Miles (22 page)

In
little more than an hour, the food was cleaned out.  Zane and Farrah
stayed close to me, and were much more fun than I thought they'd be.  The
baseball gang hogged the well-lit end of the rink, playing a rough-and-tumble
version of hockey without sticks or skates.  Doctor C and the Radio Gal
(how's that for a short story title?) carried on very romantically in our
wrought-iron glider, watching the action on the ice, while the Israeli and
George crossed swords over international politics.  Doris and Uncle Alex were
in some kind of drinking contest in the kitchen. I was afraid to see who was
winning.

Brennan
was happy to play bartender.

*

Everybody
seemed to love the Viennese waltzes, polkas, and marches I taped for the
party.  I had thought about keeping a few good dance or sing-along songs
handy, but there was such diversity in the age of our guests, I decided to keep
it classical.  The ambience of the Strauss family's compositions alone,
combined with the ice rink, the Christmas lights in the trees, the baseball
food (especially the snow cones), and the company created a wonderful
atmosphere that left everybody giddy.

And
Uncle Alex had been here less than two weeks, I thought...!

Doctor
C and his gorgeous date came up to me as I sat next to Brennan at the rented
bar.  "Young man, we'd like to have a skate on that rink of
yours.  What do you suggest for a group round-a-bout?"

"I
have just the song, ready to go."

We
cleared the remainder of the baseball thugs off of the ice.  Most of them
had drifted off to their cars to light up or have sex with their dates. 
The others were too drunk to play on the ice with.  I put in the new
8-track, and turned up the volume loud enough to convince the neighbors the
Austrian Army was passing through.

The
Radetsky March
trumpeted
forward.  Doctor C and the Radio Gal began waltzing around the ice holding
each other close.  Zane and Farrah skated up to Brennan and me and took
our hands.  Neither of us was wearing skates, but it didn't matter. 
I couldn't skate, anyway.  The four of us twirled around in a circle as we
wound our way behind the romantics, pushing and pulling on each other's hands
to keep us going, while Uncle Alex got everyone else to start clapping and
stomping their feet in time with the Vienna Philharmonic, New Year's Eve
Concert-style.

The
march ended far too soon.  Everyone demanded another.  I waved them
off and waited for the next song to start.  My eyes fused with Brennan's. 
Others saw this.

Zane
joked we should dance together.  "Well," I said?  Brennan
blushed as red as a Russian flag.  Ozzie, our favorite catcher, echoed
Zane.  Brennan gave him the finger as I saw a hint of tension in both
George and Uncle Alex's eyes.  Doctor C's date smiled at both of us and
nodded for us to do so, the world be damned.

I
grabbed Brennan's hand and swung him out toward the middle of the ice as
Lumbye's goofy
Champagne Galop
burst out of the speakers.  We spun
around dizzily, keeping the other one from falling, and began a playful
half-chase, half-silly walk ballet around the rink to everyone's cheery
encouragement, with either our hands or arms locked together the whole while.

Chaplin
would have been proud. Or embarrassed.

*

George
took Doris home before she tried to start a fight.

Doctor
C and his companion retired to the broadcast booth of love.

Uncle
Alex and his agent went to her place to continue their negotiations.

Brennan
waited for me in his half of my pajamas as I turned off the lights downstairs
and locked up. 

Farrah
and Zane emerged from Dad's master bathroom. They were still dripping wet from
a shower, inside matching robes somebody had bought for Mom and Dad years ago,
who had never wore them.  Their faces were flushed and happy. Farrah's
dainty features glowed in Zane's company.  She thanked me for inviting
them both, and kissed me softly in the center of my cheek.  Zane waited
for her to retire behind Mom's old bedroom door to give me a quick, self-conscious
hug.

"I'm
glad we're friends, now, Hitman."

Was
that the hundredth time he’d said that since New Year’s? "Me, too,
Zane."

*

I
had scarcely closed my bedroom door when Brennan, wearing my itchy pajama
bottoms, put his arms around me and began one of our perfect hugs.  We
hugged our tartans off and were about to devour the other until I heard a
related commotion come from Mom's room.

"Listen,"
I whispered, pointing to my door.  We knelt down and opened the door a
crack.  Zane had become possessed by his cowboy namesake's spirit as he
and Farrah made noisy, almost hilarious whoopee.

