Hidden Away (14 page)

“John?”

I swallow hard, then focus on the Irishman. Crushing my cigarette, I try to sort my thoughts of sex and war and Kurt. Why I was thinking of the German in this moment—the moment before I would be propositioned by this man—baffles me.

“Look, I, uh….” I begin, struggling with words and emotion. “I’m not what you’re looking for.”

He’s staring at me blankly. “Excuse me?” “I can’t give you what you want,” I say louder.

 

Dominic’s lips curve up in a half smile. “What is it I want?”

It’s my turn to stare blankly at him. I didn’t miss his cues. I know he wants more than simple conversation and a beer with a stranger. He wants something physical. Bodies pressed against each other, drowning out anything other than sensations that make us both forget weapons and death and cold weather.

His green eyes don’t leave me. I have to look away. “I don’t know what you want,” I admit. “What do
you
want?”

I wish I knew. I struggle with my pack of cigarettes, then with the lighter again. Another match is struck, but this time when I turn to use the flame, Dominic pulls it back before I can. He catches me in his gaze and I’m paralyzed by it.

Finally, he lights my cigarette, then shakes the match out. Nodding behind him and to the left, he says, “I’m with those blokes.” My eyes find the group of men who are laughing and having a grand time as they drink. “I’ll be here awhile. If you figure out what it is that
you
want, let me know, yeah?”

He gives me a charming parting grin, then gets up and moves back to his friends. My eyes sting; I dig my fingers into them. The pressure is a bit painful, but also a bit soothing. Colors swirl behind my closed eyes. It’s almost peaceful for a moment, but then the past creeps back in. I see bodies, skin and bones, dead eyes imploring, broken men stacked like wood.

“Well, you certainly botched that all to hell, didn’t you?”

When I open my eyes and glance to my right, I see his red hair is a bit darker. The rain has soaked into it. While his words are light, his expression is heavy, letting me know how worried he is about me. In this moment, I wish he could be more than just my friend. It would be so easy to slip into a relationship with him. He already knows me. He might not know the extent of my nightmares, but he’s been around for quite a few drops into daytime terrors. He’s kind. He’s giving, funny, and attractive.

And from what he says, he’s fantastic between the sheets.

While I have no real idea of what I’m looking for, I know Charles isn’t it. Maybe I need someone quiet. Someone capable of just sitting comfortably in silence. Someone who truly understands how irrevocably changed I am because of the war. I want someone who can soothe. I’m sure Charles can, but I guess I want someone I can take care of too.

“Your mind is going crazy, isn’t it?” “Sometimes I
feel
crazy.”

“Well, you
look
terrific.” He waves the bartender over and orders a Manhattan for himself and a John Collins for me. “That strong young Irishman thought so too,” he says after our drinks are delivered.

I grumble in response.

“John, at some point you’re going to have to open up.”
“Open up? Charles, please. You’re so dramatic. What does that even mean anyway?
Open up
? To what?”
“A relationship,
John
.” The way he uses my name rankles me. It’s a trick he uses to get me to feel our connection more deeply, giving him more of a stake in my well-being. “And not just a one night roll in the hay. An actual relationship.”
I roll my eyes and fiddle with my pack of cigarettes.
“Not that you’ve had many rolls in the hay lately.” He pauses. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him take a drink of his cocktail, lick his lips, then turn back to me. “When I first met you, you were hungry for men all the time, but never came out to the bar with me. Now you’re here,” he says, cocking his head to the left to indicate the bar, “and you seem utterly disinterested in everyone.”
Charles very well may have a point, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me say it. Instead, I get angry. “You think
Dominic
is the one for me? This
relationship
, you’re talking about? This magical thing that will make everything all right?” I know that isn’t what he said, but it was implied.
“Maybe. Maybe not, but he would’ve been a nice
end
to a difficult day, if you know what I’m saying.”
I drag a hand down my face. “I’m sure his end is better than
nice
, but I—”
“You what? John, what the hell’s going on? It’s been six years since the war, but you’re drifting back there more and more. I don’t—”
“You think it’s easy dealing with the shit in my head? Do you think this is what I’d
choose
? Maybe I don’t want a relationship because I don’t want to drag someone else into all my madness.”
He looks at me kindly. “But maybe someone else could
help
you
with
your madness.”
I can’t explain it, but for some reason, Kurt pops into my head again. From what I know, he too has issues the war helped create. He is a kindred spirit of some kind. Professor Fournier says he’s not a Nazi, but perhaps he was forced into fighting for a regime he didn’t believe in.
I wish I knew, and because of that wish, I vow to visit him tomorrow. The only way I am going to figure it out is by getting to know him.
“John?”
Charles’s worried brow makes me feel cared for—loved, even. I nod at him and push my hand out over the bar so the small finger of my right hand touches the small finger of his left. “I’m okay. Sorry for raising my voice.”
“I’m concerned for you.”
I look away. “There are things I can’t tell you.”
“About the war?” When I nod, he adds, “That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. But tell
someone
.”
“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

