The Road Home (23 page)

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Authors: Michael Thomas Ford

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BOOK: The Road Home
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Burke laughed at the openness of the question. “They're still pretty hard to find,” he said. “But I think that's changing.” He thought of Will, and how he had been surprised at Burke's suggestion that a man had to be one thing or the other. He had to admit, too, that being on the bottom hadn't been all that unpleasant. In fact, thinking about it now caused a familiar stirring in his groin.
And maybe you're changing, too,
he thought. Was it so ridiculous, the idea of him and Will as a couple? Earlier it had seemed so, but now he wasn't sure. Yes, there was the age difference, and Will was immature in a lot of ways. Also, he seemed afraid of breaking out of Wellston. But perhaps all he needed was some encouragement.
Burke thought back to Gaither's comment about how he and Will might someday be celebrating fifty years together. He tried to imagine it. Will certainly seemed to enjoy being with him now. At least in bed. But what about when he was fifty and Burke was seventy? What then? Or would it matter? Maybe by then sex wouldn't be so important.
“Can I ask you something personal?” he heard himself say to Gaither.
“By all means,” Gaither answered. “The more personal the better.”
“Did you and Derek still make love? You know, after all those years.”
Gaither grinned. “If you're asking me if we were still hot for each other, we were,” he said. “Of course, it wasn't like it was those first years, but that was also part of the joy of it.”
“And now?” asked Burke.
Gaither looked at him over his glass of wine. “If you're asking me whether you'll be sleeping in the guest room or in
my
room tonight, I should warn you that I snore quite loudly.”
For a moment Burke wasn't sure how to respond.
Then Gaither grinned. “Relax,” he said. “I'll be a good boy. Besides, you can always lock the door from the inside if you fear being violated in the night.”
CHAPTER 24
“H
ow's the cow?”
“What?” said Will. “Oh, she's good. Calf's good. Everyone's
“What?” said Will. “Oh, she's good. Calf's good. Everyone's good.”
Burke refrained from asking him if they were also
well.
“You look tired. It must have been a long night.”
“Yeah, it was,” Will answered. “I didn't get much sleep.”
Burke sat back, looking out the window. His evening with Gaither had been a welcome break from staying with his father and Lucy. They'd talked well into the night, about everything from relationships to photography. Gaither reminded Burke a little of Sam. Both had wide-ranging interests and ideas, and conversing with them left him feeling energized rather than exhausted, as he sometimes felt after spending several hours with his friends in Boston.
Will had phoned a little past ten to say he was coming and had arrived in time for lunch. He'd said little during the meal, which Burke attributed to his being so tired. After promising to return soon for another visit, they'd left for the journey home.
“Gaither's an interesting guy, isn't he?” Burke said.
Will shrugged. “I guess,” he said.
“He told me some great stories about when he and his lover were our ages. Well, closer to your age than mine. They were fourteen years apart.” Burke watched Will's face for a reaction but got none. “He asked if we were a couple,” he added.
Will turned and looked at him. “Really? He thought I was gay? Why?”
“I don't know why,” Burke replied. “Does it matter?”
Will didn't answer. Instead, he turned on the radio to a country music station, filling the silence between them with Waylon Jennings and Jessi Colter singing “Storms Never Last.”
“You weren't even born when this song was a hit,” Burke remarked. He was immediately sorry for saying it, realizing that in some way he was trying to irritate Will into saying something.
“I like the older stuff,” Will said.
Burke wondered if this was meant to apply to whatever it was that was going on between them. Was he older stuff, too?
He could at least say
classic, he thought.
“Songs now don't really say anything,” Will continued. “Most of them don't even make sense. But these,” he said, nodding at the radio, “they're about something. You ever listen to George Jones? Tammy Wynette? Their songs are amazing.”
“Where'd you ever hear them?” asked Burke. “As I recall, your father was more into Bruce Springsteen and Metallica than he was country.”
“My grandfather,” said Will.
“Doc Janks?” Burke said, surprised. “I thought he was only into classical and jazz. Every time I was over there, he was playing Bach or Coltrane or something brainy.”
“Yeah, well, he wanted everyone to think he was all sophisticated. But when he took me with him on his rounds, he always played Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn. He said it was music that told a story.”
“But your father doesn't like that, does he?”
Will shook his head. “I don't think he ever knew Granddad liked it. The two of them—they didn't really talk too much. Kind of like me and my dad.”
“And me and mine,” said Burke. “I wonder what makes it easier to talk to our grandfathers than our fathers.”
“I don't know,” Will said. “But it is. I don't think my father knows one thing about me, really.”
“Have you tried talking to him?”
Will laughed. “Tried? Sure. About how to cure hoof rot and bloat. Anything else and he acts like I've asked him what position he and my mother like to do it in.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” said Burke. “I wish I could tell you how to change that. The truth is, I don't know myself. The older we get, the less I think my father and I know about one another.”
“But if you had a kid, I bet he'd know,” Will remarked. “Then maybe he could explain it to you.”
“Like those diseases that skip a generation,” Burke suggested. “Only every other generation understands each other.”
They rode in silence for a long time. Burke wanted to ask Will several things, chief among them whether he thought of Burke as his father's friend or as a man with whom he was becoming involved. But although he tried several times, he couldn't bring himself to say the words.
