Date: Fri, 8 Nov 2002 00:06:39 -0800 (PST)
From: Ehman Penn <ehman_penn@yahoo.com>
Subject: Matthew Figures It Out

This is the continuation of the first story I've ever
written. The feedback has been great and has given me the
confidence to pursue a different story line than I had
originally planned. Please continue sending your honest
feedback to ehman_penn@yahoo.com

This story is 100% fiction and about 15% true. Don't read it
if there's any chance that doing so might send you or the
author to jail. This story is also copyrighted by the author
and cannot be altered or reproduced without his consent.

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

Matthew Figures It Out  -  Part 5


So this is what a hangover feels like? I awoke to the sounds
of nature. Nature is very enthusiastic in the early morning.
By all indications, Mother Nature was definitely a morning
person. Tommy was already up and had walked down the creek
several yards. He was sitting on one of the big rocks a few
feet inside the creek, the same formation of rocks that
slowed the water in front of our campsite and made this such
a good fishing hole. He was sitting there peacefully,
looking out into the water flowing just below his feet. I
don't think I had ever noticed Tommy sitting still and
looking peaceful. He always seemed to be hyper and was
always talking. Nature seemed to suit him very well. He
looked as natural a part of this setting as the trees, hills
and water that surrounded him. Seeing him like this made me
wonder again what had been on his mind last night when I had
been so caught up in trying to deflect his questions. Maybe
he wasn't trying to ask me anything at all. Maybe he was
trying to tell me something. I tried to replay the
transcript in my mind, but the after-effects of the alcohol
seemed to be blocking out key parts. To this point, we
seemed to get along so well even though our experiences and
interests were so different. Maybe that's why we got along
so well, both being different and interesting to each other.
Tommy was very interested in the outdoors, hunting, and
fishing. He had shown little interest in sports. I was very
interested in sports, but had no prior experience with the
outdoors, at least not in the customary ways of a
southerner. I always thought I was smart enough to get by,
but Tommy really was a genuine brainiac. Maybe we had
something in common that I had overlooked. I stood and
watched him for several minutes before making my way down to
meet him.

"Hey bud, how long have you been up?" I asked him quietly
and warmly, feeling a little bad to disturb his peace.

"I've been up for an hour or so, I guess." He didn't turn to
make eye contact with me, staying focused ahead on some rock
out in the water. It was very unusual for him not to make
eye contact and he sounded a little down.

"Tommy. I want you to know how much I appreciate you
bringing me down here. This is such a beautiful spot and so
peaceful. I've never really experienced anything like this.
I've had a blast and I hope you'll ask me to go camping with
you again soon." Tommy always needed encouragement and I
meant every word I said. I had spent too much of my life
alone and I wasn't going to let my new friend go
unappreciated. Tommy turned his head and smiled at me, not a
wide, over-excited smile, but rather a very restrained and
very deep smile. It was a look that suited him well. I don't
think Tommy had ever seemed more handsome to me. "I mean
that, Tommy. You mean a lot to me." He blinked quickly a
couple of times as I spoke the words. The smile on his face
didn't get wider, but I feel like it did get even deeper.

"I'm glad you moved here Mattie." He didn't seem to know
what else to say, but the words he chose were enough.

"So you gonna teach me to drive that 4-wheeler?" I
resurrected the same mischievous look I had given him the
day before.

"Sure, Mattie. I guess we need to start getting things
together, so there'll be plenty of time to show you around.
There is a low spot in the creek just downstream. I'll drive
us across there and then we'll explore the other side for a
while. If you go straight back across that hill (pointing to
the far side of the creek), you start to get into the big
stand of woods in behind Chris's house. It's probably three
miles from here." That surprised me. I would have sworn we
were nowhere close to Chris's house. It was another strange
thing about the rural south. If you could only go in a
straight line, everything would be much closer together.
Unfortunately, there weren't very many straight roads around
here.

"Sounds good to me, Tommy." With my approval confirmed, he
stood and we made our way back upstream to the campsite.
When he covered up the dead fire with his little pile of
excavated dirt, I giggled at him making another reference to
Smokey the Redneck Bear. He was very efficient and we
quickly had everything packed and made our way back through
the thick patch of trees to the 4-wheeler. When we reached
the opening, he pointed to the middle of a field and I saw
three small deer gallop off toward the trees on the far
side. I smiled at him and shook my head, again amazed at the
nature that surrounded me.

