Dreamspinner Press Year Eight Greatest Hits

by Brandon Witt

  Her appearance did nothing to dispel my fears about a serious illness. She looked more terrible than usual. Her hair was lank and her face lined with wrinkles. Dark circles pooled beneath her eyes, giving her a ghostlike edge. Years of hard drinking and smoking had given her skin a sallow look that two weeks without had not taken away. Her lips were dry and cracked, her eyes sunken in her skull, and her bones more prominent than usual and definitely more visible than healthy.

  “What’s wrong, Mum? Are you sick?”

  She pulled herself into a sitting position. The nightgown that she wore was thin and shapeless and I made a mental note that a new one would be on my list of things to buy her for Christmas. The local Op Shops often had nice ones with their tags still on for a really good price. Her stick-thin arms poked out of the faded pink material; her fingers were permanently stained from the cigarettes.

  “I’ll be fine, love. Don’t worry about me.”

  That answer did nothing to allay my fears. I sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. “Of course I worry, Mum. You’re my mother, the only one I have. So I have to look after you, don’t I? Because a boy needs his mummy at times.” I was laying it on a bit thick, but she looked so ill I thought she needed cheering. “Have you seen the doctor, Mum?”

  She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, love. I saw him a couple of weeks back. Just a stomach flu, he told me. He also told me to get off the smokes and stop the drinking, so I thought I’d give it a good go this time. Not those half-arse attempts like before.”

  I was skeptical but willing to hope. Again. “That’s good, Mum. But you have to eat too. Healthy stuff or else you’re going to fade away to a shadow.”

  She tried to smile, but it wasn’t convincing.

  “How long since you had a shower?” Her shrug told me everything. I gave her a cheerful look. “How about you go and jump in and have a good wash and do your hair and everything? I’ll hang around for a bit, so when you’re finished I’ll cook you something nice, huh?”

  She agreed and hauled herself out of bed to stumble to the bathroom. The minute the door closed, I grabbed all the blankets and sheets and dragged them off the bed. As I stripped the bottom sheet, I took a minute to check under the mattress and down the sides of the bed for hidden bottles of booze. Mum was a kidder—she kidded herself that she was going to give up, all the while hiding a stash away where I couldn’t find it.

  I was surprised to find her room seemingly empty of alcohol. Either she was serious this time, or she’d done a better job of hiding it. Maria wandered in, and I asked her to grab the vacuum cleaner. She vacuumed while I shoved the sheets in the washing machine and took the blankets and quilt outside to peg on the line. There wasn’t enough time to wash and get the blankets dry, so some sunshine and a light airing would have to do.

  I returned to her room and grabbed handfuls of dirty clothes she’d left lying around, using one of her old shirts to give a quick dust to the dresser. Together Maria and I remade the bed with fresh sheets. I then searched Mum’s drawers and wardrobe for bottles but came up empty. My heart was strangely buoyant.

  The last thing I did was open the window in her room, and reminded Maria that she would have to come and close it before dark. There were no security screens, and the last thing we needed was someone breaking in.

  Back in the kitchen, I switched the kettle on and quizzed Maria.

  “Have you been paying the bills? Is there enough money?”

  “Yes. There’s nothing outstanding. I’ve been paying them as soon as they come in so Mum can’t drink away the money. I’ve even had enough to put a bit aside, just in case. Maybe Mum can pay you back some of that money.”

  I turned to Maria with a stern look. “That was my choice to pay Mum’s debts. If or when Mum pays me back is something that’s between Mum and me. Don’t you worry about it. If there’s extra money, then stash it away like I showed you. You’ll be in university next year and you may need it for books and stuff. How are your savings going? I’d feel a lot better if you had a car to go to university each day next year. Especially if you’re staying here with Mum.”

  “I’m fine with staying with Mum, Jake. I know Lizzy got out as soon as she could, but Mum and I get along well. I’ve nearly two grand saved up toward a car and Maurice has promised me more hours over the holidays. Mrs. Jansen also needs me to babysit her three devils once the primary school is out for the term, so I should be raking it in over January. Dad promised me that if I could get five grand together, he would give me another grand to pay for insurance and transfer fees.”

