“You call this an effort?! This is just his way of trying to control my life when, you know, it can fit into his schedule.” Ronan started to respond, but Michael continued, “He's just feeling guilty because he blew me off at Christmas. He thinks he can make up for it now. Well, guess what.” Ronan didn't even attempt to respond this time. “This is January! Christmas is over!”
Ronan watched Michael pace the room a while longer until the adrenaline started to release itself from his system. He completely understood Michael's feelings and felt he was totally justified in thinking his father was only trying to make up for past wrongs, but Vaughan was still his father. Sometimes parents act like children, it happens, and when it does, children can either make matters worse or decide to grow up. “I think you should say yes.”
Immediately, Michael stopped pacing. “What?”
“I know your dad's hurt you by acting . . . irresponsibly,” Ronan began. “But I would do anything to have another conversation with my father. Maybe you should take this opportunity to have another one with yours.”
Michael had to pace the length of the room a few more times to absorb this information. Finally he stopped and knelt on the bed, touching Ronan's foot underneath the covers for no real reason. Well, maybe to connect with something tangible. His relationship with his father was complicated; a part of him wanted it to move forward and yet a part of him wished it had never existed. The more he learned about his father, the more he realized they were drastically different, they didn't share any of the same interests, and now that he was no longer even technically human, what could they possibly have in common? Plus his father made it quite clear that he didn't approve of Michael being gay. “No, I just don't think there's any reason to have dinner with him.”
“It'll give you an excuse to practice dematerializing your food,” Ronan quipped.
Michael squeezed Ronan's toe, making him squeal and wiggle underneath the covers. “Ow! That hurts!” Ronan shouted while laughing hysterically.
“Yeah, you sound like I'm killing you.” He didn't want to talk about his father anymore. He didn't want to talk at all. Michael crawled underneath the covers and snuggled next to Ronan to calm down before the alarm was set to go off. But before Ronan could ask him again, he answered, “I'm going to do exactly what my father always does to me. Ignore him.”
Â
Five hours later, Michael, true to his word, still hadn't responded to his father's text. It wasn't that he was just being stubborn, it was simply that every time he thought of responding, he didn't know what to say. Since it was Friday, he couldn't use the excuse that he was prohibited from leaving campus, because the students were able to visit family on the weekend. And every time he thought he was going to cave in and agree to his father's request, he reminded himself that it was going to be a painful evening. Sitting on the sofa in the anteroom of St. Joshua's Library across from Ciaran, Michael was happy not to have to ponder the question any further, until, of course, Ronan plopped down on the couch next to him. “Have you decided about dinner?”
“What's to decide?” Ciaran asked. “You gents don't eat.”
“Pack it up, will you,” Ronan cried. “Michael's father wants to have dinner with him tonight.”
“Do it,” Ciaran responded.
It wasn't so much that Michael was surprised by Ciaran's quick response, it was the tone he used, it was so positive and that wasn't like him. It was the same as yesterday at lunch. He had sounded different, not really like himself, more upbeat, optimistic. The weird thing was it appeared to be natural and not like he was trying to hide anything, force himself to be happy in order to cover up something bad that happened. What were he and Phaedra just saying? That boys were a mystery. “You really think I should?”
Rubbing a soft spot on the armchair where the olive green leather had started to fade, turning yellowish, Ciaran thought of his own father. He would love to call him up and invite him to dinner or chat with him about nonsense or tell him how well he was doing in school, but he didn't know where his father was, or if he was even still alive. Ronan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He picked at a loose thread in the velvet couch and avoided Ciaran's eyes because he knew exactly what Ciaran was thinking. They both knew the reason Ciaran had no relationship with his father was all Edwige's fault. “Michael, I don't usually tell people what to do, but this time I'm going to make an exception,” Ciaran stated. “Tell your father you'd be happy to have dinner with him.” This time, despite the optimistic message, Ciaran sounded very much like his old self. He acted like his old self too. “Excuse me, I need to get to the lab.”
