The Road Home

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “Would you mind dropping me at the library?” he asked. “I want to talk to Sam about some of the things Gaither told me.”

  “No problem,” Will said. “I’ve got to do some things with Dad this afternoon. Can Lucy pick you up?”

  “Probably. Or Sam can give me a ride home. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Maybe we can get together tomorrow?” Will said.

  Burke felt his spirits lift. “Definitely,” he said. “I’d like that.”

  They continued without talking, but now Burke felt more relaxed. Will wanted to see him again. He was surprised at how that made him feel. Maybe there was more to his feelings for Will than he’d realized. Maybe the fear that Will didn’t return them was more frightening than he’d imagined it could be. But now that fear was gone.

  At the library he considered giving Will a kiss good-bye. But they were parked right outside, and anyone coming out would see them. He settled for patting Will’s shoulder as he helped him out of the truck and saying, “Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Will do. Say hi to Sam.”

  Burke walked into the library to find Sam seated at a table with Freddie Redmond. Freddie was reading from a book, working through the sentences slowly and methodically. Sam, seeing Burke, held a finger to his lips. Burke stood silently, listening as the boy read.

  “‘Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and im . . . im . . .’”

  “Sound it out,” Sam said. “Im.”

  “Im. Per.”

  “It’s actually peer,” Sam said. “It’s one of those weird words.”

  “Im-peer-ee-us,” Freddie tried. “Imperious.”

  Sam nodded. “Perfect,” he said. “Keep going.”

  “‘Dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the i-min-int—’”

  “I-min-int,” Sam corrected him.

  Freddie nodded and repeated the word correctly. “‘Imminent dawn, while Nature, flushed with fulness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humourously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long soup-el—’”

  “Su-pull,” said Sam.

  “Supple,” Freddie repeated. “Supple. What’s that mean?”

  “Soft,” Sam explained. “Something that can bend.”

  “Oh,” said Freddie, beginning again to read. “‘The long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes . . .’ What are those?”

  “Something like a flute,” said Sam. “I’ll show you a picture later.”

  “‘The pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sard—’”

  “Hold on,” Sam interrupted. “What’s that word?”

  “Sard?” said Freddie.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, it looks like sword,” Freddie explained. “And you don’t say the w in sword.”

  “That’s right,” said Sam. “But that’s an exception. This time you do say the w sound.”

  “So it’s swu-ard?” Freddie said.

  “Close,” said Sam. “Make it one syllable. Sward.”

  “Sward,” Freddie repeated. He sighed. “Why’s English have to be so weird?”

  Sam chuckled. “I know. It can be, can’t it? But you’re doing really well.”

  “What’s a sward, anyway?”

  “It’s a patch of grass,” Sam told him. “This part of the sentence means the person is lying on the grass.”

  “Then why can’t he just say ‘lying on the grass’?”

  “The author is using poetic language,” said Sam. “It fits the scene.”

  “If you say so,” Freddie said, sighing. “Should I keep going?”

  “There’s just a little left,” Sam said. “Let’s finish up.”

  Freddie returned to the book. “‘On the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy . . .’ Podgy?”

  “It means chubby.”

  “‘Podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.’”

  “Great job,” said Sam as Freddie shut the book.

  “What does it mean?”

  “What does what mean?”

  “All of it,” said Freddie. “It’s all one gigantic sentence that doesn’t make any sense. I get the parts about Mr. Toad and the cars and the weasels and all that, but this is just weird.”

  “It is a little weird,” Sam agreed. “I’ll explain it more tomorrow. Your mom will be here any minute now, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “But I want to know!” Freddie objected.

  “Tell you what,” said Sam. “Why don’t you tell me what you think it means?”

  “But I don’t know,” said Freddie. “That’s why I asked.”

  “What’s going on in the story?”

  “Rat and Mole are looking for the missing baby otter,” Freddie said. “They’re in a boat, and they find an island.”

  “Right,” Sam said. “And on the island they see something.”

  “The thing with horns,” said Freddie. “And hairy legs. And it’s playing the flute thing.”

  “See?” said Sam. “You got it all along.”

  “Yeah, but who is it?”

  “That’s what we’ll talk about tomorrow,” Sam assured him as the front door opened and Tanya came in.

  “How’d it go?” she asked her son.

  “Okay,” Freddie answered.

  “Better than okay,” said Sam. “He did a fantastic job.”

  “I did okay,” Freddie repeated. “I didn’t understand it all.”

  “Tomorrow,” Sam promised him. “And tonight look up any other words you don’t know, okay?”

  Freddie nodded as he ran for the door.