The noise of the 4-wheeler engine and the bounce of the ride
weren't nearly as `exciting' as the day before. The mild
hangover we were both experiencing took care of that. Tommy
dashed down the side of the creek cutting in right where the
low spot in the current was. A natural barrier of embedded
rocks just upstream slowed the flow of the water, creating a
shallow channel that couldn't have been more than one foot
deep. Tommy took it very slow across the creek, careful not
to get us too wet as he followed a path that I couldn't even
see. Once on the other side, we shot up the hill rather
quickly. I whooped and hollered a bit out of nervous
excitement, the ride feeling like a roller-coaster at times.
Finally we hit another clearing and after some careful
instructions from Tommy, I took the wheel.

"Wow, Tommy this is fun!" This was the first time I'd ever
driven anything with a motor. We didn't even have a riding
lawn mower to cut the grass. I'd have to mention that to
Coach Briggs the next time he commented that my dad must be
doing "pretty well for himself". We were going very slowly,
but Tommy still found it necessary to firmly grip me at the
waist, almost tickling me a time or two. I decided not to
gun the engine the way he had the day before, for fear of
sending him tumbling off the rear of the 4-wheeler. I drove
around the edges of the trees for ten minutes or so,
occasionally diving into an open trail leading into the
woods. After a while, I let the 4-wheeler come to a rest and
asked Tommy to take over again. I wanted him to finish his
tour and we weren't making very good progress with me
driving. We flipped positions and I grabbed him by the
waist, intentionally goosing him and bringing him to a
giggle.

We rode for another few minutes before Tommy slowed and
turned his head back to me telling me Chris's house was that
way, pointing again out through the trees. Just ahead, I saw
what looked to be an old run down cabin or shack and pointed
it out to Tommy. He made a path toward it and we stopped for
a short rest and exploration.

"That old shack has been back here forever. I think some old
couple used to live out here many, many years ago. No one
has lived in it since I've been riding these woods."

I could see why. The tin roof was dark brown with rust and
the windows were all busted out, only traces of glass
remained around the edges of the frames. The structure
looked to be barely standing, only surviving by what little
spine was left in the old timber. The shack couldn't have
been more than half the size of a garage. It was hard to
believe anybody had ever called it a home. I looked in
through the window. It wasn't trashed as bad on the inside
as I would have imagined, and had an appearance that
suggested that someone still occasionally called it home.

"Tommy, are there any homeless people around here?" Where I
was from, this would be a real find for a homeless person, a
virtual mansion.

"No, we don't really have any homeless people that I know
of. Guess there could be some old hillbilly redneck using it
as a vacation home." He smiled at his little joke. I smiled
back and shook my head.

We again boarded the 4-wheeler, retracing our path back
across the creek and then back toward Tommy's house,
arriving with fifteen minutes to spare. My dad was supposed
to pick me up at noon. To my surprise, he was already
waiting, standing in the Johnson's front yard talking with
Tommy's dad and admiring their big John Deere riding lawn
mower. I found myself hoping that Tommy's dad got a
commission for referrals from the John Deere dealer. Maybe
he would convince my dad to buy us (me) a mower like that.
He and Mr. Johnson seemed to be getting along quite well. I
was glad because my dad didn't have any friends here outside
of work. Neither did my mom for that matter. Sometimes I
forgot that all of our lives had been uprooted by this move.

"Hey there boys!" My dad was always upbeat, always
projecting a positive image. I guess marketing people were
trained to be that way.

Tommy launched up and off the 4-wheeler immediately
stretching his hands as far apart as possible and
proclaiming "Mattie caught the biggest old monster catfish
that's ever lived in Deadman's Creek." The look this drew
from my dad's face was priceless, a look of stunned
disbelief and curiosity that eventually turned into an
amused smile and chuckle. Tommy just stood there patting me
on the back, proud of me and of him for delivering on his
promise that he "always" caught fish.

