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BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 36-SHEPHERDS

SAM COLLINS’S POV

woman dragonfly
the confusion sets in
before the doctor can even close the door


Months after Amelia was born, when she was sleeping through the night, you told Harper you were going to have dinner with an old friend of yours and left your apartment one December evening with a mission of a different sort. You told Daniel you’d be at his place around seven, that you needed to talk to him—alone—and when you arrived, Justin wasn’t there. Daniel heard you on the steps and opened the door before you could even knock and invited you in, fed you even though you told him you’d already eaten (perhaps he knew you were lying), and listened attentively like he always did when you came to him concerned about Harper. You’d been having these impromptu sessions with him five months into Harper’s pregnancy since the night you came home to find a brand new copy of every ‘what to expect when you’re expecting’ book on your kitchen table and were told that they were for you to read, “To make sure I’m doing everything right.” You argued with her that night, until you realized that you weren’t arguing with the woman you married but rather some bizarre hybrid of a terrified child and a distant, unfeeling parent that kept clashing together like mismatched cymbals as you tried to reason with her. That night you were there for some reassurance because you had read a few of those books, and Harper wasn’t exactly a textbook mother.

“What’s wrong?” Daniel asked you, as you were shredding a roll he’d given you, “You’re upset.”

“She doesn’t wake up.”

“What?”

“In the middle of the night, when Amelia cries, she never wakes up.”

“Okay. You mean lately?”

“She never has,” you said, feeling guilty for not telling him this months ago, but you were afraid to, afraid that there was something really wrong with Harper, something that couldn’t be fixed. “Like tonight, I only came here tonight because Amelia’s been sleeping for several hours at a time now; she won’t wake up for at least three hours,” you confessed, checking your watch.

“Okay.”

“I should’ve told you this before; I know.”

“It’s okay; calm down. Just give me a scenario, so I understand what you mean.”

You drank the water he gave you, “Okay, so like at night, she feeds Amelia and puts her to bed and even when Amelia was sleeping in her bassinette in our room and would wake up in two hours ready to breastfeed again, Harper wouldn’t wake up. I’d wake up and have to get Amelia and bring her to Harper and wake Harper up to feed her.”

“Would she stay awake while she fed her?”

“Sometimes at first, but less and less. I stay awake. I wouldn’t say she’s totally asleep, but she’s pretty useless.”

“Hmm.”

“Now, she just goes back to sleep.”

“She knows you’re there.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Did you ever suggest weaning her onto formula?” he asked you.

“No, god no.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know; I just couldn’t I guess. It’s not like she ignores Amelia or doesn’t want to feed her; they bond. It’s like she just can’t stay in the moment. She knows she’s feeding Amelia; she knows I’m there helping her; she just can’t stay awake.” You started to panic, “Am I doing the wrong thing? Did I screw something up?”

“No, no. Calm down. It’s okay.” He reached across the table and held your hand, “Would you please breathe?”

“Sorry.”

“How much has Harper told you about her mother’s death?” he asked you.

“Not much. She talks about it when she’s drunk, but she got pregnant pretty quick, so she hasn’t been drunk in a long time,” you laughed. “And now, she’s breastfeeding, so—"

“Right...

“Ordinarily, I’d say it was Harper’s decision to talk to you about this, but I doubt she ever will. What I know, I know from Alan. She’s filled in some details for me, verified his version, and I’ve done a little research on it, but I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to talk to you about it because she was so young. They both were so young.”

“Okay.”

“The information is so old it’s practically public knowledge if you know where to look.”

“Just tell me.”

“Harper’s memories of her mother, and Alan’s, for that matter, are of her living in a mental institution. Ruth was clinically depressed; she was having bi-weekly ECT treatments and improving, depending on whose version of the story you believe. During their childhood, Alan had a very difficult time dealing with the absence of his mother; he was a chronic bed-wetter and wasn’t able to make it through the night without voiding. When he was five and Harper was six, their father took their mother out of the hospital because he was tired of the stigma of mental illness surrounding his family; he didn’t believe Ruth was really sick, etc. She didn’t want to come home.”

“I never knew she came home.”

“Ruth couldn’t sleep when she came home, probably because she had no meds, was going through a cruel withdrawal because James had pulled her out with no regard for her own adjustment, so she was always awake at night, sitting in the dark watching television when Alan would wake up because he’d wet the bed.

“Alan wasn’t afraid of his mother, like he was of his father; she was compassionate. So, when he woke up wet, he’d go to her, and she’d help him get changed, strip his bed, and then he’d climb into bed with Harper for the rest of the night. It happened every night. Before Ruth came home, it was just Alan changing his clothes and climbing into bed with her; after Ruth came home, she was tucking him in, both of them really; it’s one of Alan’s fondest memories of his mother.”

“He woke her up every single night,” you repeated.

“Ruth killed herself in the middle of the night, slit her wrists in the bathtub and bled out. Alan found her when he woke up. He, in turn, woke Harper up. It doesn’t surprise me that Harper doesn’t wake up when Amelia cries or stay awake when she’s feeding; it’s a defense mechanism. There are too many things she’s afraid she’ll remember.”

Daniel hardly looked at you while he explained all of Harper’s background, and when he finally did look up and saw the expression on your face, he reached across the table and held both of your hands to stop them from shaking, “Sam, it’s okay. Listen to me, it’s okay. These things are not in her conscious mind.”

“Right,” you said, not believing a fucking word that was coming out of his mouth.

“They’re not. Her reactions, trust me, they’re no different than the way you or I respond to a hot stove. We’ve been burned once; we know better than to touch it again. That’s all it is. We don’t relive the burn every single time.”

“You do if it burnt your fucking hand off, Daniel.”

“Not if you were too young to make sense of it. She didn’t process this stuff they way we do when we hear it now. She was a child; it’s different.”

“I married scar tissue.”

“Sam.”

“You should’ve told me this a long time ago,” you told him as you got up to leave, throwing your dishes in his sink.

He followed you, his voice getting more and more agitated, “I didn’t know there was anything wrong, Sam. Please, don’t just walk—"

You let the door slam shut behind you.

