Authors: Michael Thomas Ford

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The Road Home (24 page)

BOOK: The Road Home

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“I don't think
I
understood most of it,” Burke told him.

“Rat and Mole are looking for the baby otter,” said Sam. “They meet the Piper at the Gates of Dawnâtheir version of God. He's the Horned God who watches over the creatures of the woods. They can't believe they're seeing him in person. It's a kind of religious experience.”

“Isn't that a little serious for a children's book?”

“
The Wind in the Willows
is a serious book,” said Sam. “As Freddie said, it's easier to follow Mr. Toad's adventures, but there's a lot more to it. It's really about the connection the animals have to the woods and the river. Toad tries to get away from those things and act like a human, and that's what gets him into trouble.”

“I get it,” said Burke, grinning. “This is more of your âcities are evil' philosophy.”

Sam held up his hand. “You caught me,” he said. “I'm trying to turn the kid into a pagan. Don't tell Tanya.”

“One of these days you'll have to explain the whole pagan thing to me,” Burke said. “But right now I have some things to tell you.”

For the next half hour he told Sam everything he'd learned from Gaither Lucas. At each new revelation Sam's eyes grew wider, and when Burke was finished, Sam just shook his head.

“Wow,” he said. “Just wow.”

“I know,” said Burke. “It's completely wild, isn't it?”

“I don't even know where to start,” Sam said.

“Oh, I forgot one more thing,” said Burke. “The engravings inside the rings. I knew I wouldn't remember what they said, so I wrote them down.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Sam.

“âAnd the beautiful day passed well,'” Sam read. “âAnd the next came with equal joy.' That's from Whitman.”

“Whitman?”

“Walt Whitman,” Sam said. “Hang on.”

He got up and disappeared into the stacks. A minute later he returned with a book. “
Leaves of Grass,
” he said as he sat down and started leafing through the pages. “The most well-known version was published in eighteen sixty, so Amos and Tess would have known it.”

Several times he stopped and ran his finger down a page, only to keep looking. Finally he stopped. “Here it is.”

âWhen I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow'd,

And else when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still I was not happy,

But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,

When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,

When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,

And when I thought how my dear friend my lover was on his way coming, O then I was happy,

O then each breath tasted sweeter, and all that day my food nourish'd me more, and the beautiful day pass'd well,

And the next came with equal joy, and with the next at evening came my friend,

And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,

I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me,

For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breastâand that night I was happy.

Sam shut the book. “It's from the âCalamus' section of
Leaves of Grass,
” he said.

“âCalamus'?” Burke repeated.

“Another name for sweet flag,” said Sam.

“As in the plant Amos Hague wrote to Tess about? The one he said he crushed because its smell reminded him of her?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “But it's odd that they would have these lines engraved in their rings.”

“I think they're really lovely,” Burke countered.

Sam shook his head. “That's not what I mean,” he said. “You know Whitman was gay, right?”

“I've heard,” Burke said. “I admit I haven't really read much of him.”

“Many of his poems are homoerotic,” Sam continued. “But the âCalamus' poems are considered the most overtly so of all his work. And this poem in particular talks about how he longs for his lover and is only happy when they're together. Even the calamus is symbolic. If you haven't seen one, it looks like an erect cock.”

“I've seen one,” Burke told him. “And yes, it does. But maybe Tess and Amos liked the
idea
of the poem. Really, did anyone then know this was about two men? It's not as if they sat around in graduate school, dissecting every line.”

“Perhaps not most people,” Sam admitted. “But to anyone who felt the way Whitman felt, I think it would mean a great deal.” He ran his fingertips over his beard as he thought for a minute. “You said the rings also had initials in them, right?”

“AH and TB,” said Burke.

“And the letter you read was addressed to TB as well,” Sam continued.

“Yes. TB. Tess Beattie.”

“Or maybe Thomas Beattie,” Sam said softly.

CHAPTER 25

“I
t's so white,” Burke said.

He looked at his forearm. Where the cast had been, the skin was pale and raw looking. When he scratched it, skin flaked away. Also, it seemed thinner than his other arm. He clenched and unclenched his fist.

“Put lotion on it,” Dr. Radiceski told him. “That will clear up the dryness.”

Burke, turning his arm over, noticed for the first time that there was a scar running along the underside of his arm. “What's this?”

The doctor looked at the scar. “They put two pins in,” he explained. “Didn't they tell you?”

Burke shook his head. “Or maybe they did,” he said. “I don't remember it, though.”

“There are some in your leg as well,” said the doctor.

“Great,” Burke said. “More scars.”