Maybe it was guilt from watching Ciaran scurry out of the library or compassion from watching Michael trying to deal with his dilemma; regardless, Ronan had made a decision. “I'll go with you.”
The comment surprised them both. “You will?” Michael asked, and then just to make sure he understood Ronan correctly, he clarified, “You'll have dinner with me and my father?”
There isn't a thing I wouldn't do for you Michael.
“Yes, I will join you and break bread with my father-in-law.” Without glancing around to see if anyone was looking, Michael leaned over and kissed Ronan's cheek as thanks. “Or, you know, laser beam the bread into millions of little pieces.”
The decision finally made, Michael sent a text to Vaughan accepting his invitation, making it clear that Ronan would be joining them. He might be giving in to his father, but he was going to do it on his own terms. A few seconds later, Vaughan responded with his own text, which Michael read aloud. “He says, âthat's wonderful. My new driver will pick you up at six tonight.' ”
“Then we're all set,” Ronan said, trying to sound as if he found the prospect cheerier than he really did. “I have to go meet Fritz and work on a theology report. That bloke's got some interesting thoughts on eternal life, I must say.”
“I'm going to stay here and do some studying. I'll see you at home.”
As he walked by, Ronan cupped Michael's chin and gave him a wink. Eternal life never felt so good. The same could not be said for studying for a world history exam. He opened the thick textbook and almost immediately the words on the page started to blur together. Michael's eyes were drawn away from his book and toward the towering portrait that hovered over the fireplace. Brother Dahey stared at him, his expression at once bemused and condemning, his black eyes peering directly at him from across the centuries, from beyond the grave, and suddenly Michael felt very tired. Gone was St. Joshua's, gone was the portrait and the fireplace, gone were the endless rows of books, and in their place was only one thing, The Well.
Michael stood at the curved stone that jutted out from the ocean's floor just as he had done before, naked and willing, filled with a mixture of modesty and a desire to share in The Well's magnificent power. He wanted to be subject and ruler at the same time. But most of all, he didn't want to be alone.
He turned around to look for Ronan, but he wasn't there. This wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be at The Well by himself; it went against everything his race stood for, unless something had happened to Ronan, something terrible, something unspeakable. No, that couldn't be. Michael refused to believe that he was going to wind up like Edwige, alone, forever separated, forever one half of a coupling that was supposed to last for eternity. When skin touched his arm, he was no longer afraid. Ronan was beside him, where he belonged.
The Well agreed. It began to hum, its sound growing louder, vibrating all around them, and Michael and Ronan felt the energy of their entire race pulse through them. A beautiful white light burst forth from the center of The Well and they prepared themselves for the final transformation. Fangs descended, bodies elongated, fingers, toes, no longer separated but webbed together. They had been re-created in true image of the inhabitants of Atlantis and it felt heavenly, but everything changed when Michael peered over the stone rim to drink The Well's precious fluid. What he saw horrified him.
The clear liquid, usually so smooth and flat, began to ripple without being touched, to form a grotesque and unrecognizable face. The picture, the illusion, the reflection, whatever it was, lasted for only a second, but it was so disturbing that Michael could still see the image in his mind's eye even after the light retreated and darkness took over the cave. “Ronan!” Reaching out, Michael felt nothing but the cold air. He couldn't see a thing. The darkness was thick, oppressive, and Michael truly thought he was going to suffocate from either fear or the blackness. What was happening? This was supposed to be a heavenly place filled with beauty and light. This was supposed to be a place that felt like a dream, not the most dreadful nightmare. “Ronan! Where are you?”
He clutched at the space in front of him, unable to see his hand move, and sought the edge of The Well. Where was it? It couldn't be that far away, he hadn't moved more than a few inches. Michael admonished himself and tried to stop thinking logically, rational thought had no place here. If it did, Ronan would be standing right next to him.
But even though he couldn't see or feel him, Ronan was near. Through the darkness he could hear his voice, his beautiful Irish accent. “Even in the darkness you have the face of an angel.” The words were as clear as if Ronan whispered them into his ear, but when Michael flailed his arms all about him, they still touched nothing, only emptiness.
