by KL Evans
She was going to cry when it was all over that day, and I prepared myself for that. I thought of all the things I could say to remind her that, while this was bad, it wasn’t the end of her son’s story or life. I don’t have to be a parent to understand how hard it is for a mother to watch her child get cuffed, arrested, and face criminal charges. I know, in her eyes, Christian was still the baby she cradled, taught to walk and speak, the little boy whose hand she held, the son for whom she had hoped and prayed for all the best things in life, in spite of so many impossible obstacles that stood in the way of that; obstacles that were completely out of her control. And the ruling that would be handed down that day was only the latest of those obstacles.
The bailiff ushered Christian into the courtroom and Christian was visibly defiant in his face, although completely compliant in his posture and behavior. He responded to the judge with yes ma’am and no ma’am, speaking in a put-on baritone that masked his true youth well enough from those who didn’t know him, but not from me and obviously not from his mother. Missy periodically pressed a tissue to her nose and mouth and Bonnie rubbed her back.
“That poor woman,” you said under your breath. “She’s trying to stay so strong, but you can tell she’s this close to dissolving into a puddle.” You turned a pair of solemn eyes toward me. “I feel so sad for her. Don’t you feel awful for her?”
“Yeah, I feel terrible for her,” I said, and I couldn’t help picking up your hand because your empathy was striking.
“All of this just for spray painting. It seems kind of ridiculous, don’t you think?”
“Well, the law is the law and he broke it.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like he was hurting anyone.” You scoffed. “It’s not like he was manufacturing and distributing meth.”
“True, but he’s also not going to get sixty years. He’s getting a couple of months.”
“Still seems a bit extreme to me. As if some abandoned property or government building is worth more than a person’s freedom. Where the hell are our priorities in this society?”
“I don’t disagree with that, but he still knew what he was getting into when he did what he did, every single time he did what he did. I have sympathy for him, but he still put himself in this situation with eyes wide open.”
You were silent for a while as you watched Christian and something draped over your face. Something that looked like solidarity or respect or a combination of the two. “That’s true. And he’ll be fine. Look at him. He’s just fine. This is what he wanted.”
I could feel my face contort into an incredulous expression. “This is what he wanted? He wanted to go to jail?”
“Totally. Look at him.”
I looked at him and that’s not what I saw at all. I saw a boy who’d opted to throw his life in the shitter before it had a chance to begin. “I’m not seeing how he wanted to go to jail, Charlie. I don’t think anyone would ever want to go to jail.”
“Okay, maybe he didn’t particularly want to go to jail, but he’s living on his own terms, Seth McCollum. It’s his life. He gets to choose.”
“But his choices are ruining his life.”
“He doesn't see it that way. There are social mores and expectations and not everyone fits into them. He doesn't fit. He knows it. But he's still going to live on his own terms, regardless of the consequences.”
“Living on his own terms, in his mind, means defacing public property.”
“And?”
“And that's wrong. And he's doing it at the expense of his future.”
You scowled at me. “And what future is that, Seth McCollum? A future where he conforms to a life that would never make him happy, just because it’s the quote unquote ‘right thing to do’? So society will approve of him?”
“Well what about what he's doing to his mother? She's beside herself.”
“I feel bad for her,” you said earnestly. “I feel so bad for her. But it’s not her life we’re talking about. It’s his.”
“She’s his mother and that means it is her life we’re talking about. I’ve spent several days a week with her since you were in the hospital and I can tell you with utmost assurance that woman’s life does not exist independently of her son. He’s all she lives for and he had a chance to take his life in the exact opposite direction of this, but instead he wanted to be rebellious and cause trouble. He’s hardheaded and smart, and that will serve him well, but before it can he’s going to have an uphill battle.”
You sank backward into the bench as if you were totally done with the topic. “I guess.”
The judge issued the sentence—six months in the county jail—and Missy yelped like a kicked puppy.
“Does this mean he goes now?” she whimpered, causing me to stand up and make my way to the front row. “Is he going now? Is this it?”
“He’s going now,” Bonnie said calmly with a firm hand on Missy’s back.
“Can I tell him bye?”
The judge and bailiff allowed it and then Christian strode out of the court with his head held high, and it was the last time any of us saw him until that day. That awful day. The day that, as far as I’m concerned, should go down in history as the worst day ever. One of the two, at least.
Missy held it together until we exited the courtroom and then found a corner in the lobby just outside. She pressed her nose squarely into the intersection of two walls and held her breath. When she couldn’t hold it any longer, she exhaled long and loud with low, mournful moan, and it was painful. I know I’ve said it a dozen times already, but it bears repeating yet again because I can’t handle when women cry. Missy crying, especially crying like that, was way worse, and she suddenly felt that much more maternal, and Christian suddenly felt that much more like a little brother who deserved an ass-kicking.
