Square One Page 3

  When I finished, I found myself suddenly terrified that Glenn would find it silly. I couldn’t look at him, could hardly breathe until he said, “That’s remarkable, Noah. Truly remarkable. Nobody ever thinks about what the horse feels, but you did. You write very well.”

  Tears started rising, which puzzled me. I was happier than ever in my whole life, so why cry about it? That was such a baby thing. I turned from him, wiped away the single tear that got loose, and managed, “Thank you.”

  There was so much more I wanted to say but couldn’t. It was all there, piling up inside me like some flood caught against a dam, all about how it felt to make up people and stories, how I disappeared inside the words, but I kept silent. Glenn allowed me my quiet, and for this I was grateful. It was like he knew how much I wanted to tell him but couldn’t, not yet.

  “I appreciate your sharing the story, Noah,” he finally said. “I know how much it must mean to you. I hope you keep writing. Don’t ever let anyone stop you.”

  When my parents returned at eleven, I was in bed, though Glenn had let me stay up till ten-thirty, playing cards and talking.

  From then on, he was my life. A good day was seeing him. A better day was when he waved, and a fabulous day was when we spoke. I kept hoping my parents would go out again so he could babysit me, but my dad was away on business a lot so they usually stayed in when he was home.

  Desperate to see Glenn, I one time purposely broke the toilet handle while my dad was at work, knowing Mom would call Glenn. She did and he came right over, toolbox in hand. I acted as his assistant on the repair job, even rode to the hardware store with him where he bought parts because, by then, he was driving.

  My mother once asked him if he had a girlfriend and he politely said no, he hadn’t time. I was much relieved because that would have complicated things terribly. He was mine, after all.

  When puberty came calling and I discovered what my body could do, the pleasure it carried, I saw Glenn in a new light and spent hours masturbating to mental images of him naked, doing the same thing. But then he left for college and I was crushed. He took me out for a burger before he left and I ruined it by pouting through the meal, then going into a panic at having wasted the time with him.

  “I’ll miss you,” I wailed, tears falling.

  “And I’ll miss you, Noah. Keep writing, no matter what. You’ve got real talent.”

  “Will you come home to visit?”

  “It’s a long way, but I’ll try.”

  “What about summers?”

  “We’ll see.”

  He’d embraced me at my door, and I held that embrace for years after because he never came back. I heard he worked summers in Oregon. What I did to survive was keep the Glenn I knew to myself, the handsome, rugged redhead. And when I took up with men in college, I always went for redheads who invariably disappointed me. Now he was right up the street. What was I to do? I hadn’t seen him in twenty-four years and he was living in that awful smoky house. I couldn’t imagine how to approach him.

  * * * *

  The good part of having a house to furnish was it kept my mind off Glenn. I withdrew a chunk of my inheritance and set about buying nearly everything, some from stores, some online. Necessities first: fridge, washer and dryer, bed, dresser, sofa, chairs, TV. After this came secondary things: desk, chair, and shelves for the bedroom that would become my study, rugs, dishes, silverware. Art for the walls, plants, accessories, pillows, bedding. I didn’t hurry the process, I enjoyed it, and every time I replaced something Reece had given me, I gained another pound of strength.

  Nights proved to be more of a challenge. TV helped, and I thought about trying to write, but my thoughts were far from coherent. When I tried to invent a character, I found myself housing a jumble or else empty. This unnerved me, even though I knew creativity would, when I was ready, come and get me.

  Reece came to mind in quiet moments, mostly thinking how surprised friends would be by my absence and Tracy’s presence. Eight years don’t just vanish, even with the evidence walking around naked. Then again, transience ran through the crowd. We’d never known if two guys we thought a couple would show up together. Most of the time, I chased away thoughts of Reece, but ultimately found it tiring to keep him in check. I finally decided it was okay to let him remain in mind until he faded on his own, which I knew would eventually happen.

