo.
"Good kitty!" Donald declared, meaning it with all his heart. "Good, good kitty! Honey, you can bring home a thousand cats if you want, as long as they...hey, what's so funny?"
Timmy had collapsed against him, shaking with silent laughter that quickly escalated into hearty, un-Timothy-like guffaws. He cackled until his eyes watered, gripping his head as if it might burst at any moment and flinching from the pain. Lips pressed together in consternation, Donald regarded him with no small amount of concern, fretting over the possibilities of head trauma and permanent injury to the brain.
When was that damned ambulance going to get there, anyway?
Finally, Timmy settled down and scrubbed his face against Donald's forearm, sopping up tears and more blood with the ruined shirtsleeve as he continued to chuckle softly.
"Care to let me in on the joke?" Donald asked, thoroughly confused.
Timmy shook his head and grinned through the gore on his face, then pulled Donald into a messy kiss. "It's not really a joke," he said, wincing even as his grin grew wider. "You were wrong, that's all."
"About?" Donald prompted, relieved to finally hear the wail of approaching sirens.
"The dynamics of our little family, darling." Tim tipped his head toward Tux, then toward Bradshaw's unconscious form, then back to Tux again. Wriggling blood-caked eyebrows at Donald, he leaned close for a conspiratory whisper. "Even in this all-male household, it appears someone managed to get pussy-whipped after all!"
Timmy's andirons
Seven Year Itch
900 words
I’ll put up no resistance
I want to stay the distance
I’ve got an itch to scratch
I need assistance
~~ "Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me" by Richard O'Brien
“Donald.”
. . . .
“Donald.”
. . . .
“Don-ALD!”
“What?”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“You know very well what.”
“I can’t help it. It itches.”
“Yes, and if you don’t leave it alone, it’s going to spread and itch even more.”
“How in the hell could it itch any more than it does right now?”
“If you don’t stop scratching, you’ll find out. Do what I do and try to think about something else.”
“Like you are right now, I suppose?”
“Yes, I…er…sorry.”
“Sorry for scratching or sorry for landing us in the middle of a patch of poison ivy?”
“Me? It was your bright idea to spend our seventh anniversary out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Hey, I was just trying to give you a little romance for a change. The lake, the mountains, the peace and quiet of the woods. Just you and me and….”
“And ticks and snapping turtles and wasps and….”
“Don’t forget the skunk.”
“Oh, believe me, I will never forget the skunk!”
chuckles
“Romance is a five-star hotel with champagne and caviar and a Do Not Disturb sign that doesn’t leave the door handle for days. Romance is satin sheets and rose petals, not crawling into a sleeping bag with vermin.”
laughs harder
“That was a snake I saw, Donald. I don’t care what you say. I know a snake when I see one.”
“I’m sure you do, sweetheart.”
“And mice! There were mice in the tent last night. I could hear them gathering round, waiting for us to fall asleep.”
“Guess we should have brought Tux, huh?”
“They would have bound and gagged poor Tux and carried him away in the night. Mosquitoes ate us alive the first day, chiggers the second, and today….”
“Today you were too busy ogling some beefed up asshole of a park ranger to watch where you were going. Then when you got tangled up in vines….”
“I was not ogling. You’d mentioned wanting to climb the fire tower, and I was simply trying to get the ranger’s attention so he could tell us which path to take.”
“Oh, you got his attention, all right. He laughed his extra buff ass off, watching me try to untangle you. I thought he was going to have an aneurism when we both ending up toppling into a thicket full of the most toxic plant known to man. You got his attention and then some!”
heavy silence
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Timothy….”
“Well, you accused me of ogling, but you seem to be the one noticing how buff his ass was.”
“Only because you went on and on about how good he looked in shorts.”
“I did not….”
“Did, too.”
“Donald, I simply stated that I liked the type of shorts he was wearing….”
“And that he looked hot in them.”
“What I said was that you should get some shorts like that because you’d look hotter in them than he did.”
“Which means you thought he looked hot to begin with.”
“It means no such thing! You’re the one with the roving eye, not me.”
“Roving eye! Since when….”
“Need I remind you of time you ignored me to flirt with that biker boy….”
“Oh, here we go! We’re not going to get started on that again, are we? And stop scratching. You’re making me itch worse.”
“Use more calamine.”
“It’s spread to my back now. I can’t reach.”
“Then I’ll reach it for you. Here, take off your shirt.”
. . . .
. . . .
“That feels nice.”
“Where else do you need it?”
unintelligible mumbling
“Excuse me?”
“Ummm…my ass.”
“Oh, no!”
“Look, if you don’t want to….”
“I’d rather look at your ass than that ranger’s any day. Even if it is all red and bumpy at the moment.”
“You sure about that? When you started talking about the way he looked in those shorts, I kind of thought you might be coming down with the seven year itch.”
“Darling, the only person I itch for is you. Always and forever, Donald. I promise.”
“Good. That goes both ways, you know.”
“I know.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhh.”
“Better?”
“Yesssssssssssss. You know, I’ve got another itch that could stand some scratching, if you’re interested.”
“Won’t all that…um…friction?…just spread the rash even more?”
. . . .
“Don?”
“I really suck at planning romantic getaways, don‘t I?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Our little woodland adventure’s had its moments. Watching the sun go down by the lake every night has been lovely.”
“Yes, it has.”
“And in spite of the poison ivy incident, we had a nice hike today. We saw those deer, and we had our picnic. And tomorrow you’re going to take me fishing, remember?”
“So you really don’t hate this?”
“How could I hate it? I’m with you. And in spite of the mosquitoes and the ticks….”
“And the snakes and the mice?”
“And even the poison ivy, there’s no place I’d rather be than here, just as long as you‘re here, too, scratching right along beside me.”
“Scratch my itch, Timmy. Please, baby? Come on over here and scratch my itch….”
“Hmmm. Do you think both of us can fit in your sleeping bag?”
“I don’t know, but it’ll sure be fun trying. Oh, and Timmy? Don’t forget the….”
“Lube? Got it right here.”
“That, too. But I was about to say the extra bottle of calamine. Just in case.”
Indian Food
2400 words
"Still, it’d be nice if you were just a little jealous."
"Oh, I am."
"You are?"
"Yeah, of him kissing you on the hand like that."
"Yeah?"
"I’m green with envy. I’m seething with jealousy."
"Seething?"
"Mmm-hmm. And there’s only one way that you can make it up to me."
Donald whispered something in my ear, something filthy and physically improbable and incredibly…hot. So make it up to him I did. I made it up to him right there on the steps, as a matter of fact, and then again upstairs in a vastly more comfortable setting once we’d both gotten our second wind. Toward the end, something seemed a little off to me -- not with the sex itself, but with Donald. He reached climax just seconds after I did, however, then kissed me the way he always does and thanked me and told me that he loved me. Afterwards, we lay in a companionable tangle, with his face pressed against my neck and my arms wrapped loosely around his waist. I stroked his arms, his chest, his face, loving the smooth, slightly damp heat of his skin, the solidity of his compact body pressing against mine. Sometimes it seemed as if I could never get enough of touching Donald.
We were both a little worse for the wear after our tussle on the stairs, and knocking against the hard edges of the steps had left tender spots that would probably become bruises by the next day. When I noticed a place on his side that was already beginning to darken, I touched it with my fingertips, stroking it gently. I briefly considered going downstairs for the first aid kit so I could treat it with witch hazel, but Donald had me pinned to the spot, and I was far too content to move. He’d hooked a leg over both of mine and was languidly rubbing my calf with his foot. His hand lay on my chest, and every once in a while, he’d give the hair around my right nipple a sharp little tug. I’d swat his hand away, and it would settle again for a minute or maybe two before he couldn’t stand it any longer and would have to tug again. Finally, I caught his hand and kissed it, then held it against my cheek, my fingers laced through his.
“I love it when we fight,” I told him.
His face remained buried in my neck, his breath tickling my skin. “No, you don’t. You hate it just as much as I do. It’s the making up part we both like.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Smiling, I pressed his hand to my lips once again. I was seriously considering instigating another round of “making up” when his stomach gurgled loudly, ending in a long, low-pitched whine. He held his breath and drew his knees up, and I felt, rather than saw, him wince.
“Now I remember why I don’t eat Indian food,” he said once the cramp let up enough for him to speak.
Deciding to forgo the lecture we both knew he had coming, I eased him onto his back and rolled over so I could massage his belly, targeting the area just below his navel where years of hard-earned experience had taught me he required attention the most. Donald doesn’t like to admit it, but he has a sensitive digestive system and absolutely no common sense regarding what he eats, so by that point in our relationship, I was more than used to providing much-needed damage control. Groaning in relief, he covered my hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against his abdomen. After a few minutes passed, a remarkable amount of gas did as well. The sound was high-pitched and went on forever, like someone slowly letting air out of a birthday balloon. It took considerable effort not to laugh.
“Sorry,” he said.
I kissed his cheek and continued the massage. “Well, I did try to warn you.”
“Not true. You said I’m not a big fan of Indian food. I love Indian food. It doesn’t love me.“
“Next time, I’ll try to be more specific. I should have reminded you that it blows your intestines up like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade and gives you projectile diarrhea every time you eat it. Since Andrew was listening, I assumed you’d prefer I didn’t go into quite that much detail. In the future, however….”
“All right, all right,” he said. “I get your point.” Suddenly, he tensed, pressing my hand even harder against his stomach. Then he was gone, diving for the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. He was in there for so long I started to worry. Finally, he emerged, looking haggard. He shuffled toward the bed, bent over at the waist, with one hand clutching his belly.
“Fucking Indian food,” he said.
“My God, you look awful,” I told him. “Did you take anything? I can see how much you’re hurting. Do you want me to get the heating pad?”
“I’d rather have you.” He stretched out on top of me, lying belly to belly the way he so often did when something he’d eaten decided to bite back. There was another gaseous expulsion, long and loud, this time sounding as if something large and possibly made of rubber was flapping furiously in the breeze. He shuddered. So did my eardrums.
“Sorry,” he said again.
I wished he’d stop apologizing. There’s no getting around the fact that Donald is a farter, and he learned early on that I’m neither charmed nor amused by that particular trait of his. Over the years, he’d learned to be discreet, and he usually went out of his way to spare both my ears and my nasal lining as much as possible. I knew he was in pain and not doing this just to annoy me. Although I was hardly enjoying the audial and olfactory aspects of the situation, I wasn’t about to take issue with anything he had to do in order to feel better.
He was planning to stake out Dorothy and Edith’s place overnight and wanted to be back there and in position before dark, but the sun wouldn’t be setting for another couple of hours, so we had some time on our hands. I reached for the clock and set the alarm, thinking that perhaps a nap was in order. If he had a chance to sleep it off, his system might recover from all that curry and garlic, and he wouldn’t have to spend the whole night hunched over in his car, doubled up with cramps and completely miserable.
There was no doubt in my mind that he’d insist on working, no matter how awful he felt, so I began cataloguing the tasks waiting for me at the office, deciding there was nothing terribly urgent on the agenda. If I had to, I could leave a message on the senator’s voicemail, letting her know I wouldn’t be coming in the next day. I’d drive Donald to Hollis myself and spend the night there, keeping him company and doing what I could to make him more comfortable. He’d argue, of course, and say I didn’t have to do it. In the end, I’d win the debate. I always do.
As we pulled the covers over us and snuggled in, I couldn’t help thinking that even when he was speeding up the greenhouse effect by producing more than his fair share of methane, nothing in the world felt better than spending time in bed with Donald. Just when I thought he’d exhausted his decidedly un-musical repertoire, I heard a series of rapid-fire pops. It sounded for all the world like the noises that come from beneath my secretary’s desk when she’s squirreled away a piece of bubble wrap and can’t resist playing with it. He pulled his face away from my neck long enough to peep up at me, another apology on the tip of his tongue, but I preempted it with a kiss. I pulled him even closer and began to rub circles on the small of his back.
“You’re a really great guy, you know that?”
“Hmmm, it’s nice to see you appreciate me after all,” I teased.
“I mean it. Not many guys would be willing to put up with me or…” he paused, waving his hand in an all-encompassing gesture, “…this.”
“Darling, I’ve been putting up with you and…this…for years, and it hasn’t driven me away yet. Why do you think it would now?”
“I did this to myself,” he said. “I knew why you were trying to keep me away from the biryani, but I ate it anyway. I was trying to prove a really stupid point.”
“What possible point did you think making yourself sick was going to prove, Donald?”
“Dunno.“ He was quiet for a few moments, then admitted, “That Andrew’s not a threat to me, I guess.”
I perked up instantly. “So, you are jealous after all.”
“No, I’m really not. Look, Andrew seems like a nice enough guy, but sometimes he acts like he has…I dunno…like he sort of has an insider’s view of you.“
“Andrew and I had our time together years before you and I met, honey. He remembers certain things from my past that you couldn’t possibly know about because you weren’t there. But that doesn’t mean he knows me, the person I am today. Not the way you do. No one knows me the way you do.”
“Told you it was stupid.“
“Not stupid. A little misguided, perhaps, but definitely not stupid.“
“Anyway, I admit I was kinda acting territorial around Andrew, but that’s not the same as being jealous. I could never be jealous over you.”
“Well, thanks. It’s nice to know I don’t warrant….”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, burying his face against my neck once again. His body tensed, and he pressed down harder against me, groaning. I stroked his hair, feeling bad for teasing him. Why had I ever wanted him to be jealous? I’d had enough unfaithful lovers in the past to be all too familiar with the emotion. Feeling jealousy is a miserable, painful experience, one that makes you sick through and through. Donald meant the world to me, and I could never, ever wish pain on him. He’d had enough pain in his life already.
I remembered how we’d met and how long it had taken me to earn his trust, to know that he felt secure in our relationship, secure in the fact that I not only loved him, but saw him as someone deserving loyalty and love. Both of his parents had rejected him. All his friends had turned their backs on him when they found out about Kyle, treating him as if homosexuality were some noxious, contagious thing he might pass on to them if they stood too close. And then there was Kyle himself, the coward, who’d selfishly, brutally, broken his heart. No wonder Donald had abandonment issues. He’d been abandoned by everyone he’d ever cared for, except for me.
In some small, dark corner of Donald’s psyche, there exists a hard, painful kernel of fear. He hides it so well no one else would ever suspect it was there. But I know it; I’ve seen it often enough. It comes to light when he thinks my life’s in danger, when I’m injured or ill, when we fight. Afterward, it sometimes takes days or weeks or even months of quiet -- or not so quiet -- reassurances from me to put it back in its place, to get him back to the point where he masters the fear instead of letting it master him.
Donald has always been good to me. In spite of his notorious temper and his bull-in-a-china-shop approach to life, he’s always been so gentle with me, so protective of me and of my feelings. He’d rather die than hurt me; my faith in that is firm and unshakable. Why in the world would I want to do anything to shake his faith in me, to make him doubt the degree of my devotion? Even worse, why would I want to weaken his already shaky sense of self-worth? Suddenly, I felt horribly, miserably guilty, knowing how petty and childish I’d been acting since Andrew came to town. I was ready to tell him so when he pressed his lips to my ear.
“You love me,” he whispered.
“I love you more than anything,” I told him, squeezing him as hard as I could without causing bodily injury and peppering his face with kisses.
“See, I know that. You show me that every day we’re together. That’s why I could never be jealous over you. You’d never cheat on me with Andrew or anyone else. It would never even cross your mind. You’re just not wired that way. You love me too much, and you’d never do anything to hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t want you to do anything to hurt yourself, either. So next time you and Andrew decide to get into a…a….”
“A pissing contest?” he offered, grinning.
“…a pissing contest, just tell him to go….”
“Fuck himself?”
“…fuck himself. Or you can punch him in the nose if it makes you feel better. Do something a little less detrimental to your health than eating something that’s pure poison to your system. Do it for me, okay?”
“Okay.” His smile turned into a grimace, and he squirmed against me, clenching his fists in the covers. I heard a series of rhythmic percussions reminiscent of a woodpecker hammering away on an oak tree. “Fucking Indian food,” he said.
“Fucking Indian food,” I cheerfully agreed.
He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “Make sure I wake up in time to make it Hollis before dark, okay? The sooner I nail whoever’s threatening Dorothy and Edith, the sooner Andrew can head back to wherever he came from.”
“San Francisco,” I said, trying to be helpful.
“Yeah, well, whatever.”
I smiled and stroked his hair. “I’ll take care of it, Donald. Don’t I always take care of you?”
“Always,” he murmured, drifting. “Fucking Andrew McWhirter,” he added, the words a soft, garbled blur against the base of my throat.
I had a odd, uneasy feeling when he said that, an uncomfortable sensation I couldn’t explain then and still can’t explain today. Call it a premonition, perhaps, or intuition. Maybe I was just feeling particularly protective of Donald. Whatever the reason, I suddenly, if fleetingly, concurred.
Fucking Andrew McWhirter, indeed.
"Oh, I am."
"You are?"
"Yeah, of him kissing you on the hand like that."
"Yeah?"
"I’m green with envy. I’m seething with jealousy."
"Seething?"
"Mmm-hmm. And there’s only one way that you can make it up to me."
Donald whispered something in my ear, something filthy and physically improbable and incredibly…hot. So make it up to him I did. I made it up to him right there on the steps, as a matter of fact, and then again upstairs in a vastly more comfortable setting once we’d both gotten our second wind. Toward the end, something seemed a little off to me -- not with the sex itself, but with Donald. He reached climax just seconds after I did, however, then kissed me the way he always does and thanked me and told me that he loved me. Afterwards, we lay in a companionable tangle, with his face pressed against my neck and my arms wrapped loosely around his waist. I stroked his arms, his chest, his face, loving the smooth, slightly damp heat of his skin, the solidity of his compact body pressing against mine. Sometimes it seemed as if I could never get enough of touching Donald.
We were both a little worse for the wear after our tussle on the stairs, and knocking against the hard edges of the steps had left tender spots that would probably become bruises by the next day. When I noticed a place on his side that was already beginning to darken, I touched it with my fingertips, stroking it gently. I briefly considered going downstairs for the first aid kit so I could treat it with witch hazel, but Donald had me pinned to the spot, and I was far too content to move. He’d hooked a leg over both of mine and was languidly rubbing my calf with his foot. His hand lay on my chest, and every once in a while, he’d give the hair around my right nipple a sharp little tug. I’d swat his hand away, and it would settle again for a minute or maybe two before he couldn’t stand it any longer and would have to tug again. Finally, I caught his hand and kissed it, then held it against my cheek, my fingers laced through his.
“I love it when we fight,” I told him.
His face remained buried in my neck, his breath tickling my skin. “No, you don’t. You hate it just as much as I do. It’s the making up part we both like.”
I couldn’t argue with that. Smiling, I pressed his hand to my lips once again. I was seriously considering instigating another round of “making up” when his stomach gurgled loudly, ending in a long, low-pitched whine. He held his breath and drew his knees up, and I felt, rather than saw, him wince.
“Now I remember why I don’t eat Indian food,” he said once the cramp let up enough for him to speak.
Deciding to forgo the lecture we both knew he had coming, I eased him onto his back and rolled over so I could massage his belly, targeting the area just below his navel where years of hard-earned experience had taught me he required attention the most. Donald doesn’t like to admit it, but he has a sensitive digestive system and absolutely no common sense regarding what he eats, so by that point in our relationship, I was more than used to providing much-needed damage control. Groaning in relief, he covered my hand with his own, pressing it more firmly against his abdomen. After a few minutes passed, a remarkable amount of gas did as well. The sound was high-pitched and went on forever, like someone slowly letting air out of a birthday balloon. It took considerable effort not to laugh.
“Sorry,” he said.
I kissed his cheek and continued the massage. “Well, I did try to warn you.”
“Not true. You said I’m not a big fan of Indian food. I love Indian food. It doesn’t love me.“
“Next time, I’ll try to be more specific. I should have reminded you that it blows your intestines up like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade and gives you projectile diarrhea every time you eat it. Since Andrew was listening, I assumed you’d prefer I didn’t go into quite that much detail. In the future, however….”
“All right, all right,” he said. “I get your point.” Suddenly, he tensed, pressing my hand even harder against his stomach. Then he was gone, diving for the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him. He was in there for so long I started to worry. Finally, he emerged, looking haggard. He shuffled toward the bed, bent over at the waist, with one hand clutching his belly.
“Fucking Indian food,” he said.
“My God, you look awful,” I told him. “Did you take anything? I can see how much you’re hurting. Do you want me to get the heating pad?”
“I’d rather have you.” He stretched out on top of me, lying belly to belly the way he so often did when something he’d eaten decided to bite back. There was another gaseous expulsion, long and loud, this time sounding as if something large and possibly made of rubber was flapping furiously in the breeze. He shuddered. So did my eardrums.
“Sorry,” he said again.
I wished he’d stop apologizing. There’s no getting around the fact that Donald is a farter, and he learned early on that I’m neither charmed nor amused by that particular trait of his. Over the years, he’d learned to be discreet, and he usually went out of his way to spare both my ears and my nasal lining as much as possible. I knew he was in pain and not doing this just to annoy me. Although I was hardly enjoying the audial and olfactory aspects of the situation, I wasn’t about to take issue with anything he had to do in order to feel better.
