Miles (21 page)

Yep,
I was being strangled by barbed wire made out of Christmas lights.

Most
of the class had already left when Doctor Clive and Mister Granger, who shared
the classroom, both called my name.  They looked at me with a mixture of
kindness and sympathy that only made me angry.  Granger said, "You
can go home now, partner."

"Home?"

"If
we don't leave now,” Clive added, “we might get stuck here."

"Oh." 
I gathered my belongings and tried to smile back at my Literature teacher as he
left the room.

Doctor
Clive approached me with his customarily gentle face warming up the room. 
At least the pity wasn't in his eyes, anymore.  "I just learned about
your parents this afternoon."  I hope it didn't put you off your
soup, doc.  "We're all sorry, quite sorry."

"Yeah. 
So am I."

"Any
death is difficult.  This?  Beyond tragic, I'd say.  No
consolation in anything one can say, but we all feel deeply for you."

"Thanks."

Clive
sat down on the edge of a desk.  I was content to lean against the side
chalk board, facing him and Granger.  Clive was by far the most stylish
out of our teachers, a salt-and-pepper rake who wore expensive Scottish tweeds
and wry good looks with the aplomb of an expatriate Brit.  Granger looked
like a CPD detective who got into a lot of trouble for conduct
unbecoming.  Like the rest of our teachers, both could easily be teaching
at the university next door, but chose not to, for some private reason.

"Carried
yourself pretty well last week, considering what's happened, you know.  If
the old man hadn't let on, wouldn't have suspected a thing, the lot of
us."

"You
mean Nico - Mister Rozhdestvensky, he didn't tell you?"

Granger
shook his head.  "Haven't seen him all day.  Don't think he made
it in, tell you the truth."

My
face fell as those Christmas lights drew tighter around my throat. 
"I should go," I murmured.

"Yes,
well, so do I."  Clive took out a small cigarette from his jacket and
lit it.  "You live in the bush, don't you?  Out
south?"  I nodded impatiently.  "Let me give you a
lift.  I've got one of those Jeep contraptions, so we won't get stalled in
that muck outside."

"But
you live near Lincoln Park, don't you?"  On the North Side. 
Yuk.

"Certainly
do, but I've got a dinner appointment with a lady that's worth a drive in a
snowstorm for.  Radio woman.  Lives near you, I'm pretty
certain."

The
German in me sensed a trap.  "You don't have to, sir.  I'll be
fine on the train."

“Until
it takes flight?  Come on, kid!”  Granger almost slapped me into the
wall as he patted my shoulder before plodding away.

"Bad
company or not, I insist."

"I
have to pick up a book from Margo, first."  I was getting too good at
this lying-on-the-fly bit.  "She lives just around the block."

Doctor
Clive eyed me carefully before sending me off with his cigarette. 
"I'll meet you in the parking lot.  Fifteen minutes, then?"

I
ran out the door and out of the building, straight to Nicolasha's apartment.

*

There
was no sign of his Volvo.  Nobody answered his doorbell.  There were
no lights on in his apartment.  His mail hadn't been removed from the box.

I
punched the side of the building as I left.

*

Clive
was an excellent driver.  We were in my driveway in less than an
hour. 

We
had listened to an obscure alternative rock station on the far left of the FM
dial.  I could tell he wanted to sing along with the screaming, peroxided
punkers.  The DJ, who sounded as young as I was, took a moment to intone
that a traveler’s advisory had been issued, and for drivers to use caution, due
to the snow.  He paused, and then screamed "Duh!"

We
both laughed, but that was it for any conversation, until I climbed out of the
Jeep.

"I
suppose you've heard a brigade's worth of people saying things like 'If there's
anything I can do'."

"Yep."

"Won't
add m'self to the list, then.  Call if you need to.  Student rates
apply."

"Thanks,
I will."  I glanced toward my empty house.  I didn't want to go
inside.  "Can I ask you a question, Doctor 'C'?"

