Making Promises (41 page)

“I’ll be seeing you, Ylena,” Shane said now roughly, and that languid hand came up and patted his cheek.

“Do not be counting on it,
lubime
, but I would not be disappointed, either. Drive safely—my son has enough worries.”

“Guaranteed, sweetheart.” And with that, Shane gave her a kiss on the cheek and turned to go. Mikhail walked him to the door, and Shane bent and kissed him on the forehead—discreet, but also tender. Mikhail adored him for it.

“I’m going running tomorrow, so probably around nine or ten,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.

Mikhail nodded, and his heart ached to watch him go. He should say something, he thought miserably. Say something that would make the going easier. Say something that would make him know that dying mother or no dying mother, it was that moment, when Shane walked in the door, that Mikhail would be waiting for in order to start breathing again.

But he could not. He could only capture Shane’s other hand and bring it to his lips and give it his own gallant little kiss. He could watch the slow smile spread on the other man’s face and see the blush and the way Shane ducked his head in an embarrassed—and probably aroused—

goodbye.

The door closed behind him, and Mikhail sighed, and then walked to his mother’s bedside and sat down on the chair nearby.

“A good time,
lubime
?” she asked. He set his chin on his hands and looked at her with shining eyes.

“The best, Mutti—would you like to hear about it?”

“Please.”

And so he told her, all of it. He told her of getting out of the valley, and the way the red-gold light hit the tops of the evergreens in Grass Valley. He told her about Rosie and Arlen and watching the enormous draft horses getting worked and the power of the animal in the ring. He told her about Shane’s gigantic furry dragon, and he blessed the fact that she could still laugh when he described climbing Shane like a piece of gymnastics equipment and crouching there, terrified at the dog’s friendly advances.

“But a dog of Shane’s would not be vicious!” his mother protested, and Mikhail laughed, embarrassed.

“It was as big as me, Mutti!”

“You are not that tall,
malenkiy mal’chik
.” He took her hand and kissed it then. As though he needed a reminder of
that
!

He continued, and told her of the cats, and of Shane’s lovely house.

The floors had been hardwood, and Shane had furnished it simply—

leather couches, dark green or blue rugs on the floor, cream colored walls.

Shane had been quietly proud, and Mikhail had loved it. “He painted the walls himself and laid the flooring. He did not brag, because that is not his way, but it was a true home, Mutti. He is surprisingly good with making things—wood and whatnot. His porch is well crafted.”
This is beautiful, Shane. You do nice work.

I do okay. Nothing to brag about.

But it was, Mikhail thought achingly, telling the story to his mother.

It was something to brag about. Everything about the man spoke of fineness and care. Things too good for Mikhail, but he was not going to burden his mother with that now.

And when he was done with that, he moved on to the family.

“So many, Mikhail? It sounds like a church service?” Mikhail thought about the rowdy group of men and laughed. “No—

there were many people though. They… they helped. The little girls—a tiny baby and a toddler—had so much attention, Mutti. The toddler—

Parry Angel—she loves to dance. I love to see little ones dance—it always seems as though that was what dance is made for.” His mother stroked his hair. “You were happy when you danced as a child,
lubime.
Sometimes, when I regret all that came after, I console myself with that. When you were a little boy, that joy was like God’s holy light. You must promise me to always dance—even if it is simply in your home, with your lover, you must always dance.” Mikhail smiled at her. He couldn’t say why, but it felt like absolution for the thing he loved best to do. “I promise, Mutti.”

“So these babies, they had mothers?”

And Mikhail told her about tiny, maternal Amy and bouncy, emotional Benny. He told her about Deacon, finally, who had carried such an air of quiet grace around him.

“He was not scary, this family patriarch?” Ylena sounded concerned.

Mikhail shook his head. “No. He was strong—oh, Mutti, the strength in him. You had no idea. His man, Carrick, was a little scary, only because you can see in him that he will do exactly what he wants when he wants. If Crick is angry, you had better duck. But Deacon—he is all power and Making Promises

control and love. They are good people. They are,” and it pained him to say it, “they are worthy of being Shane’s family. They listened to him—I could see it from across the room. I had met many of them when Shane was sick, but not as a whole. As a whole… they are wonderful, Mutti. I loved being there.”

Ylena smiled a little, obviously tired, but she patted his cheek and made him continue. He tried for details—the size of the stable, the jokes he heard Jeff tell. He stayed clear of the one about steers and queers, but he told her about the terrible amount of pink in the room for the baby and the pie Benny had bought for dessert because it was Deacon’s favorite.

“He is too thin, Mutti. Finally, I see Shane’s concern for him—it is frightening to know what a toll worry can take on a strong man.”

“Yes, Mikhail. Look at yourself—you have grown lean and tired these last months. Shane has too. Perhaps, when this is over, you can see what joy it will be to have love when there is no worry.” Mikhail blinked. “I had not thought of having Shane when this is over,” he muttered.

Ylena smiled as though unsurprised. “You thought that he was what?

A short-term blessing? You’d best think again,
lubime.
This is not a short-term man. This is a man with a family. They will do nicely for you.” Mikhail chewed on that for a while, uncertain of what to do with it although it was something he had always known. There were other things to talk about, though, and he told murmured stories of his stolen moments until his voice faltered and he fell asleep, his head pillowed in his hands on the pillow next to his mother.

He startled once in the night—it was Ylena, reaching to turn off the monitor that beeped softly with her heart and breathing. “I cannot sleep with it on,
lubime.
Good night.”

When he woke up again, his heartbeat, alone and solitary, was the only noise thundering in the motionless chill of the morning.

WHEN he thought about it later, he would wonder, what would he have done without Shane? Shane would assure him that he would have done just fine, but Mikhail had his doubts.

