NO MAN AN ISLE
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Chapter 2
Faced with the choice of shopping or not eating, Kurt drove to the general store in the village Wednesday morning, checked his postbox, and returned home to spend the rest of the day taking care of details he'd passed over while trying to get settled in. Not until after dinner did he sit down and sort through the few letters forwarded to his postbox by his aunt's secretary in response to the change-of-address card he'd sent to her. He opened the heavy manila envelope and slipped out envelopes from his bank, grateful for the quarterly cheques from his trust and the interest from the certificates of deposit purchased in his name by his aunt with the proceeds from the sale of his parents' real estate. He scanned the account statement with relief. In taking over as his trustee, she had demonstrated an uncanny ability to multiply its value. With his simple wants and his disability cheque there would be a reasonable amount left over after the essentials had been met.
He set these aside and looked over the few remaining pieces of first class mail, making a mental note to drop his aunt's secretary a line of thanks for discarding circulars and other junk mail.
The next morning a raucous honking drew Kurt to the gate. A stooped elderly man in bib overalls and wrinkled shirt withdrew his arm from the window of a much dented, rusted truck and faced Kurt through the bars. An eagle-beak of a nose dominated the weathered face covered in a few days growth of grizzled beard. "You be tha' young feller wants some paintin'?"
Kurt nodded. "I'll open the gate."
"Ain' no need. Done this place afore. You kin?"
"Paul was my uncle. He left the place to me."
The mouth spread in a toothless grin. "I'll do fer ya, then. Ain' a-goin' ta use what I done las' time. Needs a heavy stain now, 'cause o' the weatherin.' Las' longer, pertec' better. When I finds out the price, I'll give ya mine." He returned to his truck and rattled away in a dense cloud of blue exhaust, the engine knocking loudly.
With the work about the house complete, Kurt found time dragging, the solitude less desirable than he'd thought possible, yet he knew from the suspicious glances he received from the natives in the post office and general store that he would long be an outsider in this close-knit community. It would be enough if Erik and the chief became trusted friends.
Friday morning he remembered the things he'd had shipped from storage to the warehouse in Elizabeth City. He drove to the pay phone at the village store and placed a call. They refused to deliver to the house and, knowing it would be impossible for him to handle several sizable crates alone, he drove on to the station to enlist Erik's help. He found the chief standing in front of one of the station's out buildings.
"I need to ask a favor of Erik, Chief. Is he around?"
"Not at the moment. What'cha need?"
"I've had some things shipped down from home. I mean things I've had in storage since my parents died. I've got to pick them up at the warehouse in Elizabeth City and I'll need some help. I was wondering if Erik were free tomorrow and might give me a hand."
"I'll ask 'im when he gets back. Iffin he don't want to, I'll give you a call. Iffin ya got more 'an ya can tote in yer Jeep, we send the truck to the supply base there every Monday. The boys can pick yer stuff up fer you."
"There are going to be six fairly large crates that I can't manage. I thought about renting a truck, but I doubt I can find one that can make it to the house and I couldn't carry more than one at a time in the Jeep. It would be a big help and save me a lot of trips, if you don't mind."
"Glad to oblige. May take a week er so. We'll have to do it when there ain't much for the station."
"Nothing that's pressing, Chief. Thanks."
Kurt awakened the next morning at the sound of footsteps in the hall. As he started to call out, Erik entered his room and held out a mug of coffee.
"Thanks."
Erik shook his head. "No way. I gotta thank you for talking to the chief. He wouldn't have let me come again if you hadn't. I'm glad you asked me to help." He looked into Kurt's face with a seeking expression. "At least you want me," he blurted and dashed from the room.
When he dressed and went into the kitchen, Erik, who had been seated at the table hunched over a mug of coffee, stood. "Sit. I got your breakfast ready."
Kurt looked in astonishment at the plate of eggs Benedict Erik set before him. "You?"
Erik only smiled.
As he ate, Kurt tried to reconcile the little he knew about Erik with what the chief had said. He drank the last of the coffee and started to set the empty mug in the sink, but Erik snatched it from his hand, washed it, and placed it with the other dishes stacked to drain.
"Can't stand a dirty kitchen," he muttered before Kurt could question.
