Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Luke's mother called while I was in the shower. She claimed they had been asleep when he called and texted and had not heard him banging on the door.

I didn't believe her. I don't know if Luke did, but he at least pretended to. He asked if I could take him back home. I said sure.

I was a bit maudlin as we drove. I had enjoyed having someone in the house. It had been a long time since I was not alone in my house. There was a comfort in knowing someone else was there, even if only in another room. I had also enjoyed having someone to speak with over coffee.

I wondered what would greet us in Belton. I had an image of the Rydell's in my head, but the reality of them had to be better than what I imagined. In my mind, his mother was a cross between the mother in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?" and the mother of Honey Boo Boo. And, his father was a malnourished rail, like the sexually abusive father in "Delores Claiborne," Kathy Bates' "one of us is goin' to the boneyard" movie. Together, they had to be hoarders.

As we closed in on Luke's home, I gave him my number for his phone in case he needed anything while he was on leave. He responded, "Sir, can I ask you a question?"

"No, not if you insist upon using 'Sir.' You can uses James, Jam, or Jammer, but no more Sirs. I'm not your superior, I'm your friend."

"Okay, James," he said, drawing the James out as long as he could. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," I answered, wondering if he was going to venture where I'd been afraid to venture this morning. I had almost asked "are you gay," but I feared it would push me across the creepster line I had been straddling since I met him.

"Why did you decide to come back last night?"

Had it only been last night? It seemed like much longer ago.

"Actually, I didn't really decide. I just did. Something didn't seem right. I didn't want you stranded."

"Why not? Why'd it matter to you?"

"I don't know. It just did."

"Is that all?"

"Yes," I lied. I had to. I could not answer truthfully. I could not say, "Luke, I'm attracted to men, more so than to women. When I saw you in the gate, I was smitten. Your giddiness was attractive. Your ears were adorable. Your jeans revealed just the right amount. I wanted to be near you. Once I was, I didn't want to leave you. I needed to know you."

I drove on, my lie hanging over the both of us. I also wondered why Luke was asking. I particularly wondered if he was fishing for the truth, and whether he had also been fishing over coffee that morning.

Luke's home ended my musings. It was worse in the light than in the dark. In the light, I could see the duct tape on the cracked window, the deteriorating foundation, and the animal excrement all over the yard.

My image of Luke's mother was way off. She was thin and stern, her hair pulled tight into a bun. She wore a shapeless black dress. A massive crucifix hung from her neck.

"She has fibromyalgia," Luke whispered, as if she might hear him through the car's closed windows.

My image of Luke's father was also way off. He was thick, but not fat. He had long hair and a longer beard. He wore dark work clothes. A massive crucifix hung from his neck, too.

"He has it, too," Luke whispered again. "He claims he got it from her. She claims he got it from him."

"It's not an STD," I answered.

"It ain't nothing but a reason not to work, if you ask me," he answered, sighing heavily. "But, it works. They ain't worked in a long time. They live off what the government gives 'em. And then do nothin' but complain about the government."

As I reached to turn the engine off, Luke insisted there was no reason for me to get out. "They won't want to meet you," he said. "They don't like strangers, and they sure won't like you."

I kept the car running. Luke turned to me, reached his hand out, and said, "Thank you for everything, Sir, uh, James."

I turned my body to shake his hand. "You're welcome, Luke. It was a pleasure meeting you. I mean that. Be safe."

He relapsed. "I will, Sir."

He let my hand go quickly, exited my car, and unloaded his rucksacks from the popped trunk. As he walked toward his parents, I expected he was exiting my life. I was sad to see him go.

Luke's parents greeted their son with a wariness that disappointed me. There was no joy in seeing him, no warmth in their welcome. His father shook his hand. His mother didn't even do that.

Luke did not look back before entering his home. I was crushed when he didn't. I had planned to use the smile I had practiced on the plane.

I backed out of the drive and headed back home. As I did, I realized I had not gotten Luke's number and so had no way to reach him. I thought of going to the door and asking for it, but did not. I had spent the twelve hours I knew Luke avoiding anything that might appear creepy. I couldn't undo all of that work with a creepster move now.

I made a mental note of his address. Maybe I'd come up with a reason to drop him a note while he was on leave.

*****

Once I was back home, I ate a bowl of gazpacho and took a glass of wine to my office. I found myself drinking earlier and earlier, and I'd have been alarmed by the amount if I cared at all. But, I didn't. I was willing to do whatever I needed to get through the day.

I sat at my desk and opened the notebook in which I was plotting what to do. There was no reason for me to stay in Kansas City, but I wasn't yet ready to leave the house I had shared with my wife. I also hadn't settled on a different place. Nothing drew me anywhere. I was thirty and feckless. I had the small group of friends that Jess and I had made, but Jess's ghost hung over our gatherings, and their lives were moving forward while mine stood still. They were living the life I was supposed to be, making babies, outfitting nurseries, joining play groups, choosing nursery schools.

