To the Max

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  I knew it as soon as I came into my bedroom. Not just because he wasn’t there, not just because his personal items were missing. But it was as if something had been sucked out of the room, something vital, a piece of my life had just gone missing, and there was a black hole in my heart that was consuming all the happiness that had been mine such a short time before, grinding it into so much dust, turning it to bile in my throat.

  I looked about my room—so empty now, so barren of his being—and I sank to my knees, my eyes already stinging with hot tears, and the wolf and I howled together in great pain.

  Words of love, softly spoken, what did they really mean? Apparently not very damn much.

  My mother tried, my sister tried, my cousin tried, and Rachel tried, but nothing they could say or do could assuage that incredible pain. I was not to be comforted. The wolf was too strong, and he was both hurt and pissed. So I grabbed a bottle of Absolut out of my mother’s cabinet and took to my room, locked my door, and drank myself into a sorry mess.

  That night, Juliet was kind enough to perform the locking-in duties for my sorry ass. And how very sorry I was indeed. A complete sodden heap of self-pity, self-loathing, and shameless weeping. Carrying on like a hormonal teenager—which I wasn’t far from anyway, being not yet twenty-one—I had cried my heart out all day, curled up on my bed, keening and wailing like a Jewish widow. The wolf howled his pain into my very heart, and together we rocked back and forth, mourning the loss of our faithless lover. Telling ourselves what a complete and utter bastard he was. Heartless, cold, vicious, callous. Mean, evil, stupid….

  God, how much I missed him and wanted nothing more than to crawl into his arms and hide away forever from reality.

  Mother hugged me before she left me. I am sure she was concerned, but I was sunk too far into my own misery to be very aware of anything or anyone else. And when the moon reached her maddening zenith and the transformation began, for once I welcomed the chance to slip into oblivion, to forget about life for a while.

  Until the next morning, when I began to wonder just what I had missed.

  I lay on the bed, not moving for a very long time, not wishing to move, not sure how well I actually could. But what did it matter, anyway? Where was I going? What was I going to do that couldn’t wait? Nothing waiting for me. No one.

  Descent into pity. And a deep, abiding pain.

  I didn’t look up when I heard the opening of the heavy door, the sound of footsteps descending the steps. I couldn’t even be sure what time it was, but I knew that I had been lying there for awhile. The next thing I was aware of was a pressure on the bed, as of someone sitting near me. For a split second, I wondered….

  But no. It’s Rachel’s soft voice I heard, her startled gasp as she took in my appearance, her gentle hands I felt lifting my head, very gingerly, and setting it into her lap. “Oh Max,” she breathed very softly.

  I made no reply. I just let myself be tended to like a little baby. I couldn’t feel. I didn’t want to feel. I refused to feel.

  Saturday, March 19, 1977

  SIX weeks had passed. Life went on, more or less. My wounds had healed, at least the outer ones, leaving a minimum of scarring. Rachel forced me out of my room at last and introduced me to Amy. They dragged me about from place to place like the bastard child at a family reunion. Juliet refrained from setting me up on those miserable blind dates, at least temporarily. I knew that wouldn’t last, but I didn’t care enough to think about it either. Sebastian dragged me out into the real world, too, found me a part-time job working at a grocery store, bagging groceries. I knew that wouldn’t last either, but what did I care? Diana encouraged me to play the piano; if it wasn’t for her, I probably wouldn’t have touched the damn thing, for I now had too many memories of Richard tied up in it. But I did it to please my little sister, my fingers unwillingly spilling out my beloved Beethoven, Bach, and Grainger. And no one mentioned his name, not once, not ever, deliberately avoiding the subject as if it were number one on the list of things not to talk about. Which I suppose it was, at least for them.

  It didn’t matter; it didn’t really help. I thought about him all the time anyway. Thought and wondered and told myself not to feel anything. Convinced myself that I didn’t feel anything anymore, that I was beyond all that. I was strong. I was a werewolf. That was enough to deal with. I shouldn’t care about, wouldn’t care about such mundane things as… love.

  Damn, who did I think I was fooling anyway?

  Another Saturday night, one no different from another. No disco-dancing now. No Fred and Ginger.

