Date: Wed, 27 Aug 2008 10:30:08 -0400
From: ronyx <ronyx@woh.rr.com>
Subject: A Bridge to Yesterday   Chapter 1

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities to anyone are purely
coincidental. The story is intended for a mature audience. It may contain
profanity and references to gay sex. If this offends you, please leave and
find something more suitable to read. The author maintains all rights to
the story. Do not copy or use without written permission. Write Ron at
ronyx@themustardjar.com with your comments. Ronyx is a Nifty prolific
writer.

The following story is a sequel to my story, Brittle as a Bird, which can
be found in the high school section. It can also be read at my website:
www.themustardjar.com



A Bridge to Yesterday      Chapter 1



Jesus, how did I get into this mess? Another hotel bar in another lonely
city.

"Another drink, Buddy?" I look up from the empty gin glass I'd been holding
in my hand.

"Sure," I say bemusedly. "Why not?"

"Yeah," he says likes he's probably said it thousands of times to thousands
of empty souls, "Why not." He reaches behind him and pulls down a half
empty bottle of Beefeater.

"On the rocks?" He asks.

"Straight up," I respond. He pours it and pushes the glass to me. I look at
the clear liquid, hold up my glass to him, and then swallow it. I cough
slightly as it stings the back of my throat.

He watches me and then refills my glass. "Bad day?"

"Bad life," I respond. I again hold up the glass and move it toward my
lips. He grabs my hand and pulls it away.

"Slow down, "he says. "Don't you think you've had enough, Buddy?"

"Not yet," I say with melancholy. "I still have memories." I wince as the
gin makes its way to my stomach.

"Forget it, Man. You can't cross a bridge to yesterday." He offers his
words as a man who has dealt with his share of lonely drunks.

"Nope," I say as I push the glass towards him for more. He pours another
drink, but this time only fills the glass half way. I hold it up and salute
his wisdom. "You can't cross a bridge to yesterday." Again, the gin stings
going down.

I pay the tab and then head back to my hotel room. Several people stop and
ask me if I am alright as I stagger back to my room. I look at them blankly
before moving on. Their reaction is always the same. They shake their head,
click their tongue and whisper under their breath, "Filthy drunk," as they
walk away.

It is always a race to the toilet. Sometimes I win, sometimes the floor
wins. After kneeling in front of my porcelain friend for several minutes, I
undress and fall into the cold and lonely bed.

"Gene Albright," I admonish myself. "You've got to pull yourself together."
I fight a drunken sleep as I try to give myself reasons to wake up and face
another day. This time sober. But in the end, before sleep overcomes me, I
know I'll be sitting again tomorrow in another hotel bar in another lonely
city.

In the distance I can hear a phone ringing, but I don't know if it's the
one beside my bed or some adjacent room. Unsure, I pick up the receiver to
the black phone next to my bed.

"Hello? Who is it?" My words are thick and slurred.

"Have you been drinking again?" I can hear the disappointment in her
voice. A million times I've promised I'd stop drinking, and a million times
I've broken that promise.

"Who me?" I laugh nervously. I know I'm hurting her, but I can't help
myself. My hurt is more overwhelming, and drinking lessens it- at least
temporarily.

"You promised me, Gene." As her voice cracks on the other end of the phone,
tears begin to fall down my face.

"I'm sorry, Honey," I weep into the phone. I place the phone back on the
receiver before I slip into another drunken slumber.

However, sleep is only temporary. Damn nightmares. I lurch forward gasping
for air. I look at the clock. It is 4:21.

It's always the same dream. I'm running and I can't stop. I start off
quickly, but then end like I'm in a slow motion picture. I'm running, and
running. Darkness surrounds me. I have no idea where I'm going or where
I've been. I'm running into the darkness, or away from it. I've never been
able to decide.

With my body wet with sweat, I crawl out of bed and head to the bathroom. I
turn on the shower, remove my underwear and get under the cold water from
the shower. It soothes me and awakens me from my drunkenness.

The chilling water flows over my body as I lean my head back and wipe it
across my face. I take the soap and lather my muscled torso. At thirty
eight, I'm proud of my physique. I'll never understand how it hasn't been
destroyed by years of alcoholism. But since high school, I've worked out
regularly. But as I get older, those visits to the hotel gyms are becoming
less frequent. However, right now I'm able to maintain a nice build.

