Listening to Dust (3 page)

He had just reached the steps when a large group of people poured out of the building, their chatter a menagerie of southern inflection and harsh accusation. He heard Robbie’s name several times, but he also heard his own.
 

Impossible
, he thought. There was either another trial going on or some other bloke named Stephen had something going on within the confines of this building.
 

But the officer..... He pushed it away.
 

He wound his way through the emerging crowd, up the steps, and stopped at a sign inside the large foyer that labeled the table in front of him as a security checkpoint. It consisted of a pensioner, a newspaper, and a hand wand that was presumably used on occasion to search suspicious persons. If one should, per chance, unwittingly, happen by.
 

“Excuse me,” he said to the old man. “I’m looking for the Earl trial.”
 

The guard looked up, a bit startled, a bit awed. “Foreign press?”
 

The lie came quicker than Stephen thought possible and one he didn’t think he’d get away with considering the state he must be in. “The Times. Yes.”
 

The old man sat straighter, as if he were to be the subject of this fictitious story. “They just broke for lunch,” the old man said, “but if you want to wait... Ah, here they come now.”
 

Stephen turned but he did not need to be introduced, even though he and Robbie had never met. Robbie was a very large and formidable version of Dustin, massive enough that Stephen had no doubt that other men felt slightly intimidated by him just because of his sheer size. Muscled like a bull, he had Dustin’s red-marooned hair, crystal blue eyes, and faint thin nose. He was inches taller than Stephen, and would have towered over Dustin, but he also wore a smile of relaxed simplicity and innocence, something Dustin had never worn.
 

He called Robbie’s name just once, quietly, and the entire entourage stopped and stared. Robbie conversed with a small white-haired old woman beside him and then moved people out of his way as he came forward, his face glowing. “Mr. Stephen?” he asked.
 

Stephen nodded, still somewhat mute from the police officer’s pronouncement and still completely unsure as to why he was even there or what he had to say.
 

Robbie surged forward and grabbed Stephen nearly off his feet in an embrace.
 

“Robbie,” a gently chastising voice called.
 

Robbie looked over at the old woman with whom he had been leaving. Stephen instantly realized that she must be Miss Emily, but breathed with some relief as Robbie put him down with a sheepish grin.
 

“Sorry, Mr. Stephen, I get excited sometimes,” Robbie told him. “Miss Emily needs to talk to some folks and said I should go on to Melvin’s to get something to eat. Wanna come? It ain’t fancy like you’re use to, but it’s just a minute up the street.”
 

“I... didn’t bring my car,” was the only thing Stephen could think to reply.
 

Robbie clapped him on the shoulder and turned him to the entryway as the crowd around them broke up and walked outside. “It’s just up the street. I ain’t got my bike neither, so it looks like we’re both walking.
 

“Sure is nice to finally meet you...” Robbie said as they walked out into the sunlight.
 

Robbie had continued talking as they walked the two blocks to Melvin’s Diner, but Stephen never heard a word of it. His mind was still trying to wrap around the fact that Dustin was dead.
 

“See, here we are,” Robbie had said, guiding Stephen into the diner.
 

Chapter 4

The Diner
 

Stephen looked around at the plastic red-checked table coverings, the stooled counter, and the green vinyl booths. The place had the smell of coffee, baking pies, and greasy food. He looked back at Robbie realizing that he would hate this place and anyplace like it for the rest of his life.
 

“You know Dusty’s dead?” Robbie asked quietly, seemingly in shock that Stephen was ignorant of the events of Dustin’s death.
 

“Yes,” Stephen replied. It was a choked response. He pulled more napkins from the dispenser and wiped his face, trying unsuccessfully not to make a scene as the tears began again.
 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stephen. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you that. Not after them letters.”
 

“Letters?” Stephen asked, looking across at him in confusion.
 

“The letters you wrote to Dusty.”
 

“You read them?” Stephen asked, embarrassed at the thought that such personal intimacy had been exposed. He grabbed more napkins and dabbed at his face, piling them in front of him like a small wall. Had those intimacies been used to malign Dustin’s memory? Had they whispered his personal thoughts in court only to affirm that Dustin was just a filthy fag that was usefully flushed down the commode of this small ignorant American town?
 