  It began to amuse me that I could picture him romping naked with Tracy and I began to feel less and less pain until it disappeared entirely. The fact that I had a new beginning helped, as did knowing Glenn Wager was just up the street.

  One loss, though, was regular sex. Reece and I had scarcely missed a day, and now here I was, going without. Keeping busy helped, until I learned about Glenn. I then began to satisfy myself with thoughts of the Glenn I’d last seen, the eighteen-year-old I loved.

  At first, I indulged only when driven to gain relief, but as days passed and the house became decorated as I liked, restlessness set in and some mornings, when I woke erect, I took time with it, imagining it was Glenn’s hand on me. I’d come big time, then clean up, eat breakfast naked, then stretch out in bed for another go. Sometimes I indulged all day, pushing myself—pushing Glenn?—toward yet another round. If only he knew.

  It was strange to know nobody on the street but Mrs. Springer, and Glenn, of course. I told myself to reach out to the newer people, the Worthingtons and Martins, but screaming toddlers and double-wide strollers put me off.

  My front yard had been changed from lawn to hardscape by my parents: rock, bark, drought tolerant plants on an efficient drip watering system, while the back was relative chaos. Mature plants had run rampant, the lawn was dead, and the oak tree needed pruning. Sitting on the patio one day, I decided reclaiming it would be my project. And I’d get Glenn to help.

  Soon as I considered the idea, I discarded it. Maybe he wasn’t a physical-labor guy anymore. Maybe he no longer wanted to fix things. He’d had a job in Seattle, but what kind?

  I took Mrs. Springer a plate of lemon squares, deciding to pump her for information.

  Seated at her kitchen table, I began by asking about the new families, and received detailed summaries of jobs, colleges, children’s names, and even allergies. One thing that hadn’t changed was Ellen Springer’s ability to get people to open up.

  “And what about Glenn?” I asked as offhandedly as possible. “You said he’d been in Seattle. Was he married?” I’d never considered this, my feelings for him so strong that him not being gay was incomprehensible.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Springer.

  I nodded, trying not to show relief. “What kind of work did he do?”

  She stopped chewing her lemon square as if engaging her memory required all her faculties. “Let’s see…he worked for that big company that’s based there, oh, you know, the one everybody does…except me.” She laughed, and when I shrugged, she insisted. “I know you know. Online, the big one.”

  “Amazon?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Amazon. Norma said he’d been there for years.”

  “How about that,” I said as an image of Glenn in a charcoal suit flashed to mind. Black patterned tie with a hint of blue, his shirt a rich blue. I saw him in a meeting, holding forth, others nodding at his brilliant ideas because I knew he’d be brilliant. He had to be.

  “Norma felt bad that he had to give that up,” Mrs. Springer said. “He told her over and over it was okay, that he needed a change anyway and was happy to be back in Arroyo, but she never believed it. He was good to her, took her to the doctor, helped her with everything, even bathing near the end.”

  “I admire his devotion.”

  “Oh, I do, too. When I’d stop over, he’d be so welcoming, and if Norma was able, he’d bring her out to the living room and serve us tea, then disappear so we could visit. And he kept the place up, cleaning, watering the garden, weeding. I’ve no idea how he’s doing now, though. Whenever I’ve rung the bell, he hasn’t answered, b
ut it doesn’t worry me. He’s grieving and needs time. I know he’s okay because I do see him drive by now and then, probably to the store.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Oh, mercy, I have no idea, but it’s blue. Deep blue.”

  I found myself storing up his details and wondering how to approach him. I started taking evening walks, going up the street and back down before heading to town. At his house, I’d pause, thinking maybe he’d notice me out there, recognize me and call out, but he never did.

  His front yard had been let go. Needles from his redwood trees were thick on the stone steps, and shrubs were in their death throes. I could water for him, I thought. Sweep and weed. Whatever he needed, but what did he need? I didn’t know the man. Only the boy.