He was planning to stake out Dorothy and Edith’s place overnight and wanted to be back there and in position before dark, but the sun wouldn’t be setting for another couple of hours, so we had some time on our hands. I reached for the clock and set the alarm, thinking that perhaps a nap was in order. If he had a chance to sleep it off, his system might recover from all that curry and garlic, and he wouldn’t have to spend the whole night hunched over in his car, doubled up with cramps and completely miserable.
There was no doubt in my mind that he’d insist on working, no matter how awful he felt, so I began cataloguing the tasks waiting for me at the office, deciding there was nothing terribly urgent on the agenda. If I had to, I could leave a message on the senator’s voicemail, letting her know I wouldn’t be coming in the next day. I’d drive Donald to Hollis myself and spend the night there, keeping him company and doing what I could to make him more comfortable. He’d argue, of course, and say I didn’t have to do it. In the end, I’d win the debate. I always do.
As we pulled the covers over us and snuggled in, I couldn’t help thinking that even when he was speeding up the greenhouse effect by producing more than his fair share of methane, nothing in the world felt better than spending time in bed with Donald. Just when I thought he’d exhausted his decidedly un-musical repertoire, I heard a series of rapid-fire pops. It sounded for all the world like the noises that come from beneath my secretary’s desk when she’s squirreled away a piece of bubble wrap and can’t resist playing with it. He pulled his face away from my neck long enough to peep up at me, another apology on the tip of his tongue, but I preempted it with a kiss. I pulled him even closer and began to rub circles on the small of his back.
“You’re a really great guy, you know that?”
“Hmmm, it’s nice to see you appreciate me after all,” I teased.
“I mean it. Not many guys would be willing to put up with me or…” he paused, waving his hand in an all-encompassing gesture, “…this.”
“Darling, I’ve been putting up with you and…this…for years, and it hasn’t driven me away yet. Why do you think it would now?”
“I did this to myself,” he said. “I knew why you were trying to keep me away from the biryani, but I ate it anyway. I was trying to prove a really stupid point.”
“What possible point did you think making yourself sick was going to prove, Donald?”
“Dunno.“ He was quiet for a few moments, then admitted, “That Andrew’s not a threat to me, I guess.”
I perked up instantly. “So, you are jealous after all.”
“No, I’m really not. Look, Andrew seems like a nice enough guy, but sometimes he acts like he has…I dunno…like he sort of has an insider’s view of you.“
“Andrew and I had our time together years before you and I met, honey. He remembers certain things from my past that you couldn’t possibly know about because you weren’t there. But that doesn’t mean he knows me, the person I am today. Not the way you do. No one knows me the way you do.”
“Told you it was stupid.“
“Not stupid. A little misguided, perhaps, but definitely not stupid.“
“Anyway, I admit I was kinda acting territorial around Andrew, but that’s not the same as being jealous. I could never be jealous over you.”
“Well, thanks. It’s nice to know I don’t warrant….”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, burying his face against my neck once again. His body tensed, and he pressed down harder against me, groaning. I stroked his hair, feeling bad for teasing him. Why had I ever wanted him to be jealous? I’d had enough unfaithful lovers in the past to be all too familiar with the emotion. Feeling jealousy is a miserable, painful experience, one that makes you sick through and through. Donald meant the world to me, and I could never, ever wish pain on him. He’d had enough pain in his life already.
I remembered how we’d met and how long it had taken me to earn his trust, to know that he felt secure in our relationship, secure in the fact that I not only loved him, but saw him as someone deserving loyalty and love. Both of his parents had rejected him. All his friends had turned their backs on him when they found out about Kyle, treating him as if homosexuality were some noxious, contagious thing he might pass on to them if they stood too close. And then there was Kyle himself, the coward, who’d selfishly, brutally, broken his heart. No wonder Donald had abandonment issues. He’d been abandoned by everyone he’d ever cared for, except for me.
In some small, dark corner of Donald’s psyche, there exists a hard, painful kernel of fear. He hides it so well no one else would ever suspect it was there. But I know it; I’ve seen it often enough. It comes to light when he thinks my life’s in danger, when I’m injured or ill, when we fight. Afterward, it sometimes takes days or weeks or even months of quiet -- or not so quiet -- reassurances from me to put it back in its place, to get him back to the point where he masters the fear instead of letting it master him.
Donald has always been good to me. In spite of his notorious temper and his bull-in-a-china-shop approach to life, he’s always been so gentle with me, so protective of me and of my feelings. He’d rather die than hurt me; my faith in that is firm and unshakable. Why in the world would I want to do anything to shake his faith in me, to make him doubt the degree of my devotion? Even worse, why would I want to weaken his already shaky sense of self-worth? Suddenly, I felt horribly, miserably guilty, knowing how petty and childish I’d been acting since Andrew came to town. I was ready to tell him so when he pressed his lips to my ear.
“You love me,” he whispered.
“I love you more than anything,” I told him, squeezing him as hard as I could without causing bodily injury and peppering his face with kisses.
“See, I know that. You show me that every day we’re together. That’s why I could never be jealous over you. You’d never cheat on me with Andrew or anyone else. It would never even cross your mind. You’re just not wired that way. You love me too much, and you’d never do anything to hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t want you to do anything to hurt yourself, either. So next time you and Andrew decide to get into a…a….”
“A pissing contest?” he offered, grinning.
“…a pissing contest, just tell him to go….”
“Fuck himself?”
“…fuck himself. Or you can punch him in the nose if it makes you feel better. Do something a little less detrimental to your health than eating something that’s pure poison to your system. Do it for me, okay?”
“Okay.” His smile turned into a grimace, and he squirmed against me, clenching his fists in the covers. I heard a series of rhythmic percussions reminiscent of a woodpecker hammering away on an oak tree. “Fucking Indian food,” he said.
“Fucking Indian food,” I cheerfully agreed.
He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. “Make sure I wake up in time to make it Hollis before dark, okay? The sooner I nail whoever’s threatening Dorothy and Edith, the sooner Andrew can head back to wherever he came from.”
“San Francisco,” I said, trying to be helpful.
“Yeah, well, whatever.”
I smiled and stroked his hair. “I’ll take care of it, Donald. Don’t I always take care of you?”
“Always,” he murmured, drifting. “Fucking Andrew McWhirter,” he added, the words a soft, garbled blur against the base of my throat.
I had a odd, uneasy feeling when he said that, an uncomfortable sensation I couldn’t explain then and still can’t explain today. Call it a premonition, perhaps, or intuition. Maybe I was just feeling particularly protective of Donald. Whatever the reason, I suddenly, if fleetingly, concurred.
Fucking Andrew McWhirter, indeed.
Send In the Clowns
7450 words
“Clowns scare the shit out of me. You know that, don‘t you?”
“Keep it down!” Timmy hissed, jabbing an elbow sharply into Donald’s ribcage. “There are children here, for God’s sake!”
It was a Hallmark Greeting Card kind of a day, a rare and perfect Saturday afternoon in late October. Wood smoke was on the breeze, mingled with the faint, almost subliminal scent of apples. The air was crisp and clean, the sky
virtually cloudless, and the autumn colors, though just past their peak, were still a satisfying collage of golds, oranges, and rusts.
Yeah, Donald knew it was a cliché. But as corny as it seemed, days like this made him yearn to take Timmy on long, romantic walks in the woods, to tussle with him in soft, rustling piles of fallen leaves, to cuddle up next to him in front of their fire pit as they sipped something hot and sweet -- coffee laced with Bailey’s for him and mulled wine or tea with honey for Timmy -- and waited for the sun to go down. But were they doing any of those wonderfully corny, clichéd things? Oh, hell, no. They were under siege in their own back yard, surrounded by a swarm of shrieking, costume-clad little monsters because Timmy, the wimp, had agreed to host his niece’s birthday party.
Donald was genuinely pleased that Timmy had his sister back in his life and was bonding with five-year-old Cadie. If Kelly and Donald had agreed early on that they weren’t exactly each other‘s idea of a perfect in-law, at least their mutual affection for Timothy kept them civil, if not borderline congenial. Cadie was a nice kid, with Kelly’s delicate, almost brittle good looks combined with Timmy’s kind eyes and sweeter and more loving nature. Donald had to admit that he felt a surge of genuine warmth whenever the little girl scrambled onto his lap and begged “Uncle Don” to read her a story. Since Kelly was always out chasing her causes and the entity she referred to as The Sperm Donor was whereabouts unknown, frequent babysitting was required. On the rare occasions when Timmy’s mother was unable to fill the bill, Timmy generally stepped up to the plate, dragging Donald along for the ride.
Donald was fine with that. He really was. Timmy was the light of his life and his dearest love, and Donald would do anything in the world to make him happy. But there were days….
“I know there are children here.” Donald ducked just in time to keep a flying glob of ice cream -- Breyer’s strawberry, if he wasn’t mistaken -- from connecting with his left ear. “It’s kind of hard to miss the fact that there are children here. Children screaming, children jumping on the picnic table, children throwing food, children running around with no adult supervision….”
“You’re an adult,” Timmy said mildly as he produced a handkerchief and mopped strawberry droplets off his husband’s shoulder. “You could wade in any time now and start supervising.”
“That’s what we hired the clowns for, not that they‘re doing a very good job of it. The girl clown’s keeping a few of the kids from killing each other and the guy who looks like a technicolored Charlie Chaplin‘s doing card tricks over by the pool, but I don’t see the skinny one with the purple hair anywhere. Where the hell is that creepy-looking bastard, anyway?”
Timmy handed Hello Kitty party cups filled with neon orange punch to a clamoring kindergartener in Frankenstein drag and a knee-high hobo, then shot Donald a poisonous glare. “He’s right over there by the chrysanthemum bed, making balloon animals for Cadie and one of the Hannahs. If you don’t at least attempt to watch your language, I’m going to slap you.”
“Stop making promises you don’t intend to keep,” Donald said with a half-hearted leer. But his expression darkened as Kilroy the Klown -- Who the hell would name a clown Kilroy, for chrissake? Clowns were supposed to be named Presto or Bozo or Clancy or Krusty or Ronald -- presented a blue latex giraffe to a pint-sized Princess Fiona. At least Donald thought it was supposed to be a giraffe. “I fucking hate clowns,” he muttered.
Timmy’s elbow connected with his ribcage once again, unerringly targeting the exact spot he’d jabbed earlier. That was starting to hurt, dammit, and would probably leave a bruise if he kept it up much longer. Donald couldn‘t say he really minded, though. The second they were alone in their bedroom and their shirts came off, Timmy would spot the discoloration on Donald‘s fair skin and feel guilty enough to spend the rest of the night making it up to him in any number of varied, creative, and physically challenging ways. It was almost worth cultivating the pain now, knowing he was sowing the seeds of future pleasure.
The girl clown, who was really a bubbly CNA-in-training named Kirstie, reached into the seemingly bottomless pocket of her red and yellow checkered coat and produced a battered CD player and a collapsible pole, which she quickly expanded to its full length. She recruited Shrek to hold one end and a ballerina to hold the other, then loaded a CD and cranked up the volume.
“Limbo time!” she called as Chubby Checker’s “Limbo Rock” began to blare from the cracked speakers. “The winner gets to throw a pie in Chappie‘s face!” TechniChaplin covered his face with his hands and cringed, shaking his psychedelic bootie in faux-terror.
“We knew what we were getting into when we agreed to do this. If you’re going to stand around and complain, at least do something useful at the same time. Here.” Timmy handed Donald a knife and set a tall stack of Hello Kitty party plates in front of him. “Why don’t you get started on the second cake while I take care of the punch? Make the pieces smaller this time so they’ll go farther. Meanwhile, explain to me what this clown issue is all about.”
“I’m not a fan, that’s all.” Donald hacked away at the pink and turquoise nightmare of a cake, dumping uneven chunks of it onto the plates. Realizing the last piece was at least twice the size it should have been, he quickly covered it with a napkin and shoved it out of sight behind two grinning jack-o-lanterns. “Clowns give me the creeps. I didn’t even like them when I was a kid.”
“But clowns are such a wonderful part of childhood! They’re colorful and funny and they make people laugh. See how excited Cadie is? She loves clowns. Everyone does.”
“Oh no, they don’t,” Donald said, turning a suspicious eye on Kilroy, who was twisting a pink balloon for a minute Minnie Mouse. “I don‘t trust clowns. A lot of people don’t trust clowns. Clowns are up to no good. They try to make you laugh just to distract you, and before you know it, there goes your wallet…or your life. And what’s with all the makeup and disguises, anyway? If you ask me, clowns are hiding something. Something rotten.”
“All they’re hiding is a cache of squirt guns and the secret to a magic trick or two.”
“Bullshit. You’ve seen It. We’ve watched it together at least twice, and both times you were scared to go into the kitchen for popcorn unless I came with you….”
“I simply needed another pair of hands to carry the bowls and drinks.”
“…and we had to leave the bathroom light on all night because you….”
“That movie unnerved me, all right? I freely admit it. But that was just a film, Donald. It was a work of fiction, a figment of Stephen King‘s slightly skewed imagination. That sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life.”
“Wrong! It happens all the time. You read the papers. In just the last month, a little girl’s gone missing in Fulton and a boy was taken from his grandmother’s home in Poughkeepsie. It happened just a few blocks from the house where you grew up -- you said so yourself. And another kid disappeared from a birthday party last week, this time in Syracuse, I think. Nobody’s seen him since. There were clowns at his party. I saw it on the news.”
“I‘m sorry, Isaac, but I think three cups of punch are more than enough,” Timmy said in response to a plea from a decidedly pudgy Dark Knight. “Remember what happened last week when we took you and Cadie to the zoo and you drank all that Pepsi? You can have a candy apple if you like.” He helped the Caped Crusader select a caramel-coated, English toffee-encrusted sphere on a stick and sent him on his way, then turned back to Donald. “If you’ll recall, the Syracuse party was a huge event, honey. There were at least three hundred people present that day, including a juggler, a mime, a live band, and an elderly gentleman giving the kids pony rides. It could have been anybody.”
“I’ll admit I didn’t like the looks of the pony guy, and mimes are pretty sinister, I’ll grant you that. But clowns are different. Clowns are sneaky and scary and evil and…soulless. Once you get past all the grease paint, you can see it in their eyes.”
Timmy paused in the act of filling more cups and sighed deeply. “I‘m beginning to believe you‘re seriously in need of professional help. Have you ever considered spending some quality time with a therapist?“
“If it’s physical therapy you have in mind, I’m in. Just say the word, my love, and we can play doctor anytime you want. Otherwise, all I really need is for us to have the house all to ourselves, our yard declared a clown-free zone, and you naked and covered in…” Donald stood on tiptoe to whisper the rest in the taller man’s ear, his leer morphing into a delighted little boy’s grin as Timmy gasped and spluttered, his eyes popping wide.
“Enough! I’m going to forget you said that. Well, at least until all the kids have gone home….”
Just as “Limbo Rock” began its third play-through, a pair of redheaded clones in Alice in Wonderland attire wedged their way between them. “We need to go to the bathroom, and we can’t find it anywhere,” they announced in unison. Timmy looked at Donald and Donald looked right back, determined to wait him out.
“Fine,” Timmy said, “but you’ve got to keep an eye on things while I’m gone. Make sure the clowns keep busy and that the gate stays shut. Elijah’s due for another escape attempt any moment, so we need to be ready. And would you please put at least a minimal amount of effort into slicing that cake?”
As soon as Timmy was safely inside the house, Donald uncovered the piece of cake he’d hidden and wolfed it down, scraping stray bits of icing off the plate with his fingers. He filled the next several plates with slices he was sure would pass muster with Timothy Callahan, Dessert Police, then with a furtive glance at the back door, he cut off another mammoth hunk and crammed it into his mouth as well, washing it down with a cup of punch.
The limbo contest was winding down, and a winner was declared. Amid lukewarm applause, a tiny blond Neytiri was hoisted into the air by KirstieKlown and allowed to hurl a pie pan full of whipped topping into TechniChaplin’s face at pointblank range. Donald licked icing from his fingers and smirked.
Now that was entertainment.
Kids scattered everywhere, and a line of repeat customers formed in front of the refreshment table. Timmy reappeared in time to help feed the hungry masses, all the while murmuring warm words of praise over the wonderful job Donald had done in his absence. Once the last kid in line made off with his fair share of artificial colors and preservatives, Donald stretched and rubbed his back, more than ready to take a breather. Another scoop of ice cream flew by -- chocolate this time, and covered in sprinkles -- followed by a half-eaten slice of pizza. They both dodged the ice cream successfully enough, but the pizza caught Donald directly in the face. Wearily, he pried mozzarella off his left eyebrow as a greasy pepperoni disk slid down his nose. Two glitter-encrusted vampires and a pink unicorn scurried away, squealing with laughter.
“Remind me why I’m here?” he said at last.
Timmy brandished his handkerchief once again. “You’re here because Kelly’s committed to leading a Greenpeace rally in D.C. this weekend, and with her birthday today and Halloween tomorrow, Cadie would be heartbroken if she didn‘t get to have a party and go trick-or-treating. Mom and Dad were obligated to attend Congressman Brighton’s funeral in Memphis, so we graciously volunteered….”
“You graciously volunteered. That’s why you’re here. I’m here because you threatened to take a vow of chastity until next Halloween if I made you face your niece and the rest of this munchkin brigade alone.”
“Our niece,” Timmy said a little too quietly. “I rather thought you considered Cadie our niece.“ There was an odd note to his voice, a flash of something in his eyes that Donald couldn’t ignore, or help responding to.
“Our niece,” he agreed, slipping his hand into Timmy’s and tugging it gently. “She’s our niece and this is our life, and I wouldn’t miss sharing a minute of it with you.”
“Even if it means subjecting yourself to twenty-seven sugar-dosed five-year-olds, half of whom are named Hannah?”
“Even if it means taking on a thousand Hannahs,” Donald assured him. “Even if it means taking on clowns.”
They both smiled softly, and Timmy leaned in for a quick kiss. “And to think I was under the impression that you were just in it for the cake.”
“Cake? What cake?” Donald asked, surreptitiously checking the corners of his mouth for telltale traces of pink and turquoise icing.
“The six or seven pieces of birthday cake you’ve gulped down when you thought I wasn’t looking. Not to mention the three pieces of pizza, two hotdogs loaded with chili and cheese, a candy apple or two, multiple popcorn balls, who knows how much ice cream, and half that bag of peanut M&Ms you’ve squirreled away behind the helium tank. Honestly, Donald, I don’t know why you do this to yourself. By the time everyone goes home, you’ll be curled up in fetal position, writhing and moaning. You’ll be in no condition to enjoy…“ Timmy hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “…all the heartfelt expressions of gratitude you had coming your way tonight.”
Donald perked up instantly. Gratitude sex? Timmy was going to give him gratitude sex? “I didn’t know you were planning….”
“Of course I was. It was for hanging in there with me through all of this.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Kids, clowns, airborne food….”
While he wasn‘t philosophically opposed to any form of lovemaking Timmy could dream up, Donald was particularly fond of gratitude sex. As far as he was concerned, it ranked even higher than make-up sex, primarily because fighting wasn’t required as part of the foreplay. His stomach gurgled a warning, and he patted it sheepishly.
“If I do end up in fetal position, you could always rub my belly and make me better,” he said. “Then I might still be up for some of your…gestures of appreciation.”
“Darling, I’ll be glad to rub any part of you I can reach.”
Donald grabbed an economy-size Wolverine who was trying to climb onto the table top and deposited him on the grass. He kissed Timmy again, more deeply this time, as Wolverine howled, “Ewwwww!“ and another of the Hannahs -- this one dressed as a Disney princess, though Donald wasn’t sure which -- shrieked and giggled. Suddenly aware that his behavior might not exactly rate as appropriate in more than one mother’s book, Donald watched Timmy pull away, his cheeks coloring, and become very busy with the punch bowl and cups.
Donald caught Wolverine in the midst of another table-climbing attempt and plopped him on the ground once again. In spite of all the stress and pressure brought on by an afternoon of unaccustomed kid-wrangling, he couldn’t help grinning. He was sorry he’d made Timmy uncomfortable by laying a liplock on him in front of the kids, but the guy just looked so damned adorable when he was flustered. Hell, he looked pretty damned adorable 24/7, so much so that it took a supreme act of will for Donald to keep his hands to himself most of the time. Kids and clowns and flying food be damned, this was home, this man of his, and there was no place he’d rather be than right here by Timmy‘s side. He was about to say as much when something attached itself to his right leg, and a surprisingly sharp set of baby teeth penetrated his sock, grazing his ankle. He shook his assailant off without bothering to look down and growled, “Bite me one more time, Aiden, and I swear to God….”
“Maybe it‘s time to organize another group activity,” Timmy interjected.
“Russian Roulette is always fun. I’d be glad to supply the props.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Timmy said, rescuing the neighbor’s silver tabby, Maxwell, a split second before Captain Jack Sparrow dunked it in the punch bowl. “Thank you, Marcus, but I really don’t think the kitty wants to take a bath right now.” Deftly securing the justifiably freaked-out Maxwell in the crook of his arm, he righted a jack-o-lantern Captain Jack had sent rolling and straightened the tablecloth with his free hand. Once order was restored, he petted the cat briefly before setting it free, then went back to ladling punch.