“Naw, I ain’t too smart,” Robbie said, “but I remember things real good. Dusty used to read them to me after I pressed him. Well, some of them, he said some things were just between you two, and I respected that. They meant the world to him. I told you that. Didn’t I?”
 

Robbie laughed quietly. “He used to sneak around with those letters when I was at his house like he was trying to sneak a hooker into the trailer. You couldn’t miss the envelopes, all red and blue around the edge like they were. He’d pull the letter out, tear them envelopes into little bitty pieces, and flush them like they was evidence. Then he’d sneak around reading it in bits and pieces until I was gone,” Robbie chuckled again. “Heck, even Danny noticed him acting all weird,” he added.
 

“But he never answered,” Stephen told him.
 

“Never?” Robbie asked in surprise.
 

“Not once.”
 

“I sure am sorry, Mr. Stephen. I always thought he was writing back the way he carried on. But I guess he wouldn’t because he was too worried about what people thought of him. He was real sensitive like that. Sometimes he used to throw a test when he was in school just so Pa would let up on him about being sissy-smart. It weren’t the cowboy way, and Dusty didn’t like being teased none at all.
 

“Heck, him and Drew used to go round and round...” He paused and looked up at the ceiling. “You know, I think he was a might glad when Drew died, except for that thing with Mama of course. He weren’t but what, seventeen? That would have made Drew ‘bout twenty-five or so. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Robbie asked. “I figured you know all about his scar being, uh... close like you were and all. He was pretty shy about it with strangers.”
 

Stephen nodded; he knew about that scar. How could he forget the welted river that ran through the middle of Dustin’s chest? Its disclosure had been a rather large milestone in their relationship.
 

Chapter 5

London
 

A storm had blown through London that night and driven them back to the flat, sopping with laughter and a wet chill. When Dustin pulled his shirt off suddenly Stephen froze and gaped at him because it was the first time Dustin had ever exposed his torso in the three months they’d been seeing each other.
 

“What happened there?” Stephen asked. He cringed and squeezed his eyes shut as soon as the words left his mouth, realizing, too late, that Dustin’s scar was the very reason he and Dustin had never shared a shower together; why he’d never been allowed to caress the smoothness of Dustin’s chest; why Dustin had always acted so adamantly withdrawn about his upper body. He turned into the pantry before Dustin could respond and busied himself with a fresh pot of tea, hoping that the casualness of his actions would make his question seem much less intrusive than it sounded.
 

He looked over his shoulder as he grabbed for the kettle and saw Dustin glance at him before looking down at the scar on his chest. Their short relationship was not an effortless connection for either of them. For Stephen it was a bit of an eggshell walk that left him gyrating between wanting to protect Dustin from his own demons and wishing that Dustin would open the bloody hell up so he could help him instead of watching him suffer.
 

For Dustin it appeared to be a slow awakening to what potential he had inside and how much of it he would allow to be shared.
 

“This is the result of the last conversation I had with my mother,” Dustin finally replied. He turned to the window, his hand automatically coming up to caress the scar.
 

Stephen let out a silent groan and bumped his forehead against the pantry wall. Afraid that, once again, his prying had laid waste to the simple pleasures they had shared during the day. But, in for a penny, in for a pound; he could either move forward with it or drop it completely and let Dustin wallow. If he did that, it was probable that he wouldn’t see Dustin for a week or more. “Do you... want to talk about it?” he asked gently.
 

Dustin didn’t answer right away. He stood staring out at the city as the rain stroked the window pane and continued to slowly caress the scar on his chest. Swish, swish, swish. Back and forth. Back and forth. The slight noise as he moved his fingers was almost hypnotic.
 

“My brother’s funeral,” Dustin answered after a few moments. “Andrew. It happened when we buried my brother Drew.”
 

He paused and cut his eyes to Stephen again, his sharp glance chipping at Stephen like a challenge. “That’s when we broke,” Dustin continued. “She broke, I broke; we all just goddamn broke. And the wonder boy Drew was dead. The ultimate broke.”
 