The
Brit switched off his Jeep and put on his game face.  "Of course, you
can."

"Is
there something the matter if you...” I had to sift through a number of
subjects before crying rose to the top of the list “...if you keep breaking
down?” 

(All
the time?  In the shower?  Making love?  In your sleep?  In
the dark, at the movies?  When nobody’s looking?  In the same bed
with someone?)

"You
mean cry?"  My look lowered Clive’s arching eyebrows. 
"No.  Not unless you're British."  I nodded curtly. 
He winked at me and left.

*

I
called Nicolasha every fifteen minutes until I went to bed, but there was no
answer.

I
even dug out that Basilio's business card and called him at his studio.  I
couldn't tell if he was surprised to hear from me, with his strange, squeaky
voice.  He hadn't heard from "Nicky", either, but promised to
tell my music teacher I needed to talk to him, "if they ran into each
other."

How
the hell do you run into someone in a snowstorm?

The
phone didn't ring all night, and I slept badly, on the couch and alone.

*

I
took another early and deserted train to Hyde Park the following morning. 

The
deep and fresh snow made everything, from our backyard all the way to Hyde
Park, look beautiful.  Untouched.  Peaceful.

I
was reduced to being thankful I could still identify something to do with
peace.

No
Volvo.  No answer.  No lights.  The same mail in the same place.

I
skipped breakfast and sat on a bench in the middle of the University, starting
and restarting a poem I didn't like in the leather notebook Brennan had given
me over the weekend.

I
ignored the curious glances from the passing university students as my wheels
spun almost out of control, retracing the past few weeks in my mind with nearly
possessed detail, sitting alone and out of place in a Gothic courtyard that
would seem haunted, if I had taken the time to notice.

I
broke off a large, round piece of ice from the side of the bench, and held it
in my bare hand, squeezing it until my hand and arm shook from the
effort.  It was too thick to break.  The cold water dripped out of my
frozen fingers and down my wrist and shirt sleeve, until the ice finally melted
into a shape that collapsed under the pressure of my grip.

My
hand still hurt after I put it back into my gloves, but not as badly as my
heart did, turned inside-out by the conclusion I found inescapable.

God
damn you, Felix.

*

The
entire class looked at me strangely as I walked into Mister Granger's room
after the bell had rung, a few seconds before.  I was never late. 
None of us were ever late.  I didn't even show up in the two classes
before that, which was unheard of.  Felix didn't look at me, Granger
barely so, a brisk nod that understood, forgave, and forgot, in one fell swoop.

Forgiveness...I
wondered what that was?

Our
Literature teacher had published a gripping and horrific fictional memoir of
his service in Korea a few years ago, but kept teaching while he toiled over
his follow-up novel.  He had wound imagery and gestures into his
storytelling without a shred of effort, and demanded the most out of our
readings and writings.  Every class was an emotional roller-coaster, but
it was so real, so visceral, whenever his wide, rounded eyes scanned the room
while Granger's rich baritone voice began discussing or reading something.

We
had come to
Richard III
. 

"It's
time to read.  Anyone?"  He avoided my side of the room, even
though I was the only guy to raise his hand.  Of course Kim raised
hers.  Felix looked like he was about to raise his hand.

"I'd
like to read."  I met Felix's eyes very hard.  The room was
uncomfortably silent.   Granger finally acknowledged me with another
clipped nod.  He sat in his seat like he always did, with his elbows dug
into his knees, his face resting on his folded hands, his eyes half-closed, in
order to take in the reading fully.  "Read to the cheap seats,"
he would always say. 

But
I was reading for only one seat.  Each syllable and phrase hissed through
my clenched teeth and jaw.  The words became forever, and mine. 

"Now
is the winter of our discontent...cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time into this breathing world, scarce
half made up...since I cannot prove a lover...I am determined to play a villain
and hate the idle pleasures of these days..."

