The '49 Indian

by Craig Moody

  “Second, Mr. Paulson is going to have to stay the night,” he declared, pulling a small piece of paper from one of his oversized scrub pockets.

  “Here is the number to a shelter if you need a place to go.”

  I looked up at him as he placed the paper into my palm.

  “Wait, what?”

  My words fell between us like hail in a rainstorm.

  “Sir, I assume this by the state of your appearance,” he continued. “There is no judgment. I am simply providing a civil service.”

  I could only stare at him. The suggestion that I was homeless was both baffling and offensive to comprehend.

  “If needed, of course,” he concluded when I didn’t respond with words.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I grumbled, crushing the paper in my fist.

  The orderly stared at me, his brown eyes reflecting my physically and emotionally drained face.

  “Very well,” he said, turning to go.

  “Wait!” I called. “What about Gauge? How is he? When can I see him?”

  “He has an infection,” he stated, turning back to face me. “Those casts should have been changed a week ago. Had you not brought him in today, I can’t promise that he would have remained alive much longer.”

  His words fell over me like an acid rain, each syllable searing into my flesh.

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, son. All sorts of bacteria and crazy things start to fester when casts aren’t maintained or changed properly. Your friend here looks like he’s worn his through the Amazon and back.”

  I couldn’t speak, my voice paralyzed in disbelief.

  “Anyhow, I take it you are not related to him,” the man stated, almost accusatorily.

  My mind raced for a response, but something inside delivered one before I could approve of it.

  “I’m his boyfriend,” I heard my voice state, assured and certain.

  The orderly nodded, a slight smile moving over his previously expressionless face.

  “That’s what I assumed,” he said. “It’s okay.

  Give me ten minutes and I will get you to him.”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “I’m gay too, so I am going to bend a bit of rules for some of my brethren.”

  He patted my knee and returned to his full height. Confusion and relief circled over my face like a living collage. That same inner voice I had been hearing so clearly the past few days issued a mental and emotional reprieve.

  I watched as the orderly disappeared behind the palace-sized ivory doors, leaving me alone to sit with my worry and exhaustion.

  I jumped when he later tapped my shoulder, placing a finger to his lips to signify my silent obedience.

  I mimicked his steps as we slipped past the swinging doors and into the internal twists and turns of the emergency room.

  We stopped before a closed curtain, the sound of whirring machinery beeping and clicking behind it.

  The orderly parted a corner of the fabric, motioning for me to tuck between it.

  I gasped when I saw Gauge, his face sunken, his nose and mouth covered by a tangle of various tubing and hoses.

  “Don’t worry,” the orderly eased, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It looks worse than it is.

  We gave him some medication, so he’s just sleeping. He will be good as new once we get that infection out of him.”

  A tear fell from my cheek and onto the bedside, its liquid presence dancing and dazzling from the light of the nearby glowing machinery.

  “So,” the orderly whispered, “time to tell the truth. Where are you staying?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head, the truth of our circumstances snapping my gathering tears like a needle pricking the skin of a water balloon. Instantly, a gush of water began glazing over my skin like liquid molasses atop a Christmas ham. I felt helpless and stupid as I stood alone before an unconscious Gauge and an inquisitive stranger.

  “Shh,” the man cooed. “Listen, everything is going to be okay. I promise you.”

  I turned my head to face him, the wavering of my fleeing tears distorting my vision.

  “I get off in about fifty minutes,” he continued. “We can talk about everything then.”

  I squinted as his face came into view, his brown eyes soft and sympathetic, his brow creased with concern, his lips attempting a reassuring smile.

  “Okay?” he asked when my words again failed me.

  I nodded, moving my hands to wipe away the silent flooding of my skin.

  He sat me in a nearby chair, patted my shoulder, and slipped behind the curtain.

  I watched in a mental tsunami of fear and worry as Gauge’s chest lifted and fell in unison with the breathing and ticking of the collection of electronics. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the orderly appeared again, this time donning a pair of light blue jeans and a brown corduroy jacket.

  He squatted beside me, placing both of his hands over mine.

  “I’d like for you to come home with me,” he whispered gently, allowing his expression to accent the certainty of his words.

  I fixed my eyes on his suspiciously, concern and doubt marching over my expression as if displayed on the letterbox screens of Times Square.

  “I get it,” he said smiling, nodding his head in understanding. “It’s wise to be cautious. But I give you my word that this is safe. It’s a solid offer.”

  The silent voice within responded by lifting me from the chair and nodding my head. I took one last look at Gauge, kissed him on the forehead, and then followed the man beyond the curtain.

  ***

  His name was Paul Morales, a twenty- seven-year-old medical student from Arizona. He was interning at the hospital, cramming in a seemingly endless cycle of classes and labs in between the hours he kept as an orderly and those he spent asleep.

  His tiny one-bedroom apartment was charming. There was a large glass sliding door that overlooked the street, various replicas of famous paintings adorning the walls, and a massive spool that had been sanded and varnished to look like some form of high-quality wood.

  “You can take my bed, and I will crash on the couch,” Paul announced as we entered the tiny living space. “Please don’t try and decline out of politeness. I insist you have the bed.”