Dustin shifted his gaze back to the window, hiding most of what Stephen would see in his eyes. Or maybe he was hiding from what he would see in Stephen’s eyes. Stephen wasn’t sure.
 

“I did it myself,” Dustin said after a vocal sigh, “...tried to rip my heart out and put it in that bitch’s hand just to hear her tell me once,
just once
, that she loved me.”
 

He was silent for a moment, lost in the memory as Stephen straightened himself off the pantry wall and began a slow move in his direction. He really wanted to rush over and comfort Dustin right at that instant, but he knew that if he intruded any further, as he had done in the past, all Dustin’s old horrors could come back up and be used as a lash to drive him back.
 

“She looked right through me,” Dustin continued, the window panes in front of him all but humming with suppressed emotion. “Then she got up and walked out while I dug my fist into my chest and screamed at her.”
 

He shrugged and sighed deeply, almost as if releasing something within himself. “I couldn’t compete anymore, Stephen. You can’t compete against the dead. Once Drew was gone her only reason to stick around was gone with him, and she left,” he said, shrugging once again.
 

“I guess I just wanted to know if she ever had any feelings for me,” Dustin added as Stephen came up behind him and reached out to offer some comfort. “Turned out she didn’t. I was just ignorant enough to hope otherwise,” he finished.
 

He turned and looked at Stephen fully, his face a beleaguered furrow that begged him to stop with the questions. “Can I borrow a shirt?” he asked quietly.
 

Stephen dropped his arm immediately and backed off. “Of course, let me get a few towels too. We’re still dripping all over the floor.” He forced a smile and went to the cupboard to grab a couple of towels and then pulled an extra shirt from the wardrobe.
 

He came back and stood holding the shirt and towel out to Dustin. “I’m sorry, Dustin. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s...”
 

“... habit. Yes, I know,” Dustin finished for him. He grabbed the towel and cupped Stephen’s face with his other hand, brushing against the soft stubble that had risen.
 

There was something in Dustin’s eyes...recognition maybe? A small realization?  “I...” Stephen began.
 

“Shhh,” Dustin said as he rubbed his thumb across Stephen’s lips. “Don’t say anything, please. Just let it go. Please.”
 

Stephen sighed, and nodded.
 

After they had a few subdued drinks, Dustin decided to stay the night. When he came into the bedroom he removed the shirt Stephen had given him and stood at the end of the bed, baring his chest and exposing his scar.
 

He watched Stephen inspect it for a few moments, and then studied Stephen’s eyes as they came back up to his face with a visage that had no pity blossoming behind it. He smiled slightly and crawled forward as Stephen beckoned him into the bed.
 

“Thanks,” he said quietly.
 

Stephen nodded, understanding that his lack of words would probably do Dustin more good than trying to explain to him that he wasn’t on trial; that Stephen wasn’t trying to show him
how
to love, only that he was, in fact, loved already. Whether Dustin was willing to accept that was still to be seen.
 

Stephen didn’t avoid Dustin’s scar when they made love, but he didn’t focus on it either. He moved his hands around the puckered remembrance when he gripped Dustin’s chest and crossed its barrier with his lips a few times, but made nothing of it even though he was now consciously aware of its presence between them.
 

Later, when Dustin had fallen asleep, they curled into each other and Stephen looked down on it directly, cautiously sliding his fingertips across its thick crease. For a brief moment he wondered if he would ever find the key that would unlock that passage and fix all that was crooked inside.
 

But maybe the telling of it was a release in itself, a valve from which Dustin could decant some of the pain he held captive behind that scar, like Stephen had done with his journal after his parents had been murdered. Should he be honored that Dustin had spoken of it at all? He hadn’t blown up in accusation when Stephen questioned him; hadn’t stormed from the flat in anger, so maybe they were making some progress in their odd and tenuous relationship after all. And truth be told, if you could look beyond the
cause
of its existence, it was kind of sexy in a way. Sort of.
 

“So much anger,” Stephen said aloud.