Boy

by James Stryker

  “Now don’t get all upset, Tommy, and don’t tell your fucking friends. I’m only guarding your interests,” Leo had said several weeks previously. “I drafted that contract myself, and it mentions one child. So if they try any funny business, or if you have second thoughts, babe, we’ll play that loophole for all it’s worth. Until you give up your rights for two children, they only get one. And by God, if you want them both, give me the go-ahead to play all the below-the-belt tricks I know, and you’ll have them.”

  Tom was so upset that the option took on a definite appeal. Jay had always wanted to be a father. It would destroy him to have those long-sought-after children taken, not to mention the damage from the tactics Leo would use to get them. Tom assumed his methods would involve dragging Jay’s name and situation through the mud—getting him declared an unfit parent based on being transgendered.

  Jay wouldn’t let the children go without a fight, but Tom knew he and Leo would eventually win.

  It’ll just be a waiting game. Time and money are nothing when one’s attorney is being retained by ardent affection alone. Leo will draw legal proceedings on and on. He’ll bleed them dry until they concede. They’d lose everything and Jay will be forced to give up his precious children because of something as dirty as money.

  It also would kill Jay to relinquish one. And keeping one child sounded like it would be legally simple. Above-the-belt but equally cruel.

  Not that I’m sure what I’d do with a child. I’d stop traveling for Jay, but only for him. If he’s not part of the agreement, staying in one place for only a child isn’t worth it.

  At the time though, hurting Jay had been justification enough. He’d plan what to do with a child after he exacted his revenge.

  And he could choose either one. Leo hadn’t stipulated a specific child in the contract since they hadn’t known there were two at the time. Oh, Jay had been so excited about that. Yes, keeping only one child was the best plan.

  When Tom hurt the worst, he spent time trying to decide which he’d pick—the boy or the girl. He should ask Jay. Simply inquire who he anticipated more.

  A sweet baby girl, who you’ll put in cute dresses and give your entire world to—Daddy’s little girl? Or that charming boy, who would admire you and be your helper, your shadow?

  Who did Jay want more? That’s who he’d insist on keeping for himself.

  It’s probably the boy. You’ll see yourself in him. You’ll love him so much you’ll ruin him. He’d be better with me. That’s it. That’s what I want. If I can’t have you, I want the boy.

  Tom continued to debate telling Leo, but as he’d resolved to unleash the firestorm, Jay had disturbed him at the piano four days after he’d placed his heart out to be crushed.

  Tom had been bashing Prokofiev’s “Sonata No. 7” with such fury that he’d stood, knocking the bench backward. He kept playing, and had it not been a quality piano, he might’ve smashed it to bits. When he heard the door open, he tensed with his back to the door and stopped the chaotic music.

  Call me “Tommy.” Do it. I’ll whip the fucking bench into your head. I can’t take anymore when there’s no purpose for enduring you.

  “Tom.”

  Thank God. Not that I want to see you, but I didn’t want to kill Leo today. I need to call the Germans. See if they’re willing to reschedule as soon as possible.

  “Yes?” He faced Jay. It was difficult to not collapse. To not beg. To not threaten as he knew he could.

  And threats could be effective. You want to be a father more than anything? That’s your dream? The culmination of everything you’ve ever wanted? Then you stay with me. Or they stay with me. I get all of you, or just the children. I’ll rip them from your arms if you won’t stay with me, Jay. That would do it. You’ll hate me at first, but you’ll stay. And if you don’t love me now, you’ll learn to.

  But when he met Jay’s eyes, his temper dissolved. For the time being.

  “What is it?” Tom withheld the tears. Those eyes drove back the strong desire for retribution, but they magnified the pain.

  “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “To know what?”

  That you’re leaving now instead of waiting? That Jackie has convinced you I can’t be trusted, so you’ll never speak to me again? I can be trusted. I didn’t attack you, did I? I told you my feelings, and you brutally shot me down, but how is that my fault?

