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Authors: Michael Thomas Ford

Tags: #General Fiction

The Road Home (3 page)

BOOK: The Road Home
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“Um, you're not getting up,” Gregg said. “Remember?”
Burke glanced at his leg. “What am I supposed to do?” he said.
“This,” Gregg said. He held up a plastic container that he'd taken from a shelf beneath the bedside table. It resembled a water bottle on its side, with one end slightly angled up and ending in a wide mouth.
“You've got to be kidding,” Burke said.
“Come on,” said Gregg. “It's not that hard.” He pulled back the blanket on Burke's bed and started to lift Burke's gown.
“Hey!” Burke said.
“Relax,” said Gregg. “It's not like I haven't seen it before.”
Burke relented, and Gregg hiked up the hospital gown, exposing Burke's crotch. He placed the urine bottle between Burke's legs.
“Ow,” Burke said. “Slow down.”
He tried to spread his legs, but when pain shot through the right one, he gave up and balanced the bottle on his thighs. Taking his penis in his right hand, he positioned the head at the mouth of the bottle and tried to pee. At first nothing happened. Then, as if a valve had been opened, urine spurted from his dick. Startled, he let go, and the bottle toppled sideways as he continued to pee. He attempted to grab at the bottle and hold on to his penis at the same time, but his left arm was useless, and he could accomplish only one of his goals. He clamped down, forcing the flow of urine to stop, but not before the hair on his legs was covered in drops of piss.
Gregg, who had prevented the bottle from falling to the floor, repositioned it. “Hold it,” he ordered Burke, who placed his right hand on the bottle. Gregg took Burke's cock in his hand and inserted it into the bottle's mouth.
“Don't watch,” Burke said.
Rolling his eyes, Gregg looked away. After a moment Burke was able to pee freely. He tried to ignore the fact that Gregg's hand was holding his dick as he drained his bladder. He watched as the bottle filled up. For a moment he was afraid it might overflow, but then the stream slowed to a trickle. To his horror, Gregg milked the last few drops out before removing the bottle.
“Thanks,” Burke said.
Gregg took the bottle into the bathroom and poured it into the toilet. When he returned, he had a washcloth in his hand, which he used to wipe the spilled piss from Burke's legs.
“I can do that,” Burke protested.
“Shut up,” said Gregg. “You don't always have to be the big top, you know.”
Burke grunted. He wasn't going to get into that particular argument with Gregg.
“There,” Gregg said as he put Burke's gown back into place and pulled the sheet and blanket up. “Feel better?”
“No,” said Burke. He was already worrying about what he would do when he had to pee and Gregg wasn't there. He certainly wasn't going to ask any of the nurses for help.
“I had a thought,” Gregg said.
“About what?” asked Burke.
“About where you could stay.”
“Oh yeah?” Burke said hopefully. “Where?”
Gregg paused for a long moment. “With your father,” he said.
Burke laughed. “Right,” he said.
“I'm serious,” Gregg told him. “He has the room. He's home all the time. It's perfect.”
“Except that it's my father,” said Burke.
Gregg looked him in the eyes. “You don't have a lot of choices, Burke,” he said. “This is a good solution.”
“I'm not staying with my father for six weeks,” Burke said. “I'm not staying in
Vermont.
”
“There's nothing wrong with Vermont,” Gregg argued. “It's beautiful this time of year.”
“No,” Burke repeated. “End of discussion. I'd rather stay in this place than go there. I'll think of something.”
“Okay,” Gregg said. “Just keep your options open.”
“Don't try that on me,” said Burke.
“Try what?”
“That thing you do,” Burke said. “Whenever you wanted me to do something and I said no, you would tell me to keep my options open. That always meant you thought I would come around and do what you had wanted to do in the first place.”
“That's not true,” Gregg said.
“No?” said Burke. “Have you forgotten about the vacation in Provincetown? The tile in my bathroom? The Volvo station wagon?”