I was caught in a time warp. I knew I needed to move on from Jess, but my body and mind wouldn't let me. It was like the time I had bungee jumped from scaffolding on top of Squaw Mountain. I wanted to let go and free fall, but I . . . just . . . couldn't. My instinct toward self-preservation was stronger than my desire to let go and free fall, until it wasn't.

It was the same with Jess. I was safe in my life with her. I was in danger if I let her go and free fell into the unknown of what percolated inside of me. So, I held on, even after I shouldn't have.

I had been terrified the first few times I had sex. I didn't know what to do, and I feared I would do it wrong. I think everyone is fearful at first. But, I'm a little different than most. I couldn't laugh and learn on the fly. I was too self-conscious. I had hyperventilated as a grade schooler when called on to read aloud, fearing I would stumble over a word and everyone would laugh. I couldn't help but cry if I tripped and fell in the hallway, knowing everyone was laughing at me. I ran from the room when I misspelled a word during a spelling bee or miscalculated during a math bee. I was hypersensitive, especially to the perceived thoughts of others.

I had grown to be a large man, but I was still very much that self-conscious little boy. The first time I had gone down on a woman, I had focused on the wrong spot. When she grabbed my head and moved me to the right spot, I had been too ashamed even to continue. Or to see her again.

I had struggled the first time I tried to have intercourse, too. Even though she was experienced, we could not find the right opening. I was either too low or too high. It took so long to get it right, I came as I struggled to enter her. I was too ashamed to see her again, either.

I was as bad at meeting women as I was at having sex with them. I never asked a girl out unless I was certain she'd say yes. Even then, I often dallied too long to maintain her interest.

Jess had been an outlier. She had pursued me long after a rational woman would've quit. And, she was relatively inexperienced sexually, so once we moved in that direction, I was the teacher, not the student. She didn't know what I was doing wrong.

She also found our fumbling around endearing. She'd laugh the mistakes off, tell me how good it had been, and only later, when the moment wasn't hot, suggest maybe I could go a little slower, go a little deeper, or keep at it until I was sure she had finished.

Once we got it right, we really got it right. We yinned each other's yang, and we rocked each other's world. After many fits and starts, I learned to use my "gift," as Jess referred to it. It fit my body, was long and thick, and once I had tamed it, a weapon. It took me a long time to finish once I started, and my stamina inured to Jess's orgasmic benefit.

My love language is physical touch, and she was happy to feed my need for it. Her hands and mouth were always on me. There was nothing I asked her to do that she refused.

I had not been touched since she died. Still, I could not imagine re-learning sex. It was one thing to ask a woman out. It was a whole other thing to find out if a man was interested in being asked out and then mustering the gumption to do it. It was yet a hole other thing to contemplate returning to those clumsy, diffident days of not knowing what to do or how to do it. It was easier just to ignore it all.

I finished my daily work on the flow chart I was developing and on the two plaintiff's cases I had taken on (when I left my law firm, I decided I should try for a couple of home run plaintiff's cases to add to my nest egg). When I was done, I re-filled my re-filled wine glass and headed out back to our — my — pool. It had come with the house. It was the only thing we hadn't liked about the house, and it had turned into our favorite thing. We regularly skinny-dipped and made love in the pool. When Jess died, I had continued the skinny-dipping and, when I was randy enough, made love to myself.

I placed my glass down and dove in headlong. Once I surfaced, I tugged my gym shorts and boxer briefs off and piled them beside my glass. I hooked a saddle under my pelvis, rested my head back on a noodle, and floated wherever the jets took me. I felt tension drain from me as I did. I replaced it with thoughts of Luke.

I imagined him as a little boy. In my mind, he had blonde hair and big ears and a bigger grin. He didn't know what he didn't know, and his ignorance was bliss. He played hard and slept harder. His entire life stretched out in front of him, and he would be a King or a Titan. He slayed dragons and tamed dinosaurs. He learned to fly and to defy death. It was, in my mind, the idyllic childhood every child deserves. I knew the reality didn't fit the image, but I didn't want to think about the reality. It was too depressing.

When my slow float was over and my wine was gone, I walked nude into my house. I had cereal for dinner and found Stand By Me on Netflix. I loved those boys, and I re-watched their movie as I sipped vodka with a hint of pineapple juice. I don't know what time I fell asleep, but I slept through a text from Luke. It read "Thank you for everything."

I saw it when I awoke, sitting up, on the sofa at 3:47 a.m. I immediately texted back. "I meant it when I said it was my pleasure." I hesitated and then I hit send.

I walked to my bedroom and climbed into my bed. I was about to return to sleep when I impulsively sat up, saved Luke's contact information into my phone, and sent an imprudent, impulsive text. "Lemme know if you want to get 2gether while ur here." At the last minute, I had changed to "get 2gether" from "hook up."