Miles. Part 19

"That would be pretty hard," I replied softly.

We hugged for so long out there in the cold, I wondered if any of the cars waiting for their commuting husbands and wives noticed, or made remarks about us.

Me and Uncle Alex had an outdoor party the following Sat.u.r.day, and it was a gigantic success.

I invited Lawrence and his family (but they didn't come, as Unc predicted); Mister Granger, who couldn't go; Zane, who asked Farrah to be his date (and arranged for them to spend the night with us "since they lived so far away"!); and Doctor Clive, whose radio gal companion stunned us all by wearing a floor-length parka and a tight nylon skating dress, which showed off her s.e.xy young body. Brennan invited his parents and all our baseball friends, most of whom brought dates I didnt recognize. And Uncle Alex invited some tough-looking Israeli woman, who was his agent or something. She out-skated everyone, except Doctor C's radio gal. Unc found some caterers willing to do an outdoor spread prepared to withstand the winter elements, with cuisine featuring the very finest in ballpark eats: thick kosher hot dogs, beer-soaked bratwursts, giant pretzels, snow cones (with a number of tasty liqueurs on hand for flavoring with a kick), freshly-fried nachos, drumsticks, and, of course, a giant trail mix made up of Cracker Jack, unsh.e.l.led peanuts, and over-salted cheese popcorn.

In little more than an hour, the food was cleaned out. Zane and Farrah stayed close to me, and were much more fun than I thought they'd be. The baseball gang hogged the well-lit end of the rink, playing a rough-and-tumble version of hockey without sticks or skates. Doctor C and the Radio Gal (how's that for a short story t.i.tle?) carried on very romantically in our wrought-iron glider, watching the action on the ice, while the Israeli and George crossed swords over international politics. Doris and Uncle Alex were in some kind of drinking contest in the kitchen. I was afraid to see who was winning.

Brennan was happy to play bartender.

Everybody seemed to love the Viennese waltzes, polkas, and marches I taped for the party. I had thought about keeping a few good dance or sing-along songs handy, but there was such diversity in the age of our guests, I decided to keep it cla.s.sical. The ambience of the Strauss family's compositions alone, combined with the ice rink, the Christmas lights in the trees, the baseball food (especially the snow cones), and the company created a wonderful atmosphere that left everybody giddy.

And Uncle Alex had been here less than two weeks, I thought...!

Doctor C and his gorgeous date came up to me as I sat next to Brennan at the rented bar. "Young man, we'd like to have a skate on that rink of yours. What do you suggest for a group round-a-bout?"

"I have just the song, ready to go."

We cleared the remainder of the baseball thugs off of the ice. Most of them had drifted off to their cars to light up or have s.e.x with their dates. The others were too drunk to play on the ice with. I put in the new 8-track, and turned up the volume loud enough to convince the neighbors the Austrian Army was pa.s.sing through.

The Radetsky March trumpeted forward. Doctor C and the Radio Gal began waltzing around the ice holding each other close. Zane and Farrah skated up to Brennan and me and took our hands. Neither of us was wearing skates, but it didn't matter. I couldn't skate, anyway. The four of us twirled around in a circle as we wound our way behind the romantics, pushing and pulling on each other's hands to keep us going, while Uncle Alex got everyone else to start clapping and stomping their feet in time with the Vienna Philharmonic, New Year's Eve Concert-style.

The march ended far too soon. Everyone demanded another. I waved them off and waited for the next song to start. My eyes fused with Brennan's. Others saw this.

Zane joked we should dance together. "Well," I said? Brennan blushed as red as a Russian flag. Ozzie, our favorite catcher, echoed Zane. Brennan gave him the finger as I saw a hint of tension in both George and Uncle Alex's eyes. Doctor C's date smiled at both of us and nodded for us to do so, the world be d.a.m.ned.

I grabbed Brennan's hand and swung him out toward the middle of the ice as Lumbye's goofy Champagne Galop burst out of the speakers. We spun around dizzily, keeping the other one from falling, and began a playful half-chase, half-silly walk ballet around the rink to everyone's cheery encouragement, with either our hands or arms locked together the whole while.

Chaplin would have been proud. Or embarra.s.sed.

George took Doris home before she tried to start a fight.

Doctor C and his companion retired to the broadcast booth of love.

