Message of Love (20 page)

“By whom?”

“Coach volleyball hunk.”

“The blond?”

I nodded.

After sharing the details of my flirtatious talk with Chuck, omitting most of the whispered spillage, Everett smiled. He leaned back from the desk, the green lampshade tilted back to silhouette his curling locks like a noir halo.

“My good man.” Twiddling his fingers faux-maniacally a la Dr. Scott, he smirked. “You haff done vell.”

You see, it was part of his plan. It was his fault.

“He wants just me, first.”

“Only?”

“No, I mean, he might want you, but I don’t know yet. He’s a little fucked up about the gay thing.”

His evil genius face soured. “So. Zis is a solo mission.”

I was kind of put off by the way he joked about it. In fact, I was really put off.

But I tried to find a way to be nonchalant about this potential extra-curricular possibility.

As we made out, I told Everett about a few gym shower experiences I’d had back at Temple before he had come to room with me. Guys kept looking at me, I got excited, then they did, but each time had led to nothing more than a few minutes of furtive soapy dick-stroking from a distance.

Each of them gave me a taste of that exhibitionistic thrill Everett taught me before his accident. Retelling the experiences was fun.

But each one left me feeling uncomfortable. Twice I saw guys approach along a campus sidewalk, and the look they shot me months later, seeing me alone or paired with Everett, caught their gaze; a curious glance of recognition, then a darted turn away.

Having been given permission by Everett made it more familiar. But it had turned out awkward. Coach Volleyball, aka Chuck, was the first guy I talked with while having an intention of this deliberate attempt at outside sex.

We went out for beers, and got to talking. Actually, he did most of the talking. Only after he took me to his apartment had he made me feel small and pliable in his arms. Tall and nearly coated in a fascinating flaxen fuzz, his body could not have been more different from Everett’s.

Chuck didn’t understand why I wanted to do it standing. It was the one thing I couldn’t do with Everett. Eventually, he guided me to lean against a wall, and thrust himself deep into my butt, lifted me atop him with a Herculean flair, until we fell back to the bed. I rode him, my own cock bapping to and fro on his chest.

On the verge of coming, I thrust my hips toward his face, tugging on my cock. His hand swatted my dick’s aim away from his face.

“Don’t,” he grunted. His thrusts up into me became more insistent, but I felt an imbalance, almost a moment of shame. I pulled myself away from him to lie beside him, where each of us finished off on our own, barely touching.

After a bit too fastidiously wiping himself of any spurts, he sighed with an almost smug satisfaction.

“I’ll bet that was fun.”

“Um, yeah.”

“No, I mean, different; what with your boyfriend, you know, being–”

“Actually, we’re pretty good. This was just–”

“Well, whatever. I just thought. You were kinda really into it, like you hadn’t had any normal sex in a while.”

“Um, that’s not how I’d put it.”

He continued wiping himself.

I asked, “Do you...? You’re not into, you know, the cum–”

“Oh, well, you know, all these strange diseases going around. You never know.”

“You think I could have–”

“Well, no. But, I mean, who knows, right?”

While I understood his caution, it seemed an inconsistent opinion, particularly after he’d rammed himself into my butt.

Then Chuck mentioned some conservative group that was planning a Student Republicans party in advance of the mid-term elections. Our subsequent brief political argument pretty much spoiled the mood.

After excusing myself, I returned home to Everett, and coaxed him into watching me scrub myself in the shower.

“Well?”

I joked that I felt that dirty, and the Republican thing was more of a ruse. But it was the possibility of romantic anything elsewhere that turned me off. I was glad Chuck was a jerk to me when he’d abruptly asked me to leave.

“So, we’re even,” I said with a hoped-for finality as I settled into bed with him.

“If you say so.”

“If we’re not, I don’t want to know about it.”

I asked Everett to never tell me if or with whom he might ever ‘expand our relationship’ on his own. And I knew there were plenty of opportunities for him, too.

Sex was still a bit complicated, but the touching, caressing and intimacy wasn’t. We’d been forced to find so many other ways to express our love, frankly, after all that playing around with Chuck, who basically ignored me after that, I didn’t care what other people did.

Chapter 26

February, 1982

Perhaps it was the twenty-one inches of snow that made him long for warmer climates. With a few days of classes cancelled, and the city basically shut down from the storm, Everett’s mobility was hampered even afterward by the un-navigable mounds of plowed snow blocking a lot of sidewalks. Shoveling sidewalk corners around our block became futile after snow plow trucks shoved the muddy snow back. We spent more than a few afternoons nearly housebound, reading, watching movies and keeping warm under the covers.

We did risk one playful afternoon in the yard where we made a snowman that fell over twice. Everett’s attempt to roll a ball into a base left him with more snow on him than the snowman.

“So, where do you wanna go for Spring Break?”

Our outdoor clothes hung to dry in the hallway. I’d made hot cocoa as he soaked in a tub of hot water, then joined him. I spun my eyes around as if checking an invisible U.S. map on the bathroom wall, limited it to a drivable distance, even though I knew Everett would insist on flying somewhere.

