Sander's Courage

by Cade Jay Hathaway

  "Wedding present? Who got married?" I kidded.

  "Shut up! Okay, here's your hint. We are going to

  visit somebody from your country!" Sander said. "He's

  from New Jersey!"

  "Oh my fucking God!" I said, more excited than I

  can ever remember. "Chris Christie is coming to Odense?!"

  "You fucking dick!" he laughed. "Serious! Guess!"

  Then it hit me. All kidding aside, I think I know

  what he did. "Uh, Sander? If it's what I think, I'm fucking

  floored! Thing is, I'd hate to say it and it's not it, and then

  you'd be sad. So can you just tell me?"

  "How about if I give you another hint?" he said.

  "Where were you born?"

  "In the U.S.A. Oh, my God, you did it!"

  "Yep! Two floor seats for Springsteen on the first of

  May. See?" He went to the letter cubby by the front door

  and retrieved an envelope. "Take a look, husband!"

  "Why thanks, husband!" I smiled, pulling the

  tickets out. "Wait a minute. These are for Florida!"

  "I know. Look more in the envelope," he said. Sure

  enough, there were two plane tickets to Tampa, and an

  itinerary.

  "Oh my God, Sander! You are unbelievable! Thank

  you so much!" I told him, as I hugged and kissed him.

  "Okay, now it's your turn!"

  "For?"

  "For your wedding present, silly! Go look in the top

  desk drawer by my computer. There's an envelope with

  your name on it. Bring it here," I said. He was back in a

  flash. "Now open it."

  Sander unsnapped the fastener on the large

  envelope and peered inside.

  "What is it?" he asked. "Does it bite? It's dark in

  there!" he joked.

  He reached inside and removed the paperwork and

  saw immediately what it was.

  "This is my car loan papers," he observed. "Why are

  they in this envelope?"

  "Look at the bottom of the last page," I prodded.

  "Then you'll know why."

  "Oh, shit!" he gasped. "You've paid off my car?"

  "Yep. So now it's yours and yours alone!" I told

  him.

  "I can't think what to say except thank you,

  Johnnie. I can't even believe it!" he said. "I'll take you for a

  ride whenever you want!"

  "I'll take that ride!"

  A FEW DAYS LATER THE postman drove up to our door.

  I happened to be outside and so I walked over and met

  him at his little yellow and red truck with the painted

  on the side, signifying the Royal Mail.

  "Hey, American!" he greeted me warmly.

  "Hey Dane!" I replied. "How's the postman

  business?"

  "Oh, you know..." he replied. "Like a good joke, it's

  all about the delivery!"

  "Let's just stamp that humor out right now," was

  my smart aleck retort. He chuckled while he had me sign

  for the small box he was bringing us. It was addressed to

  Sander.

  "Where's your man?" he asked.

  "Around the corner in the garden," I told him.

  "Well, tell him I say hello!"

  "Will do, Gunter! Don't go postal or anything!" I

  teased.

  "No, that's more of an American thing! See you!" he

  grinned good naturedly.

  I placed the package on the kitchen table just as

  Pokey wandered in from the back door. He'd been busy

  putting a lot of the garden tools away in preparation for

  the coming winter, and the dormancy of the garden.

  "Hey, dude!" he smiled. "Garden's done."

  "Cool beans. Hey, that just came for you," I pointed

  at the box. "Christmas must have come early for you!"

  Sander sat at the table and carefully opened the

  package. It wasn't Christmas.

  "It's Torben," Sander told me. "He wants us to

  scatter him on the property."

  "Really? How'd he get sent here? Why not to his

  mom?" I asked. Sander cast his eyes down to the cardstock

  urn that contained the final remains—and the closure—of

  Torben Jakob Petersen.

  "He wrote it on the papers and told me that's what

  he wanted to happen. So I said okay. Do you mind if we

  do this?" Sander asked me.

  "Of course not. I think it's sweet of him, and kind of

  you," I replied.

  "Then I think I'll take care of it now," he said,

  carefully picking up the urn. "I guess I just open it up and

  shake him out, yeah?"

  "Sounds right. Just make sure you do it with the

  wind instead of against it. I learned that the hard way on a

  ship when I took a piss out on the deck one time," I told

  him. "You want me to go with you?"

  "No. I'll do it by myself if you don't mind," Sander

  replied.

  "No, sure. How about I get us some dinner going,

  then; it'll be ready in about an hour. Is that okay?" I asked

  him.

  "Yeah. That's great. See you," he said, and he gave

  me a little kiss then headed out to the pasture.

  Standing at the sink, looking out the window as I

  readied the vegetables, I could see his form on a little knoll

  just past the meadow. His back was to me, but I could tell

  that he was opening the top of the urn by how his

  shoulders dipped. He then stood tall, looking across the

  expanse of the countryside, breathing deeply the good,

  fresh arctic air, and appreciating the last rays of sunshine

  as the sun dipped on the western horizon.