Uncle Alex and his agent went to her place to continue their negotiations.

Brennan waited for me in his half of my pajamas as I turned off the lights downstairs and locked up.

Farrah and Zane emerged from Dad's master bathroom. They were still dripping wet from a shower, inside matching robes somebody had bought for Mom and Dad years ago, who had never wore them. Their faces were flushed and happy. Farrah's dainty features glowed in Zane's company. She thanked me for inviting them both, and kissed me softly in the center of my cheek. Zane waited for her to retire behind Mom's old bedroom door to give me a quick, self-conscious hug.

"I'm glad we're friends, now, Hitman."

Was that the hundredth time hed said that since New Years? "Me, too, Zane."

I had scarcely closed my bedroom door when Brennan, wearing my itchy pajama bottoms, put his arms around me and began one of our perfect hugs. We hugged our tartans off and were about to devour the other until I heard a related commotion come from Mom's room.

"Listen," I whispered, pointing to my door. We knelt down and opened the door a crack. Zane had become possessed by his cowboy namesake's spirit as he and Farrah made noisy, almost hilarious whoopee.

"Man, is that rude! We should pound on their door and scare them. Maybe Zane would fire off, then!"

I groped Brennan to the floor before lying down across his warm stomach. "I've got a better idea. Let's make more noise than they are."

Our bodies met and ran off together.

"I loved dancing with you earlier."

"I'd hardly call that dancing, Brennan."

"What a great party. Thanks for inviting me." I exhaled melodramatically. Brennan kissed my hand in reply. "Thanks for being my date." He sat up suddenly. "Hey! Let's go to the prom together!"

"No." I hoped that was a snow cone talking.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I still won't go, Brennan."

"Okay." He lay back down and curled up in my arms. "We can argue about it later."

Winter hung on with bitter intransigence.

It was less than two weeks before Opening Day, and the temperature hadn't broken the forty-degree mark once that year. It rained or sleeted or snowed every other day, the wind never stopped, and I couldn't remember the last time I saw either the sun or the moon.

Me and Brennan played catch in the middle of the muddy park field every afternoon. Ozzie, from the old team, sometimes joined us. He was the best catch out of us all. Brennan had the best throw. n.o.body wanted to pitch to me. They hated running to the end of the park to retrieve the b.a.l.l.s I had hit.

The two of us were about to go back to my house for dinner with Uncle Alex when an early model T-Bird, the kind you could land a jet on the hood, cut us off. Felix parked badly against the curbside that lined our gra.s.sy knoll and hopped out of the pimp-mobile like he was somebody's boy wonder.

What is it with short guys and their need to drive the biggest cars they can lay their hands on?

Brennan stood beside me, instinctively showing his solidarity, and keeping close, in case I went to break something else on Felix's face.

I kept my expression and tone plain, even though my stomach, already hungry for dinner, began to knot up as Felix approached us with his spiritual tail between his legs.

"Hi, guys." We looked at him with indifference, feigned on my part. "You must be Brennan. I'm Felix." He offered his hand. Brennan waited a long time before taking it, and gave it back quickly.

We never talked about the cold war that had set in between me and Felix, but I think it bothered Brennan we didn't. He didn't believe there was a problem on earth that couldn't be solved by openly talking about it, and he certainly didn't believe the glacier of hurt and hate I had carved inside of myself over the whole thing was right, either, and he said so all the time.

"Is it okay if we talk alone?" Felix's animated voice irritated me.

Brennan shook his head. "I think I should stay here with my friend."

"I don't have anything to say to you." I began to walk away. Felix desperately grabbed my arm, but I shook it off with a violent tug. Brennan stepped quickly in between us.

"Please!" Felix reached around Brennan for one of my hands. I cried out and lunged forward yet again, this time trying to grab Felixs throat. Brennan struggled to keep me in his arms and away from Felix, who, stupidly, kept coming closer. Brennan yelled, "Get out of here, you idiot!" as I tried to break out of his grip.

Felix pointed at me and began to holler, too. "I'm leaving next week and you won't talk to me! You promised to spend my last weekend with me, like friends!"

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you!" I screamed back, pulling me and Brennan a few inches closer to Felix and his shaking bottom lip.

"All I want to do is talk! You made me a promise!"

