Miles. Part 5

I heard Felix setting a tinny alarm clock. Then his robe dropped to the hardwood floor beside me.

"You're right. This is nice!" It was all I could do not to cry out. "Good night, Hitman."

Hitman? Cool.

"Goodnight, shortstop."

V I I I.

Sit by my side and let the world slip.

We shall never be younger The Taming of the Shrew The next four weeks that led up to Christmas pa.s.sed me by like a montage in a movie, a bunch of little scenes and shots edited together with particularly poignant soundtrack music to indicate a great deal of activity shown in minimum screen time. In other words, the time was spent happily, unlike those lonely, miserable chapters in our lives that plod along in real, War and Peace time.

Felix and I started becoming each other's first best friend. We met at 7:30 every morning for juice and the freshest bialys at the Russian deli on 55th Street, bought huge sandwiches for lunch before going to cla.s.ses together, lunch together, and homework at the University library together before taking our respective trains home. I stayed over at the Cromwell's every Friday and Sat.u.r.day night, and treated the family to an adventuresome series of guided walking tours of the Loop and Gold Coast while they treated me to their warmth and acceptance, and quite a few free meals. I got the better end of the deal.

We talked ourselves to sleep on those weekend nights. We talked about every blasted thing that had ever occurred in our sixteen-year-old lives, good and bad, but never mentioned our first night together, the looming dissolution of my family, or what Felix obviously felt was the impending, "I'm sorry, son, but we're leaving Chicago" speech from Jason.

We never mentioned girls or girlfriends, either. Arlene asked us once over dinner if there were any cute girls in our cla.s.s. Felix replied with unusual tartness that most of them were geeks, and the ones that weren't certainly wouldn't go out with anyone they thought might be gone the following month. I remained silent. So did Jason. It was our only meal together that reminded me of dining with my family. We didn't give each other a hug before going to sleep that night.

(We called each other 'shortstop' and 'Hitman' whenever we were alone, together.) On the collapsing home front, Mom and Dad simply ceased to exist as a unit. I'll give Dad credit, though. When I got back home on Sundays, we watched football games together and went to the country club for dinner, where I de-briefed him on what I had done with the Cromwells that weekend. He tried hard to be pleasant, which had to be a real strain on him, sometimes. It's not like those were pleasant days for any of us, or for me, at least when I wasn't with Felix or his folks. I think he was trying to keep his distance, knowing I wouldn't be moving with him to New York City because of how close me and Felix had become.

When creating some distance between yourself and your son becomes the best way to remain pleasant, it's safe to say the salad days are over.

Mom let her life in the emergency room and the suburban career woman social ghetto take over the driver's seat. You see, if she weren't so busy, she might have had to take a look at her life, or her husband, or even her son. And that wouldn't do, now, would it? Actually, I'm pretty sure she had had that up-close-and-personal look-see, subconsciously, anyway, and that's why she was trying so hard to pretend everything was fine.

I'll bet the rest of those over-coiffured, under-emotioned hags didn't have a shred of suspicion Mom and Dad had ever raised their voices at each other, much less thrown things with intent.

At first, I kind of resented Nicolasha carrying on as if I was just another one of his students, one who hadn't been to his home away from home, one who hadn't seen his photo alb.u.m (did he even realize it wasn't in his end-table drawer?), or one who didn't have dreams about him. But then I came to realize he was afraid, just like Mom and Dad were, of actually living what they felt.

Is this what being an adult was all about? Living what someone said you're supposed to feel, or you imagined you had to feel, instead of what you wanted to feel? To h.e.l.l with that.

Of course, I refused to accept Nicolasha wasn't feeling something about me. But I thought I knew what he was afraid of. It was the same fear I felt after I touched Felix in the hallway, after I put my lips on Nicolasha's, after I stared into the photo alb.u.m and...well, you know.

These events are exactly what I mean about living what you feel. I couldn't talk to anyone about it. It ate away at me like an acid. And, of course, it was Christmas.

My mind had seeped into a daze fed by the macabre film I had just seen at the still ornate but fast-fading Chicago Theater, a grim character study of a ventriloquist who loses his mind and becomes a murderer when the personality of his dummy takes over. "Magic," indeed.