*********************

woman rocking baby
when something goes right,
well, it’s likely to lose me


When you got home that night, Amelia wasn’t in her crib or her room and Harper wasn’t in her bed. You found both of them in the guest room/office that you and Harper shared. She was rocking Amelia in the dark, the chair facing the window away from the door. Harper didn’t say anything to you came in the room.

“Is she okay?” you asked her.

“She woke up; she has gas.”

“Oh.” You sat down at the desk the two of you shared, pushing papers and books out of the way.

“I know where you were,” she said quietly, an emotionless statement of fact. “Justin saw you going in; he was across the street. He called to catch up.”

“Did you get to talk to him?” you asked.

“Yeah, it was nice. How was your conversation?”

The guilt of going to Daniel’s behind Harper’s back, of storming out on him was beginning to corrode your conscience, “I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

She nodded, keeping her attention on Amelia as she had since you’d walked in. You went into your bedroom, closed the door, and called Daniel. He answered in the middle of the first ring, “Hello?”

“It’s me. Sam. Look, I’m sorry.”

”I don’t care if you’re angry at me, just don’t upset her. I shouldn’t have told you without her permission. Please don’t delve into this stuff with her when you’re angry.”

“I won’t.”

”Sam, I’m serious.”

“I won’t. I’m not going to hurt her, regardless of how I feel. I could never do that.”

”Thank you.”

You returned to your office just as Harper was getting up, “She’s asleep. I’m going to put her back down.” You went back into your bedroom to wait for her.

There were art books open all over your bed, and when she came back in, she started closing them and stacking them back beside your bed, making room for the two of you to sit down. She sat next to you cross-legged, pulling her feet toward her body as you laid down, her voice firm, “Don’t put walls between us that don’t exist, Sam. We’re not your parents.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You can talk to me.”

“Sometimes I just can’t, Harper. I try, but I just can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Sometimes it feels like the stakes are too high,” you admitted, ashamed of yourself for some reason.

“I have enough of this self-doubt inside me for both of us; I don’t need you piling it on top of me, Sam.”

“Love, marriage, fatherhood, all of it makes me an idiot,” you told her.

……

That night in bed as the two of you tried to fall asleep, she said one more thing on the subject, “Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t care if you need to talk to someone; I don’t even care if it’s Daniel. Just don’t lie to me; that’s all.”

“Okay.”

……

Amelia woke up crying around two forty-five that morning, and true-to-form, Harper stayed sound asleep. You walked into your daughter’s room, picked her up and held her for a minute because it always calmed her down a little and then you changed her to see if that was all she needed, but Amelia still wasn’t satisfied, so you took her to bed with you, laying her between you and Harper, waking Harper up as gently as you could, “She’s hungry, babe.”

"’Kay,” she said, getting in the right position, helping Amelia get comfortable, and when Amelia began to suck, you leaned forward and kissed Harper. She smiled and you kept kissing her, Amelia nestled between you, until you realized that Amelia wasn’t feeding anymore. And right as you realized this, thinking that your closeness to Harper was crowding your daughter, Amelia looked up and you, smiled, and released the loudest gaseous emission you’ve ever heard from a little baby.

Both you and Harper busted out laughing.

“She’s not hungry, you idiot,” Harper whispered, “She had to fart.”

“My bad.”

Harper looked down at Amelia who was enjoying all the attention and playing with Harper’s breast, “Your daddy is not very smart sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, he’s well-intentioned, but he just woke me up so I could supervise your fart.”

Amelia said, “Ah-ah,” like she and Harper discussed your incompetence all the time. And then she scrunched up her little face and farted again.

“Now she’s just mocking you, Sam.”

“I can see that.”

But then Amelia squeezed Harper’s nipple too hard, and she had to go back to her crib. “Serves you right,” you told her, “Making a fool out of your Daddy. Night, night, sweet girl.”

Little did you know it was just the beginning.

*********************

little girl flies
so caught up in you, little girl

So when you woke up that Thursday morning to the sound of a little voice going, “It’s ‘squisite, so ‘squisite,” you knew Amelia was in bed with you looking at one of Harper’s art books, and when you heard the shower running, you knew that Harper had just gotten up on her own before eight a.m. for the first time since the two of you were married. When you opened your eyes to peek at Amelia and realized that she wasn’t looking at one of Harper’s art books, but rather one of Harper’s illustrated Kama Sutra coffee table books, you tried to close them again really, really fast in the hopes that she hadn’t seen you, but, alas, she had.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi.”

“I’m looking at the pretty pictures all by myself.”

“I can see that.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s a really ‘squisite pemis. Wanna see it?”

“That’s okay; I think I’ve seen it before.”

“Yeah, it’s so ‘squisite.”

You put your head under the covers and prayed she was moving onto vaginas. Vaginas all by themselves. Lonely, exquisite vaginas. But she lifted up the covers thinking you were playing a game with her and told you, “You’re ‘upposed to give me a baf when Mommy is all dry.”

“Okay.”

“Not wif bubbles ‘cause it makes my ‘gina itch.”

“Okay. No bubbles.”

And when Harper emerged from the bathroom, a towel on her head and one wrapped around her, Amelia closed the book and stood up on the bed with her arms out, “Mommy, I wanna give you a hug ‘cause you look so ‘squisite right now.”

“Why, thank you, Amelia. Is your Daddy awake?”

“He’s under the covers looking at his pemis.”

“I am not,” you insisted, wondering why all your days had to start like this.

*********************

rubber duck icon
rubber ducky, you’re the one

Amelia was singing to all of her water-proof animals when you went in the bathroom; they were all lined up on the edge of the bathtub, all facing the same direction (she was your daughter after all), and she had a little, yellow boat in her hand, bobbing in and out of the water while she sang to it, “Lello sumarine, lello sumarine, we’re ‘upposed to live in a lello sumarine ‘cause it’s a lello sumarine.”

“We have to wash your hair, Miss Priss.”

“Yeah, ‘cause the gingerbed gotted in my hair.”

“Yeah.”

“So let’s get all these animals in the water because they’re all going to get knocked over.”

“Okay, Daddy, you do it,” she said.

