Chapter Twenty Five

GRAYSON

There's a harrowing pit in my stomach. It can't be hunger since I'm eating right now. I've stopped at a pizza restaurant in Winona, Mississippi, for a couple slices of pie and a tall glass of Coke. My gut feels it's more than likely due to the fact that I'm closely approaching Felton, Louisiana. As much as I don't want to face the music, it's headed my way come Hell or high water. Or perhaps just Hell, which paints the landscape quite vividly.

Julian's second New York City journal has distracted me for the last few minutes, but now it's time I revisit my present circumstances, as grueling as they are. But I'm missing out on a large chunk of his Boston entries, which pisses me off to no end. It's my own drunken fault. I'd reached Memphis today when it dawned on me that I left his Boston journal at The Six String Saloon in Dickson. As I review their hours listed by Google, I can clearly understand that they're still closed. But I've made a mental reminder to call this evening and beg the manager to mail it home. I can't lose another piece of him. I just can't. Before locking my screen again, I notice there are two texts from Miles I've yet to read.

The closest decent hotel to Felton with a two-room suite is The Wilhelm in Franklinton. All you need to do is let them scan this barcode and they'll take you upstairs. The Wilkins jet will be wheels up at eight in the morning and we should land at the regional airstrip around eleven local time. Hopefully the rental we've reserved is waiting for us.

We're bringing Boo Radley. He'll be excited to see you.

He's always thinking of others. I have no Earthly idea what I'd do without Miles, or Alex for that matter. It does mean a lot that they're coming to Julian's funeral. And I guess it will be beneficial to have some moral backup in front of my fucking family. Hell hath no fury like a Captain Langford scorned! Another carbonated taste of Coke fizzes the back of my throat before I finish the last bites in front of me. As a New Yorker, I really should enjoy all the parts to a decent pie. But there's something about the hard crusts which I've always found off putting. After wiping my fingers clean, I hammer out a few replies to Miles.

K, Franklinton is just a few minutes from Felton.

Also, I spoke to Steve's office. They're arranging a quick transfer of Julian's body and will be arriving by plane on Wednesday. They just need my father to electronically sign some form. I don't plan on facing him until tomorrow. And I'm not looking forward to it either.

Yes, it will be wonderful to see our Boo Bear. Or fuck, I guess I should just say ‘my' Boo Bear now.

Albeit slowly, it's registering in my vicious psyche that Julian's gone. But I find myself still claiming joint ownership of our possessions. A shrilling scream of a young child at a table across the restaurant causes me to jump inches out of this booth. He's crawling around on all fours underneath the table, with bouts of jumping from one chair to another like a monkey. The look on his mother's face seems beyond taxed as she bounces a baby in her left arm. Seeing the widened eyes on her baby takes my mind back to the journey Julian and I took in the fall of 1994.

Alex and his only sibling, Jessica, sat opposite Julian and me at O'Doul's Pub in Yonkers. She'd just returned from the doctor's office, bristling with excitement. Good news for he and I, for sure.

"So, they're happening," Jessica said gleefully, sliding a photograph across the table.

I scooped it from the surface as my eyes grew to the size of oranges. "They?"

"Yes Daddies," she confirmed. "You're gonna have twins."

Twins. The thought permeated my brain. I was so elated that Julian and I would be raising one bundle of joy. But two? After an initial shock of the plural noun, tears of joy burst from my lower lids. I turned my head to get a read of Julian's flummoxed aspect. His eyes were probably bigger than my own, with a lip curved inward.

"Twins—Momo!" I exclaimed, brushing the back of my hand against his cheek.

Julian let out a sigh. "I guess I'd better start persuading my boss to consider my own manuscripts," he avowed.

At twenty-four, I was already doing financially well for the both of us. It's what gave me the inkling that we might have been ready for a child in the first place. I knew society didn't yet have a grasp for affording gays the same rights as straight couples adopting children. That's when we pursued a surrogate—someone we knew we could trust. Just about three months earlier, at the suggestion of a coworker, Julian and I harmonized our seed into a cup. We supplied Jessica with a turkey baster, leaving it up to the universe to determine whose DNA our baby would possess. In fact, we almost thought it didn't work. Much to our surprise, it seemed to surpass our hopes by a mile.

A nervous feeling imploded from within. "Maybe we're gonna need that extra income after all," I replied, side-arming my Puerto Rican sensation.

