Shooting Matt Ch. 15

"No can do, nurse Ratchet," he mutters as he lets the weight off his hands and onto his butt. He holds his back stiff and waits for the pain. There's not much and he sighs in relief.

"Nurse Ratchet was a bitch, asshole." Kent looks up from his feet. "How's the back? And don't bother to lie to me. I don't know why I bothered to ask. I can tell it's bad."

"No, it's not. I just have to be careful, no sudden moves." He swirls the water with his feet. "Water's fucking cold." He looks at Kent. "Cold? Is that good or bad for my back? The water? Swimming?"

"How should I know? I'm a neurosurgery ICU nurse, not rehab or orthopedics," Kent snaps and immediately regrets it. "Sorry, Matt. Your muscles will warm up. Should be fine, at least until you get out. You'll want something to wrap up in when you get out."

"Thanks, dude. Now, spill the beans, bitch. Fucked up how?"

"Jesus fucking Christ! I'm not going to be interrogated by some snot-nosed college kid about my love life. Drop it!" Kent puts a hand down and starts to get up.

"Stay, Kent. Please."

Kent relaxes, shaking his head.

"Matt, seriously. It's nothing. It's too early or too late or too something. We kissed a few times. Things were going fine, more than fine and then I froze up. All I could think about was Brad."

"So?"

"So? If all you could think about was an ex-lover, or even an ex-boyfriend, don't you think that would put a fucking damper on you and Liam?"

"Sure, but I don't believe all you could think of was Brad. If that was true, you won't have come. And, dude, if that were true there's no way you've kissed Randy."

"I came because I hoped maybe it wasn't true. That, maybe, I had gotten to a stage where I could imagine having a relationship or just having sex. I was wrong."

"So, the whole thing was a waste of time? You're miserable every second you've been here?"

"No," Kent says in a soft voice. "It was really nice; right up to the end. I've only known her for a day but Glenna is moving right up my greatest-people-I-know list." He stops. His focus on the minnows. "And, yeah, I had fun hanging out with Randy, way more than I expected. But he wanted to keeping going forward and I can't."

"So, what? He grabbed your crank and got pissed when you jerked it away?"

"No. For fuck sake, you know him better than me. I thought I was ready for more but then froze up."

"Ah, so that's when he called you a cock teasing faggot and told you to get the fuck out?"

Kent stares at Matt, disbelief etched in every muscle of his face.

"Oh, so Randy didn't say anything like that? He just stomped out of the cabin and told you to pack up and get out? No? Scowled at you, snorted in disgust and rolled over? No?"

"Fuck you. What the fuck do you know about anything? You're a fucking kid. A kid!"

"Yeah, that maybe, but I'm a kid that can tell when someone is walking around with his head up his ass." Matt shifts, plants one hand and pulls his right leg up, frightened again at how hard something this easy has become. "If Randy didn't tell you fuck off, then you can be pretty sure he doesn't think you fucked up. I think you're happy to imagine you fucked up because that lets you off the hook. That way you can run back to Pittsburgh, do a kick ass job as a nurse and then go home and eat canned soup or some shit like that and not have to do anything hard."

Kent stares at him. "No wonder Leon punched you in the mouth," he says with wonder.

"How did you know that? Did I tell you? Leon? Fuck." Matt smiles. "Well, I keep telling everyone I don't blame him for punching me. Truth's a painful old bitch sometimes." He nods his head toward the lodge. "Come on, old man, Randy's making us lunch."

He walks away, not bothering to see if Kent follows.

***

Matt opens the door. There's a tightness around his eyes I haven't seen. Kent follows. He looks like a kid not sure if his buddy's parents have really invited him in or if they're just being nice.

"Who wants a burger and who wants grilled cheese? Fries all around?" Three heads nod. "Oh, and by the way, this ain't on the house. I hope you got cash."

I wish I had more than American cheese for the sandwiches. Still, I manage my usual perfect toasting. The fries finish right on time and I surprise everyone with some tomato soup. It's the usual boring can shit but I manage to kick it up a notch with some Italian seasonings and a bit of half and half, no heavy cream in sight.

Truth be told, I'm starving. I dig in. We eat in silence.

"Liam," Matt growls around a mouthful of grilled cheese, "you're a fucking dick."

