Brownstone

by Dean Kutzler

  Through the outer mitre-shaped doors, past the lobby’s sanction doors and into the church’s inner sanctum, was a breathtaking view of inspiration—gilded stained glass menagerie of divinity.

  The holy shape of the doors was succinct not only to a precursor of shapes inside, but to the archway structure of the entire Pope-hat style cathedral ceiling. Its similar shape lead down to the pulpit in sectioned rafters, amass the angelic view. The pulpit being the most ornate of its kind imaginable, stood roped off dead-center down a path of elaborate church pews.

  It was such a majestic view, laden with a heavenly decor of biblical statues, paintings and artwork with splendid color and gilded in striking detail, perfectly placed about the church in various mediums and dimensional holy structures depicting life in its beauty and time on our celestial path.

  Calvin had been lighting a votive candle on a large table shrine resembling dozens of steps. Filling the steps, two or three hundred lit candles flickered softly. In the center of the table, red votives were arranged in the shape of a cross with surrounding votives outlining the holy symbol in a soft golden hue like a halo. An antique wooden carving of Jesus stood atop the glowing red-votive cross. Despite Jack’s lack of religious views, he found the table beautifully serene and prayer-inspiring. He could understand how this could bring peace to grieving loved ones, but his brain was too logical to buy into the whole religious thing.

  Calvin had been kneeling in front of the beautiful candles after he’d finished lighting one towards the bottom. He was a truly handsome, masculine sight amidst all the holy iconic beauty. Six foot tall, stocky build with very short chestnut brown hair above dark mysterious eyes as black as night. His face was more than handsome, it was refined. Refined, despite an extremely trimmed and well-groomed beard that added to the angular imposition in his jaw.

  On his left cheek stood a proud little beauty mark that seemed to anchor and complete the handsomeness escaping his profile. A small potbelly hung over his belt, yet he still held a positive muscular build that radiated masculinity. Exactly Jack’s type.

  As Calvin rose from his knees in front of the holy inferno, Jack had been subconsciously strolling his way through the church towards Mr. Handsome’s direction. Their eyes locked after an exchange of up-down once-over looks. That kind of look always sent the Gaydar off the charts.

  Jack, never usually the aggressor, couldn’t help himself and turned around and said, “Excuse me. Do you know how to get to the Jean-Talon Market?”

  He’d already had plans to shop for dinner and a possible hus-bear after his initial research of the Basilica. It was the only thing he could think of saying. What a line. Small pick-up talk was never his bag.

  “Jean-Talon? Oh—I love that place. It’s a great market.” Calvin said, giving him another more exaggerated up-down once-over, making it way too obvious. “It’s really simple. Are you here visiting Montréal?”

  Now what to say? He didn’t like lying, even if it was only a twist of truth, but he wasn’t new in town. Hardly. He’d already been living in Montréal for over a year and he was quite familiar with the Jean-Talon market.

  Okay, the truth. The truth always had a way of setting the guilty party free. Didn’t it?

  “Actually—,” he said, nervously pulling at his goatee, “I already know where it is.” Now starting to blush he continued, “I have to confess. When I saw you I couldn’t resist.” The blush now turned crimson. Not good at small pick-up talk, not at all.

  “Well,” Calvin said, the slightest smirk forming over that anchoring beauty mark, “usually I’m the one doing the approaching. And that’s normally at Le Stud,” he finished, then quickly looked around as if he’d just cursed in the house of God.

  And there it was, the gay confirmation. Just drop a hint at a gay establishment and either they were gay and knew all about it or they were straight and never heard of it or denied it.

  “Am I allowed to say that in here?” Calvin whispered making a cringing motion.

  “Well if it isn’t allowed then I’m certainly going to Hell-in-a-Handbag for approaching you in the first place!” It was Jack’s turn to give affirmation to the gay stigmata Calvin had put out there. They both got a little chuckle.

  “I apologize.” Jack started, “Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Jack Elliot.” With a hopeful smile, he extended his hand out towards Mr. Handsome.

