Tricks. Part 17

If she catches you, who knows how long it will be before we can see each other again? I love you. Now go on.

He's right, of course, and I hurry. But when I turn the corner, I can see our car in the driveway. My stomach lurches, like I'm in an elevator and the cable snaps. I fall to my knees and vomit until there's nothing left but cramps. I wobble to my feet, up the sidewalk, and in the front door.

Mama Is Waiting Sitting on a straight-backed chair, facing the door. You were with him just now, weren't you? She already knows the answer. Why try to lie?

The truth is doubtless magnified by the tear storm in my eyes. "Yes."

I expect the same chaotic anger she threw at me yesterday. She stands, and my muscles clench. But she stays remarkably calm as she approaches.

I knew it when he didn't show up at church today. I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize what the two of you were up to sitting back there.... Her jaw goes tight, and her left hand reaches for me.

I wince, but she simply slides her arm around my shoulder, guides me toward the kitchen. We need to talk.

I'll make some tea. She pushes me into a chair. My stomach churns acid as I watch her put two cups of water into the microwave, reach for teabags and sugar. Silence overwhelms the room until she puts the steaming cups onto the table. Get the cream, please.

I go to the refrigerator, take the cream from its reserved spot on the top shelf.

Mama pours a little in each cup, hands me the carton, which I return to its place.

Wordlessly she hands me a cup, takes a sip of her own, gestures for me to do the same. The tea is sickeningly sweet, but I don't dare not drink it.

Finally she says, There can only be one explanation for such total disobedience.

Head spinning, I wait for her to finish.

You are obviously possessed by demons.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Demons I never believed in demons or monsters lurking under my bed.

But lately I've started to wonder if evil hasn't in fact infiltrated this world, slithering streets and sidewalks, wearing what- ever disguise suits its immediate purpose.

When a choirboy is molested, is it by the devil in a priest costume?

Or does Satan play a more clever game to get what he wants?

To win the contest, accomplish his goals, might the prince of hatred mask himself as love?

Seth

I Never Realized

What a bogus holiday Mother's Day is until I didn't have a mother anymore. No one to send flowers to. No one to cook a special breakfast for.

The ironic thing is, my mom used to call Mother's Day a "Hallmark holiday." You know, something invented to buy pricey greeting cards for.

I know how much my men love me, she said more than once. I sure don't need a three-dollar card or candy to prove that there fact to me.

Regardless, Dad and I always sprang for some silly card, with glittery roses, spring greenery, and flowery sentiment.

Maybe Hallmark should invent some new holidays, like Dead Mother's Day. They could tweak their old motto: When you still care enough to send the very best.

Only where would you send it to?

Better yet, how about Breaking Up Day? They could invent a new motto: A cheerful good-bye when you don't give a d.a.m.n anymore.

No Card To ease the pain of Loren leaving today. Part of me doesn't want to see him.

I'm not much good at good-byes. But the bigger part wants to hold him one last time. Wants to haul him off into the bedroom, make love to him, convince him he can never go away.

Dread simmers in my gut.

Approaching Loren's door, it works itself into a full boil.

I reach for the bell, change my mind, let myself in with the spare key Loren gave me.

"h.e.l.lo?" Even as the word slips past my lips, I know he's not here. He rented the apartment furnished.

Couch. Coffee table. Easy chair. Nothing missing.

Nothing except Loren.

His absence overwhelms the room. "Loren?" I say it, knowing it's useless, follow the silence into the bedroom.

The closet and bureau drawers are empty. The only trace of Loren is a hint of his cologne.

That, and a note left on the bed, beside rumpled memories: Dearest Seth, I'm sorry to have left you this way, but I couldn't say good-bye face-to-face. Total coward, I know. Rent is paid through the end of the month.

Go ahead and use the place until then, if you want. I'll write you once I'm settled, okay?

I wish I could see you graduate.

It's such a big day-the start of the rest of your life. Enjoy!

I love you very much. Loren.

