Waiting for Patrick (29 page)

We’re ten years old, building the frame with the help of only my dad instead of both, because Ben’s dad had to go out of town. We’re eleven and twelve, adding wood as we find it to create walls and finally building a roof with Ben’s dad. Thirteen years old and running off Ben’s big brother, Samuel, telling him it was our fort and no one else was welcome, bringing more and more personal items over the years until it’s more like a living room than a tree house. That first tentative kiss, risking it all, not knowing if Ben felt the same way as I did, growing closer and closer until we finally go all the way right here on the blankets on Ben’s eighteenth birthday.

Ben shuddering beneath me, and me almost crying at how sweet it is.

Elliot shook his head.
Whoa, man, way too much imagination.

He smiled and filed it away to ask Ben. He was curious now what Ben and Patrick’s first time beyond blowjobs was really like.

He’d been sitting there for a lot longer than he’d meant to, and the sun was getting low in the sky. He didn’t want to leave. He felt so connected to Ben here. In a way, almost more connected than when he was with him in the plantation house. He knew that was silly, but it was so. It was like he was connected to the living Ben here, to memories that weren’t his and that he had no right to, but that he wasn’t willing to part with just the same. He hadn’t realized at first how much emotional transference had taken place when Ben gave him his memories. But that had to be the explanation. That’s why he felt so connected to this place. Because Ben did.

As he walked back to the house, he felt fatigued and out of breath. He struggled up the three steps to the porch as though it was Mount Everest, then trudged into the bedroom and found that Terry, bless him, had not only assembled the bed but made it with the newly purchased linens as well.

Elliot took the fistful of medications he needed every night and fell onto the new mattress and fresh sheets, fully dressed. He was out in minutes.

I CLIMB
up into the tree fort. “Ben, you around?”

“Where else would I be?” His voice has already deepened. Mine is still in that awkward
changing
stage.

“You always say that,” I tell him. “But there are plenty of other places you could be.”

“I told you I’d be here after school.” Ben had that snooty look he gets sometimes when he thinks he’s outsmarted me. “So there’s nowhere else I would be.”

We’d planned to go fishing today, as we often do on spring afternoons, but it’s raining so we decided to meet here instead. I like it when we’re alone here. I’ve had a crush on Ben since I was old enough to know what those kinds of feelings were, but I’ve never told him. He hasn’t seemed to show that kind of interest in anyone, let alone other boys. I heard in Sunday school that it’s not right to like other boys in that way, but Ben wouldn’t shun me because of it, as I think most people would. I still don’t want to take the risk, though. I’ve started keeping a journal and hiding it here in the fort. Ben knows I write in one and even where I keep it—under a floorboard near the Y in the tree—but he doesn’t bother it. I know he’d never read it. Or at least I’m pretty sure.

ELLIOT WOKE
up in the middle of the night, confused. He wasn’t used to having normal dreams inspired by imagination anymore, so he’d forgotten what that felt like. But this one felt more like the ones he had when Ben was giving his memories, but now he was taking Patrick’s role, like he had been doing in daydreams. But then he thought of another possibility.

“Patrick?” He looked up at the ceiling, then around the room. “Patrick, are you here?” He hadn’t thought of it before, but what if Patrick had made it home? What if he had gone back for Ben, only to find he had died, and then Patrick had come back here to mourn and to tell his mom? Maybe he was wounded and died here, or maybe he didn’t die until he was very old but he died around here, maybe even in this house. Elliot would have to go into town and search the list of former owners of the house. Had Patrick bought the house at some point and then died here?

But no, as Elliot woke up a little more, he remembered that picture Malcolm had found. Patrick had died on the battleground in the South. Well, maybe they brought his body back here to bury it, and his spirit came with it? Maybe that was why Elliot could get the memories outside as well as inside the house. The spirit wasn’t tied to the house, just the property. But why would he have been buried on Ben’s property? Granted, Patrick’s family had lived close, but wouldn’t it have made more sense to have buried him on
that
property? Elliot would research burial plots in the morning.