“Let’s see, we’ve played games and given out prizes, committed mayhem on a piñata, served refreshments, had a sing-along and a scavenger hunt for enough candy to keep them wired and their parents hating us for at least a month. I suppose the only thing we have left to do is settle everyone down so the guest of honor can open her presents.”
“And then they’ll all go away?”
Wolverine, who’d apparently decided that poking Disney Princess Hannah with his plastic claws was more entertaining than scaling the refreshment table, finally poked one time too many. Hannah doubled up her fist and nailed him on the chin, sending him reeling into Timmy. The punchbowl tipped and neon orange liquid went everywhere, saturating Wolverine‘s costume and Hannah‘s hair, the Hello Kitty tablecloth and the remains of the Hello Kitty cake, and especially Timmy’s designer jeans and the new teal and cream cashmere sweater he’d bought for the occasion. Donald braced himself for an explosion -- or at least a long, aggrieved rant. But as Hannah sucked on the tips of her punch-flavored hair and Wolverine went back to poking her, Timmy simply adjusted his glasses, then closed his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath.
“And then they’ll all go away,” he said.
Donald touched his arm very gently. “Are you okay?”
Another cleansing breath, then Timmy seemed to rally. “Hazards of the trade when you’re playing indulgent uncle for the day. Why don’t you gather the kids around the helium tank and fill the rest of the balloons so everyone will have a few to take home with them, and I’ll see if I can find our birthday girl. She seems to have slipped off somewhere.”
“Hey, I don’t see that freaky Killjoy…”
“Kilroy.”
“…the Klown either. He was right there a minute ago, I know he was. I don’t like that guy, Timmy. Every time I look at him, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my stomach starts to hurt.”
“Probably that third piece of pizza coming back to haunt you.”
“It’s not the pizza! It’s the guy’s eyes. They’re like a snake‘s eyes. Jesus, you don’t think….”
“For heaven’s sake, Donald, get a grip on yourself! I’m sure Cadie either went inside to use the restroom or is off somewhere sneaking another hot dog just like her dear old Uncle Don. Kelly keeps her all organic and mostly vegan at home, so she goes a little crazy at events like this. I believe in healthy eating, too, but sometimes a child simply needs to be a child.“
“And Killjoy?“
“Kilroy’s probably taking another unauthorized cigarette break behind the hedge. I warned him about that earlier, and when I see him….”
In spite of Timmy‘s reassurance, Donald felt a flutter of fear. Something didn’t feel right. Something very much did not feel right, and that something had to do with Kilroy the Kreepy Klown.
“Why don’t you let me round up Cadie and deal with Killjoy while you dole out the balloons,” he suggested. “I’ll meet you back here in a few, then we can get this show on the road.”
“You’re willing to go one-on-one with a clown for me? I thought you said they were scary.”
“They are, but the thought of facing this crowd without you as a backup is even scarier!”
* * * *
Donald covered every inch of the yard, checking the nook between the porch and the garage, peeking behind garbage cans and peering over hedgerows, his gut churning from more than the aftereffects of all that greasy, sugar-saturated party fare. He hadn’t wanted to send Timmy into a panic, but he was teetering very close to the edge himself. His fine-tuned detective’s instincts were screaming that he had to find Cadie, and he had to find her fast. There was a clown running amuck in their midst, one with purple hair and a smoker’s cough and something that looked very much like death in his eyes. Until Kilroy was accounted for, no child was safe.
He hurried into the house and raced from room to room, jerking closet doors open and pushing back shower curtains, checking under the bed and even behind the water heater, hoping to spot the bright red hem of Cadie’s polka-dotted skirt or the tips of her black felt ears as she crouched down, hands over her mouth and trying not to giggle, in an impromptu game of hide-and-seek. Frustrated, he called her name over and over, knowing with a cold, uncompromising certainty that she wasn’t going to answer. Back outside, he shot a glance at Timmy, who was holding court by the helium tank, and took a quick survey of the monsters and fantasy creatures, comic book heroes, and assorted Hannahs in Disney drag who were waiting not-so-patiently for their balloons. No Minnie Mouse or Kilroy there.
The other two clowns had no more idea than he did where their colleague had gone, and they seemed considerably less interested in finding out. “He’s prolly off burning one, dude,” TechniChaplin informed him. “At least that’s where I’d be if the agency wasn’t going to can my ass next time I got caught tokin’ on the clock.”
Donald took a good, hard look at the size of the guy’s pupils and made a mental note to run a background check on him, then filed it away for later. Dreading with everything in him the thought of telling Timmy that his…no, their niece was missing, he started working the crowd, kneeling in front of child after child and asking, “Do you know where Cadie is? Have you seen Minnie Mouse or the purple-haired clown?” In response, all he got were head shakes and shrugs, plus a brief but passionate tirade from a young velociraptor on the subject of why Hello Kitty parties suck and Jurassic Park parties rock. Just when he was ready to throw in the towel and dial 911, a small hand tugged at the leg of his 501s and Captain Jack the Cat Dunker solemnly pointed to the backyard gate, which was hanging open.
It hadn’t been open a second before. It couldn’t have been. With his heart in his throat and those two chili dogs threatening to make a comeback, Donald barreled around the house and into the front yard, coming to a skidding halt in the driveway. The garage door, which they always, always kept closed, was raised perhaps a foot and a half from the ground -- certainly not far enough to walk or drive under, but providing more than enough clearance for a little girl to wriggle through. Perhaps a dope-smoking, child-abducting clown as well. Holding his breath in an attempt to steady himself, he heard faint scuffling noises followed by the sound of a child’s voice, whimpering in terror.
Donald dropped to the pavement and rolled through the opening, scrambling to his feet as soon as he cleared the door. What he saw inside stopped him dead in his tracks. Cadie was in there, all right, and struggling for all she was worth, caught in the grip of Kilroy the Killer Klown. As Donald watched in horror, Kilroy’s neck seemed to lengthen and his head swelled to twice its normal size. His jaw -- dear God, his jaw! -- became unhinged, and his mouth stretched impossibly wide, revealing a jagged set of six-inch fangs.
Faster than thought, Donald was on him, yanking Cadie from his grasp and wrestling him to the ground, fighting like a madman as Kilroy hissed and writhed, clown arms and legs melding with a lengthening, contorting body. Painted clown skin became cold, smooth scales, and icy breath carrying the stench of decay billowed into Donald’s face, making his stomach lurch and roll. He fumbled for his gun, belatedly remembering that he wasn’t carrying it, that he’d locked it safely away before the children arrived. Then a serpentine tail coiled around him, pinning his arms to his side and compressing his lungs. He heard Cadie shrieking his name, was vaguely aware of the party sounds from outside, children laughing and shouting and Timmy’s voice raised above the din. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and all the while that fanged maw stretched wider, a forked tongue flicked his cheek, and the snake’s coils flexed and tightened, slowly crushing the life out of him. His overloaded stomach caved under the pressure and he hurled, choking on it, his vision fading along with his consciousness, until all he saw or heard was Timmy.
Timmy’s face.
Timmy’s voice.
Timmy….
A jolt and a CRACKKK! like lightning, then the coils suddenly relaxed. Donald’s head hit the concrete floor as a painful rush of air filled his lungs, and he gasped and gagged, his vision slowly clearing. Kilroy was still loosely wrapped around him, his fanged jaw still stretched wide but dangling now, broken and useless. And there was Timmy, his beautiful Timmy -- not just a fading apparition but solid and real -- standing over them both, his face contorted with effort and disgust as he swung a helium tank in a graceful arc and clipped the side of Kilroy’s head once again.
Thrashing wildly, the clown’s body became longer and thinner still, morphing and compacting until nothing remained of Kilroy but a baggy clown suit and a pair of oversized shoes. As a gathering throng of Hannahs and Twilight wannabes ooooohhhhhed and ahhhhhhhhed, a small, green snake slithered free of the red flounced collar and regarded Donald briefly, its forked tongue flicking the air in what seemed to be defiance. Then a $150 designer moccasin -- half of a recently purchased $300 set -- came down hard on its head.
“Gotcha,” Timmy said.
* * * *
The police were called, of course, and Bub Bailey arrived on the scene with an impressive entourage in tow, rolling his eyes in disbelief as the kids gathered round -- silent for once and clearly, eerily fascinated -- while Timmy tried his best to relate the events of the day.
“Let me get this straight, Callahan. You’re telling me that a demonic clown transformed into a giant snake and tried to eat both your niece and your boyfriend? Now I’ve heard it all. There’s never a dull moment with you two, is there?”
“Laugh if you like, Detective, but that’s exactly what happened.” Timmy’d had his hands full -- literally as well as figuratively -- from the moment he’d set foot in the garage. The second the snake né Kilroy twitched its last, he’d scooped up a hysterical Cadie and given her a fast but thorough once over, then hefted her onto his left hip and descended upon Donald. Once he’d assured first himself, and then his niece, that Uncle Don still had all his body parts and that Kilroy wasn‘t going to be grabbing any more little girls or their uncles ever again, she calmed down fairly quickly, popping a thumb in her mouth and hiccupping softly as she watched the scene unfold with grave, Callahan-blue eyes.
Still woozy and reeling from the aftereffects of his near-death-by-snake experience, Donald attempted to stand without Timmy’s support but thought better of it. “Timmy’s telling the truth, Bub,” he said, wincing. “That thing was going to swallow me whole.”
“Surrrrrrrrrre it was. Good thing Callahan happened along when he did and cold-cocked it with…what? An empty helium tank?”
Donald started to laugh, albeit weakly. “Only because he didn’t have time to find his shovel.”
Timmy snorted. Then he and Donald both cracked up, clinging together and cackling hysterically as cops, kids and remaining clowns alike looked on in wide-eyed disbelief.
Bailey tucked his clipboard under his arm and closed his ballpoint with a decisive click. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” he muttered, “you two deserve each other.”
Cadie rested her head on Timmy’s shoulder and closed her eyes, her fingers curling around a strand of his short, dark hair. Donald envied her the luxury.
“You tired, Cadie Bug?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said around the thumb.
Donald was beyond tired himself. He felt like a piece of road kill that had been left sitting in the sun for about a week -- run down, dried out, and definitely passed its prime. Nothing would have made him happier than to spend the evening soaking in the tub -- preferably with Timmy on hand to soap his aching back and gently wash the snake drool from his hair -- while taking solace in the olive-scented haven of his husband’s signature martinis. Of course, with Cadie sleeping over, the martini shaker wouldn’t be seeing any action that night, but that was okay, too. Once the house was clear and he’d gobbled a double dose of Advil, he’d be perfectly content to curl up in front of the TV with Timmy and their niece and peacefully doze his way through something light and innocuous with a no-brainer plot and a very low decibel level. Something that didn’t involve clowns or reptiles or small children in large numbers.
“Want me to run the rest of these hoodlums off so you can get some rest?” he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful and failing miserably.
Cadie didn’t open her eyes, but the thumb popped out of her mouth. “No,” she said decisively before sucking it back in again.
“Well, it‘s your big day. Is there something you want to do instead?”
The thumb appeared once more. “Presents,” she said.
A brief but passionate argument broke out between a uniformed officer and a plainclothesman named Murray over what should be done with the earthly remains of Kilroy the Kid-Eating Klown. The uniform, whom Bub had introduced as Sergeant Brindle, pointed out that all he saw was a dead snake. “Call Animal Control,” he said. “Let them take care of it.” Murray, on the other hand, was in favor of hauling it down to the morgue for a full autopsy. In the end, the snake was bagged as evidence. “Though damned if I know what it’s supposed to be evidence of,“ Bub groused.
A search of the baggy costume yielded a switchblade and a spray bottle of seltzer, several sticks of dynamite, a bicycle horn and a crowbar, three bags of confetti, a squirt gun and a can of Silly String, two semiautomatic weapons, a flame thrower, and what appeared to be a hand grenade circa WWII. It was all tagged and bagged, along with the clown suit and Timmy’s depleted helium tank.
“Like a good boy scout, Kilroy obviously believed in being prepared,” Timmy said dryly.
“Some fucking boy scout. Owww!” Donald yelped as something with pointy ears -- a very short Vulcan or an elf, he was beyond caring which -- delivered a vicious kick to his left shin.
“You said the F-word! I’m telling Mom!”
“Listen, Levi,” Timmy began, “that’s no way…Owww!” he cried as the Vulcan-elf nailed him as well.
“And you squished Kilroy! You suck!”
More indignant voices joined in.
“Kilroy was cool!”
“I want the snake guy!”
“You guys suck!”
“Yeah, you suck!
The tide of public opinion was clearly turning against them. Donald slipped free of his partner’s steadying grip and stepped in front of him, braced and determined to shield Timmy and Cadie with his own body if the situation demanded it. In another moment, an angry mob would form, and the potty-mouthed clown-squishers would be torn limb from limb. Just as he was sure the killing was about to commence, Cadie’s thumb popped out of her mouth once again.
“I want to open presents now,” she announced with an imperative edge to her voice that reminded Donald of Timmy’s late spitfire of a grandmother, Liz.
“I’ve got your back,” he told Timmy. “Make a break for it while you can.”
“Don?” Timmy hesitated, his eyes locked on the Vulcan-elf, who appeared to be ringleader.
“Let the kid open her stuff. I’ll diffuse this situation, then meet you outside in a few.”
Timmy touched his shoulder. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll be fine. Now, go!”
Resigned to his fate, Donald watched Timmy slip outside with Cadie safe in his arms, then braced himself for the inevitable as a circle of militant five-year-olds closed in on him.
* * * *
An hour later, Donald found himself manning the front porch as a seemingly endless queue of parents in SUVs and minivans arrived to haul their sugar-shocked, hyper-stimulated X-Men, vampires, and assorted Hannahs home. Through the combined efforts of the Albany PD and the two remaining clowns, order had eventually been restored, and the partygoers all enjoyed another round of tasty -- if slightly punch-splattered -- treats while Cadie settled in Timmy’s lap to open her gifts. As soon as the last package was unwrapped, she thanked her guests for coming, then removed her Minnie Mouse ears and placed them on Timmy’s head, adjusting their tilt with utter solemnity. Without another word, she wrapped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. She was asleep within seconds.
Timmy had been deeply apologetic when he asked Donald to see the kids off while he settled Cadie in for the night, but truth to be told, the battered and bruised P.I. was more than happy to do it. He’d never been more thrilled to watch a group of party guests vacate the premises in his life, and even as tired as he was, he fully intended to savor the experience.
“I see Mama‘s car coming, so I gotta go,” a vertically-challenged Iron Man informed him.
“Thanks for coming to the party, Brayden.“ Donald couldn’t help feeling a faint surge of pride. There had been two Iron Men present, and by some miracle, he’d managed to keep their names straight. “Did you have a good time today?”
“Uh-huh!” The child nodded emphatically. “The snake guy was way cool! I’m gonna tell Mama I want one of those at my party next month. Mama said it was very nice of you to invite me, even if you are going to go to hell for kissing boys instead of girls.”
“Well, tell your mama she can kiss…”
“Donald!” Timmy appeared at his side, arms crossed and glaring a warning.
“…anyone she wants, and I won’t think any less of her,” he finished hastily.
“Nice save,” Timmy said as they watched Brayden scamper down the driveway.
“I’m nothing if not quick on my feet.”
“So I’ve noticed. Was that the last of them?“
“It was.“
“Well, thank God for that! It’s been quite a day for you, hasn’t it? You’ve confronted your fear of clowns, plus you’ve survived playing host to over two dozen small children.”
“Little monsters,” Donald grumbled.
“They’re not monsters. They’re just….”
“Demons? Sociopaths? Serial killers in training?”
“Kids, honey. Just kids being kids. You were one once, and so was I.”
Donald readily acknowledged that he’d been a child once, and according to his mother, not a particularly well-behaved one at that. But Timmy? It took quite a stretch to associate Timmy with any of the unruly small fry they’d encountered that day. Somehow, he’d always imagined Timmy popping out of the womb with glasses on and wearing an infant-sized Brooks Brothers suit and tie, packing a monogrammed leather briefcase and no doubt voicing his concern over our rapidly diminishing civil liberties as the doctor snipped the ol’ umbilical cord. It made for one hell of an entertaining visual, and he was seriously tempted to mention it just for the fun of getting a rise out of Timmy.
Someday. When he had the energy.
They walked inside together, locking the door and turning off lights as they passed through the living room and into the kitchen. It was barely 7:30, but they were every bit as wiped out as Cadie had been and more than ready to call the day a wrap. Timmy opened a bottle of Advil and shook two of the red tablets into Donald‘s outstretched palm, then filled a glass with water from the tap and drank half of it before handing it over as well. Donald knocked back the pills and drained the glass. Before Timmy could stop him, he grabbed the Advil and took two more, chasing them with another full glass of water.
“A pity it’s not Valium,” he said.
Timmy opened his arms and Donald was instantly in them, his knotted and abused muscles gradually relaxing until he sagged forward, allowing his husband to support his weight.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Timmy asked, worried.
“I am now. You?”
Nodding, Timmy heaved a heavy sigh. “I‘m so sorry, honey. From the very beginning, you tried to tell me that something wasn’t right about Kilroy, but I wouldn’t listen.”
Donald rubbed his knuckles along Timmy’s jaw line, loving the faint trace of a five o’clock shadow he felt there. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure my whole ‘clowns are evil’ spiel sounded pretty crazy at the time.”
“A little, but no matter how it sounded, I know you, Donald. I know you have good instincts. I’m sorry I didn’t trust them -- or you.”
“Does this mean I get to say ‘I told you so?’”
Timmy‘s lips brushed the sore spot on Donald’s head, delivering the faintest ghost of a kiss. “You do. Kilroy turned out to be every bit as dangerous as you said he was, and you’re free to rub it in whenever you like for as long as you like. As a matter of fact, I think you were right about clowns in general. They are scary. And while we were out there in the garage, I discovered you were right about something else, too.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?”
“Children are even scarier.”
Laughing, Donald reached up to tweak one of the mouse ears Timmy was still sporting. Timmy started to remove them, but Donald caught his hand. “Leave ‘em,” he said. “They kind of suit you.” Lacing their fingers together, he led the way toward the staircase. “Do you think Cadie’s going to be okay?”
“I turned the baby monitor on just in case she has nightmares and needs us, but I honestly think she’ll be just fine. We Callahans are a pretty resilient breed, you know.”
“I’ll say. I’d wake up with the screaming horrors every night for the next six months if I’d gone through what she has today.”
“You did go through it, remember?” Timmy peered at him, frowning. “Exactly how hard did you hit your head, anyway?”
“Hard enough, apparently.” Rubbing the tender spot on his temple, Donald paused by the guestroom door. “Stop looking so serious, honey. I’m fine. Now go on in,” he said. “You know you want to.”
Timmy gave Donald’s hand a quick squeeze before he slipped inside to check on Cadie one last time. As he bent to stroke her hair and fuss with the blanket, Donald leaned in the doorway, feeling a twinge of guilt. He’d made it clear years ago that he didn’t consider himself viable parental material, and he still stood just as firmly behind that proclamation today. But occasionally, just occasionally, he wondered if that was fair to Timmy.
“This one’s not quite so scary,” Timmy said when he caught Donald staring.
“She was the best-behaved kid at the party.”
“She was,” Timmy agreed.
“I was just thinking.“
Timmy kissed Cadie on the forehead and quietly eased away. “Oh no, not again! I thought we agreed….“
“It’s nothing bad. I was just thinking how good you are at this stuff. You’d make a really great dad.”
“I make a good uncle, honey, and so do you. But fathers? I don’t think either of us has the stamina for it.”
“You were incredible out there today, just rolling with the punches and keeping it together no matter what the little hoodlums threw your way. You’re really amazing, you know that? Do you ever wish…do you ever think….”
“I think our life is perfect just the way it is, so why would I wish for anything more? Besides, when I think of all the times we were pelted with party cuisine, drenched in punch, kicked, bitten, and otherwise physically assaulted today, I can’t help but conclude that this whole experience boils down to the reaffirmation of a fundamental truth.”
“Which is?”
“God placed the two of us outside the procreation loop for a reason.“
“When it comes to me, I know you’re right. You know I think Cadie’s cool, and we always have a lot of fun when she comes to visit, but I’ve just never had the instincts or the desire, you know? To do it fulltime, I mean. But you? The way you looked with Cadie just now…hell, Timmy, taking care of people is what you do best.”
“I already have someone to take care of, darling. In case you haven’t noticed, taking care of you is a fulltime job. And now, if I’m not mistaken, it’s time for me to get to work.”
“Get to…?” Donald paused, noticing a certain edge to Timmy’s voice, a certain spark in his eye he hadn’t seen since…well…he’d only seen once before. His ribs felt like they’d been run through a trash compactor and his head ached, but suddenly none of that mattered. In spite of the near-disaster they’d just lived through, he knew this was going to be a damned good night.
“Feeling a little bit of an adrenalin rush, are we?” he asked, backing his way toward the stairs.
Timmy advanced on him, the spark in his eye turning to a leaping flame. “What do you think?”
Moving as quickly as he could without falling on his ass, Donald scaled the staircase in reverse with Timmy in hot pursuit. “Sure you don’t want to clean up the back yard first?” he asked, grinning. “Wash some dishes, mop the floors, maybe throw in a laundry or two?”
“You know exactly what I want, and it has nothing to do with housework.”