As we all laughed, I introduced Tommy to my dad and Tommy
did the same for me with his dad. Andrew Johnson, or `Andy'
as he insisted, seemed to be a very laid back man with a
bright red face and a warm smile. Andy and my dad concluded
their small talk with a firm handshake and a smile. I turned
to Tommy and felt a strong urge to hug him, but instead we
slapped hands together and I playfully dropped my right
shoulder into him, smiling appreciatively and telling him
again what a "blast" I'd had. If our dads hadn't been there,
I might have even given him a kiss on the cheek.

"Tommy seems like a nice boy." My dad wasted no time giving
his approval as the car made its way out the long driveway.
"His dad is a math professor. I wouldn't have guessed that."
My dad was always quickly guessing about people, trying to
sum them up. I figured that was another side effect from his
marketing training. I knew Tommy's dad was a professor, but
I was encouraged to hear it was for math. I only hoped that
teaching was in Tommy's genes because Chris would need the
help if we were going to realize our hopes of playing
basketball together this season at school. I thought back to
Chris's dad's tirade that night, wondering if he was more
embarrassed for himself than he was irritated at Chris. I
guess a teacher's son wasn't supposed to fail at algebra, or
maybe anything else.

"So you hooked a big one, huh?" Other thoughts came to mind
before I finally realized my dad was talking about fishing.

"Yeah, it really was a huge fish. It had to be at least
three feet long and it took me almost an hour to reel him
in." It was really only twenty minutes but creative license
was always assumed when telling a good fish story. My dad
caught me wincing slightly and asked if I was feeling faint
again. I briefly considered confessing our adventure into
alcohol, but decided to keep that information back instead.
"I've just got a little headache this morning. It's hard to
get a good night of sleep out in the woods, you know." I
said this assuming my dad had never been camping and had
probably never spent a night in the woods. Every day, we
learn new things about the people in our lives if we only
bother to listen.

"You know, son. I loved camping when I was your age. After
my brother got his car, we'd take weekend trips down to Big
Sur for hiking and camping. Those giant old trees have stood
in that forest forever it seems. I think it's one of the
most beautiful places on earth." My dad always wore a sad
smile when remembering old times like this with his older
brother. Uncle Heath died young, never making it to his
thirties. It was some type of hemorrhage I think, my dad
never talked about it in any detail. I tried to picture my
dad at fourteen, running around the rugged stretch of
California coastline below Monterey and Carmel. I wished my
uncle were still alive. I never knew him, but I wish he were
still here for my dad. Dad lost his parents before I was
born, my grandmother to diabetes and my grandfather mostly
to alcohol. I was glad he had a brother when he was young. I
envied him that. I tried to picture myself and Tommy making
our way over that same rugged coastline.

"Matt, do you know what Big Sur means?" I was clueless.
"It's Spanish for `the big south'." He was now looking at me
as if about to make some wise observation, which in some
ways he did. "It's kind of funny, me and your uncle hiking
around `the big south'. Now you're doing the same with your
friend Tommy here in `the old south'." I nodded agreeing
with my dad. I wasn't sure I fully understood what he was
saying, but it was enough for me that it meant something
deeper to him.

"Dad, what do you know about the Presidio?" My dad never
served in the military but he was very knowledgeable about
all things San Francisco.

"Well, Matt. You know, it was once a huge Army base. There
was a time in World War II when Americans living on the west
coast were genuinely afraid of an invasion. The military
built up large bases up and down the western shoreline." It
was more information than I needed, but educational all the
same.

"What's a stockade?" I decided to be more specific this
time. My dad looked at me like parents of teenagers
sometimes do, accepting long ago that there was probably no
bigger point to these types of questions.

"A stockade is a military jail or prison. As I understand
it, the Presidio had a particularly rough stockade. It seems
like they had a bad riot of some type not long before it
shut down in the seventies." He glanced at me briefly,
almost ready to ask but deciding to be patient.

"What's a pansy?" This question emptied his patience and now
he had to ask.

"Matt, what are you talking about?" Now he was the clueless
one.

"I heard someone say the word. I don't know what it means."
I tried to look innocently ignorant.

"Did someone call you that?" He thought he was onto
something, but `that dog wasn't going to hunt', as Tommy
liked to say.