Erik drove, letting Kurt relax and enjoy renewing his distant memories of the landscape the jeep passed through. An hour later, they pulled up in front of the small office building fronting the huge warehouse. The clerk in the understaffed warehouse was harried and irritable. "Look, you got ten crates, okay? But you only want the four smaller ones now and the rest will be picked up by a Coast Guard truck some time in the next week or two, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, you'll have to load 'em yourself. Two of my men didn't come in." He led them into shadowy recesses past pallets stacked high; the air heavy with the odors of cardboard, wood, dust, oil and exhaust fumes from the forklifts. In the last bay, he pointed out the crates consigned to Kurt and pointed to a hand-truck. "You can use that."
They stacked two of the smaller crates and Erik pushed the load to the Jeep. As they lifted the second crate into the jeep, Kurt felt the leg give way. He fell, the splintery wood crashing into his thigh.
"Kurt!" Erik shoved the crate to one side and pulled him up.
He grimaced as he regained his footing.
"Are you hurt?"
"A little."
The clerk snickered. Erik's eyes turned icy; he sprang for the man, grabbing a handful of shirt and drawing back a fist. "You sorry shit."
"Erik!"
The fist dropped, but the grip held as Erik snarled a few words then jerked the clerk toward the crate.
"Sorry," the man mumbled and, once Erik had helped Kurt to his seat in the Jeep, he and the clerk loaded the other two crates.
Erik was driving toward the supermarket when Kurt asked, "Did you have to be so rough with the guy?"
"I should of decked the sorry bastard."
"What did you say to him?"
Erik squirmed in the seat. "Nothing."
"But ..."
Erik slammed on the brakes and glared at him, oblivious to the blowing horns behind. "Let it go, can't you!"
Kurt shrugged. "Okay.
Having given Erik the shopping list and some money, Kurt spent the time trying to will away the throbbing pain in his stump. It seemed ages before Erik at last placed the bags of groceries in the back and drove on, speaking only to swear at other drivers.
Kurt eased cautiously out of the Jeep, but cried out and crumpled to the ground. Instantly, Erik was kneeling beside him. "What?"
"Leg."
"Oh, God!" Erik picked him up and carried him to his bed. Gently, he removed Kurt's outer clothing and fumbled with the prosthesis until it came away in his hands. The stump sock splotched with oozing blood.
"Jesus! Why didn't you tell me?" Erik grabbed the phone and jabbed at the button. "Come on, come on," he growled under his breath as he waited. "Chief, get the medic here fast!" He slammed the phone down and placed a towel beneath the bloody stump.
Kurt raised up on his elbows. "There was need for you to call the chief. It's no big thing; just painful."
"That's what you say."
"I'll be okay if you'll get me a codeine tablet. They're in the bathroom cabinet."
Once he had swallowed the tablet, Erik pushed him back against the pillow. Concern etched his face as he carefully rolled the stump sock down and bathed the gash with a moist face-cloth.
"It's all my fault," he mumbled. "Every time I try to help someone, it goes all wrong."
Kurt placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault that I fell. I'm all right, really." But Erik wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Where be you, Lindstrom?" The voice thundered through the house.
Erik ran to the door. "In here, Chief."
"Goddamn it! What'cha ya done now?"
"Nothing, Chief. Honest."
Seeing Erik quail before the chief's fury, Kurt spoke, seeing the anger change to immediate concern. "It was an accident, Chief. I lost my grip on one of the crates we were loading. Erik had nothing to do with it."
"Iffin you say so." The voice remained unconvinced.
"This is going to sting," the medic cautioned as he saturated a gauze pad with antiseptic. Kurt grasped the post of the bed, catching his breath sharply as the medication sent a blaze of fire across his stump.
At Kurt's gasp Erik's fist closed. He started to lunge for the medic, but the chief grabbed his arm and forced him out into the hall.
"I know it's painful, but the cut isn't deep. Spend the day lying down and keep the stump elevated. Do you have anything for pain?"
"I took a codeine tablet a few minutes ago."
"Good. That'll be all you need. I'll come back tomorrow afternoon."
"Thanks. I wouldn't have bothered you but Erik insisted."