  “I don’t know what I’ll call the girl yet. But I want to name the boy after you,” Jay said. “Not because of what happened a few days ago, and not despite it either. But you’re my best friend. You’ve given me a wonderful gift, and I hope he’ll be as good a man as his namesake.” He paused. “I’m going to call him Luke.”

  And Tom knew he couldn’t tell Leo. He could never do anything that would hurt Jay, or jeopardize his family, no matter how agonizing it was to be excluded from it. Though he’d agreed to their arrangement under the assumption that he could persuade Jay to stay with him, that supposition had been his own doing. There was no one to blame for the heartache but himself. As attempts to win him over would risk Jay’s happiness, he had to forget how deeply he cared for him. And even if it was tolerated by Jay and Jackie, he couldn’t get close to those children. They weren’t his. Even if the boy carried his middle name.

  ✩✩✩

  “Tom.”

  He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and his fingers left the piano keys as he turned to the right. Luke sat on the bench beside him. And the eyes he shared with Jay were clouded in concern.

  “People are always disrupting me when I’m playing.” Tom tried to smile.

  “You’ve been playing for a long time. I’ve been trying to talk to you, but you weren’t responding. I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, and you didn’t notice.” Luke patted his shoulder. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, I know who you are. You’re the fucking kid who keeps pestering me.” Tom shrugged him away. “I’m sorry about last night, okay? When I don’t take the meds, I get sick. I’m dying. It’s not fun.”

  “Why didn’t you take the meds?”

  “I’m a grown man, and I decide for myself what I do or do not want to take.”

  Luke looked into his lap before turning his gaze back to Tom. “I think I should stay for a few days. To make sure you’re okay.”

  “You think so, huh?” Tom laughed.

  “What would’ve happened last night if I hadn’t been there?”

  “I can say with absolute certainty I would be dead right now.” He made the statement with such a straight face that the boy seemed flabbergasted, which amused him.

  “And?”

  “And I wouldn’t be in any more pain.” Tom was starting to feel it again. At the same place, right in his lower back. It throbbed. The signal to take the meds. “Are you waiting for me to thank you for keeping me in pain?”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to die. No one wants to die.”

  “Believe me, when your entire torso feels like it’s going through a food processor, you do.”

  But Tom had been feeling congenial toward Luke since discovering him asleep on the bedroom floor. And as painful and dark as the memories were, coming off them left a residue of compassion. Luke looked so much like Jay. Hadn’t Jay been around this age when that unpleasantness happened? Yes.

  Tom pressed Luke’s arm. “Thank you. Not for saving my life. But for your kindness. That I can thank you for. Your dad would be proud of you. You’re a good boy.”

  He was taken aback when Luke pulled away. And also perhaps a little hurt, but that may’ve been because Jay had done the same twenty-seven years earlier.

  “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.” Luke stood. “And I’m staying until I’m sure you’ll be all right.”

  Tom scratched his chin and considered this resolution. Putting aside the pain and emotional distress Luke had already caused, and the potential for more, his motives remained questionable. And most important, Tom st
ill didn’t want to continue the farce of living any longer. He was ready to die. Well, not ready. He would’ve loved to have the next half of his life, but circumstances being what they were, he felt ready to die.

  I was ready last night, Goddamn it. Until you showed up.

  Of course, Luke could be of use to him in this area. If he was to commit suicide while he was there, his body wouldn’t go a week before being found. That’d be nice. Considerate to the funeral director, the landlord, his neighbors, and his hardwood floors. Sure, that could work.

  “Fine. But three things—” Tom raised each of his fingers in turn. “—first, this is not your home. However sick I may be, you will not try to boss me around or take control of anything. You will respect what I ask of you. Second, while I may be willing to answer questions about your dad, I, personally, am off limits. Don’t ask about me. And the last is most important, so fucking pay attention.”

  He lowered all three fingers and took Luke’s wrist.