"NO! I heard someone talking about a stockade and pansies. I
was just trying to understand the connection." My dad looked
a little relieved and was now prepared to answer my
question.

"Some people, intolerant people mind you, use the word
`pansy' as slang for `gay'. You might have heard someone
mention that word in connection with stockades because the
military use to lock up gay men. They still might, I guess.
I've never quite understood the whole `don't ask, don't
tell' policy."

"Pansy is slang for gay?" I still didn't know what a pansy
actually was. I knew that queer meant different, degenerate
meant you were some type of pervert by unclear standards,
fairy meant..well, I wasn't sure but somehow I still
understood it, but pansy I just didn't get. Come to think of
it, I didn't know what faggot meant either, but I decided to
take things one insult at a time. "So, you don't know what a
pansy is either?" I turned the question back to him again. I
could smell the wood burning, but the old furnace in his
head just couldn't get hot enough to cook up an answer. I
loved getting my dad like this. There was just something
naturally fun about making a `marketing guy' speechless. All
of his training and powers had finally failed him. I smiled.
He just looked at me very confused.

"Son, is there a bigger point to all of this?" He couldn't
resist the question.

"No dad, you know there never is." I couldn't believe he
even asked. Of course, there really was a bigger point this
time, but I added it to a growing list of things I chose not
to share with him or mom. I suddenly felt much older than my
fourteen years. Lying and hiding truths seemed like such a
grownup thing to do.

Mom never let me get inside the house. She was out the front
door as soon as she heard the car pull in. You would have
thought she hadn't seen me in years, greeting me with a big
hug and then just holding me for what seemed like an
eternity right out in public for everyone to see. I glanced
around to make sure no other neighborhood kids were
watching.

"It seems as if our Matthew is quite the natural fisherman."
It dawned on me that I preferred Tommy's introduction to
this fishing story, so I spread my hands as far apart as
possible and tried to tell it just like him.even leaving in
the part about Deadman's Creek.

"Deadman's Creek?" My mom was starting to catch on to my
little omissions and exaggerations.

"Mom, it's not like anyone actually ever died there!" I
looked over at my dad and shook my head, like I couldn't
believe she would even make such a ridiculous association.
The force of last night's nightmare briefly came back to me
and I was quite sure that the DVD version of `Deliverance'
wouldn't be on my Christmas wish-list this year. I was also
sure I would never watch another movie with Ned Beatty
without thinking of Tommy.

We enjoyed tuna-salad sandwiches and chips for lunch at the
Johnson household this Saturday. I missed Chris but I wasn't
sure I looked forward to seeing him. Thoughts of my later
nightmare also came back to haunt me. I wondered if he would
look different, if I would be able to tell. Losing his
virginity would surely have some effect on him, I thought.
Or maybe he would still technically be a virgin. That might
be more comforting for Katie, but it wasn't more comforting
for me. I was losing my appetite and left half my sandwich
behind. My mom volunteered to drive me over, almost unable
to leave me again so soon. Just as I reached to open our
front door, my dad made a very unwelcome announcement.

"Matt. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. We'll be going
to church tomorrow morning." We NEVER went to church. My
parents weren't atheists or anything, they just weren't
exactly religious. I didn't even know what religion we were.

"What?" I didn't see any need to explain the question.

"Son, it won't kill you to go to church this one time. It
might even be good for you." That second part really pissed
me off. I decided to bite my tongue, or else I might be
spending the afternoon at home. "The bank wants all the
executives to get more involved in the community.." I hoped
my dad made better presentations than this at work, or we
would never be able to afford one of those big John Deere
lawn mowers like Tommy had. "It's part of our community
outreach program. Lots of local businessmen go to church,
son. We need to go as a family, to get acquainted with the
rest of the business community. It was my ideal, after all."
It was his ideal - after all. My dad wanted to pimp out his
family for the bank, at church of all places. I wondered
what ever happened to that idealist who made hiking and
camping trips deep into those old growth trees at Big Sur.