Once out of the shower, I look at the chiseled face in the mirror. My hair
is still blond and my eyes are a bright blue, that is when they are not
reddened from the gin. I stand and stare into the mirror. I smile weakly,
but even I can see the sadness behind it. It's always there. Not the smile,
the sadness. It's been a long time since I've smiled.

Don't misunderstand me. I smile a lot. But the smiles are for others to
see. They are outward smiles that I share easily. The smile I give to Tina
when I return home from a week's journey on the road. A smile to the
coworker who praises me for another big sale. A smile to a client who
appreciates my ability to close a sale. And the smile to the friendly
bartender who fills my glass with gin.

But where is my smile? The one I reserve for myself. That smile disappeared
years ago. It's buried somewhere in my yesterday, never to be resurrected
again. I blew my one chance for happiness years ago, and I've resigned
myself to a life of sadness and disappointment.

One word. That's all it would have taken. If I had only walked up to him
and spoken. It would have made all the difference in my life. But I was
afraid. My father had made sure of that. I saw what he did to my
brother. If I had spoken to him, then I would have had to admit something
to myself. But now it's hidden, and like Pandora's Box it can't be
opened. I opened it once, and it almost ruined my life. It's seal tightly
and kept in a secret place. The only problem is- that secret place is my
heart. And it's killing me to keep it hidden there. No amount of gin can
keep it from emerging from its concealed compartment.

****************

"Hi, Honey." Tina walked from the kitchen to greet me in the foyer when she
saw my gray Mercedes pull into the driveway.

"Hi, Dear." I gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She forced a small
smile, turned and walked back into the kitchen. I placed my luggage on the
marble floor and walked over to the bar in the den. I reached for the gin
and began to pour a drink.

"Isn't it a little early to start drinking?" Tina stood in the doorway
looking disappointed- as usual. I looked at the clock on the wall. 10:47.

"Are you going to start again?" I shouted. Her bottom lip began to
quiver. She turned and headed back toward the kitchen.

"You promised," she whispered barely audibly. I emptied the liquor into the
bar sink and headed into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "It's been a long week."

"That's always your excuse." She turned and looked at me with tearful eyes.

Tina is a beautiful woman. She has long auburn hair that she keeps cut
short and feathered back very stylishly. Her green eyes, now moist with
tears, accentuated her flawless complexion.

We had met my sophomore year in college. I was a running back on the
football team and she was a cheerleader. She told me that she fell in love
with me the moment she laid eyes on me. She unashamedly pursued me. It
became a joke in the locker room of the amorous attention she doted on me.

At first I tried to dissuade her advances, but then other team members
began to become suspicious of my attempts to avoid her. After several
months of being pursued, I became the captured insect within the Venus
flytrap. It is there I have resided for the past eighteen years.

I've tried several times over the years to walk away, but I can never find
a reason to justify such an escape. Tina is the perfect wife. She's
beautiful, smart and loyal. I have no doubt of her love for me. I just wish
I didn't doubt my love for her.

Actually, there is no doubt. I don't love her. I don't think I ever really
have. I care about her deeply. That's why I've stayed around for eighteen
years. But love her? Unfortunately, not.

We stopped being intimate two years ago. I developed severe bronchitis and
coughed constantly. Instead of keeping her awake at night, it was decided
that I should move sleep in the guest bedroom for a few weeks until I
recovered. Weeks turned into months, and now into years. Tina has begged me
to return to the master bedroom, but I always find excuses. At first she
used to creep into my room and curl up in bed beside me. On several
occasions she'd fondle me, trying to arouse me, but I'd always turn over
and lay on my stomach. Finally, she gave up. She no longer enters my room.

I really don't know why she stays with me. If she had treated me the way
I've treated her, I'd have been gone a long time ago. However, she loves
me. I know that. And it makes me feel all the more like a piece of
shit. But how do I tell her that I find making love to her repulsive. For
the last year we did have sex, I'd always imagine it was him I was making
love to. When I'd close my eyes and kiss Tina, it was his lips I'd
remember. The soft, gentle lips I kissed twenty years ago on that farmhouse
porch. Then I'd open my eyes and realize that it was all wrong. So we don't
make love anymore.

"How was your trip?" Tina walked into the den and sat down beside me. She
reached over and gently stroked my arm. I smiled, and then turned my head
and rested it on the back of the sofa.