“Okay, ready?”

The excitement on her face was about to make you crack up. “I say it ‘cause you’re ‘upposed you do it,” she instructed you.

“Okay, say it.”

She pointed her finger at the animals and demanded, “Ok-ay, amnimals. Ready. Set. WET!” And you pushed them all in the water to the sound of your daughter’s hysterical laughter. But then she realized that one of them hadn’t made the jump. “Uh oh, Daddy. He’s still up there.”

You picked up the pig at the far end of the row and asked him, “Mr. Pig, why didn’t you jump in the water?” And then you put the pig to your ear to listen to his answer, nodding your head and furrowing your brow as he told you why, “Hmm, yes, I see, hmm, very interesting.”

“What’d he say, Daddy? What’d he say?” she asked, up on her knees at that point, dying to hear the answer.

“He said he’s a chicken.”

“No, he’s not!” she said, splashing in the water. “HE’S A PIG!”

*********************
HARPER COLLINS’S POV

red door in the clouds
this is the life of illusion

8:06 a.m. Thursday, April 7, 2011

According to Daniel, he’d been an early riser all his life, so when you got to his place that Thursday and stepped inside with Amelia right on your heels, you were a bit surprised to see the interior so dark at that hour of the morning. Amelia followed you inside, and then immediately took her rightful place in front of you, her shoes tap-tap-tapping on Daniel’s hardwood floors as she made her way toward the living room, unfettered and unafraid of the darkness she was approaching. And when both of you got there, she ran right in, genuinely thrilled to see the sleeping giants in front her, “Mommy, look.” But your reaction was of a much different sort, one might call it dread, perhaps a bit of a maternal instinct kicking in as you played a quick game of gay Duck Duck Goose in your head: Brian, Justin, Zeek…top, bottom, top. Your eyes scanned again, very quickly, making sure and inhaling a huge sigh of relief when you realized that Daniel wasn’t down there: top, bottom, top, top? No. Thank god.

Because a solace orgy you might be able to handle.

But a grief-induced gang bang?

No fucking way.

“Come on, ‘Melia,” you whispered, more harshly than you meant to.

“But it’s Brime Kinney,” she objected (mimicking your tone), but then your presence began to wake Zeek, and he grunted and rolled over on the sofa, and Amelia froze in the middle of the floor, terrified of the shirtless giant, her bottom lip quivering like a Jell-O mold. You had to pick her up to get her out of there, and she clung to you like a baby monkey as you climbed the stairs to the second floor.

……

Daniel’s bedroom door was cracked, and he heard you coming down the hall, instructing you to come in before you even knocked. Amelia pushed the door open and ran inside—Daniel’s ragged appearance not even registering with her and she used the foot board to climb onto his bed, walked across the bedspread, and sat on his lap. His arms were out; he was waiting for her, “Good morning, Amelia.”

“Dr. Car-ride, you know what?”

“What?”

“Brime Kinney is ‘sleep on the floor ‘cause…’cause I knowed that.”

“I know. He’s very tired.”

“Yeah, he’s so ‘zausted.”

“He is.”

“What the hell, Daniel?” you asked, “Or do I not want to know?”

“Or are you just jealous because you weren’t here?” he countered.

Oh, thank god. He’s making jokes. Nothing happened.

And then you really looked at him: his hair sticking up everywhere, his pajama shirt not matching his pajama bottoms… It was April, and he was dressed like it was mid-January. He looked like a transvestite version of the Statue of Liberty—only shorter, with glasses…

give me your tired, your poor,
your homosexual artists yearning to bend over…


“Have you even slept?” you asked.

“Not really.”

“Yeah, Dr. Car-ride, ‘cause…you knowed what the hell.”

"’Melia,” you scolded her, “Go play in the studio.”

“No.”

"’Melia.”

And so your young daughter surrendered (ostensibly) to your wishes, climbing off of Daniel and sliding off of his bed on her stomach, and then sulking down the hall to the studio, reminding you, “I’m ‘upposed to play with Dr. Car-ride right now, Mommy, ‘cause I’m ‘upposed to.”

“I’ll play with you in a few minutes, Amelia. I promise,” he called to her.

“Yeah, I knowed that,” she called back, clearly not believing him, clearly hurt, jilted, scarred for life.

……

And because your daughter is you with even less inhibitions (a genetic abnormality, no doubt), she had absolutely no intention of obeying you; your punishment for denying her her rightful scheduled activity was to begin henceforth.

*********************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV

little girl wearing crown
what are we doing here?

When you opened your eyes, there was a little, unblinking pipsqueak staring at you, holding your t-shirt in her hands. You must’ve gotten hot in the middle of the night (morning-whatever) and taken it off. You said a quick prayer and looked down; your pants were on. Whew.

“Hi, Squirt.”

She said nothing, just stared at you, like a catatonic member of the Lollipop Legislature.

“Can I have my shirt, please?”

And still nothing, so you smiled and reached for it, tugging it out of her arms, but you pulled too hard and she was holding it really tight, so when you finally got it, she fell backwards on her butt, right on top of Justin. It scared him, woke him up, made him cough, and made her cry. He sat up, totally confused, but as if he was used to waking up in strange places with strange people, made a quick assessment, and was completely on board with you when you looked at him and said, “Make her be quiet.”

“Shh, ‘Melia, it’s okay,” he told her, pulling her into his lap.

She cried on his shoulder, glaring at you harder than a pink diamond, and she was already doing that thing that little girls do when they cry, “Sc-uh-ar-y Z, mo-uh-nst-uh-er.”

“Zeek’s not a monster, Amelia. He’s just big. He’s not going to hurt you.” She cried louder, like it was her finale or something as New York’s finest Miniature Drama Queen. “Shh. Brian is tall, and you don’t think he’s a monster.”

She stopped, turned her head and looked at the man she was really interested in. “Yeah, I know-uh-ed that.” And then she sniffed and laid against Justin until her body stopped heaving, until it caught up with the decision her mind had just made. And you were laughing (to yourself, of course) because, well, of the three of you, Kinney was the resident monster. But little girls, what do they know?

