Part Two:  In Paradisum [In Paradise]

The prayers at the graveside droned on, then finally ended. As we sucked our shoes out of the mud we heard the minister saying "Carolyn has asked me to invite you all to the house afterwards for refreshments and reminiscences." Justin gave me that look as if to say "Should we?" but he looked away when I didn't respond. 

In the car, waiting for the other guests to wend their ways between the puddles in the cemetery roadway, I thought about how my life had changed after my mentor-ship with John Brigham...the feelings of rejection and frustration...the inability to focus on my schoolwork...the avoidance of the hall outside his office...the humiliation of going back to the dining common to ask for my old job. 

Justin sat there, fiddling with the unfamiliar sound-system controls, but not turning it on. He knew enough to wait...to not ask questions...and occasionally glancing my way, trying to read my thoughts. 

Leaving the somber cemetery, I abruptly turned out of the line of cars...toward the campus, away from Carolyn's house, away from her fussy, catered hors d'ouvres and non-alcoholic punch, away from the house full of strangers who would wonder who we were and who would ask leading questions. They would wonder who Justin was, and how could I explain? Instead, I headed for one of my old "haunts"...where John and I would eat on nights we worked late...Vesuvius, a local pizza parlor. Justin's eyes kept repeating the same question he'd posed earlier, so I finally spoke-up - "We'll eat first, then decide whether to go to John's house, or head back to Pittsburgh. I'll show you the best pizza in Pennsylvania." His face brightened in that sunny glow..."Better than MINE?" he asked, which made me smile for the first time today, because his attempts at making pizza usually resulted in something so excessive, one could barely lift it. 

Irony-of-ironies, we sat in the same booth where John and I had shared out first meal 9 years ago, framed in the front window. Just when the memories triggered by the funeral began to subside, more memories prompted by food emerged. The student-painted murals of phallic Towers-of-Pisa and ruins of the Forum still whispered the conversations we shared. 

We sat there, across from each other, shoulders hunched over the pizza, but eyes looking up intensely at each other...sharing ideas, jokes, and mental acrobatics. John told me of his research...how it would revolutionize advertising, how it would use form and color to direct the viewer's eyes to evocative, attractive, and even sexual images...how subconscious, primitive instincts could be used to strengthen product memories...how the eye could be teased to engender desires. I knew it worked...instantly...and my enthusiasm fed upon his, and his on mine, until we were ready to prove it together. 

He treated me like a partner after that...an "equal" despite the difference in our ages. We struggled together through problems in the research...and we celebrated the successes. Friday afternoons, after his class, we would spend together over drinks and nachos...not at one of the beer halls along College Street, but at the Nittany Lion Inn. He introduced me to Black Russians, and they became "my usual." And he would keep them coming while he listened to me. No one before had ever paid that much attention to what I had to say; but his eyes locked onto mine as he sipped his martini, leaning toward me across the table. His long fingers stroking on the cocktail napkin as if he was itching to reach for my hand. Or he propped his chin on his fist and studied me like a fine painting. His eyes caressed my face. 

Suddenly I caught myself looking at Justin in the same manner. Rather than deal with his beauty and openness, I focused instead on his manners. 

Have you ever seen Justin eat pizza? Here is someone who can handle the panoply of silverware at a formal dinner or can balance an hors d'ouvre on the edge of a small plate...but hunched over a pizza, he eats like a savage... two hands, ten fingers supporting a sagging, blistering-hot slice, then rolling it lengthwise and opening his smiling mouth so wide that he could suck Chad Douglas. "Did you play football here?" he asked, knowing full-well that Penn State was one of the powerhouses of football in those days and that I had merely run cross-country in high school ("the sport for loners and perfectionists," the coach said). But he was carrying the whole conversation himself, so I could excuse the chatter. "No," I said. "Patterno wouldn't let me on the team, even after I blew him in the locker room." Justin ignored the joke and went on, "I wish I could see what you looked like when you were a student here. I mean, you musta been cute wearing your white apron while ladling gravy over mashed potatoes. God, I can't imagine you studying in the library." Those realistic images flashed through my consciousness as I quickly relived my entire undergraduate years. "Can I see where you usta live? Where you dropped that sofa out of the 7th story window? I remember that story. And the..." He went on and on reminding me of my foolish indiscretions. He had an incredible memory when it came to details of my past. His eyes sparkled...pleased with his own joke that I had missed, but I couldn't avoid smiling anyway. Now I know how John felt on those evenings when I poured-out my past, my present, and my future to him....and asking him questions about himself. 