"Man,
is that rude!  We should pound on their door and scare them.  Maybe
Zane would fire off, then!"

I
groped Brennan to the floor before lying down across his warm stomach. 
"I've got a better idea.  Let's make more noise than they are."

Our
bodies met and ran off together.

*

"I
loved dancing with you earlier."

"I'd
hardly call that dancing, Brennan."

"What
a great party.  Thanks for inviting me."  I exhaled
melodramatically.  Brennan kissed my hand in reply.  "Thanks for
being my date."  He sat up suddenly.  "Hey!  Let's go
to the prom together!"

"No."
I hoped that was a snow cone talking.

"I
love you," he whispered.

"I
still won't go, Brennan."

"Okay." 
He lay back down and curled up in my arms.  "We can argue about it
later."

*

Winter
hung on with bitter intransigence.

It
was less than two weeks before Opening Day, and the temperature hadn't broken
the forty-degree mark once that year.  It rained or sleeted or snowed every
other day, the wind never stopped, and I couldn't remember the last time I saw
either the sun or the moon.

Me
and Brennan played catch in the middle of the muddy park field every
afternoon.  Ozzie, from the old team, sometimes joined us.  He was
the best catch out of us all.  Brennan had the best throw.  Nobody
wanted to pitch to me.  They hated running to the end of the park to
retrieve the balls I had hit.

The
two of us were about to go back to my house for dinner with Uncle Alex when an
early model T-Bird, the kind you could land a jet on the hood, cut us
off.  Felix parked badly against the curbside that lined our grassy knoll
and hopped out of the pimp-mobile like he was somebody's boy wonder.

What
is it with short guys and their need to drive the biggest cars they can lay
their hands on?   

Brennan
stood beside me, instinctively showing his solidarity, and keeping close, in
case I went to break something else on Felix's face.

I
kept my expression and tone plain, even though my stomach, already hungry for
dinner, began to knot up as Felix approached us with his spiritual tail between
his legs.

"Hi,
guys."  We looked at him with indifference, feigned on my part. 
"You must be Brennan.  I'm Felix."  He offered his
hand.  Brennan waited a long time before taking it, and gave it back
quickly. 

We
never talked about the cold war that had set in between me and Felix, but I
think it bothered Brennan we didn't.  He didn't believe there was a
problem on earth that couldn't be solved by openly talking about it, and he
certainly didn't believe the glacier of hurt and hate I had carved inside of
myself over the whole thing was right, either, and he said so all the time.

"Is
it okay if we talk alone?"  Felix's animated voice irritated
me. 

Brennan
shook his head.  "I think I should stay here with my friend."

"I
don't have anything to say to you."  I began to walk away. 
Felix desperately grabbed my arm, but I shook it off with a violent tug. 
Brennan stepped quickly in between us.

"Please!" 
Felix reached around Brennan for one of my hands.  I cried out and lunged
forward yet again, this time trying to grab Felix’s throat.  Brennan
struggled to keep me in his arms and away from Felix, who, stupidly, kept
coming closer.  Brennan yelled, "Get out of here, you idiot!" as
I tried to break out of his grip.

Felix
pointed at me and began to holler, too.  "I'm leaving next week and
you won't talk to me!  You promised to spend my last weekend with me, like
friends!"

"God
damn you!" I screamed back, pulling me and Brennan a few inches closer to
Felix and his shaking bottom lip.

"All
I want to do is talk!  You made me a promise!"

I
swung Brennan into a dirty snow pile near the curb and grabbed Felix by his
sweater, throwing him against the side of his car.  He hit the metal with
a high-pitched cry before my fist struck him across the cheek and sent him to
the pavement. Brennan leapt back up to close his arms around my arms and chest,
trying to pull me off of Felix, who cried like a baby as I beat him against the
side of his Godzilla-sized car.

"Damn
my promise and damn you!"

All
of a sudden, Felix stopped struggling.  "Please don't," he
begged.  My mind flashed red, picturing us on the first night of our
ruined friendship, twisted on the carpet outside of Felix's apartment.  I
flung him into his car's fender before Brennan managed to pull me backwards
onto the sidewalk.

I
stayed in Brennan's arms, trying to catch my breath and wipe away the tears I
didn't know I’d shed.  Felix got to his feet, shaking like a leaf. 
"I kept my promise to you, Hitman," he sputtered.

