Date: Mon, 03 Jul 2000 11:42:27 EDT
From: Scotty T <thepoetboy@hotmail.com>
Subject: Lance-In-Shining-Armour-43.txt

I know the story has been finished for a long time now, and I know I
promised there would be no sequel.  This isn't a sequel.  This is a drawing
together of characters and events into a tighter conclusion than I had
given you before.

I still love how Lance In Shining Armour ended, and the story is still a
large part of my life.  I just felt there was a bit more to tell and it
took months for me to find what else there was to say.

And, for that something else, I have Mirrors to thank.  It's brought me
back to the character of Lance, and it felt like revisiting an old friend.
So I dug up one of the drafts I'd done for a sequel to LISA back in
February, and edited it into this.

So, here it is - our Epilogue.  The narration is very different, because
it's no longer David filtered through ScottyT - but it is from a character
you might remember, if you think back to when you first read Lance In
Shining Armour.

Thank you to everyone who has read, who has emailed, who has made this
story as important to me as it is.  I really appreciate it.  And special
thanks to Mike Ellis and the DLS for the editing time they put in on this,
and for their advice on whether or not it should even be posted. :)

On we go.

***

Lance In Shining Armour - Epilogue.




     Old houses have thin walls.  That's how they breathe.  In the dark the
human ears hear the creaks, the banging of the pipes, the wind as it finds
cracks and pushes its way in.  Houses always seem temporary, with all of
the pressures pushing back.  Wanting to burst through pipes.  Wanting to
wash the shingles smooth.  To open up the cracks and travel through,
banging the doors and shutters as it escapes out the other side.
     But tonight it's not the wind, or the pipes.  It's not the settling of
the old frame and rusted nails.  It's the voices, coming down through the
ceiling.  The whispered voices that sound like they're right beside you in
the darkness.


     "We could just get a hotel.  I can wake up the others and we can go."
     A moment of silence.  "No.  I don't want to leave here.  To ever leave
here."


     It's not the depth of that voice as much as the depth of it's sadness.


     "I don't think you're ready for this."
     "Just leave me alone, Josh.  I'll see you in the morning."


     It's not the quiet as much of the finalness in the closing of that
door.
     Josh has crept down the stairs.  He smiles at me in the dark and lies
down on the other couch.  He pulls the blanket up to his waist and listens.
I know he is staring at the ceiling, through it.  He's trying to find the
person in the bedroom above.

     His silence isn't directed at me.  I take no offence.  It's directed
upstairs, waiting to be needed.  There are a lot of silences like that in
the house.  All of them showed up like that, and have been like that all
evening.
     I breathe quietly, not wanting to interrupt them.  They know what
they're doing.  I'm the stranger here.  I don't belong.

     I listen for the wind, attentive.  I'm looking for voices in it, a
presence that manipulates silence.  Sleep is set aside as I quest to find
David, somewhere in his house, in the silence.  He'd be here, if he was
anywhere.  Upstairs, if he were here.

     I want to hear the deep voice, upstairs, talking to someone I can't
hear.


     Just one set of ears in a house full of listeners.

***

     There's a sound.  In the kitchen.

     Josh is asleep, finally exhausted.  I'm still not able to sleep, still
listening, but now there's a sound.  I slide out from under the blanket and
slip into the hall.  Lance is on the stairs and our eyes meet.
     He heard it too.  Together we creep towards the kitchen, silent as
smoke.

     I stare into the darkness.  Light from the window catches on the water
of the fish tank, and the ghostly white forms of the fish.  I reach for the
light switch but Lance catches my hand and shakes his head.  He steps into
the room and through the doorway.  I follow closely behind, my stocking
feet almost sliding on the cold kitchen floor.

     We find nothing.


     He sits on the piano bench with his head in his hands.  I sit beside
him.

***

     The sky is slowly getting lighter.  Lance is leaning back in the love
seat with his feet up.  I'm on the floor wrapped in my blanket.
     "You remind me of him," he says.
     I smile.  "Everyone says that."
     The corner of his lip sneaks upward.  His eyes are lost in dark
circles.
     "This is how we spent our last night here," he whispers.


     Nothing is expected from me.  Anything I say will be meaningless to
him, the same way nothing anyone can say would ever approach my pain.  I
feel like a small boat, cut loose on the ocean.
     Part of me wants to say, "You knew him for a few weeks.  I knew him
for years, he was my friend.  He was part of me."  But I don't.  They were
in love.  I loved David, but could never be in love.  I tasted it, but
never went under.


     Josh is standing in the doorway, in a t-shirt and plaid flannel
boxers.
  He's watching James.  I take it as a sign to leave, still the outsider.
Josh smiles at me as I pass.  The last few hours made up all of the sleep
time he's had since David died.  Four hours of sleep in three and a half
days.
     I'm jealous that he was there, and angry that David still died.


