Spirit (3 page)

Damn. I thought I had him that time. I handed the kid a tissue, plucked the plate from his hand, and tossed it back in the dishwater in case it had a booger on it—and decided on the spot if Timmy ever managed to stay alive long enough to grow up, he’d probably be president. Two terms. Hell, even I’d vote for him. Both times.

Timmy seemed properly astounded that Thumper truly was alive. He even insisted on holding the leash as we traipsed out into the night. Of course, we were traipsing at a snail’s pace since Thumper’s arthritic joints were not conducive to scampering.

“She’s awful slow,” Timmy whined.

“When you’re old, you’ll be slow too.”

“Then I won’t
get
old.”

“Fine, Peter Pan. Just walk the frigging dog.”

The night was gorgeous and balmy. It was June, and June in San Diego is perfect. With a younger dog, we might have enjoyed the evening for hours, but with Thumper, we barely got around the block. In fact, we didn’t. We were
half
way around the block when Thumper gave out and insisted on being carried the rest of the way home.

“Will you carry me too?” Timmy asked.

“No.”

“Can I wear the leash?”

“Sure,” I said. I unclipped the collar from Thumper’s throat and clipped it around Timmy’s neck. He followed along behind me on the leash like a good little puppy until we passed Mrs. Lindquist, who lives down the block. She was walking her Pomeranian, and when she spotted me with the kid on a leash, she felt it her duty to intervene.

She bent over Timmy and patted his head. “Is this man hurting you?” she asked.

“Woof!” Timmy said.

Mrs. Lindquist straightened up and nailed me with a piercing stare. “Is he normal?” she asked.

I smiled and said, “Define normal.”

Mrs. Lindquist simply shook her head and walked on, dragging the poor Pom behind her. Lucky bitch. At least
her
dog could walk.

Back at the house, we deposited Thumper in among the sofa cushions, and she promptly fell asleep, worn out completely by all the excitement. Timmy didn’t want to take the collar off, so I merely unhooked the leash and left the collar in place around his scrawny neck. He looked like a tiny submissive, waiting for his Dom to come along and whap him with a whip.

I ran a couple of inches of warm water into the tub and laid out a towel and my favorite rubber ducky. Don’t ask.

“We have twenty minutes before the movie,” I said, handing him his pajamas. “Go take your bath.”

“Mommy only makes me take a bath once a month.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Nice try, Timmy. Get in the tub.”

He glowered and snatched the pj’s out of my hand. “Don’t watch. I know you like boys.”

At that, I laughed. “Jesus, kid, just go take your bath, and I’ll make us some popcorn for the movie.”

He brightened up. “With butter?”

“No. I thought I’d just dip it in lard.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Timmy skipped off to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

He skipped back
out
of the bathroom three minutes later. His hair was a little damp, but that was probably just for show. If any other body parts had seen moisture, he couldn’t have been long about it. Unfortunately, I was too worn out to care. His pajamas had little rocket ships on them. I found myself sort of wishing I had a pair.

We settled onto the sofa on either side of Thumper and tuned in to the movie, switching the sound from Spanish to English. Thumper raised her head and growled, so I switched it back to Spanish. Timmy thought it was funny, watching the movie in Spanish. We had English subtitles of course, but he couldn’t read them. At least I didn’t think he could. Still, he didn’t seem to mind.

The movie was so bad I found myself giggling halfway through it. Then it got scary, and I found myself chewing on a cushion and squinting through the gory parts, trying not to look. Timmy and Thumper both sat there wide-eyed and breathless, taking in every spurt of blood and every dying moan from the poor helpless citizens of Burbank being devoured by zombies on the screen.

The movie wasn’t yet over when Timmy doubled over like a pocketknife and fell sound asleep. This time when I oh so carefully carried him in my arms up the stairs and deposited him in his bed, he stayed there.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

I toddled downstairs, as happy as I had ever been in my life, poured myself a healthy dollop of scotch, and settled in to finish the movie. Thumper was still watching it. I guess she liked it too. Her tail was wagging. Or maybe she was just as elated as I was that Timmy had finally crashed.

“What did I miss?” I asked.

Thumper ignored me. Too wrapped up in the movie to respond, I supposed.

After three scotches and the demise of upwards of a hundred movie extras, all torn to shreds and devoured by the scary-ass zombies, I was ready for bed myself.

I peeked into Timmy’s room to make sure he was still sound asleep, and he looked like a little angel lying there in his rocket-ship pajamas. Of course, I had spent the day with him. I knew better.

I brushed my teeth, then switched on the newly acquired baby monitor I had bought myself before Timmy’s arrival and which now sat like a tiny guardian angel on the nightstand insuring me a little peace of mind that Timmy wouldn’t dismantle the house while I slept. The baby monitor exuded a comforting fuzz of sound, filling up the shadows quite nicely. I rather enjoyed hearing it. I tucked myself naked into my bed, since it’s the only way I can sleep, then tucked Thumper under the covers beside me like a hot water bottle. I lay there all snug and secure with the crackly sound of the baby monitor and those three or four scotch and waters coaxing me into dreamland. Thumper rested her chin on my leg and was snoring in less than a minute. It took me a little longer. Just before my eyes and brain happily shut down for the night, a thought hit me in the head like a line drive, jarring me awake.

I bolted straight up in bed, suddenly remembering what Timmy had said at dinner.

“The man in the basement is nice.”

I blinked.

What
man in the basement?

T
WO
HOURS
later I w
as
still wide-awake. The baby monitor was crackling away, cast
ing a comforting blanket of sound across the room. It was like the background ticking of a clock—the unwavering constancy of it never quite pierced the mind or interrupted the thoughts enough to draw attention to itself. Only when Timmy rustled his bedclothes or muttered in his sleep in his room down the hall did I pause for a heartbeat to stare at the monitor’s white plastic casing and listen.