Brennan's
arms braced themselves around me, but I didn't move.  "You broke
every promise.  You broke our friendship, damn you," I hissed
back.  "Nicolasha..."

"I
didn't know what would happen," Felix wailed.  "My God, I'm sorry!"

Brennan
had another fight on his hands.  I surged up and toward Felix again, who
ran to the other side of his car as I exerted myself wildly against Brennan's
arms while my friend yelled repeatedly for me to stop.

"I'm
sorry for everything," Felix Cromwell heaved, scurrying back into his car
and driving off recklessly. 

Sorry? 
What the hell good was his sorrow to any of us, by then?  Brennan didn't
relax his grip until the T-Bird was halfway down the block.  We wouldn't
look at each other, trying to let the hysteria of the encounter seep out of us,
me mostly, not giving it a chance to re-immolate.

Brennan
walked me home and then left, without comment.  I thought I would break
down as soon as I closed the front door, and sure felt like doing it, too, but
I didn't.  I took a long, almost cold shower, and listened to an equally
icy harpsichord sonata by Scarlatti over and over until I fell asleep on the
couch, my own little overstuffed fortress of solitude in the family room that
didn't have a family any more.

Much
lonely and painful time would pass before I would learn it was Brennan who,
once we were apart, had burst into tears that violent afternoon, convinced I
would eventually reject and hate him, too.  After reading Felix’s letter,
which I’d beaten out of its author earlier that shitty day.

* * *

Henry IV

Our
new apartment was a high-class dump.

It
sat on the terminal corner of East 55th Street, overlooking South Shore Drive
and Lake Michigan.  It took up the entire sixth floor of the
Depression-era building, and hadn’t seen a lick of paint, soap, bleach, fresh
air, and possibly daylight since.  The cracked and dingy windows that
flanked both the living room and dining room afforded us a nice east-southeast
view, once you ignored the dead flies strewn along the sills.  My bedroom
looked straight out to the lake.  It also had a small stone balcony that
both Mom’s old realtor friend and the building manager warned was just plain
unsafe.  Uncle Alex took the other two bedrooms that had the best part of
their southern view blocked by the condominium high-rise across the
street.  You could fit them both into Dad’s old suite.  Unc chose the
larger one for his painting studio. 

We
fled the boonies after Uncle Alex and I debated putting a pool in the
backyard.  The idea stalled when I concluded I would be swimming alone
most of the time.  Zane was spending the summer with his parents in their
native Sweden, the rats, while the rest of the guys had joined their respective
school's summer baseball programs.  And the notion died a brutal death
when, upon querying for an AWOL Lawrence the Laughing Lawyer, Unc found out I’d
been Oliver Twisted by Simon, Frederika, and certain relatives which shall
remain nameless until I can get a suitcase bomb into the next Poiregaz
Christmas, or I get to show up to their funerals in a red dress and black lace
hose.  Turned out, all the stocks that I had coming were basically
worthless, the house was mortgaged past the firm’s coverage, Dad had
continually borrowed against his percentage of the firm, and the paperwork Mom
left behind (or didn’t) would require years of forensic accounting to make
sense of.

So
I was suddenly poor enough to belong in the poverty jet-set digs, as if it
mattered to me.  Unc took a one-year lease so I could finish school (“Now
you don’t have to spend all day on the train,” he kept cheering to my repeated
blank stares), paid the year in advance, most likely as a trade-out for some painting,
and banked the modest leftover cash the Stingray netted from the local
dealership, who came right out and said they were going to use it as a paper
loss.  The owner liked me.  I was the lot’s wash boy last summer.

A
friend of Unc’s from Roseland secured this otherwise great address for
us.  I was almost sort of happy to be back in the city proper.  The
apartment might one day be awfully nice, a step up from our old Roseland
bungalow, and the hell of an improvement over our shipwrecked suburban asylum,
which turned out to be as bankrupt as it often felt.
 

Brennan
and I hadn't spoken since Felix’s exodus.  Team captain he was, Ozzie
offered to mediate all the time, but neither ‘best friend’ would budge. 
Brennan was mad at me for not, as he put it to our favorite catcher and only
remaining link, "opening up my heart like a real friend is supposed
to", while I was mad at him for being mad at me.

