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Authors: Michael Thomas Ford

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The Road Home (13 page)

BOOK: The Road Home
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He looked at his father. “I'll be ready,” he said.
CHAPTER 13
D
r. Radiceski clipped the films to the light box and flipped the switch, revealing Burke's bones. He pointed to an obvious fault line. “You've been putting too much pressure on it,” he said. “Didn't Dr. Liu tell you to stay off it?”
“She might have,” Burke mumbled.
The doctor raised one eyebrow. “I thought she might have,” he said. “You should have listened to her. I'm afraid you'll have to have that cast on for longer than we—and especially you—had hoped.”
“How much longer?” asked Burke.
“I'm estimating another six weeks,” the doctor answered.
“Six weeks?” Burke said, groaning.
“That's only two weeks longer than we originally planned,” Dr. Radiceski told him. “It's your own fault for rushing things. Try to take it easy.”
“I don't want to take it easy!” Burke said. “Taking it easy is making me nuts. Did I tell you I'm staying with my father? You have no idea.”
“Oh, I do,” the doctor said. “
My
father is staying with
me
while he recuperates from a broken hip. Believe me, that's no day at the circus. My partner keeps threatening to put on the naughty nurse costume he wore last Halloween, just to see if it gives Dad a heart attack.”
“Does your partner look good in a naughty nurse's uniform?” Burke asked.
“He's a bear,” Dr. Radiceski said. “What do you think?”
Burke laughed in spite of himself. “That's a mental image I didn't need,” he joked.
“The white patent pumps are the worst part,” said the doctor.
“Can I ask how your father is with the whole thing?” said Burke. “You know, living with you and your partner.”
“He's fine with it,” Dr. Radiceski said. “He's actually an Episcopal priest. Vermonter born and bred. Doesn't think either the government or God should interfere in your personal life. In fact, he officiated at Buck's and my wedding.”
“Nice,” Burke said.
“How about your father?” the doctor asked. “Is he okay with you and your partner being there?”
“Partner?” said Burke, confused.
“The fellow in the waiting room,” Dr. Radiceski said.
“He's not . . . We're not together,” Burke told him. “He's just a friend. I'm not with anyone right now.”
“That's too bad,” the doctor said. “Well, stay off the leg, and come back in two weeks for another X-ray.”
What does he mean, too bad?
Burke wondered as he got up.
He said it like he was telling me I have cancer. When did being single become a disease?
He walked to the waiting room, where Will was sitting, looking at a copy of
Highlights
magazine. He looked up when Burke came in. “I can find only six differences between the two pictures,” he said, showing Burke the puzzles page at the back of the magazine. “They claim there are seven, but I think they're just fucking with me.” He set the magazine down. “Everything okay?”
“Six more weeks,” Burke said shortly. “So no, not okay.”
“Ouch,” Will replied. “Sorry. Well, I went and picked up the vaccines Dad needs, so we can head home. Or we can hang out in town for a while if you want to. The vaccines are on ice in a cooler. They'll be fine for a few hours.”
Burke weighed his options—going back to his father's house and lying around, or spending some time in an actual city. “Let's stay,” he said. “Maybe we can find some real coffee.”
They left the doctor's office and walked down the street. “You look like a monkey,” Will remarked as Burke did the peculiar step-swing-step movement with the crutch.
“Thank you,” said Burke. “That's exactly how I feel.”
“Come on,” Will said. “Six weeks isn't that long. Besides, it gives us more time to hang out.”
“Why?” asked Burke. His bad mood was getting worse as they walked, and the question sounded harsher than he meant it to.
“I don't know,” Will said. “Because I like you?”
Burke stopped. “Look,” he said. “I like you, too. But we have a problem here. I had a pretty good time kissing you, and I think you liked it just as much as I did. Then I find out you have a girlfriend, and you tell me that you can't ever be who we both know you are. That makes things a little difficult, don't you think?”
“I did like it,” Will said. “And I wouldn't mind doing it again.” He gave Burke the half grin that made Burke weak in the knees. “Wouldn't you?”
“What about what's-her-name . . . Donna?”
Will shrugged. “What about her?”