*********************
BRIAN’S POV

little red shoes
there you see her
sitting there across the way


It was her little red shoes.

Her little red shoes. The first thing you remember seeing when you opened your eyes that morning. She was sitting on your chest, bouncing up and down to some obnoxious Disney song, her little red shoes banging against your torso. You tried to get her attention, to say her name, Amelia, but all that came out was, “Aah.”

But it was enough. She heard you and turned, crawling up your chest to your face to inform you, “You’re ‘upposed to move so I can watch my movie, Brime Kinney.”

Oh.

That’s where you were.

Lying on the floor.

In the good doctor’s living room.

Feeling dead.

Your eyes blurred and re-focused. So much white and that obnoxious music—you thought maybe you were at a White Party of Clubbing Past. Such a fucking headache, but it was all making sense until her little red shoes. You’d seen some pretty tiny fairies at White Parties, but none that small.

“You’re ‘upposed to move, Brime Kinney,” she repeated.

“I can’t.”

“Okay,” she said, “What the hell.”

My sentiments exactly.

She resumed her place on your chest, swaying to some dancing crab you wanted to kick the ever-loving shit out of.

And then you heard a male voice. You turned your head to listen, anything to distract yourself from the wad of gauze you felt you were choking on. The voice was coming from the kitchen…

Justin’s?

No, they’re still here.”

No.

I didn’t either. Sarah’s taking them shopping.”

It wasn’t until that moment that you realized how similar Daniel’s voice was to Justin’s—the tone, the cadence. How they can both be soft spoken.

……

……

“Oh, it’s going to take a lot more than that…because…because he was on the phone at six a.m. this morning having my chair replaced, whole thing delivered before noon today.

“I did.

……

“That’s exactly what I said. Almost word for word.”


When they want to be.

……

Amelia clapped. The song was over.

The kitchen door swung open for a brief second; the doctor, he was checking on one of you. You shut your eyes until it closed again; Daniel’s voice once again buffered by the door.

“It’s not going to matter, Jon. He’s like blond steel—

“Oh would you please get your mind out of the gutter.”


And then there was silence, save the occasion grunt of agreement from the good doctor, a ‘yeah,’ right,’ or ‘I know’ thrown in every few seconds. And then finally, he spoke,

”I wish I was straight enough to make a sports analogy here, but I know what you’re saying. You’re right. You’re exactly right. If you can’t get Mohamed to the mountain, then you bring the mountain to Mohamed.

……

“I don’t know.

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”


And then Daniel’s conversation was over, and he walked out of the kitchen, through the living room (his shoes passing right by your head), into his office where he closed the door. You took the opportunity to glean some information from the barnacle attached to you, finally finding your voice, “Amelia, where’s Justin?”

……

……

Justin.

Your lover, your friend, your partner…your personal assistant?

He finessed your exit from Daniel’s…

He heard your footsteps on the stairs and was already bidding Harper farewell, smiling at her and at you at the same time. You backed down the stairs because he was coming towards you, walking backwards as well. And then you stood there, watching as he walked into Daniel’s office—noticing that he didn’t bother to knock, ”Daniel, we’re leaving,” and that Daniel didn’t bother to come out and say good-bye--and the only part of your departure that didn’t go according to his plan was Amelia jumping up and running past him on his way back to you, “Are you leaving, Brime Kinney?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go shopping,” she said, sighing as if it was a burden she couldn’t bear.

“Ordinarily, I’d be envious,” you told her.

“Me, too,” she told you, and you tried to really look at her then, to study her, because sometimes you couldn’t tell if she understood what was coming out of her mouth or not.

“We’ll see you later, Amelia,” Justin told her as you followed him outside, waving good-bye to her as she stood in the foyer, all grown up in her little red shoes. It’s a moment in your life that you’ll never forget because something had begun to tilt again. You felt like pulling away from Justin, from whatever you were going to have to face; you felt like you were more like her than him—over burdened, over-dressed. And you felt like she knew that, too. She didn’t want to tell you good-bye, but she was. She was facing it head on.

And she was staring at you, making you feel like she had some perverse new respect for you, like she knew that her tantrums coudn't hold a candle to yours.

*********************

aqua shower
like a watercolor in the rain

Justin flagged a cab and the two of you got inside, riding in silence back to the hotel. The lobby was fairly busy that Thursday morning, but you didn’t stop to get a newspaper. Back in your suite, you stepped into the bathroom to brush your teeth, something you’d been dying to do for the last hour. Justin walked in behind you, started the shower, stripped and stepped under the water.

You picked his clothes up off the floor and put them in the bedroom, put your wallet and watch on the dresser, and then joined him under the spray. Your body ached all over, the warm water was more than necessary; your eyes closed as it ran down your face. When you opened them to find the shampoo, Justin was no longer facing you; he was facing the wall instead, less than a foot in front of you, waiting. When he felt you behind him, he leaned forward, touching the wall as you wrapped your arms around him. His head was down; you rested your chin on his shoulder, his hands folding over yours as the water ran. It warmed you; you warmed him.

The way it should be.

……

……

“What did I do?” you asked him eventually, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“You had too much to drink.”

……

“And?”

“It was my fault.”

“Answer my question,” you told him.

……

“You left here--pissed at me--got drunk, went to Daniel’s, made an ass out of yourself, any of this ringing a bell?”

……

“Yeah.” There were so many bells going off in your head it might as well have been high noon in the town square. “I embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”

“Like I care about that, Brian.”

……

And then there was that disconnect again. That time it was the edge in his voice clashing with the compliance of his body. This is marriage, you thought. Irreconcilable differences. As long as we’re trying to reconcile them, then everything’s okay?

You should’ve gone to college for this, a degree in Matrimonial Relations. Advertising was a goddamn cake walk compared to this.

And then it dawned on you. One o’clock in the town square. One big bell ringing once very loudly.

Dr. Fric and Dr. Frac—Justin’s shrinky friends—they were the fucking geniuses in all of this. They were the ones cashing in the marital masses. You decided then and there that when you got back to Pittsburgh, you were going to start cold calling psychiatric practices.

Some of their hard earned money was going to be yours.