Is this death?
Michael thought.
Is this what I have to look forward to?
Frightened and more than a little bit angry, he refused to believe that the last image he would see before leaving this world would be something disgusting, something unworthy of existing within the presence of The Well. And then as quickly as the darkness fell, light returned.
Michael was no longer in a cave in the Atlantic Ocean. He was once again in St. Joshua's. His eyes darted all over the room and nothing had changed; he had just fallen asleep. Why, then, did he feel he had taken a journey into the future? Why, then, did he feel that someone was trying to separate him from Ronan? And why had Brother Dahey's eyes changed? The whites surrounding his pupils were gone and there was not a spot on the surface of either eye that wasn't covered in black.
chapter 6
Night had come early. It was only four
P.M.
, but already the sky was a deep shade of blue. The lights from the windows of several buildings on campus tried their best to penetrate the premature darkness, but they succeeded only in casting a glow here and there, shooting out brief glimmers of hope into the blue-black dusk. Walking swiftly from St. Joshua's, Michael realized he much preferred the sunlight. Odd insight for a vampire, but luckily he was a vampire who wasn't confined to the shadows. Or, he recognized, barred from places of worship.
Every time Michael stood before Archangel Cathedral he stood in awe. No matter how much of a rush he was in, as he was now, he couldn't help but stop and marvel at the beauty and craftsmanship of the church. He wasn't sure what was more impressive: the wood carvings of the seven archangels that framed the arched doorway or the circular yellow stained-glass window that floated almost ethereally above it. Not that it really mattered, one couldn't exist without the other. In fact, each piece of the cathedral's architecture was built to enhance the beauty of the whole structure. Hawksbry had once told Michael that the cathedral was like the school itself. Each component, like each student, wasn't created to stand out as the highlight, wasn't meant to be a focal point, but was brought together to work in harmony. Building a better school would lead to building a better self, he had said. Watching the moonlight bounce off the yellow stained glass and soften the dark sky, Michael wished Hawksbry was still around; he had always been a calming influence. And by the time he got home, Michael was anything but calm.
“No, Ronan,” Michael stressed. “It was much more than a dream!”
Ronan knew Michael might be right. He knew that his outlandish claim could be true, but at the moment, he didn't feel like debating the validity of Michael's latest delusion or even wholeheartedly supporting it. He didn't want to talk about
what if
's or
could be
'sâhe just wanted to finish getting dressed. Wearing only a pair of black chinos, Ronan opened one dresser drawer after the other in search of his favorite sweater, the reddish-purple V-neck that his mother had given him for his birthday last year. Luxuriously soft and slightly too large, it was the retail equivalent of comfort food, and tonight Ronan wanted to be as comfortable as possible. “Here you are,” Ronan said, elated. He pulled the sweater from underneath a few T-shirts and laid it on the bed, unfolding it and smoothing it out in the hopes that some of the creases would disappear.
“Are you going to ignore me?” Michael asked.
Unable to remain quiet any longer, Ronan finally spoke. “I'm sure it felt real, but face it, Michael, you have been anxious about us lately, thinking that I ran off to heaven knows where the other day. This
dream
was nothing more than a result of that.”
A logical boyfriend is more annoying than a silent one. “Well, okay, that kind of makes sense.”
“Because it's true.”
Scratch that. A boyfriend who thinks he's always right is worst of all. But he wasn't right, Michael couldn't explain it, he just knew it. “Then why did it feel like it was happening? Or like it was definitely going to happen, like it was our future?”
Crossing his arms, Ronan scrutinized Michael. When he spoke, his tone was as harsh as his expression. “Well, which one is it?”
Stunned by his boyfriend's gruff tone, Michael took a few moments before he responded. “I . . . uh . . . I really don't know.”