Burke shook his head. “Don't you think she might be just a little bit upset if she knew her boyfriend was cheating on her with another man?”
“Honestly? I think she'd be more upset if you were another girl,” Will said.
“I need to sit down,” Burke said. “Let's find a coffee shop or something.” He saw a Starbucks a block away. “There's civilization,” he said, thinking of Gregg.
They walked to the shop, and Burke took a seat at one of the outside tables and sent Will inside to get drinks. It was pleasantly warm, and the table was in the shade. Burke felt himself calming down as he watched people coming and going. They all seemed impossibly young, and he suddenly felt very old. When Will appeared, set a latte in front of him, and handed him some bills and coins, saying, “Here's the change, Pop,” Burke responded with, “Keep it up. You're not too old for a spanking.”
“Oh, that sounds fun,” Will replied.
“Have you ever even done it with a guy?” Burke heard himself ask. “And by
it,
I mean anything involving a dick and an orifice.”
Will blushed. “Sure,” he said.
“Details,” Burke demanded.
Will sipped his coffee. “This is kind of embarrassing,” he said.
Burke didn't give him the out he was looking for. Instead, he just stared at Will until the young man shook his head.
“Okay,” Will said. “I got a blow job from this guy at baseball camp in tenth grade.”
“That's it?” said Burke. “One blow job?”
“And I jacked off with a guy in the bathroom at Home Depot once,” Will told him. “He was doing it when I walked in, and it just kind of happened.”
“That's not exactly an extensive résumé,” Burke said. “I assume you've done more than that with Donna.”
Burke shook his head. “She's a virgin,” he said. “Seriously,” he added when Burke gave him a look of disbelief. “She wears one of those stupid purity rings.”
“I suppose that makes things easier for you,” said Burke. “But what are you going to do when she wants to get busy?”
“I've done it with other girls,” said Will. “I just think about . . . other stuff. It's not that hard, really.”
“And that's what you want to do for the next fifty or sixty years?” said Burke. “Think about other stuff?”
“Do we have to talk about this shit again?” Will asked.
“I'm just trying to figure out what it is you want,” said Burke.
“Okay,” Will said. “I'll tell you what I want. What I
want
is to go to New York and be an actor. But that's not going to happen. And what my dad wants is for me to be a vet. But I couldn't get into vet school. So what I'm
going
to do is stay in Dullston and help him out until I find something else to do.”
Burke had to laugh at Will's nickname for the town. “Your dad and I used to call it Dullston, too,” he said. “Did you get it from him?”
Will shook his head. “To hear him tell it, Wellston is the best place on earth,” he said. “He used to think it was boring?”
“All he talked about was getting out,” said Burke. “I guess that changed. So, you want to be an actor?”
Will shrugged. “I'd like to,” he said. “I did a couple of plays in school. But like I said, that's a stupid dream. There are a million guys who want to be actors.”
“And some of them make it,” said Burke. “The difference between you and them is that they
believe
they can. You're giving up before you've even tried.”
“I did try,” Will replied. “When I didn't get into vet school, I told my parents I wanted to move to New York. It didn't go over well.”
“But it's
your
life,” Burke insisted. “And you only get one. Don't you want to do something with it?”
“Maybe I should be a model,” said Will, grinning. “I look pretty good in that picture you took of me. Too bad about the splotchy thing. But we can always take more.”
“We'll see,” said Burke. He was in no mood to indulge Will's playfulness. It annoyed him that he wasn't taking his own life seriously.
“I don't get why you care what
I
do with my life,” Will said.
“I care because things are supposed to be different for you,” said Burke. “You're supposed to be who you are instead of hiding it. You're supposed to be proud of it. You're supposed to get married, for fuck's sake. This is what people my age dreamed about, and you're going right back in the closet.”
“I guess I don't see it that way,” Will said.
“Apparently not,” said Burke. “But can you see why it pisses me off?”
“I guess,” Will admitted. “But it's still my life.”
Burke leaned back in his chair. “Fair enough,” he said.
“Why don't you have a boyfriend?” Will asked.
Burke looked at him. “Why do you think I don't have one?”
“Because you think you know everything?” Will suggested.