First he called Shane, and when the phone didn’t pick up, he left a message. The text came back within minutes:
Call the coroner, Mickey.

The number’s on the fridge.
Sure enough, there it was in Shane’s writing.

Mikhail didn’t remember him writing it down, he didn’t remember the discussion or the logic of calling the coroner as opposed to an ambulance, but Shane did. It did not matter. Shane was there before the coroner arrived anyway.

He came bounding in, still wearing running shorts (in winter!) and a T-shirt and looking as though Deacon had shoved a sweatshirt over his head out of sheer desperation. Deacon was there, too, Mikhail would remember, looking grave and composed and mostly helping when he could and staying out of the way when he couldn’t. He managed to be down in the car, getting Shane’s clothes, when Shane took Mikhail aside and spoke seriously.

“Look, Mickey—I can tell you’re holding it all together, and you should.” Shane looked as though he’d wept already, but he wasn’t crying now. “It’s going to be a long day, and you can get all that out of your system when this whole thing is over. But right now, I’m going to leave the room for a minute and hold the coroner off when he gets here. I want you to go say goodbye to your mother, okay? It’s not gonna work—not in your heart—unless you get it clear that this is the last time you see her when she’s gonna really be yours. You got that? You’ll believe me on this?”

Mikhail nodded, trusting him, and grabbed his hand tight. For a moment he was afraid he couldn’t let go. But Shane let go for him and turned him gently, and Mikhail went to look at the wasted skin and bone on the bed that had once been the bright shining star of his world.

“Goodbye, Mutti,” he said softly, feeling silly. He knew she was not in there. Hadn’t they said all there was to say? “You gave me a good life, and then you gave it to me again. I will try to do right by you; it is all I can do.” He stopped for a moment and wiped his eyes. “Do you really think he’ll still want me,” he asked, feeling foolish and self-involved, “when he sees what a mess I will be, now that you are gone? I can hear your voice in my head, old woman, telling me that it is true. I’ve got to hope that you will stay there, because my whole life, the only faith I’ve had has been in you.”

He stopped then before he could go much longer on that subject and bent and kissed her cheek, which was cold under his lips. The beauty, the charm, the intelligence—all of it was gone. Her face was neither happy nor sad, simply still.

But there was no more pain and no more worry and no more self-recrimination, and it was that, at last, that allowed him to let her go.

“Never mind my problems, Mutti. You’ve done your job. My job is not to make a hash out of it, and that is all. I love you. Do not ever doubt it. Goodbye,
lubime.
Remember your journey. We will compare notes when mine comes due.”

There was a thundering up the stairs at that moment, and it was fortunate that Shane made it through the door before the men wearing black windbreakers who carried the gurney. Shane tucked Mikhail under his arm and conversed with the people in black and gave him things to sign and did not expect much more of him as he stood there and trembled, determined that no one should have his tears but him.

And so it was for the next week. Shane dealt with the people from Ylena’s church, he dealt with the insurance people, he dealt with the funeral arrangements. Most of them had already been made—much to Mikhail’s surprise—while Shane and Ylena had sat together. She had trusted him, and his documents were legal and the money paid.

The one thing Mikhail had to speak out about was the one thing that would outrage everybody except Shane.

“Now, Mr. Bayul, your mother was very ill when she put this caveat into her will. I’m sure nobody expects….” The lawyer—a man from the old country who specialized in serving the Russian community, was very conciliatory—and very surprised at how upset Mikhail was
not
at the bizarre request.

“She expected me to,” Mikhail said shortly. “And she was not so ill when she proposed it to me. You did not know this woman—not well. She swore she would haunt me if I did not do this, and I for one believe her.”

“But... you’ll be… you understand—she wished you to do this on her grave side!” He looked desperately at Shane, who merely shrugged.

“I did know the lady, sir. I’d die before I ignored her last wish.” 254

Mikhail cast him a supremely grateful look, and—disregarding the censure of the lawyer—reached for his hand and squeezed it, and that was the last the matter was debated.

Which is how Shane came to be holding the boom box when Mikhail danced to Tchaikovsky on his mother’s grave.

Mikhail was nervous, at first. He looked out at that sea of faces, all of them disapproving, as he stood there in his black dance pants, jazz shoes, and a white dress shirt, and for a moment he tried to make them understand.

“If you knew my mother,” he said in Russian, “
really
knew her, you would understand why she would think this is funny and perfect.” He was met with a stony silence. From the back of the crowd, Shane winked and gave a crooked grin. Behind him, Deacon and Crick and the entire family hopped out of a variety of vehicles and made their way toward Shane.

Mikhail switched to English.

“But you will never know her like I knew her. And that is why I must do this.” He gave a glance to the gray February sky and hoped the thin sunshine would hold up and the wind would give him a fucking break, and then he signaled Shane.

The opening notes of French horn chorale rolled out, Mikhail assumed fifth position, and the dance began.

He’d started the choreography from the moment his mother had first made the request. He knew better than to think she was kidding, and he’d designed the dance to be done by an expert, a professional, a dancer who could perform miracles.

On that barely sunny day, on a slick platform of plywood, he became that miracle.

His knee held, his muscles exploded, his timing was spot on and every movement, every nuance, every moment of the dance was perfect.

Dance like an angel,
his mother had said, and he had promised he would.

He kept that promise with every atom of his being. When the explosive conclusion rocketed the piece to a close, Mikhail was leaping, twisting and vaulting on his little makeshift stage, sweat flying from his hair and his heart, for the moment free from everything, free from worry, Making Promises

pain, or mourning, and free from constraint. When the final chord died, he fell to the stage on one knee, panting, and looked out over the community that should have been his.