The
emotionless, icily enunciated reading I gave rumbled in the classroom long
after Mister Granger raised his palm and brought me to a halt.  A strange,
exciting power had flooded through my senses as I read, making those
centuries-old words fly off of the typeset pages in front of me and into the
collective consciousness of my classmates and teacher.  I took my time
before I sat back down.

Granger
coughed twice to clear his throat.  "What did you hear in this
Richard
,"
he asked?  The responses given by my fellow classmates gratified me.

"A
lot of pain."

"Someone
crushed by their separateness."

"Defiant
hatred."

"Consuming
emotions."

"Loneliness. 
He's so lonely from the rest of the world, he wants to destroy it."

"Sadness
turning into something else."

"An
unjust life being rebelled against."

"The
pain everyone feels about their place in the world."

"The
edge of madness."

Personally,
I heard myself.  And I dared Felix to look back at me.

*

When
I went to Nicolasha's apartment after school, the mail had been removed, and,
from the front porch, I could see his entire living room had been, too.

He
was long gone.

* * *

And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.

Othello

It
was Friday night.  I had spent all week trying to make contact with
Nicolasha.  His landlady had no idea where he had gone, and seemed
concerned about how he was acting before he disappeared into the evening
sunset.  Basilio kept denying he knew anything at all, and hung up on me
after I called the fifth time.  Nobody at school would even talk about it,
except to say that Mister Rozhdestvensky had resigned.  I even tried to
contact his parents in Washington D.C., but they were on tour with the National
Symphony somewhere in Europe.  I left a message, along with all the others
I had spread out across the city of Chicago.

It
was Mister Granger who told me what had happened, hidden in the privacy of the
Pilot School's ancient library stacks during lunch period.

A
student claimed he had been molested by Nicolasha during a visit to his apartment,
and another anonymous note professed that an attempt was made on him, as
well.  A faculty Board of Inquiry refused to take a position, citing
inconsistencies in the stories told by the students interviewed. 
Evidentally, the entire Junior-level faculty backed Nicolasha.  In a
million years, I could not picture Messieurs Abbado, Clive, Granger, Tanaka,
and Wheatley, our highly eccentric calculus professor, agreeing on anything,
above and beyond what day it was (and, even then, Wheatley would probably cite
some astronomical anomaly to suggest it was in fact Wednesday...). 
Nicolasha had burst into tears during his "questioning" by
Gruppenfuhrer Connelly, and withdrew on the spot, unwilling to confront the
charges in another forum.

I
asked Mister Granger why he was telling me things I was clearly not meant to
know.

"Because
I don't think Nicolas did anything, either."

*

The
phone rang twice.  I leapt at it each time.

Uncle
Alex would finally arrive Sunday morning, flying down with his easels, oils, and
steamer trunks.  It sounded like he had a send-off party going on in the
background, so the conversation was short.

Brennan
was on his way over to pick me up for a night at the movies and, later, a
fireside chat.  He complained about getting busy signals all week, but I
didn't explain.

As
I was cleaning up the family room, the doorbell rang.  I ran to answer it,
looking forward to a good, long, close hug from Brennan.  I knew the hug
wasn't going to make me feel any better about Nicolasha's disappearance, but I
wanted one, just the same.
         

My
smile melted away in an instant.  It was Felix.

There
he was, still short, still cute, black hair going off in every direction, a
face made to look happy but now wearing a mug that brought me back to the wake. 
He looked he had just gotten back from one.  His father's Continental was
parked and running on the street in front of our house.  They wouldn't
even pull into the driveway.

"Hi." 
I nodded once, without moving aside to welcome him into the house. 
"I wanted to give you this."  The young Cromwell held out a
thick envelope.

"What's
that?"

Felix
shrugged.  "I spent all afternoon writing it."

"I
don't want it."

Felix
reached forward with his free hand and touched my shirt sleeve. 
"What's happened with us?  You were like my brother before we left
for Florida.  Mom and Dad are really upset."  His voice broke in
a sadly adorable way.  I looked away for a moment.  I missed Jason
and Arlene, too.  "Please take it."