"What the hell?" Liam says, jerking his head up and managing to let a bit of soup dribble over his chin. This does not appear to improve his mood.

"You've eaten at my house. You know what a shit cook my mom is and not once did you invite me over for real food. Asshole."

Paying a compliment to his old man is sufficient to mollify my son. We're finishing up when the door opens. Glenna looks shocked. Leon's face gives nothing away.

"So?" I ask.

"The manager at Kroger's wants exclusive rights. If I don't let anyone else sell them except Kroger's and here, he'll let me use his bakery."

I hop off the stool and give her a hug. "I told you," I tell her before letting her go. "What do you think about the offer? It would save you the expense of adding to your kitchen equipment. And he would let you sell them here, right?"

She nods.

"Isn't he worried the other resorts will get pissed? Send their renters elsewhere?" Matt asks. I remind myself his dopey surfer dude act is just that, an act.

Leon shakes his head. "Nowhere else, except for the small markets at the gas stations to send them to, unless someone is willing to drive another twenty minutes." He looks Matt up and down. "How's the back son?"

"It's fine."

I sense Liam starting to interject something and silently beg him to shut the hell up. Leon beats him to the punch.

"The way your listing to port, I'm not so sure I believe you. I know I've told you before but I want to tell you again, in front of your family and friends -- I'm sorry. There's no excuse for what I did or the pain and trouble I caused you. The offer to help with school if your swimming suffers stands. I'm not a half bad masseuse. I got a table upstairs. If you think it will help I can give you a rub down after your work out."

"Take him up on the massage, Matt. You won't regret it," Glenna offers. She looks at the counter. "Anything left?"

"Plenty of soup," I reply as I make my way behind the counter. "You want soup now or wait for your sandwich? Grilled cheese, unless you'd prefer a burger."

"Grilled cheese. I'll wait on the soup." She looks over her shoulder. "Lee?"

"Same."

"Fries?"

"Not for me," Glenna says with a sigh. "I'm getting fat."

"No, you're not. I'll take fries, Randy." Leon glances at his wife. "Make it a double order. She'll eat half of mine anyway."

"Leon! I'll do no such thing, you rat bastard!"

"Uh-huh," he replies. He faux whispers to Randy, "double order." Glenna smacks him on the back of the arm.

"Uh, I should probably get on the road," Kent offers. I think it's the first thing he's said since coming into the lodge.

"Can you wait a few minutes?" Liam asks. "Pop's leaving, too. He was gonna follow you back to Pittsburgh, maybe get a bite to eat before heading on to Cleveland."

I stare at my son. He has depths of sneakiness I've yet to plumb. Matt gives him an enormous grin.

"Excellent idea. Randy, I bet you'd thought of it yourself."

"As a matter of fact, you're correct. I wish I had thought of it myself." I look at Kent. "What about it?"

"Uh, you think we'll be hungry by then. It's only an hour," he mumbles.

"Yeah," I agree. I try to keep my voice neutral but my stomach slides down into the top of my pants. "You're probably right. Rain check, maybe."

"Dudes, you should totally go by the Carnegie. We went there yesterday. Check it out, what was it called, Liam? 'Lounging homo with clueless chick'? Doesn't matter, you'll know it when you see it. The cafeteria was pretty fucking baller. Walk around, eat, head home."

Matt looks quite pleased with his suggestion. Me? Not so much. I don't want to give up but I'm also a little tired. I'll make sure Kent has my number. If he's interested, he'll call.

I glance at Kent to tell him not to worry about it. He's smiling.

"I know exactly the painting Matt's talking about. And he's right, that should be the title. What about it? You have a couple hours to kill or do you need to get back to Cleveland? Although, why anyone would rush back to Cleveland is a mystery to me."

"Lake, winning sports teams, Rock n Roll Hall of Fame," I tell him with a smile. "All I have waiting are floors to finish, walls to paint, and a kitchen to re-do."

"Randy?" Glenna asks softly, "what about the rolls and all that?"

"I haven't forgotten. I'll get the house back together and try to get back here for a couple of days before I have to get back to work."

"I work the next four days, through Sunday," Kent offers. "Would it go faster with an extra pair of hands?"

"Depends on how good you are with a paint brush but even if you suck, the company would be nice."

He nods.

"Deal," I tell him. "Let me feed my hosts quick. It won't take long to pack."

