Part One:  Requiem Aeternam [Eternal Rest]

"Who was he, really?" said Justin. "I mean, I know he was your teacher and all that, but there must be something else to bring us all this way. I can't imagine you sucking-up to any teacher. No way." 

The rain spattered on the windshield as we sat, parked in the lengthening line of cars forming in the funeral home parking lot, young men in dark topcoats directing traffic and escorting guests to the front door under umbrellas. The only thing worse than a funeral is a funeral in the rain. 

I had told him part of the story, how John Brigham had been my professor, my mentor, and my friend during the dark days at Penn State, how he had helped me identify my talents and apply them to my future. But there was more to the story, much more. 

"Shouldn't we go inside?" He continued when I did not answer. The time had come, I guess. We had waited outside rather than confront the hoard of strangers. The soupy organ music would just annoy me. 

"OK, let's go," I said, pulling up the collar of my suit as I opened the door of the rented-Lexus. Justin got out and ran ahead, stopping under the portico. 

Stepping into the quiet of the foyer reminded me of his office that day. It was like a gallery, beautiful objects he had collected from all over, they actually distracted my eyes from his face. I had seen him from a distance mostly, in COMM 320, Introduction to Advertising. The youngest professor I had ever seen, the most open and friendly, I lowered my guard a little and joined the throng of students around him. Now in his office, just the two of us, the last vestige of formality was gone. "Just call me John," he said as he glanced at the re-worked homework assignment, I showed him. The conversation was washing over me like waves, he really wanted to know about me, what I thought, what I felt. I finally got around to why I had come, to ask if he had any jobs for students. My scholarship barely paid the bills and my current job in the Waring Dining Commons just gave me some spending money but nothing to put on my resume. 

And that's how it started, the working together, the grant to study how eyes scan pictures, and what attracts the viewer. Remembering how I looked at him that first time, I already knew what attracted me. 

The funeral liturgy began. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Justin's profile mouthing the responses, a good little Episcopalian choirboy, acolyte, familiar surroundings here for him, 140 miles from home. Turning, I studied his face, knowing the profile by-touch, the curve of the soft lower lip, the hair on his forehead. 

"Turn more, directly toward the wall. No smiling. Just look thoughtful." John was sketching me, shirtless, with a bright light shining from behind, not just a collector of art, but an artist himself. "Shoulder back a little." His touch made me startle, then conform back into the new position. I could hear the scratch of the pencil, the rapid whisper of his shading, the silence as I knew he was looking at me, studying me, over and over again. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see myself through his eyes. And then it was over. As I buttoned my shirt, he showed me the sketch, the curvature of muscle, the sheen of skin captured in pencil on paper. My skin felt as if his pencil had actually traversed every square inch. "Let's go get some dinner," he added hurriedly before I could comment. He called Carolyn. "I'm working late," he said," so I won't be home for dinner. Kiss the kids goodnight for me." 

"For none of us liveth to himself." The priest droned on. I HAD lived unto myself those first two years at Penn State. Sure, I had friends, roommates, classmates, co-workers, but I had pretty much kept to myself, comfortable in my own company. No risk. No attachments. No expectations. 

Walking back from the College Avenue sub-shop, we were headed back to his office in Carnagie. But as we approached the building, he suddenly diverted my path beneath the twisted trunks of the rhododendrons that writhed from the foundation of the building up to the second story windows. The foliage formed a canopy overhead and a visual barrier to passers-by on the sidewalk bathed with pools of light. We stood there a moment, silently, as a couple came around the corner of the building and passed within feet of us, unseen in the darkness. We could see them; they could not see us. Then, without a word, he dropped to his knees in front of me and pressed his cheek against my upper thigh as his hand unzipped my pants. No underwear blocked his searching fingers, and he was surprised at first. He swallowed my cock before I could even get hard, and he worked it hungrily. My knees almost buckled and I reached for a trunk to steady myself. My muscles tensed as I heard voices approaching and I watched in near panic as a group of guys walked by only a few feet away. John seemed unaware of their presence even though they were laughing and joking. I closed my eyes hoping it would make me invisible. But he continued until I shot, almost silently. When he had swallowed my cum, he rose and stood face-to-face. I knew it was my turn. But as I gripped his shoulders to kneel, the lights came on in the office window behind me, suddenly bathing us in light. We dropped to the ground like dead bodies, trying to avoid detection and laughing hysterically at our foolhardiness. He finally silenced me with his hand over my mouth and I kissed it. 