  “Good,” I said.

  We both looked up as Mum entered the room. She looked wan but a bit better. Her jeans were balanced precariously on her hip bones and the faded gray top she wore hung off her slight frame. I offered to make her an omelet with tomatoes, zucchini, and onion, but she just wanted Vegemite on toast. I made us all coffee—tea for Mum—and the three of us sat out in the sunshine and chatted for over an hour.

  I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done that. It was… nice.

  Maria chatted idly, telling us that Skylah had let it slip to her on the phone that Ellie was dating a new man. I made a mental note to ask about this mystery guy and check him out. Mum asked about my new job and looked slightly pained when I told her about the three of them. She asked me if I had a boyfriend too.

  “You should have a handsome man with tons of money to look after you, Jake. You’re the most generous person I know.”

  “Thanks, Mum. I just don’t have time at the moment for a serious boyfriend.”

  “Find the time, Jake. I’m sure you’ll need a man to lean on in your future. Casual sex will not fill the hollow. You need to find a man and create a home with him. It will make you feel secure.”

  “Secure?” This was some strange speech coming from my mother. And who was she to lecture me on the appropriateness of casual sex?

  “I may not be much of a mother, Jake, but I’ve known you for twenty-six years now. You need a home and someone to fuss over. Not just a house or somewhere to crash for a month, but a home. Find that home, honey, then go out and buy yourself a dog. Don’t be alone. If you find that home and that dog, I’m sure the right man for you will soon follow.”

  Home. Dog. The right man.

  Patrick.

  He’s straight, idiot!

  That’s what dreams and wishes are for, aren’t they? To make the impossible, possible?

  I DIDN’T see Patrick again until later the next week. If he remembered anything about his drunken antics, he didn’t say and he didn’t act any differently to me. I texted him Saturday before work to make sure his hangover was abating, and he simply thanked me for the pancakes.

  Davo came into the bar that night and I spent my fifteen-minute break in the back alley discussing the problem with him.

  “Davo, have you ever been with a straight guy before?”

  My mate scratched his beard and considered the question. “I don’t really know. It’s not like I spend time with them. I ask them if they want to fuck and if they answer yes, then I do it. I don’t go around asking guys if they’re straight or queer. You know me, Jake. I’m looking for the quick fuck, not the happily-ever-after, complete with matching rings.”

  I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes at the truth of that statement. Davo’s fucks were sometimes quicker than the time it actually took you to say the sentence “I’m looking for a quick fuck.”

  “So do you think that straight guys can get turned on by gay guys? Does it matter if the hand on your dick is male or female?”

  Davo leaned against the wall and gave it serious thought. “To me it doesn’t matter if I’m desperate. I’ve had both BJs and sex from women before. You just close your eyes, you know?”

  “You do?” I was dumbfounded. I’d never realized Davo had been with a girl before.

  “You don’t?”

  “No!”

  “Oh.” Davo was perplexed. “It’s not
all that different in the dark.”

  That didn’t make me feel any better. Is that all I was to Patrick? A hand when he was desperate?

  “What’s the matter, Jake? Did you blow a straight guy? Did he reciprocate?”

  Davo was a good mate and had been for years. I considered keeping mute about the episode for a moment, but in the end, Davo was a trustworthy friend—and gay. Who would be better at understanding—and keeping it all a secret—than him? So I offloaded and told him all about it.

  He was quiet for a moment before a big grin came over his face. “What?” I asked in alarm.

  “You, man. You have feelings for this guy. Are you in love, Jacob?”

  “Fuck off. I ask you for advice on what to do and all you can ask is if I’m in love?”

  Davo slung an arm around my shoulders. “Jake, listen to yourself. You’re tying yourself up in knots wondering how this guy thinks and if he’s feeling terrible or happy. You care about what he’s suffering. You’re worried about whether he thinks badly of you. Stop stressing so much and ask him straight out. Go up to him and say, ‘Do you remember me giving you an orgasm last night?’ If he says no, then tell him you enjoyed it and there are no hard feelings. If he says yes, then ask him if he wants it to happen again. How do you even know if the guy is straight? He could be bi.”