     Again I'm on the couch, and still I don't sleep.

***

     James closes his eyes.  For a moment he can believe that David is
beside him, that soon he'll be catching a flight to New York, and that in a
week David will be flying out to meet him.  In a week they'll be together
again.
     He knows that Josh is there, sitting on the piano bench and either
watching him or running his fingers over the keys.  He won't play though.
He wouldn't want to interrupt.
     And yet James knows that Josh is going through a lot of the same
things.  It isn't really comparable, but James has always known that Josh
had those feelings for David.  It has always been there, just as Josh's
feelings for James have always been there.  They are known, but hardly
acknowledged.


     What James wants is to be alone, to find himself without Josh behind
him all the time, or Chris and Joey holding themselves out of sight, but
close.  Only Justin gives him the space he needs.  Justin sleeps alone.  He
doesn't want to be around anyone, to see anyone.  His temper is likely to
strike out in any direction.

     "I don't have that luxury," James thinks.  "They need to see me strong
and .  . . coping."  He feels that they were all being so supportive that
if he fell, their own balances would crumble.  "I just want to be alone."
     And it doesn't help to have Dale there, one of David's closest
friends, with a personality that was as much like David's as was possible.
Even the way Dale plays with his watch when he is nervous, it's David.
     And every time Dale is in the room, James can hear David's voice
saying, "Call him Shawn Luke.  Shawn Luke Picard," and laughing.  Even
hidden under the newest name, David still knows him.


     It' like David has been internalised.  James hears him talking,
explaining the changes that had been made to the house since James was
there last, reminding James of who the visitors were, and how they related
to him.
     But it is a second rate copy.  The words are memories, not present
realities.

     James closes his eyes tighter as the sun finally comes through the
windows.

***

     Joey is the last one down for breakfast.  None of us expect to see
Justin; they'd explained it to me, how badly he was handling things, how
he'd shut himself away from everyone since it had happened.
     The only time I see Justin is when he comes downstairs to make sure
the door is locked.  He turns the lock, shakes the door, and then turns
around and goes back up the stairs.  It's almost a pattern.  I want to
leave the door wide open so that he'll come down and find himself staring
outside, into the sunshine and over the pile of flowers that have been
left.  Short of locking the gate, there is no way to stop the flowers from
coming.

     I've made french toast.  I don't like it, but I've been assured it'll
help.  So I do it, and don't ask questions.  Lance pretends to eat, but our
eyes meet and he knows there are no secrets.  When I clean off the table, I
drop his napkin into the garbage.  It is heavy with food.


     Joey and Chris are gone, away with the lawyer, that other David,
finalizing the plans.  David's parents arrive tomorrow for the funeral.
They will be staying in a hotel since there is no room left here.  I still
have my residence room, but I don't want to be there.  I want to be here,
with David.
     I think that's why we came here, each of us.  He didn't live here
long, but he made it his.
     After the funeral I have to sign the papers making it mine.


     I came here as soon as the call came.  I had the keys since I was to
look in on the plants.  It was early morning and David had only been dead a
matter of hours.  Emotionally I was empty until I got here, until I found
my way into the kitchen and found the boxes.  They were on the counter,
each labelled with a different name.
     My box contained binders, each filled with David's writing, from his
sixth grade attempts at a novel, to his university essays.  A small post-it
said "Mine to yours.  David."  I cried then, and didn't stop until the guys
arrived, moving into the house, bring it to life.

     For now the other boxes are hidden.  It isn't time for that.


     Today I have to meet with the editors.  I have to give them David's
poems, the ones that he emailed to me a few days ago.  I've started on the
editing, but there's only so much I can do.  Our styles are very different,
like Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje.  I can't see them in the same
book, but it's not my decision.  Someone else can see it, that's enough for
me.
     And I like the idea of my name being joined with his.  Hundreds or
thousands of books I can point to and say, "Yes, I really knew him."  Bound
together.

     I'm working on a poem for him, something of an afterword to the book.
I've never had to apply elegy to a work before, and never to someone so
close.  I can't find the distance I need to complete it, so it's hidden
under a pile of other poems on the coffee table.
     I'll ask for a delay on the book, some time to get that poem done.
None of the others really matter.

     Like Ondaatje and Nichol.  You'd never consider a connection until you
looked at Nichol's only main stream collection, until you found Ondaatje's
name just below Nichol's.  The afterword in Ondaatje's words.


     I fall asleep on the floor, my head resting on my folded arms on the
coffee table.