The medic shook his head. "It's good he did. If that cut got infected it could cause you a real problem. But watch out for Lindstrom, he's a mean bastard."
After the medic had left his room, Kurt heard the chief's hard brittle words from the hall. "Lindstrom, ya think I can leave ya here widout'cha ya fouling-up?"
"I gotta stay with him, Chief. He's hurt."
"All right. But ya make it any worse fer that man in there and I'll beat ya within an inch of yer miserable life. Ya hear me?"
Subdued, Erik eased back into Kurt's room as the station Jeep roared off. "You okay?"
"Sure. Hand me my crutches and let's go in the library."
Erik shook his head. "Medic says you stay in bed, you stay."
"I can lie on the sofa just as well."
By the time he had made Kurt comfortable and brought in BLT's, hot tea for Kurt and coffee for himself, some of his good nature had returned. He gave Kurt a wry smile. "Not as good as you'd fix, but it'll do." He set the plate and mugs on the coffee table and began to eat. "I got the groceries put away. After we finish eating I'll break open those crates and get everything inside."
While Erik was outside, Kurt began to think about him again. The outburst of temper at the warehouse had been uncalled for, and the chief immediately assumed he had hurt me and threatened him. He had seen members of the station's crew grimace or turned away if Erik's name was mentioned, and the medic calling him a mean bastard. But Erik wants to help, not hurt. And the way he insists I've given him so much when I've given him nothing. His musing was broken as Erik entered with the last of the stereo equipment and set it on the floor.
"What a system! Where do you want to put it?"
"I thought we might use some of the space in the bookcases for the gear and put the speakers in the corners of the fireplace wall so the bass will be reinforced. You can leave them where they are because I won't be able to help you with them for at least a week. How'd you get the speakers in here, heavy as they are? "
Erik's face darkened. "Don't need help. I got 'em in, didn't I?" He growled savagely and picked up one of the large speaker enclosures, carrying it to the corner.
Kurt watched the display of strength in amazement until he thought of the ease with which Erik had carried him into the house.
Erik grinned as he walked back across the room. "Not too bad. Now for the other one."
"How'd you do it? You're incredible."
"We don't need anybody else, you and me."
"What do you mean?"
Erik dropped his head under Kurt's scrutiny. "Nothing." He set the other speaker system in place then started to carry some of the electronic equipment to the bookcases.
"Why don't you forget that until tomorrow? You've done more than enough as it is, and you still have to make up one of the beds upstairs for yourself." Kurt smiled at him. "But as long as you're still up, I could use another cup of tea."
"Sure." Once he had gotten tea for Kurt and coffee for himself, Erik took the chair opposite Kurt and leaned back. "Tired, but it's a good tired."
Sunday morning the rain beat steadily down. They lingered over coffee, saying little until Erik set his mug aside. "Might as well get the system hooked up and get those records and tapes put away."
"You're not tired from yesterday?"
Erik shook his head. "No way. I didn't do that much and I slept great. If you've got a drill, I'll make a couple of small holes in the baseboard and run the wires underneath the house."
Once he had pulled the wiring, Erik spent the rest of the day connecting the components and filling the remaining shelf space with the mass of recordings.
"When did you find time to catalogue all of these?" He asked as he pushed the card file into place.
"While I was in the hospital. I made notes every time I bought a recording, so I had the listings and my lap-top. It filled an awful lot of time when I couldn't do anything else."
"This is too much. How can I hear all of these," Erik pointed to the recordings, "and read all those books, and get my practice done?" Overwhelmed, he took refuge in the kitchen to fix dinner.
At Kurt's compliment on the meal he smiled slowly. "Guess this is sort of a celebration of what we've gotten done."
"You mean what you've done. All I've done is lie here and tell you how I wanted it."
Erik shrugged and went to the organ. He was in the third movement of a Mendelssohn sonata when a knock came at the door. His face hardened as he went to answer.
The station medic strode into the room. "How do you feel?"
"Fine. You did a good job."
"Let's change that dressing."
When Erik started to follow, the medic turned. " Stay out, Lindstrom."
Erik's fist shot out, middle finger upright before he returned to the organ, tearing into the final allegro at break-neck speed.