I managed to pull her away from the corner and she cried into my shirt, and I tried to say something comforting or helpful, but I was at a loss. Partially because anything I came up with seemed trite, and partially because you were suddenly there, with one hand on her shoulder and the other holding out a tissue next to her cheek.
She took it and you stepped closer, looking at me but speaking to her. “You know, I’ve never met you before, but Seth has told me all about you and your son. And when I saw him in there just now, do you know what I saw?”
“A smart-assed little shit who’s going to send me to an early grave from stress!” she wailed, wiping her eyes with my tie instead of the tissue. “That’s what you saw, sugar.”
“Nah,” you said casually and sweetly. “I saw a kid going through the most adult thing that’s ever happened to him and taking it in stride with maturity and an attitude that shows he’s taking responsibility for his actions. I saw a kid who wasn’t reduced to throwing a fit like a baby and conducted himself with good manners and like a confident adult. Your son wouldn’t be that calm and respectful in such a situation if he wasn’t grounded and confidant in the love of his mother. And maybe he’s in trouble right now, but at least he knows he’s loved. That’s everything. I wish I had that. I would give anything for a mom who loved me that much.”
You squeezed her shoulder and kept looking at me, but I could tell you didn’t really see me. I just happened to be in front of your face, and I could’ve kissed that face for the words you gave to her.
And while I didn’t kiss your face, Missy did. “Thank you, sweetie. You have a very kind heart.”
“She does have a kind heart,” I said to Missy, but still looking at you. I must have been beaming with pride or love because Missy gave me a knowing look. I suddenly felt the need to change the subject because it all seemed extremely inappropriate and overwhelming. “Can I take you to lunch, Missy? I bet you’re hungry after all this.”
“Thank you, Seth, but I have to get back to work.”
“Do you really feel up to working right now?”
She sighed loudly, shaking her head. “No, not at all. But what am I going to do? Get fired from my ne
w job for being late for my shift? I can’t afford to lose this job.”
I nodded. “I understand. I’ll call you tomorrow to check on you, okay?”
“I’d appreciate that very much,” she said, turning to you. “It was very nice getting to meet you, Charlie.”
“You too,” you said. “Hang in there.”
“Thank you, dear.”
As we watched her leave the building, I found myself absently rubbing the small of your back and noticed you lean into my hand, and I liked all of it so much that I gave you a small tug toward me so I could drape my arm around your shoulders. It was the first time I had a strong desire to say, I love you, Charlie, but, once again, it didn’t seem appropriate.
“You can take me to lunch, Seth,” you said with a smile that reached way up to your eyes and I smiled back.
“Oh, are you giving me permission to take you to lunch?”
“I am,” you said in a voice tickled with flirtation.
“Well, gee thanks, Charlie.” And then I kissed the side of your face in the county courthouse and wondered what the hell had happened to me that would possess me to do something like that in such a place. “I’d love to take you to lunch.”
We stood outside the courthouse for a few moments while I tried to remember where I’d parked—it had been a chaotic morning—and I was holding your hand.
“It was the D garage,” I was saying to myself, squinting at adjacent buildings. “I think. Maybe it was C. That one is D and that one is C and we crossed two intersections so that—“
“This is enough. Maybe it could be at least. Maybe for a little while.” You spoke so quietly that I didn’t really hear you and didn’t understand the words you mumbled until later that night after I’d been mulling over the sounds all day long.
When I figured them out, you were asleep on your side, facing away from me, wearing only your obscenely long hair as covering.
“Charlie.” I shook you gently and you sighed ever so quietly. “Charlie, what did you mean by ‘this is enough’? You said it when we were walking to the car after court.”
Instead of answering, you rolled over and clung to me, your face in my neck, planting sleepy kisses on my clavicle, and I was all the more insistent upon knowing.
“Charlie, wake up for a second. I want to ask you something.”
And you woke up, but I didn’t get the clarification; I got you crawling on top of me, and then I was distracted from my need for an answer because we were making love for the first time. There’s a big difference between fucking and having sex and making love, and this particular moment struck me as the first occurrence of the lattermost.
It was your hair. Your hair was so intoxicating as it formed a curtain of intimacy draping around our faces, inside of which was the overpowering scent of lavender and the slowly increasing intensity of your breath and moans. It was also the feeling of you climaxing for the very first time, and I felt every little tremor that shook from the inside of you to the out.
It was perfect.
It was perfect until after you climbed to the peak and made your subsequent descent because that’s when you cried again. And then it was terrifying.
“Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying? Don’t cry. Not right now. Please don’t cry right now.”
“You can’t fix this, Seth McCollum.”
“Can’t fix what?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not.”
“I will. I will hurt you so badly.”
“Why are you saying that?”
“It’ll never be this good forever.”
“It’s good right now. That’s plenty. Don’t worry about later.”
