by Rick R. Reed
And Ben placed his hand on the cyclist’s shoulder and held it there until two paramedics, bearing a stretcher, showed up behind him.
One of them called out, “Sir? Are you a doctor?”
Ben stood, and Ethan followed suit. “No. Just a concerned onlooker.” He stepped back. “I’ll get out of your way.”
Ethan and Ben melted into the crowd behind them, gathering a few stares, but on the whole, everyone pretty much ignored them. They watched, along with everyone else, as the paramedics took care of the cyclist. They put a brace around his neck, some sort of board under his back, and then carefully lifted him to the stretcher.
“I need to go now,” Ethan announced, separating himself from the crowd and moving toward the sidewalk. His stomach was churning. He was light-headed. He didn’t look back.
His senses and his horror finally awakened. Ethan desperately needed to be at home, where he could hug Cat and try not to remember another night, another man being hit by a car.
He felt a drop of rain on his forehead, then another, and another. In moments, the rain was pouring down, drenching him. Ethan moved faster, feeling glad of the rain and how it hid his tears and made him feel cold, which was a good alternative to shock and grief.
“Hey, hey, wait up,” Ben called out behind him.
Ethan simply stopped, not turning around. He closed his eyes when he felt Ben’s touch on the back of his neck.
“How are you doing?”
Ethan turned then, to look into Ben’s concerned brown eyes.
“How do I answer that?” He shifted his gaze over to the street, where the crowd was finally beginning to disperse as the ambulance pulled away, no siren, red lights beaming out into the dark and the rain. “Do you think he’ll make it? Do you think he’s going to be okay?”
“I think he’s going to be okay,” Ben said. “No matter what.”
Ethan’s heart welled up as he thought of the words Ben had spoken to the severely injured young man—their compassion and kindness. He wished that someone like Ben had been in the street when Brian had been hit, to comfort him. Who knows? Maybe there had been. Why not think of that, Ethan told himself, rather than supposing Brian died in pain and terror, alone?
He turned a little more to Ben, and without even knowing he would do it, took Ben in his arms and held him close.
He had no words.
BEN SAT next to him as the “L” train rumbled north. Ethan leaned his head against the cool glass. The trip to Western Avenue was a short one, and Ethan wondered what would happen when they got to his stop. Would Ben come with him? Should he ask him to?
Why was he wondering?
When the train pulled in at Western, Ethan took a breath and prepared himself to speak the words building up inside, words that were bolstered by a need as powerful as hunger. He didn’t want to be alone tonight.
He looked at Ben and was just gathering breath to ask him if he would like to come by for a while, maybe have a cup of tea, when Ben said, “Would it be okay if I walked you home, Ethan? And then maybe come in for a bit? I don’t think either of us needs to be by himself right now.”
Ben’s words released something in Ethan, something caught and wild and unpredictable, and even though he tried to hold them back, the tears flowed so hard that all he could do was nod and smile.
Ben held out his hand, and Ethan took it. They headed toward the exit.
THEY PAUSED in front of Ethan’s bungalow. “This is it. Home sweet home.”
He gestured toward a small yellow house with white trim, small front yard, picket fence, and rose bushes that would likely bloom soon. He saw the house through Ben’s eyes and realized how homey it appeared, with its front porch swing and the yellow glow of the porch light.
“What a little dollhouse!” Ben remarked. “Have you lived here long?”
The question alone almost started Ethan’s tears up again. He managed to hold his emotions in check and simply said, “Not too long.” He moved toward the picket fence gate and opened it, then held it open for Ben to cross in front of him.
“Well, it’s a really charming house.” Ben sighed. Ethan followed him through the gate and up the six steps to the front porch. At the door, Ben said, “I’m still in an apartment up in Rogers Park. It’s in an old building, turn of the century, and has never been updated. It’s huge! And it has a fireplace, crown molding, built-in bookshelves, a real pantry, claw-foot tub in the bathroom, and a big balcony. It’s solid as a rock—and it’s home, even if it is just a rental.”