  The advice was easier given than applied. I couldn’t exactly ask Patrick whether he remembered me touching him in a letter or text, so the wound festered inside me for days.

  On Wednesday Patrick phoned me and told me he was getting in a taxi to come home but he would order pizza for our lunch. In the end he beat the pizza home by thirty seconds, and took delivery from the guy in the driveway. He balanced the pizza on one hand and kept his other hand firmly on the harness while Gregor led him up the steps. I was watching from the doorway.

  “Wow,” I said as I relieved him of the boxes. “The pizza places are getting desperate if they’re resorting to hiring blind guys to do their deliveries.”

  Patrick grinned and went through his routine of releasing Gregor from the harness and hanging up his cane. I made for the kitchen and pulled out plates and glass tumblers. The man had a soft walk, and I was surprised to see him in the kitchen as I spun around with the water jug.

  “Hey! Whoops! Nearly bowled you over. You should make some more noise or something when you walk. You don’t know to get out of my way, so I have to do twice as much thinking and you know I’m not the best thinker in the world. Hey, grab a seat and I’ll divvy up the spoils. What pizza did you get? I just poured water, is that okay or do you want something else?”

  Patrick didn’t move but froze with a thoughtful look on his face. “Jake, are you nervous for some reason?”

  “Nervous? Me? Me, nervous? Never. Why would I be nervous? There’s nothing to be nervous about, right? Just you an’ me having some pizza.”

  “Okay, then.” He pulled the chair out and sat down, lightly running his hands over the plate and glass in front of him before picking up the pizza and having a large bite. I poured my drink and sat down opposite him.

  “So how is work at the perfumery? Smelly?”

  “Fine. How is the cleaning going?”

  “Fine.”

  We fell to silence as that conversation fizzled before it got started.

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Was there something on your mind, Jake?”

  Oh, fuck. “No. Yes. I ahh….” Shit!

  “What? I’m not a mind reader, Jake. You have to tell me things. There are a lot of social interactions that I miss, so it’s better to be blunt with me. I promise I won’t be offended.”

  Okay, here goes then…. “Ahh… how much do you remember about Friday night?”

  “Friday?” The subject seemed to surprise him. “Truthfully, it’s a bit hazy. Did I do something wrong? You didn’t let me do something stupid, did you?”

  Maybe.

  “So you don’t remember me bringing you home?”

  Patrick turned red. “Oh, shit. You did let me do something stupid, didn’t you? And now you don’t know how to tell me that a picture of me dancing naked on the bar to Billy Ray Cyrus is all over Facebook or something.”

  I choked on my laughter. “No. Nothing like that, man. But that image is going to keep me up tonight!”

  Patrick pretended to mop his brow. “Phew. So that bit was a dream. So, come on, tell me what terrible thing I did that I need to apologize for. Did I make a fool out of myself? Did I offend someone? Hurt someone? Promise to give a million dollars to World Vision?”

  I was distracted for a moment. “You have a million dollars to give away?”

  Patrick shrugged, which was an answer all in itself. “Don’t change the subject. Who do I need to apologize to?”

  Oh, dear God. “Nothing, really. You don’t have to apologize at all. It’s just that you…. You asked me to….” Gulp. “You and I…. Nothing. Forget it.”

  Chickenshit!

  I was in full retreat mode now. I grabbed my dishes and whacked them in the dishwasher. Even though I’d only had one piece of pizza, I was eager to get back to work and hide. Patrick’s hand on my bicep stopped me. He’d hemmed me into the corner of the kitchen, and there was no way I could get past him without touching him.

  “Jake? You have to tell me now. You can’t leave me hanging. What did I ask you?”

  Man up! Tell him! “It’s just you were getting undressed and then… you asked me to….”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye. With his extra perception on his other four senses I was sure that Patrick could feel the heat radiating off my cheeks.