“That Volvo saved your life,” Gregg said. “And I didn't make you do any of those things. I just suggested.”
“Well, stop suggesting,” said Burke. “I'm not asking my father if I can stay with him.”
Gregg nodded. “All right,” he said. He looked at his watch. “I should go.” He leaned down and kissed Burke on the forehead. “Just think about it.”
“Get out,” Burke said, only half feigning irritation.
“Good night,” Gregg said as he left. “Don't stay up too late. It's a school night.”
CHAPTER 3
“W
hy didn't you tell me there was only one road in Vermont?” Gregg asked as his Saab crested the top of a hill and descended into yet another green-grassed dell. On either side of the road black-and-white cows grazed lazily, only occasionally raising their heads to look at the passing car. “It really does look like a Ben & Jerry's ice cream carton here, doesn't it?” Gregg continued. “I keep expecting to see a Chubby Hubby tree.”
“Very funny,” Burke muttered. “Now you know why I never came back.”
“Stop it,” said Gregg. “It's beautiful. And it's just for the summer. Your mother and I will be back to pick you up in August.”
“You're loving this, aren't you?” Burke said.
Gregg grinned. “Maybe a little,” he admitted.
Burke shifted in his seat. His leg hurt like hell, and every time Gregg hit a rise or bump in the road, it sent another jolt of pain through the broken bone. “It would have been easier if the crash had just killed me,” he complained, attempting to shift into a more comfortable position and failing.
“Think of it as going to a sanatorium,” Gregg suggested. “Like one of those tragic tubercular women. Maybe you'll meet some handsome man who was poisoned by mustard gas at Ypres and has been sent here for a rest cure.”
Burke stared at his friend. “You're really not helping,” he said.
Gregg sighed deeply. “You're determined to make this as miserable an experience as possible, aren't you? I can tell. This is
exactly
how you were that time we took the house in Provincetown with Randy and Clifford.”
Burke groaned. “Heckle and Jeckle?” he said. “Those two talked nonstop from the time we picked them up until we dropped them off in Back Bay seven days later. It was all ‘When we saw Madonna at the White Party . . .' and ‘Last season at the ballet . . .' and ‘This cilantro is
so
good.' Also, I have a broken leg
and
a broken arm.”
“Whatever,” Gregg said. “Are we almost there?”
“What was the last town we went through?”
“I believe it was Grover's Corners,” Gregg said teasingly. “Or maybe Fraser,” he said truthfully when Burke gave him a vicious look.
“Then we're about twenty miles away from Wellston,” Burke informed Gregg.
They rode the rest of the way mostly in silence. Burke looked out the window, dreading the moment when they would pull into the driveway of his father's house. This was exactly how he'd felt returning to Vermont after his freshman and sophomore years at college—like he was being sent back to prison after a too-brief time on the outside. By the summer of his junior year, he'd found a job that allowed him to stay in Boston, and he hadn't looked back. Apart from some Christmases during those first years following graduation and before he'd acquired his own circle of friends, he'd been back only a handful of times in twenty years.
“Wellston,” Gregg said as they passed the sign marking the edge of town. “Population three hundred forty-nine. Why, that's practically a metropolis.” He leaned toward Burke. “I bet there's even a Wal-Mart.”
Burke ignored him. He was watching the familiar landmarks of his youth appear outside the car window like the ghosts of school-yard bullies, each one greeting him with its own particular taunt. The Ebenezer Baptist Church (
GOD CAN'T SAY THANKS FOR COMING IF YOU DON'T STOP BY
!). The Eezy-Freezy (
GET A HOT DOG AND A COLD CONE
!). The Farmers Co-op (
BARRED ROCK CHICKS
$13.99
A DOZEN
!). They all looked exactly as they had for decades, as if the entire town had been trapped in amber like a Cenozoic Era mosquito.
“Once we're through town, turn left onto Crenshaw Road,” Burke told Gregg.