“You don’t understand, Seth McCollum. You’ll never know and you’ll never understand. I’ll never be able to make you.”
“Charlie, why are you talking like this?”
You stopped talking. Your head was nestled under my chin again and you slipped into a fitful sleep.
I didn’t sleep. I mulled over all your words for so long that I got a nervous stomachache. I didn’t drift off until subtle twilight caused the windows to glow deep blue in your bedroom. When I woke up later that morning, you were gone. We never spoke of that exchange, but we should have.
This is all my fault.
Hour Thirty
This is all my fault and now I’m out of time and I don’t think this is going to work and I’m fucking exhausted and please, Charlie.
Please.
Please.
Just hang on a minute, please.
Please don’t leave me.
Despite the exchange we never spoke of, things were so good for a while. And it was because they were so good that we never spoke of it. That was one of the worst mistakes I could have made and I’m so sorry.
I made so many mistakes. There were so many things that I should have done differently. There were so many things I ignored for so many reasons. So many reasons, but mainly because I’m so selfish and I was more concerned with my own ego than anything else. Insecurity can be a killer.
By the time you were on Spring Break you appeared to be doing better than ever. You were doing so well that I let you take over your own meds. They sat in your kitchen and you took the prescribed doses every morning without complaint or protest or even much acknowledgment, and I knew that because I was there with you just about every morning.
And that had become the only source of concern: if I was basically living with you, maybe I should be living with you. I had to remember to carry clothes with me or leave so early that I could go home and change before heading to work. The lack of structure started to agitate me and I attempted to bring it up a couple of times, but it was pointless.
“Charlie,” I said, beginning the conversation on all of two occasions, this particular time being the second and last.
“What?”
Then what was I supposed to say? I’m a chicken shit. “Have you thought about maybe getting an apartment closer into town?”
“No, not really. Why?”
“Well, if you’re going to work in one of the hospitals, maybe you should live closer.”
“Oh.” All you said was oh.
“And it would save me about twenty minutes or so trying to get back home in the morning before I go to work.” I was doing an interpretive tap-dance, but it went completely over your head.
“Well I told you you didn’t have to sleep over at night.”
I shrugged. “I like sleeping over.”
Hello! Hello, Charlie! I want to take the next step with you!
Nope. Right over your head.
“You’re so cute, Seth.” Even better, you were patronizing me.
“Why is that cute?”
“That’s not cute. You are. You’re just cute in general. I was just saying you’re cute.”
And then I got as brave as I was capable of. “Well my lease is up soon. What if I got a place in maybe Arlington or something? Would you start staying with me?”
You gave me a blatant deer-in-headlights stare.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s a fair question.” And then I suddenly believed it was actually quite a legitimate question. “I always come here. It’s only fair to switch it up sometimes.”
Your eyes shifted and then you raised your eyebrows. “Seth McCollum… I’m kind of worried that you’re too attached to me.”
I dropped my head backward and groaned. “Charlie, I don’t know what you think being too attached means but—“
“It means when—I mean if… I guess… this like… ends…” You were stammering all over the place and I could feel my face contort into an incredulous expression. “Okay, don’t look at me like that. I really like you and I really don’t want to hurt you. I’m going to end up hurting you and I hate that.”
“So don’t hurt me. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. You don’t need to worry about this ending right now.” I hesitated a moment as I considered the idea th
at maybe we were on totally different pages and you wanted out of this thing we had that was still technically unofficial. “Unless you’re done already. Are you done?”
“No,” you said with intensity. “No, not at all. I just keep thinking if something were to… like… you know… happen.”
“What’s going to happen?”
You shrugged, and I was suddenly really defensive.
This little exchange felt like it bordered on me begging you for something serious, and I must be a chauvinist on some level because it seemed emasculating to be a thirty-year-old man begging the twenty-four-year-old girl I was seeing for a commitment. I didn’t like it at all and felt the need to assert myself as having some kind of pathetic upper hand, so I pinned you against the kitchen counter with my hips against yours and hovered my face above you.
“Nothing’s going to happen. You’re not going to hurt me. I’m not too attached to you and I’m not going to be. So stop fretting about that.”
You batted your lashes and jutted your chin at me. “Only if you give my hair a nice tug.”
So I did that. And then some. And then I opted not to bring it up again because what did I really have to complain about? I figured things would either progress to that point—it was still pretty early in this pseudo-relationship, after all—or things would fizzle out, but whatever happened, I didn’t need to force it. Especially not if forcing it meant forcing me out of my comfort zone.
Big fucking mistake because I was in for the surprise of my life, wasn’t I? When you finally showed me the real reason why you didn’t want to take the next step.
I don’t even want to tell the next part because that’s the last part and once I’m finished, we’re finished. It’s over. I know it. I don’t want it to be over, but I guess if I was brutally honest with myself I’d admit that it already ended on that day.