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV

clock on column
I'm a little untrusting when I think that the truth is gonna hurt ya

For once Brian’s memory wasn’t in tact, and you were relieved. It gave you the leeway you were counting on, the leeway to turn the clock back…

’Was there something funny about what I said?’

’No, there’s something funny about you thinking that I would ever not want to fuck you.’


……

“Do you feel like shit?” you asked Brian after you’d both gotten out of the shower; he was lying on his back on your unmade bed, his hair still wet; you were standing beside it. He turned and looked at you like your question confused him. “I mean physically.”

“I’ve felt better,” he said and then resumed his study of the ceiling, smoking a cigarette in that thoughtful way you’ve seen him do a million times.

“Are you hungry?” you asked with your hand on the phone.

“No.”

“Do you need anything?”

“For you to stop playing twenty questions and get your ass in bed.”

You turned the small lamp off next to your headboard and lay down beside him. He handed you his cigarette so you could finish it. You took a couple of drags and put it out. And then the clock that you’d so skillfully turned back…

Well…

It stopped.





But Brian being Brian tried to help you; your struggles always something that he couldn’t tolerate for very long, “You still want me to go back today?”

“No,” you said, but for some reason, it came out, “No,”-the way you say it to your mother when you’re thirteen and she asks you for the fifth time in five minutes if you’ve cleaned your room yet.

“Do you need some alone time while you have your period?” he asked you.

(These arguments the two of you have while both of you stare at the ceiling …Jesus.) “Brian, what the fuck is your problem?”

“I’m trying to get you to tell me what my problem is.”

“You need me to tell you what your problem is?”

“Apparently, Justin, because I obviously don’t know.”

……

Silence.

……

He was giving you a rare opportunity, the freedom to say anything you wanted, and all you could picture was a sketch in your grandfather’s office, a picture you used to copy while he watched football or baseball or whatever and then show him during the commercials. Every year, you got better and better, eventually you could draw it from memory:

 

monkeys- hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil



And your grandfather would always tell you, “It’s not just a picture, Justin. It’s a lesson, a golden rule: Speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil.”

And you’d always say, “Yeah, I know, Grandpa, but don’t you think I’m getting really good?”

“Yeah, you’re really good, but I don’t know if they have any jobs at the zoo for little boys who want to draw monkeys.”

“They could pay me in peanuts,” you’d say, playing along.

“Then what would they feed the elephants?"

And then you got hurt and when your mother would finally let you talk to your grandparents on the phone, let you talk to anybody about what had happened to you, for that matter, it was the first thing he asked you, “You know, those monkeys have been asking about you. They want to know when you’re coming back to draw them again. They miss you.”

”I can’t, Grandpa. I can’t draw them anymore.”

“Okay, hold on a minute.” He was gone for a few seconds, and then he came back to the phone, ”Well, I asked them about that, and they said they won’t hear, see, or tell of it ‘cause that’s just unacceptable for them. You know how those monkeys are.”

“Grandpa, I’m serious.”

“So am I. You know I can’t argue with those monkeys. They don’t listen.”

“Grandpa.”

“Come to think of it, they’re as stubborn as you are.”

So he told you that when you came back, you could try to draw them, and if your hand wouldn’t work, he’d teach you how to draw with your feet because he’d seen a monkey do that once, and if a monkey could do it, well, then, you could, too. And you laughed, really laughed, for the first time since you’d gotten hurt and when you did, he said it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

……

But back to the silence.

Back to you realizing that it wasn’t a rare opportunity that Brian was giving you because Brian had given you more opportunities of the years than you could even count. Some of them you’d taken him up on and others…

……

Others you weren’t ready for.

……

You still had nothing but those fucking monkeys in your head, so you thought you’d just confess that to him, admit that you were sorry, that you were useless and you didn’t really know why, so you turned to look at him, and he was right there—literally--right there. He’d moved during your quandary, right next to you, lying on his side, his head propped on his hand, almost a smile on his face.

Almost.

The minute he started to speak, just hearing the breath he took before he began, that’s when you could feel it, your face beginning to flood, but his voice was so calm, so unassuming, his hand holding yours on your chest, “What’s got you so worked up that you can’t talk to me about it?”

And you lay there, just staring at him, hoping like hell that he could read your mind because your throat had closed, clutched in a python’s grip. He moved a little closer, wiping your tears with the back of his hand, ignoring the fact that they were immediately replenished with new ones. The futility didn’t seem to bother him at all.

“Is this about Alan?” he asked you, his face searching yours for an answer.

And the thought of that, of the real reason you were came here, well, that broke the proverbial dam.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV

man in umbrella in the rain
when I needed sunshine, I got rain

It became clear to you then when Justin rolled toward you, folding himself into your arms, that something had overtaken him, something more powerful than you or him, something immune to any weapons in your arsenal, so you stopped trying to fight it or understand it and just held him while it marched through his body, conquering him, battle by battle. It made you feel sick, helpless, the way you used to feel when he’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming all those years ago and nothing you could say mattered at all. Your only choice back then was to weather the storm, and you knew the exact same thing was happening again, the visibility just as shitty.

The second night after he’d come home two months ago, you’d felt this same sensation when you tried to calm him down in his studio after he’d single handedly swiped that mural out of your office and thrown a paint can at you. His body felt exactly the same again—weird—the weight of it coming toward you willingly while some force beneath his skin seemed determined to push you away.

But that morning in New York, you surrendered to it instead, wrestling with the sheets until you got them over both of you, holding him against you while something inside him rattled the ever-loving fuck out of him, shutters banging against a haunted house.

Just come out, you fucking chicken shit demon, you thought. Show yourself, and I’ll beat you so far into the ground, you’ll never find your way back out.

And your options were limited this time; you couldn’t whisk him away to an all-expense paid vacation to help both of you forget about all of this because he had to be here. And if he had to be here, then you had to be here because there was no way you were leaving now, not when you were watching him suffer like this.

……

When it finally began to slow down, when he was gaining control again, he told you (or rather, your collarbone) that he was sorry.

“It’s okay.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry I told you to go home.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I hurt you, and I was trying not to hurt you—"

“Justin, I think that’s the least of our problems right now. It’s okay.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Okay.”

