Homework
Chapter
9:
Growing Up and I'm Fine
Brian
Last night we had a quiet night at home. Fuck! On a Saturday! Part of me, after
my fucking meltdown earlier, wanted to go out and get wasted and just generally
regress for a while, but we had Gus and we had plans for today, and
I don't
know.
Damn! I must be getting old or some shit because after Gus had gone to bed, we
opened a bottle of wine and found a movie that we both wanted to see, and curled
up on one of the fucking sofas that Marty found for us for the media room and
laughed at the movie while the little twat ate popcorn and I sucked the taste of
it from his mouth.
And it was all just
right, somehow. Quiet and no stress and no demands. He
didn't expect me to fucking unburden myself about exactly what caused me to fall
apart like some pussy at the movies. He's smart enough to have worked out the
general picture, and didn't seem to need any details.
After the movie, we climbed into the Jacuzzi and he rode my cock while the water
jets teased my ass, so when we got out, I let him top me on the rug in front of
the fireplace.
Then we went up to bed and had an "early fucking night". Shit!
But, the truth is
I enjoyed the wine. It was a Pinot Noir from Oregon mellow and silky with just
a hint of some kind of fucking spiciness; I sipped and savored it and enjoyed
the taste as well as the gentle buzz. The film was funny; actually it was
hilarious and watching Sunshine totally lose it and just cackle like a hyena in
a couple of places was even funnier. The time spent in the Jacuzzi eased all of
the tension out of my body. And the sex was, as always with Justin, fucking
spectacular.
If I'd gone out, I would have had many drinks that I gulped down without tasting
at all, purely for the burn and the buzz; I would have snorted anything that
came my way hoping it would take me just a little bit further away from my real
life; I would have told myself I was relaxing but actually I would have been
wired and "on" all fucking evening; and any sex I might have had with strangers
would have been all about just getting off and
candidly
pretty much boring
as shit.
We went to Babylon Friday night, and that was fun.
But if I'd gone out last night, it wouldn't have been about fun, it would have
been about looking for fucking oblivion. And I'm starting to learn
I guess I'm
a fucking retard that it's taken me this long
that sometimes oblivion isn't
all it's cracked up to be.
As a form of pain management, it might have been the best available when I was
before I
Before him. Them. My sonnyboys.
But now
compared to listening to my kid tell me all about the movie we'd seen
together today and describing all his favorite bits and beaming up at me like I
was a wizard who'd waved a wand and made something magic happen for him; and
then later sipping a quiet glass of wine here in my home with a man who
who
fucking loves me, who loves to be with me
Compared to having him spread himself over me and take care of me and take me in
ways that no one, no one, before him has ever had me
Compared to climbing into bed still mellowed out from the fuck and having him
give me a slow lazy blow job so that I fell into a deep sleep almost as soon as
my cock slipped out from between those fucking amazing lips
Compared to all that, oblivion just doesn't cut it anymore.
*****
Justin
I'd half thought that Brian might decide to go to Babylon or the Baths last
night, but instead we just hung out at home.
We had dinner with Gus which was kind of funny
he was talking about the movie,
telling us all his favorite bits and trying to do all the different character
voices, except they all sounded kind of the same, and sometimes he was talking
so fast that it was hard to understand anything he said. We had to keep
reminding him to eat his food. But it was obvious that he'd loved the movie and
he'd had a great day and even more obvious that as far as Gus is concerned his
father is like this huge hero who gave him this amazing experience that he'll be
telling all his school friends about at show and tell on Monday illustrated by
a stuffed penguin. Apparently it's a piece of movie merchandise that Brian had
been given by his client and he'd smuggled it home in his briefcase. He gave it
to Gus last night as we were tucking him into bed, and Gus threw his arms around
Brian's neck and gave his Daddy the biggest hug his little arms could manage.
I wish to fucking God I'd had a camera. But I will never forget it and I'll
paint it one day. Well, paint the joy and the love, anyway. Or try to. If I
could really capture it, I'd get immediate recognition as some kind of artistic
genius.
Maybe I'll try after I finish the next thing for the Warhol, and the other
painting I've been working on. I haven't said anything to Brian about that one,
yet. It's not like it's huge or anything. I just want to finish it and send it
off.
We got an email from Dan about a week ago. It didn't say much, just a bit about
how strange it is to be back in the UK, and how different it all is and yet it's
also still the same. He said that he hoped we were starting to feel at home in
the house. And he included a few photos. One recent one of him that apparently
his nephew took, standing outside Oscar Wilde's house. And there are a couple of
old ones of him, and of Billy.
It made me miss him, which sounds weird, considering we really only met him two
or three times. But
in this house, somehow I feel really close to him. And to
Billy who we never met at all, but whose window made me know we'd found our home
as soon as I saw it.