  * * * *

  One day, I walked up the street and saw his garage door open. Inside sat a blue Lexus. It was unwashed, back window nearly obscured. I wondered if the house was let go like that. Had he been out to the store or was he maybe planning to go, opening the garage door, then failing to continue? I wanted to stake him out, but there was no place to hide that wouldn’t be suspect by the neighbors.

  I took the open door as a sign. I was being told it was okay to call on him, and I seized this and began to plan my next move. Simple, really, ring the bell or knock. Recalling Mrs. Springer’s not getting a response made me fear the same, and I didn’t want that. Rejection in any form would be intolerable.

  In the shower that night, I worked my soapy dick to visions of the man I envisioned: hairy-chested and big-dicked. The image did me well, and I let go a big load while picturing him behind me, ready to enter.

  * * * *

  Next morning, I began the day with a repeat, then showered again, deciding under the warm spray that today was the day.

  “Enough jerking around,” I declared.

  In July, with days heating up, San Francisco’s cool summer fog stayed west of the Berkeley Hills so the East Bay—as our area was known—could get temperatures in the hundreds. Eighties were common, nineties often enough, all of it the same dry heat that engulfed California in its entirety. I took time dressing, finally deciding on khaki shorts and orange tee. As I slipped on sandals, I wondered what to say to Glenn.

  When I rang the bell and got no answer, I knocked, and when that went unheeded, I began to pound, calling, “Glenn, It’s Noah, Noah Dahl.”

  When the door swung open, it did so with a near-violent yank. “What?” he demanded, looking at me like I was some Bible-toting evangelical looking to convert him.

  “Glenn,” I said in a soft voice, “it’s Noah from down the street, Noah Dahl, remember?”

  He looked in poor shape, clad in just cutoff jeans, his beard full and untended, hair wild, and what I could see of his face gaunt. I tried to recall if his eyes had always been that shade of pale blue. His chest was as anticipated, broad and furry, but his collar bones were prominent and the shorts hung loose on his hips. He also smelled awful.

  “Noah?” I said again. “I’ve come home.”

  “Noah,” he repeated, voice flat. He didn’t invite me in. He just turned and walked back into the room, leaving me to follow.

  The place reeked of smoke. I glanced around and saw no ash trays, but no open windows either. It was in the furnishings, the drapes, maybe even the walls. I followed him into the kitchen, where he took two Cokes from the fridge, handed me one, then went out the back door.

  The patio stretched the entire width of the ranch house. About fifteen feet deep, it lay below the steep hillside, a low concrete wall keeping things in check. Just above the wall, and below a tangle of ivy, grew a wisteria that, lacking anything to climb on, had spread itself along the wall. Purple flowers persisted, creating a beautiful spilling effect. I noted a coiled garden hose nearby. This part he was keeping up.

  Lawn chairs were placed at random, one beside a small table full of books. Here Glenn sat, saying nothing. I pulled up a chair, enjoying his proximity. Then at last I began.

  “Do you remember me?” I asked.

  “Of course. Down on the corner. Wayne and Ellen’s boy.”

  “Wayne and Sylvia’s boy. Ellen is Mrs. Springer, next door.”

  He considered this. “Right.”

  “Mrs. Springer told me your mother recently died. I’m so sorry.”

  He blew out a sigh, so I went no further on that topic.

  “I like your wisteria. Usually they’re up high. This is cool.”

  He glanced at it like he hadn’t noticed it before. “I guess.”

  “Glenn, are you all right?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Do you ever get out of here?”

  “I’m out.” He raised his arms to indicate the patio. “I sleep out here.” With a nod, he indicated a cot near the patio’s end.

  “Don’t the raccoons bother you?”

  “They come around sometimes, but move on. Nothing here for them.”

  Disappointment rang in me and I had to work at keeping it in check. I don’t know what I expected of him, but this wasn’t it. “You were the first person to read my writing. Remember? I was nine. You babysat me and I shared the world I’d created. Remember? Tween?”

  “I remember.”