He went to the kitchen and got a cup of herbal tea, hoping it would help him get back to sleep. It was only one in the morning. Plenty of night left. He was a bit disturbed by the dream, just because he didn’t understand it, but it didn’t upset him. He didn’t want to avoid sleep to keep from having it again. In fact, he sort of wanted to know how it turned out, from Patrick’s point of view. Even if it was just his own imagination desperately trying to find a way to connect with Ben, he hoped he continued the dream.

I FINISH
climbing up the steps of the tree fort and crawl through the uncovered opening. When I turn around, I see a heart-stopping sight. Ben has my journal. I must not have put it back in the lunch pail under the floorboard the last time we left, as I usually do. Ben knew where I kept it, but he didn’t have time to get it just now. And he wouldn’t have gotten it out without asking me. But here he stands, casually holding my heart in his hands. He smiles and opens the book.

“I wonder what’s in here,” he singsongs, teasing me.

I don’t wait for him to start reading. I tackle him to the floor trying to get it back. He holds it above his head and I grab for it. We roll over and over and I’m not accomplishing anything except becoming really upset. Finally he simply stops fighting, and he hands it to me.

“Why is it so important that I not read it?” Ben seems puzzled. “We tell each other everything.” I feel the heat rise in my face, but I say nothing. Then he adds, “Don’t we?”

I hang my head and have to admit, “Not everything.” I don’t want to face him, but I owe him that much. I’d been harboring more than friendly feelings for him for quite a while now, but had never let on, writing it all down in a journal but not telling the one person who has a right to know. It’s probably time to tell him the truth.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I can tell from Ben’s expression that he’s confused and even hurt. We’re still stretched out on the floor, our faces so close together.

I force myself to meet his eyes and move my face even closer to his. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Slow enough for him to pull away. Or hit me. “This,” I finally say just before our lips touch for the very first time. It’s a quick kiss, just a brush of lips, really, but it’s absolute heaven. For me, at least. I’m almost afraid to look at Ben. But when I finally do, he’s smiling.

“I was keeping the same secret,” he whispers.

I can’t contain my happiness, and I bring our lips together again to celebrate. This time I linger there, enjoying the feel of his lips against mine, mapping the contour, noting the warmth and softness. I finally lick his lips, hoping he’ll open his mouth just a little. I’ve never kissed anyone before, even though I’m almost fifteen, but I’ve watched my brother and his girl, and even Samuel and his, and this is the way they did it.

Ben opens his lips and I slip my tongue inside. He tastes divine. I lick the roof of his mouth, brush against his teeth, tangle my tongue with his. Finally I start to suck a little, and I think Ben is going to hyperventilate. We can’t get enough of each other. Time stops and I could happily stay in this moment for the rest of my life, but we both have to breathe, so I finally pull back and look down into his eyes. “I was so afraid you didn’t feel the same way.”

Ben could hardly catch his breath, but he says, “I do. I feel the same way.”

ELLIOT WOKE
the next morning convinced of one thing.

“Patrick?” He spoke to the air. “You want me to find your journal?” He wasn’t sure why that would be true, but he was certain it was. He had to find that journal. He had to read it and uncover the memories it held. For some reason it was important that he have those memories.

He sat on a newly acquired stool at the counter near the sink in the kitchen and ate a bowl of Cheerios. He missed Ben. He had even found himself grabbing his laptop, ready to open it to talk to him. He had such a sense of connection to Ben in this place, but it wasn’t the Ben he could talk to at the plantation. It was the younger, living Ben of so long ago. Elliot was convinced it was because Patrick was here, for some reason, and was giving him his memories. He had no idea why, and worse, he hadn’t a clue how he was going to get the two spirits together.

As he washed his cereal bowl, he envisioned a scene from yesteryear.

“It’s my turn to wash, Patrick,” Ben whines as I beat him to the washtub. “You dry this time.”

“Nary a chance,” I tell him. “Anytime you’re near the water, I end up soaking wet.”