“He's got his own
road?
” Gregg exclaimed.
Burke nodded. “When I was a kid, it was just RFD seventeen,” he said. “About ten years ago the county decided it needed a real name. Since my father's place is the only one out here, they thought it would be funny to name it after him. It's that dry Yankee humor you've no doubt heard so much about.”
They passed the Wellston General School (
OUR GRADS ARE GREAT
!), which marked the other side of town, and a quarter mile later turned onto Crenshaw Road. Narrow enough that the branches of the trees on either side created a kind of canopy overhead, and rutted enough that every few feet brought fresh curses from Burke's mouth as his body was jarred by yet another bump, it wound lazily through a patch of woods before emerging into a long meadow. A post-and-wire fence separated the meadow from the road, and two chestnut horses peered over it hopefully, as if someone might at any moment toss them an apple.
The road curved to the right and became a driveway that led to a large white farmhouse. Daylilies, their orange and yellow heads bouncing lightly in the breeze, were planted in front of the screenedin porch that ran along the front of the house. A beat-up red pickup truck was parked outside, and beside that stood a tall, somewhat heavy man with white hair, dressed in chinos and a red plaid flannel shirt. As the Saab approached, he lifted one hand to about chest level before returning it to his pocket.
“That means ‘hello' in Vermontese,” Burke said. “It also means ‘You're probably right about that snowstorm,' ‘Them politicians is a bunch of fools,' and ‘Sure I'll have a piece of blueberry pie.'”
“He's a good-looking man,” Gregg remarked as he pulled the car to a stop. “You don't look anything like him.”
Burke rolled his window down. “Hi, Dad,” he said.
His father leaned in. “How was the drive?” he asked. “You hit traffic around St. Albans?”
“It was fine,” said Burke. “Could you help me out of here?”
His father opened the car door as Gregg got out and came around from the other side.
“Dad, this is Gregg,” Burke said as he turned sideways in his seat and swung his leg out.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crenshaw,” said Gregg.
“Ed,” the man replied. When Gregg looked confused, he said, “Call me Ed. Everybody does.” He then squatted down, put Burke's arm around his shoulder, and lifted his son up and out of the car.
“Do you want me to help you with that?” Gregg asked.
Ed shook his head. “He's no heavier than a foal,” he said. “And he's only got the two legs to contend with.”
As Ed helped Burke toward the house, Gregg opened the Saab's trunk and removed the two bags he had packed under Burke's exacting command. He followed the two men into the house, setting the bags down on the smooth, wide planks of the living room floor.
“Thought we'd put you in your old room,” Ed told his son.
“Upstairs?” Burke objected. “I can't manage the stairs every time I need to come down here.”
“What do you have to come down for?” asked his father. “It's not like you're going to be feeding the horses or working in the garden.”
“What about meals?” said Burke.
“We got ourselves a Chinese restaurant in town now,” his father said. “Where the Tar-N-Feather was before Sandy accidentally set it on fire during his divorce from that California woman. It's called Golden Pagoda, although as far as I can see, it's not gold and there's no pagoda. Run by a nice Japanese family. The father says he thought about sushi, but he didn't think it would go over well in this part of the state. I suspect he's right about that. Anyway, they deliver, so that takes care of that.”
He paused a few moments as Burke and Gregg stared at him. “I see you've lost your sense of humor, living in Boston,” he said. “Lucy and I can bring you anything you need.” Apparently having settled the matter, he steered Burke to a flight of stairs. “Gregg, if you'd be so good as to get his other side,” he said.
Gregg obliged, and together they got Burke up the stairs, but not before Burke had banged his cast against the wall half a dozen times and uttered a different curse each time.
When they reached the top, Ed looked at his son and remarked, “Excellent vocabulary you've developed over the years. But we're not so smart here, so maybe you can keep it simple. Nothing wrong with a plain old ‘damn' every now and then if you really feel the need. So long as you put enough weight behind it, people will get your meaning.”
