Hidden Away (18 page)
I would feel more comfortable out on my porch, but we are inside, so I motion to a hard wooden chair. “Would you care to have a seat?”
We sit and drink our black coffees in clumsy silence. We speak of nothing until my coffee is gone. Excusing myself, I go back out to the porch to retrieve my pack of cigarettes.
Aware that Kurt has followed me, I linger after picking up my smokes. It would certainly make me more comfortable to stay out here, but I never know what’s right for him. “Would you like to sit out here?”
Kurt does not answer, but he sits in my chair. It’s a small thing, but it throws me off. The other chair is slightly less comfortable, but I won’t ask him to switch with me. He is uncomfortable enough as it is. Still shocked that he is in my home, I wonder what the Fourniers had to do to get him here.
Is he here because somewhere inside of him, he
wants
to be here? Why is my chest fluttering with hope at the thought of him
wanting
to be in my house?
It’s too quiet. Giving him a small half grin, I stand and go back into my house and put on a Jimmy Witherspoon record before returning to the porch. I thought music would’ve made him a bit more at ease than the silence of my house, but as I sit down across from him and snub out my cigarette, I see that he looks even more uneasy.
I want to say something, but I can think of nothing. The situation is not tense, yet I can feel apprehension as if it hangs between us. Finally, Kurt clears his throat and brings the cup of coffee down to rest on his knee. “Are all of those records yours?”
The question pushes a smile onto my lips. Of course they are mine, why else would they be in my house? It is obvious it took quite a bit of guts for him to ask it. He does not strike me as someone who openly asks about much at all, so the last thing I want to do is bring attention to how silly the question is. “Yes. Do you listen to much?”
“But you’re a musician. I would think it was something of an imperative. Don’t you need to listen to a lot of music to nurture it inside of you?”
Something I said makes the lines of his face deepen in an expression of such bottomless sadness that it feels like a knife plunging into me. I let my eyes drift in the direction he’s looking. He cannot be so interested in my neighbor’s fountain grass. It seems as though he isn’t going to acknowledge my question until I hear him draw in a short breath.
It is nothing more than a mumble, but I catch it. His answer intrigues me even more, so I quickly counter, “Music heals.”
Kurt whips his head around to look at me. Our eyes connect. Something searing opens up deep in my belly, and I cannot turn away from those pale blue eyes. His silence unnerves me more, so I push my shoulders back and steel myself. I can’t remember the last time a man made me this nervous. “Jimmy Oden and Muddy Waters helped me transition back to civilian life.”
He looks away again. I want him to reply, to hold a conversation with me, but he seems content to sit over there ignoring the situation. He is a musician who finds music painful. There is a story behind that, and I want to hear it. I just have to find a way to draw it out.
Lighting another cigarette, I stand up. The motion causes him to look at me again. I nod toward the house, then walk away, leaving him to either follow or remain. Inside, I can hear him behind me as I busy myself at the record player. “This is Jimmy Oden.”
Kurt stands next to me, only a foot or so between us, as “Going Down Slow” plays. I notice his body stays rigid as the piano begins, but as Oden’s voice starts, Kurt’s shoulders relax just a little. There is something about this music that acts as a sedative. I feel it now, just as I felt it years ago when I first got back.
Slowly, I move my head, nodding it in time to the slow beat. When it is finished, I put on
Still a Fool
. Muddy Waters has a different sound than Oden, but the calming effect is still noticeable. The guitar is a bit more aggressive sounding than the piano, but the slow blues he sings reduces the rate of my breathing.
For a moment, I forget Kurt is standing next to me and am just absorbed in the music that continues to help me make sense of the confusing world around me. When I’d first arrived back in Oklahoma in early 1946, I sat alone in my old room, the silence killing me. When it was too much, I would move out to the living room and sit with Pop. We’d sit with beers in our hands, nothing breaking the hush but our breathing. When I could take it no more, I came to California, where the silence of my new house was deafening.
Wising up, I finally bought a record player. It was an effective tool in combating the painful quiet my life had slipped into. Overseas, there was noise everywhere. If I didn’t hear bombs, or gunfire, or yelling, something was wrong. It was only in the beautiful sounds of recorded music that I finally found peace within the stillness of my new existence.
“Do you play?” Kurt’s voice startles me. Shaking out of the fog that’s settled upon me, I look to him. The music has ended, and he points to the guitar that sits in the corner next to the radio.
I tell him no with a shake of my head, but then add, “I’ve always meant to learn, but I guess I’ve never put much effort into it. It seems easier just to be a passive listener than a player.”
His brow is creased and his lips are pressed tight. I wonder what he’s thinking. Again, he surprises me by asking, “May I?”
Delighted at his small concession of openness, I nod with a sense of happiness blooming within me. Kurt picks up the guitar and moves to the chair to begin strumming a slow melody.
Not answering with his voice, he starts a jaunty swing tune, but stops after a short minute. Deep melancholy is etched on his features. Kurt then begins to play a more solemn piece. “So the piano and the guitar. What else?”
“No!” His loud response causes me to take a step back until I feel the record player behind me. “I don’t play the violin.”
I open my mouth to respond, but close it when he continues. “I’ve played the accordion in the past but I… not anymore. I don’t play anything anymore. That night in the music building was the first time I’ve played the piano in six years.”
Happy that he’s revealed even more of himself to me, I move to sit on my sofa. It is rarely used and like the chair on the porch, it is a bit uncomfortable. I take the risk and ask, “Why is that?”