At first, I thought I had walked into a street pole. I slipped on a small patch of ice and collided with the large Santa Claus look-a-like before landing on the cold State Street sidewalk with my knees. He was old, haggard, and dissipated all at once, and the chintzy Santa Claus outfit did nothing to conceal these pleasantries from anyone who got close enough to smell the bourbon on the man's strained breath. He started ringing his school bell again, almost directly over me. The harsh, bra.s.sy clangs hurt my ears.

His bloodshot eyes howled, Ho ... ho ... f.u.c.king ... ho.

Rush hour buses, taxis, and people continued their ballet of the dead while I used Santa's red metal collection bucket to climb to my feet. The besotted old gasbag finally looked about to hit me with his bell when a tiny black girl tugged at his loose red flannel pants. Tears were running down her face. "Santa? Where are my mommy and daddy?"

I couldn't tell if he was clearing his throat, or was about to spit a hocker the size of a beer can out towards one of us. "I don't know, little girl. Where did you leave them?"

Her arms wrapped around the imposter's leg. "I didn't. They left me!"

I'll bet he thought the job would be easy money. All he had to do was smile and laugh and ring his G.o.dd.a.m.n bell until the pa.s.sers-by got so irritated they gave up a few cents into the collection bucket. Any wino could do that. His eyes peered out into the crowd and landed on mine.

"Well, let's catch our breath and try to remember. OK?"

He took the little girl off of his leg into his arms, wiping the tear streams from her rounded cheeks. She smiled at him like he really was Santa Claus. He swung the girl away from me and whispered, "What are you waiting for, punk?"

I shook my head and walked off toward the train station with a smile. I was the last person to walk into the boxcar before the doors slid shut behind me and we slowly pulled out of the terminal. On to Theresienstadt! I guess I was too old to ask Santa Claus anything, but, as the commuter train rolled south through the scarred brick hedgerows of the South Side to the suburban wasteland that lay beyond, I decided to begin asking other, perhaps less important father figurines, about all the aches and pangs inside me I found harder and harder to hide from myself anymore.

On the last day before Christmas break, Nicolasha transported his excellent stereo system to school so we could listen to Bach's Christmas Oratorio in the fullest audiophonic splendor, short of a live performance. He had also baked dozens of rich, delectable Christmas cookies and brewed gallons of his sweet honey tea, which we devoured with intent while the arias and choruses played forcefully in the background.

It was a Pilot Inst.i.tute tradition to bring a Christmas gift for each of your teachers, the size of the gift determined by how much you learned from the teacher (or how good your grades were in their cla.s.s). Nicolasha sat in a silent daze as his desk top was covered with large, prettily wrapped packages.

I hoped he got a leg up on a new wardrobe in all those presents.

Felix and I had debated for hours about what to buy for Nicolasha. Since we had no accurate idea of what records he might like to have (if there were any he didn't have), we were torn between an expensive, mounted globe from Rand McNally and a slightly worn ebony metronome from a p.a.w.n shop over on Van Buren Street. That was, until Arlene came upon a rare book store in Rogers Park that was a trove of musical and literary editions. Felix chose a complete, hardbound score to Prokofiev's Aleksandr Nevsky, while the owner, a pipe-smoking, pear-shaped old man in gla.s.ses, suggested I opt for an incredible original text of poetry by Yevtushenko (that I really wanted to keep for myself, even if I couldn't read Cyrillic). We congratulated ourselves (with thanks to Arlene), confident in having trumped our cla.s.smates.

Felix waited for everyone else to return to their seats before bringing our presents up to Nicolasha, who received them with an appreciative grin. As Felix sat back down, our teacher devastated me with a private, longing gaze, holding his hands over his left breast for a few desperate seconds.

"What's the matter, Hitman?" Felix tapped the edge of my knuckle with his pen. I pulled away from Nicolasha's...o...b..t, only to be met with another one of Felix's kind-hearted smiles. I shook my head and nibbled on a cookie, convinced the safest place for me was somewhere in that oratorio.

Nicolasha asked me to stay for a moment as the rest of cla.s.s left to begin their Christmas vacation. Felix gave me a curious look before I patted him on the shoulder.

"I'll meet you outside, OK?"

"Sure thing. Don't be too long, though. The movie starts pretty soon."

"No problem."

Felix closed the cla.s.sroom door after waving at both of us. Click. The din of students and teachers and parents occurring beyond the closed door was as remote to us as Iceland. The sudden blizzard of silence stilled us both for many subsequent moments.