But for the rasping sound of the baby monitor scratching and thrumming in my ears, the world was silent. Outside, the wind was still. No street traffic could be heard. No sirens. No car alarms, thank God. It was late. Almost midnight. And on the streets of South Park, the San Diego neighborhood I called home, it seemed all activity had ceased. I could hear myself breathe, and Thumper snore, and that was about it. Otherwise the night was dead. Motionless. Like a poorly executed painting, the shadows lay around me lifeless and empty and hushed.

The house was so silent I was a little sorry I had watched that damned horror movie. Here I was, approaching thirty, and still after spending two measly hours with a horde of cheesy Hollywood zombies, I found myself all creeped out lying there in the dark. Even at four, Timmy was braver than I. There he lay, fearlessly asleep in a strange room all alone. Meanwhile, his old uncle tossed and turned in his bed down the hall while his ancient dog’s hairy chin dug a hole in his thigh. And Timmy had watched the movie with me. Hell, so had the dog!

Through the monitor I could hear Timmy’s easy breathing, and every once in a while, he snorted, like kids do.

I always glanced at the monitor and smiled at the snorts. I wondered if that was the way a kid develops into a full-fledged snorer. Was it sort of like growing up? While the gradual lengthening of bone brings one closer to adulthood, do a four-year-old’s gentle baby snorts of sleep bring him closer and closer to being the kind of guy who flutters the curtains when he snores?

Timmy was a cute kid, I thought fondly. Little elfin face, kind of biggish ears, which I sincerely hoped the boy would grow into one day. Brown hair cut not too short with a cowlick sticking up in the front. Crystal clear blue eyes as big as dinner plates, as solemn and wise and probing as only a four-year-old’s can be. The only time I entertained even a smidgeon of discontent over the fact that the fates had made me gay was when I looked into my nephew’s soulful blue eyes. For once in a while, in their beautiful azure depths, so innocent and pure and stunningly bottomless, I saw reflected my own niggling sorrow, my own uneasy certainty, that I would never possess a child of my own.

And that was kind of a shame, now, wasn’t it?

But hey, what’s a guy to do? As Popeye always said, “I yam what I yam.” And Popeye was right. We are what we are.
If the fates had decided Jason Day should be homosexual, then Jason Day didn’t have much choice in the matter, did he? And truthfully, I had come to grips with my sexuality years ago—while still in high school, in fact—so there wasn’t much point in complaining about it now.

Besides, I enjoyed being gay. There was just something
incomparable
about sliding your hands and lips over the body of a beautiful man. Especially when that beautiful man trembled and gasped and reciprocated with a little hand and lip action of his own.

Thus it was a little late in the game, a little late at night, and I had consumed a few too many ounces of scotch to be griping about my gayness. Heck, I should be happy I didn’t
look
gay. Well, not
really
gay, at any rate. At five foot nine and fairly well put together, with reddish hair and a reddish buzz-cut beard bristling on my face below a couple of shockingly pale gray eyes, which every trick I had ever entertained in my life had favorably commented on, I was happy with the way I had turned out. And I worked to
keep
myself happy, exercising regularly, jogging, lifting weights, yada yada yada. While the weight training never seemed to beef me up, it did keep me limber and lean and fitting into my favorite jeans. I guess I have what might be called a runner’s body, lithe and trim, with nice fuzzy legs and a tight ass which knew a thing or two itself, don’t think it didn’t. An all-around decent package of manhood, if I say so myself. So yes, in case you’re wondering, I was happy being me.

But it wasn’t only the physical aspects of my life I was happy with. I loved my job designing video games, which I did at home in the remodeled sunroom at the back of the house that now served as my office. From there I could tweak my creations and look out on the backyard at the same time, enjoying my rock garden, my tree roses, the little stand of pines I had planted myself and which were now almost head high, the miniature fountain where the birds came to bathe and gossip. My back lawn was my biggest extravagance, and I loved it. I worked there continually and spared no expense in making it just the way I wanted it to be. The house had a teeny front yard, hardly enough to mow, but the backyard was huge. It was my own little Eden.

Of course, having my own little Eden had not come cheap. My sister had driven a hard bargain when she sold me the property. She might have been heartbroken that her husband of three years had taken a powder, disappearing one day and never returning, without so much as a fuck-you note to explain it, but Sally was not so heartbroken that she couldn’t smell a financial windfall landing in her lap.

While unable to remain in the house because it reminded her of Paul, she still stuck to her asking price, even when she learned it was her very own brother who was interested in buying it. And I didn’t much mind that she did—because I really wanted the house!

And now, a year after selling the home, and three years after her husband disappeared, Sally was off on vacation with the man she was having an affair with, and here I was, babysitting my one and only nephew, Timmy, who at the ripe old age of four was in training to become a world class snorer and running me ragged while he did it.

In truth I had been a bit uneasy when Sally broached the subject of Timmy staying with me for a month. It would, after all, be the first time the kid had spent a night in the house since his father disappeared. While I feared it might bring back repressed memories of missing his father, Sally assured me Timmy was way too young when his father ran off to miss him, or even remember him at all.

And so far that seemed to be the case.

He had called me Daddy after I snatched him up in the backyard that afternoon, but that might have been a slip of the tongue. Maybe the kid’s memory banks had skidded over a cog or two. God knows mine do it often enough.

I rolled over in the bed to get Thumper’s pointy chin out of my leg and made a renewed effort to fall asleep. I counted sheep. Then I counted Big Macs. Finally, I tried to remember back to every trick I had ever slept with, and that was a big mistake. Suddenly, I was not only wide-awake, I was also turned on. And hungry.