by Paul Russell
“Unfortunately.”
“That’s terrible,” Noah said bravely, even as the strange thought crossed his mind that Arthur, in that single glimpse he’d had of him, had reminded him a little of Chris Tyler, not his physical appearance, because Noah hadn’t been that close, but something vaguer, something he couldn’t put his finger on. It made his next question, though he tried to make it sound ironic, somewhat harder than he’d anticipated.
“Should I be jealous?”
Tracy seemed genuinely perplexed this time. “What for? Because he’s sick?”
“No, no,” Noah said quickly. It wasn’t what he’d meant at all. He’d have to just come out and say it. “I meant, is he…well…is he, like, your boyfriend or something?”
Tracy smiled. He had a gorgeous smile, like candlelight, and all at once it occurred to Noah that he knew how to use it as well, putting his interrogator at ease just with that expression of gentle indulgence, tenderness, patience. Before he even said a word.
“He was my boyfriend. Ages ago, before he got sick. Now he’s just my friend. And no, for your information, I don’t have a boyfriend. So there. Actually, you know, Arthur went to the Forge, way before our time of course. In fact…” He paused, his smile gone now, replaced by a distinct look of worry. “But that’s another story,” he said dismissively.
“Tell me,” Noah demanded. He hated it when Tracy treated him like that.
Tracy looked not just worried, but grim. “What I was going to say was, he had a little affair with one of his teachers while he was here.”
“See? Happens all the time,” Noah was quick to point out.
“It was not a happy thing,” Tracy said. “Not a happy thing at all.” And with that he threw himself back into his mighty shoveling, with what seemed to the unsatisfied Noah like redoubled purposefulness.
An afternoon of monotonous brilliance. Long icicles stabbed down from the gutters—like ice picks made of ice, Noah thought. Ice turned against itself. Sock-footed, he paced the house’s bare rooms, Betsy following, her nails clicking hollowly across the floors. “I’ve got some work I need to do,” Tracy had said before disappearing behind the closed door of his study, but Noah had no particular illusions. Tracy Parker was hiding from him, and there was nothing he could do but wait till he came out.
He’d never been any good at filling empty time, entertaining himself while he waited. And most of life, he’d concluded, was about waiting. Waiting for the class period to end, the schoolday to finish, the game to be over, waiting for the train, waiting to grow up, to be old enough, waiting to be done with whatever boring thing he was doing at the moment. For getting rid of boring, empty, useless, depressing time, there was nothing so good as sleep: jump ahead fast-forward, get on with the plot, such as it was. Even the animals knew that.
Out the window he could see the driveway he’d barely started and Tracy had finished, a gleaming ribbon of asphalt going nowhere. Maybe that was the difference between them, and for a moment he thought he could see how wrong he’d been about this man he’d obsessed about for the last three months. Certainly things weren’t turning out as he’d planned; the delirious, uncontrollable passion he’d envisioned was showing itself to be tedious, hesitant, all hemmed in. He realized, gazing forlornly at that driveway, how angry he was with Tracy for not wanting the same thing he wanted, and in the same way he wanted it.
Of course he could always run away one more time. He greatly relished the thought of Tracy emerging from his study to find him long gone; then he’d see what he’d missed. Or would he only feel relief at being left alone?
He could run or he could wait. And he was no good at either one.
He wanted to break things, smash dishes against the radiator, throw a lamp against a wall. Let Tracy know how he was feeling, that it wasn’t fair. He wanted to kick Betsy, or break an arm by slamming it into a door frame. He wanted to set fire to the house and watch it burn.
No, no, no. He did not want to set fire to the house. He wanted to set fire to time and watch it burn like a candle or, better, a match. He remembered the sensation he sometimes had when he was furiously writing out one of his stories, how he’d look up to find that an hour had consumed itself entirely, and feel stunned but strangely excited that only his scribbles on the page marked its vanishing.