  Calvin looked at him with those smoky-eyes turned bedroom-eyes and gripped his hand with a strong, almost brutish force and shook it. Calvin’s hands were big, rough and mapped with veins. “Calvin Hedges. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jack Elliot,” he said in a deep tenor.

  Jack winced a little, not so much from the handshake, but from the tingling it was causing down below. Jack was in need of a very long, hopefully meaningful, release.

  “I’m usually not so forthcoming, but as I said, I couldn’t resist.” He took a moment to gather composure, forcing his loins back in check. “You always hear the supermarket is the best place to meet someone. I guess those people need to get to church more often!” Jack laughed at his own joke. Calvin was handsome, masculine and strong with a sense of humor. Only one thing left. “Do you cook?”

  Now it was Calvin’s turn to laugh. “No and I don’t do windows either,” he said, giving him a sexy little wink to go along with that deep husky tone.

  He was so handsome that that smallest gesture from his face, the casual wink engulfing a smoky stare of midnight-eyes, to a sexy little smirk of full lips pulling back and shining pearly whites that were completed by the anchoring beauty mark—made him warm inside.

  Oh Yes… It had been a long time for Jack… long indeedy.

  “How about we catch an early dinner? I know this great little French Bistro in Vie Montréal. They make a great Boeuf Bourguignon,” Calvin offered.

  “I thought you didn’t cook?” Jack marveled at his culinary intellect and terminology.

  “What? I never said I didn’t like fine dining,” he said, shrugging, followed with another loin-warming wink, this time followed by a heartwarming, full-fledged smile. Jack was beginning to like this whole church-thing after all.

  And just like that, five years later, they were entering a temporary separation.

  The problem was all Jack. Calvin wasn’t the one that wanted a relationship-break. Calvin couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. Everything was so perfect.

  Maybe too perfect.

  Jack himself hadn’t even seen it coming. Life for him was at a stagnant stand-still in their relationship. He often wondered if this is what a long term relationship entailed—weeks and weeks of regimented routine.

  Wake up.

  Make the coffee.

  Drink the coffee.

  Check the email.

  Pop-in the toast.

  Send the email.

  Eat the toast.

  Kiss Calvin good morning.

  Kiss Calvin goodbye.

  The daily humdrum of life always whittled away at his being until he felt dull and dead on the inside. Used up—nothing left. Was this just a simple passé? Mid-life crisis? Or, was his subconscious simply telling him that after five years of a good solid meaningful relationship, that Calvin wasn’t The One?

  Hence, the need of a separation, at least for Jack. Now he truly understood the saying, “I need time to sort things out.” It didn’t just mean an inevitable break-up, it meant just what it was, time and nothing more. He needed to be single again to find out if who he is, is really who he is and not who they are. It wasn’t just about love, sex and fortitude. It was all too reminiscent of how he felt about his father and his career. How could a relationship to a man and a relationship to a career fall into similar categories? Counseling was truly in order. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  Why couldn’t things stay the way they were in the beginning of their relationship, when everything was fresh and new, discoveries abound?

  Jack’s phone began blaring the theme song from
True Blood, bringing his attention back to the laptop on his kitchen table. Damn! Hopefully it wasn’t the creepy priest calling back to cancel on him. It’s the only story-hook he had.

  The spinning gear appeared on the laptop screen and a smile spread across Jack’s face.

  Dunno who ya think you are, but befaw the night is thruuu, I’m gonna dooo bad things with yooou. The caller-id prefix was 212. New York City. Who the hell was calling him from New York that wasn’t saved in his phone?

  “Uh—hello?” Jack answered the call.

  “May I speak with Mr. Jack Elliot please?” asked the voice of an older, refined gentlemen.

  “In the flesh. Who’s this?” he asked, firing up his laptop to check for damage.

  “Mr. Elliot, I’m Barnabas Leibowitz. I’m with the law firm Halper, Rabinowitz, & Leibowitz. We represent the estate of your uncle, Mr. Terrance Elliot.” He said matter-of-factly.

  “Excuse me? Did you say estate? Doesn’t that mean—?” Mr. Leibowitz cut him off before he could finish.