……

“You don’t even believe me, do you?”

“Of course, I believe you,” you told him. You’ve always believed that he believes every single word that ever comes out of his mouth.

“Because I’m serious,” he said, his hands on your face.

And then he kissed you.

*********************

flying red car
and every stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one man band


Your life has always been about control—having it, being in it, gaining it, keeping it, flexing it. At times, it’s been the only ally you’d recognize in a fight that would go down to the wire. And when Justin got hurt that night, you learned a painful and misunderstood lesson about control, thinking that you’d let go a little and look what the hell happened. So when he left for New York, you were ready. You stayed busy—making deals, making friends, making money---laying the groundwork for the hope you stored in the castles of your imagination. And you’d been very smart about it because you weren’t just building an empire, you were building relationships, letting the professional bleed into the personal just enough to ensure that if you’d jinxed yourself, if for some odd reason he didn’t come back, you could pretend you hardly noticed what with all of this hubbub going on around you—hugs, kisses, smiles and a guaranteed seat at everyone’s table. No one executes a plan—or an insurance policy--more brilliantly than you do. You’d done exactly what was expected of Liberty Avenue’s most infamous top; you’d expertly, fashionably, and ever-so-completely covered your ass.

And again you achieved success, hit the mark—well, almost, just a tiny fraction off—and only because you forgot that anyone who works that hard, anyone who climbs that high that fast to get to the top--well, it’s inevitable; even Lance Armstrong’s body aches at the end of a race, even he has to stop and catch his breath.

Even when he wins.

And that’s where you were when Justin kissed you that morning, emotionally out of breath—a little hollow and not exactly sure why, remembering that you felt that way the night before and knew that whatever response you chose that time had led to disaster, so you figured you better listen to him this time, even if he wasn’t talking because he was (as he’d reminded at every opportunity he’s ever had since the night you met him) much better at this than you were.

So…

He kissed you.

Something that he’s done thousands of times since the day you met him, and so, of course, if felt familiar, but not because it was one of those thousand. It was one of those other ones; it was a kiss flavored with…

…pity?

No, more like sympathy.

Felt a lot like the way he kisses you before he walks out the door.

So out of some kind of primal instinct to protect what was rightfully yours, what you’d worked so hard for, you sort of grabbed him.

It was a defensive move on your part, but he took it as an overture—an invitation--and kissed you harder and the next thing you knew, he’d pulled you on top of him—he’s a hell of a lot stronger than he looks—and you were quickly on your way to fucking the shit out of him. And there were arms and legs flying everywhere and a pillow hit a lampshade and the harder you fucked him the harder he wanted it, and by that time, you were so fucking confused that you figured, fuck it, and just folded him in half like he was book you just finished reading—a really good book—and pounded his ass so hard that he could only exhale and every time he did, your name came out in this hot, visceral puff of air by your ear, "Brian," and he said it all scratchy like it was killing him just to say it, and he came before you did—no surprise there—and when he did, his fingers that had been pulling your hair relaxed for a few seconds, and your name sounded more like a moan and less like a threat, and you stopped thrusting for a moment in some kind of salute to his orgasm and then you told him that you loved him.

And he smiled.

……

And then a reintroduction of sorts--a kiss--softer, sweeter, and disguised. “Come,” he said, pushing the word past his lips as if it’d been born inside him, a purring, insistent command that meant you were fucking him again, and that’s when you felt something snap inside you like a rubber band. Something that snatched the reigns of that fuck away from you…

Your mind and your body; irreconcilable differences.

A trial separation.

You heard your own voice in the background, “I’m hurting you?”

And then his, “No, god, no.”

……

It was ludicrous; the fuck was getting faster, harder, the back-and-forth of your hips resembling the last throes of a child’s wind-up toy that’s been tortured to death, oblivious to your emotional rhetoric.

"Sure?"

“Sure, yes, I’m sure… Jesus. God, fuck me.”

……

……

You looked down at your hands, your fingers wrapped around his thighs, digging in as you argued with this thing inside you, wondering if you let it out, if you’d ever feel it again.

And he was gone; you saw it right before you covered him, wanting to be all over him when you came, feeling like nothing could get you close enough; his eyes were unfocused; he was inside himself where you desperately needed to be; your entire stash of free will spent trying to get there.

“Mother fucking Christ,” and you were propelled back into the moment and it was over, your body in a heap on top of his, panting and wet.

You lay there fused together, his body softening underneath yours as he held you, as he told you, “Sometimes you make me feel like I’m seventeen again.”

……

“Sometimes you make me wish I was twenty-eight.”

……

……

“Twenty-nine.

“Okay, twenty-nine,” you conceded.

……

“Keep fucking me like that, though, and you can be twenty-one for all I care,” he whispered in your ear.

……

“Trust me,” you told him, “I’d have to be.”

……

……

When you found the will to move again, you rested above him on your elbows, brushing his hair out of his face, “You okay?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question that time; you really needed to know.

“Yeah,” he said, in a way that meant, Eventually.

You smiled at him and his hand appeared from somewhere, his fingers wrapping around yours, keeping your hand pressed to his face, closing his eyes like he was so tired, like he needed something so simple—just your hand on his face—to be able to finally relax. Your thumb followed his smile and because his eyes were closed, he didn’t realize that you were about to kiss him when he was about to speak.

He opened his eyes for a second and laughed as you pulled back a little. “What were you trying to say?” you asked.

“I said, ‘I love you.’”

……

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV

red paint drop
I imagine the colors would all run together

Sometimes it doesn’t really start until it’s over, sort of like the rough drafts that litter your studio before you settle on the final version of a sketch; sometimes a fuck--and especially that one--is a heart-storming session, an emotional exercise to lay everything on the table. And Brian was really with you at that moment—body and soul--and inside you again as you were lying on your side studying his hand for purely selfish (artistic) reasons as it wrapped around your waist, slid down your stomach, and coiled around your thigh, the tips of his fingers disappearing between your legs, so you let your head fall into the pillow you were sharing because you wanted to concentrate on his lips, the sensation as they skated along your shoulders. Because his lips can do that, you see, they can skate and whisper at the same time, telling you things already know, “You’re exhausted.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you told him, something that he undoubtedly knew as well.

