Hidden Away (39 page)

I kill anything around me that isn’t wearing the same uniform as I am. I don’t care anymore if they’re civilians. If they aren’t
my
guys, they’re my enemy, and I can’t let them have the chance to take any of us out.

I hear something strange. A whistling sound. I look up and see planes. Even squinting I can’t tell if they’re ours or theirs. Either way, bombs are dropping. They explode in front of me, behind me, all around me.

Smoke, shrapnel, blood, and body parts fly. More hot, searing pain. I drop to the ground and crawl until I find a hole to hide in.

I just have to sit tight. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too deep. Don’t make a sound because they’re out there, waiting to finish me off.

Before the smoke clears I push out of my hiding spot. I am so tired of being afraid. I don’t want to sit tight. I don’t want to wait. The enemy with their rifles, guns, and grenades. Us with ours. And here I’m hiding. All the time hiding! I’m through with it.

So I stand up and decide to hunt them all down. Anyone left. German. Italian. French. American. It’ll be better when we’re all gone.

I’m as stealthy as the Special Forces. One by one, I pick off soldiers. One here, two there, another one after that.
Pop.

Pop, pop.
Pop!

When there is no one left and I’m alone in the field of carnage, I drop my rifle and pull my gun from the holster. Only one left. One more inhuman human left to kill.

Raising the barrel to my temple, I realize how light it is in my hand. This is going to be easy. One little action can bring it all to an end.

But before my finger can depress the trigger, my mind focuses on a far off sound. Though it is soft, it’s constant and distracting.

I blink.

My eyes focus, and I see broken glass on my hardwood floor. In my hands is my gun that should have been disassembled on the shelf in the front room. I’m crouched in the hallway to the kitchen, shaking. I can see the stock of my rifle just inside the door to the bathroom.

A hard knock to my left startles me, and I jump. Pain shoots up my leg from my foot. The knock sounds again.

 

I lift my foot and inspect the wound for a moment before pulling glass shards out.

 

Another knock.

Blood seeps onto the wood as I hobble toward the door. I wish I could remember what just happened. As my muscles move, I look down at myself and see that I’m bleeding.

The wounds won’t heal into much of a scar. They aren’t deep enough, but it worries me that I can’t remember how I received them. I stop and finger one of the fine lines.

The constant knocking reminds me I was on my way to the door. No one is out there when I open it up, but I’d locked the screen door too. I go out to the porch. Kurt is visible now through the window. He simply looks back as I stare at him wordlessly.

It isn’t until I hear “John,” the J transformed into a Y by his native tongue, that I open the door.

He sizes me up as I stand before him, eyes roaming over my body from my feet to my eyes, then back down again. Kurt stares at my hand for so long that I look down as well. I’m still holding the handgun.

What am I going to tell him? I don’t even know what happened. For a moment I was overseas, and then without realizing it was a dream, I came back to here. He’s going to think I’m crazy, and then he’s going to turn around and walk away forever. If he asks, I need something to tell him that isn’t an outright lie, but sounds better than whatever the hell I just experienced.

“You’re bleeding” is all he says before he steps over the threshold.

His fingers encircle my wrists, and my body twists as he pulls me toward my chairs. Kurt carefully places me into one. My eyes are fixed on his until I realize what I’m seeing out of the corner of my eye is the whiskey bottle. I turn and stare at it, visualizing pouring a few fingers into the used tumbler next to it and washing away my confusion and underlying anxiousness with it.

Kurt takes the bottle from my vision. I glance up at him, wishing he would say something. Instead he cocks his head to the side and slowly takes the Colt from my hands.

“Hey, that’s….” I don’t finish because he’s already walking into my home. I hear the soft clunk of the bottle and weapon being placed on wood. I hope he’s put my gun in the correct place. I need to disassemble it.

When he comes back, he’s holding items from my first aid kit. One by one, Kurt cleans the small cuts on my chest, then bandages them. I close my eyes and imagine him touching me like this without the wounds. Touching me because he
wants
to.

Hands smoothing down my chest. The pads of his fingers lightly grazing bits of flesh, causing my skin to rise up. His heat melting the cold within me.

I imagine his body moving on mine. I recall our intimate moments together and open my eyes as he lifts my foot to his lap. “Where did you go this morning?”