"And where did Lindsay live?" ...he continued his interrogation. Lindsay Peterson. I met her the same semester I met John...in Porter's Art Appreciation class. She laughed at my quips starting with the first lecture, and by the third lecture she had moved from the seat in front of me to the one beside me. We said that Porter's class met the weekly need "to see cock" of the sexually-deprived girls and homo-guys. Every lecture, slide after slide, included dangling penises from every angle. Lindsay began timing the appearance of the first cock...the record longest delay was seven minutes. And she probably did more than any other person to immortalize my quip which turned into a mantra (and probably still echoes in that lecture hall)..."Peter Porter peeped a peck of porky peckers..." She was also the one who dared me to sit in the center of the banked lecture hall, with my knees spread and wearing my baggy-legged shorts and no underwear. Porter lost his train of thought and spilled an entire tray of slides. (Never dare me to do something!) I still remember his voice resounding through the hallway behind me as I left. "MISTER kinney...dangling your bait will not improve your grade even the slightest BIT!"...with the emphasis, subconsciously on the word "bit". 

We left Vesuvius and crossed College Street to enter the campus. Re-living the past, I walked with him straight to Carnegie. The notorious rhododendron bushes were gone now, their place filled with newly planted azaleas and a modern bench. We sat. The memories flooded back...that first time that John held me here...my fear of being detected...my hesitancy to respond to his touch. I had been relatively inexperienced, with just a few friendly dalliances in high school and the knowledge that I was attracted to men more than women. I was curious...I wanted it to happen...but it made me uncomfortable. I could never make the first move in those days...never initiate, for fear of opening myself to ridicule or worse. And sitting here in front of Carnegie, I felt as if I had gone back in time...with the old taboos and hesitancies. But it was time to put the past behind me. John is dead, but I am not. I reached over and took Justin's hand...such a simple, innocuous gesture by today's standards...and so ridiculously formal, considering I had fucked his ass on numerous occasions. But here in this place, in public, it seemed like a giant step for me as I wrestled between past and present. Justin's fingers tightened on mine as an acknowledgement of the moment...and he asked about John. 

"Tell me more about him, Bri. Why is he so important that we came all this way to a funeral where you don't know anyone? I've asked you this before...on the drive to State College...but you answered with stories of work and advertising. Surely there's more. Our first trip together, and you take me to a funeral? Why are we here? Why am I here? Why did you bring ME here?" 

There wasn't a lot more to tell, actually. For a relationship which deepened over a period of eight months, there was surprisingly little sex. He embraced me fairly often in the privacy of his office or the work-room...he watched me undress before he sketched me...he would occasionally caress my shoulder or thigh as he positioned me...he kissed me as he kissed his children...and he fucked me only once, in a motel, after more than his usual number of martinis. It was wonderful because it was my first time, but it was otherwise utterly unremarkable as a sex-act. And as I lay in his arms afterward, I could feel the guilt and regret creeping into his body like the cold of that room. He hated that part of himself. And I asked myself, lying there, if I had encouraged him or enticed him to do something he had not wanted to do. We lay there silently for almost an hour...trying to think of what to say to each other. He finally arose and, taking my hand, brought me to stand face-to-face in the dim light....a deep blue light from the motel's sign, if I remember correctly, streaming in through the partially-closed venetian blinds. "That's been waiting to happen, hasn't it?" he said, not assigning blame or responsibility...as if the act itself had motivation and purpose. He looked older at that moment...not the youthful, lusty face I had watched over my spread knees as he penetrated me...but fatherly and protective. "Are you OK?" he continued. He always asked me that...after I recounted a painful memory, or shared a disappointment, or listened to his nurturing advice...I could anticipate those words before he spoke them. I'm fine," I lied, forcing a smile. Could he see it in the shadow? 