His frustration mounting, Ronan no longer cared if he sounded sarcastic or pompous, he simply wanted to convince Michael that his theory was nonsense. “Well, I do and it wasn't either one,” he said. “It wasn't happening at the moment you dreamed it because I wasn't near The Well, I was in St. Joseph's with Fritz and that dumb prat Amir, working on our theology paper.” Before Michael could remind him that he could have had a premonition of their future, Ronan exhaled deeply, grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and pressed his forehead against his. “And how many times do I have to tell you that we will be together forever.” Ronan concentrated on how cool Michael's skin felt, how delicious he smelled, until an uninvited thought entered his mind and he stepped back. “That is what you want, isn't it?”
Once again Michael was stunned, this time by Ronan's words. How could he think such a thing? How?
Well, maybe,
Michael thought,
because he was constantly suggesting that they were on the verge of eternal separation.
“No!” Michael protested. “I don't want that!” Realizing what he actually said, Michael grabbed Ronan's arm, causing him to pull farther away. “No! I mean I want us, you and me, always, forever.”
Michael mumbled a few more words, but Ronan didn't hear them because he was kissing him. That's all he wanted to know, that's all he wanted to believe. He didn't care about Michael's dreams or premonitions or his crazy ideas, none of that mattered; the only thing that mattered was how wonderful Michael's lips tasted. That and the fact that they now had less than an hour to get ready.
Forget about visions of The Well and Brother Dahey's portrait
,
that damned portrait,
Ronan told himself.
Our life is supposed to be filled with moments like this, mundane but real moments filled with jokes and laughter. Michael just has to stop complicating matters.
“I call the bathroom first.”
“Don't hog it up like you usually do.” Michael laughed.
It worked. “You do want me to look presentable for your father, don't you?”
“That's just the point,” Michael cracked. “He's
my
father. I should be the one making sure I look my best.”
“Since he's your father, he's going to think you look smashing no matter what you look like.”
This gave Michael the biggest laugh he'd had in days. “Seriously?! My father'll be lucky if he recognizes me!”
A quick kiss, one more, and Ronan ran into the bathroom. Of course the second after he closed the bathroom door, he remembered something he wanted to tell Michael. “Hey! Fritz asked if you found âthat stuff' for him!” Ronan shouted.
“What stuff?”
They were truly never going to be dressed and ready by six o'clock. “I don't know, he wouldn't tell me,” Ronan said, swinging the door open. “He was acting all mysterious when I questioned him about it, though. All he would say is that you promised to look for . . .” Ronan dropped his voice an octave lower. “That stuff?”
“Oh, right, that stuff,” Michael said, remembering their conversation. “Of course.”
First Fritz, now Michael. Was no one going to fill him in? “Oh, come on! What stuff are you talking about?”
His dream a distant memory and dinner still a part of the future, Michael was enjoying teasing Ronan in the present. “Hmm, could be a bunch of stuff,” Michael said. “Are you jealous that Fritz and I have a secret?”
Now it was Ronan's turn to laugh, deep, genuine. “Jealous? Of you and Fritz? Absolutely not.” As Ronan continued to howl with laughter, Michael wasn't sure to join in or be insulted.
“Fritz is very handsome,” Michael protested.
“I guess, but he's also very straight,” Ronan pointed out. Looking at the hands of the clock moving ever closer to their time of departure, Ronan decided it was pointless to keep digging and time to act like the mature one in their relationship. “Fine, I don't give a fig about whatever stuff there is between you and Fritz.” Turning abruptly, he went back into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Michael stared at the closed door in disbelief and then shouted, “It's about
Tales of the Double A!
I told Fritz I might have some old comic books he could use as inspiration.”
Suddenly the door swung open. “I knew that would make you tell me.” Before Michael could respond, the door shut again. “Now hurry up and get dressed,” Ronan shouted. “We don't have much time.”
I'm a vampire, I need about three seconds to get dressed,
Michael thought, and even if he weren't, he didn't care about impressing his father. He would probably just throw on jeans and a T-shirt; no need to make it look like he spent time getting ready. He had better things to do, like find those comics for Fritz, if he could only remember where he stashed them.