Ozzie
had torn up his elbow early in the practice season, so he came up to Hyde Park
to hang out on Mondays, when he didn’t have to work at the local park.  We
usually caught a movie, brown-bagged lunch on the lake, and rode bikes through
the neighborhood until dinner time.  It became a routine for both of us,
but one we liked.  Me and Oz got along pretty well, but were going in
different personal directions: I spent a lot of the summer talking to colleges
and reading up on the ones I thought might give me a ride, besides for filling
up quite a few notebooks with my questionable poetry, not having much else to
do at night; Ozzie, on the other hand, was bitter, unable to play ball, and had
resigned himself to joining either the Navy or Coast Guard after graduating
from one of the lower-tier state universities. 

One
evening, in the middle of another peace pitch, Ozzie told me Brennan had made a
clean breast of being gay to everyone, and was having a bad time on account
of  his big mouth.  He got fired from the surplus store he worked at,
and had been relegated as a little-used utility outfielder on his school
baseball team, his one surefire ticket to college.  He was also being
verbally ostracized at school and throughout most of the subdivision
neighborhood.

Warily,
Ozzie asked if that was why the two of us were fighting.  I was very
matter-of-fact in replying that we’d been lovers more than once, but the fight
was over something else.  He dropped the subject after that.  Oz
seemed respectful afterwards, but my own 'fess up kept us at a polite distance. 
The phone calls became shorter and less frequent, and his visits noticeably
briefer.  I didn’t care so much.  Our friendship of convenience had
already helped us both make it through that unhappy summer.

*

In
due course, Poiregaz kept trying to have me and Uncle Alex come back out to the
gulag for dinner.  The unwelcome invites stopped almost as quickly as they
came out of the woodwork.  Neither of us went back to visit the cemetery,
either.

*

The
apartment was always quiet at night.  There was always music playing,
either my classical or Unc's jazz, but we didn't talk much, and sometimes went
days without seeing each other.  Uncle Alex often didn't come home from
his gallery do's until the following morning.  I did a lot of reading and
wasted a lot of time trying to complete some poems in Italian in between
re-painting the entire place.

We
took in a few White Sox games with Zora, the Israeli woman had become Unc's
prowling partner.  She didn't understand our enduring interest in a team
that never seemed to improve, and made much of the fact the team had been sold
to a group of investors word had it were scheming to move the Sox to
Florida.  I was just happy for the diversion of the games we mostly
lost. 

Every
time I walked up from the concession area and filled my eyes with the bright
green of the field, the seats, and the stands, the organist echoing through the
pillars and concrete aisles, the hubbub of kids, families, and vendors, and the
looming glory of our exploding scoreboard, it made me feel better about life,
at least temporarily.  It helped me to believe there were happy constants
in everyone's life, which every winter would blossom into a summer of hope and
glory.

It
would all fade by the time I got back to the scruffy eagle's nest.

I
was lonely, tired, bored, and adrift, all at once.  What made it hurt more
was that I knew what was the matter, and didn't have the fortitude or the
bravery to do anything about it.

If
it wasn't for my weekly visits with Ozzie, however abbreviated they became, I
would have unhinged completely, not the least from all the paint fumes.

*

Uncle
Alex scored a fairly well-paying job at the University, teaching applied art or
something.  Zora pretty much got him the gig.  I doubted whether Unc would
last until Christmas, the place was so hallowed and distinguished and...dull.

The
two of them were either in love, or Unc had his eye on her money (because there
was no hiding the remaining Strasses were dead skint, flat on their uppers, and
broke as hell).  For some reason, Zora would never spend the night at the
apartment.  I don't know why.  It might have been the dodgy
ceilings.  But we got along pretty nicely, even if she clearly wanted to
slap me out of my general mood more than once.  I'll say one thing,
though: Unc had never finished or sold so many paintings in his career.

Uncle
Alex didn't start wearing a beanie, however.

*

I
returned from an abortive lakefront writing session one morning to find a
letter addressed to me in the mailbox.  My heart stood still.  I
thought it was from Brennan, but didn't recognize the handwriting on the
envelope.  I got excited all over again when I saw the postage stamp and
postmark from
Suomi
.

Hyvaa
paivaa, Hitman!