The previous summer, he had flown to Chicago with his family since his accident; some cousin’s wedding to which I was thankfully not invited. I had wanted to go with him, but didn’t consider asking either his or my parents for money for a ticket.

Of his trip, though, Everett had said of the airline staff, “They treated me like royalty.”

So I figured he wanted to fly somewhere, this time with me. I’d wanted to offer a week in the Adirondacks in a cabin, but I could sense another dare.

“How are we paying for this?”

“I told you. Mother gave me a credit card ‘for emergencies.’ This is an emergency.” He splashed a bit of water.

“So we’re telling our parents?”

“I think we better. But maybe, like, the day before we go. Then they can’t protest.”

“How much do you have?”

“About two grand. I think I’ve got us covered. But I’ll do it on the card.”

“Thanks, Monkey. But I have about six hundred from work, so I can carry some of my own weight.”

So I thought about it, trying to guess his first pick, or the most preposterous ones. His legs bobbed in the water, and I maneuvered them to rest on my hips.

“Miami?”

“Too tacky.”

“We could drive to Cape May.”

“Too cold. Wait until summer.”

“Maui? Mali? Manila?”

“Domestic only. Do you even have a passport? Have you ever even seen one?”

“No. But Maui is actually domestic.”

“So, change letters. No M’s.”

Going out into the world, like a sort of oddly teamed Ironside and Kato, would become another dare, the kind that brought us together in the first place.

I relented. It would be his decision anyway. “Where would you like to go with me, oh, adorable one?”

He smiled, splashed water again. “Someplace warm and wet.”

Our playful splashing came to a halt when we heard Mrs. Kukka descending the stairs above us. Everett held a finger to his lips, as if our silence could deceive her into thinking we weren’t in the bathroom. But then a light knock on the door broke that hope.

“Boys?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Everett replied.

“I’m going out, but I saved some newspaper clippings for you both; some important articles I think you ought to read.”

“Thank you,” he called out, as we held back giggles.

“I’ll leave them in the front room.”

“Thank you!” we both repeated, then almost held ourselves in the tub water until we heard her shuffle around, then close the front door.

“What was that all about?”

“Probably some wheelchair pity feature or something about nature for you.”

“How nice.” I flicked a small splash of water at him.

“She is.” He splashed back.

By the time we had dried off and dressed, the pile of clippings was forgotten.

Since leaving the campus, Everett had struggled a bit with the few extra blocks, mostly in bad weather, but he refused a shuttle bus because it was too short a trip and usually arrived late. The van more frequently stalled in the cold weather.

But he still kept up with goings on, telling me about an anti-apartheid protest he’d approached, then joined in, and made a few activist friends. He’d even attended a small rally by the gay student group about the Army recruitment on campus.

In bed, textbooks in our laps, I was ready for either cuddling, studying, or a little of both. The warmth of our bed’s blankets, topped by our new ‘Intercourse’ quilt, induced a drowsy comfort in me. I leaned over, lifted his shirt to rub his stomach, hoping it might distract him enough to put aside his book.

But he wasn’t in the mood for that.

I peered over at his book and saw a picture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. “Kind of a role model for you.”

“You’d think so. We’re supposed to do a paper on world leaders, but he wasn’t all he was made out to be.”

“I sense another ‘Did You Know’ coming on.”

Everett flipped pages, then pulled a few photocopied pages from some other book. “He hid his polio from the public. There are hardly any pictures of him in a wheelchair. And on top of his administration turning away Jews escaping Nazi Germany, an entire ship full of them… wait.” The photocopied pages fluttered. “You know the WPA?”

“Yeah, the Works Project thing; the murals and dams and stuff.”

“Well, his administration created jobs for millions of people, but they deliberately excluded the handicapped.” He pointed at the pages. “I had to dig for hours to find this. It’s not in any regular history books. There were fully trained people, some who’d had polio, like him, and his…underlings wouldn’t even give them jobs until they protested, for weeks.”

“Wow. But did they?”

“Get jobs? Eventually. But this is just another example…  This is my history now. I never would have noticed this before, or cared.”

“Well, things have changed. Now you’re… enlightened. Is that the word?”

He wondered aloud, “What if we did a protest for accessibility on campus?”

“Don’t they have ramps all over? Wasn’t that the purpose of them showing you off?”

“There’s still half a dozen old buildings they won’t adjust. The few automatic doors at Houston and other halls are always locked. I had to get one of my classes moved because it’s in a building with no elevator.”

“Jeez.” I adjusted myself in bed. It was not going to become a romantic evening until I managed to calm him down.

“And there are even buildings downtown. The problem is, you only demand it from public spaces. Stores, businesses; they stall and it’s just not an easy target. Starting on campus would be something, right?”

“Sure. I’m with you.”

I could almost hear him silently planning, yet returned to a Botany chapter on broad leaves and opposite compound leaves.