He squeezed your thigh in some sort of agreement, and then his mouth was behind your ear and you played a game with yourself, trying to predict where it’d go next until you realized that prediction had turned into anticipation a long time ago because you knew where he was going and what he was going to do anytime the two of you were horizontal; you’d just forgotten that your predilection for anticipating Brian’s moves didn’t always carry over equally to the rest of your lives. If only the synchronicity that lubricated your physical relationship could sense its own imbalance, travel along some conduit to where it was needed the most…

And then you felt Brian’s finger under your chin, tilting your head back, turning it in his direction, and when he kissed you it was tepid at first, like he was making sure it was the you he knew, and he didn’t rush the moment, just kept his palm on your face so you couldn’t turn away, so he could take his time; and at some point during that kiss the loop was complete—after play had become foreplay again--and you closed your eyes because Brian’s hands felt like feather-soft, familiar paintbrushes on your body and when your eyes were closed, you could see the colors bleeding onto the canvas of your skin—so quiet and so damn deep.

Forever stained.

……

……

And he was going to fuck you again, eventually; you knew he was; and you were on your side again, looking down at his hand on your hip, listening to him breathe over your shoulder, and you put your hand on top of his and watched it as you made it slide—very slowly, glued to your skin—down your stomach and even lower, and he moaned behind your ear, his thigh nudging yours a little, negotiating with you for a little more control.

Just a little.

No pressure, no rush.

……

“You’re so quiet,” he whispered, kissing the side of your face.

“I guess I don’t really feel like talking,” you said, even though you knew that wasn’t what he meant; he meant that you weren’t responding to him like you usually did, that he could feel how much you needed him, how much you wanted him, he just couldn’t hear it.

“S'okay,” he said, and he meant it.

……

You were responding to him—just not the way he was used to; Your response was beginning to unfold inside of you—finally…

The first time you drew Brian—asleep on his bed, you drew him really fast because you didn’t know when he was going to wake up and when or if you were ever going to see him again, and you had this awful urgency inside you to get him down on paper so you’d never forget him. But the more time you spent with him, the more he invited you into his world and his bed, you didn’t need to worry about that anymore because you had tangible memories of every part of him-from the way he felt when you touched him to the way he tasted when you did all those things he that he taught you to do. And as for the times when he would cast you away for a day or two, you had enough in your stockpile to conjure him up with a pencil or a paintbrush whenever you wanted. He probably never realized what a magician you were when he insisted on ignoring you, never knew how many times you designed him from scratch just so you could stare at his face.

But when you awoke from your coma and were able to understand the basics of what had happened, you were faced with a challenge that, although you never told anyone, was far more terrifying to you than a tennis ball. You knew who Brian was, you knew how you felt about him, you knew that he was the most important person in the world to you, but beyond that, your tangible, sense memory of him had somehow become two-dimensional, useless like those five toy soldiers in a bag of a hundred that will never stand up no matter what you do.

You couldn’t feel him anymore.

But time began to work its magic and as things began to get a little better for you, you were eventually able to re-incorporate all of the sensations of being with Brian, coloring the memories you’d stored away, the ones that had faded to black and white. Slowly, they were filling out again, all the way to the edges.

But make no mistake, memories are like snowflakes—plentiful, yet fragile things--you can have so many and they can be so beautiful when the conditions are right, and from a distance they all look alike. But get up close, and every one of them is brand new. And as if you didn’t have enough to deal with when you woke up, the new images coming into focus…well, Brian was there again in all his glory, but he wasn’t alone. It wasn’t his body you were sketching behind your eyelids when you couldn’t sleep; it was his and yours; the two of you always caught up in that tangled dance. The memories were back, the same but different.

And again, that awful urgency returned because what you sensed, what you felt, wasn’t what you had—not yet—not exactly—and the need to merge the reality and the ‘fantasy’ felt like a boulder chasing you down a hill. And how do you tell someone whom you fear may leave you at any moment that you’re overcome with something so weird that you need reassurance; how do you explain to him that you’re screaming at him about a week in the snow because, ‘Goddamnit Brian, that’s where the snowflakes are and maybe if it was just me and you for a week, I could fix this part and move on to fixing everything else. Do you have to reject me so hard every time?’

And how did a man who made and re-shot commercials for a living, really think that eating cheese and crackers on the floor was really about eating the goddamn cheese and crackers and not about just sitting still for a few minutes? Why did he act like all forms of love were a foreign language to him when he had such an advanced appreciation of all of love’s functions?

So you figured if you went by yourself, spent a week alone with the snowflakes, you could fix some of it yourself, and you did, but your progress was hindered every time you remembered how much easier it would’ve been if he’d been there with you.
……

So in moments like that one when you and Brian were on point and in sync, you were becoming more and more powerless to stop it and deal with anything else because it had become this hard-won prize, this unlikely victory, this strange parasitic high.

……

And in the stillness that followed, you realized that you’d moved Brian’s hand during your walk down memory lane, that you were holding it against your heart, and you were quiet for so long that Brian was taking over, fucking you while he held you, and when he wanted to come, pushing you on your stomach, and your eyes closed again as your whole body sunk into the sheets beneath his weight, his knee wedged between your thighs, keeping them apart, doing the work for both of you because he knew—just like he did when he came back from Chicago—that you were long gone. Wherever you’d disappeared to, you’d gone without him.

*********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV

panic button
today is gonna be the day
that they’re gonna throw it back to you


When you arrived at Daniel’s home around ten thirty that Thursday morning, it was empty of everyone but him for the first time in a long time. You knocked and let yourself in. He was expecting you.

You knew where you’d find him—sitting in his office at his desk in front of his computer; and you knew what he’d be doing—browsing the web for a mail order, chocolate cheesecake that would arrive the second all of this grief and drama was over. You were right on both counts.

“Dan, a hundred and eighty dollars is way too much to spend on a cheesecake,” you told him from the doorway, talking to the back of his head.

“But they have free shipping,” he protested.