Sorry
I haven't written sooner, but Pops keeps dragging us someplace different in
Scandinavia every day.  Don't worry.  Got you a postcard from every
place that had one.  I'm saving them until I can give them to you in
person.  We're in Finland, now.   Went to the sauna earlier
tonight, and,
boy
, was it embarrassing!  Had to be a hundred people
in there, guys and girls, and most of them were our age.  Everyone was
looking at me, I swear.  Don't know why.  I was too petrified to have
a boner!  I'll take the sauna over the Lab School, though.  The only
reasons I can think of to come back are to see you and Farrah again.  Miss
you both a lot.  I'm hoping her parents will actually let us date, now
that we're all gonna be seniors.  Hope we're able to spend more time together,
too.  Thought about you every time I bought a postcard.  Hope your
summer is good and you're well.  Tell Brennan I said 'god dag', too.

Love
and hugs from the chilly land of naked white teenagers,

Zane

I
sat on my bed and re-read Zane's letter until the dismal urge to cry passed.

*

I
thought about Brennan most every day and absolutely every night.

I
was ashamed about the perverse satisfaction I felt, learning about Brennan's
ostracism, but what mortified me most of all was the realization I could have
used his (foolishly self-inflicted, I still believed) isolation to make peace
between us.

I
wasn't strong enough to be susceptible to that.

*

My
August birthday arrived, to a fanfare of silence.

I
had no reason to expect or even hope for a phone call from...well, anyone, but
was miserable all the same when the morning went by without so much as a wrong
number.

Uncle
Alex took me to Old Town, a small enclave centered on Wells Street, just north
of the Loop.  When I was younger, the unkempt street was lined with dusty
book stores and head shops, but now was re-gentrifying into an odd-ball
collection of cafes and chic furniture stores.  Ripley's Believe it or Not
Museum somehow made it into the new decade.  The candle shop, where you could
buy scented bar soap or candles in such odd fragrances as Rain, Cloud,
Narcissus, Venus, or Ocean, was shuttered.  The triple-X movie theater was
still there, too, but now was decorated with neon signs announcing films with
all-male casts. I was too embarrassed to look at it twice.

We
had lunch at the Steak Joynt, with its horrific, time-honored decor of velvet
flock wallpaper and black leather.  The food remained excellent, however,
with a salad bar that included fresh Sevruga caviar and Nova Scotia smoked
salmon that melted on your tongue.  Unc insisted we order a bottle of
Veuve Cliquot champaign. The wine steward, old waitress, maitre'd, and two
Latino busboys presented the bottle with seventeen candles taped to the side of
the wine bucket, and sang "Happy Birthday" to a blushing me.

We
kind of indulgently took a cab up there, but rode the bus back.  It let us
off near a VW Bug convertible that looked as if it were being held together by
the blotches of grey bondo liberally decorating the white bodywork.  The
top was down, which, pretty much anywhere in the city, might result in someone
boosting the radio, the gear shift, the visors, the ash-tray, or the seats
themselves, if they were relatively intact (which these were,
surprisingly).  But the interior was all there, actually almost new, if
unattended.

“Can
you imagine how cold that thing gets in the winter?” Uncle Alex laughed. 
“A VW heater and a raggedy canvas top?”

“Slow
enough to freeze right there on the road,” I agreed, continuing to check out
the car, which I’d never seen near the building before.

“Why
don’t you get in and see if it fits, nephew?”

“You’re
a bad role model, Unc.”

Out
of nowhere, I was goosed from behind.  Zora appeared, grinning like a
devil.  She tossed me a set of car keys on a VW ring, and locked arms with
Unc, enjoying the sight of my confusion.

"Now
that you've got your license, you need a car.  Now you've got one."

I
knew Uncle Alex brought new dimension to the phrase ‘impulse buyer’, but this
was intense, even for him.  I was afraid to touch the car, thinking it
might disappear and I would wake up, alone in my bed, again.

"Happy
Birthday, brat." 

I
threw my arms around my uncle and held him tight.  I hadn't done that since
I was much younger, when we used to sing along with the radio commercials while
driving through snowy Saint Paul: "Thirst things first, get yourself a
Grain Belt, get yourself a Grain Belt today..."

"Now
you listen..."  He pulled back a few inches, but kept his perpetually
paint-stained hands on my face.  "That's a fun car if you know how to
drive it.  You're new behind the wheel, so take it easy for a while. 
Don't start driving like Bond until there's a few thousand miles behind
you."