  “Mr. Elliot, I’m afraid I have the unfortunate task of informing you of your uncle’s condition.”

  “Condition? What’s wrong? Did something happen? Was there an accident?” Jack asked, thinking back on his uncle, the picture of health.

  “Your uncle, Terrance if I may, has suffered a severe hemorrhagic stroke last night. Your father, with his hectic deadline scheduling, has asked me to contact you on his behalf.” That was just like dear-ole-dad. Business always came before family. Yet another reason Jack ran from New York and his father, for fear of becoming cold-hearted and all business. Let someone else handle the bad news when it came to the family. The paper must meet the deadline!

  The lawyer continued. “The prognosis from I.C.U. at Mount Sinai is grave. The stroke has caused irreparable damage to his brain, mainly affecting the areas that control automatic functions such as blinking, swallowing—”

  “Breathing?” Jack interrupted, plopping down in the kitchen chair.

  “Yes, Mr. Elliot. I’m sorry to say that it also has affected the part of his brain that controls the function that allows us to breathe, subconsciously and unconsciously. Because of the severity of damage, your uncle is unable to function normally, even if he were to recover. He would need round-the-clock care, not to mention a breathing apparatus and such. It is very explicit in his advance-directive—or living will—that in the event of such a tragedy he would not want to live out his remaining days in that sort of catatonic state. He wouldn’t survive another minute without life support. Therefore, defined by the terms of his advance directive, this tragedy is deemed within the realm of catatonia and we must adhere to his final wishes.”

  “So what exactly are you telling me Mr. Leibowitz—” Jack started to ask when the lawyer interrupted this time.

  “Barnabas or Barney, please. Call me Barney. If I may call you Jack?” Not waiting for an answer, the lawyer continued. “Again, coming straight from the doctrine of his living will, he is only to remain on life support for a determined period of time, in which the health care professionals must diagnose whether or not his condition is deemed a treatable one with a stipulated percentage of recovery indicated. That being said, there has been no brain activity since his admittance to the Intensive Care Unit. He’s been in a constant vegetative state. He is already tentatively scheduled for life support to be shut off within the next 48-72 hours to allow family members to be present. I can momentarily delay the shut off if you need time to make arrangements but his directive is very specific.” His tone retained professionalism with a slight bit of compassion.

  “That won’t be necessary Mr—, Barney. Wow.” He feathered his goatee between distracted fingers. He’d always admired his uncle Terry and saw him as a father figure. They had a mutual fondness for one another. His uncle had never had any kids, but he had fatherly qualities that Jack’s lacked.

  During the holidays or whenever a present was called for his uncle would always bring him something any young boy would love, something hip and fun like that Christmas when he was eight years old. Uncle Terry had given him a remote-controlled Batmobile toy car. It was wrapped in big silver packaging, tied with red ribbon and a big red bow. That’s all Jack talked about day and night after seeing the movie at the cinema. The Batmobile! The Batmobile! The toy replica was just like the one in the movie and it even made the whirring turbine engine sound the movie version made as it came blasting out of the Batcave. All the kids in the neighborhood were envious of it as he raced it up and down the sidewalk when the weather permitted. His father had given him an antique writing desk. A piece of furniture. Furniture, for his son’s eighth birthday.

  “My schedule is clear.” Jack said, remembering the rescheduled appointment that he’d have to reschedule again. Family was always first in Jack’s heart and his schedule.

  “I wish our introduction could have been on a better note, Jack.” The lawyer’s voice filled the dead air with a heart-felt, compassionate tone. “Once I reconvene with my associates I will get back to you on the details of— I apologize for lack of a better term, the shut-off.”

  Jack could hear the sincerity in the old man’s voice bleeding through his years of professionalism. “After which, we can schedule a time for the readings of your uncle’s last will and testament. Normally, there isn’t an actual sit-down where the lawyers read the will in front of the prospective beneficiaries, that’s just made-up TV drama. But your uncle has requested it to be so and we intend to honor his every wish to the letter. He has garnered quite an estate as to which he wishes to bequeath upon his remaining family members.”