Nicolasha took a few hesitant steps toward me, reaching into his tweed jacket for a long, red envelope. He fingered it nervously as the Bach holiday choral continued to play. I could see it had my name written across it. Clearing my throat with a shy smile, I held out my hand to accept it.

"Please do not open it until you leave. It is a little surprise." Ah ha - airline tickets! He was defecting back to Russia and needed someone to help carry his records!

"We're supposed to buy you something, Nicolasha."

"You are special, little friend."

I laughed awkwardly, before Nicolasha pressed the tip of two fingers onto his lips and reached toward me, touching my lips with them in turn. And now I was frozen, right there where I stood. He wrapped his arms completely around mine, pinning them to my side, enveloping me in a true Father Christmas bear hug. Nicolasha kissed my ear and held me in front of him as Felix re-entered the room.

Nicolasha leaned toward my face, whispering. "Please call me over the holiday." How about tonight?

"I will, little father." We turned and smiled at Felix, who gestured excitedly for me to come with him. So much for another kiss.

"I can't believe it! Dad's outside. He must have left work early!" A father? Leave work early? I didn't believe a word of it. The second coming must be near.

I headed to the door with Felix, putting the envelope inside of my pea coat. We snapped our heels together and saluted at our young teacher in playful precision (something we practiced on Jason and Arlene after seeing "The Man Who Would Be King" a few weeks ago) before we made our getaway through the hallways of the Inst.i.tute.

"How come Mr. Nicolas doesn't give me a hug like that?"

"I've known him longer."

I glanced over my shoulder, feeling like an awful lot of me was still back there in Nicolasha's arms.

The ride downtown was hilarious. Jason made us sit together with him in the front seat of his elephantine Lincoln Continental, probably to make sure we didn't miss a single note of his Elvis Sings Christmas 8-track tape. In the middle of South Sh.o.r.e Drive, he wrapped his right arm around our shoulders and cradled us both in a savage arm lock while weaving from lane to lane, pretending we were being chased by a car full of a.s.sa.s.sins. He ordered Felix into the back seat, and refrigerated the car by rolling down and locking the power windows - until the two of us mooned someone. Neither of us was sure Jason was serious, until he slowed down and let a few cars actually pa.s.s us, looking for the right target. I laughed and knelt down on the seat with my rear end touching the top of the window sill, urging Felix to follow my lead, which he did just as his father yelled out, spotting an elderly couple in a king-size Cadillac to our right. Jason maneuvered his car beside the old folks, who were treated to a festive view of our bare a.s.ses for a few chilling seconds.

We almost drove clear over a tiny Datsun hurrying into a valuable parking s.p.a.ce outside the show, let Jason buy the popcorn, Twizzlers (Jason's choice), and c.o.ke - no hot dogs, dammit - and sat in the first row of the Carnegie's "upper deck" (my choice) and laughed ourselves silly watching "The Pink Panther Strikes Again". Arlene met us for a pig-out pizza dinner at Geno's, before Jason offered to buy each of us an alb.u.m at a nearby record store. Arlene picked out an old collection of torch songs by Frank Sinatra, while Jason found another Elvis Presley Christmas alb.u.m, I was sorry to see. We lone wolves headed straight to the cla.s.sical section: Felix took a recording of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf with Sean Connery narrating ("Those woods are filled with wolves. Do you know anything about wolves? Dangerous lot, wolves.") and I chose an all-Russian concert by Arthur Fiedler that featured Shostakovitch's Hamlet Suite, which I'd never heard or heard of before.

We drove back to the apartment and agreed to listen to each of the records in the morning. I got an unexpected goodnight kiss from both of Felix's parents before they retired to their bathroom to take a long shower together. Felix asked if we wanted to stay up and watch "It's A Wonderful Life," perhaps my least favorite film of all time, but I said I was tired - which was bulls.h.i.+t, since we always ran our mouths until well past midnight. But he backed me up anyway, and we locked ourselves in for the night.

Felix stood at the foot of the bunk and reached under where the two beds came together. "Help me with this, buddy." I took the other side and let Felix guide his top bunk directly beside mine. "Right here is cool."

"I'm afraid to ask what you're up to, shortstop." But not as afraid as I was about what was going through my mind like a fever.

"Trust me, Hitman."

The gleaming silver lights from the adjacent hotel flowed over both beds now. Satisfied with our new sleeping arrangements, Felix walked me by the arm to his desk, where he pulled a heavy manila business envelope out from the clutter. He held it up in front of him with a sober look. "This is from all of us."

