My mother and Frankie were also at the Thanksgiving dinner. Mother and Miss Kitty were becoming the best of friends: grocery shopping and antiquing together, attending local bingo parlors, getting their hair done every other Saturday morning at place called Ruthie’s Gossip Palace, and other feminine joys that the two women relished.
A new tenant lived in the Tudor, living in Tuck’s old room. Her name was Estelle Cartwright. She was beautiful with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a thin build. Carl said she could have passed as Taylor Swift’s sister, but I didn’t agree with him. Estelle was thicker around the hips and didn’t have Taylor’s adorable pug nose. She was twenty-six, an elementary teacher at Proctor Elementary on Sher Street in downtown Erie. And she was originally from Pittsburgh, parentless, a sweetheart, and what Miss Kitty referred to as her adopted daughter, happy to care for her as Miss Kitty had also cared for me.
Following an extraordinary home-cooked meal, Carl and I were stuffed. Bloated and without any energy, we decided to walk off the massive dinner. Because it was snowing out, we bundled up in scarves, hats, and gloves. Once dressed for the tundra, we walked twelve blocks down Mill Street, made a right on Worthington, walked another six blocks, and eventually made our way back to Miss Kitty’s Tudor where we couldn’t object to another slice of her homemade pecan pie and a cup of hazelnut coffee.
* * * *
Later that evening in Carl’s garage, close to midnight, tucked against his naked body, he whispered, “Thanks for letting me spend today with you, Micah. That was an awesome time.”
“There’s Christmas coming up, and New Year’s. This was just a start. You’d better get ready to party your ass off, my friend.”
He replied to my comment with a kiss and one of his hands strayed down my stomach, beginning another round of heated sex with him, for both of our enjoyment.
Chapter 47: Return Trip and Healing
August 26, 2014
The Phantom Martini: 6 Parts Gin, 1 Parts Dubonnet Blanc, 1 Part Maraschino Liqueur, 1 Lemon Twist.
The next morning I made the return trip to Erie, leaving at approximately nine, following a breakfast that consisted of water and an apple. The drive was grossly miserable and merciless. There was a lot of crying behind the wheel, anger, and frustration. At points, I had to pull over, get the sobbing and other dismantled emotions out of my system, and continue the trip. I became lost, not on the highways and roads traveled, but rather inside my mind and soul. Confusion and heartache had nestled in my chest and squeezed at my heart, which caused me not to think straight and be almost dangerous behind the vehicle’s wheel. Honestly, I don’t know how I kept Frankie’s Fusion on the road, in my lane, but somehow I managed, perhaps watched over by angels from a different world and dimension that no human could possibly begin to understand.
* * * *
After arriving at the Tudor on Mill Street, I was embraced by Miss Kitty. She took me in her arms, squeezed me against her frame, kissed both of my cheeks, and spieled, “You made it, Micah. I’ve been worried sick about you. Everything horrible has been racing through my mind.” She escorted me into the house, prepared me a lunch that consisted of a Cobb salad with chicken, ham, and eggs, and then she said, “You must be tired. You should go up to your attic room and sleep for a while. I’m sure you’re drained.”
Following the semi-eaten lunch, I didn’t climb the ladder to my attic room to find sleep. Instead, I made my way upstairs, slipped into Tuck’s bedroom, stripped down to my boxer-briefs, and climbed inside his bed, absorbing his mix of scents that he had left behind for me to enjoy. Of course, I sobbed, but eventually fell asleep, and stayed there for the next few hours, under his spell again, transfixed by dreams and memories and goodness, until I opened my eyes and realized again…
Tuck was gone.
Gone.
* * * *
Frankie checked on me. Mother checked on me. I wasn’t fine and the people around me knew it. They observed me closely for fear that I was going to commit suicide. That wasn’t in my nature, though. To survive was a brace in my world, my sanity, which I had intended to process, in due time, after an unhealthy and extended dose of mourning.
* * * *
“Let the healing begin,” I said at some point during that long spell of dismal hurt and grieving. “It has to happen. It must happen.”
While those mismatched blur of days occurred after Tuck’s funeral, Miss Kitty boxed up most of his belongings and mailed them back to his family in Cincinnati. She picked a few pieces out of the mass of items for me to keep: a handwritten notebook filled with penciled musical notes and unfinished lyrics to songs that he was in the process of writing, two pairs of Tuck’s running shorts, and a few paperback mysteries. And then the room was blocked off from any kind of life for a long time, locked and uninhabited, for its own period of heartache, months.
I stayed in the attic mostly, writing. That’s all I could do, I realized, unable to function normally in the real world. I finished my mystery, put it aside to cool down, and thought about starting a second one, which was probably going to be about Miss Kitty, Tuck, and his baby grand. Night after night I stayed up thinking, crafting the twenty-five chapters of the mystery, being nocturnal. And during the daylight, I slept. Between shifts, I critiqued novels, making money, but just enough to survive. Some days were longer than others, but each was painful, a heavy weight on my shoulders, and my mind. Death was so close I could feel it touching me, but fended it off with some heartfelt pushing, willed to live…barely surviving.