  “You will not, I repeat, will not call me or refer to me as anything, anything but ‘Tom.’ I won’t give you more chances on that one. I have no son. If you imply otherwise, even in jest, even once, I will murder you in your sleep.” Tom let go of him. “And I encourage you to take that threat literally. I only have six months to live, and whether I spend it here or in prison is irrelevant to me. Agreed?”

  Luke nodded although he seemed nervous around the edges.

  “Good.” Tom turned to his piano and waved Luke away. “Then make yourself useful, and get me my pills that you spilled all over the floor. And bring me the sonogram.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Go Betty Crocker some shit. I don’t care what you do.” He closed his eyes and put his fingers on the keyboard. He heard the boy leaving and was about to sweep into his other world again when he was once more interrupted.

  “Tom.”

  “What?”

  “You won’t call me ‘boy’ either.” Luke took a breath. “And I encourage you to take a death threat from me seriously. You have only six months to live, and if I murdered you in your sleep, I could probably get away with it.”

  He opened his eyes and saw Luke’s reflection in the window. He stood in the doorframe and smiled. So Tom smiled back as he started to play his piano again.

  “It’s nice to have our homicidal tendencies in the open. Now go make me a fucking sandwich. And don’t forget my picture.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Williamsport, Pennsylvania

  March 2038

  Ginger lay on the roof of the white van, looking at the stars. He’d parked in the cemetery, next to the turned earth that covered Jay’s grave. The dead flowers had been removed weeks ago, so now it was only a bare, ugly spot with a rust-colored temporary name stake.

  I haven’t fucking ordered the headstone yet. Damn it.

  He hoped the grass would grow over soon, not that it’d help anything other than making the place more aesthetically pleasing. More uniform, like every other grave.

  Faster and faster every day, Jay was becoming like all the others. Not only the decomp, but eventually, the grave wouldn’t be new. It wouldn’t be fresh in anyone’s mind, and a person would stroll through the cemetery without paying it a second glimpse. Jay would be reduced to a name engraved on a stone, and everything about him would be forgotten. Including how important he’d been to a young man who’d had nothing before meeting him. And the small, white container buried with him? That had already been forgotten. Less than a name on a stone, the box was nothing but Ginger’s private secret.

  His mind cycled through these and more morbid things. He could get himself really worked up if he gave in. But he wasn’t currently dwelling on his dead father-in-law, his dead child, or death.

  Ginger considered how he could lie undisturbed on top of the van for the rest of his life. He could bake in the sun until hawks picked the skin from his cheeks. No one cared if he fell and broke his neck. If he was upset, there was no one to whom it mattered. There wouldn’t be anyone prodding him with a broom. Beau was gone.

  The last time Ginger had seen her had been over a month ago. She had turned her back to him after throwing a suitcase of his clothes on the sidewalk outside the funeral home. He’d tried to talk to her, but she’d refused to grant him a single word. She just drove away. He’d been waiting since then to be served with divorce papers.

  “Did she say she was going to divorce you?” Jackie had asked him that morning.

  Beau had forbidden Ginger to “go crawling” to her mother, but that ban had been abolished. By his mother-in-law.

  For the first couple of days, he’d stayed at the funeral home until Jackie had shown up and told him he was to move in to her house. He could have the spare room. No, Beau hadn’t forgiven him, but it was her house, not Beau’s. And yes, Jackie herself still wasn’t happy with him, but life was too short for this shit. Jay wouldn’t want him sleeping on the couch in the funeral home. Moreover, if Luke should call, Jackie was sure, based on the events, he’d call Ginger. She wanted to keep him close, so if and when that call came, she could speak to her son. Also, his slacks were wrinkled and needed ironing badly. This was a business, not a homeless shelter.

  “Well? Did she say she was going to divorce you?” His mother-in-law repeated, which had become a regular occurrence.

  Sometimes a tunnel vision overtook Ginger; everything around grew dark, and all he could see was a pinpoint of light in the distance. It could’ve been the depression. Or maybe he was sick. He hadn’t been sleeping well or eating much—his clothes hung on him, and he shivered a lot.