I let my eyes drift to the group of men behind Charles. After a minute of watching him, Dominic turns his eyes to me. He lifts his beer in a salute and winks, all with that charming grin playing on his lips.

With thoughts of the man I was a few years ago, thoughts of sex and someone to hold, I rise and make my way to Dominic. Only a few words pass between us before we leave the bar together.

I
N MY
house, he’s out of place, and I’m out of place with him. He looks at my weapons, but doesn’t touch them or make comments. We’re slow in getting into the bedroom. It’s me who holds us up, but not because I don’t want to feel something with him. It’s because I’m afraid I
won’t
feel something.

After, when I am sure he’s sleeping, I take my coffee early, and sit out on the porch. I trace my lips with my fingertips, recalling the feel of his on them. Thinking about the loneliness I’m just now recognizing, I get lost in the solitude. Dominic comes striding out of the house, clothed only in his pants. They are unbuttoned, and I let my eyes linger on the trail of hair that disappears into the waistband.

When he sits down across from me, that same charming look upon his features, I say, “You’ll catch a cold.”

He looks down at his chest and laughs softly. “I’m from Ireland. We invented weather like this.”

We sit there not saying anything until he stands up, hikes up his pants, and clears his throat before moving back into the house. He emerges five minutes later, fully dressed. The sight hurts my heart, but I swallow down the pain. “Time to go?” I ask, keeping my voice purposefully light.

“Probably best, yeah?”

 

I don’t so much nod as simply incline my head a bit.

 

“Well, then,” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

I stand up, take the last deep pull from my cigarette, then bend over to crush it. In a few short steps, I’m next to him, my hand buried in the hair at the back of his head. I press my lips forcefully against his and push my tongue into his willing mouth. Any and all desire I have or have ever had, I pour into the kiss. It’s not Dominic I want. It’s not anyone in particular. It is only the feeling I desire.

If I let myself—if he pushes me to—I would spill my guts and let him help me. I’m on the cusp of doing it even if he doesn’t press me into it. He’s warm and strong. His body has battle scars, the same as mine. He’s nearly been killed and has taken lives. Dominic knows the pain inside my heart, and if he only asks, I’ll give him the darkness that matches his own.

But he doesn’t ask. He pulls out of the kiss and smiles at me. Dominic has a hand on my neck, thumb running over my jaw, and one on the opposite shoulder. There’s nothing to say except, “Travel safe.”

His hands fall away from me as he takes a step toward the door. “Take care, yeah?”

When he’s gone, I wish I could see his green eyes again. But I can’t, so I finish my coffee. After five hours of sitting on the porch, I’m able to drift off into sleep. The day is already late, but I can stay awake no longer.

The dreams are the same, but as soon as I see the crematorium today, I turn away. Deciding to get it over with in a hurry, I simply pick a few Germans in uniform and shoot them. Today, I’m the one who instigates the killing, but then I am free. I wake up in a sweat, but my stomach is settled, so I’m able to fall back asleep and dream of pleasant things. It is odd. Precious few of my dreams of late have left me feeling anything but tormented.

I’m walking in the Redbud Valley, stepping over moss covered fallen trees, jumping over puddles that have formed inside one of the large limestone rock formations. Everything is beautiful. Simple. Familiar. Until I come across my childhood bed, situated underneath an overhang.