“It sounds gorgeous.” Ethan took out his keys and unlocked the front door. When he opened it, Cat came rushing through the darkness, meowing, to greet them.
Ben stooped to stroke the cat. Ethan stepped around them and moved into the living room so he could turn on a couple of table lamps. He looked over at Ben and Cat and saw that the two were already getting along famously, with Cat purring and flipping onto his back for a belly rub.
“What a little whore.” Ethan chuckled. “Don’t even ask if he learned that from me.”
Ben stood and laughed. “I have three cats. I thought about calling them Mind, Body, and Spirit, but that just seemed a bit too much.”
“So what do you call them?”
“Buffy, Willow, and Zander. Still pretty spiritual, I think, but with a little pop culture twist. What do you call this guy?” Cat was weaving in and out between Ben’s legs, rubbing up against him to mark him as his very own. Ethan noticed the blood staining Ben’s knees and shuddered.
“Cat,” he replied.
“No! You have to give him a better name!”
Ethan shrugged. “He’s named after the cat in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” It was true enough but also not true. Ethan had just never had the energy or the will to give the little guy a name, because getting him was one of the last things he and Brian had done together. Ethan wondered if he was waiting for Brian to come back so, together, they could pick out a proper, and not-generic, name.
His gaze kept returning to the blood on Ben’s knees, and he could feel bile splashing at the back of his throat. The room started to spin. Ethan had been all set to lead Ben into the kitchen, to ask if he wanted English breakfast or chamomile. But nausea weakened him, almost overcame him. He sat suddenly on the couch and then leaned forward to cover his face with his hands. Cat hopped up beside him and placed a paw on his thigh.
And then came Ben. “It’s hitting you, isn’t it?”
For a moment, Ethan wanted to ask, “What’s hitting me?” But it all came together in his mind—the horror of what they’d witnessed, along with its association. He’d even forgotten they were both still damp from the rain. He’d have to do something about that soon—but not yet.
Ben put his arm around Ethan and drew him close, causing Cat to jump from the couch with a complaining chirp. “It was terrible. You’re probably in a little bit of shock. Will you let me take care of you?”
Ethan turned a little to stare at Ben, blinking. For a moment, he thought he heard him ask “Do you want me to carry you?” and then his actual words clarified. It had been a long time since anyone wanted to take care of him. So long, in fact, Ethan wondered how he should respond. He nodded.
Ben stood and grabbed the afghan off the end of the couch. He arranged it over Ethan’s shoulders. “Just sit back and relax. I make a mean cup of tea.”
“I have—” Ethan wanted to tell him the kinds of tea in his pantry and where he could find everything, but Ben held up a hand.
“I got it. Don’t you worry about a thing. Cat will show me where everything is. Won’t you, Cat?”
As if to answer, Cat meowed. And he also surprised Ethan by following Ben into the kitchen. Ethan leaned his head on the back of the couch. He’d like to believe that Cat understood and was trying to be a help, but Cat followed anyone into the kitchen, because when a human went in that direction, there was always a good chance food would follow.
Ethan settled deeper into the couch cushions, w
rapping the afghan tighter around himself, drawing it up to his chin, and finally closed his eyes. He listened to Ben in the kitchen, the slide of a drawer opening, the squeak of a cupboard door, the slap of the refrigerator closing. Water rushed into the teakettle. One of the burners on the gas range clicked as it whooshed into flame. There was silence for a moment, and then Ben must have found the radio on the counter. There were voices, static, and then finally he tuned into the classical station. Strains of “Vocalise” by Rachmaninoff filtered in. The music soothed and eventually transported.
Brian shouted from the kitchen. “What kind of wine do you want with dinner, hon?”
“Don’t we have some pinot noir?”