As he shakes his head, I can tell that Kurt has closed himself off to revealing anything more to me. Finally, he brings his eyes back to mine. I cannot look away. It is like when I catch sight of someone in the bar or on the street. There is something unspoken that passes between us. Words aren’t needed and the connection is understood.
In my world, voiceless information passes through minute details. The crinkle at the edge of the eyes, the small twitch of a grin, the way one’s body shifts, the intensity of the stare. All of these nonverbal signals are the communication of people like me. What can’t be said, can be expressed through the eyes or a tilt of the head.
His blue eyes keep mine, and in them I find indication that he wants something from me. He may never say it, but he doesn’t need to. My body floods with the familiar chemicals that make everything warm. There is no denying I want Kurt, in the same way I wanted Dominic. The way his gaze is burning, I know he wants the same from me.
Just as before, visions of his body—purely from my imagination—glide through my mind. It is not a stretch to imagine that he will be quiet while I kiss his chest and creep lower. He may even remain silent as I take him into my mouth, but my hope is that when I enter him, he will cry out in pleasure—something I’m not sure he’s had much of in his life.
I have to hold back from making a move on him. Reminding myself that he’s not Dominic or any other man I’d been with, I think about what it’ll take to get him comfortable enough to even
think
about being intimate with him. He may want it like I do, but I cannot see him allowing it to happen. Hell, I don’t even know if he likes men.
I have to end the silence, so I open my mouth to ask him if he wants more coffee, but he stands and says, “I must go.”
I’ve scared him with my brash voice. Taking in a calming breath, I make sure my next words are gentle. “I mean, I would be delighted if you stayed a little longer, Kurt. Please have another cup of coffee with me.” His hands are balled against his thighs and although his head is bowed, I can see the crease in his forehead. “I enjoy your company.”
I am relieved when he looks up. Our eyes connect, but only for a moment before he turns his to my bookshelf. “It would be my pleasure,” he responds.
I can’t tell if he’s being honest or just polite, but I smile either way. Excited by the slight progression of our awkward interactions, I leave him to make more coffee.
When I return, I find Kurt cautiously eyeing my belongings. He jumps when I say, “Mementos from my journey.” For the first time, he seems partially relaxed. I can tell by the ease of his shoulders. They look surprisingly strong for his body. His build is lanky, and while he does not have the mass of muscles I do, they are still defined beneath his royal blue cotton shirt.
Setting the cups down, I want to go to him, put my hands flat on the slope of his shoulder blades as I lean in to smell the back of his neck. Even though I don’t understand my sudden desire for him, I don’t question it. I feel far too lonely to raise doubt about the few things of which I am certain. There is no doubt that right now, I am attracted to him. That right now, I want him to want me too.
I don’t finish. His body is rigid again, hands balled at his sides. I can see the deep breaths he takes. “What’s wrong?”
Taking a step to the side, I can see that he’s looking at my army memorabilia. Along with my weapons, I brought home my uniform, which is hanging up in my closet, but also began collecting insignia patches from the 45th division and the 157th infantry regiment from my time in the military back to the Great War.
He moves quicker than I think possible. He’s away from me, close to the door. “You own the swastika.”
His expression breaks me, and I can’t look at him, so I look back at the patches bearing the insignia of my military unit. I focus on one. “No,” I say as I realize it’s the symbol causing him this distress. “No, it’s not the swastika. It’s the symbol for the 45th Division. It looks the same, but it’s not.”
Kurt presses against the wall now, his body visibly trembling. Eyes wild, he looks like a caged animal, frightened into a paralyzed state. Grabbing the patch, I move toward him. “Look, it’s not the same. The 45th took the symbol out of respect for the Indians of the southwest.”
“Look at it, Kurt.” He shakes his head, so I crouch down in front of him and hold the patch. “When Hitler came to power, the 45th stopped using it.” I point behind me toward my military items. “See, that patch?” He doesn’t look, but I continue as if he does. “We’re the Thunderbirds, so when we fought in Africa, Italy, and France, and Germany, we wore that insignia. See? The Thunderbird. Not Nazi.”
He begins to speak in German and shake his head. His voice is muffled and I can only understand a few words. He’s saying something about lies and trust, and then there is no question that he says, “I’d rather die.”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” I say softly as I move closer to him on my knees. He jumps again, body tense when I lay my hand on his shoulder. I don’t know what else to do. He’s crying and I want to make the pain go away.
Kurt’s reaction is involuntary. It might be similar to what I go through. Not wanting to cause him any other suffering, I stay still. I keep my body close to him, one hand on his shoulder, but I do not push any farther. I don’t say anything.
He is a German, deathly afraid of the swastika. When I put together his reaction now with his normal behavior and think about the experience that haunts my dreams, it comes to me. Kurt knows all too well what the Nazis had done less than a decade ago. That was why he’d been so passionate that night when I’d spoken of the debate of who liberated Dachau.
“Kurt?” He doesn’t look at me. “Were you in a camp?” The shaking becomes worse and he’s making a sound that is absolutely terrifying. When I can take it no more, I move even closer, bringing him into my arms and holding him as best as I can.
He doesn’t push away or fight my embrace, but he doesn’t relax into me either. He mumbles in German from time to time, but we don’t move. Finally, when the trembling stops, I whisper, “What happened to you?”
Abruptly, he stands up. “I must go.”
Before I can get to my feet, he is out the door, leaving me in my silent house, stunned by revelations and needing him close to me again.