When they reached the upstairs landing, Donald backed down the hallway and scuttled into their room, stopping short when the back of his leg bumped the bed. “Gee, honey, I don’t know. It’s been a long day. Maybe….“
A firm hand caught him center-chest and pushed him unceremoniously onto the bed.
“Timothy!”
Timmy pounced on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. “Watch it, mister. The police may have confiscated the helium tank I used on Kilroy, but I still have a spare in the garage, and I know how to use it.”
Donald laughed softly, the fire in his own eyes matching his partner’s. “Forget having bad guys shoot at you. We’re going to have to pit you against demonic shape-shifters in grease paint and bad wigs more often.”
“Send in the clowns,” Timmy said. Then their lips met, and neither of them said anything else for a very long time.
Summer Rain
500 words
He doesn’t hear the shots because of the thunder, but he definitely feels their impact, each bullet slamming him back a step until he’s pressed against the crumbling brick wall of the alley. He stands there a moment, stunned and uncomprehending, before slowly sinking, his body reacting before his mind can process what’s happened. His knees hit asphalt and in torturous slo-mo he topples forward bonelessly, flopping face-down on the wet pavement. The muted voice in a distant corner of his mind tells him he should be struggling to reach his cell phone, panicking, howling in agony -- something. But all he can do is lie listlessly in a growing puddle and think rain, fucking rain, it’s July for chrissake and it should be hot and sunny, not overcast with the fucking sky forever gushing rain….
Lights, noise, the brutal ministrations of doctors and nurses. His tattered nerve endings have finally completed their circuit with the sensors in his brain, and there’s pain -- blinding, suffocating, unbearable pain. Terrified and bewildered, he frantically searches through the shifting, jarring chaos for some solid point of reference, something to cling to, a familiar buffer against the unrelenting storm of sensation battering him. But in the midst of all these white- and green-clad bodies he’s alone, wrenchingly and fatally alone, so he does the only thing left for him to do: he retreats from the pain, noise, light, allowing himself to sink down through the dark, numbing layers or resignation until all feeling, all thought, all hope is just a distant white noise faintly buzzing beyond the periphery of his fading consciousness.
In the final instant before he slides down into that bottomless pit of nonexistence, firm hands yank him up and cradle him close, and it hurts with a sharpness that cuts through his stupor, forcing him to acknowledge the pure shock of it with a single moan. Somehow, he recognizes this hurt as a good kind of hurt, a hurt with purpose, and he clings to the pain, allowing it to help him focus. Lips brush his ear and a familiar voice, clear and fierce, whispers, “Don’t you leave me. Don’t you dare even think of leaving me.” Then in spite of the pain, the lights, the noise, he struggles up through the thick, anesthetizing layers and gasps one word, one name, one monosyllabic incantation with the power to blunt this razor’s edge of pure misery waiting to torture him.
oh god oh god jesus god it hurts it hurts
But he can deal with it now, has to deal with it, has to stick it out, because that quiet voice -- breaking but not broken -- murmurs reassurances, arms hold him hard and sure, a warm wetness splashes his face, and he’s never been so glad in all his life to be caught in a sudden downpour of summer rain….
Lights, noise, the brutal ministrations of doctors and nurses. His tattered nerve endings have finally completed their circuit with the sensors in his brain, and there’s pain -- blinding, suffocating, unbearable pain. Terrified and bewildered, he frantically searches through the shifting, jarring chaos for some solid point of reference, something to cling to, a familiar buffer against the unrelenting storm of sensation battering him. But in the midst of all these white- and green-clad bodies he’s alone, wrenchingly and fatally alone, so he does the only thing left for him to do: he retreats from the pain, noise, light, allowing himself to sink down through the dark, numbing layers or resignation until all feeling, all thought, all hope is just a distant white noise faintly buzzing beyond the periphery of his fading consciousness.
In the final instant before he slides down into that bottomless pit of nonexistence, firm hands yank him up and cradle him close, and it hurts with a sharpness that cuts through his stupor, forcing him to acknowledge the pure shock of it with a single moan. Somehow, he recognizes this hurt as a good kind of hurt, a hurt with purpose, and he clings to the pain, allowing it to help him focus. Lips brush his ear and a familiar voice, clear and fierce, whispers, “Don’t you leave me. Don’t you dare even think of leaving me.” Then in spite of the pain, the lights, the noise, he struggles up through the thick, anesthetizing layers and gasps one word, one name, one monosyllabic incantation with the power to blunt this razor’s edge of pure misery waiting to torture him.
oh god oh god jesus god it hurts it hurts
But he can deal with it now, has to deal with it, has to stick it out, because that quiet voice -- breaking but not broken -- murmurs reassurances, arms hold him hard and sure, a warm wetness splashes his face, and he’s never been so glad in all his life to be caught in a sudden downpour of summer rain….
Mile Markers
4250 words
I’m beginning to get drowsy. There’s nothing I’d like more than to just curl up with Donald, close my eyes, and let the painkillers do their job. He’s still a ball of nervous energy, however, and whenever he’s like this, neither of us get much sleep until he works it out of his system.
I don’t handle this stuff well. I never handle this stuff well. I know this, but there’s not a whole helluva lot I can do about it.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we left the hospital, and the fear in them cuts through me more deeply than the shards of windshield the doctor pulled out of my face.
We were lucky. I know this, too. The wreck could have been a lot worse than it was. That’s the problem, see. The could-haves. I came out of it without so much as a scratch, but I could have lost Timmy tonight, really fucking lost him, and God knows if anything happens to him, you might as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger.
With the exception of a few cuts and bruises and a pulled muscle or two, I’m all in one piece. I’ve spent the past couple of hours doing my best to reassure him, to let him know that I’m still here and still his. He hears the words, and on an intellectual level, he processes them. Allowing them to truly sink in is another matter.
I know I’ve gotta get it together. It freaks him out a little, seeing me freak out like this. But for most of my life, I had nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. Then along came Timmy, and all of a sudden, I had everything. The kicker is, at times like this, all I can think is that I have everything to lose.
Donald has huge abandonment issues. Who can blame him? His father ran out on him when he was a child, his friends turned their backs on him when he was outed, his family virtually disowned him. And Kyle….
I lost everything once. I can’t go through that again. I won’t go through that again.
I’ve got to bring him out of this, to pull him out of that dark place he goes whenever he’s forced to confront my mortality. Talking obviously doesn’t help. It never does. Some scars simply run too deeply for words to touch.
Timmy…God, what would I do without Timmy? Even now, he’s stroking my face, smiling, pulling me down for a kiss. Typical. He’s the one who’s all banged up, but he thinks he has to take care of me.
Trying to smile pulls at the cuts on my face, and I feel a sharp twinge. I can handle it. It’s more than worth the pain to see him smile back at me. His grin looks a little forced, a little lopsided. Hopefully I can get him to relax so the next one will come more easily.
He’s gonna be so sore tomorrow. In spite of the drugs, he’s hurting now. I can tell by the way he catches his breath a little when the bed jiggles, even though he’s trying to keep it on the down low so I won’t notice. He should have stayed overnight like the doc wanted him to. I would have stayed with him, sacking out right beside him on that hospital bed if that’s what he wanted. It’s not like I haven’t done it before or that he hasn’t returned the favor. But he wanted to come home, and when Timmy wants something, you might as well just give in and let him have it from the start and save yourself a whole lot of headache and misery. He always has to have the last word, and he’s just gonna keep on talking until he gets it.
I admit that I have a stubborn streak. Donald and the E.R. doctor both wanted me admitted overnight, and I suppose a more reasonable man would have agreed to it. Still, I’m glad I insisted on coming home and that Donald had the good sense to accommodate me. It’s so much more comfortable here in our own bed, surrounded by our own things in the privacy of our own home. We need this quiet time together. He needs it even more than I do.
He did it for me, of course. Don’t think for one minute that I don’t know exactly what he’s up to. I’ve seen that look in his eye before. He should gobble some more pills and get some rest, but will he do that? Oh, hell, no. He thinks I’m kind of a basket case right now, and that the only thing that’ll distract me is sex.
That’s the way it works when you’ve loved someone for as long as I’ve loved Donald. I know exactly what he needs, and I have every intention of giving it to him.
He’s probably right.
I slip my hand under the covers and caress the soft skin of his flank. He startles a little at my touch, sucks in a quick breath, fighting his inevitable, involuntary physical reaction.
Damn it.
It’s almost funny, watching the wheels spin in his head. He’d never dream of ignoring my overtures because he’s too afraid of hurting my feelings or making me feel rejected. At the same time, he’s trying to fight it, wanting to be altruistic and abstain, for my sake, from the one thing that will make him feel better.
He’s grinning again, and with his face cut up like this, I know how much that’s gotta hurt. Moving in general’s gotta hurt. Sex should be the last thing on his mind right now. He always puts my needs ahead of his own, and I love him for it, but….
I ease onto my side and press against him, suppressing a groan as my muscles grumble in protest. When I feel his cock twitch through his thin cotton boxers, I know I have him exactly where I want him.
Sometimes I think the fucking thing’s got a mind of its own.
Donald groans, not trying to suppress it at all, and wriggles against me. Crotches aligned, we rock together gently. In spite of the drugs and the discomfort, I experience an inevitable physical reaction of my own.
He’s getting hard. He’s pumped full of drugs and shaken up and in pain, but he’s still getting hard. Maybe he isn’t just doing this for me after all. Maybe it’s a comfort thing. Maybe he just really needs to be close to me the same way I need to be close to him. Or maybe, after the shock and confusion and adrenalin rush from the accident, he’s just horny. That’s my Timmy, a man who always rises – so to speak – over adversity.
The harder I get, the less aware I become of my strained, aching muscles and the stinging cuts on my face. Pleasure, it seems, is a far more effective analgesic than Percocet. Besides, the more I move around tonight, the less stiff I’ll probably feel in the morning.
At the moment, he’s obviously feeling no pain. Still, his body’s been through a lot, and I’ve got to keep my head and take it easy on him, be extra gentle so I don’t accidently hurt him. I wouldn’t hurt my baby for anything in the world.
Our lips meet, and it feels so much better than I remember. It always feels so much better than I remember. From one time to the next, I always forget how easy it is to lose myself in Donald’s kisses, how easy it is to lose myself in Donald.
I lose myself in Timmy for long, liquid moments and never want to be found again.
I taste blood and hope he doesn’t notice.
I taste blood, and it jerks me back to reality. A small cut at the corner of his mouth has opened, and the sight of fresh blood makes me rethink things. But he’s staring up at me, both hands cupping my face and his eyes full of such want and need…
I can’t let him think too much. I can’t let him back out on me now. I hook a leg over his hips, pulling him closer.
…that I couldn’t call it quits even if I wanted to. I kiss the blood away, then let my lips travel to the other cuts and scratches on his face. Most of them aren’t deep, thank God, and probably won’t scar. Not that he’d be any less beautiful if they did, but he’s sensitive about his looks and even a little vain, and I know he’d worry that I might not be attracted to him anymore. As if that could ever happen.
His kisses my sore spots with such care it almost unnerves me, makes me wonder if some of the cuts might be deeper than I realize. I hope none of them leaves a mark. Donald loves me for who I am, appreciates me because of what lies beneath the surface, but there’s no denying he appreciates the surface as well.
He oughtta know by now that I don’t give a damn about his scars. He’s so surreally beautiful inside and out, I almost need those tiny flaws to remind me that he’s human. To prove the point, I kiss the faint indentation on his forehead and the deeper groove between his brows, then trace them with the tip of my tongue. Both are reminders of the playground bully who shoved him out of a swing on the first day of kindergarten, sending him sprawling face-down on the gravel. He’d broken his glasses that day, and if I’d been around back then, a certain bully’s head would have been broken, too.
In spite of the tenderness of his touch, I feel the anger swell in Donald as he pays homage to my imperfections. He’s thinking again, and that’s never good. I slide a hand beneath the waistband of his shorts and stroke his hips, squeezing first one baby-soft cheek and then the other, eliciting another full-body wriggle.
He’s fondling my ass. God and Jesus Mary mother of Christ, he’s fondling my ass, and he knows I can’t think when he’s doing that. He’s no fool, my Timmy.
I’m no fool. If I don’t get him back on track, he’ll start obsessing, and the festivities will be over for the evening. Worse, by this time tomorrow he’ll have located Charlie Stenson, the schoolyard terror who pushed me out of that swing so many years ago, and have Kenny staking out his house.
Tomorrow I might just see what I can dig up about ol’ Charlie Stenson, maybe find out where he’s living now and have Kenny stake out the bastard’s house. But for now, Timmy’s here and he’s got a hand down my shorts, and all that expert groping deserves a reward.
Donald’s hand finds its way into my shorts as well, and I buck and grind against him, going a little wild from the familiarity of his touch, the casual intimacy of his finger slipping between my cheeks and stroking my opening. I’m rather surprised by the force of my own reaction, though I don’t suppose I should be. I know how to push Donald’s buttons, but he certainly knows how to push mine as well.
Timmy’s going a little crazy now, bucking and pitching like that mechanical bull I rode – or at least tried to ride – in the redneck watering hole I used to frequent back when I was young and stupid and did my drinking courtesy of a fake I.D. He loves it when I touch him there, loves it when I touch him anywhere, really. But if he doesn’t take it down a notch, every muscle in his body’s gonna be screaming by tomorrow morning.
As good as it feels, I can’t help thinking that if I don’t calm down and pace myself, I might live to regret this.
To make sure he doesn’t regret this later, I tighten my hold on him and carefully roll him onto his back, stilling his body with the weight of my own. He looks up at me, panting and wild-eyed and expectant. One eye looks a little wilder than the other. His right one, the one that connected with the passenger door when I rolled the car, is almost swollen shut, and he has the beginnings of a world-class shiner.
Donald’s body, heavy and warm, pins me to the mattress, and I stop bucking and force myself to settle beneath him, enjoying the pulsing weight of his groin against mine, the soothing whisper of his lips against the puffy soreness of my eye.
This isn’t the first time that eye’s come in contact with a harder and more immovable object, and he has the scar to prove it. My lips brush over the bruising, earning me a soft, sexy sigh from my honey. Between the two of us, Timmy’s definitely the one with the caretaker gene, but I’ve never known him to turn down a little TLC when I offered it. I kiss the bruise again, then moved on to the pale crescent just beyond the corner of his lid, remembering Todd Crenshaw, the little weasel, and how he screamed like a girl as I pounded his face into hamburger.
He lingers over the curved scar by my eye, and I once again thank God that no one knows the humiliating story behind it, that everyone – Donald included – was willing to accept my explanation without question.
He walked into a doorframe? Come on. That’s a pretty lame excuse, even for a liar as inept as Timothy Callahan. I asked him about that mark the first time we made love and went on red alert when I saw how upset the question made him. Being a gentleman – and not wanting to take his mind off what turned out to be the best goddamned sex of my life – I let it ride, then grilled a couple of his friends about it as soon as I got the chance. He’d lied to them, too, of course, but they knew the guy he used to date well enough to add two and two together and come up with an answer that made me fucking furious. I caught up with Crenshaw two hours later and left him with a scar or two he’d be too embarrassed to talk about himself.
Everyone has scars they prefer not to discuss, after all, and not all of them are visible to the naked eye. It took years for Donald to tell me what happened in the army and how he got that faded shrapnel wound his phoenix tattoo hides so effectively. I was always drawn to that spot on his back, realizing on some subconscious level, I suppose, that to know and understand the story behind it would be to understand why Donald is Donald. He never volunteered any information, however, and knowing how reticent he can be, I never asked.
Knowing what an evasive bastard I can be, Timmy never asked me how I got the scar on my back, and I felt like a first-class jerk for waiting so long to tell him. Even before he knew the story behind it, he was obsessed with that small, puckered spot of flesh, honing in on it during foreplay or in the afterglow to touch it, kiss it, suck on it like he was drawing poison from a snakebite, intent on draining the pain out of me and taking it into himself. Even now, his fingers find it, rub it gently.
Without conscious effort, I’ve found that old wound and catch myself rubbing it as if I can erase whatever residual pain lingers there. Foolish of me, I suppose, but Donald doesn’t seem to mind. He sighs and nuzzles my neck, then shifts off of me long enough to peel off first my shorts and then his own. Once he’s settled, he starts rocking against me again, this time controlling the pace. He’s being very deliberate, taking it slow and easy, being careful not to let himself go crazy and hurt me or let me hurt myself.
Timmy moves beneath me, matching my meticulously easy rhythm. I want to draw it out without wearing him out, you know? To make him feel relaxed enough and good enough to get a decent night’s rest.
No athletics tonight, and that’s probably just as well. I’m more tired than I realized…
He doesn’t even know how tired he is…
…and this gentle, easy frottage…
…and a little bit of low-key loving…
…will be just the right thing to ease us both into sleep.
…will put us both in our happy place and take us down for the count.
Donald pulls back from me just a little, supporting most of his weight on his hands. He’s trying to be a gentleman, to avoid putting too much pressure on my various and sundry bumps and bruises, but I want to feel his skin against my skin and his hair brushing my face, his breath against my neck and his warmth….
I’m trying to be a gentleman and take my weight off Timmy for a while, but he’s got other ideas. Those elegant hands of his glide up and down my torso, his fingertips tracing the pattern of bullet scars that spread across my chest like a constellation. I used to have a nice chest…
Donald has such a gorgeous chest…
…until I spied on one cheating husband too many, one who was packing a helluva lot more firepower than I was. I nearly died in the alley that day, would have died later in the E.R. if Timmy hadn’t shoved his way past doctors and nurses and cops and God knows who else to grab my hand and order me back from whatever dark and far off place I was headed for. I fought him at first, not wanting to deal with the pain and the light and the noise, but he wouldn’t take no for answer. He never does.
…and as much as I love looking at it, I want to feel it against me, to know his heart’s beating against mine. I want to feel Donald, all of him, and I’m not about to take no for an answer. I pull him down for another kiss and continue tugging at him until he stops fighting me and finally stretches out, covering every inch of my body with every inch of his own.
I’m a weak man. I know I’m a weak man, but I can’t hold out on Timmy, not even when it’s for his own good. So much for my noble intentions, right? But it feels so good to lie here like this, moving together in an easy rhythm, chest against chest and belly to belly, his tongue tangling with mine in a warm, wet mating dance before slipping free to follow the path of the scar on my upper lip.
With the tip of my tongue, I follow the vertical line on his upper lip. Our friends assume it’s a battle scar and think it makes him look tough, but it speaks to me of pain, even if it is a pain he can’t remember. Old wounds do eventually heal, I suppose, but they never go away. If I could make this one disappear, I would.
Damned scar. If I could change one thing about the way I look, that would be it. It’s been with me longer than conscious memory, though I know I couldn’t have had it forever. I never asked my mother about it, never wanted to learn its history, assuming that since she and my grandparents never volunteered any information, whatever happened to me was something I’d just as soon not know about.
How could a father, even a drunken one, do something like that to his son? And how could a whole family – even a mother, for God’s sake – turn a blind eye on it when he did?
Timmy knows the whole story, I can see it in his eyes, though I’ve got no clue how he found out. I’m not so sure I want to know how he found out.
Donald says he doesn’t know how he got the scar, and I believe him. He was too young and too traumatized to hold onto the memory, and I’m grateful for that.
Timmy’s gone still beneath me, watching me in that spooky way of his, making me wonder how far off he is from actually being able to read my mind. For no good reason I can think of, I waver, wondering if I should ask him to show me that missing puzzle piece from my past, wondering if I’d like the picture it made once I saw it.
If it’s up to me, he’ll never know how he got it.
I know better. And I don’t want to think about it anymore. Not tonight, and probably not ever. To distract us both, I bite his chin, sinking my teeth in just enough to get a good grip without causing pain and snarling like a rat terrier as I shake his face. He laughs and swats my ass, then arches up, grinding his crotch into mine in a way that turns my brain and my banged-up knees to room-temperature Jell-O.
After all these years together, it’s hardly surprising that there’s an almost ritualistic aspect to our lovemaking, a certain pattern we follow more often than not. I’m not saying we do it by rote, because that’s definitely not the case. We simply have a few well-worn paths we habitually follow.
Timmy knows what I like, and he never seems to get tired of giving it to me. I kiss the faint teeth marks I’ve left on his chin, lick the scar there, a souvenir from an ice skating pile-up during his seminary days. And to complete the circle or maybe for luck, I touch the surgical scar on his left side, remembering another night when I could have lost him but didn’t.
I’ve travelled this particular path often enough to know when it’s about to end. We pick up the pace almost imperceptibly, barely breaking a light sweat, and when climax comes, it’s a relatively mild but infinitely satisfying release.
I’m yawning almost before I finish coming, and so is he. Mission accomplished. I force-feed Timmy another pain pill, then straighten the covers and turn off the light. We settle in together, sleepy and content. Tonight hasn’t been about blazing new trails or trying something exotic. It’s been about macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, Campbell’s chicken soup and that killer apple crisp Timmy’s Aunt Moira makes every fall. It’s been about sharing sexual comfort food made from a recipe we both know by heart.
I whisper that I love him. Donald whispers back, pinching the tip of my nose before wrapping an arm around me and kissing me goodnight. On nights like this, it’s comforting to stick with the tried and true, to follow the course of least resistance, going from point A to point B to point C without having to put any effort into plotting the course.