“You can always tell people you were injured running with the bulls or something,” Dr. Radiceski suggested. “They'll think you're super butch.”

Burke smiled. He was so relieved to have the cast off his arm that he really didn't care if he had scars or not. “Any chance of taking this one off a little early?” he asked, indicating his leg.

“I'm afraid not. But soon.”

“You sound like my mother when I asked her when Christmas was coming,” Burke complained. “Or my father when I asked him how much longer till we got where we were going.”

“Speaking of your father, how's that situation?” the doctor asked him. “As I recall, you were having a bit of a time.”

“Actually, it's been okay,” Burke told him. “Mostly because we almost never see each other. How about you and your dad?”

Dr. Radiceski shook his head. “Crabbier than ever,” he said. “And now he and Dale are best buddies, so when I get home, both of them start in on me. Last night I told them
they
should be lovers.”

Burke laughed. “I bet your father loved that.”

“He said if he were thirty years younger, he'd give it a go.”

“Nice. Maybe he could have a talk with my father,” said Burke.

“I see your friend isn't with you today,” Dr. Radiceski remarked.

“No,” Burke said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

Will was supposed to have brought him, but that morning he'd called and said he couldn't. No explanation, just, “I have something I have to do.” Burke hadn't pressed him for more information. He'd simply asked Lucy if she could take him to his appointment. Now she sat in the outer room, waiting for him.

“I'm sorry,” said the doctor.

“Don't be,” Burke told him. “Like I said, we aren't really a thing, anyway.”

The doctor was looking at Burke's most recent X-rays. “Well, I think we can take the leg cast off a week earlier than I expected. That should cheer you up.”

Burke leaned his head back and let out a sigh. “Finally,” he said.

“It will still take some work to get you back to normal,” Dr. Radiceski said. “The muscles have atrophied a bit, and your knee in particular will be stiff.”

“But I can do that back in Boston, right?”

“If you want to. I can recommend a great PT here, though. If you decide to stay.”

“I don't think so,” Burke said. “I might be doing a show here in Montpelier, though.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“Actually, now that I think about it, I don't know the name of the gallery. The owner's name is Colton Beresford.”

“I know Colton,” said the doctor. “Dale and I had dinner with him and Luke last week.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Burke said. “Does every gay person in Vermont know all the others?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Radiceski. “And if we don't know someone, we can always look him up in the directory they give you when you move here. Oh, and his gallery is called the Colton Beresford Gallery. Do you want me to write it down?”

“I think I can remember,” Burke teased.

“I look forward to seeing the show.”

“And I look forward to seeing you in three weeks,” Burke said, standing up.

He collected Lucy from the waiting room, and they returned to the car. Burke didn't suggest getting lunch. Although he was loath to admit it, part of him wanted Will to have called while he was gone, and he was anxious to get home and see if there were any messages.

“Three weeks,” Lucy said as she started the car. “We'll be sorry to have you leave.”

“You might be,” said Burke. “I think Dad will be relieved.”

“I don't know why you say that,” Lucy replied.

“Come on, Lucy. How long have I been here? Six weeks? He and I haven't talked about anything except weather, the horses, and my accident.”

“He's just not a talker,” said Lucy. “You should know that.”

“He talks to you, doesn't he?”

“Well, yes,” Lucy admitted.

“Then he must have said
something
about how he feels about me being here,” Burke insisted.

“He'll be sorry to have you leave,” said Lucy firmly.

“That good, huh?”

Lucy sighed. “He doesn't know what to say to you,” she said. “The last time you lived with him, you were a boy.”

“He didn't say much then, either,” Burke told her. “It's not as if anything's changed. I just thought maybe we'd gotten to the point where we could at least try.”

Lucy was quiet as they drove through town. Burke was afraid he might have offended her, and was about to apologize when she started speaking again.

“Have I told you about my daughter?” she asked.

“You have a daughter? I thought you said you lost your baby.”

“I did,” Lucy said. “But I had another. Her name is Theresa, although now she calls herself Chloe. She's thirty-nine, or will be on the twenty-eighth.”

“Does she live here?” asked Burke.

“Phoenix,” Lucy told him. “With her husband and two children.”

“Why don't you see them more often?”

“When TheresaâChloeâtold us that she was engaged to David, Jerry and I told her we thought she was making a mistake. She was in college, a junior, and he was her art professor. I told her it would never last and that he would leave her for another student.”

“But he didn't?”

“No,” said Lucy. “They've been together almost twenty years. The twins are eighteen. They just graduated from high school. Chloe sent me pictures.”

“It sounds like she's gotten over it,” Burke remarked.