  “No. She didn’t specifically say that.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about what hasn’t happened.”

  “Did she tell you she’d divorce me?” Ginger had glanced up from his mug.

  “She’s as furious with me for letting you stay here as she is with you for giving Luke that information. She doesn’t tell me anything, Ging.”

  But that wasn’t true. Beau told Jackie things. The new sonogram hanging on the refrigerator was proof. It’d been physically painful when he’d walked into the kitchen to make Jackie’s morning coffee and saw it there.

  Ginger’s heart had fallen. He’d kept himself going on the basis of that appointment. She couldn’t go through this pregnancy without him, so she’d have to forgive him by the appointment. Even if she stayed furious, and it took them weeks, months, years to rebuild their relationship, Beau would have to include him in this. It was the big one. They were going to find out the sex.

  She must’ve canceled. She couldn’t go through with it alone, but she’s still too mad at me. That’s okay. She needs more time. She’ll reschedule and call me.

  Then he saw it, held to the refrigerator by two ceramic magnets. Ginger had ripped it from the door, the magnets shattering on the kitchen tiles. He stared at it. It no longer resembled a jelly bean. He could see its head and the silhouette of its nose and lips. Its arms and legs. It looked like a person.

  Ginger felt a sudden weakness in his legs, and he dropped into a chair at the table. He buried his face in his arms. Would he ever hold this child? Alive or dead? Or was Beau planning to drag him through a miserable divorce and cut him out? If she did permit him to be part of the child’s life, what about her? Would he ever hold his wife again? Touch her hair? Kiss her temples and tell her how he adored her? Or would their only communication be snarky comments made through their lawyers?

  God, isn’t it enough that you took Dad? Why did you start this shit with Luke? Why did you take my home from me? And my wife and child? When will it fucking be enough?

  But he knew the only thing he could blame God for was Jay. Everything else had been spurned by his own actions. And if given the option to go back before he’d given Luke the information to contact Tom DuBelle?

  I’d do it again. I know I would. He’d struggled to restrain the tears. I’d have always ended up in the same position.

  Jack
ie had found him heartbroken over the sonogram picture at her kitchen table that morning. He’d felt her hand on his back and heard the chair next to him pull out.

  “I wasn’t going to hang it. But you should know it’s healthy.”

  “It?” Ginger felt a painful lump in his throat. “Didn’t you find out what it is?”

  “I don’t know,” Jackie said.

  “You didn’t?”

  “She did. She just didn’t tell me.”

  Ginger searched her face for deception. He didn’t care if it destroyed the only relationship he had left; he’d force it from her if she knew. But she revealed nothing.

  “If I knew, Ginger, even if she’d made me promise not to tell you, I would. That’s possibly why she didn’t.”

  He trusted her. Although she hadn’t officially said it, he believed his mother-in-law had forgiven him. He knew she’d tell him. She did whatever she deemed right, whoever it might offend.

  Jackie had made things easier, but he was still miserable. He missed Jay. He missed his wife. Occasionally, he missed Luke. The boy could be a douche bag, but he wasn’t awful to have around. He pitched in at the funeral home when needed. He sang well and played the piano; in a house that could’ve been filled with death and sadness, he was comic relief. And he made Beau happy.

  Beau had seethed during the initial days following Luke’s disappearance, adamant that she didn’t care if she ever saw or heard from him again, but when her fury cooled, worry set in. For her and Jackie.

  Where was he? Why hadn’t he called? Was he dead in a gutter somewhere? Beau had contacted the roommate he’d been living with in New York—the man hadn’t seen or heard from Luke since he left to go home.

  Jackie scoured the Internet, trying to locate a number to reach Tom DuBelle. She didn’t want to call him, but she would. Unfortunately, she hadn’t unearthed a trace, and for the life of her, Jackie couldn’t remember any of Tom’s associates to find them and form a link to Tom. She couldn’t recall the name of his companion either—just that he had a big house.