Kurt’s movements slow but don’t stop. He continues to clean the weeping slice on my foot, then presses the gauze to it. “I needed to get away.”

“Why?”

He brings his eyes back up to mine. I shouldn’t have asked in such a hard voice, but I need answers. “Because the feeling I have with you is something I thought was gone forever. Something I vowed I would never feel again.”

“Why is that so horrible?”
“You’ve never loved anyone, have you?”

I sit back as my body fills with hot anger. I draw my foot away from him and glare. “What does that matter?”

“How many men have you made love to, John? Love,
real
love, not nights of passion and lust.” I remain silent. “And how many men have you had sex with?”

I won’t answer either question. The first number is too revealing, and I don’t have the slightest idea what the second number even is.

Kurt places his hands flat on my thighs. He wears a smile that hides probably more than I can imagine. “I will answer. Before the camp, I had only been with one man, and if I had a choice, I would’ve been with one man for the rest of my life.”

He loves Peter. I know he does, but it doesn’t seem fair for him to rub my face in it. But I don’t say anything about it because no matter how little he feels for me, I feel a great deal for him.

“What about the first question?” I ask. “How many men have you made love to?”

The way he glances away is revealing, but I’m too confused by whiskey and wounds to understand before he says, “I wished for last night to be different. It started out…. But I became so…. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what you’re telling me.”

Finally he turns back to me. “I wanted you to be the second man I made love to, but I was scared of what it meant, and so I ran away.”

The meaning of his words and the sound of his pained voice saturates my mind. I sit up, cup his face in my hands, and use my thumb to wipe the moisture from under his eyes.

I’m so close to him that when I speak, my lips brush his cheek. “You make me feel something so intense. I’ve never felt it before. I’ve never cared where someone was the morning after. I care where you are, Kurt.”

“You shouldn’t,” he whispers. “I’m poison.” “Stop it.”
“My parents. Peter. I don’t want you to—” “Shhh. Stop. You’re not poison. You’re the

best man I’ve ever met.”

While he denies my words with a shake of his head, we are both silent and still until I pull him into my lap. The chair is confining, but it’s almost comforting to know I can’t deepen our physical connection in this spot. I hug him to me, resting my cheek against his chest. The way he curls around me as best he can and lays his cheek on the top of my head soothes me. I let out a long breath.

We stay like this until the moment passes, and he sits up. I reach for a cigarette and light it.
“What happened inside?” he asks as his fingers fiddle with the hem on the bottom of my boxer shorts.
“I don’t know.” I press a kiss into his shoulder. “Would you fall asleep with me?”
He nods, so I take one last pull from my smoke and then crush it as he stands up. I don’t like not touching him, so I place my hands on his waist as I stand up. It’s so natural to pull his body close and wrap my arms around him. I could stay like this forever, but he pushes away.
“It is easier to sleep in a bed,” he says, and I laugh.
“True.”
I wake the next morning from a blissfully dreamless sleep, and grin at the man next to me. He didn’t leave. My head throbs and I remember the booze from last night. All the other details filter back in. The memories mixed with fantasy. Breaking glass and cutting flesh. Kurt’s confession that he wants to make
love
to me.
When he wakes, I can’t stop touching him. I try to keep a hold of him as he slips into the bathroom and later as he leaves. He won’t let me drive him back home but assures me he’s perfectly fine.
While I see him the next two evenings, he doesn’t stay overnight. We make plans for the weekend, and I can feel the excitement bubbling inside of me. We’re embarking on a real relationship. Kurt’s acceptance of the invitation to share a meal with Charles is proof that he wants a deeper relationship with me too.
I’m the first one to arrive at the restaurant, so I contemplate ordering a drink, but don’t. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about this meeting. Not able to sit still, I shift in my seat a few times, taking in the elegant surroundings. I’ve never been here, but Kurt said he’d been here with Flori and Jules a couple times, so I guess that means it’s comfortable for him.
“How very pedestrian,” Charles says in a bored sigh as he takes a seat at the table. “I mean, look at this place, John. I might be the only fashionable man in it.” With great exaggeration, he eyes me. “Strike that. I
a m
the only fashionable man.”
I shake my head but cock my lips into a grin. “It’s a nice place.”
“It’s dull.”
“Kurt won’t go to the bar. He’s going out of his way to meet you as it is. I can’t—”
“Shush.” He waves a hand in my direction. “People go out of their way to meet me because I’m incredibly fantastic, thank you very much. He won’t get sympathy from me.”
I catch his gaze and give him a serious stare. “Be nice, all right?”
“What are you talking about? I’m always nice.”
We smoke cigarettes, and Charles orders a Manhattan while we wait. Just when I think Kurt won’t show, he arrives with Jules in tow. I knew the professor might accompany him, but I’d hoped Kurt would feel comfortable enough to meet my friend with only me at his side.
“Hey,” I say, reaching out my hand as he sits down next to me. I quickly withdraw it because I’ve agreed to no public touching. “I was worried.”