"No."

I
went to slam the door in Felix’s face, but he sprang forward into the door
jamb.  I snarled like a werewolf, taking his parka in both hands and
swinging him to the tile floor, knocking the breath out of him.  I knelt
over Felix and mashed my mouth over his, forcing his lips open, practically sucking
his tongue down my throat. I didn’t see or feel his legs flailing under mine,
much less, his panicked arms trying to pry me off him.  I only stopped
when I tasted blood (which turned out to be his). The pause was long enough for
me to hear him choking for air inside my mouth.

I
rolled off Felix, who, rather than bolt back up and run or even scurry away on
his knees, tried to fix his hair and re-arrange his layer of shirts with
averted eyes. He stood up unsteadily and had trouble hitching his slacks back
into place.  He looked like he was going to try and say something, but
left without a sound instead.

My
heavy breathing stuttered with glee when I realized Felix couldn’t get his
britches righted because he had had a terrific hard-on from his first boy kiss.

*

Later
on, Brennan didn't ask what was bothering me.  He just saw the dead look
on my face, sat us down next to the fireplace, and tried cuddling me.  I
stayed mute.  We sat there for the rest of the night, silent together,
until we fell asleep, still in our clothes, still holding on to each other.

*

The
following Monday morning, as I was going to my locker, Felix ran up and cut me
off at the top of the staircase.  He held me back with one hand and
carried his letter in the other.

"Please
wait a minute.  Please."  He was out of breath.  I glared
at him, my teeth grinding.  "Read my letter.  It'll explain
everything."

"Explain?"

He
nodded like a drunken marionette.  I lowered my head and took a step
backwards.  Felix relaxed a bit, which I took quick note of. I swung out
the full length of my arm, throwing all my weight behind my fist as it smashed
across and broke Felix's nose.  Blood spurted out of his face as he
screamed sharply and lost his footing.  Felix tumbled down the iron stairs
into a group of lower graders, knocking them over like they were bowling pins.

I
wheeled past Doctor Clive as he emerged from his homeroom, hearing Felix's
loud, painful sobbing down the hall.

*

I
got suspended.  Not just the first in my class, but the first in the Pilot
School for over 21 years.  Uncle Alex cared less.  I didn’t say a
word to Brennan, because his ‘why’s’ had a way of lasting hours, if not whole
days. I caught up on my sleep.

*

In
his first act as "head of the household", Uncle Alex turned our
backyard into an ice skating rink.

Instead
of unpacking or buying a car or even cleaning out Dad's old bedroom, you know,
something productive, he spent all week mounting and nailing the baseboards
together, laying down and sealing the plastic tarpaulins he brought with him
from Minnesota, and, to finish the job, filled the massive frame with hose
water.  It was below twenty-degrees the entire time he toiled away, and it
still took two days for the water to freeze completely.

My
contribution to the project was to install an 8-track player (on loan from
Brennan's dad) into our barbecue shell, with speakers running along the back of
the house.  The stereo filled in the icy expanse of our back yard very
nicely.  Sound carries in a funny way during the winter.

Unc
proclaimed the rink suitable for use Thursday night.  The first thing I
did was to play the
Gloria all'Egitto
from Verdi's
Aida
rather
loudly, shaking one of the speakers clear off of the house.  Unc approved,
and demanded I make tapes of every loud opera chorus and march I had in my
collection.

Being
suspended from school wasn't so bad, after all.

*

Brennan's
dad, George, was the handy man's handy man, a first-rate landscaper as well as
private cultivator of interesting equatorial plant species.  Unc made a
point of being too nice and over-paying him when he came over to install a
number of flood lights over the rink.  Good handy men were worth their
weight in gold, Unc believed.  He didn't have go overboard, though. 
George was in on the secret about the particular nature of me and Brennan’s
relationship, and seemed supportive of us in a quiet sort of way.

We
weren't sure about Doris, Brennan's thirty one-year-old mother, but, then
again, nobody really was...