So I want to do a small painting for Dan. Of him and Billy. In this house. Or
maybe out in the garden. I think I can use the photos he gave me.
He gave us his nephew's address before he left in case we needed it for any
legal reason to do with the house sale so I can send it to him there.
But I'm not saying anything to Brian about it, because he'll just fret that I
should be working on stuff for my show.
Which I am. And I will.
But I want to do this first. I feel like I need to get it done and posted soon.
*****
Brian
We have a leisurely breakfast and the little twat earns my intense gratitude by
rescuing me from a family lunch. He's organized with Gus for them to take
Grandma and "Aunty Molly" out to a nice restaurant to celebrate Mother's Day.
Gus was thrilled to be involved in planning it all; he does ask if Im coming
too, but accepts it quite happily when I say I've got some work to do, but I'll
be coming out in the boat with them later. I briefly wonder if I should overcome
my aversion to these fucking occasions and go along if only to keep the peace,
because Tucker is going to be one of the lunch party.
But I do have some fucking financial projections to review, that's true enough.
Plus, I want to go over the loft renovation timetable with Stephane. But
Sunshine doesn't need to know that. I want to make sure it's finished and
looking fucking fabulous by the time the Warhol exhibit opens. I suspect he's
going to get a bunch of interview requests and I want to make sure he can invite
them into his work space if he wants, where he's on home ground and they can
look around the walls and see just why they should be fucking grateful to get
the chance to interview him now, before he's so fucking huge he doesn't need to
do that shit anymore.
If I need to offer some fucking cash incentives to make sure all the work is
finished on time and his work hung and lit the way it should be
well, Sunshine
doesn't need to know that either.
Stephane has just left and I'm settling down to go through the fucking spread
sheets Ted has given me when my cell rings. I must be totally absorbed in trying
to figure out what the fuck the figures are saying, because I answer the phone
without checking the caller ID. I guess I'm expecting it to be the little twat
giving me an update; or Joanie calling to make sure I haven't changed my mind.
But it's nothing so benign.
It's not my mother.
It's my son's.
Fucking fancy-assed "treatment center'. They were supposed to give us a head's
up when she could have calls. They fucking told Justin when he called them
during the week that she still wasn't "cleared" to accept calls. So they won't
allow her to take calls when they can control and screen who she's talking to,
but they'll let her make then when they've got no fucking control at all. Bet
some fucker thought that because it's Mother's fucking Day, it'll be okay.
Well, it's not fucking okay with me.
She's all weepy-saccharine of course. Apologizes for every fucking thing except
what she should really apologize for
putting my son through the hell he went
through when she dragged him off to Toronto away from his friends and family
just to placate the she-wolf and then kept him miserable and half-starved in
some fucking little shoe box rather than admit how fucking stupid she'd been.
Oh, no, she's just apologizing for "not being strong enough" because "it was
just so hard, Peter".
I'm biting my fucking tongue reminding myself that she was my friend once.
Before Justin, before Gus was even thought of, she was my Wendy. And she's Gus's
mother. At some point she'll get out of this place and we'll have to deal with
each other.
So I make vague mumbles. I have no fucking clue what I can say to her. We were
supposed to be briefed by her counselor before we had any contact with her.
Fuck!
Now she's asking for Gus.
I am so fucking thankful that he's not here.
But, naturally, when I tell her that, she has a fucking meltdown. First she gets
on her high horse, accusing me of lying and demanding to speak to her son. Then
she gets all weepy, and starts begging. Then, when I finally get it through to
her that he really isn't here, she climbs back onto her high horse, demanding to
know where he is. By then I've had enough, so I tell her.
Of course when she finds out she can't speak to "her son" because he's out at a
Mother's Day lunch with Justin and his mother, she goes ballistic. Totally loses
it, calling me all sorts of shit.
It's when she starts in on Justin that I gear up to respond. But before I can
get past, "Listen to me
" I hear her gasp.
Then she shrieks, "No! No!"
Then there's some kind of fucking scuffle and the phone goes dead.
I debate pulling up the call log and just calling back, but instead I dial the
hospital. Sorry, "Counseling and Rehabilitation Treatment Center".
I tell the breathy-voiced moron who answers the phone that I've just had a call
from Lindsay Petersen and I want to know why the fuck we hadn't been advised
that she was authorized to make calls like they'd fucking promised to do. She
huffs and puffs over my language, and says with what I suspect is meant to be a
sexy purr, but actually sounds like she's got fucking asthma or some shit,
"Could you please hold the line for a moment?"
A fucking bunch of moments later another voice, masculine this time, and
sounding pissed, comes on the line. "Mr. Kinney?"