"Like the last trip, and the one before that." I sighed.

What was there to share? I'd been working for the same pharmaceutical
company since I graduated from college. I was a district manager, and I
traveled extensively. I was in charge of distribution to most of the major
hospitals west of the Mississippi River. Drug research was a very
profitable and ever-changing business. New drugs were becoming available
almost weekly, and it was my job to secure lucrative contracts with major
institutions. I was compensated handsomely, and we lived a very luxurious
lifestyle.

We lived in an estate development in Southern California amid multimillion
dollar homes, although ours was small by comparison. We purchased it ten
years ago for half a million dollars. It was now valued at four times
that. It contained four bedrooms, a pool and half an acre of landscaped
grounds. Because of my travels, we had caretakers overseeing most of the
work.

Tina was also a very successful attorney with a partnership in a law
firm. Unlike me, she worked a nine to five job. She spent a lot of time at
home- alone. She'd been after me since we married to have a family. She
strongly wanted children before she was too old to bear them.

Having children was one of the things that terrified me. I didn't feel it
was right to bring children into a loveless marriage. I knew if we did have
a family, I would have to assume more responsibility. It would then become
impossible for me to deal with. I knew that some day there was a
possibility that Pandora's Box might be opened, and I didn't want innocent
children to have to bear the burden of what I myself couldn't bear.

"What's wrong?" Tina looked over worriedly at me as she raised her hand and
ran it over my closely cut blond hair. I stood and walked over to the bar
and reached for a bottle of bourbon.

"Do you have to drink right now?" Tina asked. "Can't we talk?"

"Talk about what?" I turned and shouted. "Are you going to bring up the
subject of children again?" The expression on her face turned from concern
to hurt. I watched as tears welled up in her eyes.

"Damn it!" I shouted. I turned and headed for the front door. I heard Tina
call out my name as I slammed the door shut and rushed to my car.

*********************

"Your ten o'clock appointment is here, Dr. Carpenter." My secretary was
standing in the doorway with a small woman standing behind her.

"Thank you, Delores," I said appreciatively. "Show Mrs. Dawson and Crystal
in." The woman walked into my office and timidly took a seat. A rather
large girl angrily entered and plopped into a seat in the corner. She
crossed her arms defensively and gave me a penetrating stare.

"Thank you, Mrs. Dawson for coming in," I said. "Do you understand what I
told you yesterday on the phone?"

"I didn't call Mrs. Ross a bitch!" Crystal shouted out. "And if I did, it's
only because she is one!"

"Crystal!" Mrs. Dawson rose and approached her daughter. "You will not talk
like that!"

The girl crumbled into the seat and began to cry. "No one listens to me,"
she sobbed.

I let out a sigh. Another day at work; or in this case, at school. As
principal of Southwestern High School, my old alma mater, it was just
another challenge I had to face. Another misunderstood teenager screaming
for attention. Now in my second year as principal, I had dealt with
numerous cases like this.

"Mrs. Dawson, may I speak to Crystal alone for a minute?" I got up and took
the woman's arm and led her from my office. I then pulled up a chair and
sat before the emotional girl.

"Everyone hates me, Dr. Carpenter," the girl wailed. I held out my arms and
she collapsed into them. For the next few minutes she cried as I comforted
her. She then sat up and wiped the tears from her face. We spent the next
fifteen minutes talking about her feelings.

"I guess you're going to suspend me?" Crystal asked as she hung her head
dejectedly.

"Can you think of an alternative?" I asked. She thought for a minute before
responding.

"I guess I should first apologize to Mrs. Ross," she offered.

"And?" I asked. She thought another minute.

"Apologize to my mother?" A puzzled look came over her face. She could tell
by my expression that I was waiting for a proper answer.

"And?" A blank look filled her face. Suddenly, her face lit up when she
realized the answer.

"Community Service?"

"Bingo," I smiled. Students knew that service to others was important to
me. I generally preferred it over suspensions or detentions. "How would you
like to do it?"

"Can I volunteer to help Mrs. Ross after school for a week?" She asked.

"I think that's an excellent idea," I agreed. "I'm going to leave and ask
your mother to step in. I think you owe her an apology." I left and watched
as Mrs. Dawson entered my office and closed the door. Several minutes later
they emerged, arm in arm, with tears in their eyes. They waved to me as
they left the office.