"Thou hast set our misdeeds before Thee, and our secret sins in the light of Thy countenance." 

We hadn't touched more than a handshake since that first night, but now we were on our way to New York City, the first chance to present the research results to the funding advertising agency. New York was the place, he told me. He had worked there before coming to State College. It is where he met Carolyn. It is where he decided to teach rather than "prostitute himself", his words. 

Together we got into the great king-sized bed at the Michaelangelo. I had never stayed in a hotel like this before. I remember wearing my Aussie Rowers as sleepwear, feeling so odd compared to my normal nude sleep-habit. He wore his underwear. And I remember waking up in the middle of the night, suddenly aware in the dim light through the heavy curtains that he was not beside me, but instead was seated naked in a chair watching me sleep. "Are you OK?" I asked. No answer. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep sitting there. And then I heard him crying softly. He had not touched me that night, I learned later, NOT because he didn't want to, but because he DID. The proximity, the availability, the implied willingness were all too much for him to endure. He got dressed and went for a walk at 4 a.m. and after worrying about him for several minutes, I feel asleep. The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. 

"A dedicated family man, husband and father." The eulogy now. Had he been more like a husband to me? or a father? Neither, really. He was like a big brother, loving me sometimes unconditionally, then competing with me or criticizing me to make me better. Ten years seems a lot older when you're 21. He seemed to sense it too, but he seemed young for his age, at least when he was around me. 

He had told me that Carolyn and the children would be away for a few days, off to visit the in-laws in Connecticut. He had invited me to the house that evening, presumably so we could spend some time together outside of the office. I had been to the house many times before. He included me as a member of the family, like the oldest son, much older than his eldest. Carolyn liked me because I helped with chores, raking, gardening, even painting, and she could get John to do anything when I was there to help but I sensed that she was jealous of his time with me. When he and I were together in a room, no one else mattered. 

I walked to his house that night expecting to sleep with him. Well, more than that. But the house was dark and the car was gone. At first I thought he might be waiting for me in the darkness, but there was no answer to my knock. I knew where the key was hidden, so my first inclination was to go inside, to take a shower, and to be ready in his bed when he arrived. Instead, I decided to sit on the stone wall outside the kitchen windows in the back yard to wait for him to return. I heard the car drive into the driveway and saw the lights flash into the yard. The slamming of three doors made me thankful that I hadn't take that shower. As the lights came on, I saw the whole family, John and Carolyn, John Jr. and Jamie, traversing the kitchen as I sat just outside. I left without letting them know I was there. Later, I found his message on my answering machine, a change of plans, no trip, and an apology. 

"He was a giving man," the priest continued.  Justin is learning more about him. 

The BOOK. He gave me the book, at lunch that day, a blank book that he had filled with his handwriting, drunk and sober, I could tell. They were messages to me, things he seemed unable to tell me in-person, a way for him to chat with me when I wasn't there in the wee hours of the morning when he sat-up alone, thinking. He handed it to me that day across the table as a farewell, I suppose. 

I have it here beside me as I write. I kept it after throwing it away several times. On the first page it is inscribed "To Brian as a token of my love. All the things I've said, or couldn't say." 

I can't share the entire book with you. Justin read it cover-to-cover when we got back to Pittsburgh. But a few lines will show you why he wrote it. 

"I have some things to tell you that will be useful someday, or may make you think about yourself in a different way, or may help you to know yourself better, or me better." 

"It is reasonable that one who has problems with which he cannot deal would seek the help of someone wiser, someone older, or someone trained to analyze, discuss, and resolve these difficulties. You have none of these qualifications. But you have a maturity beyond your years, a degree of responsibility unexpected for one so young, a willingness to listen, a life of tragic events, and a pair of eyes which have a deep sadness and understanding. Perhaps they are a fraud, but they make me willing to share the innermost depths of my existence. I look at you and share a deep sadness that transcends age, background, and experience." 