I grunt an affirmative, and the voice goes on, "It's Dr. Wainfleet here. We are
very sorry you were disturbed, Mr. Kinney. Ms. Petersen is not yet cleared to
either make or receive any phone calls, and we are not at this stage sure how
she managed to do so. We will certainly be investigating the matter. Do you have
a record of the number she called from?"
I check the log and give him the number. I guess I'm dropping whoever Linds
sweet-talked into letting her use their phone into a heap of shit, but I don't
give a fuck.
For all I know she tried dialing the loft before she called the cell. She
probably doesn't know we've moved. If we'd still been there, Gus could have
answered. Even here, when either of our cells rings, he's always asking if he
can answer. If it's someone like his Grandma or Deb calling, we let him. He's
five. Kids love that shit.
So far we haven't had a landline installed at the house; we've been debating
whether we need it. Right now, getting one looks like a really fucking bad idea.
As long as the only way anyone can reach us is through my cell or Justin's
there's much less risk that Gus will answer the phone. And suddenly, that's a
bigger fucking issue than we thought.
The voice goes on, meanwhile, giving more fucking assurances that theyll
investigate and it won't happen again and all that shit. It had better fucking
not. But since I have no faith at all in their ability to prevent Linds getting
her way if she's set on something, I send Justin telling him to let his phone go
to voice mail if he doesn't recognize the caller ID.
Then I pour myself a drink.
Much as I hate to admit it, the whole thing has me fucking rattled. From the
sounds of it, Lindsay's a long way from being ready to come back to the real
world. There's no fucking way I'd let her anywhere near Gus, that's for damned
sure. I make a mental note to send my shark of a lawyer an email filling her in
on this little episode. If I don't keep her updated and something happens,
she'll kick my ass.
But even while I'm thinking about that, my brain is circling around the bigger
issue.
I guess all this time I've thought that having Gus here is great, but not to get
too used to it because it would be for weeks, rather than months. Right now,
judging by the hysteria in Lindsay's voice, it's looking like fucking years
isn't out of the fucking question.
I'm trying to get my head around what that means for me, and most of all for
Justin. Fuck! He's going to have the world knocking on his door, asking, begging
him to come visit.
I've been telling myself that we'd figure it out, that Kinnetik is getting to
the point now where I could maybe do some traveling with him. Maybe even scout
up some new business. But none of that can happen if we still have Gus. And I
can't fucking abandon my son to go swanning off with my partner.
Fuck!
How the Hell did I ever become someone with these problems?
The "good old" pre-Justin days are looking pretty fucking fantastic right now.
If I hadn't seen that little twink standing under a streetlight I wouldn't be
sitting here in this fucking home of ours working out how I'm going to live in
it without him; feeling the pain of that thought like some fucking light saber
searing into my chest.
But before I can do anything totally fucking stupid and self-destructive,
another thought hits me
What if I hadn't come out of Babylon at just that time; if I hadn't met him,
hadn't been kicked and wrangled into making all these fucking changes in my
life? What if every other fucking thing had gone down the same way, but I was
still who I was back then except five years older and with one less ball? Some
fucking pathetic loser probably drinking more and doing more and stronger drugs
just to blur the edges enough to let me get through one more day; with the
standard of the men I'm fucking dropping every day and every trick I pull a
bigger loser even than me.
If things were like that, where would my Sonnyboy be now?
They wouldn't be prepared to give him to me, that's for fucking sure.
He could be in fucking care. In some State run nightmare of a "Home", or with a
foster family that don't give a shit about him, they just want the cash that
comes with having him stay with them; and that's if he's lucky. It could be a
hell of a lot worse.
Fuck! He could even be stuck in fucking Canada. Maybe even at the mercy of the
she-wolf; being told every day what a fucking joke his old man is, and berated
for being just like me every time he puts a foot wrong.
Those thoughts are enough to make me forget my bullshit and get over myself.
So
Sunshine might have to go away on a few business trips. So the fuck what?
We'll deal. We dealt with LA. We dealt with New York. We'll deal with Paris and
London and fucking Timbuktu if we have to.
I may not be the hot young stud I was back when we met, but I'm not that full of
bullshit pansy-assed faggot who was terrified of anyone ever seeing past his
fucking masks either. I know who I am, and so does he. He promised me, back on
that weekend in Chicago, that he wouldn't let "us" stand in the way of him doing
what he needed to do for his career, and I promised I wouldn't queen out on him
and start looking round for cliffs to throw him off. That I'd let him do what he
needed to do and trust him enough to believe that when he finished, he'd be
back.
Guess it's coming up time to live up to those promises again.
On that note. I wash my glass and get ready to go pick up Joanie.
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