"Dad, don't be such a sell-out!" The outrage was genuine.
The timing was a little risky. I decided to try and find
some common ground between us. "One time! That's what you
said, right?" My dad was guilty on both counts. He was
definitely being a sell-out and I think he knew it. I would
give him his "one time", but that was it. I held up one
finger (no, not THAT finger) and looked him dead in the eye,
before calmly turning and walking out to the car. I didn't
see it, but my mom repeated my actions right behind me.

"One time" she said, then dropped her hand and walked out to
join me. I loved my mom. If my dad was going to find
religion, looks like he would have to do it alone. Me and
mom would keep staying home, getting up late, eating
pancakes, and reading the Sunday papers like we always did.

"I know it seems sometimes that your father only thinks
about work, but he does love you very much Matthew. He wants
to make sure you have a good education and a good future."
So this was all for my benefit, huh? I wasn't buying it.

"It just seems like everything is about him, mom. When the
bank made him transfer, did he ever think about us? He's
good at what he does, right? He could have gotten another
job. He drags us all the way across the country and now
we've got to pretend like some nice church family just so he
can make new contacts?" I was shaking my head in
disappointment with body language that would have made a
sailor blush. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in building our
arguments that we wall ourselves off from the truth. My mom
got very quiet, looking at me as if unsure how to respond.

"Matthew, the bank didn't make your father transfer here."
She paused for a moment, making sure I understood exactly
what she said. "Your father asked for the transfer. It's
what he wanted to do. It's what we both wanted to do." She
paused again, alternating her glances between me and the
road. She was trying to give me time to figure part of this
out on my own.

"Why did you want to move?" I still wasn't getting it. This
was all major news to me. We were nearing Chris's house and
I pointed her to his driveway. "You don't have to pull up to
the house. You can just let me off here at the end of the
drive." Instinctively, I wanted to shield her from the
Briggs family, Chris included. I didn't want any mother's
intuition kicking in just yet. Before I got out of the car,
I gave her a final puzzled look, begging for an answer. "Why
did you want to move, mom?" She looked at me in a very
satisfied way and with a warm mother's smile that tells you
just how endless a mother's love can be.

"Matt, your father and I both very much want you to be
happy. You go have fun with your new friend. I'll pick you
up at five." As she backed out of the drive, I could barely
lift my hand to faintly wave goodbye. How blind had I been?
I was so convinced that my dad was only thinking about
himself and his career, with my mom just cruising along for
the ride. In truth, they had only been thinking about me. I
had always tried to hide my sadness, to shield them from the
pain I felt. I was young and na^Ėve enough to think that it
was possible to do such a thing. It wasn't. I was such a sad
case that they had to move three thousand miles to give me a
fresh start. No wonder they were so happy to taxi me all
over the rural south. Their plan was finally coming
together.

I turned from the road and faced the house I had visited for
the first time just two days before. The sky was overcast
and the wind was rustling a few early autumn leaves along
the ground. The house looked much darker than it did before,
even sinister somehow. The old trees that earlier stood out
against bright blue skies, now hulked around the smallish
house as if guarding some secret inside.

There was no outward sign of life. I made my may toward the
garage side entrance and hoped to find Chris out back
somewhere. I had seen very little of him the day before and
I missed him. At the same time, I didn't want to see him,
still unsure how I would feel with the firm knowledge of his
conquest from the previous night. I had to remind myself
that I had no right to claim any jealousy. Chris never
signed up for this, after all. The dark feeling of dread
this house produced in me served as a reminder as to just
how much Chris needed me. "Show him no fear." His own words
were now my motto. Just as I was about to knock, I heard his
voice.

"Matt." Chris had emerged from the trees behind the dog
pens. I walked back out of the garage to meet him in the
backyard.

"Hey Chris." I still had to smile at him warmly. The emotion
that missed him had won the battle.

"Hey, bud." Chris seemed subdued. He wasn't walking with the
bounce I had expected and the conversation paused very
briefly making for an awkward moment between us.

"We're still on for this afternoon, right?" I wanted to make
sure there wasn't a change in plans. Suddenly, I felt out of
place. In truth, my return to this house was more
uncomfortable than I could admit. My discomfort mixing with
the conflicted emotions I had right now. Chris looked at me
unsure of how to answer, maybe searching for a way to ditch
me. I wondered if he was even glad I was there.