  I smiled when he turned to check my reaction to his decree. I really didn’t care where I slept, but I was grateful that it would be in an actual dwelling with a traditional bed, a definite improvement from the truck cabin, the desert floor, or the makeshift pile of towels and T-shirts I had been finding slumber on the past several days.

  “I head back to the hospital around 5:00 a.m., so I will wake you around 4:30 so that you can get ready.”

  I nodded, feeling the weight of my exhaustion slowly creeping over my entire body like the shadow of the setting sun over the street below the sliding glass door.

  “Do you like Chinese food?” he asked, tossing his pile of bags, books, and various articles of clothing onto the corner of an under-stuffed, worn-out hunter green couch.

  “Um, yeah, that’s fine,” I replied, the extent of my stress, fear, and worry accenting each of my words.

  Paul stared at me, his eyes methodically shifting between mine.

  “You really love him, don’t you?” he asked, his inquisitive stare unbroken.

  Unexpectedly, the relentless spinning of emotion seeped over my eyes and down my face. I struggled to breathe under the sudden and powerful surge of the water.

  “Aw, man,” Paul said softly, moving forward to embrace me. “Let it out, dude.”

  I couldn’t speak for at least five minutes. I could only cry, focus on breathing, and then cry some more.

  When my tears finally dried, the lingering droplets that dangled along the edges of my lids shimmered in the light like dewdrops under the moon. I sat on the couch, allowing the remainder of the outpour to flow through me in one long, enormous sigh.

  “Feel better?” Paul asked, locating a tissue box o
n the small table that stood between the wall and the couch.

  “Thanks,” I sniffed, pulling several tissues from the box.

  “It’s a beautiful thing, you know,” Paul stated, placing the tissue box between us. “What you have with Gauge. It’s a mighty thing.”

  He paused, waiting for me to meet his gaze.

  “Never take that for granted. Many people go their whole lives never finding a fraction of what I can see in the two of you.”

  I smiled, lowering my head back to my chest, watching my fingers as they nervously twisted and fumbled the collection of tissues in my grasp.

  “Where did you meet?”

  We spent the next hour or so chatting about Gauge and me, my family, and the journey we had taken since leaving South Florida. Paul never interrupted. Instead, he listened intently, keeping his eyes directly in line with mine. His interest appeared authentic, which was both comforting and a bit unnerving.

  “So have you spoken to your folks since you left?” he asked, rising from the couch and moving toward the kitchen.

  “No,” I replied, keeping my eyes attached to the twisting tissues, which had now been obliterated to a cycling collection of shredded bits.

  “You need to call them,” Paul directed, returning to the couch with two bottles of beer.

  “I don’t know,” I answered, watching the remaining shreds of tissue disintegrate into the rest of the pile.

  “Hey,” Paul spoke loudly, placing one of the ice-cold bottles into my hand. “They are your parents, dude. You need to at least let them know that you are okay.”

  I discarded the annihilated tissue bits onto the giant varnished wooden spool and twisted the bottle cap.

  “Of course I’ve thought about it,” I said, chugging a large mouthful of the fizzy golden liquid.

  “Then do it. Now.”

  I pulled the bottle from my lips, nearly choking from the surprise of his sudden command.

  “It’s long distance, but I don’t care,” he declared, leaning toward the side table to retrieve a cream-colored telephone. “This is worth the extra cost on my bill.”

  He plopped the phone onto my lap, the chime of the bell echoing with the impact. I looked up at Paul, confusion and worry appearing over my bloodshot, liquefied stare.

  “Go on, Dustin,” he commanded. “I am not ordering the food or allowing us to go to bed until you speak to one, or both, of your parents.”

  For some reason, be it the slowly churning alcohol within my veins or the surrender of my resistance to the suffocation of my exhaustion, I obeyed him, without argument or even a slight hesitation. Before I could process what was happening, I was on the phone with my father.

  “Hello?” I heard him say, the familiarity and recognition of his voice warming over me faster than the carbonated pool inside my stomach.

  “Dad?” I choked, my throat still burning from the outpour of my tears and the bubbled assault of the beer.

  Silence.

  “Dustin?” he whispered, his voice cracking.

  “Dustin, is that you?”

  My tears returned, this time sliding down my skin softly and slowly, as though healing over the salt-tinged irritation left behind by the first wave of emotion.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Paul left the room as the conversation with my father began to progress. In ten minutes, I learned that he knew everything, the details of my attack at the bathhouse, the encounters with my mother, even the fact that I had been in Tennessee for six months. Apparently, a few weeks after I left, Detective Sherman finally fulfilled his promise to contact my parents. The assailant had been arrested, identified by the faceless presence behind the rainbow-colored ticket window. When my parents failed to provide my whereabouts, my mother broke down and came clean about everything, even admitting to the violent assault at Aunt Mert’s. Detective Sherman made a few phone calls, and within a month an investigator had traced me to Tennessee. My parents declined the detective’s offer to confront me. Instead, they accepted my leaving and found comfort and peace of mind in knowing I was safe with Gauge.

  “Where’s Mom?” I finally asked after my father began babbling about pointless details of his job.