Letting out a breath I can see, I take a step forward, and then another. I sit down. Hearing my parents’ voices, I look for them, but they’re not around. My father’s angry; my mother’s voice is soft and soothing. Somehow hers overpowers his. It’s what I focus on.

I remember this night well. It was the night they discovered me with the nineteen-year-old hipster named Cal. In reality, it wasn’t a pleasant evening, but as I sit on the bed, listening to my parents argue about me, I don’t get any other feeling but peace. I remember feeling very anxious, not knowing if my dad would box my ears or if I’d be allowed to ever leave my room again, but now as I sit under this overhang in one of the most beautiful places in the world, I realize how relieved I am that they know.

Hating to hide, but having no other option I could see, I would lie to my parents. I dated girls, but would go off with men or boys during the actual outing. I’d always gotten the sense that my mother knew, but she never said anything.

This night when I was sixteen, when my father opened the door, my mother right behind, she didn’t look shocked finding me in this kind of position with another boy. Of course, I was mortified, but she was so calm.

I can’t help but smile when she walks toward me. She is nothing but the mist that hangs in the air, but in my dream she is real. Standing next to me, she ruffles my hair and tells me it’ll be okay.

I shake my head, just as I did years ago. “But Pop’s—”

 

“Pop will be okay too.” Her hand caresses my cheek and I nuzzle against it.

“He’ll never be okay,” I mumble. I think of the shame that will drape over my family because of how I feel. “He’s going to—”

“He’ll nothing, John,” she whispers. I can feel her kiss the top of my head, and then she steps away. When I look up at her, I see nothing but love. My mother gives me the smile I love as she shrugs. “But you’ll go to church, every Sunday from now on.”

I hate church. I hate what it teaches, always have, but it’s a concession I can make. I’m sure it comes from my father. At least he’s not kicking me out. “It will be a hard life,” she says, as if I hadn’t already weighed the implications of my feelings.

Needing to hear the words, I ask what I already know. “Do you still love me, Ma?”

She’s disappearing back into the air. Only her smile lingers as I hear her voice answer. “I love you forever, Johnny.”

The dream sustains me as I awake. I feel lighter as I go about my normal tasks and then go out to the shops to pick up a few things. My thoughts are on my mother as I drive. I don’t think about where I’m headed until I’m there. The calming effect of the dream wavers slightly as I pull up to the beautiful house. I get a nervous fluttering in my chest, so I smoke a cigarette inside the cab of my truck before hopping out.

Even though I’d been let in the side door the last time, I knock on the front door. Shuffling the items in my hands, I wait. When the door opens, Mrs. Fournier is standing in front of me. “Mr. Oakes, what a pleasure.”

“To repay your kindness the other night.” I hold the flowers and the bottle of wine out to her.

She takes them, but says, “This is unnecessary. We were honored to have you. Please come in.”

“Please,” she says, motioning to the sofa once we’re inside the sitting room.

I watch her float about the room, gathering an empty vase, leaving to fill it with water, then returning to arrange the flowers. She places it on the coffee table first, then moves the flowers to the radio, then finally sets them centered on the mantle. Mrs. Fournier has the soft demeanor of my mother. I wonder if it’s a trait that all mothers possess.

I feel the small amount of anxiety wash away. “You look tired, Mr. Oakes,” she remarks as she takes a seat in the chair.

“John,” I say. “Please call me John.” Flori nods in acceptance. Her words still hang in the air, and they deserve an answer. “I don’t sleep well.”

There’s a sense of peculiarity to admitting that to someone I barely know, but there is a relief in it as well. The look she gives tells me she understands, leading me to wonder about how the members of this family fare in regards to sleep. Professor Fournier was a member of the French Resistance. It is a safe bet that he has his own difficulties because of the war. There is no doubt in my mind that whatever his role was, Kurt’s own ability to sleep properly is abnormal like mine. It is written on his face.

Flori looks well rested and healthy, but I wonder if her role as wife of a resistance member has left any lasting effects. I don’t ask though. I’m here to see Kurt, but I can’t quite figure out how to say that. Truthfully, I’m not even sure
why
I need to see him. Maybe spending time with him won’t help me understand him or my perception of his role in my own personal healing. Maybe it’s selfish to even impose such a thought.