We don’t even have to think about it. I guess you could say we just follow the stars – or in this case, the scars – my internal GPS in sync with his as we go from oldest to newest…
We began at very different spots on the map, Donald and I, but if we follow those familiar mile markers…
…from the dent in his forehead to the line on his chin…
…from the cut on his upper lip to the marks on his knee he got from playing football and getting thrown from that damned mechanical bull …
…from the crescent moon by his eye to the scar on his side…
…from the carefully camouflaged pucker on his back to the fading constellation on his chest…
…and we always end up at the same place.
…the separate paths we’ve travelled eventually merge into one.
We’ve both seen some tough times….
There’ve been a few bumps and twists along the road….
…and each of us has strayed off course and fallen into a pothole or two along the way…
…and each of us has had his share of loneliness and pain.
…but those scars of ours, they’re just friendly reminders that we’re stronger together than apart.
The point is, as long as we have each other, none of that really matters.
Timmy and me, we’re in it together, both of us ready and willing to pick the other guy up if he stumbles, to carry him when he’s tired, to help him find the way.
When I first met Donald, he was wandering, lost. I didn’t even realize it at the time, but I suppose I was, too. But we were lucky enough to find each other, and as a result, found ourselves. Now we travel in perfect tandem, he and I, and in spite of what our original destinations might have been, there’s only one place either of us wants to be at the end of the day.
No matter how many detours we’ve taken or speed bumps we’ve tripped over, we always end up at the same place.
Home.
I don’t handle this stuff well. I never handle this stuff well. I know this, but there’s not a whole helluva lot I can do about it.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since we left the hospital, and the fear in them cuts through me more deeply than the shards of windshield the doctor pulled out of my face.
We were lucky. I know this, too. The wreck could have been a lot worse than it was. That’s the problem, see. The could-haves. I came out of it without so much as a scratch, but I could have lost Timmy tonight, really fucking lost him, and God knows if anything happens to him, you might as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger.
With the exception of a few cuts and bruises and a pulled muscle or two, I’m all in one piece. I’ve spent the past couple of hours doing my best to reassure him, to let him know that I’m still here and still his. He hears the words, and on an intellectual level, he processes them. Allowing them to truly sink in is another matter.
I know I’ve gotta get it together. It freaks him out a little, seeing me freak out like this. But for most of my life, I had nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. Then along came Timmy, and all of a sudden, I had everything. The kicker is, at times like this, all I can think is that I have everything to lose.
Donald has huge abandonment issues. Who can blame him? His father ran out on him when he was a child, his friends turned their backs on him when he was outed, his family virtually disowned him. And Kyle….
I lost everything once. I can’t go through that again. I won’t go through that again.
I’ve got to bring him out of this, to pull him out of that dark place he goes whenever he’s forced to confront my mortality. Talking obviously doesn’t help. It never does. Some scars simply run too deeply for words to touch.
Timmy…God, what would I do without Timmy? Even now, he’s stroking my face, smiling, pulling me down for a kiss. Typical. He’s the one who’s all banged up, but he thinks he has to take care of me.
Trying to smile pulls at the cuts on my face, and I feel a sharp twinge. I can handle it. It’s more than worth the pain to see him smile back at me. His grin looks a little forced, a little lopsided. Hopefully I can get him to relax so the next one will come more easily.
He’s gonna be so sore tomorrow. In spite of the drugs, he’s hurting now. I can tell by the way he catches his breath a little when the bed jiggles, even though he’s trying to keep it on the down low so I won’t notice. He should have stayed overnight like the doc wanted him to. I would have stayed with him, sacking out right beside him on that hospital bed if that’s what he wanted. It’s not like I haven’t done it before or that he hasn’t returned the favor. But he wanted to come home, and when Timmy wants something, you might as well just give in and let him have it from the start and save yourself a whole lot of headache and misery. He always has to have the last word, and he’s just gonna keep on talking until he gets it.
I admit that I have a stubborn streak. Donald and the E.R. doctor both wanted me admitted overnight, and I suppose a more reasonable man would have agreed to it. Still, I’m glad I insisted on coming home and that Donald had the good sense to accommodate me. It’s so much more comfortable here in our own bed, surrounded by our own things in the privacy of our own home. We need this quiet time together. He needs it even more than I do.
He did it for me, of course. Don’t think for one minute that I don’t know exactly what he’s up to. I’ve seen that look in his eye before. He should gobble some more pills and get some rest, but will he do that? Oh, hell, no. He thinks I’m kind of a basket case right now, and that the only thing that’ll distract me is sex.
That’s the way it works when you’ve loved someone for as long as I’ve loved Donald. I know exactly what he needs, and I have every intention of giving it to him.
He’s probably right.
I slip my hand under the covers and caress the soft skin of his flank. He startles a little at my touch, sucks in a quick breath, fighting his inevitable, involuntary physical reaction.
Damn it.
It’s almost funny, watching the wheels spin in his head. He’d never dream of ignoring my overtures because he’s too afraid of hurting my feelings or making me feel rejected. At the same time, he’s trying to fight it, wanting to be altruistic and abstain, for my sake, from the one thing that will make him feel better.
He’s grinning again, and with his face cut up like this, I know how much that’s gotta hurt. Moving in general’s gotta hurt. Sex should be the last thing on his mind right now. He always puts my needs ahead of his own, and I love him for it, but….
I ease onto my side and press against him, suppressing a groan as my muscles grumble in protest. When I feel his cock twitch through his thin cotton boxers, I know I have him exactly where I want him.
Sometimes I think the fucking thing’s got a mind of its own.
Donald groans, not trying to suppress it at all, and wriggles against me. Crotches aligned, we rock together gently. In spite of the drugs and the discomfort, I experience an inevitable physical reaction of my own.
He’s getting hard. He’s pumped full of drugs and shaken up and in pain, but he’s still getting hard. Maybe he isn’t just doing this for me after all. Maybe it’s a comfort thing. Maybe he just really needs to be close to me the same way I need to be close to him. Or maybe, after the shock and confusion and adrenalin rush from the accident, he’s just horny. That’s my Timmy, a man who always rises – so to speak – over adversity.
The harder I get, the less aware I become of my strained, aching muscles and the stinging cuts on my face. Pleasure, it seems, is a far more effective analgesic than Percocet. Besides, the more I move around tonight, the less stiff I’ll probably feel in the morning.
At the moment, he’s obviously feeling no pain. Still, his body’s been through a lot, and I’ve got to keep my head and take it easy on him, be extra gentle so I don’t accidently hurt him. I wouldn’t hurt my baby for anything in the world.
Our lips meet, and it feels so much better than I remember. It always feels so much better than I remember. From one time to the next, I always forget how easy it is to lose myself in Donald’s kisses, how easy it is to lose myself in Donald.
I lose myself in Timmy for long, liquid moments and never want to be found again.
I taste blood and hope he doesn’t notice.
I taste blood, and it jerks me back to reality. A small cut at the corner of his mouth has opened, and the sight of fresh blood makes me rethink things. But he’s staring up at me, both hands cupping my face and his eyes full of such want and need…
I can’t let him think too much. I can’t let him back out on me now. I hook a leg over his hips, pulling him closer.
…that I couldn’t call it quits even if I wanted to. I kiss the blood away, then let my lips travel to the other cuts and scratches on his face. Most of them aren’t deep, thank God, and probably won’t scar. Not that he’d be any less beautiful if they did, but he’s sensitive about his looks and even a little vain, and I know he’d worry that I might not be attracted to him anymore. As if that could ever happen.
His kisses my sore spots with such care it almost unnerves me, makes me wonder if some of the cuts might be deeper than I realize. I hope none of them leaves a mark. Donald loves me for who I am, appreciates me because of what lies beneath the surface, but there’s no denying he appreciates the surface as well.
He oughtta know by now that I don’t give a damn about his scars. He’s so surreally beautiful inside and out, I almost need those tiny flaws to remind me that he’s human. To prove the point, I kiss the faint indentation on his forehead and the deeper groove between his brows, then trace them with the tip of my tongue. Both are reminders of the playground bully who shoved him out of a swing on the first day of kindergarten, sending him sprawling face-down on the gravel. He’d broken his glasses that day, and if I’d been around back then, a certain bully’s head would have been broken, too.
In spite of the tenderness of his touch, I feel the anger swell in Donald as he pays homage to my imperfections. He’s thinking again, and that’s never good. I slide a hand beneath the waistband of his shorts and stroke his hips, squeezing first one baby-soft cheek and then the other, eliciting another full-body wriggle.
He’s fondling my ass. God and Jesus Mary mother of Christ, he’s fondling my ass, and he knows I can’t think when he’s doing that. He’s no fool, my Timmy.
I’m no fool. If I don’t get him back on track, he’ll start obsessing, and the festivities will be over for the evening. Worse, by this time tomorrow he’ll have located Charlie Stenson, the schoolyard terror who pushed me out of that swing so many years ago, and have Kenny staking out his house.
Tomorrow I might just see what I can dig up about ol’ Charlie Stenson, maybe find out where he’s living now and have Kenny stake out the bastard’s house. But for now, Timmy’s here and he’s got a hand down my shorts, and all that expert groping deserves a reward.
Donald’s hand finds its way into my shorts as well, and I buck and grind against him, going a little wild from the familiarity of his touch, the casual intimacy of his finger slipping between my cheeks and stroking my opening. I’m rather surprised by the force of my own reaction, though I don’t suppose I should be. I know how to push Donald’s buttons, but he certainly knows how to push mine as well.
Timmy’s going a little crazy now, bucking and pitching like that mechanical bull I rode – or at least tried to ride – in the redneck watering hole I used to frequent back when I was young and stupid and did my drinking courtesy of a fake I.D. He loves it when I touch him there, loves it when I touch him anywhere, really. But if he doesn’t take it down a notch, every muscle in his body’s gonna be screaming by tomorrow morning.
As good as it feels, I can’t help thinking that if I don’t calm down and pace myself, I might live to regret this.
To make sure he doesn’t regret this later, I tighten my hold on him and carefully roll him onto his back, stilling his body with the weight of my own. He looks up at me, panting and wild-eyed and expectant. One eye looks a little wilder than the other. His right one, the one that connected with the passenger door when I rolled the car, is almost swollen shut, and he has the beginnings of a world-class shiner.
Donald’s body, heavy and warm, pins me to the mattress, and I stop bucking and force myself to settle beneath him, enjoying the pulsing weight of his groin against mine, the soothing whisper of his lips against the puffy soreness of my eye.
This isn’t the first time that eye’s come in contact with a harder and more immovable object, and he has the scar to prove it. My lips brush over the bruising, earning me a soft, sexy sigh from my honey. Between the two of us, Timmy’s definitely the one with the caretaker gene, but I’ve never known him to turn down a little TLC when I offered it. I kiss the bruise again, then moved on to the pale crescent just beyond the corner of his lid, remembering Todd Crenshaw, the little weasel, and how he screamed like a girl as I pounded his face into hamburger.
He lingers over the curved scar by my eye, and I once again thank God that no one knows the humiliating story behind it, that everyone – Donald included – was willing to accept my explanation without question.
He walked into a doorframe? Come on. That’s a pretty lame excuse, even for a liar as inept as Timothy Callahan. I asked him about that mark the first time we made love and went on red alert when I saw how upset the question made him. Being a gentleman – and not wanting to take his mind off what turned out to be the best goddamned sex of my life – I let it ride, then grilled a couple of his friends about it as soon as I got the chance. He’d lied to them, too, of course, but they knew the guy he used to date well enough to add two and two together and come up with an answer that made me fucking furious. I caught up with Crenshaw two hours later and left him with a scar or two he’d be too embarrassed to talk about himself.
Everyone has scars they prefer not to discuss, after all, and not all of them are visible to the naked eye. It took years for Donald to tell me what happened in the army and how he got that faded shrapnel wound his phoenix tattoo hides so effectively. I was always drawn to that spot on his back, realizing on some subconscious level, I suppose, that to know and understand the story behind it would be to understand why Donald is Donald. He never volunteered any information, however, and knowing how reticent he can be, I never asked.
Knowing what an evasive bastard I can be, Timmy never asked me how I got the scar on my back, and I felt like a first-class jerk for waiting so long to tell him. Even before he knew the story behind it, he was obsessed with that small, puckered spot of flesh, honing in on it during foreplay or in the afterglow to touch it, kiss it, suck on it like he was drawing poison from a snakebite, intent on draining the pain out of me and taking it into himself. Even now, his fingers find it, rub it gently.
Without conscious effort, I’ve found that old wound and catch myself rubbing it as if I can erase whatever residual pain lingers there. Foolish of me, I suppose, but Donald doesn’t seem to mind. He sighs and nuzzles my neck, then shifts off of me long enough to peel off first my shorts and then his own. Once he’s settled, he starts rocking against me again, this time controlling the pace. He’s being very deliberate, taking it slow and easy, being careful not to let himself go crazy and hurt me or let me hurt myself.
Timmy moves beneath me, matching my meticulously easy rhythm. I want to draw it out without wearing him out, you know? To make him feel relaxed enough and good enough to get a decent night’s rest.
No athletics tonight, and that’s probably just as well. I’m more tired than I realized…
He doesn’t even know how tired he is…
…and this gentle, easy frottage…
…and a little bit of low-key loving…
…will be just the right thing to ease us both into sleep.
…will put us both in our happy place and take us down for the count.
Donald pulls back from me just a little, supporting most of his weight on his hands. He’s trying to be a gentleman, to avoid putting too much pressure on my various and sundry bumps and bruises, but I want to feel his skin against my skin and his hair brushing my face, his breath against my neck and his warmth….
I’m trying to be a gentleman and take my weight off Timmy for a while, but he’s got other ideas. Those elegant hands of his glide up and down my torso, his fingertips tracing the pattern of bullet scars that spread across my chest like a constellation. I used to have a nice chest…
Donald has such a gorgeous chest…
…until I spied on one cheating husband too many, one who was packing a helluva lot more firepower than I was. I nearly died in the alley that day, would have died later in the E.R. if Timmy hadn’t shoved his way past doctors and nurses and cops and God knows who else to grab my hand and order me back from whatever dark and far off place I was headed for. I fought him at first, not wanting to deal with the pain and the light and the noise, but he wouldn’t take no for answer. He never does.
…and as much as I love looking at it, I want to feel it against me, to know his heart’s beating against mine. I want to feel Donald, all of him, and I’m not about to take no for an answer. I pull him down for another kiss and continue tugging at him until he stops fighting me and finally stretches out, covering every inch of my body with every inch of his own.
I’m a weak man. I know I’m a weak man, but I can’t hold out on Timmy, not even when it’s for his own good. So much for my noble intentions, right? But it feels so good to lie here like this, moving together in an easy rhythm, chest against chest and belly to belly, his tongue tangling with mine in a warm, wet mating dance before slipping free to follow the path of the scar on my upper lip.
With the tip of my tongue, I follow the vertical line on his upper lip. Our friends assume it’s a battle scar and think it makes him look tough, but it speaks to me of pain, even if it is a pain he can’t remember. Old wounds do eventually heal, I suppose, but they never go away. If I could make this one disappear, I would.
Damned scar. If I could change one thing about the way I look, that would be it. It’s been with me longer than conscious memory, though I know I couldn’t have had it forever. I never asked my mother about it, never wanted to learn its history, assuming that since she and my grandparents never volunteered any information, whatever happened to me was something I’d just as soon not know about.
How could a father, even a drunken one, do something like that to his son? And how could a whole family – even a mother, for God’s sake – turn a blind eye on it when he did?
Timmy knows the whole story, I can see it in his eyes, though I’ve got no clue how he found out. I’m not so sure I want to know how he found out.
Donald says he doesn’t know how he got the scar, and I believe him. He was too young and too traumatized to hold onto the memory, and I’m grateful for that.
Timmy’s gone still beneath me, watching me in that spooky way of his, making me wonder how far off he is from actually being able to read my mind. For no good reason I can think of, I waver, wondering if I should ask him to show me that missing puzzle piece from my past, wondering if I’d like the picture it made once I saw it.
If it’s up to me, he’ll never know how he got it.
I know better. And I don’t want to think about it anymore. Not tonight, and probably not ever. To distract us both, I bite his chin, sinking my teeth in just enough to get a good grip without causing pain and snarling like a rat terrier as I shake his face. He laughs and swats my ass, then arches up, grinding his crotch into mine in a way that turns my brain and my banged-up knees to room-temperature Jell-O.
After all these years together, it’s hardly surprising that there’s an almost ritualistic aspect to our lovemaking, a certain pattern we follow more often than not. I’m not saying we do it by rote, because that’s definitely not the case. We simply have a few well-worn paths we habitually follow.
Timmy knows what I like, and he never seems to get tired of giving it to me. I kiss the faint teeth marks I’ve left on his chin, lick the scar there, a souvenir from an ice skating pile-up during his seminary days. And to complete the circle or maybe for luck, I touch the surgical scar on his left side, remembering another night when I could have lost him but didn’t.
I’ve travelled this particular path often enough to know when it’s about to end. We pick up the pace almost imperceptibly, barely breaking a light sweat, and when climax comes, it’s a relatively mild but infinitely satisfying release.
I’m yawning almost before I finish coming, and so is he. Mission accomplished. I force-feed Timmy another pain pill, then straighten the covers and turn off the light. We settle in together, sleepy and content. Tonight hasn’t been about blazing new trails or trying something exotic. It’s been about macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, Campbell’s chicken soup and that killer apple crisp Timmy’s Aunt Moira makes every fall. It’s been about sharing sexual comfort food made from a recipe we both know by heart.
I whisper that I love him. Donald whispers back, pinching the tip of my nose before wrapping an arm around me and kissing me goodnight. On nights like this, it’s comforting to stick with the tried and true, to follow the course of least resistance, going from point A to point B to point C without having to put any effort into plotting the course.
We don’t even have to think about it. I guess you could say we just follow the stars – or in this case, the scars – my internal GPS in sync with his as we go from oldest to newest…
We began at very different spots on the map, Donald and I, but if we follow those familiar mile markers…
…from the dent in his forehead to the line on his chin…
…from the cut on his upper lip to the marks on his knee he got from playing football and getting thrown from that damned mechanical bull …
…from the crescent moon by his eye to the scar on his side…
…from the carefully camouflaged pucker on his back to the fading constellation on his chest…
…and we always end up at the same place.
…the separate paths we’ve travelled eventually merge into one.
We’ve both seen some tough times….
There’ve been a few bumps and twists along the road….
…and each of us has strayed off course and fallen into a pothole or two along the way…
…and each of us has had his share of loneliness and pain.
…but those scars of ours, they’re just friendly reminders that we’re stronger together than apart.
The point is, as long as we have each other, none of that really matters.
Timmy and me, we’re in it together, both of us ready and willing to pick the other guy up if he stumbles, to carry him when he’s tired, to help him find the way.
When I first met Donald, he was wandering, lost. I didn’t even realize it at the time, but I suppose I was, too. But we were lucky enough to find each other, and as a result, found ourselves. Now we travel in perfect tandem, he and I, and in spite of what our original destinations might have been, there’s only one place either of us wants to be at the end of the day.
No matter how many detours we’ve taken or speed bumps we’ve tripped over, we always end up at the same place.
Home.
A Roach By Any Other Name
250 words
“I would not like to be reborn a cockroach,” Timmy said, watching with horrified fascination as Donald pulled off a shoe and dropped to his knees, stalking the insect as it scurried across the kitchen floor.
“Shhhh! You’ll spook him,” Donald not-quite-whispered. “Besides, I didn’t think Catholics were all that much into the whole reincarnation scene.”
“We’re not. I’m simply speculating. Just think what a sad life it would be, lurking in dark corners, scraping out a bare-bones existence, knowing that getting caught means getting killed.”
The roach paused in mid-scurry, seeming to ponder this. Donald slowly raised the shoe in the air above it, face contorted in an exaggerated, one-eyed squint as he took aim, tongue-tip poking out from between his lips, breath held, and….
“Come to think of it, it rather reminds me of someone I know,” Timmy said just as the shoe came down on the floor a good three inches from its target. The roach looked at Donald and Donald looked at the roach. The roach wriggled its antennae. Donald wriggled his eyebrows. They called it a draw.
Later that night, once the exterminator had been called and they'd stopped in for drinks with friends, Donald would swear the roach stuck its tongue out at him and blew a raspberry. Timmy would dispute this, of course. But on one thing they both agreed: the roach looked both amused and faintly disgusted just before it disappeared under the counter.
Donald thought it might have been a Kennedy, but Timmy wasn't so sure.
“Shhhh! You’ll spook him,” Donald not-quite-whispered. “Besides, I didn’t think Catholics were all that much into the whole reincarnation scene.”
“We’re not. I’m simply speculating. Just think what a sad life it would be, lurking in dark corners, scraping out a bare-bones existence, knowing that getting caught means getting killed.”
The roach paused in mid-scurry, seeming to ponder this. Donald slowly raised the shoe in the air above it, face contorted in an exaggerated, one-eyed squint as he took aim, tongue-tip poking out from between his lips, breath held, and….
“Come to think of it, it rather reminds me of someone I know,” Timmy said just as the shoe came down on the floor a good three inches from its target. The roach looked at Donald and Donald looked at the roach. The roach wriggled its antennae. Donald wriggled his eyebrows. They called it a draw.