“Sorry,” said Burke.
“No need,” his father replied as they moved down a long hallway with doors on either side. “How do you like the color of these walls? Lucy picked it out.”
Burke looked around. “Weren't they always blue?” he said.
“You'd think so,” said his father. “But apparently what we had before was plain old blue. This is Nantucket Cottage.”
“Sort of like blue with a pedigree,” Gregg suggested as they stopped before one of the doors and Mr. Crenshaw opened it.
“Name brand,” Ed agreed.
They walked Burke to a large bed with an antique wrought-iron frame painted white. The mattress was covered by a colorful handpieced quilt that looked almost as old as the bed itself. Burke sank onto it with a groan. “Looks like you painted in here, too,” he commented.
“Same color it always was, though,” said his father. “I thought we might try something else, but Lucy said no to that. She said you'd be back someday, and she wanted it just the way you had it.” He walked back into the hallway. “I've got a few things to attend to in the barn,” he told them. “I'll leave you to get settled in.”
When Ed was gone, Gregg took a long look around the room. “So this is where Burke Crenshaw became a man,” he said.
“No, that happened in room 717 of Crone Hall after Shane Mc-Covey and I downed a six-pack and he dared me to suck his cock,” Burke said, lying back against the pillows.
“Yes,” Gregg agreed. “But this is where you began to explore the strange yearnings of your budding homosexual self,” he elaborated dramatically. He looked seriously at Burke. “By which, of course, I mean you beat yourself off while thinking about being Harrison Ford's sex slave,” he said, nodding at the
Raiders of the Lost Ark
one-sheet that hung on the wall across from the bed.
Burke glanced at the poster. He hadn't noticed it and hadn't even thought about it in fifteen or more years. “I can't believe she put it back up after they repainted,” he said.
“She who?” Gregg asked.
“Lucy,” said Burke. “My father's girlfriend.”
Gregg raised an eyebrow. “Is she a Maleficent?” he asked. “A Mommie Dearest?”
“Hardly,” Burke replied. “She's really nice.”
“She must be to have kept this museum to your teenage years,” said Gregg. He picked up a trophy that was on the white painted dresser beneath one of the room's two large windows. It was a gold cup topped by the figure of a horse. “What's this?”
“Four-H,” Burke explained. “I raised a colt.”
Gregg set the trophy down. “How agricultural,” he said. He then began to examine the books in the small bookcase beside the desk. “I see you delved deeply into the oeuvre of Stephen King,” he said. “Also Frank Herbert and Terry Brooks. Very eclectic.”
“Put a pillow under my leg, Marian Librarian,” Burke commanded.
Gregg did so, elevating Burke's foot. “Is that better?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“It's as better as it's going to get,” Burke replied.
Gregg looked out the window. “At least you have a nice view from here,” he said. “Very pastoral.”
“Are the horses out?” asked Burke.
“Not unless they've invented horses that are short, woolly, and have no tails,” Gregg answered. “I'm making an uneducated guess here, but I
think
these might be sheep.”
“Dad must be renting out pastureland,” said Burke. “Are they Blackface?”
“Isn't that racist?” Gregg said. “And no, they have plain old white faces.” He stood up. “Well, if there's nothing else I can do for you, Mr. Crenshaw, I have other patients who need attending to.”
“What?” said Burke. “You're not leaving?”
Gregg nodded. “I'm afraid so, sweetie. I'm allergic to the country. If I go more than a hundred miles from a Starbucks, I go into anaphylactic shock. Besides, I have a client meeting tomorrow morning.”
“But you can't,” said Burke, his voice tightening. “I'll be all alone with”—he gestured around—“this.”
“
This
seems perfectly lovely,” Gregg told him. “I'd
love
to recuperate in a place like this.”
“What about Starbucks?” said Burke, mimicking Gregg's voice. “And anaphylactic shock?”
BOOK: The Road Home
8.51Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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