  I worked in the morning, got my paycheck, put most of it into savings—it was a habit now, saving up for that dream home, even though I had stopped looking for one—just took out a little bit for gas and sundries. Particularly liquid sundries. Yes, I was aware I drank too much, but I didn’t care. I had promised Rachel that I would go out with her and Amy somewhere that night, I couldn’t remember where, but it was better than listening to her harp about it if I didn’t go, and I could always stop and get a bottle of something on the way home. Why not?

  So I went. Good Max, obedient Max, gentle Max. Wishy-washy Max, I say. And so there I was, sitting with my Jack and Coke at a table at some small bar, the name of which totally escapes me, with Rachel, and Amy, and Brendan. Who the hell, you ask, is Brendan? Same question I asked myself when I looked up to see a bespectacled blond boy with a shy smile, dressed in a tan cord jacket and pants, standing at our table, and then watched as the two sneaky ladies welcomed him with open arms and invited him to sit with us. Very subtle—not! Very unnecessary, and very not nice. Blindsiding me with a blind date. Jeez Louise!

  I cast sharp looks upon them both, noticing their Cheshire cat grins. Then I looked again. Amy looked different somehow. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the change, though.

  Rachel answered my unspoken question. “Do you like what we did to Amy’s hair?” she asked proudly. “Miss Clairol. Summer blonde.”

  I could see it now, the difference in the shade of her hair, now that it was pointed out to me. Too eerily close to Richard’s lemon shade for my taste. I repressed a quick shudder. “Looks nice,” I mumbled.

  “Max, Brendan goes to school with us,” Rachel began. I should have known. What did they do, circulate my picture around the campus until they found someone hard up enough to go out with me? Damn. But I showed the proper amount of polite interest. Of course.

  “Are you a student?” Brendan asked.

  “No, I’m a bagger.”

  Amy interjected. “Max used to go to school, just last year.”

  “Yes, but he got sidetracked. I’m hoping he’ll go back.”

  Now I knew what it felt like to be the subject of a dissection. I will never look at dead frogs in quite the same way again. I grabbed my glass and took a good stiff drink, letting the Jack Daniels do its thing, numb this heart, then work its magic on my brain.

  “Brendan is studying to be a computer programmer,” Amy added. “He lives in Kirkwood.” Uh huh. Whatever.

  “I think that computers are the wave of the future,” Brendan said, “and I want to be prepared, know what to expect from them.” Bully for you. More Jack, letting my tongue linger over the little bits of ice still floating about, taking them between my teeth and chewing on them. No, don’t tell me about sexually repressive acts. I don’t wish to hear it.

  “Isn’t that interesting?” This from Rachel. “He calls it BASIC, the computer language he’s learning, but it doesn’t seem that easy to me!” The two girls giggled at this; Brendan smiled. I just looked at them, wondering why in the hell Rachel was dumbing herself down like that. That girl was smarter than most people I knew. Just to play me up? Surely not. Wasted effort, if so.

  Amy flagged a passing waitress. Brendan ordered a screwdriver, the girls got two more sloe gin fizzes, and I asked for two Jack and Cokes. Why waste time? I deliberately avoided Rachel’s probable glare of disapproval as I pulled the bills for my drinks out
of my pocket. I knew I had to slow down; I only had so much money and a bottle to buy later, but at the moment that wasn’t my primary consideration.

  “This round’s on me,” Brendan insisted, laying his hand on top of mine as I would have tossed the money onto the table. I was going to turn him down, but practicality won out over principle, and I let it ride. However, I did move my hand, trying not to be too obvious. No offense, I just wasn’t interested. Don’t bother clucking at me, either one of you, I thought to myself, looking at Amy and Rachel. If you like him so bloody much, you shag him. But all I said aloud was, “Thanks.”

  The one good thing about this place I decided as I looked around me, looked anywhere but at Brendan so as not to give the budding yentes any ideas, was that there was no dance floor. So no making me perform like a trained monkey, thank you very much. Putting me through my paces like they’d been known to do, whining at me until I reluctantly agreed to lead one or the other of them out in one of my dance routines. Our dance routines. That was one of the last things I wanted to do, actually, but for some reason both Rachel and Amy saw it as therapeutic. Myself, I simply found it to be painful. But I invariably went along with them. It was better than explaining myself, explaining something I felt they should have understood instinctively, my desire not to do what I had done with him. But I guess it wasn’t tacitly understood, and I couldn’t bring myself to voice it.