"I'll tell you about him on the way home...but now it's time to pay our respects at Carolyn's house. The crowd will have thinned by now." 

Driving out of State College to the northwest, approaching the hills, we are headed toward the hardest spot for me to visit...John's home. Although there had always been a quiet discomfort when I visited, it had been the closest thing to a traditional family I had experienced so far...and they included me in all the traditional holidays and family celebrations. He and Carolyn had bought a 150-year-old farmhouse close to Philipsburg, a fairly long commute by the standards of most PSU-faculty, but distant enough to acquire a fairly large piece of property. He had walked the perimeter with me that fall. On our walk, he had quoted (from memory) Frost's "The Road Not Taken"... 

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth. 

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same. 

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back. 

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference." 

Perhaps this was prompted by his totally accidental sighting of me sitting with Lindsay twice the day before...first sharing a bear-claw at the HUB, and then later, with our heads together, smiling at a raunchy joke. He explained how he had made decisions at the crossroads of his life that could not be rescinded now...that new choices could take him in somewhat similar directions to paths he had rejected, but never to the same ultimate destination...and that he tried to make each new decision without regrets. I knew that this path led back through the woods to the house and to Carolyn and the children...and that the first embrace in the rhododendrons and the most recent in the aspen grove were simply forks in the path that led only to diversions. He put his arm around my shoulder as we walked through the deep blanket of leaves, encouraging me to choose a different path than the one he had chosen. He never spoke to me of Lindsay, but I had seen it in his eyes that day as he watched our innocent play. 

I made a decision. I chose a path...or perhaps I forced him to take a path that he had not intended. I pulled back, away from him...emotionally and physically. Even though I could still feel the intensity of his love, I knew it was tearing him apart inside. "Detour...this path is closed for renovations." I missed a few days of work and didn't answer the phone. I ignored the message in my mailbox. I stayed away from all my favorite places knowing he would be there looking for me. I knew I couldn't stay away forever, but I needed space...and time. 

"Blue Ball? There really is a town named 'Blue Ball?" Justin had been studying the map for lack of anything else to do as we drove through "The Happy Valley." 

"Don't take me THERE," he beamed with that toothy grin that always makes me smile. 

The crowd had thinned. The few remaining cars were parked haphazardly over the yard. Entering through the kitchen door, I glanced furtively out the kitchen window, half-expecting to see my younger-self sitting in the darkness, looking in on a now-fatherless family. Carolyn looked tired, but she took my hand almost as if to say "We have both lost him...you and I." I had lost him first. 

The dining room was still painted the blue-gray color that John and I had applied that spring day. He loved the quick work using the roller; I specialized in the detailed painting of the trim and window mullions. "What a team," he said as he "accidentally" dripped paint onto my bare shoulder. Even in common household chores we worked well together. My fingers brushed the cool plaster as if it were his skin...as if he were still there. 

"There are some things he left for you...in the studio," she continued. "And there is a whole pile of sketches and pictures you might want to go through. Take whatever you want." I knew which ones she meant. She paused, not knowing what to say after that. I quickly introduced Justin who, as expected, said just the right thing to a grieving stranger. Turning, I faced John-Junior, the youthful image of his father...and, to my shock after a quick calculation, I realized that he was only 11 months younger than Justin. But the contrast between the two was dramatic; he was a wan, shy young man...younger than his chronological age. After a few words of condolence, Justin and I turned toward the French-doors that led across the terrace to the old barn. John had reserved the loft as his studio...his inner-sanctum...his retreat...his "Paradise" he called it. Climbing the stairs, Justin was immediately struck by the contrasts....the bright sky-light, the modern furniture, an open, airy quality...a sharp contrast to the antique furniture, low ceilings, and fire-lit interior of the main house. It reminded me of John's Carnegie office, expanded 20-fold. I could still distinguish his scent from that of the barn dust and painting solvents; scent-memories remain forever, perhaps...a few molecules of his sweat or his Calvin cologne could still arouse me. 