“I've been thinking about what you said about coming to Boston,” he said eventually.
“What about it?”
“I think you should,” said Burke. “Maybe you'll like it enough to stay for a while.”
Maybe even with me,
he thought.
Will nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “You never know.”
There was a decided lack of enthusiasm in his response, and Burke wondered what had changed since their afternoon in Will's room, when he'd seemed so excited about the possibility of coming to the city. He almost asked but found that he didn't want to know.
“Would you mind dropping me at the library?” he asked. “I want to talk to Sam about some of the things Gaither told me.”
“No problem,” Will said. “I've got to do some things with Dad this afternoon. Can Lucy pick you up?”
“Probably. Or Sam can give me a ride home. Don't worry about it.”
“Maybe we can get together tomorrow?” Will said.
Burke felt his spirits lift. “Definitely,” he said. “I'd like that.”
They continued without talking, but now Burke felt more relaxed. Will wanted to see him again. He was surprised at how that made him feel. Maybe there was more to his feelings for Will than he'd realized. Maybe the fear that Will didn't return them was more frightening than he'd imagined it could be. But now that fear was gone.
At the library he considered giving Will a kiss good-bye. But they were parked right outside, and anyone coming out would see them. He settled for patting Will's shoulder as he helped him out of the truck and saying, “Let's talk tomorrow.”
“Will do. Say hi to Sam.”
Burke walked into the library to find Sam seated at a table with Freddie Redmond. Freddie was reading from a book, working through the sentences slowly and methodically. Sam, seeing Burke, held a finger to his lips. Burke stood silently, listening as the boy read.
“‘Perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and im . . . im . . .'”
“Sound it out,” Sam said. “Im.”
“Im. Per.”
“It's actually
peer,
” Sam said. “It's one of those weird words.”
“Im-peer-ee-us,” Freddie tried. “Imperious.”
Sam nodded. “Perfect,” he said. “Keep going.”
“‘Dominant and imperious. He might not refuse, were Death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden. Trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the i-
min
-int—'”
“
I
-min-int,” Sam corrected him.
Freddie nodded and repeated the word correctly. “‘Imminent dawn, while Nature, flushed with fulness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humourously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long soup-el—'”
“
Su
-pull,” said Sam.
“Supple,” Freddie repeated. “Supple. What's that mean?”
“Soft,” Sam explained. “Something that can bend.”
“Oh,” said Freddie, beginning again to read. “‘The long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes . . .' What are those?”
“Something like a flute,” said Sam. “I'll show you a picture later.”
“‘The pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sard—'”
“Hold on,” Sam interrupted. “What's that word?”
“Sard?” said Freddie.
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, it looks like
sword,
” Freddie explained. “And you don't say the
w
in
sword.
”
“That's right,” said Sam. “But that's an exception. This time you do say the w sound.”
“So it's swu-ard?” Freddie said.
“Close,” said Sam. “Make it one syllable. Sward.”
“Sward,” Freddie repeated. He sighed. “Why's English have to be so weird?”
Sam chuckled. “I know. It can be, can't it? But you're doing really well.”
“What's a sward, anyway?”
“It's a patch of grass,” Sam told him. “This part of the sentence means the person is lying on the grass.”
“Then why can't he just say ‘lying on the grass'?”
“The author is using poetic language,” said Sam. “It fits the scene.”
“If you say so,” Freddie said, sighing. “Should I keep going?”
“There's just a little left,” Sam said. “Let's finish up.”
Freddie returned to the book. “‘On the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy . . .' Podgy?”
“It means chubby.”
“‘Podgy, childish form of the baby otter. All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.'”
“Great job,” said Sam as Freddie shut the book.
“What does it mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“
All
of it,” said Freddie. “It's all one gigantic sentence that doesn't make any sense. I get the parts about Mr. Toad and the cars and the weasels and all that, but this is just weird.”
“It is a little weird,” Sam agreed. “I'll explain it more tomorrow. Your mom will be here any minute now, and I don't want to keep her waiting.”
“But I want to know!” Freddie objected.
“Tell you what,” said Sam. “Why don't you tell
me
what you think it means?”
“But I don't know,” said Freddie. “That's why I asked.”
“What's going on in the story?”
“Rat and Mole are looking for the missing baby otter,” Freddie said. “They're in a boat, and they find an island.”
“Right,” Sam said. “And on the island they see something.”
“The thing with horns,” said Freddie. “And hairy legs. And it's playing the flute thing.”
“See?” said Sam. “You got it all along.”
“Yeah, but who
is
it?”
“That's what we'll talk about tomorrow,” Sam assured him as the front door opened and Tanya came in.
“How'd it go?” she asked her son.
“Okay,” Freddie answered.
“Better than okay,” said Sam. “He did a fantastic job.”
“I did
okay,
” Freddie repeated. “I didn't understand it all.”
“Tomorrow,” Sam promised him. “And tonight look up any other words you don't know, okay?”
Freddie nodded as he ran for the door.
“Did he really do okay?” Tanya asked Sam when Freddie was out of earshot.
“He really did,” Sam confirmed. “I don't think he'll have any trouble passing the literacy test I got the school to agree to.”
Tanya closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened her eyes, they were wet with tears. “Thank you again,” she said.
“It's my pleasure,” Sam told her. “I'll see him tomorrow at one.”
Tanya followed her boy out of the library, and Burke sat down across the table from Sam. “That was pretty heavy stuff,” he said.
“No kidding,” Sam agreed. “I almost skipped that chapter. A lot of people do. It's kind of out of place with the rest of the book. But he's a bright kid. Even if he doesn't understand all of it, he gets the basic idea. And he learned a bunch of new words.”

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