  I had no real reason to think that Brendan was gay, but under the circumstances, I just knew it. It’s not like I have a built-in instinct that leads me to be able to out other gay men. It doesn’t work like that. Sometimes I know, sometimes I don’t. But why would they have brought him along if they didn’t think he was gay, dangling him like a nice juicy carrot in front of me? Oh yes, he had blond hair, too, like Richard. Blue eyes, as well, although his were a light crisp blue, not the deep midnight blue of my lover. Ex-lover. Whatever. There the resemblance ended, thank God. That wasn’t enough, not for me. Why couldn’t they understand that nobody ever would be enough, ever again? I sighed inwardly, tried to make small talk, but I didn’t have any to make, so I let the girls carry the conversation while I drank myself hopefully into a coma.

  The tactic worked up until the point where the two of them stood up and announced they were going to the ladies’ room. Damn, that is a most annoying habit women have, pairing off to go to a place where they cannot be followed, more than likely to discuss the foibles of the men in their lives. Which in this instance was me. And which left me alone with Brendan. Damn. But flounce off they did, giggling, looking like co-conspirators in some fiendish plot. Is this what Cassius et al looked like on March 14? I wondered.

  I chewed on my lip, thoughtfully, as I skillfully balanced one of my two drink glasses in the palm of my hand, watching the dark liquid swirl in a mini-eddy. “Um… so you program computers?” I asked in a brave attempt to say something, anything, halfway resembling normal conversation. I felt bad, as he was an obvious victim here as well. I was sure that Rachel and Amy hadn’t been honest with him about me, led him to believe that I was indeed available, which I wasn’t.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry to put you on the spot like this. It’s kind of awkward, I know. So don’t worry about entertaining me. It’s cool.”

  That just made me feel bad. I shot him a quick look. He seemed sincere enough, and he wasn’t a bad sort of guy. Not bad looking either. Under other circumstances, I might have chatted him up, saw where it led. Pre-Richard, of course. But I didn’t even have the energy or the will to pretend that anything was possible. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You’re not,” he insisted, “I can understand where you’re coming from. I didn’t really expect anything other than a friendly night out. I don’t really know many people here, since I come from Indiana, and well, Rachel and Amy kind of insisted so much that I finally gave in, ya know?”

  I knew very well. And I felt even worse.

  “Y’all wanna go back to my place and smoke?” he asked. “I have my own apartment.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t smoke.”

  “I don’t smoke cigarettes, either.”

  Oh? This was something different.

  Not that I hadn’t tried smoking pot; I had, but as a rule, I didn’t choose to do it. I felt that it stripped away my control, which was very important to me, being in control of myself, particularly the wolf. Richard didn’t smoke either, at least not when he was with me, so that made it an easy abstinence. We neither one were all that interested in doing drugs of any kind. We got our highs from making love. Past tense, of course.

  But all of a sudden the idea appealed to me. “Sure!” I agreed on an impulse. I decided to start slugging my drinks. The sooner we got out of here the better, for some reason.

  Now to wait for the matchmakers to return. What the hell do women do in there that takes so long, I ask you!

  I think that if they had been gone any longer, I would have gone in after them, ladies’ room or not. But at last they came back, chuckling like they had received a laughing gas enema or something and giving us the eye. What did they think, I was gonna shag him while they were gone? Seriously! Women!

  When we explained about going to Brendan’s place, they exchanged amused glances, and I hastily corrected their erroneous assumptions. “All of us,” I interjected.

  I think that Rachel was inclined to ask questions, but seeing that I seemed to be interested in doing something for a change and that I was inclined to go, she held her tongue, and so did Amy. Within five minutes, we were all piling into Brendan’s little red Pinto. To avoid the appearance of seeming to be with him in any way shape or form, I opted for the back seat immediately and found myself being joined there by Amy, while Rachel rode shotgun up front. I know the backseat of a Pinto is small, but this was ridiculous, or did I just imagine that Amy and I were crushed together like canned sardines?