“Did you call him yet?” you asked, changing the subject.

He emptied his virtual shopping cart and spun around in his chair to face you, “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” You’d done your part earlier, now it was his turn.

“You know why not.”

*********************

modern chair
”but sit down in that chair right there,
and let me show you how it's done”


You vanished from the doorway of his office and returned a few minutes later with a whiskey sour in your hand and an order as you handed it to him, “Assume the position.”

He took it, giving up his chair for his couch, “Your bedside manner is both perverse and humiliating.”

“Father Dick loves it,” you told him, sitting in his chair, ready to begin.

“When do you think you’ll be ready to release him back into the wild?”

You located a legal pad on Daniel’s desk and a pen and perched it on your lap as you faced him, your friend-face morphing quickly into your shrink-face, “I might not, might just keep this one.”

Daniel smiled, so satisfied with himself; it was so rare, you let him have it. “I knew it. I knew this was going to happen.”

“Drink up, please, so we can start.”

“It’s unethical for you to force me to intoxicate myself before therapy.”

“You’re useless unless you’re tipsy. It says so right here in your chart.” He flipped you off. “I’m ready when you are.”

He got quiet and started drinking; your pen began to skate across the paper. You’re not a note-taking shrink, but it makes some of your patients more comfortable, makes them feel like you’re taking them more seriously—especially the pretend ones.

“How much time do I have?” he asked you.

You glanced at your watch, “Thirty minutes.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Daniel, we’re really playing beat the clock today.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I know.”

……

Silence.

……

“So why didn’t you call Justin like you were supposed to?” you began. (Might as well get straight to the point.)

He dodged it, “You shouldn’t have done what you did to him last night, upset him like you did.”

“You didn’t call him because of something I did?”

“You pushed him too hard.”

“Did I break him?”

He looked at you then, resting his glass on his chest; it was empty save the ice. “Don’t be a smart ass about this.”

“I had to push him. His unconscious is guarded by a smitten psychiatrist and a drunk, fire-breathing dragon.”

“Don’t implicate me in this.”

You laughed; he’s so utterly dense sometimes, “You were set up, Dan; albeit unintentionally, but don’t you see it? You were the perfect choice, like those guards at Buckingham Palace, the ones that never respond no matter what you say or do to them, the ones that never stop doing their job. The minute you chose him, he chose you.”

“Harper chose him; he was paying it forward,” he said quietly.

“Do you remember the day he moved in here, and we met in that depressing bar you like, and you told me that you’d given in to him, said that she could come too—"

“Because it’s the only way that he would come,” he said, his eyes fixating on his wall-to-wall bookcases.

“Right.”

“She took care of Alan, he took care of her, I took care of him.”

“Which is why we have a fucking mess right now,” you told him. (Murder being quite the monkey wrench and all.)

“The circle is broken,” he said, still staring at the wall.

“That’s quite the colossal understatement, but yes.”

He sat up and sat his glass on the small table between you, letting the condensation soak through the cover of an old issue of Psychology Today as he spoke, “He slept with me—"

“Because he needed you.”

“Jesus, he didn’t have to do that. Why would he think he had to do that?” And then you could tell that he was starting to get upset, and that was going to have to wait. You’d knocked the first wall down, but the rubble would have to be cleaned up later; there wasn’t time.

You threw the legal pad back on his desk and leaned forward in your chair, facing him, “Daniel, listen to me. He bit off way more than he could chew with Harper. Way more. And he couldn’t walk away. I mean, for god’s sake, look at what that kid had been through before he even got here. Look at the man he loves, at the context of that relationship. He needed you. I mean for all the times you moaned and groaned about how he didn’t, he really did, just not in the way you thought.”

“God, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“No, you just can’t see the forest for the trees, Dan. Just like everybody else.”

“I have Chronic Intractable Myopia.”

You laughed at him because you knew he was right and because you knew what he was doing—only your best friend, the esteemed Dr. Daniel Cartwright, could make himself feel better by diagnosing himself with an incurable disease…that he made up.

*********************

stopwatch
and he was in a bind
'cause he was way behind
and was willin' to make a deal


Ten minutes later, Daniel had made the call to Justin like he’d promised, and the two of you were in a taxi headed for Father Dick’s office otherwise known as St. Agnes Cathedral. If your plans went off correctly, you, Dr. Jonathon Massey, by the power vested in you by the New York State Board of Medicine and perhaps some divine inspiration sucked from Father Richard Donnelly during your carnal confessions, were going to be presiding over a loosely-constructed miracle of your own design. The first phase was complete, thanks to Jim Beam and a couple of decades in private practice, and now you had to make like Father Dick and place your faith in a higher power and trust that everything else was going to go as planned.

When you arrived at the church, everything was on schedule. Nate and Sam were there working on the music, the acoustics, the slide show; Daniel joined them. Father Dick was there milling around doing whatever it is he does all day, and you took your place in the back of the church to wait for Justin and Brian.

Easter was coming late that year, not until the twenty-fourth, but you didn’t care because if you’d calculated correctly, the religious experience you were manufacturing would be even more inspiring. Not one of those cheesy ones that ends up on a bookmark; no two sets of footprints merging into one for you. Oh no. No one was carrying anybody else in the scenario you’d concocted.

When you were done stirring the proverbial pot, everyone was coming off the cross.

For good.

You thumbed through the bible you’d brought with you for inspiration—Father Dick’s favorite, dog-eared bedtime story--closed your eyes and said a little prayer.




Lyrics taken from Live’s Lightning Crashes, Paul Simon’s Something So Right, .38 Special’s Caught Up in You, Frankie Valli’s Grease from the motion picture soundtrack of the same name twice, Samuel E. Wright’s Kiss the Girl from Disney’s motion picture soundtrack The Little Mermaid, Al Stewart’s Year of the Cat, Matchbox Twenty’s Push, Neil Diamond’s I’m A Believer, Simon and Garfunkel’s Homeward Bound, Kenny Roger’s If I Were a Painting, Oasis’s Wonderwall, and The Charlie Daniel’s Band The Devil Went Down to Georgia twice.

Chapter End Notes:

Original publicaton date 1/15/07

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