He stared at the boxes on the top shelf of the closet and wished that he had X-ray vision. That would be cool, he thought, just like Superman, able to peer through solid objects, see if his old comic books were in any of those boxes, see what kind of underwear Professor McLaren wore. Michael blushed at the idea, but then couldn't help but wonder if the handsome British lit professor wore boxers or briefs. No, he couldn't remember putting the comics in the closet, but he did decide that McLaren was more of a boxers kind of guy.
Pushing distracting thoughts of teachers in their underwear from his mind, Michael lay on the floor and looked underneath his bed. Dust, an old pair of Ronan's sneakers, more dust, and yes, there they were, his comic books jutting out from behind a small shoe box. He pulled the box out and then reached in to grab his comics. Once he felt the familiar glossy material, he was transported back to his bedroom in Weeping Water. The refreshing difference was that this time, the memory was a good one.
In between reading schoolbooks and rereading his favorite classic novels, Michael would often sit cross-legged in bed, ignore the loud, angry voices coming from downstairs, forget about whatever embarrassing incident took place that day at Two W, and immerse himself in the adventures of some superhero. He loved to read that a normal boy could become an incredible, invulnerable being overnight armed with amazing powers. He never thought his fantasy would actually come true. “Guess I am sort of like a superhero,” Michael muttered. A superhero disguised as a very curious human.
When he pushed the shoe box back underneath the bed, the lid got caught on the metal bed frame and fell off. Grabbing the lid to put it back where it belonged, he saw that the box didn't contain shoes but letters. He hesitated, he knew he shouldn't rummage through things that weren't his, but, well, it's not like he went looking for the box nor did he open it up deliberately, it was just there, right in front of him, opened.
Instinctively, Michael turned around, but the bathroom door was still closed and he could hear the water in the sink running, Ronan must be washing his face or brushing his teeth, whatever he was doing, he had no idea that Michael was snooping through his things.
I'm not snooping,
Michael told himself
. I'm just getting to know my boyfriend better.
Ignoring the rational side of his brain and the increased beating of his heart, Michael reached into the box and took out one of the letters. The envelope was a shade lighter than the color of bubble gum and Ronan's address at Double A had been written by someone who used a very thick black marker, the writing bold and obvious as if the person were afraid the letter would never reach its recipient. Michael wondered if the person was also afraid that the letter would ever be read by anyone other than the person it was meant for.
Which is not you.
Once again Michael ignored the rational and very interfering voice and pulled out the letter from its envelope.
Dear Ronan.
That's not so bad, it's not as if it said
Dearest
or
My dear Ronan
, just plain old
Dear Ronan.
Michael's luck didn't hold out.
Miss you! Can't stand that we have to be separated, it just isn't fair!
Michael knew he should stop reading right then and there. He wanted to, he really did, but now that he had started, now that he had violated Ronan's privacy, there was no way he was putting the letter back without reading every word on the page.
Doesn't everybody know that we're meant to be together? I mean you know it, I know it, why can't the stupid world just let us be together?! Promise me that you'll come to see me! You have to, Ronan, I'll just die if I don't see you soon!
The desperate plea was signed with a huge letter “S.” Michael thought about all the people he knew in Ronan's life, and the only person whose name started with an “S” was Saxon, his father. Well, this letter definitely wasn't written by his father, so who could it be? Mentally, Michael checked off the family and friends he had heard Ronan talk about and he realized that Ronan didn't talk about that many people. This “S” could be anyone.
Then things got worse. Michael searched the letter for a date, but there wasn't one, which meant the letter could have come last year or last week. Not only didn't he know who sent the letter, he didn't even know when it was sent. Furious that Ronan would keep this “S” person a mystery and hide his or her letters underneath their bed, the bed they both slept in, he ripped another letter from its envelope and started reading.
It was so good to see you today, Ronan! I was really careful just like you told me to be and I know that no one saw us. Today will be our secret, just between you and me, no one else will ever have to know.