Our foreheads rubbed against the other while I caught a glance of Alex beginning to shed a tear at the sight of our public displays of affection. Even though the four of us had been accustomed to communal admiration.

"The obstetrician has assigned a due date of the first week in May," Jessica added.

Julian and I gasped excitedly, our joy teeming in unison.

"Your birthday," he said with the biggest fucking smile I'd ever seen.

While I exclaimed, "my birthday!"

Too many positive sensations combusted within me. At that moment, I felt like the universe was gracing us with two exceptional gifts. It didn't matter that we'd have to work a little harder to afford it. I made an instant decision, convincing myself that I'd go to the ends of the Earth to make it all work out if that's what it took.

After a few minutes of gleeful conversation, many mental notes and plans for the future, Julian and I marched outside the pub. We desperately needed whatever fresh oxygen Upstate New York could spare. The autumn air cleansed my lungs as I peeked up at the cirrus clouds skirting across the sky, thanking whomever responsible for giving us more than we'd asked.

I rise from the seat, gathering my small mess to toss in the garbage before I return for the journal and my messenger bag. There's only about three or so hours of driving left. Then, I'll find myself within the margins of misery. If it's even possible to suffer more than I already have. Immediately out the doors, I light another cigarette, taking a deep inhale of nicotine on my schlep to the car. These temperate conditions in the Southern states are so terrible, it feels like a live-action adaptation of "The Divine Comedy" for the big screen.

Watching the single mom from inside the restaurant load a baby carrier into her minivan ushers my memory back to our paternal attempts of raising a family. With Interstate 55 ahead of me, I have nothing but time to be a slave of yet another traumatic time in our lives.

It was nine on a frosty Sunday morning in January of 1995. I'd been fresh out of a shower while Julian broke his back preparing our breakfast waffles. A black towel adorned my waist as I ran my fingers through my wet hair on the trek out through our living room. The phone rang once I reached the kitchen in our recently moved-into Astoria apartment.

I lifted the phone receiver plugged into the wall adjacent to our refrigerator. "Hello?"

"Gray?" Alex asked, seeming uncertain if he'd dialed the correct number.

"Yeah," I replied.

I could hear the crack in his booming tenor voice. "I don't know how the fuck to say this."

With my back to Julian, I swallowed whatever fluid remained in my mouth, preparing for whatever bitter pill I was about to be dosed with. "Okay?"

"Jessica—" he muttered, pausing briefly. "Jessica left a message on our answering machine this morning."

It was in that moment when my gut felt like a large boulder had painfully sunk from my esophagus down into my stomach. Whenever anyone begins a conversation as he just did, it's never pleasant news.

"Oh my God—Alex," I gasped. "What's wrong?" I asked, although I had my suspicions of what was about to eject from his mouth.

Alex's harried tone confirmed those suspicions without the need for a single fucking word. "Jessica said—she lost the—the babies on Thursday" he stammered. "And now I can't get her to answer my calls."

That was it. The confirmation that my biggest fear had just become our new reality. Julian shuffled from around the counter, wrapping his arms around my torso with an eager tongue at the base of my left ear. I questioned how the hell I would relay the bomb Alex dropped seconds prior. But my brain was so entirely hung up on the words ‘lost the babies,' that I was incapable of processing anything beyond that.

"Grayson?" Alex blurted. "Are you still there?"

I tried replying. I truly made an attempt. But much like when my father accosted me with his fists of rage years prior, my heart froze like a giant ice cube. And the ability to form a single word, much less a whole sentence, seemed to be an impossible feat.

"Grayyyy?"

My right hand thumped the switch hook, ending the call. I didn't necessarily mean to be rude, but there was no way I'd be able to reply. It was entirely some instinctive reaction. My head twisted to see the honeyed expression warming Julian's mien evolve to the exact opposite. Like I didn't need to share the awful news to my lover. He just knew something had boarded the Southbound Express by that point.

His freighted gaze crushed the iceberg in my chest, rendering it useless altogether. "What's the matter, Saccharo Ferre?"

I unraveled from his grip to head towards our bedroom so I could change into clothes. All the while trying to contrive an explanation for Julian that our babies weren't coming after all. For whatever reason, my feet stopped in their tracks once I sauntered by the second bedroom we'd already decorated into a nursery.