I swung Brennan into a dirty snow pile near the curb and grabbed Felix by his sweater, throwing him against the side of his car. He hit the metal with a high-pitched cry before my fist struck him across the cheek and sent him to the pavement. Brennan leapt back up to close his arms around my arms and chest, trying to pull me off of Felix, who cried like a baby as I beat him against the side of his G.o.dzilla-sized car.

"d.a.m.n my promise and d.a.m.n you!"

All of a sudden, Felix stopped struggling. "Please don't," he begged. My mind flashed red, picturing us on the first night of our ruined friendship, twisted on the carpet outside of Felix's apartment. I flung him into his car's fender before Brennan managed to pull me backwards onto the sidewalk.

I stayed in Brennan's arms, trying to catch my breath and wipe away the tears I didn't know Id shed. Felix got to his feet, shaking like a leaf. "I kept my promise to you, Hitman," he sputtered.

Brennan's arms braced themselves around me, but I didn't move. "You broke every promise. You broke our friendship, d.a.m.n you," I hissed back. "Nicolasha..."

"I didn't know what would happen," Felix wailed. "My G.o.d, I'm sorry!"

Brennan had another fight on his hands. I surged up and toward Felix again, who ran to the other side of his car as I exerted myself wildly against Brennan's arms while my friend yelled repeatedly for me to stop.

"I'm sorry for everything," Felix Cromwell heaved, scurrying back into his car and driving off recklessly.

Sorry? What the h.e.l.l good was his sorrow to any of us, by then? Brennan didn't relax his grip until the T-Bird was halfway down the block. We wouldn't look at each other, trying to let the hysteria of the encounter seep out of us, me mostly, not giving it a chance to re-immolate.

Brennan walked me home and then left, without comment. I thought I would break down as soon as I closed the front door, and sure felt like doing it, too, but I didn't. I took a long, almost cold shower, and listened to an equally icy harpsichord sonata by Scarlatti over and over until I fell asleep on the couch, my own little overstuffed fortress of solitude in the family room that didn't have a family any more.

Much lonely and painful time would pa.s.s before I would learn it was Brennan who, once we were apart, had burst into tears that violent afternoon, convinced I would eventually reject and hate him, too. After reading Felixs letter, which Id beaten out of its author earlier that s.h.i.tty day.

X X I.

Such a man, so faint, so spiritless, so dead in look.

Henry IV Our new apartment was a high-cla.s.s dump.

It sat on the terminal corner of East 55th Street, overlooking South Sh.o.r.e Drive and Lake Michigan. It took up the entire sixth floor of the Depression-era building, and hadnt seen a lick of paint, soap, bleach, fresh air, and possibly daylight since. The cracked and dingy windows that flanked both the living room and dining room afforded us a nice east-southeast view, once you ignored the dead flies strewn along the sills. My bedroom looked straight out to the lake. It also had a small stone balcony that both Moms old realtor friend and the building manager warned was just plain unsafe. Uncle Alex took the other two bedrooms that had the best part of their southern view blocked by the condominium high-rise across the street. You could fit them both into Dads old suite. Unc chose the larger one for his painting studio.

We fled the boonies after Uncle Alex and I debated putting a pool in the backyard. The idea stalled when I concluded I would be swimming alone most of the time. Zane was spending the summer with his parents in their native Sweden, the rats, while the rest of the guys had joined their respective school's summer baseball programs. And the notion died a brutal death when, upon querying for an AWOL Lawrence the Laughing Lawyer, Unc found out Id been Oliver Twisted by Simon, Frederika, and certain relatives which shall remain nameless until I can get a suitcase bomb into the next Poiregaz Christmas, or I get to show up to their funerals in a red dress and black lace hose. Turned out, all the stocks that I had coming were basically worthless, the house was mortgaged past the firms coverage, Dad had continually borrowed against his percentage of the firm, and the paperwork Mom left behind (or didnt) would require years of forensic accounting to make sense of.

So I was suddenly poor enough to belong in the poverty jet-set digs, as if it mattered to me. Unc took a one-year lease so I could finish school ("Now you dont have to spend all day on the train," he kept cheering to my repeated blank stares), paid the year in advance, most likely as a trade-out for some painting, and banked the modest leftover cash the Stingray netted from the local dealership, who came right out and said they were going to use it as a paper loss. The owner liked me. I was the lots wash boy last summer.