  “Did he really do okay?” Tanya asked Sam when Freddie was out of earshot.

  “He really did,” Sam confirmed. “I don’t think he’ll have any trouble passing the literacy test I got the school to agree to.”

  Tanya closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened her eyes, they were wet with tears. “Thank you again,” she said.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Sam told her. “I’ll see him tomorrow at one.”

  Tanya followed her boy out of the library, and Burke sat down across the table from Sam. “That was pretty heavy stuff,” he said.

  “No kidding,” Sam agreed. “I almost skipped that chapter. A lot of people do. It’s kind of out of place with the rest of the book. But he’s a bright kid. Even if he doesn’t understand all of it, he gets the basic idea. And he learned a bunch of new words.”

  “I don’t think I understood most of it,” Burke told him.

  “Rat and Mole are looking for the baby otter,” said Sam. “They meet the Piper at the Gates of Dawn—their version of God. He’s the Horned God who watches over the creatures of the woods. They can’t believe they’re seeing him in person. It’s a kind of religious experience.”

  “Isn’t that a little serious for a children’s book?”

  “The Wind in the Willows is a serious book,” said Sam. “As Freddie said, it’s easier to follow Mr. Toad’s adventures, but there’s a lot more to it. It’s really about the connection the animals have to the woods and the river. Toad tries to get away from those things and act like a human, and that’
s what gets him into trouble.”

  “I get it,” said Burke, grinning. “This is more of your ‘cities are evil’ philosophy.”

  Sam held up his hand. “You caught me,” he said. “I’m trying to turn the kid into a pagan. Don’t tell Tanya.”

  “One of these days you’ll have to explain the whole pagan thing to me,” Burke said. “But right now I have some things to tell you.”

  For the next half hour he told Sam everything he’d learned from Gaither Lucas. At each new revelation Sam’s eyes grew wider, and when Burke was finished, Sam just shook his head.

  “Wow,” he said. “Just wow.”

  “I know,” said Burke. “It’s completely wild, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t even know where to start,” Sam said.

  “Oh, I forgot one more thing,” said Burke. “The engravings inside the rings. I knew I wouldn’t remember what they said, so I wrote them down.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Sam.

  “‘And the beautiful day passed well,’” Sam read. “‘And the next came with equal joy.’ That’s from Whitman.”

  “Whitman?”

  “Walt Whitman,” Sam said. “Hang on.”

  He got up and disappeared into the stacks. A minute later he returned with a book. “Leaves of Grass,” he said as he sat down and started leafing through the pages. “The most well-known version was published in eighteen sixty, so Amos and Tess would have known it.”

  Several times he stopped and ran his finger down a page, only to keep looking. Finally he stopped. “Here it is.”

  ‘When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow’d,

  And else when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d, still I was not happy,

  But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,

  When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,

  When I wander’d alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,

  And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy,

  O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish’d me more, and the beautiful day pass’d well,

  And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend,

  And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,

  I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me,

  For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

  In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,

  And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.

  Sam shut the book. “It’s from the ‘Calamus’ section of Leaves of Grass,” he said.

  “‘Calamus’?” Burke repeated.

  “Another name for sweet flag,” said Sam.

  “As in the plant Amos Hague wrote to Tess about? The one he said he crushed because its smell reminded him of her?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “But it’s odd that they would have these lines engraved in their rings.”

  “I think they’re really lovely,” Burke countered.

  Sam shook his head. “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “You know Whitman was gay, right?”

  “I’ve heard,” Burke said. “I admit I haven’t really read much of him.”

  “Many of his poems are homoerotic,” Sam continued. “But the ‘Calamus’ poems are considered the most overtly so of all his work. And this poem in particular talks about how he longs for his lover and is only happy when they’re together. Even the calamus is symbolic. If you haven’t seen one, it looks like an erect cock.”

  “I’ve seen one,” Burke told him. “And yes, it does. But maybe Tess and Amos liked the idea of the poem. Really, did anyone then know this was about two men? It’s not as if they sat around in graduate school, dissecting every line.”

  “Perhaps not most people,” Sam admitted. “But to anyone who felt the way Whitman felt, I think it would mean a great deal.” He ran his fingertips over his beard as he thought for a minute. “You said the rings also had initials in them, right?”

  “AH and TB,” said Burke.

  “And the letter you read was addressed to TB as well,” Sam continued.

  “Yes. TB. Tess Beattie.”

  “Or maybe Thomas Beattie,” Sam said softly.

  CHAPTER 25

  “It’s so white,” Burke said.