“I wouldn't go that far,” said Lucy. “For the first five years she wouldn't speak to us at all. She returned birthday and holiday cards, moved without telling us where they were going. Then David convinced her to make contact. He'd started to go to AA, and it was part of the whole âasking for forgiveness' thing, I guess. Anyway, that's when Jerry and I found out we had three-year-old grandsons. Things got better after that, but it's really only been since Jerry died that she's made any real effort.” Her face had a hard look to it, which Burke had never seen before. “I'll never forgive her for that,” she said.

“I can't imagine what it must have been like,” Burke said, not knowing what else to say to her.

“One of the great lies we tell ourselves is that just because we're related to people, we have to like them,” said Lucy. “This will sound terrible, but I don't like my daughter. I love her. I love her very much. But I don't like who she is, and I don't like what she did to us.” She glanced at Burke. “It's a horrible thing to not like your child. Even harder than knowing that your child doesn't like
you.
”

“I don't dislike Dad,” Burke said.

“I'm not saying you do,” Lucy replied. “And I'm not saying he doesn't like you. I'm saying that there's nothing more complicatedâor fragileâthan the relationship between parents and their children. It's like no other relationship there is. And no one tells you how to make it work. Either you find your way or you don't.”

“So what's my way?”

“I just told you, you have to figure it out for yourself.”

“How can I when he won't talk about anything?”

Lucy sighed. “All you can do is try,” she said.

“That's a shitty answer,” said Burke.

Lucy nodded. “It sure is,” she said. “But it's the only one I've got. If they had a pill that would fix every dysfunctional family in the world, don't you think they'd be selling it?”

“I don't think the world is ready for that kind of happiness.”

“Probably not,” Lucy agreed. “So since we're being all huggy bunny, how about you tell me what's going on with you and Will Janks?”

“Nothing,” Burke said instantly. “Why?”

“I thought so,” said Lucy, obviously disbelieving him. “Don't worry. I'm not going to say anything to your father. Or Mars. I'm just being nosy.”

Burke groaned. “I don't know,” he said. “It's all a little weird. I mean, he's Mars's kid, and he's really young, and he has a girlfriend. It just sort of happened.”

“At least you have good taste,” Lucy said. “You have
that
in common with your father, anyway.”

“He started it,” said Burke. “Not that I didn't think he was attractive. But I never would have . . . if he hadn't . . . if . . .”

“No need to explain,” Lucy assured him. “We'll just call it a summer fling, how about that?”

“I guess that's what it is,” said Burke.

“Do you want it to be more than that?”

“No,” Burke answered. “Yes. Maybe. There are a whole lot of ifs in that answer.”

“I don't like what Theresa did,” said Lucy, “but I will say this for herâshe didn't let what Jerry and I thought about her relationship with David stop her from listening to her heart.”

“She could just as easily have been wrong about him,” Burke argued.

“That's not important. What's important is that she took the chance,” said Lucy. “It's something I wish I'd done more of when I was younger.”

“You don't regret marrying Jerry, do you?”

“Oh, no. Not for a minute. But there were other menâand a woman or twoâI said no to because I thought it would be too complicated. Jerry was an easy choice. Not a bad one, but an easy one. Your father was slightly more risky.”

Burke laughed. “I have to admit, I've sometimes wondered about that. The two of you are so different.”

“That's what I like about it,” said Lucy. “But it's also something I had to get over. Jerry and I were very similar. I always knew what he was thinking, what he wanted, even if he didn't say it directly. With Ed I never quite know. That's why it's interesting.”

“Are you saying I should take a chance with Will?”

“I'm not saying you
should
do anything. But don't
not
do it just because it might be hard.”

Burke made a vague noise. He wasn't sure he agreed with his father's girlfriend. Taking chances was a romantic idea, but there were practical considerations, and with Will there were a whole lot of them. On the one hand, he was sweet and funny, and his enthusiasm both in and out of bed was electrifying. On the other, he seemed to be unwilling to change his life in ways that would make it possible for them to be together. Unless he changed his stance about that, it rendered all the positive points moot. But there was always a chance, wasn't there?

“We'll see,” he said. “One thing at a time. Dad might be an easier thing to cross off the list first.”

“List?” Lucy said. “Your life isn't a list.”

Burke scratched at his arm. It was itching ferociously. He watched flakes of dead skin fall away like snow. His wrist ached. He wondered what Will would say when he saw him looking like he had a pterodactyl limb.

“Don't shut down on me,” Lucy said. “Let's talk this out.”

Burke fixed her with a look. “You first,” he said. “Let's talk about these âone or two' women you passed up.”

BOOK: The Road Home

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