“That’s a white wine, isn’t it?” Ethan heard the refrigerator being opened and things being shuffled around as Brian searched. Ethan rolled his eyes, smiling. The man would never learn his wines.
“You might be thinking of pinot grigio or gris. Those are white. Pinot noir is a red. I think there’s some on the counter. I opened it when we had spaghetti last week.”
“What would I do without you?” Brian said. “Here it is.” Brian pulled the rubber pneumatic stopper from the bottle, and it popped, almost like champagne being uncorked. “Smells good!”
“And so does supper,” Ethan called out. He was searching for the right dinner music among the cable company’s music channels. He settled on romantic classical, which was what he usually ended up choosing. The smells coming from the kitchen were heavenly. Ethan identified garlic, curry, and something else. Maybe turmeric? What did turmeric smell like, anyway? What did it matter? Brian’s pork loin, and his creative dry rubs, were always delicious.
Ethan stood to make the salad.
He felt a presence next to him. And then something on his lap. Ethan opened his eyes to see Ben next to him, holding a steaming mug of tea with the Steppenwolf Theater Company logo on it out to him.
Cat was settling into his lap, kneading. A claw pierced his thigh, and Ethan winced and then set the creature aside. He took the tea from Ben. “Thanks. I wasn’t expecting to fall asleep.”
“Well, you’ve been through a lot tonight. You probably just shut down.” Ben moved a lock of hair away from Ethan’s forehead. He leaned forward to pick up his own mug of tea from the coffee table and settled in beside Ethan. His warmth was a comfort.
Ethan set down his tea for a minute, leaned forward, and picked up a remote control from the coffee table. He aimed it at the fireplace, with its fieldstone hearth, opposite them. At the touch of a button, flames leaped into life and began dancing. Ethan smiled and turned to Ben. “Isn’t modern technology wonderful?”
Ben took a sip of his tea and mumbled, “Easier, anyway.”
They were quiet for a while, simply sipping their tea and watching the leaping and falling of the flames. Cat curled up in front of the fire and in minutes was asleep. At the sight of this, Ben turned to Ethan and asked, “Did you want to go to bed?”
Ethan’s mouth dropped open.
Ben laughed and put a hand on Ethan’s knee. “That came out wrong! I wasn’t propositioning you. I just know you must be tired, and I didn’t want you to feel you had to sit up and play host. I can just head out once we finish our tea, or even before if you want.”
Ethan thought about that for a moment and then spoke the truth. “I don’t want you to leave.” He thought some more, and the solid, stalwart, and conventional man he’d almost always been was cautioning him against saying what was on his mind. But damn it, what was on his mind was the truth, and it was what he needed. “I don’t want you to go.” He leaned a little closer to Ben. “And I do want to go to bed. With you.” He let that sink in. “And that also is not a proposition.” He stared deep into Ben’s eyes, searching. He took in a deep breath because he didn’t want his voice to quiver beneath the words he put out there next. “I’ve slept alone almost my whole life.” He stopped, unable to say any more.
Cat rolled over, positioning his front toward the fire.
“And every night since he’s been gone has been hard. At first I couldn’t even sleep in our bed. And then there were times when, I swear to God, I could feel him next to me, only to turn and see that empty space. That damned empty space. It has to be one of the most wretched places on earth.”
Ben set down his tea and then stood. He switched off the lights. “Come on.” He held out a hand to Ethan.
And Ethan took his hand and let Ben lead him upstairs.
Cat crept up, almost silently, behind them.
SETTLED INTO bed with the down comforter over them and each wearing T-shirts and flannel boxers provided by Ethan, Ben told him a story.
“When my grandma died when I was sixteen, we grandkids got to go through her house and pick out something we wanted, something to remember her by. And this little gay boy had always had his eye on one thing—a little cobalt blue candy dish she had in her china cabinet. It was probably Depression glass and maybe even worth something, but I wasn’t having some Antiques Roadshow fantasy.