His "poems" were the most compelling:
"Look at me sometimes and speak with your eyes what is in your heart. Give me smiling reassurance when a fleeting doubt of my self-worth sweeps over my face.
Speak to me sometimes about our friendship. Don't make me ask, or try to refrain from asking.
Be there when I need you. Don't pull away when I am quiet or sharp with you.
Show that care by trying to help because you are the only one who can. Touch me sometimes. I crave that touch, not much if you find it hard, but some physical sign of our special relationship. Give me a few moments of intimacy. I can survive on a few moments; I can thrive on a day together.  I try not to ask too much, but friendship pre-supposes the asking. If I can't ask you, whom can I ask?" 

"Sometimes I wonder when you will read this, if you will ever read this. Perhaps the writing of it is enough to meet MY needs. Someday perhaps you will understand why I did what I did."] 

He also gave me a letter of recommendation "to whom it may concern" and he told me he could not see me again, something about a quote from a Pennsylvania Dutch saying "Loving and not having is harder than rocks." He left me sitting at the table. I watched him leave the restaurant and walk quickly up busy College Street. And I never saw him face-to-face again. Oh, I saw him from a distance, in the procession at my graduation, but I never went to his office or home again. Carolyn probably wondered why or perhaps she knew without being told. 

The painting was my graduation present. It arrived shortly after graduation without a note. I still have the painting, a self-portrait of himself, naked, looking older than he really looked, perhaps to accentuate the difference in our ages. Or perhaps he was trying to express the guilt he felt in a physical way. I see him every day, frozen at an age younger than he is now, 9 years later. 

"Grant all who mourn a sure confidence in thy Fatherly care." Justin was kneeling now. I missed the beginning of the prayer. But his fingers reach over for mine, just for a second, as he heard those words. 

Fatherly care? The words ring hollow. I felt more love from this man than from my own father. And even his love wasn't strong enough to keep us together. 

The service ended. Before departing, the guests were invited to kneel beside the open casket for a moment. I thought Justin would wait for me in the back row, but instead, he joined me. Kneeling side-by-side, I realized we had never knelt together before. 

He looked older than I remembered, but that was understandable. But I had remembered him with a smile and twinkling eyes. Instinctively, I opened the clasp of the bracelet, the cowrie shells, and placed them just inside the rim of the casket. Justin's eyes followed the bracelet. He always fingered the smooth shells as we lay side-by-side after sex. And he had asked about the bracelet several times. 

John had brought it back as a gift for me when he went to Hawaii shortly after our encounter in the rhododendrons. He said that we would go there together someday, to live and work and grow old together. It was a symbol of commitment, of permanence. I had never removed it since he put it on me. At first it reminded me of eternity and later it reminded me to be wary of permanence. 

My eyes met Carolyn's as I turned from the casket. She looked older, too, but her eyes brightened momentarily in recognition and then she looked down as if she remembered more. I nodded to the boys. 

We walked across the parking lot to the car. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and cold. "He loved you, didn't he? And you loved him." I shook my head almost imperceptibly. "I knew it, from the first time you told me about him, despite all your glowing words about how he helped your career, you're still pissed-off at him, aren't you?" I didn't need to acknowledge the obvious. 

The family was still inside, presumably saying their goodbyes while the funeral procession waited with the motors running. "I'll be right back," I said as I got out of the car again. A few minutes later, he was listening to loud music as I walked back across the parking lot. I could hear it with the windows closed. How different from the reverent boy of a few minutes ago...playing imaginary drums on the dashboard. I simply turned it off when I got in. 

The procession to the cemetery was long and slow. Professors get to know a lot of people, apparently. Justin sat silently, wanting to ask questions, but knowing I would tell him when I was ready. 

"Rest eternal grant him, O Lord." At least he is at rest. Such inner turmoil, brought to a screeching halt. Such promise and talent, stilled. Such love, strangled. Is there any good that can come from this? 

Standing in the back of the crowd just outside the cover of the tent, Justin and I felt our shoes sinking into the soggy soil. Nothing to do but endure it. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the bracelet and I pressed it into Justin's hand. A sign of permanence? Perhaps. An indication that I will be, to him, what John was to me in those tumultuous days of 1992? I think so. He clutched at the bracelet as if he understood. “We’ll share it,” he murmured.