  I saw him shake the urn and watched the steady

  breeze carry Torben away. Then Sander gazed at the big

  white clouds as they briskly moved towards the sun, so to

  create a dazzling, multi-colored sunset.

  SANDER TURNED IN EARLY that evening. This time of

  year it gets dark by four-thirty, and I'm sure he was

  making the transition from the finality of bidding a friend

  a final goodbye, and the first day of a new life that is once

  and for all without any remaining vestige of that person.

  The sooner he would find sleep, the faster that the new

  chapter in his life could begin. I hugged him and kissed

  him goodnight, and then wandered into my office.

  There were no flash communiqués from Home

  Office, so another work-free day tomorrow. Cool! Another

  day spent with Pokey!

  I sat down in my super-comfy-workie-chair—that's

  what Jannik named it; I call it Old Squeaky—and flipped

  on the left screen. I'd thought about the many wonderful

  times I'd experienced since moving permanently to the

  little kingdom, and even some of the darker days at my

  parents' house were springboards that eventually brought

  me here. Right here to Sander and the family that I can

  now call my own. Because they are my family.

  I thought of a little project that I could do during

  downtimes like this. Times when I was away from work

  with nothing else to do. A project that would keep me

  focused on all of the good that I'd been blessed with these

  five years. And the biggest bonus would be that I could

  help Sander get his story down in writing. That would

  shut the shrink up, and maybe help him deal with the

  things that deeply bothered h
im. Deeper than where I'd

  ever been with him.

  I was going to write our story.

  I wondered what the best way to begin it would be.

  Of course, at the beginning. But how? It doesn't have to be

  great because nobody will ever read it but us, and maybe

  the doctor.

  First things first: I opened up a document. Wow,

  that was kind of scary. Nothing more frightening for a

  writer than to face a blank page and a blinking cursor. Not

  that I'm a writer mind you. Still, I was determined to do my

  best at it, whatever the eventual outcome.

  I was determined to make it our true record, unless

  by doing so someone would be irretrievably hurt in some

  way. Okay then, here we go...

  "HAPPY ENDINGS SLEEPOVER"

  Chapter

  1

  here was Sander Lars Hansen, and there was me.

  I'm Johnnie Allen. At the time we met, I was

  T twenty and he was sixteen. He was quiet; not shy,

  just kind of quiet. Like 'in the background' quiet. I only

  noticed him because he spilled an orange soda on himself

  and everyone in the room laughed. Then he smiled, and

  we all went back to what we were doing...

  'm going to enjoy writing this. It'll be quite a trip!

  I

  T H E E N D

  _________________________

  ADVANCE

  Chapters of Book 3

  P R E S E N T D A Y

  IT IS SO HARD TO WALK from the train station to

  the taxi stand when you're dead tired and have been

  awake for going on twenty hours straight. But I wanted to

  get the hell home. I'd been away for nearly a month in

  Ukraine, and I had never felt so good crossing back into

  Denmark, as I had earlier this morning.

  In case we're meeting for the first time, my name is

  Johnnie Allen. I'm a twenty-five-year-old American who

  has made Denmark his home for the past five years. I'm a

  career field officer for the United States Central

  Intelligence Agency, and I am posted to Denmark as a

  Transportation Specialist.

  In a nutshell, my job is to ferry U.S. and allied

  intelligence assets into and out of places that they really

  shouldn't be. Sometimes those places belong to American

  allies; most of the time they do not. It's the 'most of the

  time' jobs that create the pucker factor, and I admit I've

  had my share of days that haven't gone quite as planned.

  But I'm still here to talk about them, and so far I've yet to

  see the wrong side of the bars in a foreign jail cell.

  I have a wonderful family in Denmark. There is my

  husband and life partner, Sander Lars Hansen. If you

  haven't figured out the math on that, we're gay, and

  happily married.

  My extended family includes my beautiful mother-

  in-law, Magda; my awesome father-in-law, Niels; and

  sweet sister-in-law, Ingrid—she's a couple years older than

  me, and is an awesome person. Then there's my brother-in-

  law, Jannik, who is in his early teens. He's really like a

  surrogate son to me, and he self-reports that Sander is not

  just his brother, but is also his best friend.

  Normally I would have called Sander from

  Copenhagen and asked him to meet me a couple hours

  later at the Gelsted railway station for the lift home.

  Sometimes he even drives the half hour into Odense and

  collects me there so we can have dinner out at one of our

  favorite eateries for a little alone time before heading home

  for some much needed exercise. I do look forward to the

  exercise, no matter how bushed I may be.

  This trip I'm home a week earlier than I expected,

  so I thought I'd surprise my man by knocking on the door

  and watching his face when he answers. But when the cab

  dropped me off I could see that no one was home. Darn it!