“Maybe I do know everything,” Burke countered.
“Do you even want a boyfriend?”
Burke thought for a moment. “I don't know anymore,” he admitted. “When I was your age, I did. I thought I'd find the right guy and we'd be together forever, like my parents. But I found out it doesn't work that way, at least not for most of the guys I know. I'd find someone, and we'd be happy for a while. Then one of us wouldn't be happy, and that would be the end of it.”
“Sounds great,” said Will. “And that's what you think I'm missing out on?”
“It doesn't have to be that way,” Burke said. “At least, I don't think it does. I know some couples who have been together for a long time.”
“How many?” Will said, pressing.
“Enough to think it's not impossible,” said Burke.
“What about kids?” asked Will. “Didn't you ever want kids?”
“You don't need to be married to a woman to have kids,” Burke said. “You can always adopt.”
“I just asked if you ever wanted them,” said Will. “I know you can adopt. Christ, Angelina Jolie has enough for a soccer team.”
“I guess maybe I would have liked to have kids,” said Burke. “Like I said, it wasn't really an option when I was your age.”
“It's not like you're ancient now,” Will pointed out. “Even if you adopted now, you'd only be what, seventy, when it graduated from high school?”
“Nice,” Burke said. “Smart-ass.”
Will grinned. “I'm just pointing out that maybe I'm not the only one who's afraid to have the life he wants.”
“At least you're admitting you're afraid,” said Burke, ignoring the implication of Will's statement. “That's a start.”
“We can't all be Neil Patrick Harris,” Will remarked. He looked at his watch. “You ready to go?”
“No,” Burke said, shaking his head. The idea of getting in Will's truck and going back to his father's house was about as appealing as going back to jail after escaping for an afternoon. “But I suppose we should.”
“You'll survive,” Will told him as he helped him up. “And on the way home you can tell me about your first time.”
Burke laughed, thinking again about the night with Mars. “How about I tell you about my second time?” he said. “That's a better story.”
CHAPTER 14
T
he Sandberg Public Library was a small brick building that sat between the Dew Drop In Diner and, appropriately enough, a used bookstore. It was on Sandberg's Main Street, which wasn't saying a great deal. Although much larger than Wellston, Sandberg was still not what could be called a metropolis. It had the benefit of being very near both a fairly popular skiing resort and an equally popular lake, however, and therefore enjoyed a brisk tourist trade. Burke had never seen so many maple sugar and moose-emblazoned products in one place.
Now I know where it all comes from,
he thought as he hobbled past shop windows promising 20 percent off all garden items. He wondered if that included the delightful wooden cutouts painted to resemble very large women bending over and displaying their bloomers.
His father had dropped him off and was due to return in an hour, after running some errands for Lucy. That didn't give Burke a huge amount of time, so he headed straight for the library. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he stepped into a room that looked as if it hadn't changed in a hundred years. Large, heavy wooden shelves lined the walls, while the center of the room was occupied by several equally large and heavy tables, the tops of which were worn smooth from countless elbows. Even the air seemed ancient—warm and filled with dust motes that floated lazily through the shafts of light that came through the tall, wavy-paned windows on either side of the room.
The library was empty, although a lone figure stood behind the long circulation desk to the left of the door. It was a man, and he looked up as Burke entered, a somewhat startled expression on his face, as if Burke were the first person to pass through the doors in a century. Burke smiled and went over to him.
“Hi,” he said. “I'm wondering if you can help me.”
“I can try,” the man answered. He was shorter than Burke and slight of build. His sandy brown hair was cut short but still managed to look as if it needed a trim. He had blue eyes, hidden behind wirerim glasses, and a short-cropped beard. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms covered in more sandy-colored hair. “What is it you're looking for?” he asked.
“I'm not entirely sure,” Burke admitted. “I've kind of gotten into the history of Vermont soldiers in the Civil War. A friend of mine wrote a book about it.”
“Jerry Grant?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Burke replied. “You knew him?”
The man nodded. “He did some of his research here,” he said. “He was a friend of yours?”
“Not him,” Burke admitted. “His wife. She's kind of dating my father.” He laughed. “That sounds weird. Dating my dad. Like he's fifteen.”