"Matt, would you mind if we don't practice this afternoon?"
He wasn't comfortable asking the question, but he asked it
anyway.

"Chris, it's no problem. I should have called and double-
checked with you first. Let me call my mom and have her pick
me back up. We'll do it another day." I was trying to help
him out, to make it easy on him. I had been defensive from
the moment I had stepped out of my mom's car. All of the
homecoming rituals had gotten the better of me. Katie had
gotten the better of me. In many ways, life had gotten the
better of me. My parents moved me three thousand miles and
dropped me right into the life of a boy I now loved, but who
couldn't possibly love me back the same way. To make it
worse, maybe Chris didn't really need me after all. My old
friend `doubt' was crowding his way back into my life. Chris
looked hurt and it shook me back into focus.

"Matt, I don't want you to go." As he said it, almost
subconsciously he reached out for me, just momentarily
grabbing the bottom of the windbreaker I was wearing before
releasing it and letting his hand fall nervously back to his
side. "I'm just not up for basketball today. You think maybe
you could hang around and we could just talk for a while?"

Would I never learn? Doubt is such a powerful emotion, and
so persuasive. Self-doubt is the supreme leader of the
larger doubt-underworld. Self-doubt tells you that someone
special can't possibly love YOU. It tells you that someone
attractive can't possibly be attracted to YOU. It tells you
that no friend worth having would possibly have YOU. Self-
doubt picks at those around you, tearing them down, just to
get back at YOU. Self-doubt was my oldest friend. It had
always been there for me when no one else was. Make no
mistake, self-doubt was feeling a little neglected and was
definitely jealous of my new friends. It was time for me to
pick between my friends. Right then and there, I knew I
would never doubt Chris again. Maybe he would hurt me,
physically or emotionally or even both. Maybe he would even
kill me, but I would let him before I would ever doubt him
again. It was time to believe. If I could believe in him,
maybe I could even learn to believe in myself.

"I'm sorry Chris. I just thought maybe you wanted some time
by yourself. I'm sure you're pretty worn out from a big day
yesterday and all the homecoming stuff." `Stuff' was code
for the stuff I didn't want to think about, but `homecoming'
was the word that made Chris grimace as I said it. "Is
everything OK Chris?" There was so much in his life that
wasn't OK.  I didn't want to assume what was troubling him.

"Matt, let's take a walk down into the woods where we can
have some privacy. My dad is out right now but he might be
back any time now. Mom is inside sleeping."  I wondered if
that meant she was inside `drunk'.

"That sounds good to me Chris. I've been practically living
in the woods this weekend." He cheered up a little when I
said this, smiling at me with a curious look. It seemed like
no one would readily accept me as an outdoors type. I told
him the whole story, well almost the whole story. I didn't
tell him about my dreams. He agreed that I had caught the
biggest catfish in Deadman's Creek, and he laughed out loud
when I told him how the old cat sprayed us as he swam away.
I even confessed that Jack Daniels had corrupted me. He was
most surprised by that and I thought it might have hit a
little close to home for him right now. I quickly moved into
the nipple story.

"I don't think a nipple would grow back" he declared and I
agreed.

Then I shared with him my secret plans to enlist Tommy as
his algebra tutor. He brightened again and for a while as we
walked aimlessly through the woods, it seemed like
everything was back to normal with us. The wind was starting
to gust and he tucked his baseball cap down a little tighter
on his head. I felt a drop or two of rain and Chris surged
ahead of me waving me on behind him. As we crossed the top
of a short hill, I saw where he was headed. The old shack
looked different in this light and from this angle, but it
looked pretty inviting considering the alternative of
getting soaked, as the rain was starting to settle in.

Chris stopped at the front door, or what was left of it. He
seemed unsure if he still wanted to venture inside, looking
back at me as I arrived just behind him.