  Oh, well. Just him finding me at home when he gets back

  from wherever he's gone will work just as well. Maybe I'll

  get all naked and lie face down on the bed, having

  strategically placed a piece of masking tape by my ass

  crack with the words 'Insert Here' written on it in Sharpie

  pen. I'll trade surprise for a good laugh any day.

  I went upstairs to drop off a present in the little

  recording studio we'd help build for Jannik—he's quite the

  composer and musician. I'd found a great deal on some

  Bang & Olufsen speakers at, of all places, the little gift

  shop in the Copenhagen main train terminal. So I set them

  by his keyboard and sat down on Jannik's daybed for just a

  second. But within a minute I had laid down and was

  immediately lost to the world in a hard, deep sleep.

  It was the laughter that triggered me awake, some

  three or four hours later. It sounded like Pokey talking

  with someone on the phone. Probably Jannik.

  I sneaked down the back stairs that leads to the

  kitchen in the hope that my little plan remained

  salvageable. If I could quickly slide over to the hall should

  his attention be elsewhere, I could still strip and be on the

  bed to spring my surprise.

  With careful steps I rounded the corner from the

  dining room into the Great room, and that's when I saw

  them.

  J O H N N I E P A U L A L L E N

  J O H N N I E I S S I X

  I AM SIX. I am considered a sweet boy. I am a

  golden boy. A yellow-haired tow-head, with bright blue

  eyes, people like me immediately. I am stereotypical. I am

  fucking cute! These are the things my Grammy and my

  Aunt Jean tell me. Hell if I know what a tow-head is, but it

  doesn't sound very fun. My name is Johnnie Paul Allen

  and I love everybody, and everybody loves me.

  My daddy drives a bus. The kind that goes all the

  way across the whole country. Sometimes he lets me ride

  to the first town, and my mommy picks me up there and

  then go to the Jack-in-the-Box for a milk

  shake and French fries.

  I get to play with so many things. Toys. Games.

  Friends. And of course, our dog, Stump. He's very funny

  sometimes, and he poops a lot. That makes grown-ups

  very angry. They don't like dog poop. Sometimes Stump

  eats it. Maybe he must think it's a Tootsie Roll. He's not the

  smartest dog.

  My grandpa is my best friend. I call him Grampy.

  He's very fun to be with and he takes me places that are so

  much fun. He loves me, too, but big boys can't say that

  they love you because that's for girls, he says. But I know

  that he does.

  I like music and songs, and I sing to myself because

  I'm really quite good, I think. I know very many songs, but

  not the stupid ones—well, I know them, but I don't sing

  them. Mary can take her little lamb and eat it for Sunday

  supper for all I care. And, duh, I know that the wheels on

  the bus go round and round. What else are they gonna do?

  I like real music. Like the kind that's on the radio.

  And my Grampy has so many records and CDs. He has

  both, and they need different kinds of machines to play

  them, but I'm
an expert on how to use them. Just ask me if

  you need any help.

  I saw a band that I like very much. They were on

  the T.V. on a show Grammy watches called Live with Regis

  & Kathie Lee. I like them so much. Not Regis and Kathie

  Lee. I like the band. They are called Hanson. They sang

  very good and so I looked for their CD when we went to

  the Fred Meyer's store. I found it. I wanted it. Badly.

  "Whatcha got there, Stomper?" Grampy says. He

  calls me Stomper because when I first started to walk on

  my very own, I guess I sort of stomped across the floor.

  Sometimes he calls me Stomps for short. "Looks like a new

  record. Is it a hit?" he smiles.

  "I don't know what that is, Grampy," I say. "But I

  really, really, really like it a lot."

  "Who's it by?" he asks. I tell him it's Hanson, and

  that Grammy and me watched them on the T.V. and that I

  don't know for sure, but I think she liked them too. "Well,

  we better get it before somebody else does," he laughs.

  "Put it in the buggy."

  My mom doesn't call it a buggy. She calls it a cart.

  But I like buggy better. I get to stand on the end of it facing

  backwards, and hold on as Grampy pushes me through

  the store. He calls me his rubber baby buggy bumper, but

  I'm not a baby or a bumper—and I'm not made out of

  rubber. But I laugh every time he says it.

  The ladies in the store all smile at us when we ride

  by, and their kids have to sit in the stupid floppy seat up

  by the pushing bar. I don't. I figure if I did, and I didn't

  want to sit there, a couple of kicks to the driver would

  probably get me out of there. That's why my mom makes

  me walk alongside the cart and hold on to it instead.

  Grampy pushes us to all of the fun parts of the

  store while Grammy gets the groceries. We go to the toys,

  and to the fishing stuff, and to the tires. Grampy always

  has to look at the tires because he's waiting for them to be

  on sale. "Never pay full price for tires, kid," he tells me.

  "Only boobs pay full price. And nobody ever got anything

  on sale at Costco, either! Their prices all look fine and

  dandy, but they make it all back with that damned card

  they make you buy every year. Seems like I just pay for it,

  then along comes another bill for another year. They