Frankie watched me like a hawk, scrutinizing my every move, spending extra time with me, and helping me through my grieving. She repeated to me almost every day, “Healing is necessary. It’s why I’m here. I’m your friend, and friends help out when they need to. I don’t want to go all biblical on your ass, Micah, but this too shall pass. I can promise you that.” She made sure that I consumed meals, stayed hydrated, and didn’t throw myself into a mound of depression. I couldn’t determine how many nights she had spent with me inside the attic room, spooning me, caring for me, and helping me through that undeniably painful process.
Life seemed to go on, even when I didn’t want to. The eating. The exercise. The mere act of getting out of bed and writing. Walking was even tough for me on some days, dragging my body from point A to point B. I was being pushed through the stages of grieving, forced to live when I really didn’t want to live. Frankie helped with that, Mother, and Miss Kitty, who seemed to be my second mother helped too. I was looked after with special tenderness and kid gloves, which I was grateful for, loved.
There was more healing. Days and days of healing. The more time away from Tuck, the better my mind felt, but not my heart. I would forever love him, in the past, and in the future. The man, or the idea of the man, would never be misplaced or forgotten. I didn’t think he was a stain or tattoo, but he was permanent, always there. Life was like that, I had learned, an unending line of minutes, hours, and days that was comprised of memories, ideas, and facets of someone who has been loved, and will always be loved, until the end of the eternity, or whatever was beyond eternity.
I didn’t see or hear Tucker Martini’s ghost, although I had wanted to, perhaps needing him to make an appearance of some sort. There were no unmistakable shadows or blurry frames of his outline in the attic. There were no whispers or his familiar voice under the Tudor’s wooden eaves. Items were not misplaced or moved. There were no sloppy or cursive letters that contained one syllable words on my printed and unedited chapters or critiques. Tuck hadn’t surfaced as the apparition I had wanted him to. Rather, I was alone, left to my own devices of survival, and was leaning to live again.
There were a variety of symphonies I visited in Erie, Ashtabula, Niagara Falls, Rochester, and even in Pittsburgh, relishing concertos, lullabies, jazz, marches, and a run of other piano performances. Frankie permitted me to drive to the events, sharing her Fusion with me, which I helped pay the insurance on, the minimal gas, and upkeep. And at
those musical events, usually seated front and center, I thought of Tuck Martini, the way he smiled behind his piano while playing, how it felt to be tucked in his hulking arms, and every little, but very important, detail that my mind could unearth, which usually caused me to cry. Of course, such activities were bad therapy for me, but all in all I just wanted to be closer to someone I had lost and would never forget.
Tuck was gone.
Gone.
* * * *
With bad therapy came some good therapy. There were many martinis to drink and piano songs to listen to at Bar 88, which I frequented often. And the owner, Kyle Upton, wasn’t all that surprised when I continued to pay for a space inside the lounge to keep Tuck’s baby grand, which was played each and every night, sometimes by the same pianist, Ray Tolkd, or by other musicians who had fallen in love with the instrument, just as my ears, heart, and soul had. Bar 88 was glad to have the piano and kept it in town, cared for it, babied it, and was pleased and honored to share its melodic beauty with patrons and singers.
* * * *
I was going to be fine. I would survive. I would heal. Tuck wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I continued to write, visit the Martini Room, and drink martinis, toasting the memory of the man that I had fallen in love with. And when I became too drunk, having consumed far too many cocktails, enjoying my evenings alone, I promised that someday I would learn to play the piano, one ivory keystroke at a time, forever allowing Tucker Martini to live within my fingers, chord after chord, and piano song after song. Again, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
Chapter 48: That Night and Carl’s Great Plan
November 27, 2015
I was a writer then; I am a writer now. But I wasn’t someone who kept a diary. Never. Not once in my life. Not a blog. Not a book of daily events. Not a journal. But if I did keep one of those written accessories to life, it would have read about that night:
Hot sex in Carl’s bed after midnight. His forced tongue along my firm dick. His fingers against my balls, compressing them with too much force. His licks and laps to my scrotum, sucking my balls, biting at one of my inner thighs, then the other inner thigh. His fingertips rolling over each of my abs, one after the next after the next after the next. The way he dipped one of those fingertips inside my navel, pressing it there, holding it there. And biting at my nipples. Licking my nipples. Squeezing my pecs and their pointed nipples. Hoisting my legs up and delving his tongue against my asshole, pushing it inside, pulling it out, tasting me, again and again and again. Inside me for so long. Grunting. Groaning. Growling. His mouth against my center. Straying there. Having the time of his life there. Lifting my ankles on his shoulders. Pressing himself inside me. The tip of his latex-covered dick breaking me open. Shoving himself inside me. His cock buried inside me. His thumping cock wrecking my world. His cock pushing against my organs, pulling out, and pushing inside again and again and again and again. Sweat mixing between us. Kissing. Chests touching. Garbles. More Grunts. More groaning. More growling. Pounding. Thrusting. Beating. Slamming. Pulverizing my insides with his dick. Banging. Humping. Throttling. Hitting. Again and again and again…until he finally whispers down to me, huffing and out of breath, “I’m coming, Micah. I can’t hold back a second longer…I’m blowing.” He jacks his load on my stomach. I jack my load on my stomach. And we come together with passion and lust and euphoria and…
Afterward, clinging to him, caught in his arms, he whispered to me that night, “I’ve fallen in love with you, Micah Berk. You have me. You will always have me.”