  “An inheritance—,” he blurted out, instantly regretting it, hoping he hadn’t sounded like a greedy crumb-grabbing relative. He knew his uncle had done well for himself but he was so caught up with grief about the unfortunate news that he hadn’t thought about what all of this meant. His uncle was dying and he had written him into his will. Of course that was the main reason the lawyer was calling, but Jack didn’t care about his uncle’s money.

  Reverting back to his professional tone, the lawyer confirmed, “Yes, Mr. Elliot,” almost sighing, “your uncle has named you as one of the benefactors in his will.” Estate lawyers were probably so disgusted by the selfish reactions of the benefactors in light of such tragedies, even though Jack’s was innocent surprise.

  Realization set in and Jack said, “Excuse me. Did you say readings? As in plural?” He could feel tension on the line. He’d never attended a reading of a will before but he was pretty sure that it was only done once.

  “Ummm—Yeah. Aaah—your uncle had requested that there be two readings for his will. While this isn’t one of the most outlandish requests our firm has been queried, it is a bit out of the norm. The first one is to be held with all of the benefactors of his estate and the second with aaah—just yourself involved.” During their conversation this was the first time the lawyer seemed to falter in his polished legal prose.

  “Me? A reading of his will with just me?” He couldn’t fathom why his uncle would schedule a separate reading for him alone. It had to be because of the mock father/son relationship they’d had; A bond as good as any real father/son relationship. His uncle never married, never had children of his own. Actually, it made sense in a way. But Jack was curious. “Why would he arrange a reading for just me? Am I supposed to attend both?”

  “Yes, you are requested at both. I am as clueless about this decision as you, and I am also not permitted by law to reveal any endowment until the time of the reading due to the unfair advantage it would hold if the will were to be contested—”

  “Mr. Leib—Barnabas, Barney, please excuse me.” Jack interrupted. “Don’t misunderstand my surprise. I have no intentions in contesting anything. This is just so out of the blue. I’m just a little taken back.”

  “Mr. Elliot— Jack. This is an unfortunate part of my profession and I harbor no thoughts of ill intentions on the behalf of any of my client’s family.�
� That was a lie. “I’m truly sorry for your uncle’s condition and I’m sure that the two of you had a good relationship and that you are genuinely distraught over the situation. My job here is done. My secretary will contact you with information regarding the readings once everything is settled. My deepest sympathies are with you and your family.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

  Jack felt like a heel, even though the lawyer was being a tad harsh. Uncle Terry wasn’t even dead yet. Whether the lawyer believed him or not, he was earnestly upset over his uncle. He couldn’t deny that just a little part inside of him was anxious to hear what it was that his uncle was leaving him—something that apparently no one else was supposed to know about. Besides that, there was something else bothering him. Ever since the beginning of their conversation he’d gotten a strange feeling. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  The laptop had gone to sleep while Jack was on the phone. He ran his finger over the trackpad and smiled again when it came to life. He typed in his password and logged right in. Everything seemed to be working fine. He pulled up the web page for Priceline.com, the site that featured William Shatner Judo chopping airline and hotel fares and booked the earliest flight available to New York City. He needed to see Uncle Terry before they pulled the plug on him. Inheritance or not, Uncle Terry had been more of a father than his real father. Jack owed it to him, needless to say his heart needed it. He had to at least try and let him know how he felt, despite his condition—how he appreciated him and loved him for being such an important part of his life. Guilt gnawed at his conscious.

  Why did he wait until now to really express his feelings?

  Why do people always wait until it’s too late?

  October 27, 4:20 P.M., EST

  Newark, New Jersey

  DONG! Fasten Your Seat-belts flashed on the cabin’s overhead sign. “We’re preparing for our descent into Newark Liberty International Airport. Please return to your seats, fasten your seat belts and return all trays and chairs to their upright position. It has been a pleasure flying you to your destination here on Delta Airlines. We hope you join us again soon.” The pilot’s voice crackled through the passenger cabin like an old recording as the plane began its descent.