“Wait until he asks to borrow the car,” the man said. His voice was low; his tone, dry. At first Burke wasn't sure if he was joking or not.
“I'm Sam Guffrey, by the way,” the man said. “Town librarian.”
“Burke Crenshaw.”
“All right, Burke Crenshaw, what is it you want to know?”
“Well, I'm a photographer,” said Burke. “I'm stuck here for the summer, and while I'm here, I thought I might photograph some sites related to the war.”
Sam pushed his glasses up his nose. “I assume you know there are no actual battle sites here,” he said.
Burke nodded. “I'm thinking something more personal,” he said. “Places where the soldiers lived. The other day I was photographing this pond by the ruins of an old house and—”
“The Wrathmore place,” Sam said. “I know it.”
“Is that what it's called?” said Burke. “All that's there is a foundation.”
“And the pond beyond it, through the trees,” Sam said. “That's the one.”
“The friend who took me there said it dates from the Civil War,” said Burke.
“A lot of things around here do,” Sam said. “It very well could. I know the last family that lived there was the Wrathmores. That was around the turn of the century.”
“Interesting,” said Burke. He hesitated. “I don't suppose you know anything about a man named Amos Hague?”
Sam thought for a moment. “Doesn't ring any bells,” he said. “Is he a relative of yours?”
Burke shook his head. “One of his letters is in Jerry's book.”
“Oh, right,” said Sam. “The sweet flag letter. That's an odd one, isn't it?”
“How do you mean?”
“‘Take thou also unto thee principal spices, of pure myrrh five hundred shekels, and of sweet cinnamon half so much, even two hundred and fifty shekels, and of sweet calamus two hundred and fifty shekels,'” Sam said. “Exodus thirty, twenty-three,” he explained when Burke looked at him blankly. “God is giving Moses the recipe for making anointing oil to consecrate the tabernacle and everything in it. Calamus is another name for sweet flag, although scholars argue about what the exact meaning of the original Hebrew is. But that's the generally accepted translation.”
“Sorry,” Burke said. “It's been a long time since I read the Bible.”
“It's an interesting section,” said Sam. “The instructions for building the tabernacle and making sacrifices are very explicit. The directions for putting together an IKEA bookcase should be so easy to follow.”
Burke laughed. Sam Guffrey was an odd little man. Burke wondered what his story was. Out of habit he glanced at Sam's left hand, looking for a ring. It was something he did whenever he met someone new. Gregg teased him that he was looking to see if the guy was fair game, but Burke was just curious. He noted that Sam's hand was bare.
“That's why the letter stuck in my mind,” Sam continued. “There's something almost ritualistic about how he crushes the sweet flag and inhales the scent. Well, it's not even
almost
ritualistic. It
is
ritualistic. You might already know this, but sweet flag ingested in high doses can act as a hallucinogen.”
“No,” said Burke, “I didn't know that.”
Sam nodded and pushed his glasses up again. “It can,” he said. “So now we have a plant that is used in anointing oil and can cause visions. The fact that Amos Hague was using it to invoke visions of Tess Beattie is fairly, well, provocative.”
“Provocative,” Burke repeated. “I suppose it is. So, do you know anything else about Amos and Tess?”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Sam.
“Do you know where Jerry got the letter and photo?”
“Photo?” Sam said. “There's a photo?”
“Yes,” Burke replied. “I didn't bring it, but next time I come in, I will.”
“I didn't know about a photo,” said Sam. “As for the letter, I think Jerry got it from the Sheldon Museum. I have a friend over there. I can give him a call if you like.”
“I'd appreciate that,” said Burke. “I don't know why this guy has piqued my interest, but he has.”
“History has a way of doing that,” Sam said. “That's why I became a librarian. Nobody cares if I spend all day looking up obscure information.”
“They even pay you to do it,” said Burke.
“I suppose they do,” Sam agreed. “I hadn't thought of it like that.”
How could you not?
Burke wondered.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Sam asked him.
“We can start there,” said Burke. “I think I'll pick up some novels while I'm here, though. I just finished
Watership Down,
and I think it's the only thing in my father's house I hadn't read.”