  Brendan lived in an apartment complex off of Lindbergh Boulevard in Kirkwood, a fairly good sized complex, and rather modern. He had a one-bedroom apartment, not big, but nice. He kept it neat, not cluttered. And there were no black light posters, not a single one, which I definitely appreciated. Nor any Norman Rockwell, which I actually despised. Just simple, tasteful landscapes. And potted plants.

  Being a good host, Brendan obligingly stuck his head into his refrigerator to see what he had to offer his unexpected guests. “I have a bottle of white wine. Is that okay for everyone?”

  Wine was fine with me, if he had nothing stronger. I could always get that bottle of Jack Daniels later. And getting high might be nice for a change, perhaps it would mellow me out? Or simply replace my morose thoughts with happier ones. Or something. Right that minute I really didn’t care. I just wanted a change.

  Rachel and Amy were agreeable, so he poured us each a glass—one thing you could say for him, he was prepared; he actually had matching wine glasses—and told us to feel free to choose whatever music we liked. I let the girls pore over his albums, pick out what they wanted while I carried my wine over to the couch and nested there. Brendan’s stereo system seemed adequate enough. I figured they could handle the task. They put their heads together and came up with The Byrds. Oh well! Imitation Dylan, but I could live with it.

  Rachel snuggled up beside me on the couch, her knees digging into my legs, as Amy put the vinyl on the turntable, and the melodies of Roger McGuinn et al began to fill the room. “Why are we really here?” she whispered into my ear.

  “You’ll see,” I said mysteriously. “Be surprised.”

  We didn’t have long to wait for the answer to Rachel’s line of inquiry. Our host excused himself, went into the other room, and quickly returned, carrying a small plastic baggie filled with small white cylindrical objects. Doobies. Joints. Mary Jane. Pot. Cannabis by any other name….

  Amy squealed at the sight, and I certainly didn’t hear any objections coming from Rachel’s side either. I leaned back against the soft cushions of the surprisi
ngly plush couch, drinking my glass of adequate wine, watching everything around me with a certain incurious detachment.

  I saw that Brendan smiled at their girlish enthusiasm. I supposed he was used to the way they were from going to school with them. Or something. The three of them seemed rather comfortable with one another, and for a moment I felt a twinge of jealousy, my mind reverting, as always, to my absent lover, his image swimming before my eyes as mentally I stroked his beautiful hair, kissed his pretty lips, and worshiped him for the god that I thought that he was, before I managed to shake the delusion off with my usual aplomb. Or lack thereof.

  When I cleared my eyes of images of Richard, I glanced at them again. Brendan had lit one of the joints, taking it between his lips briefly, the end glowing as he brought it to life. He passed it to Rachel, who took a practiced hit from it—I think she indulged in the practice far more than I did—and then handed it on to Amy, who also appeared to be more than passingly familiar with cannabis herself. Which left me as the undoubted newbie of the group. Amy slid the cigarette into my waiting fingers. I fumbled with my wine glass, threatening to spill it as I tried to maneuver both the wine and the joint, before she laughingly took it from my hands.

  “I’ll hold that for you,” she offered.

  I wisely allowed her to take it from me before I managed to drop it. They don’t call me Mr. Sure Hands for nothing. Okay, they don’t call me that for any reason.

  I took a long drag from the rolled joint, pulling the smoke into my lungs and holding onto it. I think I was decidedly rusty at this, ’cause I started coughing almost immediately. I tried not to, tried to hold it in, which only made me look ridiculous undoubtedly, like when you try to stifle a belch. Some things just gotta give, and I gave it up and just coughed it out. Amy’s hand sympathetically patted my back while I noticed Rachel trying not to laugh too hard. Brendan was too damn polite to show that he had even noticed.

  Determined not to look like a complete and utter incompetent (read wuss), I tried again, this time managing to handle the smoke a lot better, keeping it in and allowing it to reach up into my sinus cavities where I could release it through my nose. There, a little better. It felt good, too, perhaps bolstered by the quantity of alcohol which I had imbibed, tickling my innards. To my surprise, I even giggled.