It was clear that Carolyn had invaded this territory to which she had been denied access all these years. It looked more sparse and more "arranged" than when John was in-residence. She had apparently already thrown away any vestige of his "other life"...the cabinet where the porn videos were stored stood open and empty. But she had saved the drawings and a few paintings. They were stacked neatly on the worktable, some in portfolios, a few in frames. I knew what I would find there. His landscapes had been dispersed to friends...but the nudes were here for me to find. Justin reached them first. He thumbed through the first folio quickly, exclaiming softly as he viewed each one. "Brian, you were beautiful," he murmured...catching his use of the past tense and changing it to 'are' in the next breath. There they were - the sketches and finished drawings of me he had done those long years ago. Carolyn couldn't destroy them, even though she must have hated them. And as I searched through the pile, I found pictures of other boys...obviously not myself, with different body types and hair colors. Carolyn had wanted me to find these too....the silent witness to the last eight years. My breath caught as I realized that each of us, in our own ways, had not been alone. 

Beside the pile was a small package wrapped in brown paper with my name in his familiar, bold printing. It was still sealed. Even in death, his wish had been respected by Carolyn. The size felt familiar, and I knew what it was before I opened it...a second volume of his writings to me. It is painful to read it, even today as I write this, but he speaks to me as I was then and as I am today. The first book had contained the love-letters of a budding relationship...up to the point of its collapse. This flyleaf read "To Brian. Volume 2. A goodbye." 

The first page. "I am learning to do without you. A moment at a time...each moment getting easier by a tiny degree. Each hurt, each disappointment develops a scar that dulls the hurt of the next disappointment...the next rejection...the next insensitivity to MY needs and MY feelings. The roller coaster ride of our relationship has become more exaggerated...the crushing valleys...the euphoric peaks with fleeting glimpses of what we once had. ... We stand at the crossroads of dead-ends." 

I closed the book, first noting that it was only half full. The world's longest suicide note, perhaps? 

The car jolted down the long driveway, worn to muddy ruts by all the visitors. It was time to return to Pittsburgh...and the present. I would never return to State College. Nothing would bring me back now. No reunion. Reuniting with whom? No nostalgic memories to re-live. There is only sadness for me there now. I acquired the knowledge and skills I needed to get that first job in advertising. But those things were, surprisingly, the least significant molders of my future. 

A middle-class boy tasted the good life of art and beauty and the things that money can buy. 

An unsure boy, who used self-deprecating humor to gain attention, let the assertiveness and cutting cynicism takeover again, as they had in high school, hiding the insecurity and self-doubt. 

I learned that, sometimes, the thing we seek most desperately turns-out not to be what we had expected. Love's ways are hard and steep, and when his wings enfold you, the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you...and his voice can shatter your dreams. "For even as Love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth, so he is for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth." * 

I learned that my lithe, fit body could get me the pleasure that feeds upon itself. I discovered that the eyes of men can caress almost as sensuously as their hands...that to be desired satisfies the desire in myself. But some of those lessons were still to come. The trip from my junior-year back to Pittsburgh, which I was about to re-trace again in reality, had changed me in ways that Justin could only glimpse from a vantage-point in the present. 

By-passing the town, we headed directly for Route 220. Justin fingered through the folio which I had tossed into the back seat...and eventually he reached for the package. He had watched my face as I read those few pages and his curiosity was aroused. I could see him in my peripheral vision, watching to see if I would object as he slipped the book out of its loose paper wrapping. The sun had set; it always sets early in these deep, diagonal valleys, but the sky was light enough for him to read. He turned pages quickly, scanning rather than reading. His brow furrowed; he glared at me with angry eyes. I met his gaze, then turned back to the road. Was it jealousy? Did he think that, because I cannot proclaim love, I have never felt it? Did he think he was the only person who had ever loved me? 

This road, from State College to Pittsburgh, represented to me the changes that had occurred within me after my mentor-ship with John. Now I would take Justin on that journey. The first stop was Altoona.