"We're getting soaked" I observed and I pushed past him and
into the shack. He walked in slowly behind me looking around
as if to make sure we hadn't rattled the old shack into
collapse. The baseball cap had effectively sheltered his
head, but the water had deflected off the cap and onto the
shoulders of his loose navy sweatshirt, soaking him unevenly
around the tops. My windbreaker had shielded my body, but my
cap-less head was nearly soaked. The rain was loud beating
against the old rusty tin roof. Old boards creaked beneath
our feet, some of them probably rousing from a decades old
sleep. What had once been a crude fireplace was now a sticky
maze of spider webs and a floating graveyard for the flying
pests that had been entrapped there. We spotted an old shelf
that had been built into the rear wall structure and was
just low enough to serve as make-shift seating. We both sat
down and gingerly leaned back against the old timber wall,
resting more comfortably once we realized the wall could
support our weight.

Chris was very quiet, his head thrown back as he peered out
the broken window on the far wall. He seemed to be gathering
his thoughts and I decided not to disturb the process. I
tried to imagine the couple who had lived here once. This
place was from a forgotten era, when people had horses and
didn't need roads. The creek was within walking distance,
but it was a pretty good trek. I guess it wasn't like they
had anything better to do. The daily routines of life in the
hills probably wouldn't have left a lot of time to
contemplate boredom. The people who had lived here must have
coped with a great deal of solitude in their lives as there
was no evidence of other shacks nearby. They would have
lived largely by their own code, with society virtually
unable to monitor or influence them. I seriously doubted
there were many `alternate' lifestyle couples back then, and
it seemed a terrible waste of opportunity.

When I glanced back over at Chris, it took a second for what
was happening to register with me. Water was now leaking
from the corroded nail holes in the tin roof, but the
moisture on Chris's face wasn't produced by a leaky roof.
His expression hadn't changed and he was still locked in a
stare with some unknown point through the broken window.
Tears were very quietly and very steadily flowing down his
face. I had never seen anyone cry so effortlessly. I
wondered if he even realized he was doing it. My eyes were
completely transfixed on his face. I couldn't have been more
paralyzed had it been blood flowing from his eyes instead. I
knew he was conscious because he occasionally blinked. It
was the most painful thing I had ever witnessed. I had seen
an old movie once where a deaf girl was screaming madly. The
director had shot the scene without sound for extra effect,
just a young terrified girl silently emitting tormented
screams that no one could hear, not even her.

Chris had courage. No one could stand in his shoes and keep
walking every day without it. Parts of the mystery were now
solved in my head. His father was a harsh, unforgiving man,
probably made much bitterer as age robbed him of his natural
resources. Chris was very human and he was a fifteen year
old teenager. He was going to make mistakes, sometimes very
big ones. With a better fate, he would at least have the
love and support of a mother to fall back on. Chris didn't
have a better fate. He had a broken down drunk for his
mother, though I sensed she had once been there for him when
he needed her. I doubted that made her current sad state any
easier for him to endure. Chris was a very attractive boy
with many appealing features. At least he should be able to
enjoy the support and fond affection of a mate, but even
here fate had apparently cruelly teased him. Whatever Katie
had once meant to him, it was obvious that she had largely
moved on to other interests, no matter what had happened
last night. Again it seemed to fall back to me. I felt like
I was probably the most dependable thing in his life right
now, yet I had no idea how to help him. Sometimes we help
ourselves and others most when we stop thinking and let
instinct take over.