"Jesus, Felix! You know your presents are at my house. Let's wait until you guys drop me off Sunday, and we can open them all together."

"No. I want to share this with you now."

I had no idea what could be in the envelope, remembering the one Nicolasha gave me earlier, still stuffed in my coat. I wondered if that was why we visited the record store. Gift certificates? That would be really cool. I slid my finger in the seam and pulled out an inexpensive card depicting a cute village scene filled with little kids playing in the snow and a short greeting embossed in gold and written in Cyrillic. I shook my head with a chuckle and opened the card, astounded into silence by the sight of an Eastern Airlines ticket to Fort Myers, Florida.

"We leave late Sunday night. You leave early Wednesday morning." Wham. The sinker hit the catcher's glove, and I was standing there with the bat on my shoulder. "We'll take the sailboat out every morning, play ball all day, and hang out at the beach until we go to bed." I must have looked pretty stupid, staring at the ticket with my mouth hanging open. "If you think your parents won't let you go, f.u.c.k 'em. Don't say anything, and just get to the airport. Ma says we can deal with it when we come back."

I have a solution. Let's not come back.

I tossed the card and ticket onto the desk and wrapped my arm around Felix's shoulders. He smiled and put an arm around my back. We stood there together, suddenly feeling the other one saying "Hey, you're my best friend, I love you!" without having to break down and say it out loud.

This was all very new to me.

Felix reached up and kissed me on the nose. "Happy Hanukah, Hitman." Jesus.

I pulled Felix into my arms and held him there for a few quiet seconds before I bent down and lifted him off of the floor from his waist, slinging him over my shoulder. His hands reached down my body, pulling my s.h.i.+rt and the elastic band of my shorts out from my jeans. I pressed my fingers into Felix' legs, triggering the tickling mechanism. We burst out laughing as I began to stagger and we fell onto the beds.

We laid close to each other, separated by the edge of the mattresses, our respective blankets, and the underwear we both left on that night. We went to sleep almost immediately after our pillow fight, but I was awake again, anxiously staring at the unfocused dark of the ceiling with my hands folded behind my head on the pillow. My mind was filled with warm images of Florida's Gulf Coast, while my heart was filled with emotion, thinking about Felix and his family.

I'd never been sailing. In fact, the only kinds of vehicles I usually liked were the ones with engines. Maybe Jason would teach me how to sail. I hoped we could find enough people to get a ball game going. Was Fort Myers close to Sarasota? Wonder if any Sox guys were down there yet? I couldn't wait to lie on the beach and talk all night until we saw the sun rise. Hopefully, the Gulf wouldn't be too cold to skinny-dip in. I tried to not get hard just thinking about it.

I'll bet Felix' grandparents were really cool. I was glad the Cromwells weren't religious. I could barely stand all my Catholic stuff by then, much less some other name-brand G.o.d stuff. If the Jewish holy days were half as depressing as their folk music...oy!

The next two weeks would be great, being a part of a real, live family. That was my idea of a Christmas present.

Felix faced me as he slept on his side, one arm under his pillow, the other hanging loose across his chest. I moved closer to him and touched his loose hand, which closed ever so slightly on my fingers. "You're my best friend, Felix." And my first, I realized. He moved a little bit. "I love you."

There. I said it.

I ran the back of my hand over his cheek very lightly. Felix began to stir and slid over onto his stomach, dropping his loose hand beside my bare shoulder. He moaned softly into his pillow.

"I hope we're friends forever, shortstop."

"Me, too, Hitman."

I considered slapping him silly with my pillow, but his warm hand closed over my shoulder, and I went back to sleep with a smile on my face.

I X.

A little more than kin,

and less than kind!

Hamlet Outsiders used to have a hard time keeping track of our family tree, but I didn't, since most of the branches have long since been pruned by the tall, hooded guy with the scythe. With the singular exception of Uncle Alex, the branches that were left would make some fine kindling wood.

I specifically refer to the trio of carrion, also known as A) Dad's stepmother / aunt's sisters, B) Uncle Alex's mom's sisters, and C) my great vulture aunts, great when they sent me five or ten dollars on my birthday, vultures the rest of the time. The proper word hasn't been invented to describe these predators when we would spend yet another torturous Christmas Eve at one their homes, straddling the tangled, barbed wire of their malicious gossip, innuendos, suggestions, put-downs, cut-downs, and manipulations.