  “I’m still writing. I’ve been in Hollywood writing screenplays for Reece Landreth the last eight years.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  A laugh escaped me because I’d never considered somebody not knowing about Reece. He’d hate that, always thinking himself larger than life. “He’s an actor. Been around for years, has done about twenty films.” Here I stopped myself because I saw I was in some way defending Reece.

  Glenn simply nodded.

  I thought he’d ask why I’d come home, but he didn’t, and I felt asking more of him would be an intrusion, so I stood, drained my Coke, and made ready to leave.

  “It’s good seeing you, Glenn,” I said, offering my hand.

  He took it, gave me a shake, nodded. “Good to see you.”

  I started to go back inside, but he directed me to a path at the end of the patio. It wound along the hill, and as we reached it, I wondered if he was ashamed of the smoky house. I took a couple steps down the path, then turned back to him. “How about we do dinner one night? We can do fancy or not—McDonald’s, if you want.”

  “Jack-in-the-Box.” He smiled as he said this, and it set everything right.

  “Tomorrow night? Six?”

  “Okay.”

  Walking down the street, I couldn’t believe that ten minutes before I’d felt disappointed. Recovery had been so easy. I had a date with him.

  That evening, I had to tell myself over and over that I’d been wrong to expect Glenn to be what he’d been long ago. He’d suffered a loss way beyond mine, been captive to a slow death. All I had was a breakup. I had to be content with his presence, which I reminded myself was as an equal.

  Time, of course, slowed to a crawl. Knowing we were going out, even for fast food, gave me something new for a change. Suddenly my situation had meaning, though I realized it unfair to pin that much on a clearly damaged man. But I couldn’t help it.

  * * * *

  The next day, I spent too much time deciding what to wear.

  I worked at looking casual. I changed clothes so often I lost count of how many times because I didn’t want him to know the little kid was still inside the grown man.

  I wondered what he’d wear. Would the smoky smell cling to him? Would he notice that he smelled bad and do something about it, or had he been defeated by what he’d endured, his mother’s death taking part of him with her?

  At ten of six, my doorbell rang, and there he was. I’d anticipated going up the hill to fetch him, maybe finding he’d forgotten the date, but no, here he stood on my doorstep.

  He’d cut his beard close, obviously showered, washed and combed his hair. He resembled Prince Harry. He wore a royal blue long-sleeved shirt and khakis, still smelling of smoke.

  �
��Hi,” I said too loudly.

  “Hi,” he replied. “I’m early.”

  “Fine with me. Do you want to walk or take my car?” Jack-in-the-Box was about a mile from my house. “We can drive, get the food, bring it back here and eat on the patio, or we can walk and eat there.”

  “Drive.”

  The car seemed to surprise him. “It’s a Triumph,” I told him. “I love hot little cars.”

  He smiled and got in. Soon, we were tooling down the street, and I was back to the twelve-year-old dancing inside at being on a date with Glenn Wager.

  At Jack-in-the-Box, we both got sourdough Jacks, fries, and a Coke, which made us laugh. “Too funny we both like the same meal,” I said.

  “It’s a good one.”

  As we waited for our order, he seemed entertained by other people. He watched a small boy escape his mother’s table and go begging at another, and he craned his head to follow an elderly man out the door, take-out bag in one hand, cane in the other.

  Once we had the food, we drove home and set up on my patio. He took a long look at the back yard, gazing at the old oak tree, then set about eating.

  We got about halfway through the meal in silence before I jumped in. “Mrs. Springer told me you worked for Amazon in Seattle.”

  “Nothing gets by her. I did. Eleven years, but I was leaving. Going over to a startup, then all this happened.”

  “Do you think you’ll stay down here?” I asked because I needed to know his intentions, needed to know if I’d be losing him as fast as I’d gained him. I knew I was being the child, trying to capture the crush, but didn’t care. I needed to know.

  “No idea.”

  He busied himself eating, looking at the food instead of me, so I let it go.