Kurt and the medic returned shortly and sat listening until Erik finished the piece.
"I've got to get back, but I'll try to look in again about Wednesday. You be careful and let me know if that stump bothers you."
"Thanks."
The medic shrugged. "No problem. You want a ride, Lindstrom?"
"Will you be okay if I go, Kurt?"
"I should think so."
Not until Thursday did he see anyone. The chief let himself into the house with his key.
"The boys had to make a run to the supply base for a part or two, so we got the rest of yer stuff over to the station. Lindstrom can bring it over after hours tomorrow or Saturday."
"Appreciate that, Chief. The pot's on."
The chief followed him into the kitchen, accepting a mug of coffee and seating himself at the table. "It ain't none of my business, but what happened to Lindstrom after we left last weekend?"
"Nothing that I can think of. Why?"
"He's been so civil the crew thinks he's gone off the deep end and he even made up with Adams. You know, the medic. They've had a grudge going ever since Adams come out here a couple of months ago. Couldn't get it out of either of 'em what happened. Adams just shrugged it off when I asked."
"Erik's always been that way around me, Chief. I've seen his temper, sure, but he's been a real help, especially since I got hurt."
The chief shook his head in disbelief. "He's the worst malcontent I ever been unlucky enough to know. I don't deny he's some smart, but he's so hostile the only way I can control him is to let him work alone."
"Seriously, Chief, what's his background?"
"Other than what I told you the other night, I don't know. You're the only one he talks to, but I'm convinced he's hiding something.
"Oh, yeah. This here is what I come fer." He dug in his shirt pocket and passed a smudged scrap of lined notebook paper to Kurt. "Old man O'Neal sent one of his gran' younguns to the station with this. Told me to give it to you. I looked at it and you ain't a-goin' to find nobody else as reasonable. He'll make them shutters you need, too. Like I told you, when he makes up his mind to work fer a body, he'll do right by 'im."
"I hadn't expected a price this low. How do I get in touch with him?"
"I'll do it. I best warn you not to expect 'im 'til you see 'im. He won't start work 'til he thinks conditions is right and he does it his own way. If you was to start tellin' 'im what to do, he'll quit. The whole bunch of 'em's independent like that. It's his way or none, that's why he works so cheap. But what he does is done right." He set his mug down. "I best get underway and see if things is still holdin' up to the station."
Kurt poured another mug of tea and sat thinking about Erik. Despite his size, he was still a kid, a feral creature; the intensity of his responses almost frightening. His refusal to talk about himself probably hid an unfortunate background, but a thought that he might be gay, as his sudden attachment and protective attitude seemed to indicate, came to Kurt. Should that exceptional strength turn aggressive ... Kurt pushed the disturbing thought aside and began to clean the kitchen.
Saturday morning, Kurt heard the rumble of the station carry-all lugging through the sand, then Erik bounded into the house. "We've got your stuff and the chief told Ski to get the generator working."
Ski, the short swarthy motor mechanic who had fixed the Jeep, seemed easy-going, especially in contrast to Erik's mercurial nature. They handled the crates into the library with ease, then headed for the generator room next to the boathouse. Ski checked and filled the battery from a jug of distilled water he had brought, then filled the grease cups on the generator. He listened intently as he pressed the starter button.
"Just stiff from not being used and the batteries are 'bout dead. Bring the truck around, Lindstrom."
Erik drove the truck around the house, stopping by the door and attaching a jumper cable. Ski attached the clips of the cable to the battery and inserted an ether capsule in the port before trying the starter again. After a few fitful attempts, the diesel fired and settled to a steady rumble. When Erik tripped the transfer switch, the lights flickered for a moment as the generator took up the load. Ski turned away from the panel. "Now we got it going, let it run for a couple of hours or so to charge up the battery. After that if anything happens to your power lines the lights'll go out 'til the plant starts."
"What do I have to do?" Kurt asked.
"Nothing. It's all automatic, but you might run it a couple of hours once a month or so to keep the battery up. I don't think you've got any worries; this plant's big enough to carry anything you've got and more."
"I guess it was the only power available when the place was built. What do I owe you?"
Ski shook his head. "Glad to get it running. I'd rather be doing somethin' like this than just sitting around."