"Get the fuck outta my kitchen," Leon drawls. "You'll probably burn the grilled cheese anyway."

I give him a quick buss on the lips. I'm not sure who blushes more, Leon or Glenna. Maybe Liam.

"I'll see you next week sometime," I reassure Glenna as I pull the apron over my head.

***

Kent feels excited. And sick. He'd hoped Randy would throw him a lifeline. It never occurred to him that the guy simply hadn't had a chance to do so, between cooking, eating, and listening to Glenna. Kent hoped to slip away but couldn't leave without saying good-bye. The look on Randy's face told him that he was as surprised as anyone when Liam spoke up.

He'd opened his mouth to say 'yes' and nearly died when he heard himself make the lame excuse about not being hungry. He'd lost all hope as he watched the light drain from Randy's eyes. Then Matt jumped in about that ridiculous painting. He and Brad hooted at that one. Neither of them had any doubt about which model the painter was likely to have been fucking.

"I'm having a goddamn stroke," was his first thought. Everything stopped. He'd been about to smile, thinking of the two of them giggling, two grown men giggling, in front of a painting. Then his body froze. The corners of his mouth, already twitching upward, stopped mid-twitch. "This is fucking bizarre," was his second thought. It was as if he could see all the way down to the very molecules of his body and they had all frozen, all stopped dead in their tracks.

The snack bar dropped away. He should have been dizzy but wasn't. He hovered above two men, giggling, in front of a painting. He watched as Brad collapsed against him, trying and failing, to still himself. He saw a man he had no memory of scowl at them but he saw a woman smile and a wistful looking teenage eyeing the two of them. Brad stopped giggling and turned to him, not to the real him, or the past him but to the him that seem to hover above it all. The 'real' Kent seemed not to notice that he, and everyone around him, had ceased all movement, just as had happened in the snack bar.

Kent was sure he was losing his mind. His grief and guilt had stripped all his gears.

"No, they haven't. Don't blame grief or guilt. You were always fucking crazy." Brad's voice came from the form looking up at him but the lips didn't move. The voice was Brad's. Kent had no question of that. It had just the right mocking, loving, teasing, intonation of his lover's voice.

"I miss you."

"I know you do. I miss you, too, when I try to. Don't take that wrong. It isn't that I've forgotten you. It's simply you seem more real to me than when I was alive."

"Are you a ghost?"

"Beats the hell outta me. I never believed in any of this shit. You know that as well as I do."

"Are you, uh, an angel?"

"Yeah, Kent, I'm not sure if I'm a ghost or not but, yeah, I'm an angel. Give me a break."

"Sorry. It's easier to believe I've lost my mind. I did I know. When you died. I couldn't deal with hating you for that. I, I...."

"I know, my poor sad mixed up baby. I know. But stop now. Okay?"

"Stop what? Missing you? Loving you? Pretend you never existed?"

"Sure, if you think you can. Jesus, I don't remember you being this dense. No, just stop trying to figure it all out, blaming yourself, blaming me, blaming the fucking sun, God, if he's there. Stop that. I'm fine. It's not like I spend my time strumming a harp and walking streets of gold or any of that shit. I'm not even sure if I'm happy but I'm sure as shit not suffering. I visit places like this. I visit places I had no memory of, not until I, well, died. You're not betraying me. You can't get rid of me, any more than I can get rid of you. You could fuck the entire NFL roster and not leave me behind."

"I don't understand."

"You think I do? Live, dummy. Maybe this with help; I have no idea if this is SOP when it comes to dying or if I got lucky. In other words, I wouldn't count on anything if I were you. So far, I've not seen anyone like me, whatever I am. Maybe that comes later but if my grandparents and first dog were supposed to greet me, they didn't get the memo."

"But? What do you do? Do you eat?"

"Do? I exist. I eat. I jerk off. Or I think I do. I haven't had to take a dump yet, or a whiz unless I feel like writing my name in the snow. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe until I no longer get something out of pissing in the snow or playing with the jizz on my belly, I'm not ready for whatever is next."

"You think there is something next?"

"Yeah, funny, but I do."

"Do you ever, uh, visit?"

"No, baby. I don't need to. I can't explain it. It's as if the real you is here, with me, not there. Not to be a dick or anything but you're the one that seems like a ghost."

The Brad standing in the museum, looking up in space, doesn't move but his voice is much closer now.