I smiled in the darkness, happy.
Taken.
In love.
* * * *
Carl told me that he wanted his construction company to grow. “I have two men under me now and I was hoping to have ten in the next five years. I would like to buy two more trucks and accomplish more jobs around the city, and in other cities. Right now I’m small, but someday I would like to be big.”
We were having lunch together outside Crispin Park. Four food trucks were parked next to the park. Their owners and operators were feeding hungry passerby at reasonable prices. There was a hot dog truck, a Mexican, an Asian, and an Italian one. The food was served fast and was delicious. Carl and I decided on hot dogs for lunch: chili with cheese, onions, and mustard. Once patrons ordered their food, collecting it in hand with plenty of paper napkins, they could eat at one of the benches inside the park, next to a bronze fountain that looked like Davey Crockett. Carl and I sat in the shade near a family of tail-flicking and squeaking gray squirrels. We were shoulder to shoulder, enjoying our dogs, light conversation, and each other’s company.
“I want to write a few more mysteries,” I said. “I have outlines in notebooks with the ideas. Truth is I just have to find the time to write them down and send them to my agent.”
“Do you see yourself writing mysteries full-time?”
I shook my head. “I like being a critic. The mysteries are a blast to write, but I only write them in my spare time.”
“I can’t believe you get royalty checks from your book. That must be an amazing feeling. You’re the first writer I have ever known.”
“Trust me they’re a dime a dozen. There are tons of us out there. As for the royalty checks, I’m not rich, but I’m happy. I’ll always be a mystery writer, no matter what. You can take a lot away from me, but you can’t take a murder scene and suspects from my mind. Those things will always be at hand and in my heart, ready to be produced on paper and for readers to enjoy.”
“Sometimes little is big,” he said.
“You’re right. I agree with that. In fact, sometimes little is better than big,” I said, grinned at him, and continued eating my dog, relishing my time spent with Carl, our personal togetherness.
Epilogue: For Keeps
January 15, 2016
After much deliberation and the cold winter that attacked Erie, Carl and I decided to head south. We flew to Florida, then to Cancun, and decided to spend two weeks in the sun, on the surf, and with very few clothes on. There were beach cocktails consumed, dancing at rowdy night clubs, and hours of sunbathing during the heated afternoons. We read paperback novels in the mornings, swam in the Gulf, and shared every moment together that we could, which included walks, showers, meals, and going to bed well after midnight, every night.
“We’re perfect together,” he said, squeezing my hand within his own, driving along the eastern coast of the Yucatan Peninsula in a rented two-door coupe, heading to Mayan ruins that overlooked the Gulf. It was a sunny and hot day trip that we had decided to take away from our luxuries and comfy life at the resort in Cancun. Palm trees, cows, and speed bumps the size of school buses led us astray, into the wilds of Mexico, and beyond.
At his side, observing the dry earth, cucumber fields, and fruit stands along the highway, I told him, “I’m happy with you, Carl. I’ve been through hell and back, and you’ve found a way of rescuing me.”
“You’ll never have it better than when you were with Tuck. I know that, and respect it. Love like that never fades away.”
That wasn’t true, although it was nice to hear. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved Tuck, but I didn’t get to keep him. Now I have you, though, which I intend on keeping for a very long time.”
“I’m for keeps,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I rather like the sound of that.”
“For keeps,” I repeated. “Through the good and bad. During highs and lows. This is serious what we have.”
“And that’s why I love you,” he said, steering the coupe southwest, along the coast, next to the blue-green water, sharing his life with me, and love. We were happy together. Solid.
THE END
ABOUT R.W. CLINGER
R.W. Clinger is a resident of Pittsburgh. He has a degree in English from Point Park University of Pittsburgh. His writing entails gay human studies. His work includes Just a Boy, Skin Tour, Skin Artist, Soft on the Eyes, Pool Boy, The Last Pile of Leaves, The Weekender, Cu
tie Pie Must Die, Frat Brats, Panama Dan, Spoil Me So, The Shower Police, Splash Boys, and several stories with Starbooks Press. For three years he has held the position of managing editor for the literary magazine The Writer’s Post Journal. Visit him online at rwclinger.com.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
Men of All Seasons Box Set Page 29