"I don't know how you always manage to do it, Dr. Carpenter," said Delores
admiringly. "You're like a miracle worker."

"Not a miracle worker," I responded. "Just someone who believes in the good
nature of people." I headed out of the office and walked through the quiet
corridors in search of students who had decided to cut classes.

I loved my job. It had been a difficult decision for me to leave the
classroom five years ago and pursue my doctorate degree in
education. Ticker and Star had been instrumental in making that
decision. They kept insisting that I could do more good as a principal than
I could as a teacher. They convinced me that I would have the opportunity
to touch more lives. Until I assumed my current position last year, I never
believed that it could have been true.

The bell rang and students emerged from the classrooms. Suddenly, I was
surrounded by hundreds of students pushing their way to their next class.

"Hey, Doc!" Douglas Campbell, senior class president, raised his hand in a
high five. I slapped his hand and he walked off laughing. Two freshmen came
tearing down the hall chasing each other and trying to knock the other to
the ground.

"Powers and Grisholm!" I shouted loudly. "Get your butts over here and give
me twenty five." Students started laughing as the two young men timidly
approached me and began doing push-ups. When they finished, they started
walking quickly to class so as not to be late. "And don't run in the halls
again. Next time it will be fifty."

"Yes, Sir!" They turned and shouted in unison. I laughed when I saw them
begin running to class as soon as they turned the corner and thought they
were out of my view.

I went back to my office, sat in my chair and closed my eyes. I was in need
of a little 'me' time. I tried to get it whenever I could, but it was not
often. I had been resting only a few minutes when I heard a tap on the
door. I looked up and Delores was looking sheepishly at me.

"Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Carpenter," she apologized, "but Nicky is on
line two."

"Thank you, Delores," I sighed. I reached over and picked up the phone.

"Dad!" shouted Nicky into the phone. "Can I go over to Xavier's after
school? Please?" A smile crept on my face.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class?" I admonished him.

"I asked Mr. Holland if I could go to the restroom." He explained, as only
a thirteen year old boy could rationalize the urgency of the situation.

"You got permission to go to the restroom just so you could call me and ask
if you could go to Xavier's after school?"

"Yeah," he said excitedly. "Can I, Dad?" Again, I smiled.

"Do you have any homework?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"How do I know," he said. "It's only second period."

"And you should be in class."

"Can I, Dad? Please?" He begged. "He's got a new video game and he's
challenging me to play him. I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important."

"You have to do dishes for a week, and .." I said.

"Thanks, Dad!" He hung up before I could finish. I shook my head as I hung
up the phone.

That was Nicholas James Kennedy, Nicky, as he likes to be called. Two years
ago I came into possession of this bundle of energy, quite by
accident. Nicky is thirteen- going on thirty. He's a typical teenager going
through puberty. His voice cracks at the most inopportune times, like when
he's trying to talk to a friend on the phone. He stands in front of the
mirror, looking for the first hairs over his lip to appear.

He's a handsome, young man, standing about 5'6" and 130 pounds. He has
shaggy, long brown hair. We are constantly arguing about the length. He has
dark brown eyes, which twinkle when he's excited. And he gets excited
often.

Nicky came into my life when I was working on my doctorate degree. I had
taken a sabbatical from teaching, and to make ends meet I was working on
weekends at a health center on the west side of town.

Around midnight one night, a frail young woman entered right before closing
with a small boy in tow. I immediately recognized her as a crack addict and
prostitute who turned tricks in the neighborhood. The boy was crying, and
upon a closer look, his body was filled with cuts and bruises. As we
attended to his injuries, his mother disappeared through a back door.

We summoned an ambulance and the boy, who I later came to know as Nicky,
was taken to the hospital. He clutched desperately to me and refused to go
with the medics unless I was permitted to go with him. At the hospital, it
was determined that he had been battered and physically abused. The police
were summoned and he was able to make a statement. A boyfriend of his
mother had been hitting him for the past three month when his mother was
out on the streets late at night. On this particular night, he had tried to
fight off the man and was severely beaten. His mother came home in time to
prevent serious injury and then she brought him to the center.