Kurt won’t look at anything other than the glass of water in front of him. Jules answers for him. “Time just escaped us. Sorry we’re late.”

A silence settles over the table. I want to push through it, but I can only imagine why they were late. I’m sure it’s because Kurt wanted to back out, and Jules had to coax him out of the little apartment.

“Well, since John’s lost his manners, I’ll introduce myself.” I scratch my goatee and turn my head to my friend, thankful he is so confident and charming that he can defuse any tense situation. “I’m Charles. Professor Fournier, I was in your undergrad European history course.”

Jules stretches out an arm to shake Charles’s hand. “I’m not sure I—”

“I’m sure you don’t recognize me. It was quite a big lecture hall, and I always sat at the back.” He licks his lips as he pauses for effect. “There was a very nice-looking transfer student who always chose to sit close to the exit door. Please don’t take offense, but he helped make your class—what’s the best way to put it—more stimulating.”

Perhaps this meeting isn’t the best idea. My eyes are fixed on Kurt as he shifts uncomfortably. Charles is too open about who he is and what he likes. I feel compelled to say something, but nothing happens as I open my mouth, so I light another cigarette. My fingers itch to hold a tumbler of fiery amber liquid.

“I’ve heard so much about you, Kurt.” Charles focuses his attention on him.

I still can’t take my eyes off Kurt, so I’m acutely aware of the flash of emotion that springs up in his expression. He’s not happy that I’ve spoken to anyone about him. Feeling guilty, I look away, hoping our waitress will hurry up and interrupt this uneasy moment.

Charles says something else, but I don’t hear it. I don’t refocus my attention until I hear Kurt’s soft voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. You are very important to John.”

I crush the cigarette in the ashtray, then subtly move my hand under the table. The white linen tablecloth provides enough cover as I squeeze Kurt’s thigh. He jumps, and looks like he might weep in fear, so I remove my hand and sit back.

My tongue tingles from want of the taste of whiskey, but when we finally place our orders, I settle for a beer. During dinner, most of the conversation is supplied by Jules and Charles while Kurt and I send tentative glances to each other. I interpret his as a reappraisal of his attraction to me, but mine are meant to ensure he’s still with me.

Somehow the discussion turns to the culture of Berkeley, and Charles freely gives his opinion of the growing population of homosexuals in California. “Not saying it’s the Mecca for all things queer, but I can certainly see where the area is more open to it. Someday we might even be considered productive members of society.”

Kurt’s expression is one of concentration as he pushes the remaining food around on his plate. “Compared to where I grew up, and I suspect where John did, we can be more—”

“Open?” Kurt asks. It’s the first thing he’s said in almost an hour. I can feel my body tightening the way it did before a battle. He shows his fire and passion when he strongly disagrees with something. I glanced at Jules, who looks equally nervous and fully conscious of how this conversation might get out of hand.

Placing his fork and knife down on the plate, Kurt then folds his hands in his lap. “Yes. I remember those days in Germany and Austria as well. People were allowed to be who they were; to express it openly. Those days didn’t last forever, and it’s foolish not to protect yourself. It happened there; it will happen here.”

Charles sits up straight, dabs the sides of his mouth with his napkin, and then swirls the last of his cocktail around in its glass. “I respectfully beg to differ with you on that point. The United States i s
nothing
like Nazi regime. I understand your particular past and why you might be cautious, but I don’t choose to be hidden away, living some kind of half-life in fear of someone finding out that I enjoy the company of men.”