  “She’s at Bible study,” my father answered after a slow yet burdened sigh. “She goes all the time. She’s very involved with the church now. I hardly see her.”

  “Please tell her that I’m okay, Dad,” I said, my slow-falling tears quickening their pace. “Tell her I love her…and that I forgive her.”

  I could hear my father sobbing, his voice broken by the enormity of his emotion.

  “I will, Son,” he finally answered, his words heavy with sorrow and regret.

  “And, Son,” he continued. “I want you to know that I love you. I always will. Your mother was wrong about me.”

  I listened as he struggled to tame his tear- exhausted breathing.

  “I don’t care that you are gay,” he said, his voice suddenly calm and controlled. “You are my son, and I will always love you. No matter what.”

  The force of my tears slid the phone from my ear and onto my lap. A tireless cyclone of relief and sadness funneled around me as I struggled to regain my composure. I looked up to see Paul smiling at me from the doorway of his bedroom.

  “I love you too, Dad. So much.”

  We ended the call with the promise that I would contact them again in a week’s time. He thanked me for calling and assured me that he would relay my message of love and forgiveness to my mother once she arrived home. I closed my eyes and wept, the remainder of my body’s surplus of water for tears drying, leaving me with only the convulsing heave of a tearless sob.

  Paul returned to the couch, wrapping his arms around me until my breathing slowed and I was able to speak.

  “See,” he said, smiling as our eyes met.

  “This is exactly what you needed, my friend.”

  I nodded in agreement, thanking him with a slobbered, snotty embrace.

  He patted my shoulder triumphantly and playfully messed up my hair. Taking the phone from my lap, he declared, “Now, let’s order up that Chinese!”

  ***

  Gauge was awake when we arrived at the hospital the next morning. His dark eyes dazzled under the fluorescents when he saw me. As if separated for years, we embraced in silence, the beating of our hearts speaking the words we could not say.

  “Where did you go?” he whispered, holding me in his arms.

  “One of the orderlies who was taking care of you last night let me stay at his place,” I replied, running my fingers through his thick, dark hair.

  “I missed you,” he cooed, his voice tender and soft like a child’s.

  “I missed you too, baby.”

  Paul entered from behind the curtain.

  “Looks like they are letting you outta here tonight, my man,” he announced, holding up a clipboard full of charts.

  “What about the infection?” I asked, allowing Gauge to pull from our embrace so that he could sit up straight in the bed.

  “The doctors seem to think it has cleared enough to where he will be fine going home with some antibiotics.”

  Gauge and I stared at Paul, both relieved yet bewildered by the unexpected news.

  “Well, hell, boys, one of you show some sort of excitement! This is an amazing improvement!”

  Gauge and I faced each other and kissed. I looked down at his arms, admiring the new collection of clean and simplified casts and bandages.

  “Doctor is gonna want you in physical therapy,” Paul continued, leaning to read one of the machine screens. “Lucky for you, that is what I am going to school for.”

  He smiled, moving the clipboard behind his back and standing tall like a soldier saluting a flag.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, pulling a nearby chair closer to the bedside.

  “That means,” Paul started, sliding the clipboard into a wooden slot on the end of the bed, “that I can provide the service for free.”

&
nbsp; I looked at Gauge, who was listening intently to Paul.

  “Without insurance, there is no way you guys would be able to foot the bill on PT. I could bring Gauge with me to my practical lab, and we could work his hands.”

  Gauge turned his head to me, a look of confusion and uncertainty floating over his face.

  “Wow,” I said, appreciative yet surprised by the offer. “I don’t know what to say, Paul.”

  I kept my eyes on Gauge’s, nodding and smiling my approval for him to see.

  “Hey, I should be thanking you!” Paul exclaimed, placing his hand over Gauge’s blanketed ankle. “I am in desperate need of more lab hours, and working with Gauge on a consistent basis will certainly get me some.”

  I watched as Gauge stared at Paul a long moment, a look of distrust and suspicion locking his expression. Sensing the sudden and unspoken tension, Paul released his hand from Gauge’s leg and retreated to the corner near the curtain.

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat as if attempting to clear the energy of the space around us. “Let me know if that would work for you. You both are more than welcome to stay with me during the therapy. As long as it takes. I would be more than happy to host you.”

  I smiled before returning my attention to Gauge, who remained staring and silent in the hospital bed.

  I looked back at Paul, who curiously returned Gauge’s stare. The tension in the room snaked around the three of us as powerful and tight as a python constricting its prey. No one spoke for what felt like hours.

  “That would be great!” I finally responded, lifting from the chair, reclaiming my stance next to Gauge.

  I felt Gauge place one of his casted hands over my wrist where it rested on top of his upper leg.

  “Awesome,” Paul replied, flashing a massive grin before disappearing behind the curtain.

  Gauge turned to me the second Paul was gone.

  “Why are you accepting this guy’s offer?” he asked, his confusion and concern transforming into suspicion and frustration. “He’s up to something. I can tell. He obviously wants something from us.”

  “Gauge, no,” I said, attempting to reassure him with the certainty of my voice, but for some reason, it was lacking. “He is a good guy, I swear.