Right there he called a halt to his aimless circumnavigation of the house’s finite space. Locating his knapsack, he extracted the notebook he always carried with him and sat himself cross-legged on the sofa. He patted the empty space next to him; alert and eager, Betsy jumped right up. Then he opened to a blank page, paused a moment to let the black torrent rush through him, and began to write.
The Soviet Underbelly
An Adventure Dream (For All Ages)
by Noah Lathrop III
One snowy morning they knock down Noah Lathrop III’s door & wake him up out of a really fine sleep (no dreams) & say You’re under arrest. Its 2 men dressed in black pants, black turtlenecks, black boots. I think I’ve seen them somewhere before but I’m still sleepy so I don’t quite know.
Who are you? I ask. (innocent me).
We used to work as models, but then the KGB recruited us. It’s much more fun being torturers than models, because we’re beautiful, & we need to cause pain.
Yes, says the other one.
Oh, I say, I get it. You’re the famous Brewer Twins.
Correction, they say. We were the famous Brewer twins. Now I am Kazak, & this is my brother Kergix (sp.???), & like we say, You’re under arrest for Crimes.
Uh oh, I say, which one?
Oh, we can tell you’re really guilty, Kazak says.
Yes, Kergix says. So it does’t really matter, now does it.
So come with us, Kazak says.
We go out to their helicopter, & get in & it goes & lands us in this courtyard with four high walls around it, their’s no door leading in or out, just these four sky high walls.
Then a door opens in the wall like magic & out steps The Kommisar.
I say, I don’t know you, do I?
Of course, says the Kommisar. You have always known me.
We will torture you now, says Kazak.
Yes, says Kergix, getting out a saw from his bag. Its got these tiny razor sharp diamond teeth, & when he starts sawing off my leg I can hardly feel it. This isn’t too bad I think, only now I don’t have a leg, which is terrible. Then he saws the other one off, right at the hip, & I’m going Oh shit, now what am I supposed to do. He puts this special goop on them both to heel them right up. Then his brother Kazak takes the saw & goes, Now we’ll do your arms, so they cut the right one off & then the left one. & I’m yelling Stop, stop, trying to move my arms & legs but I cant because guess what, their not there. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just that I need my arms & legs back.
The Kommisar keeps laughing his head off, & I keep going, Where do I know this guy from?
Then Kazak & Kergix take these special spoons & gouge out my eyes like egg yolks, then they cut out my tongue & stick these special antiseptic ice picks in my ears to pierce my eardrums. So now I can’t hear or see & I can’t scream or talk or anything, just be there in the dark where theirs no sound & I can’t even move.
They just go away & leave me there. Oh, & they put a special tube in my side so liquid food can go in & I won’t starve, I’ll just stay like this forever.
He stopped writing and closed his eyes. The torture he’d invented pleased him. In its way it was perfect. These days it seemed like he was always writing about torture and never the other thing—but then, believe it or not, he was pretty cautious these days. He censored himself. Not like that first great thing he wrote, back at his other school, starring him and Mr. Brookner in a plane crash in the jungle where they had to live like savages, just the two of them, running around with no clothes and all, and then the part where the snake bit him and Mr. Brookner had to save his life: that was the best part to write, especially when Mr. Brookner massaged his chest and
stomach with special ointment, his hand rubbing in circles lower and lower till he said, What’s this? and then…Well, it had gone on for pages and pages, great stuff, but not meant for anybody ever to read, definitely not for his nosy roommate to read, and excruciatingly not for Mr. Brookner, who of course his roommate took it straight to.
He burned to remember all that. He’d never had a teacher so kind as Mr. Brookner, so understanding, and then try explaining to him how it was all a bad joke (ha ha). Or to the counselor. Or any of the other plenty who got wind of the stupid story and wouldn’t let it go.
Except for Mr. Brookner, he hadn’t liked that school much, and he hadn’t been a bit sorry to leave (though a hot tear, or three or four, appeared out of nowhere when Mr. Brookner shook his hand good-bye).