"Stay for lunch, at least."
"Got to get back, I got duty. I'll take a rain-check, though."
As the station carryall ground away, Erik scowled. "You don't want him here."
"Why not?"
"He's not cultured like you. You wouldn't have anything in common with a guy like that."
Kurt stared at Erik with a dubious expression, for despite the cultural advantages his aunt had made available to him, he had never considered himself sophisticated.
"That's no reason not to be kind. He's done me several favors. You shouldn't be such a snob."
Erik stiffened, tossed Kurt one of his dark looks, and started down the drive.
"Where are you going? Erik!"
He tried to catch up, crutches digging deeply in the sand. He swayed off balance as he reached Erik's side and grabbed his arm to keep from falling. A slow smile spread across Erik's face as he supported him. "You need me. Come on in. I'll fix your tea."
The contents of the crates put away and dinner over, Erik sat engrossed in a small volume as Kurt practiced at the harpsichord.
"What Sunday is tomorrow?" Erik suddenly asked.
"First in the month. Why?"
"Will you let me borrow your Jeep or go with me?"
"Where?"
"To Mass."
In the short time he'd known Erik, church had not been mentioned, even on Sundays. He was hesitant, but if it would please Erik. "Okay, but if we're going, we'd better turn in."
The pastor, tall, graying, distinguished in clericals, stood near the door. "Erik, good to see you again. We've missed you."
"Thanks, Pastor. This is my friend Kurt Lawrence."
"Welcome to Holy Trinity. I'm Pastor Eckholm."
Erik led Kurt to a pew near the front of the nave, genuflected, and took his seat. Pulling the kneeler down, he knelt, reaching up to Kurt to do the same. When he regained his seat, Kurt looked about with interest. The large windows glowed with jeweled color so deep that the interior of the gothic structure remained dim. From concealed fixtures light flooded over the altar, deeply carved wood as was the reredos behind. Richly hand-embroidered paraments in the appropriate liturgical color draped the altar, pulpit, and lectern. From the gallery, the organist began a quiet prelude.
Erik shared his servicebook. Kurt had to read the unfamiliar music swiftly to keep pace with the antiphonal chant that comprised much of the service. When Erik stood and tugged at his hand, he was not to be denied. They knelt at the altar rail to receive the Blessed Sacrament. Through the post-communion Erik's face reflected a tranquility Kurt had not noted before.
"Wasn't the music great?" Erik asked as they left the church.
"Very nice. It's an excellent choir and the cantor has a gorgeous tenor voice. The organist is well trained, but from what I heard, I'd say that you're easily her equal if not better."
"Come on. She's a graduate of Michigan and FAGO."
"What's that?"
"Fellow of the American Guild of organists. I wish I knew enough about music to sit the exam." His expression became wistful. "I'm pretty sure I could pass the playing portion, but there's no way I could pass the written part."
"I'm sure you could pass from what I've heard you play. But it seemed to me that despite her certification she worked at playing the music while you feel it naturally. A piece of paper isn't everything, you know. The poorest professor I had in graduate school had a string of degrees, but he was a lousy teacher."
Erik's smile widened. "Thanks."
The afternoon turned unseasonably hot, even the sea breeze they had taken for granted was missing. Erik pulled his sweat drenched T-shirt off. "What about a swim?"
Kurt hesitated. "I haven't, not since ..."
"Come on, the exercise'll be good for you."
The gained strength in his arms compensated for the loss in kicking. He swam out strongly in the calm waters of the sound, Erik keeping up easily. "Beautiful." They stood on the sandy bottom, chest deep in the water. Erik supporting Kurt for a moment's rest. "Race you back in."
He matched Kurt stroke for stroke, arriving in the shallows at the same time to help him on the beach. They lay on the old beach blanket letting the sun erase the chill of the water.
"I wish life was like this all the time." Erik said drowsily.
Half asleep, Kurt corrected. "Were."
"Hunh?"
"Were. Stating a wish or a condition contrary to fact takes the subjunctive."
Erik propped up on his elbow and stared at him. "What the hell are you? An English teacher?"
"Something like that. I have my master's and have completed some of the work towards a PhD. I wouldn't mind teaching English at the college level someday."