Later that night, once the exterminator had been called and they'd stopped in for drinks with friends, Donald would swear the roach stuck its tongue out at him and blew a raspberry. Timmy would dispute this, of course. But on one thing they both agreed: the roach looked both amused and faintly disgusted just before it disappeared under the counter.
Donald thought it might have been a Kennedy, but Timmy wasn't so sure.
And In the Darkness Bind Them
1700 words
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
~~ “To a Mouse” by Robert Burns
December 1, 2009:
I’m down on one knee in the far corner of the attic, searching through a tiny alcove Timmy doesn‘t even know exists. Hidden back here behind trunks and boxes and discarded furniture, I stretch my hand through dust and darkness, mouse pellets and cobwebs and time, until my fingers close on that box, that tiny, gift-wrapped box, and pull it into the light.
Looking at the box has become a yearly ritual, like putting up the tree or hanging a wreath on the front door, letting Timmy drag my bah-humbugging ass through an overcrowded hellhole of a mall as we fight tooth and nail for a tasteful scarf for his mom, a cushy sweater for his sister, an appropriately stodgy-smelling cologne for his old man. It’s like midnight mass and eggnog, like making slow, lazy love in front of the fire as Judy Garland sings “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on vinyl -- vinyl, for chrissake -- because Timmy thinks the CD player provides too sterile a backdrop for sex in the middle of the living room floor on Christmas Eve night. You wouldn’t know it, but for me, this little box represents the ghost of all our Christmases past, a thanks for our Christmas in the here and now, a prayer for our Christmases future.
I’m not sure whether it’s a time capsule or a time bomb, a reaffirmation of what we have or a reminder of what we don’t. Those first couple of years, touching it, feeling the weight of it in my hand, letting my fingertips whisper across that crinkling red paper made me busting-out-of-my-skin excited as I thought about Timmy, imagining what the expression on his face would be like when I was finally able to give it to him. In the years since, it’s given me comfort when times were tough, pissed me off a time or two and occasionally depressed the ever-loving hell out of me. This year, more than ever before, it fills me with hope.
Fragments of aging ribbon scatter across my palm. One corner of the wrapping paper looks like it’s been gnawed through. The mice have been at it, or maybe even a rat. I grin, thinking of what Timmy’s reaction might be to that. By mutual agreement, it’s my job to bait, set, and empty the traps I’ve scattered across the attic floor, and it’s his job to pretend they don’t exist. Seems only fair, since it lets both of us sleep through the night.
I’ll have to rewrap the package before I give it to him, I guess. Or maybe not. I kinda like the signs of wear and tear on it, the proof of its age, a testimonial to its history. To our history, to who we once were and who we are now, what we, as a perfectly matched set, will always be, whether I ever get a chance to give him the damned thing or not. So maybe I’ll just hand it over as is, make him believe that the buck-toothed little bastards who chewed on it are long dead, victims of my traps and his housekeeping skills. Make him understand that the gift inside is every fucking bit as pristine as what I feel for him, what I know he feels for me, who we are as a couple.
I settle on the floor, cross-legged like a kid at story time, the package nestled in my palm. Slowly, I pass it from hand to hand, weighing it, delaying the inevitable. Finally, I can’t wait any longer. I work my fingernail under a yellowing strip of Scotch tape and pry it loose, watching the folds of paper on that side drift open. I ease the contents out, being extra careful not to damage the mouse-mauled paper any more than I have to. A cardboard box slides into my hand, black and glossy, with a jeweler’s name embossed on the top. Inside, another box, black as well and covered in velvet. Slowly and with as much reverence as a jaded asshole like me is capable of showing anyone or anything, I open the hinged lid.
It’s a ring, of course. A man’s ring, gold with diamonds in a clean and tasteful design, sized to fit Timmy’s right hand. At least I hope it still fits. He’s gained maybe ten pounds in our years together, but it’s healthy weight, and it looks good on him. His wedding ring still fits just fine, but who knows? Time changes things. Ring sizes go up or down, laws are passed and later repealed, hopes are raised and sometimes, if we’re lucky, fulfilled. Timmy, though? My Timmy never changes. Not really. God only knows what it would do to me if he ever did.
Timmy and me, we’re married, you see. Married in every way that counts, except for one. I’m not even sure why that one small detail matters, really. It’s not like we haven’t covered our asses, drawn up wills and powers of attorneys, put both our names on the mortgage and deposited all our money in a joint bank account. We’re tied together as tightly as any two people can get…almost. But it’s that “almost” that bothers us, Timmy more than me, because tradition matters to him, the law matters to him, feeling validated as a human being and recognized as part of a committed and loving couple matters to him. And as much as I hate to admit it, it matters to me, too.
On our wedding day, we slipped a pair of plain gold bands on each other’s right hands, agreeing that on the day we could back up our wedding vows with a state-issued marriage license, we’d do the ceremony thing all over again and switch off, placing those bands on our left hands instead. Still, the more I thought about it, the more I hated the idea of his right hand going bare after having my ring on it for all that time. So I bought this ring and carefully hid it away, wrapped in red Christmas paper and topped with a bow, and waited -- sometimes patiently and sometimes not -- for the time to come when I could get down on one knee under the mistletoe and ask him to watch me pass out in the middle of saying our wedding vows just one more time.
I hear the front door open down below, his voice calling my name. Brushing my finger across the recessed diamonds one more time, I slip the ring back into its box and its box back into its wrapping paper, then quickly press that yellow strip of tape home with the ball of my thumb. I start to put the package back into its hiding place, but on second thought, slide it into my pocket instead.
“I’m up here, honey!” I call, brushing all the dust and mouse shit from my jeans and hustling down the retractable ladder. It’s late and he’s gonna be tired, and I don’t want him to waste time and energy worrying that I might be off in a dark alley somewhere, getting my head bashed in. He’s spent the last few weeks burning the midnight oil with the senator, traveling the state and drumming up support for the bill she and her colleagues will be voting on tomorrow. I know he’s just about as exhausted as a human being can get, but he’s revved and optimistic, believing -- the way he always does -- that people are basically fair and intelligent and kind, and that if he works hard enough and has enough faith, justice will be served in the end. I’m not sure I buy into that. I’m not sure I’ll ever buy into that. But this time around, I hope like hell he’s right.
The ladder slides back into place and the attic door shuts behind it. I meet him midpoint on the stairs, him on the fifth step and me on the sixth, so for once I get to be the taller one. He steps into my embrace with a sigh, wrapping his arms around my waist and slumping into me, letting me support his weight for a moment as his head rests on my chest. “I’m glad you’re home,“ we say in unison. I snort, and he chuckles in motion more than in sound, his chest vibrating with silent laughter as it presses against my ribcage. I kiss his forehead, smell the stale cigarette smoke I know he hates in his hair, sway with him gently.
Mice in the attic or not, he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. But I can run a warm bath for him and wash his hair, make sure he has something to eat and drink and that he rests, hold him all night and just listen and encourage as he chatters and rants and analyzes and hopes. Most of all, as he hopes.
As I lead him into the bedroom and help him start to undress, I decide that first thing in the morning I’m gonna run to the store and buy him wine and flowers and the biggest bunch of mistletoe I can find. To hell with waiting until closer to Christmas. I’m gonna hang that shit from every light fixture and from every door frame, cover the whole fucking house in it, so that every room, every square inch of floor space will be the perfect spot to drop to my knees and give him the gift I’ve been waiting all these Christmases to give him when the moment is right, when justice is finally served, when the state of New York finally agrees that the whole “all men are created equal” spiel wasn’t just a load of bullshit Jefferson drummed up to convince his buddies to sign on the dotted line.
This could be the year, I tell myself as I catch Timmy’s face between my hands and steal a soft kiss. This could be the Christmas that changes nothing on one level, but changes everything on another. The Christmas neither of us will ever forget, that thousands of people just like us will never, ever forget. I’ve got to be ready.
Just in case.
****Author’s note****
On December 2, 2009 in Albany, the New York state senate rejected a bill that would have granted same-sex partners the right to legally wed. In spite of earlier predictions that the vote would be close, the bill was voted down 38-24, with eight Democrats backing the unanimous Republican caucus. In a statement issued that afternoon, Governor David Paterson, who has pledged to keep the fight to legalize same-sex marriage in NY alive, said, “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
At least in these dark times, Donald still has his light….
Nyte
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them
~~ J.R.R. Tolkien
A Fine Line
200 words
“You’re fine,” she said, as Timmy started to rise from his chair to give the nurse access to Donald’s IV. Another day, another dollar, another harrowing trip to the emergency room and beyond. This time, the bullet only grazed Donald’s thigh, thank God, but it still produced an impressive amount of blood and required general anesthesia and an hour and a half sojourn to the operating room.
You’re fine, indeed.
Timmy was anything but fine, though he had no interest in explaining that to the well-meaning nurse. She was better than a good number he’d encountered over his and Donald’s years together – at least this one didn’t demand he leave the room because he wasn’t “real family,” whatever that meant. After being married in all the ways that count except one for over a decade, he hardly considered himself artificial. And in a little over a week, the state of New York would finally issue him documentation of his legitimacy. After that, he might not be fine, but at least he’d move a notch or two closer to it.
You’re fine, indeed.
Timmy was anything but fine, though he had no interest in explaining that to the well-meaning nurse. She was better than a good number he’d encountered over his and Donald’s years together – at least this one didn’t demand he leave the room because he wasn’t “real family,” whatever that meant. After being married in all the ways that count except one for over a decade, he hardly considered himself artificial. And in a little over a week, the state of New York would finally issue him documentation of his legitimacy. After that, he might not be fine, but at least he’d move a notch or two closer to it.
State of Grace
12,400 words
Leap!
There is nowhere to fall but into the arms of grace.
~~ Marta Davidovich Ockuly
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Albany, NY
About a year and a half ago, the state of New York decided that while all men are created equal, some are more equal than others.
I guess you could say I was bummed, but not exactly surprised. My life had pretty much been shaped by the general consensus that I was a second-class citizen and a third-rate human being. Not that I’m complaining about my life, because I’m not. I’ve got a home and my own business and Timmy. Most of all, I’ve got Timmy. If that doesn’t add up to a life that’s better than most and a helluva lot more than I deserve…Jesus. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m smart enough to know a good thing when I’ve got it. And all you have to do is take one look at Timothy J. Callahan to know that I’ve got it all. So when Senator Platt’s colleagues nixed the idea of legalizing gay marriage back in ’09, I was a little disappointed and a whole lotta pissed, but I got over it.
Timmy was totally fucking devastated.
It just about broke my heart, seeing him that down. Not that I blame him. He’d worked so goddamned hard to see that stupid bill pass, given more of himself to promoting it than he had to anything since the Safe Zone project. When all his efforts went up in smoke, he felt like the machine had broken down, that the system he’d always believed in, the system that he’d poured his sweat and blood, heart and hope into had turned its back on him. In other words, he did what he’d always said a politician should never do – he took it personally.
I’ll never forget that night. He walked through the door looking as worn out and beaten down as I’d ever seen him, and there I was, stretched out on a blanket in front of the fire like some kind of idiot, a bottle of champagne chilling on one side of me and two dozen roses – red ones mixed with white for the holidays – on the other, and sprigs of mistletoe hanging in every doorway of the house. I hadn’t heard the outcome of the vote yet – I hadn’t wanted to. I’d had this crazy idea that if I kept flipping on CNN to check for updates, I’d jinx it somehow, but if I waited for Timmy to get home and tell me himself, the two of us would have something huge to celebrate together.
Stupid, the mind games I try to play with fate sometimes. Of course, the second I saw Timmy’s face, I knew the game had been over for hours and that our team had lost. He kissed me hello like he always did, smelled the flowers and managed a smile we both knew he didn’t mean. I had another surprise for him, a black velvet box I’d hidden between the cushions on the couch, but I knew giving it to him right then would just rub salt into a wound that was already stinging. Instead, I just pulled him down beside me and helped him undress, then gave him what both of us knew he needed most, not so much making love to him as soothing him with a physical lullaby, a reaffirmation that we were what we always had been and always would be, whether the state of New York recognized it or not. Then I stuck the champagne in the back of the fridge and the flowers in a vase and led him upstairs to bed.
He didn’t get up for almost two days.
I wasn’t worried. Not really. He hadn’t slept at all the night before the vote – he’d been way too keyed up to even come close to dozing off. But once the excitement was over and those dickheads in the senate had not just rained on his parade, but also pissed on it, he did a major crash-and-burn. Who could blame him? I stuck close to home, too, napping off and on with him since he always sleeps better if I’m there to share his pillow and hog the covers, forcing a bottle of water down his throat every time he woke up enough to make a bathroom run, and bringing him turkey sandwiches and fruit so he wouldn’t have to trudge up and down those stairs while he was groggy. It took a lot of sleep and TLC to recharge his batteries, but I’ll tell you what, the second he threw back those covers and his feet hit the floor, Timothy was on fire.
My robotic pit bull, with the words “next time” always on his lips. He’d bounced back just the way I’d known he would, hitting the ground running as he drafted memos and wrote speeches, organized rallies and held fundraisers – all with his boss’ support. I give Platt a hard way to go sometimes, but I gotta admit, she really had his back on this one. Knowing how much it meant to him, she gave him as much free reign as she could without compromising her own agenda, letting him devote as much time as possible to promoting marriage equality and the push to end DADT.
It wasn’t like the senator didn’t have a personal stake in all this herself. Her baby brother, the pretty-boy cellist Tim was such good buddies with, was as out of the closet as you can get and live, and I remember her mentioning that her great-aunt had been in a “Boston marriage” with another old gal for almost half a century. She couldn’t afford to be seen as a one-issue politician, not if she wanted to hang onto her job and maybe move on to something bigger and better when the time was right. But that didn’t stop her from endorsing Timmy’s pet projects. Platt trusted him and knew covering her ass from a P.R. perspective would always be at the top of his priority list. She was willing to go out on a limb for him – just not so far out she was in danger of falling off.
He was still manning the helm at Safe Zone, of course, and he was still Platt’s one and only right-hand man. But more and more, he was delegating the small stuff, the stuff that didn’t really need his personal attention, to someone else. He had to if he wanted enough hours left in a day to eat, sleep, and say hello to me once in a while as we ran past each other, both of us in a hurry to get to wherever we had to be as opposed to where we wanted to be.
Passing the shit assignments on down the line gave Timmy a chance to let the junior staffers stretch their wings. And although he never said as much, it also gave him a chance to see who was a dead-ender and who was promotion material, who was gonna get left by the wayside and who he could groom to take over his position when he was ready to do a little wing-stretching of his own. Platt’s no fool, and she knew how Tim’s mind worked almost as well as I did. The day was gonna come when he decided to run for office himself. She wanted to make damned sure they were both batting for the same team when he did.
The time Timmy devoted to gay rights on the job was just a drop in the bucket compared to the hours he spent drumming up grass-roots support off the clock. As often as he could, Timmy dragged me along for the ride. And yeah, I still did some obligatory kicking and screaming along the way. I’ve got a rep to maintain, after all, and I wouldn’t want him to think I was going soft after all these years. But this wasn’t the usual snorefest circuit of stuffy, black-tie events. These were Tuesday night gatherings in high school gyms, caucuses held in small town civic centers and factory meeting rooms, weekend barbeques and even a ride on a float or two during pride month.
According to Timmy, most politicians who were sympathetic to our cause and even organizations like HRC wasted too much breath preaching to the choir – left-wingers and educated folks who already knew what’s what. He took a more blue-collar approach, counting on common sense combined with that famous Callahan charm to get his message across.
Over the next few months, it became his mission to convince Joe Blow that your average gay man doesn’t go around fornicating in the cereal aisle at his friendly neighborhood Price Chopper, defiling churches and drowning kittens, or wagging his wienie at little Joey Jr. on the school playground. Timmy courted truck drivers and plumbers and Wal-Mart cashiers, making them see that the institution of marriage wouldn’t crumble and society wouldn’t end just because guys like us had the same rights as guys like them. What’s more, he talked them into calling their senators and congressmen and anyone else who’d listen and telling them the same thing.
Hardly a week went by without me seeing my guy on the morning news at least once or twice. He was always popping up between the pages of the Times Union, and pretty soon he had an Advocate cover of his own to stick in a frame next to mine. He did talk radio gigs, TV interviews, even a segment on Good Morning America where he butted heads with some fundamentalist stuffed shirt from the DOMA side of the fence. It got pretty bloody, and Stuffed Shirt came out looking like an idiot, of course. But there’s no way my Timmy could ever come out looking anything but beautiful.
Every once in a while, bits and pieces of me popped up on the news, too. The back of my head here, an elbow or shoulder there. Timmy vaguely referred to me as “my life partner, an independent business owner” during interviews, and he was very careful to keep my face out of camera range so my business wouldn’t go under thanks to overexposure. Timmy’s face, though? That gorgeous face of his was quickly becoming the face of the gay rights movement in New York.
It was a long year and a half, with that black velvet box I’d been wanting to give him for so long burning a hole in my pocket the whole time – figuratively speaking, at least. It was back up in its attic hiding place, getting covered in cobwebs and mouse shit and God knows what else, patiently waiting for the New York state senate to get its head out of its collective ass. I was waiting, too, but not nearly so patiently.
Timmy wasn’t waiting for shit. He was out there doing something about it.
When Obama finally signed the DADT appeal, Timmy took it as a good omen. He and I had a long, hard talk about finances, and we decided it was time for him to request a temporary leave of absence from his job so he could push for the gay marriage bill full time. He was on top of the world and breathing fire, swearing we’d be standing in the city clerk’s office before the year was out, shelling out our forty bucks for a marriage license.
As usual, Timmy was right.
* * * *
When the marriage bill went up for a vote last month, I didn’t buy flowers or champagne, and I sure as hell didn’t booby-trap the doorways with mistletoe. But I did get that little black box out of hiding, and I carried it around in my pocket for a couple of days as I went about business as usual, rubbing my finger against the soft velvet as I interviewed new clients or BSed with Kenny, chanting Timmy’s mantra in my head. Next time, next time. And all the while I was hoping that next time was now.
The news broke late on a Friday night. I was home alone, bored and surfing the net, when a news byte caught my eye. In the same instant, my cell phone chirped and a text came through from Timmy.
Have you heard? 33-29! Come get me!!!
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I was in a suit and on the road in five minutes flat.
I caught up with him on the steps of the capital building, holding court with a swarm of reporters. He was flushed and breathless, but still in control and looking like he’d just won the lottery. When he spotted me, he held out his hand, beaming. I sidled up next to him, tangling my fingers with his and giving him a quick hello kiss in full view of the cameraman from Channel 6.
“In case anyone’s wondering, this is my husband, Donald Strachey,” he said, laughing. For once, he didn’t give a shit whether or not my face was plastered all over the news and neither did I. This was his night, the night he’d waited for so long, and I intended to spend every second of it by his side, showing both him and the world how proud I was that he was mine.
Timmy was tired, though, and God only knew when he’d eaten last. He was fading fast. As soon as I could do it without looking like a total jerk, I eased him away from the fawning masses and led him toward the car. I held the door for him as he slid into his seat, then sprinted around to my side and cranked up the engine.
“Thank you,” he said, pulling me into another kiss. “If I’d had to answer one more question about whether I was planning to leave the senator’s staff and run for office myself, I may have been forced to borrow your gun and shoot someone’s camera. Or at least ask you to shoot it for me, since we both know my history with firearms.”
“Are you?” I had to ask
“Planning on asking you to shoot something? I’m not sure. That annoying woman from ABC—”
“That’s not what I’m asking, Timothy.”
“I know what you’re asking,” he said, sounding so weary I coulda kicked myself for pressing him. “I don’t want to think about that right now. I’m too tired to think about it. This has been an incredible night, and all I want to do right now is relax and savor the moment. And the only person I want to savor it with is you, preferably as far away from here as we can get.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” I said, rubbing his cheek with the back of my knuckles. He had a little bit of a five o’clock shadow going on there, reminding me just how long a day he had put in. I shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Which do you need more, food or sleep?”
“I haven’t had anything except very bad coffee since this morning,” he said. “I’m starving. Feed me?”
I took him to an all-night diner Kenny and I sometimes hit at lunchtime. Nothing fancy, but the food was good and the prices even better, plus they served the best Reubens in town. I decided on one with double meat and extra 1000 Island. Timmy ordered breakfast food – eggs and toast and a bowl of oatmeal laced with brown sugar and topped with a fruit compote the place was famous for.
The diner was more crowded than I’d expected, with several clusters of people in evening attire clinking coffee cups and chattering over their Denver omelets while stray blue-collar types sat alone or with a buddy, plowing through plates of roast beef and gravy or monster sandwiches like mine. The Friday night theater crowd, with a sprinkling of second-shifters grabbing a bite before heading home to bed. It was hotter than I expected, too, so I ditched my jacket and loosened my tie, then reached across the table and loosened Timmy’s. He gave me a look, but he didn’t waste any breath protesting. As stuffy as it was in there, he probably didn’t have too much breath to waste.
I’d planned to take him someplace more upscale – not to mention with better air-conditioning -- but at that hour, our options had been pretty limited. Besides, we could plan a nice night out sometime in the next week. My baby was looking paler and more wiped out by the moment, and I’d decided that convenience was worth more at that point than ambiance. I knew a migraine would be just around the corner if I didn’t get his blood sugar up fast.