"Oh, poor baby, I wish I could make it all easy for you. You aren't meant to be here yet. I don't know why, just that you have more to learn, more to unlearn, more something. So, get on with it already. Before you ask, no, I can't see the future. Randy could be a serial killer for all I know. You know him better than I do. But I know you. If you feel something for him, he's probably a pretty good guy. Not that you need my permission, but if it makes it easier, I approve. Now, get the fuck out of here. I need to finish giggling and get back to learning how to be dead."

Kent feels the room shrink away from him. It stops. Brad's voice reaches his ears, muffled, distant.

"Call my mom. Please. I hated her, and my father, as much as you do but it's pointless. Call her. Tell her I remember the birthday party when I turned five and how we all played laser tag and had the worse, soggiest, nachos ever, and ice cream, and the world didn't end when we forgot to say grace before licking the drops running over the back of our hands and it was the best day ever. Call her."

Kent's mouth completes its smile. It falters. He feels a breath on the back of his neck. As it always does, it causes him to shiver. He hated it, and loved it, in equal measure, when Brad used to do that. He turns but of course no one is there. He shakes his head. What the hell?

He remembers giggling at the painting with Brad but remembers nothing of the strange way the world stopped for a moment.

He makes his mouth work and this time it says what he wants it to say. He's thrilled when Randy's eyes light up. Glenna winks at him as Randy pulls off the apron. As they walk toward the cabin, he contemplates the fact he's just made a date. And wondering why the fuck he thinks it would be a good idea to call the dried up old cunt that didn't deserve a son as wonderful as Brad. He flinches. His hand goes to his ear. He turns. No one. Weird. It sure felt like someone had flicked the back of his ear. Hard.

***

I ended up parking at Kent's place. We rode to the Carnegie in his car. I have no idea why I've lived all my life so close to Pittsburgh and never made it down for a visit. It wasn't like I was kicking up my heels in Cleveland, if I'm honest about it.

"I'd like to follow you," Kent had stated, after we'd fastened the small metal tabs to our collars, signifying we had the right to wander, more or less, unfettered about the exhibits.

I had been surprised. "You know the museum. I don't. Why don't you show me around?" I'd asked.

"I'd rather watch, see what you decide to look at, see what piques your interest. That's all." Kent had explained.

So that was the approach we had taken. It closed at five, we barely had two-and-a-half hours. I made for the photography galleries first, then the Impressionists and post-Impressionists. The collections were wonderful. The museum café was more than adequate. I had fun. At some point, Kent had taken a hold of my hand. If that provoked any disapproving looks I was oblivious to them.

We're standing in the visitors parking at his condo building, having arrived at that awkward stage of figuring out how the date should be drawn to a close.

"I should get on the road," I offer, before surrendering to a body-shaking yawn.

"Not a chance. You'll fall asleep before you get to the state line. I don't need that on my conscience. Come on," Kent orders.

There's nothing I need to be back tonight for. I agree with a nod.

"Your car is fine here."

I follow Kent through the adequate but not ostentatious lobby. He's on the 8^th floor, not a penthouse but only two floors from it. High enough for some of the traffic noise to fade but low enough a fire truck ladder can reach. The perfect urban compromise.

The condo is ultra-modern. All gloss surfaces and gleaming metal. It's new construction but built to look like it's a converted loft. The furniture is modern as well, chrome, sleek lines, minimalist. I like it well enough but I don't see Kent in it.

"What'd ya think?"

"It's great. I like the sleek lines. I like the loft feel. I'm not sure it's totally my style. I'm a little old school but I like it."

"I don't like it. Not much anyway." Kent scans the large living area. "It was Brad's. I moved in with him. It's mine now. I never felt like we made it ours. It's never felt lived in, like home, to me. I feel like I'm sleeping at a fancy hotel."

"Put your stamp on it. I don't see much you'd have add to make it personal. There's no pictures, not much art. I get what you mean about feeling like a hotel. To me it feels staged, like a model the real estate folks show."

Kent shakes his head. "I don't think I can make it feel like mine. It was hard enough making it feel like ours. I ought to sell it but don't have the time." His eyes sweep the room. "Or maybe I just don't have the energy."

"I know how that feels." I look around, not sure if I should sit or remain standing. This might not have been a good idea. I could have fueled up on gas station coffee.