Tracy’s hand on his shoulder shook him gently awake. Sometime in the late afternoon, drowsy, fretful, disconsolate, he’d given in: curled up in the warm blankets and comforter of Tracy’s ruined futon. (“Nonsense—it’s not ruined,” Tracy had tried to assure him. “What’s a little pee anyway?”)
Now Noah found himself apologizing once again. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?” The light had gone out of the world, and Tracy, for whatever reason, hadn’t turned on the lamp; darkness saturated the room.
“It’s dinnertime,” Tracy said softly. “You must’ve been exhausted. You slept at least three hours.”
“Did you go out?” Noah asked.
“Out?” Tracy wondered.
“To get food.”
Tracy laughed. “I just improvised. They still haven’t plowed my street. Now come on, it’s all ready.”
Sluggish, with the thin line of a headache stretching somewhere in the back of his brain, he tried to pull himself together. For half an hour after waking up from a nap he was always an idiot, IQ of fifty at most. He hated that he’d opted out, fallen asleep instead of keeping watch as the long, difficult day had demanded. A test, like shoveling the driveway, and once again he’d failed.
Or perhaps Tracy had failed, by neglecting to join him in his nap, as he’d hoped against hope, when he crawled into the futon’s disheveled nest of covers. Our love has died, he said to himself with bitter drama.
Tracy had cooked another one of his stupid, wonderful dinners. “Let’s see,” he said, gesturing at the feast he’d laid out. “To start, some miso soup. Then, a nice roasted vegetable medley—parsnips, carrots, turnips, and rutabaga.”
“Root vegetables rock,” Noah deadpanned. Tracy had made an effort for him. Already he was starting to feel better.
“You bet,” Tracy told him with serious enthusiasm. “The best. And then some spicy soba noodles. And for dessert, poached pears. Well, one poached pear, half for you and half for me. That’s all I had in the refrigerator.”
The surprising thing was, it all sounded quite appealing. “You know, you’ve gone and turned me into a vegetarian,” Noah admitted as he seated himself at the table. “All I used to eat was hamburgers and M&M’s and shit like that. Now I can’t stand the thought of all that stuff.”
Tracy only smiled, though so broadly it was clear he felt delighted by the effect he’d had on his student.
Only faggots don’t eat red meat, Noah’s dad would say.
“I mean, really,” Noah went on. “I didn’t understand the consequences before. The rain forest and all that. How we make animals suffer.”
“There should be more people like you,” Tracy said.
“Like us,” Noah reminded him, nonetheless pleased that there weren’t too many like him, at least in Tracy’s eyes. Though he still had to wonder: was Arthur one of them like him?
Oblivious to the pang of jealousy he had unintentionally provoked, Tracy lit candles, even poured them both a glass of red wine. “Cheers,” he said. “To us, then.”
Noah sipped cautiously, feeling grown-up and responsible, though unable to repress a grimace at the wine’s dense afterbite.
“It’s really an acquired taste,” Tracy assured him. “I hated the stuff for years. Then I went out with Arthur, who’s a connoisseur. He taught me everything I know about wine, which is about this much.” He gestured with his thumb and forefinger, the same gesture Gary Marks made when he was disparaging the size of someone’s penis. “I’m still not what you’d call much of a drinker. Two glasses and my lights go out. I guess I’m what you’d call a cheap date.”
Noah laughed uncomfortably, trying to decide exactly how he was supposed to take a joke like that, concluding it could really go either way. This was a different Tracy Parker than he’d seen before, as if his teacher had finally decided to take him seriously, to treat him as an equal. So this was how gay men talked. Tracy seemed looser, more at ease. He seemed, in a word, faggier.
“This is really delicious,” Noah complimented him. “As always.”