I Haven't Cried Since Mom died. I mean, after something like that, what's left to cry about, right?

But I let myself cry now.

Loss is loss. Doesn't take death to create it. My legs give way. I slide to the floor next to the bed, rest my head against the bare mattress.

I can smell him there, smell us there. I reread the note.

Phrases jump out at me: ... see you graduate ... rest of your life ... love you ...

Suddenly, certainly, it hits me.

Loren won't cheer for me when I get my diploma.

He isn't including himself in the rest of my life. He isn't coming back. Ever.

Why didn't I get that sooner?

All the hurt I've been holding dissipates, like a ghost in sun- light. Something dark replaces it-a black tidal wave of anger.

How could Loren dare say he loves me? You can't walk away from someone you love, leave them drowning in your desertion.

If love has no more meaning than that, you can keep it.

I don't want it now or ever again. Don't want to hear the word or wear its scars.

I'll go back to the farm, to fields rich with hope.

Go back to my books, prep for finals. I'll celebrate leaving high school. And then what?

Suddenly I'm Thirsty And not for water or soda.

What's calling is a stiff shot of good ol' Kentucky bourbon. Maybe Loren left a little behind. I go to the kitchen, half-hopeful.

But the cupboards, like the closet, are not only empty but spotless. That's Loren, okay. OCD clean.

h.e.l.l, I need to get out of here anyway. I'll go down- town, find a way into Fringe.

I remember Loren saying, All you need is a sponsor.

So I'll go find a sponsor.

Some old v.i.a.g.r.a-stiff queen, hopeful that buying a drink means buying a lay.

They were thick as flies last time Loren and I went to Fringe. And hey, if I find one, he can think whatever he likes. Wanting and getting are two different things.

Sunday, Late Afternoon The sidewalks aren't especially crowded. I don't want to look like I'm anxious for a date, so I hang out a half block from Fringe, trying to find the b.a.l.l.s to go up to some strange, lone, obviously gay older dude and ask if he'd like to sponsor me past the familiar bouncer at Fringe's front door. And what will that guy think? And why do I care about that anyway?

Just as I'm sure I should give up on this idea, an attractive man, maybe fifty, gives me exactly the right kind of smile- interested but also hesitant, as if he's not positive why I'm checking him out. Yes, I think this one might just do.

The Smile I return leaves zero room for misinterpretation. Where did I learn to be such a flirt? This is a whole new side of the not-so-static me.

Wonder if it's business as usual for the guy, who on further inspection may be a few years beyond fifty.

Still, he's not bad-looking, very well dressed. Familiar.

I've seen him before. Here?

I can barely make out his face. ...

Yes, here. Oh, I remember.

The guy who stormed off, leaving the younger guy to follow him out the door.

He's a regular, then. He'll know what I mean. I smile, and he takes that in stride, doesn't flinch or look away.

I'll take that as an invitation.

I walk right up to him, hoping he likes the straight- forward approach. "Hi. I'm Seth.

I was hoping to get into Fringe."

His eyes, an odd, almost clear blue, travel my body, starting around thigh level. Finally they lock onto my own eyes.

Pleased to meet you, Seth.

I'm Carl. And I happen to be heading there myself.

I imagine you're in need of an escort. Care to join me?

Escort?

Seems to me I'm the one escorting him, at least in the cla.s.sic sense of the word.

I guess he's using it in place of "sponsor." Sounds less like Alcoholics Anonymous, but more like Rent-a-Guy.

Whatever. I've got my ticket inside. "Thanks, Carl.

I appreciate the invitation."

I fall in a step or two behind him, note how well his pricey clothing fits his slender body.

The security dude waves us right through the door, not even checking IDs. He recognizes both of us, and if he's surprised I'm with someone other than Loren, he hides it really well.

What I want now is whiskey.

Carl reads my mind, or maybe it's written all over my face.

The first drink is on me.

What's your pleasure?

Kentucky permeates his accent.

"I'll have a mint julep, please."