Four days later, while he was still recovering in the hospital, his mother
was found dead in an alley from a drug overdose. Unable to find any next of
kin, it was determined that Nicky would be placed in the custody of the
state, and then put into foster care. It broke my heart when they told him
the news. He grabbed me and cried uncontrollably. The next day I contacted
an attorney. Two days later, I became Nicky's foster father. I cried that
first night he came to stay with me and asked if he could call me 'Dad.'

Four months ago he asked me if I would adopt him. He said he wanted his
name to be Nicholas Carpenter. I contacted my attorney and we immediately
began the process. I was afraid that being gay might prevent me from
adopting Nicky, but my attorney assures me that there is nothing to worry
about. I've gone through extensive interviews, as has Nicky. If all goes
well, he'll be Nicholas Carpenter in a few weeks.

We had a long talk the night he asked me to adopt him. He had seen pictures
of Allen in my bedroom, but we had never sat down and talked about him. I
took him into my room and opened a large scrapbook I had put together over
the years. That night I told him I was gay, and I told him about the loving
relationship I had shared with Allen. Before it was over, we were both
holding each other tightly and crying.

I wanted him to know about my past so nothing would be disclosed during the
adoption hearings that would be uncomfortable for him to hear. When I asked
him if he still wanted to be my son, he grabbed me tightly and told me I
would always be his dad.

"Hey, Dad!" Nicky came bounding into the kitchen with his usual teenage
exuberance. "What's for dinner? I'm famished!" He walked over and lifted
the lid to the pot on the stove.

"Mmmm." He gave his approval to the spaghetti boiling on the stove. He then
walked over and hugged me. He stepped back and frowned when I ruffled his
hair.

"Aw, Man!" He moaned. "Now I have to brush my hair again."

"Well, if you'd ."

"I'm not getting a haircut!" He shouted. I started laughing. Honestly, I
liked his hair long. I found it amusing to walk past his bathroom and watch
him carefully brushing it and pushing it away from his eyes. However, I'd
never tell him that.

"Who won the video game?" By the frown on his face, I knew the answer
before he told me.

"Xavier's a cheater," he replied angrily. "He told me he'd never played it
before, but his sister told me later he'd been practicing all week. He
kicked my ass." His eyes widened and he grabbed his mouth. He knew I didn't
approve of foul language in the house.

"I'm sorry, Dad." He gasped. "That slipped out."

"Turn around."

"Why?" He asked as he slowly turned, keeping a careful eye on me. He
squealed when I lifted my foot and kicked him in his butt.

"I wanted to kick your ass for cussing in the house." He started laughing
before running out of the kitchen. A few minutes later I heard the shower
running upstairs.

"Dinner's ready!" I shouted about twenty minutes later. Within seconds
later he came bounding down the stairs, two at a time.

Dinner was our time together. School took up a lot of my time, and I often
had to return in the evenings for meetings and sporting events, but I
always made sure I was home so that we could eat together.

Most of our conversation was spent on his activities in school. I'd
question him on his teachers, what he was learning, and homework he had
brought home. Many times he'd bring his books to the table and begin his
homework as soon as we finished eating. We'd sit together and I'd help him
if he needed my assistance.

Nicky was extremely intelligent. He had been identified with learning
disabilities in the third grade, but most of it had to do with his home
life. Because of his mother's nocturnal activities, he was unable to sleep
more than a few hours each night. As a result, he often was too tired to
pay attention in class.

Once he was out of that environment, he began to blossom into a bright,
intelligent boy. Each day he reminded me more and more of myself when I was
in school. My proudest moment was when he was inducted into the Junior
National Honor Society earlier in the year.

I was putting the dishes in the sink when he announced, "I'm going to my
room and play my guitar for awhile." As smart as he was, he wasn't
musically inclined, however. Many nights I was happy to return to school,
rather than listen to him strumming off-key most of the time as he
practiced. After a year of practicing, his musical talent hadn't improved.

"Wait a minute, Mister." He stopped dead on his heels and turned.

"What?" I handed him the dish towel.

"Remember." I said gruffly. "Dishes for a week. That was the deal."

"You gonna hold me to that?" He asked incredulously. "I thought you were
just kidding."

I gave him a stern look. "Does this look like I am kidding?" I couldn't
contain a smile when he made a stupid face.

"Yep," he laughed as he threw the towel back at me and ran from the room.

"Kids," I huffed as I turned and started drying the dishes in the sink.

****************

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Send comments to: ronyx@themustardjar.com