“Thanks,” Tracy told him. And then it was the oddest thing—as if, with that single word, he dove back into an ocean of silence. Self-consciously, Noah tried to think of something else to say, but suddenly they seemed to have nothing in common. They ate for several minutes in uncomfortable silence, their chopsticks clicking busily against porcelain, their chewing unnaturally, even comically, loud.
“About Arthur,” Tracy said, as if he too had long strings of logic that happened all in his head before he got to what he wanted to say. He’d stopped eating and was looking at Noah strangely. “What I told you about—Arthur and one of his teachers.”
Was this it? Noah wondered. Fear and anxiety seized him, and he sat motionless. When he realized the chopsticks still poised in his left hand were trembling, he laid them on the table.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Tracy went on. “I mean, should it have happened or not? And I guess the easy answer is no. It should never happen, under any circumstances. But the harder answer…Well, let’s just say Arthur really wanted it to happen. The teacher was the one who freaked out, and that’s when things unfortunately got nasty. But Arthur was old enough to know what he was doing. Maybe it was crazy, but Arthur’s always done crazy things. I’m also thinking, when I was your age I had this incredible crush on a guy who was like thirty or something. We were both working in this summer theater program, and we became really good friends. I wanted to be with him more than anything else in my life, and I’m pretty sure he was attracted to me, too. This one afternoon we came really close to doing it. I mean, I actually came out and told him I wanted to sleep with him, and we went back to his place and everything but then at the last minute he freaked out. Or maybe he didn’t freak out. Maybe his conscience told him, No, don’t do this. I don’t know. But he told me I was too young.”
“So do you think you were too young?” Noah wanted to know.
“I wish I knew,” Tracy said with a pained expression on his face. “I really, really wish I knew. What I do know is, the first time I actually had sex was about a year later, in the back of a car with this creep I’d met in the parking lot of a gay bar I was too young to get into. He had this really enormous dick and he fucked me without a condom. I didn’t know any better. Plus he was not gentle at all. It hurt like hell. He knew he was taking advantage of me, and just wanted to get his kicks and get the hell out of there. So I couldn’t have done any worse on my first time out if I’d tried. Certainly Eric would have treated me with love and respect. If only I’d been able to convince him. So, no,” he concluded resolutely. “I don’t think I was too young, as it turned out.”
Was Tracy asking Noah to convince him? If that was what it took…
“Then I don’t see why there’s even any question about you and me,” Noah said as convincingly as he could. “There’s things I need to know, Trace. I’m asking you to teach me. The way you wish somebody taught you.”
“I wish I didn’t have all these scruples,” Tracy said. “Thinking about all the consequences.” Noah noticed how he clenched and unclenched his right fist on the table beside his plate. In frustration? In anger or nervousness?
; “I wish you didn’t either. What is it with you older guys?” Noah kidded, surprised he could find a sense of humor in a situation that was making him so tense. He felt a sharp pain in his gut, he was so tense, but he forged on anyway, wholly serious now. He put everything into what he had to say, looking Tracy straight in the eye with the most serious expression he could manage. “We’re soul mates, Trace. You’ve even said that. We’ve got this incredible bond.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say, You’re a faggot and I think maybe I am too. Instead he pleaded, “Do you want me to go off and have my first time with some sleazy guy I don’t know who’s going to give me AIDS or something?”
Tracy took a deep breath and expelled it in a huge, weary sigh. Nonetheless he continued looking at Noah with an intensity that was actually a little unnerving, Noah so seldom made eye contact with anyone; it was an invisible but undeniable link he’d didn’t know quite what to do with, especially when, as now, it went on and on, gathering depth and focus but leading to—what?
That was the great mystery. Where did he think any or all of this was supposed to lead? Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine the future whose door he was so desperately trying to open. All he could think of was that sequence of Brewer Twin photos he’d downloaded from the Internet: two picture-perfect brothers joking around, wrestling a bit before getting seriously moody and passionate with each other, hugging and rolling around naked in the ferns and then that beautiful beautiful kiss that made his heart soar into his throat.