“No, the bowl reminded me of when she used to have it sitting out and it was always filled with Good & Plenty candy. None of my siblings liked it because it was nothing more than tarted-up black licorice, but I loved it, and whenever I came over, I would, one by one, clean that bowl out.” Ben chuckled. “Gram would always get such a kick out of me eating the whole bowl.
“So that bowl was what I took—it was beautiful, but it represented my gram to me. The times we’d laugh together, how she’d put up with me with such grace. How she’d take me downtown and buy me paper dolls—with no judgment. Our little secret.
“When she transitioned, it was hard. But I had my bowl!” Ben turned away from Ethan then and got very quiet. Ethan put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
Ben sniffed and turned onto his back. “And then, one Thanksgiving a couple of years ago, I had a bunch of people over to my place for a feast. I brought out the bowl to serve olives in. I told you my place was old?”
Ethan nodded in the dark.
“Well, I have no dishwasher except my two hands. I was washing the bowl when one of my guests came in to say something—I don’t even remember what it was, but it made me laugh. And I turned. And my hands were slippery. And… you know the rest.”
“You dropped it?”
“I dropped it. It shattered into millions of pieces on my hardwood floor.” Ben shook his head. “I thought I was gonna die. There’s little in this world, materially, that I treasured more than that bowl. I had to leave my party and shut myself in my bedroom—I was sobbing so hard.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ethan said, wondering what the point of the story was.
“You know why I’m telling you this, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I know a human being is not a thing, and comparing losing a bowl to losing someone you love would be stupid. But I had myself convinced that the bowl was my only connection to Gram. But you know it wasn’t. The love we shared, the laughter, the good times and the bad times all lived on in my heart, despite the bowl being broken.” Ben touched Ethan’s face. “And so did she.”
Ethan nodded. “Gotcha.” He appreciated what Ben was trying to say, and honestly, a part of him marveled that this was the same person who used to cause him such grief once upon a time. A person Ethan thought had no higher emotion than snark. And yet he didn’t know if he was ready for this lesson, didn’t know if he’d ever be.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Ben whispered.
“You do?”
“Yeah, I could tell with that ‘gotcha’ you tossed off at me. You think you’ll never be able to lay down your grief. Or maybe that you don’t want to ever lay down your grief, because to do so would mean you were letting go of him.”
That’s about right, Ethan thought, especially the last part….
“But you’re concentrating on the tragedy of your loss rather than celebrating what you had with him. A love you said yourself you never
thought you’d find! How magical and miraculous is that? Yes, it was all too brief. But life is all about change. It’s all about letting go.
“What you don’t have to let go of, though, is your love, is what you two shared—that’s always alive in your memories, but more importantly, in your heart.” And Ben touched Ethan’s chest very briefly. Again, Ethan felt a tingling warmth where his fingers had lain.
“Celebrate what you shared, rather than mourn what you lost.”
Ethan knew in his head that Ben was right. And he also knew it would still be quite a while before his heart caught up. And that was okay. “What do I do with my grief?” he asked Ben.
“You live with it, sweetheart. I’m not saying you’ll get over it. And maybe you shouldn’t. But you will learn to live with it, like a part of you that’s broken. You’ll heal, but there will always be a scar, and you should kiss that scar every night for what it represents.”
Ethan leaned over to turn off the nightstand lamp. “Let’s sleep now.”
“Okay,” Ben said, “but I want you to remember one thing, corny as it sounds—the sun is always shining behind the clouds.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now will you shut up so I can go to sleep?” Ethan knew his words came out just the way he intended—loving, teasing, and grateful—because Ben reached down beneath the covers and squeezed his hand. After a second he let go.
Ethan lay listening for a long time as Ben’s breathing deepened and slowed as he sank into slumber. Who was this man? And would he still be here in the morning?
Ethan turned away, trying not to admit that he liked the added weight and warmth in the bed. Doing so felt like a betrayal, yet it didn’t make it any less true.