“‘If a rabbit gave advice and the advice wasn't accepted, he immediately forgot it and so did everyone else,'” said Sam. “That's my favorite line from
Watership Down.
”
“You remember a lot of what you read, don't you?” Burke commented.
“‘Show me the books he loves and I shall know the man far better than through mortal friends,'” Sam replied. “Silas Weir Mitchell. Sorry,” he added. “It's a bad habit. You're right. Things do stick in my head. Usually they just bang around in there, but every so often two of them collide and—boom. That quote, for instance. We were talking about the Civil War. Mitchell was a physician during the war. He was also a Poet and a novelist.”
“Isn't he an actor?” said Burke, recalling hearing the name somewhere before.
“Different one,” Sam said. “One was on
My Name Is Earl.
The other one is the inspiration for Charlotte Perkins Gilman's short story ‘The Yellow Wallpaper.' Have you read it?”
“No,” Burke said. “Should I?”
“Depends on whether or not you want to be depressed for a month,” said Sam. “New fiction is over there, if you want something more or less current. Everything else is on the shelves. I'll leave you alone.”
Sam went back to the desk, where he immediately started writing something down. As Burke looked through the books Sam had directed him to, he watched the librarian.
What is he writing?
he wondered as the man scribbled ferociously. He certainly was a character.
He turned his attention to the books, finding two or three that didn't look too bad. He was trying to figure out how to carry them to the counter to check them out when his father appeared in the doorway. “Ready to go?” he asked.
“Just a minute,” Burke said. “Can you take these for me?”
“Let me,” said Sam, coming over and picking the books up.
“I don't have a library card,” Burke told him.
“Don't worry about it,” Sam said, taking the checkout cards from each book. He wrote on each card. “Burke Crenshaw. You'll be back.”
“You're very trusting,” said Burke.
Sam wrote something on a piece of paper. “‘To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved,'” he said. “George MacDonald. This is the number here. Call me in a few days.”
Burke took the paper and put it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I will.” He looked at the books on the counter. “Dad,” he called out, “I need your help.”
His father came and picked up the books, nodding at Sam. When they left the library, Burke discovered that his father had parked right in front. “Didn't want you to have to walk too far,” he said as he opened the door for his son.
“Did you find everything you were looking for?” his father asked a minute later, as they drove through town.
“Maybe,” said Burke. “Sam is going to look up some things for me.”
“Queer little fellow, isn't he?” said Ed.
“How do you know he's . . . ,” Burke began.
He means it the oldf-ashioned way,
he realized. “I suppose he is a little . . . queer,” he agreed. “He certainly knows a lot.”
“Don't know why anyone would want to spend his life stuck in a room full of books,” his father said.
“Some people just like knowing things,” said Burke. “There's nothing wrong with that.”
“I'd rather be
doing,
” his father said.
“Did you find everything on Lucy's list?” Burke asked, changing the subject.
“Darn near,” said his father.
Burke hesitated before asking his next question.
Just do it,
he urged himself. He took a breath. “I'm glad you found someone,” he said.
His father said nothing, looking intently out at the road, as if at any moment someone might dash in front of the car.
“I know it was hard for you to watch Mom get sick,” Burke tried. “I can't imagine what it must have been like for you having to take care of her.”
“I managed,” his father said.
Burke turned to him. “You know, it's okay to say it was painful,” he said. “You don't have to pretend it wasn't.”
“I didn't say it wasn't,” his father said. “I just said I managed.”
Burke shook his head. “You really can't talk about how you feel, can you?” he said.
“What's this about?” his father asked. “Don't you like Lucy?”
“Of course I do,” Burke answered. “I told you, I'm happy for you.”
“Then let's leave it at that,” said his father.
“Why should we leave it at that?” Burke said. “Why can't we talk about anything?”
“There's nothing to talk about.”
“There is, Dad,” Burke said. “We can talk about your life and my life and Mom. We don't have to stick to Old Jack and the weather and the fact that Vermont doesn't have a professional baseball team.”
“We've got the Lake Monsters,” his father said. “They're good enough.”
BOOK: The Road Home
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