***


     I don't know how long I've slept, but I'm awoken by the sound of
crying quiet sobbing coming from the next room.  My head raises up and I
find myself hoping it's Lance.
     There's no reason for me to dictate how he should be dealing with his
pain - and the guilt he has connected to it.  The guilt has built up walls
that surround him and new layers of brick are being continually added to
the inside.  I get claustrophobic just thinking about him.

     I slowly climb to my feet, blinking back the sleep and clearing my
mind.  I go towards the sound and find Josh at the kitchen table, his hands
holding up his head as he cries.  My hug comes from behind and he grips my
arms like a life jacket.

     Lance is standing in the door to the back room.  Our eyes meet and he
turns away, stepping back into the room he has adopted in these days.

     "He won't talk to me," Josh whispers.
     "He won't talk to anyone."

     "I need to talk to him.  I need him."
     "He needs something else now, Josh.  Leave him to his path for a
while."
     "I don't know if I can."

***

     I'm upstairs.  With a box in my arms, I walk to Justin's door.  When
it's set down, I knock.
     "Who is it?" he calls in a sharp voice.  I'm already walking away, and
I don't reply.

     Maybe the time has come.  Maybe David was wiser than I am.

***

     Lance's box, the smallest of all, stays hidden in the basement storage
area.  But, one by one, I pass out the others, lying them on beds, next to
someone's shoes in the front hall, on the counter in the kitchen.
     When the last box is in place, I go back to the front room.  One more
try at elegizing a man who should have never died.

     I meet Justin in the front hall.  His face is streamed with tears and
in his hand is a thick pile of paper.  From the look on his face, I know he
was looking for me.  He pulls me into a hug, his arms crushing me.

     I find myself crying too.

     "What did he leave you?" I ask.
     Justin doesn't say, he just shakes his head.  I pull back and look
into his eyes, seeing them open for once, revealed for the first time since
David.

     I look into his hand, and see that the pages are emails - letters from
David to someone named Scotty from Tennessee.  I don't understand the gift,
but David's wisdom has brought down a set of walls.

     The next hour is spent on the couch, with Justin reading his letters
and talking about David - a David I never knew.  I'd never seen him with
the group, or with Lance.  I'd never heard his words to a stranger through
email - or heard his friendship with that stranger grow.
     But now, sitting with that person, I'm left to wonder how Justin has
dealt with things, how he managed to ever come out of the upstairs bedroom
to cry and laugh with me.

     I see Joey walk through the hall, with the box from the kitchen.  He
gives me a nervous smile before going upstairs with it.
     Justin's eyes follow him.  "Joey doesn't show emotion much."
     "We're all learning here."

     "I didn't want to learn this."

***

     The poem still fights me.  I have discarded dozens, and edited others
until every original word had been scratched out.

     Every phone in the house has been silenced, the plug pulled from the
wall.  Someone had tracked down the number, and none of us wanted the
outside world to intrude, not in this house.
     The outside world was what David had hated most - and it had killed
him.

     Josh has found his box in the front hall.  He takes it to his couch
and sets it on his lap.  Our eyes meet for a moment and he takes a deep
breath.

     He looks at the contents for a moment with his brows drawn together in
confusion before he sees the note written on the inside lid.  "I'm sorry
this is all I can ever give you," he reads, "in a different world, these
would have been real."  His eyes tear up and his chest heaves, the crying
returning in force - but he's smiling.

     He looks up at me, seeing the confusion in my eyes.  He pushes the box
off of his knees, sending it crashing to the ground.  Hundreds of Hershey
Kisses scatter across the carpet.


     Later, when some control has returned for both of us, he looks up from
the silver scattered on the floor.  "He knew it would happen."
     I nod.  It was an opinion I shared.
     "And he still did it."  Josh shook his head.  "He saved James and I."

     "The thought's just too sad for me," he says, quietly.

     "He did what he wanted to do - what he felt he must."
     "How should that help?"

     "He saved two of his favourite people in the world.  Is there a better
way to go?"

     Josh's head falls back to look at his Kisses.  Eventually he smiles
and shakes his head.

***

     I feel that the house has become a part of the pain.  It's a part of
the healing.  It drew us here, sent for us so we'd be together in this
time.  I feel trapped within it, and I'm thankful.  Everything else is kept
away, outside, so we can be together in isolation, shoring each other up.

     But Lance is still untouchable, stranded in a desert of his own.

     I still hold back his box, his gift from David, but I don't know why.
I haven't looked inside, but I'm scared that David didn't do all with it
that he'd wanted.
     Justin has returned to the group, Joey and Chris are both more awake
than I've seen them, though still largely keeping to themselves and each
other.  And Josh seems to have found some form of rebirth, though he
carries his box with him where-ever he goes.

     I stir the pasta on the stove, while Justin cuts up the vegetables for
the sauce.

     "What was in Lance's box?"
     "I don't know."