Chris stood and walked to the middle of the old floor, still
looking outside and never changing expressions. Still, the
flow of tears had clearly not subsided. There was no speech
I could make, really no words alone that could bring him
back from this place he had drifted off to. He had to know
that I believed in him and I had to let him know. I stood
and stepped quietly behind him, putting first one and then
both hands on his shoulders from behind. His shoulders were
quite wet and he felt cold under my hands. I gently squeezed
and released the muscles between his shoulder and the base
of his neck, not trying to rouse him, but making sure he
understood that I was there and very aware of his pain. What
I knew I couldn't tell him with words, I hoped to be able to
communicate with touch. He was so stiff and so cold. I
stayed very gentle, trying to move my hands on his shoulders
to the rhythm of the words I couldn't say. I had closed my
eyes, trying my best to channel anything I could through the
senses of my touch. I didn't see or hear his left hand move.
When he placed it on top of my right hand, I feared he was
quietly telling me that this communication wasn't welcome.
When he squeezed the top of my hand firmly, I saw his head
buckle slightly for the first time. I knew I had reached
him. He was making barely audible sounds now, more the sound
of irregular short breaths. He turned to his right, never
letting go of my hand, now facing me straight on, his left
hand cupping my right before both hands dropped clasped
together to our sides. His eyes were staring me chest high,
as if he were ashamed to look me in the eyes in this
condition. I took my left hand and slowly ran it up
underneath his chin, ever gently pushing his chin upwards
until his eyes met mine. I wanted him to have the
reassurance that his tears and emotions were being returned
in full. The faces were different but our emotions were
mirrored together, indistinguishable. I held his chin in
place for a moment, making sure it would support itself
there before releasing it. He didn't hold anything back. The
emotions in his eyes were more powerful than ever. I
returned my emotions in kind. No words had been spoken, they
were inadequate and unnecessary. We stood there together for
what seemed like an eternity sharing our pain, holding one
hand. My free hand had moved from his chin to a comfortable
spot on the back of his neck, a familiar spot I had found
before. His free hand raised and hooked itself on my
outstretched arm, resting there in its own warm comfortable
spot. Our hearts had grown frustrated with our minds,
finally deciding to bypass the less necessary organ and link
directly together via our eyes. Our eyes stayed locked,
never drifting. As if following an order that had been
issued directly from somewhere deep within me, I expanded my
hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to me.
Our lips didn't meet right away. Instead, our heads and
shoulders interlocked in embrace. Our eyes had proved unable
to carry the full message our hearts wanted to deliver, and
now our bodies were meshed directly together with seemingly
every pore and sensor being used for the full transmission.
Still no words were uttered, but more was said than could
ever have been spoken, and more was understood than could
ever have been explained. I rested my eyes now and squeezed
him hard, my hands rubbing up and down his back, not trying
to arouse him, just trying to sense him, to join him in some
way. I could feel Chris shaking and his breathing was still
irregular. His head lifted from the tuck on my shoulder and
I lifted my head in turn to rejoin his eyes. As we did this,
our heads brushed gently, our faces rubbing against each
other, sending his cap tumbling from his head in slow motion
to the floor. Our tears mixed and our lips brushed each
other also, pausing at the realization before involuntarily
retracing their movements and joining ever so softly. This
was not a deep kiss of passion, but rather a soft, quiet and
pure expression of love, acceptance and understanding. Our
minds, fully disengaged and excluded, sat quietly in place
on top of our heads, yielding the moment to this final
expression of the hearts. In unison with no true lead
movement, our lips moved away from each other and our eyes
rejoined to provide final unspoken confirmation of what had
taken place. The tears were still flowing, but the emotional
source had changed. Love had wrestled the pain and doubt,
and had won. Love always won, when given the chance to
fight.

There would be plenty of time later for our minds to
comprehend the realities made so clear by our hearts. Our
eyes grew weary and we shifted back to the full embrace,
locked together in a silent motionless dance, our heads
tucked firmly together on each others shoulders and necks.
The rain was still falling overhead, hitting the old tin
roof in some vaguely familiar rhythm. I wondered that in the
long history of this old shack, if a better dance had ever
been accompanied by a finer song.



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Authors Note / November 8th, 2002:

First, the story is not over. I hope to continue completing
new chapters each week for at least the next four weeks,
with less frequent chapters there after. I welcome any
questions about the story. If you think its too slow, I'd
like to know. If you think it's just right, I'd like to
know. If I've written something that didn't make sense to
you, I'd like to know. Basically, anything you think about
this story, I'd like to know. This is a new experience for
me and I need the feedback to let me know if I'm still on
track. There is a plot at work here and plenty has been
written between the lines for those of you who like to read
there. I want to re-express my thanks to everyone who has
emailed me. I've taken a tremendous amount of encouragement
and motivation from your correspondence. Again, please keep
the feedback coming. The readers of this story are still the
only people I have a chance to discuss my story with.
Writing this story and corresponding with its readers has
had a tremendous positive effect on me personally. This
story represents the only true documented expression of how
I really feel about myself and the world around me. I will
promptly reply to your email.

Please keep the responses coming, good or bad:
ehman_penn@yahoo.com

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