I’d
gone pale when Brennan said he had told his dad about us.  It seemed
important to Brennan, so I didn't put up much of an argument, until he started
pushing me to do the same with Uncle Alex.  We agreed to disagree. 
Temporarily, Brennan insisted.

*

During
the weekend, Felix called twice.  I hung up the moment I heard his voice
the first time.

Me
and Brennan were about to undress each other and do the fur-and-fireplace thing
when Felix called for the second time.  He sounded like he was crying, and
said something I could barely understand, making me feel like I had been
teleported into one of my bad dreams.  I told him to go to hell, and
slammed the phone down.

Brennan
sat down next to me on the couch and held one of my hands, waiting for me to
start talking, but I didn't.  I couldn't even begin to think about the
betrayal I felt, the violence Felix used against Nicolasha to get to me,
shattering the trust I between us.  It was limitless.  Much less, the
pain and shame in my heart, knowing how Nicolasha must have felt about the
trust and love he’d placed in me.  It was inestimable.

I
had years of familial inculcation to prevent me from spewing out what was
raging inside of me.  Brennan didn't understand this, and took my not
opening up to him as a deep and personal rejection.

Our
night together collapsed like a straw house in a gale.  He didn't say a
word to me and went home, leaving me alone to use Uncle Alex as a bad example
and Wyborowa myself to sleep.

*

I
became an odd sort of celebrity upon my return to school.  In the
bathroom, Zane whispered I was the first ever Pilot School student to be
suspended for fighting. It wasn't a fight, I thought, it was an attack. 
Counterattack, really.  I saw glimmers of respect in many eyes, especially
the lower graders, as I stalked through the halls in my ticking time bomb
style.  I also picked up on the antagonism that Felix attracted wherever
he went.

Nicolasha,
the beloved Papa Rozh, was gone.  Three students had been called down to
the office over something to do with him.  One was too quiet and
unassuming to have said anything.  Another got suspended for punching out
the third, a new kid nobody had really gotten to know.

And
the new kid got blamed.  Too bad for the little bastard.

*

I
got off of the train late that night.  I decided I didn't want anything to
do with the Pilot School coming into my house, at least for the time being, so
I did all of my homework at school. 

I
was quietly stunned to see Brennan waiting for me on the platform.  It was
already dark, and very cold.  He had taken the night off from work and
been waiting for me to get off of a train for two hours.

"What
are you doing here?  I thought you were mad at me."

The
only friend I had left smiled weakly.  "I still am."  He
took a step closer to me.  "But I love you, and wanted to tell you
that to your face, so you wouldn't forget."

"That
would be pretty hard," I replied softly.

We
hugged for so long out there in the cold, I wondered if any of the cars waiting
for their commuting husbands and wives noticed, or made remarks about us.

*

Me
and Uncle Alex had an outdoor party the following Saturday, and it was a
gigantic success.

I
invited Lawrence and his family (but they didn't come, as Unc predicted);
Mister Granger, who couldn't go; Zane, who asked Farrah to be his date (and
arranged for them to spend the night with us "since they lived so far
away"!); and Doctor Clive, whose radio gal companion stunned us all by
wearing a floor-length parka and a tight nylon skating dress, which showed off
her sexy young body.  Brennan invited his parents and all our baseball
friends, most of whom brought dates I didn’t recognize.  And Uncle Alex
invited some tough-looking Israeli woman, who was his agent or something. 
She out-skated everyone, except Doctor C's radio gal.  Unc found some
caterers willing to do an outdoor spread prepared to withstand the winter
elements, with cuisine featuring the very finest in ballpark eats: thick kosher
hot dogs, beer-soaked bratwursts, giant pretzels, snow cones (with a number of
tasty liqueurs on hand for flavoring with a kick), freshly-fried nachos,
drumsticks, and, of course, a giant trail mix made up of Cracker Jack,
unshelled peanuts, and over-salted cheese popcorn.