We always help his ma with the dishes after meals. Technically it’s not a man’s job, but Mrs. Myers’s five oldest children are boys. If she waits for Charity and Grace to be old enough to help with the dishes, the rest of us would either starve or be smothered in dirty glassware. And it never felt right to me to let Mrs. M clean up after nine people—ten when I eat here, which is most of the time—without any help. Especially since she has two children under three to take care of too. Ben and I are fourteen. Plenty old enough to help with dishes.

Ben is grabbing for the dishrag, and I splash water at him. By the time Mrs. Myers comes into the kitchen carrying the last load of dishes, Ben and I are rolling on the floor, wrestling for control of the coveted rag.

“Boys,” she chides, “it’s of no help to me if you’re going to be underfoot. Or worse, make me break my dishes. I’m working with three different incomplete sets now because of all the breakage.”

Ben stops struggling beneath me and looks up at her, suitably contrite. “It wasn’t us that broke those pieces, Ma.”

“Well,” I draw out, looking sheepish, while I roll off him. “We did break that one plate.” I get to my feet and help him to his.

“Okay,” he agreed, “and the gravy pitcher.”

“And those two glasses that one time.”

“That was Samuel’s fault,” Ben wheedles.

Mrs. Myers scolds, “It doesn’t matter who caused them to get broken. The point is, I have already lost a lot of dishes to the fact that I have too many boys underfoot.” She grins to take out the sting of her words. “It takes too long to save to buy even a used set. So, please don’t wrestle in my kitchen, especially when I have dishes in my hands.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we both answer.

Elliot smiled. He loved that Patrick was giving him all these memories. And he was sure now that they
were
Patrick’s memories and not just Elliot’s own imagination, despite what Sheri might say when he told her. If he told her.

IT WAS
still early morning. The workers weren’t there yet, but Elliot knew they’d be there soon. He should probably wait, but he wanted to get there before everyone else. He knew now that Patrick wanted him to find that journal, and he didn’t know how he’d justify looking for it if everyone else was right there. He only hoped that it had survived all these years. Patrick had put it inside a metal can, the size of a small paint can, that the children back then used for lunch pails, and had put the lid on tightly. Perhaps that had preserved it.

Elliot climbed up the rickety stairs and seated himself back in the Y of the tree. Just that little bit of exertion had taken his breath away and his chest was already tight. He’d taken his medicine that morning so he knew he’d be okay. He just had to wait for a little bit for the pain to subside. He looked out the sagging window of the fort to the treetops beyond and could see why Ben and Patrick loved it so much there. Leaves of different sizes and shapes fluttered in the breeze. Squirrels’ nests knotted the branches; birds flitted from tree to tree. Birdsong and rustling leaves were the only sounds for what seemed like miles, and the forest smells were all around him: the pollen of a million wildflowers, decaying leaves from the ground below, musty wood. Nothing he would have thought he’d find appealing, but it was comforting in a way he couldn’t explain.

Elliot got his second wind as if rejuvenated by all the sensations. The lunch pail should be located in the corner about three feet to his left, so he leaned over and pulled up the floorboard. It came up more easily than he’d expected, and he lost his balance. He scrambled to get his hands and knees under him, and one of the boards gave way just enough to make him grab an exposed tree limb and pull himself across the gap. A pain exploded below his left shoulder, and he tried to tell himself he’d pulled a muscle as he sat there so close to his prize.

I’ll ice it when I get home or something.

He leaned over and checked the hole he had created, and smiled when he saw the bucket that held the journal. He pulled it loose and pried open the lid with a key, then lifted the coveted journal. He wanted to be able to savor his reading, so he carefully put the old book in his jacket pocket and zipped the pocket for safekeeping.

“Thanks, Patrick. I’ll read this—” The pain in Elliot’s shoulder moved to his chest, then down his arm, and he knew he was in trouble. He tried to get back over to the hatch so that he could climb down the tree. When he put weight on his left arm, it didn’t hold, and he fell to the floor, thankfully missing the hatch. He didn’t need to fall out of the tree on top of everything else.