     "He hasn't opened it?"
     I shake my head.  "I haven't given it to him."

     The beat of the knife on the cutting board silences.  "Why not?" he
asks.  It's not a confrontational tone - only a quiet question.
     "Because," I say, turning and meeting his eyes.  "I think it's empty."

     Justin's head tilts to the side.  "Empty?"
     I nod.
     "We have to check," he says.  He's already wiping his hands on the
dishcloth that hangs on the stove.
     This time I shake my head.  "It's not our place."
     "We can't give him an empty box - if there's nothing in it, we have to
find something."  He runs his hands through his thick brown curls.  "We
could print out all of their emails."

     Again, I shake my head.  "If David wanted that, he'd have done it."

     "Well, either accept what David wanted and give him the box, or look
inside it and find out."

     Our voices are hushed.  We both know that Lance is just in the next
room.

     "I'll decide after dinner," I say, turning back to the pasta.

***

     Everyone comes to dinner, for once.  An extra chair is brought in from
the living room.  Josh's box is set beside him, and it gets curious looks
from the others, each wondering what the other got.
     Lance doesn't notice it.  His vision is directed inward, to moments
replayed.  To people left behind and wounds that remain fresh.  He doesn't
pick up his fork at all, and when the others start to finish he just stands
up and disappears back into the room he came from.

     Around the table, eyes meet eyes.

     "What did you get?" Chris asks Josh, staring at the box.
     "It doesn't matter," Josh replies.  His hand comes up to rest on the
gift.

     When no-one volunteers, Chris and Joey walk off.  Josh picks up his
box, and with a smile to me, goes back to the couch to relive his own
memories.

     "What're you going to do?" Justin asks.
     "I'll go get the box."
     "You're going to give it to him?"

     I don't answer, but I pull the basement door closed behind me so
Justin won't follow.  The stairs creak under my weight, but the sound is a
welcoming.

     I feel as if I'm lead to the hiding spot.  I take the box down off the
shelf, and open it.
     I'm there for nearly an hour before I can trust myself to finally
deliver it.

***

     The sun has already gone down, and the light from the kitchen is all
that reaches this place.  I flip the light switch as I enter, and he turns
to me - his green eyes squinting in the sudden light.

     I've intruded, they say, behind the heavy lids.  This place is not for
me.

     "I've got something for you," I say.
     "I just want to be alone."
     "I know, but you don't have that choice right now."

     I can see the fire that David had described to me a hundred times.
The anger and passion that existed in this southerner's heart that escapes
through the eyes.  David had spent so much time talking about this man
during their separation.

     I put the box on a table in front of Lance before sitting on the piano
bench.
     His eyes stay on me for a while before looking at the box.  The squint
falls away when he recognizes the handwriting, when he sees "James" written
on the top of the box in David's lettering.

     "What's this?" he asks.
     "A gift."
     "From who?"
     I swallow back a lump in my throat.  "From David."

     Our eyes meet again, but the box holds a stronger draw.
     He takes it and sets it on his lap, pulling the lid away.  He reads
the note that rests on the top, the note I read over an hour ago, and his
jaw is set.
  His lips draw tight, and I know he's already fighting for control.

     "You've bandaged me so many times," it says, "and this is all I can
think of to help your wounds.  Love, David."

     A few moments later he reaches into the box, through the cotton balls,
his fingers searching for the velvet box inside.  He comes up with the
purple box and his breathing stops.  Slowly the fingers pull the box open
and I can hear the breath as it makes it's jagged escape.
     The muscles on his cheeks become jumpy, but he forces his eyes to
remain open as he pulls the chain from the little box, letting the new
silver cross hang in the air.

     And, for the first time since David died, Lance finds the strength to
cry.

***

     The house is no longer a house of silence.  We're all in the living
room, sprawled over the floor and the furniture, sharing stories and
travelling from tears to laughter and back.  Lance is still quiet, but he's
here - and for now, that's enough.
     His hand never leaves the cross that I put around his neck.  But his
quietness is no longer a silence - it's not an unwillingness to
communicate, just a want to listen.  He takes in the stories of his David,
and celebrates them.

     My stories are drawn out into the group.  I'd known him longest, so I
become the centre as these people try to learn more about their friend.  I
give them what they want, and for them he is still alive, still developing
and evolved, just as he is for me when they tell their own stories.

     And on my lap is my notebook, and the poem that is being constructed
not from my experiences with David, but from the group.  Each of us
building him from a different direction, creating him with a different
voice.  And, under all of our voices, David's can be heard.
     This is the poem that will be in the book, I know.  The only poem that
matters.

     By dawn, I'm the only one awake.  I'm doing a final polish to the poem
as the others sleep around the room, calmly and deeply.  Together again.

     And, in this silence, David is there too.

***

End.