As smart as Timmy is, he can be an idiot sometimes, at least as far as taking care of himself goes. “I’m all right, honey,” he said, without waiting for me to ask, which just goes to show how not all right he really was. I hauled myself out of the booth and peeled off his jacket and unbuttoned his collar, then walked to the counter and asked for a large OJ. I plunked it down in front of him and ordered him to drink, then stood over him to let him know I meant business. As he sipped it, I dunked a napkin into a water glass and dabbed his face and wrists until some of his color started to come back.
“Better?”
“Better,” he said. He caught my hand and squeezed it, then tugged me down beside him. When the waitress showed up with more juice and my Molson, she took in the altered seating arrangement and asked in an overly chipper voice if we were expecting more people.
“My husband’s all the company I need tonight…or any other night,” Timmy said, smiling.
“Oh,” she said, her voice dropping a notch or two on the chipper scale. “Ohhhh,” she said again, finally noticing our joined hands. Then she rearranged the table setting without comment, flashed us her best plasto-professional smile, and scurried off to check on our order.
She was back a couple of minutes later with enough food to feed a small army. I thought it all looked great, but when she set Timmy’s plate in front of him, he eyed the extra rack of bacon he’d specifically asked for them to leave off his order, looking faintly queasy. Timmy doesn’t do fried and he doesn’t do grease, especially on a rock-bottom-empty stomach at midnight. I snagged the strips off his plate and stuck them on my Reuben, then took a mammoth bite.
Timmy shuddered delicately.
“What?”
He grinned and shook his head, then dove into the oatmeal. I’m not a big fan of the stuff, but as he added cream and stirred it, I smelled cinnamon and all that fruit. My mouth would’ve started watering if it hadn’t already been crammed full of corned beef. When Miss Chipper stopped by to check on us, I caved and ordered a bowl for myself as a chaser.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. We ate without talking, me wolfing my sandwich and fries and washing it down with long pulls on my beer while Timmy sipped his juice and worked his way through the eggs and oatmeal at a more leisurely pace.
“I’m sorry I’m not a more stimulating conversationalist,” he said, spreading sugar-free blackberry jam on his last slice of toast. “I’ve talked so much today, I’m almost talked out.”
I’d bolted my oatmeal and fruit concoction as soon as it arrived, and only a warning glare from Timmy kept me from ordering a second one. “You’re tired, sweetheart. As soon you’re finished, I’m taking you home and putting you to bed.”
“I feel like such a wet blanket. We should go dancing or something. We should go somewhere extravagant and celebrate what happened tonight.”
“What, spending the night in bed with me isn’t celebration enough?”
“That’s not how I meant it, and you know it. This is an important night, Donald. Shouldn’t we be doing something monumental to commemorate the occasion?”
“I’m not sure how monumental this is going to be, but I think I know how we can make this a night to remember.” I fished the velvet box out of my pocket and slid out of the booth, sinking down on one knee. As he stared at me in horrified fascination, I took his hand and cleared my throat, then announced in a voice pitched to carry, “Timothy Callahan, you are the love of my life and the light of my life, my lifeline and lifemate, the life of my party…”
Timmy wasn’t pale anymore. Oh, hell no. He was the color of those big, sweet Bing cherries, the kind you can only buy in the summertime. His mouth opened and closed, but instead of words, only strange spluttering sounds were coming out.
“…and my life thread is forever tied to yours. You are my life, and my reason for living. My only goal in life is to devote my lifetime to making your life a happy one—”
“For the love of God, Donald. People are watching.”
“Only you can make my life complete.” I opened the box and took out the ring, then slipped it onto his finger. “Please accept this small token of my affection and do me the honor of sharing a life sentence with me. Come on, sweetheart,” I said, lowering my voice by several decibels. “Say you’ll re-marry me. I want to have the pleasure of passing out in the middle of saying my wedding vows just one more time.”
His face contorted and somehow turned even redder. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. For a fleeting second I thought oh my God, he’s having an aneurysm. He’s gonna die right here in the diner and it’s all my fault. Then he sucked in a deep breath and cut loose with something that sounded suspiciously like a guffaw. I relaxed and sat back on my heels, laughing right along with him.
“The ring’s beautiful, honey. I love it. But please get up now. You just had that suit cleaned and pressed, and who knows when these people bothered to mop the floor last. Besides, everyone in the place is looking at us.”
He was right, everyone in the place, customers and staff alike, were frozen in place, staring at us as if they’d just seen the Virgin Mary appear on a taco. Or in this case, in a bowl of cinnamon oatmeal. As I glanced around the silent diner, a little girl who seemed to be having a late night out with her grampa broke into a grin and waved. I waved back.
“Donald, get up.”
“Nope, not until you say you’ll re-marry me. I can go on forever, you know. Life is like a box of chocolates when I’m with you. I never thought I was the marrying kind, but when I met you, it was like trying my first bowl of Life cereal. He’s not so sure at first, but guess what? He likes it! Hey Timmy!”
“Don’t make me slap you.”
“Say yes, Timmy. Say yes or I’ll sing. You know I’ll do it. Worse, I’ll sing Queen. Love of my life, you’ve hurt meeeeeeeeeeee. You’ve broken my hea—”
“Enough! These people are trying to eat,” he said, but he was laughing even harder than before. “Of course I’m going to marry you again. I’d marry you a hundred times over if it would keep you from singing. Now, will you please get up before someone calls the police.”
“Now say you love me,” I insisted. “I don’t want you to say yes just so the cops won’t haul me off because nobody around here appreciates a fine Irish tenor.”
“You’re not Irish, I am. And I’m not sure you’re even a tenor. I don’t think there’s a word for what you are.”
“You’ll think of something. I have faith in your abilities. Now say yes for the right reasons, Timmy. Say you’ll marry me because—”
The rest was lost in a kiss, a long, hard, fuck-me-now kiss that instantly turned my knees to water and my dick to stone. Then Timmy’s arms were around me and he was hauling me back into our booth as the kiss went on and on and the other diners hooted and whistled and broke into applause.
“I’ll marry you again because I love you,” he said softly when he finally let me up for air. “I’ll marry you because you love me, and because I can’t imagine living a single day of my life without you. I’ll marry you even if you are insane,” he said, nipping my earlobe.
“Or maybe because I am?”
“Quite possibly.”
“I’ll get the check,” I said.
* * * *
We slept until 10:30 the next morning, then lingered in bed an hour more, taking care of a thing or two we’d started but hadn’t had the stamina to finish the night before. After we’d showered and more or less dressed – meaning I pulled on cut-offs and a wife-beater and Timmy looked like he was ready to spend the afternoon watching a polo match -- we wandered downstairs for coffee and croissants and the last of the late strawberries our next-door neighbors, the Sheridans, had given us from their backyard garden.
I pulled the stem off the fattest berry I could find and stuck it between my teeth, then looked at Timmy, my eyebrows wriggling. He humored me by biting the berry in half, his lips pressing mine in a kiss about a thousand times sweeter than the fruit. I groaned in appreciation.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” he said. “Would you like to look at a section of the paper?”
“I’d rather look at you.”
“You see me all the time,” he said.
“Well, exactly.” I topped off both our mugs and settled on the barstool beside him, happy enough to just sit there swilling my cup of hazelnut blend and watching Timmy flip through the Times Union. His hair was still damp from the shower, and I was close enough to catch undertones of organic shampoo and his aftershave beneath the stronger scents of coffee and newsprint and strawberries. I closed my eyes and just breathed, blissed out on the familiar smells of Timmy and morning.
From the moment I’d heard about the vote, I’d felt like I was living in a state of grace, like I was the luckiest man on earth because I had everything in the world I ever wanted and more, and now the law finally said I had a right to enjoy it. That I finally had the legal right to mornings like this, mornings that smelled like strawberry kisses and hazelnut coffee and Timmy. That nobody could catch me with my pants down and take away everything I loved ever again.
Paper rustled, and Timmy’s shoulder bumped mine. “It’s definitely the story of the hour,” he said, holding up the front page so I could see it. “Historic Vote for Vows. Honestly, who writes these things?”
“Who cares? All I see are bald heads and mohawks. Where’s a picture of you?” I commandeered the paper and turned the page. There we were, right in the middle of page 3, laying what looked like a huge liplock on each other right in front of the capitol building. “You’re beautiful as always,” I said, “but my hair doesn’t look so great. If I’d known we were getting our pictures done, I would’ve taken time to mousse.”
Timmy has to be awake a few hours before his sense of humor clicks in for the day. “Local Gay Leader Celebrates Victory with Husband-to-Be. Honestly. Has this…this…rag…been bought out by the National Enquirer? I’m afraid to read anymore. For all we know, a shot of you proposing in the middle of that diner will be the highlight of page 5.” He folded the paper and tossed it into the recycle bin. “We need to go to the grocery sometime today, but that can wait until evening, I suppose. Besides creating photo-ops for the tabloids, what would you like to do this afternoon?”
“You,” I said, turning him so he was facing me and spreading his legs so I could gently press my knee against his crotch. “Only you.”
The look of irritation left his eyes. In its place, something infinitely more pleasant was kindling. “You already did me.”
“Hey, that DOMA guy called us practicing homosexuals, remember? So we better keep practicing if we ever want to get it right.”
“You always get it right,” he said. Even after all our years together, his smile was still soft and sweet and a little bit shy when we talked about our sex life. It wasn’t that he was shy when it came to actually having sex, because he was anything but bashful between the sheets. But there was still something about him that was…not innocent, I don’t guess. Fresh. That was it. There was something still fresh and weirdly pure about him, something that made every time between us feel like the millionth time and the first time, all at once. It always hit me like a double shot of Maker’s Mark, made me want to hold him forever, made me want to take him to bed and make love to him as tenderly as I knew how and not stop for hours and hours. It made me want to rip his clothes off and beg him to fuck me senseless right there on the kitchen floor.
I slid off my stool and wedged my hips between his thighs. His arms circled my waist, pulling me in as close as I could get, my hands slipping under his shirt, my face buried in that soft, damp hair. He shifted some, pulled back enough to take off his glasses and fold them before placing them on the counter. Then he pulled my wife-beater over my head and tasted my nipples, first one and then the other, before working his way down to my belly.
Still perched on his barstool, he braced his hands against my hips and bent over so he could reach that most ridiculously sensitive part of me. He lingered for what felt like days but could have been hours or minutes or seconds, licking warm, wet spirals on my stomach, flicking his tongue in my navel and kissing it, sucking on it, pressing his face his deep into my belly.
Timmy knows me, knows me better than I know myself sometimes, and he always knows exactly what I like. When he slid his hand beneath my waistband and tugged gently on my happy trail, I threw back my head, gasping, sure I was gonna lose it right then and there.
My cock was rock hard and aching, pressing painfully against the inside of my fly because I’d been too lazy to hunt for boxers and had gone commando that day. I fumbled with my belt, desperate for relief and release, but Timmy brushed my hands away and unbuckled it for me, then shucked my cutoffs and tossed them to the floor beside my shirt. I reached for his belt as well, but he caught my hands and kissed the palm of each one before settling them firmly against either side of his waist.
“Let me,” he said, those cornflower blue eyes locked on mine, full to overflowing with love and light. “Relax for a change. Let go. Let me.” He pulled me tight against him, swallowing me in a brief bear hug. One of his hands found my ass, the fingers of the other combed through my hair. He slid farther forward on the stool so our crotches pressed firmly together and rocked me against him as he bathed my face and neck in warm, wet kisses. “Baby,” he murmured. “My sweet baby.”
“Want you,” I said, moaning. I captured his mouth with my own and kissed him thoroughly, then pulled his bottom lip into my mouth and sucked it in slow, gentle, pulsing waves, giving him something to moan about, too. His tongue explored the inside of my mouth, tangling with my tongue, teasing it, teasing me. I rubbed my crotch harder against his, getting frantic. “Want you,” I said again, pleading this time. “Want you. Need you. Oh, sweetheart, please. I need you now.”
“You’ve got me, honey,” he said, his breath hot puffs against the side of my neck as he nuzzled there, bit me gently. “You always have and you always will.” Then he pushed our dishes aside and helped me scramble on top of the breakfast bar, facing him with my knees spread wide, my feet braced on top of his thighs. His mouth was on my cock before I knew what hit me, drawing me in impossibly deep, pulling and sucking as I went crazy and tried to hump his face, holding onto only the most bare-bones level of control because I didn’t want to hurt him, not for anything in the world.
Timmy’s hands seemed to be everywhere – rubbing my chest and my belly, stroking the hypersensitive skin on my sides, fondling my ass and my balls. I was swollen to a point just this side of pain, and I could tell from the growing pressure in my balls that I was about to come, and come hard. But Timmy, the bastard, picked that instant to pull off, clamping his hand around the base of my erection like a living cock ring.
“Not yet, he said. “Almost, but not just yet.”
Leisurely as you please, he reached for the coffee pot with his free hand and poured himself another cup, then drank a good half of it while I sat there squirming in a combination of misery and anticipation. He took a final drink and held it in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing, then gobbled me whole, releasing his hold on my cock as his mouth slid home. The heat of that mouth enveloping my cock sent me over the edge, and I screamed, I know I must have screamed, because I felt my balls suddenly pull tight like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point, then everything inside me snapped, just fucking snapped, giving me a release that was both one of the sweetest and most wrenching I’d ever known.
When I came back to my senses, I was sprawled across the breakfast bar, my legs dangling on either side of Timmy, who was calmly kissing his way across my lower belly again.
“Hello, handsome,” he said, looking up when he felt me stir. “Did you have a nice nap?”
“Jesus.” I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyelids, wiping away moisture there, then slowly sat up, every muscle and joint in my body giving me hell every inch of the way. “How long was I out?”
“Just a few minutes.” He brushed croissant crumbs off my elbow, then gathered them in his palm and carefully brushed them into the sink. “You looked like you needed the sleep.”
“I needed to stay awake and finish what I started,” I said. “I’m sorry I conked out on you. Let’s go back upstairs, okay? You took such good care of me, and now I want to take care of you.”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Really. We probably should go upstairs, though. We could both stand another shower, and…” he hesitated, looking sheepish. “And I’m going to be needing a fresh pair of pants.”
“You came already? How did I miss it? Unless you waited til I was out and…” I pumped the air with my hand.
He rolled his eyes, but I could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Hardly. It happened at roughly the same time for me as it did for you, somewhere between the point where you started screaming and the moment you passed out and almost fell off the counter.”
“But I didn’t even touch you,” I said.
“You didn’t need to.”
I felt a surge of something stronger than sexual desire for him at that moment, something stronger than love, even. “You liked watching me come that much?”
“I like watching you do anything.” He touched my face lightly, tracing my jawline with those long, perfectly manicured fingers. “Afterward, I nearly drifted off, too, but I thought one of us should probably stay awake in case the police showed up on our doorstep. Considering all the noise you were making, I’m sure the neighbors thought I was killing you.”
* * * *
We took a shower together, so one thing naturally led to another. By the time we were done, I was relaxed to the point of bonelessness and was in favor of another nap, but Timmy suggested we go for a swim to get our blood pumping again. My blood had already done its fair share of pumping that day and was more than ready for a brief time out. When I told Timmy this, he just tossed my swim trunks at me and proceeded to strip off his robe. The sight of his bare, white ass practically glowing in contrast to his tanned legs and torso helped me catch my second wind, let me tell you. As he bent to step into his own trunks, my dick, which I’d thought was down for the count, got its second wind, too.
Timmy turned around before I had a chance to hide the evidence. “You can’t be serious,” he said.
“Don’t tell me, tell it.”
“You’re the one in charge of it, aren’t you? Or is it the other way around?”
Sometimes I wasn’t sure myself. I pulled on my trunks and tied the drawstring, then carefully adjusted my package. “Maybe the cold water will help.”
“There’s only one way to find out!” Timmy was off like a shot, out the bedroom door and down the stairs, with me hot on his heels. We tore through the kitchen and into the back yard, whooping and hollering like a couple of ten-year-olds as we leaped into the pool.
It was a new addition to our back yard – more Timmy’s idea than mine, really. I liked the idea of a pool, don’t get me wrong, but I hadn’t been sure I was up to the amount of maintenance and expense that goes along with owning one, though Timmy, who’d grown up with a pool, swore they weren’t as much trouble to keep up as I thought. We’d batted the idea around some over the years, but we’d never really gotten motivated to actually put one in until Timmy turned into a gay rights army of one.
He was used to swimming laps three or four times a week to relieve stress and stay fit, but the gym hours were as limited as his were erratic, so he let his membership expire. Over the next few weeks, his temper got shorter and his migraines lasted longer, and more than once, I caught him glaring into the full-length bathroom mirror, poking at an imaginary roll of pudge around his middle.
“I’m gaining weight,” he’d say. “I’m losing muscle tone.”
His muscle tone was just fine as far as I was concerned, and if anything, he was losing weight. His schedule was even crazier than mine, and when Timmy gets caught up in something he gives more than a passing damn about, he loses track of time and forgets to eat. I could see the difference in his face, the way his cheekbones looked more prominent when the light hit him just right. And I could feel it in his body when we made love, my hands finding boney ridges and angles I’d never noticed before.
I worried a little, thinking he might get sick if the weight loss continued, but I sure as hell wasn’t any less attracted to him. He was just as beautiful to me as he’d ever been, long and lean, with compact muscles and an ass that could stop traffic. But when it came down to it, this wasn’t about how I felt about Timmy – it was about how Timmy felt about himself. So the minute the ground thawed enough this spring, the pool had gone in, and he’d been in it almost every day since, weather permitting or not. And I didn’t mind the trouble and expense a single bit, because now when I walked into the bathroom unannounced, I caught him primping in front of the mirror just like he used to instead of glaring into it like it was the enemy.
The best thing about the pool, though, was that it turned him into a kid again. Not the kid he’d really been, according to his mother, all serious and bookish, with the weight of the world on his skinny shoulders. A normal kid, the kind who yells too loud and runs in the house, who stays out past dark and gets grounded for dangling a snake in the neighbor girl’s face. A kid like me. The second he pulled on those ocean blue Brooks Brothers trunks of his, all inhibitions and ideas about dignity and decorum went by the wayside. Just add water, and all Timmy Callahan wanted to do was play.
Once we hit the water that particular afternoon, we horsed some, splashing and chasing each other around the pool like a couple of idiots, diving between each other’s legs to get in a friendly grope here and there. Once we were pretty thoroughly winded, I hauled out the net and ball, and we played a couple of rounds of pool volleyball. All the stress and tension of the last few months seems to have fallen off Timmy, and he looked as relaxed and happy as I’d ever seen him. As a matter of fact, he looked so goddamned good to me, laughing and splashing around out there, his smooth, tan skin in such perfect contrast to those bright blue shorts, that he had a harder time than usual letting me win.
“You’re mind’s not on the game,” he said when I scraped by with a narrow victory at the end of the second round.
“But honey, when you look this good, how can my mind be on anything but you?”
He shook his head. “You’re incorrigible. I think I’m going to get in a few laps now. Would you like to join me, or would you rather lie in the hammock for a while and give your mind a rest?”
“You go ahead,” I told him. “My mind’s had about all it can take for the day.”
I put up the net and the ball, then stretched out in the hammock, letting myself drip-dry through the wide rope mesh. I guess it was pretty hot out, but the sun felt good and there was just enough breeze to keep me from breaking a sweat. I could hear old Mr. Bunch cranking up his weed-whacker two doors down, and the Sheridan kids carrying on about their cockapoo’s new pups, but not much else. From time to time, I lifted my head and shaded my eyes, trying to get a fix on Timmy. Once playtime was over and his laps began, he was all business, gliding across the pool with smooth, silent strokes. It freaked me out a little, the way he swam without making a sound. Even though I knew he was okay in my head, I had a harder time convincing my gut, and I couldn’t stop myself from checking every few minutes or so to make sure he hadn’t drowned.
I’d been lying there for what felt like a long time, half dozing but half not, when I finally heard my better half break the surface of the water. Seconds later, a cold, wet body scrambled onto the hammock and wound itself around me, shocking me wide awake.
“Jesus, Timmy! You feel like ice!”
“You’re just overly warm from the sun. If you’re getting too hot, we could go inside.”
“Not until I get you warm. Geez!” I scooted over to give him more room, then helped him settle on his right side, his head on my chest and his arm around my waist. I was glad to see he hadn’t taken off the new ring to go swimming – I wanted it to become a permanent part of him, the way his wedding band had. As if he could read my thoughts, he moved his hand so the diamond inlays caught the sun, making them sparkle.
“I love the ring,” he said.
“And I love you, so we’re even.”
“You have better taste in rings than you do in ties, Detective Sparky.”
“And I have better taste in men than I do in rings.”
“I knew I loved you more than my luggage for a reason.”
“You better. I’m a helluva lot more expensive.”
“No, you’re not. But you travel well, and as far as I can see, you’re in no danger or ever wearing out.” He cupped his hand over my crotch, giving my balls a gentle squeeze.
“I’m not so sure about that one,” I said. His hand felt good there, radiating warmth through the damp fabric of my trunks, but if he was hoping to get a rise out of me, he was temporarily out of luck. I was so wiped out, the best response I could come up with was a feeble twitch. Always a gentleman, he refrained from commenting. Instead, he just gave my crotch a friendly pat and went back to examining his ring.