As I entered the room, the hues of yellow and green inundated the furrows of my tattered existence. We were expecting both a girl and boy, so we didn't conform to the usual pink or blue panache. I traced the edge of one of the cribs with my forefinger. We'd literally just assembled it two nights prior. We kickstarted the weekend in celebration, oblivious to the fact that we'd be in mourning by Sunday.

The phone rang for a second time. I knew full well it was sure to be Alex again. Julian answered, since he was obviously closer, while my body went completely numb. My spine landed against the wall behind me, sliding down the coarse texture on my way to the floor. Both hands crowded my face. I simply wanted to release the ocean of emotions welled up inside. I did. But I had no idea how to grieve over something I'd never been given the chance to hold in the first place.

The clang of our phone receiver returning to its cradle was louder than thunder, followed by Julian trundling down the hallway to find me. My world stopped turning. And for the first time in my life, knowing how to defrag my scattered thoughts became ambiguous.

A timespan of twenty-seven years doesn't steal any of the novelty from my experience with grief. Tears rain down my cheek as I approach a slow-moving car in front of me. I shouldn't have to remind a driver with a Mississippi license plate that it's sixty-five through this stretch of highway. I'm certainly not in that big of a hurry. But it would be nice to check into our hotel before the fucking zombie apocalypse. As soon as the semi in the left lane passes me, I follow suit to speed up, claiming first place over the green station wagon mimicking a tortoise.

I glance at the green sign up ahead informing me that the town I must drive through to get to Franklinton and Felton is merely another hour away. That intel sends another pang to my gut. It's honestly so intense, I might need antacids. And luckily, I keep a few of them in a small, sectioned medication canister inside my messenger bag. Perhaps this is one instance where preparedness has become an advantage rather than an inconvenience.

F ranklinton is just a snake's slither away once I pass McDonald's as I veer to the right. I swing through the Valero station on the way into town. The fuel light has been lit for the past half hour and I usually never let it dip below a quarter of a tank. I unclasp my phone from the dash holder, then climb from behind the wheel. It feels fantastic to stretch my legs. Since it's only three, I'm going to stretch out on the hotel bed for a few minutes before I succumb to the inevitable. Irrevocably changing Sophia and Julio's life will deplete each goddamn morsel of my energy, zapping it into space.

I insert my Mastercard into the pump so I can fill up. While I wait amidst the mechanical hissing and whirring, my focus zeroes in on an address for The Wilhelm. According to Google, it's on the East end of Franklinton. To that end, it seems wise to acquire a few supplies from inside before checking into the hotel. A minute longer of enduring in this God forsaken heat, I can finally return the pump to its cradle, tighten my gas cap, and scurry across the cement towards the store.

Inside, their air conditioning blesses me with relief as I search for a bottle of Tums. Even generic antacids would suffice. I can't possibly be picky when it feels like Oscar the fucking Grouch is performing somersaults deep in my gut. On the far end of the store is a shelf where I find antacids among a selection of other digestive aids. The variety of health and personal care needs inside this small store is impressive.

There's even a sixty-count bottle of Tums for eight bucks. Since it's highly doubtful I'll find a CVS or Walgreens in the sparse parameters of rural Louisiana, I won't bat an eye. So long as they get the job done. And they're smoothie flavored. That must count for something, right?

My phone buzzes as I trot towards the front clerk. It's probably Steve Tallman based on the area code. Anyone else back home who'd be calling on a Monday afternoon would register from my saved contacts in the cloud. I can't answer inside the gas station because the details are too personal. And I don't prefer to handle serious business around strangers. I never have. He will just have to leave a message.

I slide the antacids across the counter, all the while spotting an array of liquor behind May, standing at her register. The selection teases my dark traveler and its unremitting thirst. My eyes scan the shelf, stepping aside to take in the view of her entire booze shelf. It doesn't appear they have Glenlivet. No Balvenie DoubleWood either.

Brand preferences aside, they do have a handle sized bottle of Glenmorangie with a higher price tag than anticipated. It's either this or suffer, Gray. The veracity of soon losing my job causes me to cringe at such a flippant disregard for pinching pennies. Yet at this stage in my life, hooch is all too important. My budget will just need to chill the fuck out.

May smiles in my direction. "Anything else hon?"

I nod with a pointed finger. "Yes," I reply. "I'll take the handle of Glenmorangie off to the left there," I add. "And two packs of Camels, full flavor please."