Our studious silence continued, until I heard the phone’s other line ring upstairs, then Mrs. Kukka talking to someone. The sound reminded me. “So, I got another odd phone call.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know. He asked for ‘Mutt.’”

Everett froze. He seemed to appear outwardly relaxed, but I noticed his hand was gripping his textbook a bit too tightly.

“Huh. Did he say who it was?”

“No. He said he’d call back later; wouldn’t give me a number.”

“I’m getting an answering machine.”

“You know, it’s getting a little weird, these calls–”

“I said I’ll get an answering machine!”

It was my turn to freeze. “Okay, Jeez.”

Everett slammed his book closed, and tossed it on the floor.

“Why don’t you just let it ring sometime? It’s not like–”

“What is wrong?”

“I’m tired.” He rolled over, snapped off his bedside light, and yanked the quilt over his shoulder.

“Okay, then.”

I pretended to study for a while, angling my own bedside lamp away from Everett, until, after a while, he half turned, saying, “He’s just another guy from Pinecrest; probably wants to say how sorry he is; the usual crip-iddy doo-dah bullshit.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Did you see the mail my mom forwards me?”

“I may be nosy about your phone calls, but I do not go through your mail,” I asserted.

“I still get sympathy cards from classmates. It’s been almost three years.”

It seemed like a nice gesture, but I understood his anger, somewhat.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

“Gimme a kiss.”

“You bet.” I leaned down and we shared an off-angled smooch. “Can’t go to bed angry,” I added.

“Who said that?”

“My mom, I think.”

“You talk to your mom about me?”

“Sometimes, when I don’t have a clue how to deal with you.”

“You’re sweet.” Everett offered a smile, then nestled close to me. “I love you, no matter what I say.”

Despite wondering what the next ‘what’ might be, my Botany textbook became suddenly irrelevant.

And yet, as I turned off the light and lay in bed next to him, I pondered what sort of friend, or former friend, would call my boyfriend a mutt, when it was pretty obvious he was a purebred.

Two days later, I returned to our room to see a small box on the floor next to the garbage can. On the desk, next to the phone, and connected by a wire, was what appeared to be a small cassette player and a smaller instruction manual.

The little red light wasn’t blinking, so I figured there weren’t any messages. I clicked the ‘Message’ button anyway, and heard the outgoing recording, Everett’s voice, in a clipped tone, stating simply, “Leave a message.” No names, no funny sayings.

About a week later, Everett and I were casually studying, more listening to Elvis Costello croon that “Accidents will happen, we’re all a hit and run…” when the phone rang.

I glanced at him, shrugged. He wasn’t getting up from the floor, where he was doing a few stretches.

Then, after the beep, the answering machine projected a voice, that same somewhat abrupt rude voice.

“Forrester! Everett Mutt Forrester. It’s Swagger. Gimme a call.” The voice left a number with a 212 area code.

Everett seemed to stare at the phone as if it were possessed.

I waited for the click and ending beep of the machine.

“Do you want to call him back?”

“No. Not now.”

“Okay.”

I would have let it go, but a long while later, after I’d fixed a snack in the kitchen, offered him some, gotten no reply, eaten it, then trod to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I stole another glance at him across the bedroom. He was still staring at the same piece of wall.

I waited, then sighed, got up, turned off the stereo. The Elvis Costello album had finished.

“What?” he turned.

“Do you wanna talk about this?”

Everett offered a scolding glance. “You’re saying that like, ‘I want you to talk about this.’”

“We can keep ignoring your… fans, or ex-friends or whatever they are. It’s up to you.”

I pretended to return to my textbook.

Everett sighed. I resisted the urge to watch as he crawled on the floor, then hoisted himself up to his chair. He rolled around a bit, doing that scary off-kilter stunt, rolling on his back wheels, for a while. Then he finally said something that threw me for a loop.

“Remember that Polaroid I sent you?”

That time, I froze.

How could I forget it? Only a few months into our friendship, which was barely held together by flirtatious notes and gifts mailed to each other while he was at Pinecrest, Everett had sent a casual note, explaining the photo as ‘an early birthday present.’ In it, he posed wearing only a pair of undershorts as he flexed his little arm muscles, standing proud and apparently a bit aroused. It had remained an unspoken mystery, one of so many that had gradually unspooled as we had grown more comfortable living together. I was so envious of whoever got to take that picture that I never brought it up.

So I felt a bit of impending satisfaction, like a detective unlocking a secret, as I retreated to our clothes closet, dug around on the floor, extracted a cardboard box, and another smaller box inside it, and, after rifling through a stack of his letters to me, I found it.

“You mean this Polaroid?”

“Yeah.”

“The one I smuggled to Allegheny National Forest and drooled over every night? One of the few pieces of you that got me through that summer before you tried to dump me?”

“Yes, Reid. I remember it.”

“So, was this ... Is this from this Swagger guy?”

“Sweigard.”

“That’s a funny name.”

“It’s his last name. Private school guys… We usually just use last names… Wesley Sweigard.”