  He looked at his forearm. Where the cast had been, the skin was pale and raw looking. When he scratched it, skin flaked away. Also, it seemed thinner than his other arm. He clenched and unclenched his fist.

  “Put lotion on it,” Dr. Radiceski told him. “That will clear up the dryness.”

  Burke, turning his arm over, noticed for the first time that there was a scar running along the underside of his arm. “What’s this?”

  The doctor looked at the scar. “They put two pins in,” he explained. “Didn’t they tell you?”

  Burke shook his head. “Or maybe they did,” he said. “I don’t remember it, though.”

  “There are some in your leg as well,” said the doctor.

  “Great,” Burke said. “More scars.”

  “You can always tell people you were injured running with the bulls or something,” Dr. Radiceski suggested. “They’ll think you’re super butch.”

  Burke smiled. He was so relieved to have the cast off his arm that he really didn’t care if he had scars or not. “Any chance of taking this one off a little early?” he asked, indicating his leg.

  “I’m afraid not. But soon.”

  “You sound like my mother when I asked her when Christmas was coming,” Burke complained. “Or my father when I asked him how much longer till we got where we were going.”

  “Speaking of your father, how’s that situation?” the doctor asked him. “As I recall, you were having a bit of a time.”

  “Actually, it’s been okay,” Burke told him. “Mostly because we almost never see each other. How about you and your dad?”

  Dr. Radiceski shook his head. “Crabbier than ever,” he said. “And now he and Dale are best buddies, so when I get home, both of them start in on me. Last night I told them they should be lovers.”

  Burke laughed. “I bet your father loved that.”

  “He said if he were thirty years younger, he’d give it a go.”

  “Nice. Maybe he could have a talk with my father,” said Burke.

  “I see your friend isn’t with you today,” Dr. Radiceski remarked.

  “No,” Burke said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

  Will was supposed to have brought him, but that morning he’d called and said he couldn’t. No explanation, just, “I have something I have to do.” Burke hadn’t pressed him for more information. He’d simply asked Lucy if she could take him to his appointment. Now she sat in the outer room, waiting for him.

  “I’m sorry,” said the doctor.

  “Don’t be,” Burke told him. “Like I said, we aren’t really a thing, anyway.”

  The doctor was looking at Burke’s most recent X-rays. “Well, I think we can take the leg cast off a week earlier than I expected. That should cheer you up.”

  Burke leaned his head back and let out a sigh. “Finally,” he said.

  “It will still take some work to get you back to normal,” Dr. Radiceski said. “The muscles have atrophied a bit, and your knee in particular will be stiff.”

  “But I can do that back in Boston, right?”

  “If you want to. I can recommend a great PT here, though. If you decide to stay.”

  “I don’t think so,” Burke said. “I might be doing a show here in Montpelier, though.”
<
br />   “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t know the name of the gallery. The owner’s name is Colton Beresford.”

  “I know Colton,” said the doctor. “Dale and I had dinner with him and Luke last week.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Burke said. “Does every gay person in Vermont know all the others?”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Radiceski. “And if we don’t know someone, we can always look him up in the directory they give you when you move here. Oh, and his gallery is called the Colton Beresford Gallery. Do you want me to write it down?”

  “I think I can remember,” Burke teased.

  “I look forward to seeing the show.”

  “And I look forward to seeing you in three weeks,” Burke said, standing up.

  He collected Lucy from the waiting room, and they returned to the car. Burke didn’t suggest getting lunch. Although he was loath to admit it, part of him wanted Will to have called while he was gone, and he was anxious to get home and see if there were any messages.

  “Three weeks,” Lucy said as she started the car. “We’ll be sorry to have you leave.”

  “You might be,” said Burke. “I think Dad will be relieved.”

  “I don’t know why you say that,” Lucy replied.

  “Come on, Lucy. How long have I been here? Six weeks? He and I haven’t talked about anything except weather, the horses, and my accident.”

  “He’s just not a talker,” said Lucy. “You should know that.”

  “He talks to you, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, yes,” Lucy admitted.

  “Then he must have said something about how he feels about me being here,” Burke insisted.

  “He’ll be sorry to have you leave,” said Lucy firmly.

  “That good, huh?”

  Lucy sighed. “He doesn’t know what to say to you,” she said. “The last time you lived with him, you were a boy.”

  “He didn’t say much then, either,” Burke told her. “It’s not as if anything’s changed. I just thought maybe we’d gotten to the point where we could at least try.”

  Lucy was quiet as they drove through town. Burke was afraid he might have offended her, and was about to apologize when she started speaking again.