A friend of Uncs from Roseland secured this otherwise great address for us. I was almost sort of happy to be back in the city proper. The apartment might one day be awfully nice, a step up from our old Roseland bungalow, and the h.e.l.l of an improvement over our shipwrecked suburban asylum, which turned out to be as bankrupt as it often felt.

Brennan and I hadn't spoken since Felixs exodus. Team captain he was, Ozzie offered to mediate all the time, but neither 'best friend would budge. Brennan was mad at me for not, as he put it to our favorite catcher and only remaining link, "opening up my heart like a real friend is supposed to", while I was mad at him for being mad at me.

Ozzie had torn up his elbow early in the practice season, so he came up to Hyde Park to hang out on Mondays, when he didnt have to work at the local park. We usually caught a movie, brown-bagged lunch on the lake, and rode bikes through the neighborhood until dinner time. It became a routine for both of us, but one we liked. Me and Oz got along pretty well, but were going in different personal directions: I spent a lot of the summer talking to colleges and reading up on the ones I thought might give me a ride, besides for filling up quite a few notebooks with my questionable poetry, not having much else to do at night; Ozzie, on the other hand, was bitter, unable to play ball, and had resigned himself to joining either the Navy or Coast Guard after graduating from one of the lower-tier state universities.

One evening, in the middle of another peace pitch, Ozzie told me Brennan had made a clean breast of being gay to everyone, and was having a bad time on account of his big mouth. He got fired from the surplus store he worked at, and had been relegated as a little-used utility outfielder on his school baseball team, his one surefire ticket to college. He was also being verbally ostracized at school and throughout most of the subdivision neighborhood.

Warily, Ozzie asked if that was why the two of us were fighting. I was very matter-of-fact in replying that wed been lovers more than once, but the fight was over something else. He dropped the subject after that. Oz seemed respectful afterwards, but my own 'fess up kept us at a polite distance. The phone calls became shorter and less frequent, and his visits noticeably briefer. I didnt care so much. Our friendship of convenience had already helped us both make it through that unhappy summer.

In due course, Poiregaz kept trying to have me and Uncle Alex come back out to the gulag for dinner. The unwelcome invites stopped almost as quickly as they came out of the woodwork. Neither of us went back to visit the cemetery, either.

The apartment was always quiet at night. There was always music playing, either my cla.s.sical or Unc's jazz, but we didn't talk much, and sometimes went days without seeing each other. Uncle Alex often didn't come home from his gallery do's until the following morning. I did a lot of reading and wasted a lot of time trying to complete some poems in Italian in between re-painting the entire place.

We took in a few White Sox games with Zora, the Israeli woman had become Unc's prowling partner. She didn't understand our enduring interest in a team that never seemed to improve, and made much of the fact the team had been sold to a group of investors word had it were scheming to move the Sox to Florida. I was just happy for the diversion of the games we mostly lost.

Every time I walked up from the concession area and filled my eyes with the bright green of the field, the seats, and the stands, the organist echoing through the pillars and concrete aisles, the hubbub of kids, families, and vendors, and the looming glory of our exploding scoreboard, it made me feel better about life, at least temporarily. It helped me to believe there were happy constants in everyone's life, which every winter would blossom into a summer of hope and glory.

It would all fade by the time I got back to the scruffy eagle's nest.

I was lonely, tired, bored, and adrift, all at once. What made it hurt more was that I knew what was the matter, and didn't have the fort.i.tude or the bravery to do anything about it.

If it wasn't for my weekly visits with Ozzie, however abbreviated they became, I would have unhinged completely, not the least from all the paint fumes.

Uncle Alex scored a fairly well-paying job at the University, teaching applied art or something. Zora pretty much got him the gig. I doubted whether Unc would last until Christmas, the place was so hallowed and distinguished and...dull.

The two of them were either in love, or Unc had his eye on her money (because there was no hiding the remaining Stra.s.ses were dead skint, flat on their uppers, and broke as h.e.l.l). For some reason, Zora would never spend the night at the apartment. I don't know why. It might have been the dodgy ceilings. But we got along pretty nicely, even if she clearly wanted to slap me out of my general mood more than once. I'll say one thing, though: Unc had never finished or sold so many paintings in his career.

Uncle Alex didn't start wearing a beanie, however.