  “To…?”

  The silence between us grew to megaproportions. I would be a millionaire in real estate if I could sell off chunks of the stuff.

  I remembered my talk with Davo and in the end decided it was better to know than not to know. Did he remember? Did he hate me? Was he angry? Was he amused? Was he about to move to Outer Mongolia in embarrassment?

  “Touch you,” I finally whispered. The words fell like lead balloons in the room.

  “Oh.”

  Shit! Now he’s embarrassed. Hell! How do you get yourself into these situations, Jake?

  I swallowed and kept my eyes firmly on the tip of my shoe. Patrick’s hand was still on my bicep, holding me in place as if there were a magnet between the two of us. Neither of us seemed to know what to say.

  Finally Patrick got the courage to ask, “And did you? Touch me, I mean?”

  “Yes.” It had felt absolutely wonderful at the time, but it completely sucked to admit now that I had masturbated him. What did people always say about karma?

  “Oh.” Patrick seemed to be searching for something to say, but at least he hadn’t gone screaming from the room. I was amazed that my smart mouth hadn’t found something to say by now. Just when it would’ve been a good thing, all my smart-aleck remarks had dried up.

  “Ahh… did I…? Umm…. Did I enjoy it?”

  “Yes.” Of that I was sure.

  He nodded. I hadn’t lifted my head but I could see the movement out of the corner of my eye.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  What sort of dumbass question was that? Of course I fucking did! “Yes.”

  “Oh.” There was another hesitant pause before Patrick floored me by saying, “So what’s the problem, then?”

  My eyes flew up to his face in astonishment. Was the guy for real? He looked normal, but maybe there was a screw loose and rattling around in there.

  “What’s the problem? Are you serious, Patrick? You’re fucking straight and you asked a gay guy to jack you off, which he did with the greatest of pleasure, and you’re wondering what the problem is? Don’t you think that the fact you came all over me and over my hand is a bit of an obstacle? I fucking kissed you and you kissed me back! With tongue! Any other straight guy would be as far away from me as possible by now, or at least the other side of the room!”

  But Patrick didn’t run away. He sim
ply put his hand on my jaw, tilted my head toward him, and leaned in to kiss me. With tongue.

  I stood there in stupefaction and allowed him to devour my mouth.

  Finally he pulled back and asked, “Who said I was straight? I never did.” He then leaned in and kissed me again, pushing me against the kitchen cabinets and pressing his erection against mine.

  I never claimed to be smart, just a smart-mouth, so it took me a few seconds to work through the developments and comments of the last minute. Suddenly I understood.

  Patrick wasn’t straight!

  Patrick was gay!

  Patrick was kissing me!

  I came alive like I had suddenly been touched by the fairy godmother’s magic wand. Patrick was kissing me! My throat rumbled with pleasure as I speared my fingers through his soft hair. Tingles of sensation spiraled down my arms, racing across my chest, and causing the blood to pool in my cock. I widened my stance, allowing him to move even closer, and for our cloth-covered dicks to rub together.

  I felt Patrick chuckle against my mouth but I had no time for amusement. Patrick was kissing me! I sent my tongue out on a mission and it came back with the taste of Patrick all over it. I melted into a puddle of desire on the spot. The taste of Patrick could become addictive. We pressed our lips together violently, each trying to lead, but neither yielding to the demands of the other.

  I realized that Patrick’s hips were moving, rocking against mine and bringing our joint arousal to another level. One hand he kept on my jaw, the other was exploring my chest, running over my shirt, feeling my pecs, and zeroing in on my nipple, circling it once before adding a pinch.

  Finally, the need to breathe became more important than the need to kiss. We broke apart, gasping slightly. Patrick burrowed his face into the curve of my shoulder and rocked harder. I clutched at his shoulders, reveling in the sensation for long, endless minutes, closing my eyes to intensify the marvel of what was happening. It was what I wanted desperately, but there are some morals and ingrained practices that are etched in stone on your psyche.

  I grabbed his hips and stilled them. “Patrick, stop.”