"Having a party?" May asks, assumingly trying to keep things friendly.

"No," I retort. "No party, not at all."

Unless she finds pleasure in a pity party. Though I doubt that's crossed her amiable mind.

"Just what you'd call Monday ," I shrug with a sigh.

The Mastercard sails from my grasp, sliding across the counter, landing on the floor by her feet. I didn't intentionally throw it. Truth is that my hands are quite shaky. The nerves beneath my skin are about to go full throttle once my Black Beauty finds herself galloping beyond the town limit of Felton, Louisiana.

I shake my head in disgust at my clumsiness. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to throw that at you."

"Oh hon, don't you worry your pretty little head," May responds, swiping my card on her terminal.

I'm sure the grin on my face looks awkward, resembling more of a frown. Her kind words and demeanor are a welcome touch on such an abysmal return to the South. She reminds me that some people down here are still good natured.

May gathers my smokes and Tums, before concealing the liquor with a paper bag. "You look rode hard and put up wet," she says.

My eyebrow shoots to the sky in total confusion. The awkwardness between us adds another reason for me to hurry back to the car. I have absolutely no fucking clue what that's supposed to mean. But, since she's so nice, I can only surmise it's not meant negatively. Once returning my wallet to the messenger bag, I collect my purchase before traipsing towards the exit.

I shout over my shoulder with a nod. "Have a good day."

"I hope it gets better for you," she replies.

The satisfying taste of nicotine affords me a little peace as I slide into a parking spot at The Wilhelm. I remain behind the wheel, finishing the cigarette between my fingers. A haunting string of lyrics to "Hold On" by Chord Overstreet hurls a series of hypothetical blades straight to my heart. And with them brings a devastating visual image of finding Julian's lifeless shell twisted like a pretzel on the floor by our toilet. God damn it! The palm of my hand scolds my cheek in disgust because I shouldn't be thinking about this. I don't need any more reminders of that nightmare than I already have.

As I step out of the car, I wield the items from the gas station in one arm. And juggle a sack of food from the Sonic drive-thru, including a large Coke in the other. I lift the trunk of my car with an elbow. Surely there's more than enough shit to carry inside. I doubt I can get everything through the sliding doors without dropping something. If the incident at the hotel in New York on Thursday is any reference, I should know better than to bet on a losing battle.

Surely the lobby has a luggage cart I can use. With a hasty shuffle inside, I discover there is one. Back outside, I load my suitcases onto the cart, along with my food and things from the Valero. The trunk slams shut before I find myself pushing the cart ahead with ease. Though, the pavement is bumpy and my ice-cold Coke rattles off the cart. You're absolutely kidding me right now?!?!

Chuck at the front desk checks me into the suite Miles and Alex are footing the bill for. Indeed, all he needed to do was scan the barcode from Miles' text. If this is the easiest thing to happen today, then God damn it, I'll take it. The void in my soul is already aware that my evening will only escalate. So, I'd better bask in this moment of simplicity while I can.

Upstairs, I'm graced with the keen aesthetic of a spacious suite. There are two separate rooms on opposing ends of a large sitting area. I stand in the center of the room, scratching at my scalp while deciding which one to choose. As soon as the bellhop shuts the door behind him, I peek my head into each room. When I discover they each have their own bathroom, I hoist both suitcases at my waist to waddle into the room off to my left. My belongings rest on a bench at the foot of a king-sized bed before returning to retrieve the rest of my shit. At this point, I feel like I'm moving in.

I hover in front of the toilet, aiming my piss into the bowl. The relief washes my visage as I stand at the sink to clean my hands. An unpleasant echo bounces from the mirror, deriding my outlook on how the direction my day is about to take. Muck like hearing the devilish cackle droning from my vanquished heart. My wound still throbs every so often, and my exhausted eyes confirm exactly how I feel. Overdone and dry.

Once my hands are cleaner than Howie Mandel's, I brush them against a towel draped beside me. Out in the room, I retrieve another journal from Julian's suitcase labeled New York City . My fingers thumb to a random page, as I find a comfortable spot among the sea of pillows. The Sonic sack embellishes my lap while I finagle a greasy onion ring. Hopefully I will find some soothing words from my lover's pen before I must confront my detriment, ultimately killing other people's joy like Krampus at Christmastime.