“You know, this ring seems so familiar to me. I remember trying on a similar one a long time ago. I saw it while we were out Christmas shopping, I think.”
“Ring shopping. We were picking out our wedding rings, remember? You’d asked to see a certain style, and the guy behind the counter pulled this one out by mistake. Since it was out, you tried it on just for fun, even though you said it was way out of our price range. You were right about that one, and it wasn’t something I would have ever wanted for myself, anyway. But it really caught your eye, I could tell. Even after he put it back in the case, your eyes kept wandering back to it whenever you thought I wasn’t looking. We found a set of plain bands we could both live with and that was that. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how good this ring looked on your finger, how well it suited you. So the next time a client was satisfied enough with Strachey Investigations to hand over a bonus check, I used it as down payment on this little baby. It took me almost six months to pay it off, and I’ve been saving it back ever since, waiting for the right moment to give it to you.”
He raised his head to stare at me. “That was ten years ago.”
“The ten best years of my life.”
“But why….”
“Even way back then, I knew that sooner or later, yesterday was going to come. When we got married, we agreed to wear our rings on our right hands until the day came when we could do it all over again legally, and then we’d switch off. You still want to do that, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Well, so do I. But I’ve never liked the idea of your right hand going bare after wearing my ring for so long. So this seemed like the perfect thing.”
“But ten years, Donald!”
“I’m a patient man.”
I distinctly heard a snort. “Hardly.”
“Okay, you’ve got me on that one. At least we agreed that I have my own pit bull moments here and there.”
“Bullheaded was the term, as I recall.”
“Whatever.” I didn’t get to pull one over on Timmy very often, and I was enjoying every minute of this. The most beautiful man I’d ever known was sharing hammock space with me, the sun was warm on our bodies, and we’d spent a pretty big chunk of a lazy Saturday in June fucking each other stupid. Life was good. “So when do you want to do it?” I asked.
“We’ve done it three times today already. Haven’t you had enough?”
“Not that it. The other it. The big, fat, legal it.”
“Oh, that it. The law goes into effect exactly thirty days from yesterday, so the first day we’ll be eligible to apply for a marriage license is July 24. That’s a Sunday, unfortunately, but Mayor Jennings has been saying for some time that he’d like to officiate at the first same-sex wedding in the state. Considering the special circumstances, he may very well push to have city offices open that day.”
“So you want to be front and center when the line forms that morning, I take it?” I said, tweaking his nose.
He gave the hair around my left nipple a sharp tug in retaliation. “I don’t need to be the first in line, but I would like to do it that day if we can. We’ve waited ten years for this to happen, after all. How much longer should we have to wait?”
“Ow! Point taken.” I briefly considered pulling a chest hair or two myself, but when he roused himself to kiss the sore spot, I thought better of it. And when he began licking circles around the nipple in question and pulled it into his mouth, sucking gently, I started thinking I might not be so wiped out, after all.
“So where do you want to do it?” he asked.
One of his hands had slipped beneath the waistband of my trunks, and he was lightly stroking my lower belly, eliciting a moan from yours truly. “Oh, hell. Right here, right now sounds good to me.”
“Not that it. The marriage it. Try to stay with me, all right?”
“Stay with you? Holy shit, Timothy! I’ll follow you anywhere if you keep doing that.” Regretfully, I took his hand out of my pants and kissed it, then sat up and shook my head to clear it. “I really don’t care where we do the reboot, if you wanna know the truth. What sounds good to you? Penguin suits and candles in Poughkeepsie again? A quiet bed and breakfast somewhere upstate with 500 of your nearest and dearest flown in from God knows where? Or would you rather book a church this time so we’re finally square with the big guy in the sky? Your Jesuit buddies aren’t gonna touch us with a ten-foot pole, but somebody will. The Unitarians, maybe, or somebody from the MCC?”
“We’ve been married in the eyes of God since we decided to spend our lives together, honey. What the Catholic church does or doesn’t want to touch has nothing to do with it.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I do. I also believe I could have made an effective priest even as a gay man who shares his bed with another gay man. The church disagreed, so here I am. But I’ll tell you something, Don. I’ve found that I can serve both God and my fellow man just as effectively as a layman as I ever could have as a priest. A little differently, perhaps, but in a way that’s every bit as valid and fulfilling. My circumstances may have changed, but my vocation hasn’t. And I’ll tell you something else. I’m much wiser and more compassionate as a gay man and as your husband than I ever could have been as a member of the clergy.”
“Putting up with me all these years has taught you patience, has it?”
“Among other things.”
“So no big church blow-out this time around? No marching down the aisle to ‘Here Comes the Bride’? Or in this case, ‘It’s Raining Men’?”
“Definitely not. I was thinking more in terms of something simple and private in Washington Park, perhaps within sight of King Fountain. We could exchange vows under the tree where we met, if you like. It would be shady there, so even if the weather’s miserably hot, we’d still be comfortable. Since it’s a casual setting, we won’t have to dress up, which should suit you just fine. You can even wear your cut-offs if you like. We’ll invite a couple of witnesses along, and I’ll ask Tom Nelson to officiate. He’s a Supreme Court justice, so he could waive the 24-hour waiting period for us. We could actually get married on the day we get our license.”
I flipped through my mental Rolodex, trying to remember where I’d heard that name. “Tom Nelson? You mean your dad’s old golfing buddy, the one who kicks his ass every time they hit the green? The one Liz said looked like a walrus?”
“What’s wrong? You don’t like the idea?”
“No, it’s fine. Whatever you want’s okay with me,” I said, feeling strangely let down. “All that just sounds so…ordinary. I’m just shocked that you don’t want to make a bigger deal outta this.”
“But this isn’t a big deal, honey. At least, it shouldn’t be. Two men getting married should be the most ordinary thing in the world. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess,” I said. “So, who do you want to drag along to witness this most ordinary thing?”
“I’d like to have Kelly there, since she missed it the first time around. And it would be nice for you to bring someone to stand up for you this time. Kenny, maybe?”
I felt his forehead. “You actually want Kenny to attend our wedding? Are you feeling okay? Maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long.”
“This isn’t really our wedding, is it? We did all that years ago. I’m unbelievably grateful to have the chance to do this legally, but law or no law, I couldn’t possibly feel more married to you than I do right now. I think of this as more of a reaffirmation.”
“That’s how I see it, too,” I said. What I was feeling was a helluva lot more complicated than that, but I wasn’t ready to put it into words just yet. Then what he’d been saying earlier struck home. “You’re going to run for office, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t made a definite decision, and I wouldn’t without talking to you first. I know how disruptive this last year and a half has been for us as a couple, and as pleased as I am with the outcome and as proud as I am of the contribution I’ve made, I’ve missed our life together. You’ve been completely supportive and understanding, but I’ve missed us, and I know you have, too.”
“I have. But you know I’ll always be right behind you, no matter what you decide to do.”
“I was hoping you’d feel that way. Joe Townsend will be retiring next year, and I’m thinking of shooting for his seat in the House. If the time comes when I need to spend a significant time campaigning, I’d like to have you by my side, at least as much as possible. I won’t just be running for office as an out gay man, but also as half of a happy, monogamous gay couple. So, if we decide to go forward with this – and I say we because the two of us will either be in this together or not at all – we’ll both have to make certain…modifications.”
Modifications. I turned the word over in my head, knowing exactly what that meant. As I thought it over, I realized it bothered me a lot less than I would have expected. Kenny’d had his license for some time now, and I’d been turning more and more of my responsibilities over to him. Why not take a leap of faith and make him a partner? He’d earned the title, and it would free me up to give Timmy the time and support he deserved. God only knew the number of sacrifices he’d made for me over the years.
Timmy was watching me, that little worry line between his eyebrows getting deeper by the moment as he second-guessed himself, wondering if he was asking for more than I’d ever be ready to give. I took his hand in mine and kissed it, touched his face, stroked his hair. Then one of the few Bible passages I’d retained from childhood popped into my head.
“Whither thou goest, I will go,” I told him. “Always, sweetheart. You can count on it.” Then his arms were around me, squeezing tight, and he buried his face against my neck, his sun-warmed shoulders shaking. “Hey,” I whispered, rubbing his back, peppering as much of him as I could reach with kisses. “It’s okay. It’s okay. As long as we’re together, everything’s going to be okay.”
“I just love you so much,” he said.
“Like I said earlier, that makes us even.”
* * * *
Cadie tugged my hand and pointed at the King Fountain. “Who’s that a statue of?”
“I think that’s supposed to be Moses, Cadie Bug.”
“Who’s Moses?” she asked.
I watched Timmy jab the center piece of his glasses, shoving them about an inch higher on his nose. He’s nothing if not a live-and-let-live kind of guy, but it pissed off the former future Jesuit in him to no end that his Irish Catholic baby sister hadn’t bothered to give her kid even a rudimentary religious education. As he squared his shoulders, ready to go into lecture mode, I decided that if we had a prayer of getting married today, I was gonna have to nip it in the bud.
“Moses was a really cool guy who lived a long time ago. He worked really hard to make life better for his people.”
“Like Mother and Uncle Tim do?”
“You got it, babydoll.”
“Why is he wearing a dress? Was he a drag queen?”
I heard Timmy make a strange choking sound. I wasn’t sure whether he was sputtering in outrage or had given in and started laughing. Or maybe he’d swallowed a bug. I hoped it wasn’t the latter, but I was almost afraid to look over and find out.
“Everybody wore dresses back then,” I told her. “It was a guy thing.”
“Why is he holding his hands up like that?”
“He’s parting the Red Sea, honey,” Timmy managed to say as Kelly stalked over to join us.
“What’s the Red Sea?”
“An endless ocean of bullshit, Cadence. Just like the sea of crap your uncles had to wade through in order to get married in the eyes of the law.” Kelly looked at her watch for maybe the hundredth time since we’d gotten there. “When’s that judge supposed to get here? I need to get on the road.”
Almost a quarter til one, and we’d been hanging out in the park since noon, waiting for Tom “The Walrus” Nelson to make his appearance and get this show on the road. We’d been up since the ass crack of dawn, and the strain of hauling ourselves out of bed that early on a Sunday morning was starting to show. Kelly and Cadie had spent the night in our guest room, then stood in line with us at the clerk’s office as we handed over the $40 the state charged to make us lawfully wedded husbands. Of the two, Cadie had been the most patient – not to mention the most well-behaved.
Kenny’d joined us afterwards at Denny’s for a quick celebratory brunch, then followed us out to the park to wait for Walrus Man. He’d had to cut the morning-after festivities short with his Saturday night hook-up du jour to meet us on time, and I’d almost – almost – invited the guy, who he’d described as a dreadlocked and massively-biceped god named Darius, along for the ride. But Kenny wore the hair off Timmy’s ass as it was, and it was no secret that Kelly and I wore the hair off each other’s. Between them, I thought we’d have more than enough potential aggravation to go around.
“Why did you pick this spot?” Kenny asked. “I mean, it’s a pretty location and all, but don’t you think it’s kind of a weird place to have a wedding?”
“Uncle Tim and Uncle Don met here,” Cadie informed him. “Don’t you think it’s nice for them to get married in the place where they first met?”
Kenny’s eyes widened. “You met each other cruising? That is so cool! So today you’re, like, striking a blow against our oppressive straight society by getting legally married in the place where you shared your first…uh…blow.”
Timmy looked at me. “When the doctor dropped him on his head in the delivery room, why did anyone bother to pick him up again? Ever?”
“We met here to discuss business, Kenny. Timothy hired me to work on a case for his ex-boss. Now do me a favor and take a hike around the fountain, wouldja, and keep an eye out for Nelson. As soon as he gets here, we’ll be ready to start.”
“I see him! I see the walrus!” Cadie said, pointing to Danny DeVito-shaped man in a dark suit who was coming around the bend, sporting the most impressive mustache I’d seen outside of a Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum. And walking beside him was another man, taller and looking considerably less like a marine animal. As a matter of fact, he held a striking resemblance to someone I knew well. Timmy spotted him at the same time I did, and his hand clamped down on my wrist hard enough to hurt.
“Grampa!” Cadie cried, running to meet him.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.
“Dad,” Timmy said in a strangled voice.
“That pretty much sums up the situation,” Kelly informed us all as James Callahan picked up his granddaughter and kissed her on the cheek.
“Mother, look! It’s Grampa!”
“So I see. How’ve you been, Pop?”
“Kelly,” he said, nodding to his daughter. “Don.” Then he set Cadie down and walked up to Timmy, hand extended. “I’ve missed you, son,” he said.
Timmy just held my wrist and held his ground. “You’re the last person I expected to see here today,” he said.
James looked uncomfortable. “I know you didn’t invite me, but I wasn’t able to attend your first wedding, and I’ve always regretted that. I’ve come to regret a number of the decisions I’ve made where you and your sister are concerned. I haven’t always been the most understanding father…” he hesitated, then glanced at me, “…or the warmest and most welcoming father-in-law, so if you’re not comfortable having me here, I’ll certainly understand. But before I go, I want you to know that I’m happy for you, happy that you’ve found a partner who has stood by you all these years and supported you. And I’m proud to see the mark you’re making on the world, proud to see the man you’ve become.”
“I haven’t exactly made the type of mark you’d hoped I would,” Timmy said.
James sighed. “That’s politics. You’re family. I only wish it hadn’t taken this long for me to understand the difference.
Timmy looked at me, wavering. “Go on,” I said quietly, giving him a nudge. “He’s not expecting this to fix everything, but at least it’s a start.” He let go of my wrist then and took a step toward his father. They clasped hands stiffly at first, then James opened his arms wide and reeled him in. It was one of those hale and hearty man-hugs involving lots of back slapping and throat clearing, but I knew better than anyone how much it meant to Timmy. They had a lot of ground to cover before everything could be put right between them, providing it ever could be put right again. But at least James was here and he was trying. Like I told Timmy, it was a beginning.
* * * *
We repeated the same vows we’d written for each other ten-and-a-half years ago, only this time I stayed conscious all way to the end. As soon as we finished, Kelly high-tailed it out of there, saying she had to lead a Save the Naked Mole Rats rally or some such shit in D.C. the next day and that she needed to be hitting the road. As she was wrapping up her goodbyes with Timmy, she shot a quick glance in my direction and said, “I hate to ask you this….”
“Cadie can spend the night at our place,” Timmy said.
“Are you sure? I know it’s your wedding night, but there’s nothing for her to do during the rally and no one to watch her, and I hate dragging her all way to—”
“Cadie’s welcome to stay with us anytime she likes,” I said, putting an end to her ramble. I meant what I said, but Timmy and I had known Kelly was working her way up to asking this all along, and it really pissed me off that she’d waited this long to spit it out. I would’ve loved to tell her all about it, but I kept my mouth shut. Kelly was Kelly. Starting in on her today or any other day wasn’t gonna change a goddamned thing, so why bother? Besides, I didn’t want to upset Timmy.
“Well, as long as you’re sure,” she said. “I’m leaving now, Cadence. You still have your spare swimsuit in the guestroom closet and at least two changes of clothes besides. Do what your uncles ask you to do, and for God’s sake remind them to put sunscreen on your back before you get in that pool. I don’t want you to burn again.”
“Pool?” Kenny said. I could practically see his ears perking up. “I didn’t know you had a pool. How long have you had a pool?”
“All summer!” Cadie said. “They have a volleyball net and diving board and everything. Would you like to come home with us and swim?”
“Hel…I mean heck, yeah, I would. As long as it’s okay with the newlyweds.”
I looked at Timmy and he looked at me. I thought I saw the corner of his eye twitch, but he recovered nicely. “That’ll be fine,” he said smoothly. “We can throw some hot dogs on the grill, have a cookout, maybe.”
“Awesome! Can I bring my boyfriend along? He doesn’t have a car, so he’s just hanging out at my place til I get back. I don’t want him to think I ditched him this early in the relationship.”
“Boyfriend?” I asked.
“Well, yeah. You know. Darius.”
“You met this guy in a bar at two o’clock this morning. When did you find time to become boyfriends?”
“About three-thirty or four, I think. No, wait. Maybe it was closer to five. I kinda lost track of time in there.”
Timmy and I exchanged another long look. This time I was sure of it – his eye was definitely twitching. “You can bring Darius,” he said.
“Kew-well! I don’t think he’s supposed to get his dreads wet, but as long as we put a bag or something over his head, he should be fine. Oh, and he doesn’t have swim trunks at my place, and I only have one pair. Maybe he can bor—” The look Timmy gave him stopped him cold. “Never mind. Bad idea, bad idea. We’ll stop at K-Mart on the way over and get him a pair.”
Timmy turned to his father and The Walrus. “We seem to be hosting a pool party this evening. Would the two of you like to join us?”
“We’d better get on the road, I’m afraid. I promised Tom’s wife that I’d have him home before dark, and if your mother stops by the country club and I’m not there, she’ll be worried.”
“Mom doesn’t know where you are? In all honesty, I assumed she was the one who put you up to this.”
“No, she doesn’t know anything about it. When Tom called and told me that my son was getting married today, I decided to take a chance and slip up here on the sly. I didn’t want to get her hopes up in case it didn’t work out.”
“I’m glad you decided to take that chance, Dad,” Timmy said.
James clapped him on the back, then gripped his shoulder for a long moment before letting go. “So am I,” he said.
* * * *
Everyone dispersed in short order. We were in the eye of the storm and we knew it, so Timmy and I decided to take the long way back to the car and walk around the lake to unwind. Cadie asked if she could run ahead, hoping to see ducks.
“Stay where we can see you,” Timmy told her. “If you remind me next time, maybe we can bring some bread to feed them.”
“Mother says it’s a bad idea to feed wildlife. She says it makes then artificially dependent on man for their survival.”
“Of course she does,” I muttered, dodging before Timmy could nail me with an elbow. He was grinning at me, though, so I relaxed and took his hand, lacing my fingers through his.
“Thank you for being so understanding about Cadie spending the night,” he said.
“Hey, I’m always cool with our Cadie Bug coming to visit. Thank you for not killing Kenny, and for letting him bring his…whatever he is…to the house later. Now that Kenny’s got a foot in the door, we’re never going to get rid of him, you know.”
“We still own a shovel, don’t we?”
“We do.”
“Then I’ll be able to get rid of him.”
“That’s my Bruiser,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry this is all turning into such a mess, though. I was hoping to give you a more romantic wedding night.”
“We’ll have other nights. Our first wedding night was pretty romantic, as I recall. Remember the fireplace and the champagne?”
“I remember belching hollandaise sauce all night long.”
“Neither of us will ever forget that. It was real, honey, just the way today has been real. This is our life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“You know, I thought adding a legal document to the mix would change everything, but I guess you were right. I don’t feel any different than I did an hour ago. How about you?”
“Of course not,” he said, punctuating the words with kiss. “You’ve always been my husband, and you always will be. It’s a relief to know that the law finally recognizes that fact, but it doesn’t really change anything. I’ve known you were the person I was going to spend the rest of my life with since the first time we danced together.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, you’ve known that, have you?”
“Known I wanted it to work out between us so we could spend our lives together,” he amended. “I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit to having certain fleeting moments of doubt. The first time I rode in your horrible little rat trap of a –
“Hey!”
“…in your character-rich and immaculately authentic antique vehicle.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Not to mention the first time I saw the dirty laundry under your bed or the mutant life forms evolving inside your crisper.”
“Now see, that just shows how much I needed you. And you got me housebroken in no time.”
“In no time? Please. Just last night, you took a huge gulp of milk straight out of the carton, spent two solid minutes hacking and spitting because it had gone sour, then carefully closed the carton and set it back inside the refrigerator. And you still stuff dirty socks in the shirts and trousers hamper and damp towels in the underwear hamper in spite of the fact that we’ve used the same system since we moved in together and I have all three hampers clearly labeled. Here it is, nearly eleven years later –”
“Okay, as far as housebreaking is concerned, I ride the short bus. I admit it.”
“Darling, you can barely spell ‘short bus’. And then there’s our second date –”
“Oh, here we go!”
“I simply want to point out….”
Kenny’s moron shtick. Kelly’s bitchiness. Cadie’s thousand and one questions. Snarking with my sweetie while we walked through the park holding hands. Even James showing up when he did and trying to mend fences with his son. Timmy was right. This was a day just like any other day. Two men who loved each other signing on the dotted line then getting on with their life, their ordinary life together. It was the most ordinary day in the world, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“We didn’t have any music this time around,” I said, cutting through his tirade.
“We didn’t exactly have an orchestra available, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Who needs an orchestra? I can always sing.”
“Honey, I thought we’d already established the fact that you can’t sing.”
“Okay, I can whistle, then.” I started whistling an oldie – “Saturday in the Park” by Chicago.
“It’s Sunday,” Timmy said.
“Party pooper.”
For no reason in particular, Timmy pulled me into a long, firm kiss. We stood there for a while, just holding each other, until Cadie ran back to ask why we were taking so long. Together, we scooped her up and added her hugs to the mix. The new law granted us legal rights we hadn’t had before, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to rest easier because of it. But it didn’t alter the world as we knew it, and it didn’t mean we were suddenly living in a state of grace.
We’d been living in one all along.
**** Advocate covers by Nanuk at http://manor-archives.livejournal.com/354.html