"I might of guessed."
"Have," Kurt automatically corrected.
Awake now, he sat up and looked around. He had not yet ventured into the boathouse. While Erik sprinted to the house for the keys, he crossed the beach to the door.
In the dim light they made out a covered shape swung from the beams overhead. Erik edged along the catwalk and opened the doors to the water. With the boat lowered and uncovered, Kurt remembered his uncle calling it a Tern. "Great! It's still here. We can sail," he exclaimed. He could hear his uncle's disdainful curse whenever a powerboat had passed them: Goddamn stink-pots!
"I don't know how."
"I'll teach you. It's a lot more fun than a motorboat."
The fiberglass-coated hull was clean, in good condition, only the wooden mast and seats needed sanding and a new coat of varnish. "I'll try to get it in shape this week," Kurt said.
After driving Erik back to the station, Kurt spent the evening reading. It was not until he lay back in bed that he noticed the note on his pillow. He switched the light back on and unfolded the paper.
You stopped to listen content to let me stay.
You kept the good I offered and tossed the bad away.
Experience we in silence share.
It's enough for me to know you care.
'Be damned,' though Kurt, amazed at the revelation. 'It isn't a good poem, but Erik took the time to write it. He's so inarticulate at expressing his feelings or anything personal it's as if he's posted his life - Keep Out. I know I can call on the chief for anything within reason because of Uncle Paul, but Erik seems desperate to be wanted, needed, even loved, yet he shuts me out of his past. Or,' Kurt had the agonizing thought, 'is he just using me?' He dropped into sleep and a nightmare in which Erik picked him up, threw him into a corner, smashed everything in sight, and sneeringly called, 'It's been great, sucker,' as he slammed out the door.
An osprey nesting in the top of a tall pine near the house ruffled her feathers uneasily at the sharp penetrating cry. Kurt sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, disoriented in the pervading darkness. Recalling nothing of the nightmare, he took a sleeping pill and lay back letting the drug ease consciousness away. He awoke in a somber frame of mind.
He wrestled the mast into position on sawhorses and began sanding, the dry varnish flaking away easily. Only when the wood lay smooth and clear did the lack of varnish dawn on him. Furious with himself for his lack of forethought, he showered, then drove down the beach.
On and on the road seemed to stretch, the cottages built so close that he caught only occasional glimpses of the ocean. Traffic had become heavier with the warmth of late spring. Envisioning the congestion and throngs of people once the season officially began, the cottages opened for the summer, he thought happily of his uncle's wisdom in choosing to build where he had. With a tin of varnish at last in hand and the Jeep filled with petrol, he drove homeward, determined to check the gate.
When the mast and other exposed woodwork lay gleaming with a fresh coat of spar varnish to dry, Kurt gathered his tools and returned to the gate to open the metal plate set in one of the gateposts. He examined the motor and gears that had once opened and closed the gate, surprised at the small amount of corrosion, but his key in the switch produced no response. Perhaps Erik could get it working.
A couple of days later, Erik located the circuit breaker in the generator room. He flipped it on and tried the controls. After he cleaned away the slight corrosion, reconnected the linkage and applied a thin lubricant, the small key on Kurt's ring set the gate swinging slowly open. It closed firmly, not yielding as he pushed against it. After they had eaten lunch, Erik spent over an hour happily rebuilding the broken intercom unit between the gate and the house.
He and Kurt were relaxing on the deck with drinks when a small boat pushed up on the narrow beach below the lawn. The four occupants appeared little better than their paint-scarred skiff driven by a sputtering outboard. They wore faded shorts and tank tops, the man's sagging belly pushing down his low hanging shorts. His face florid, the rest of him fish-belly white.
"Who the hell is that?" Erik snarled.
"Don't know, but we'd better see."
Erik sprinted toward the family who had begun to drag a picnic hamper to the sand. "Get out of here, buster."
"This is private property." Kurt added, stopping when his crutches dug in.
The man faced him in a belligerent stance, dropping an empty beer tin to the sand and pulling at the tab of another, already clutched in a beefy fist. "Since when? We've been coming here three or four years."
"This is my home. I want you to leave," Kurt stated firmly.
"What are you going to do about it if I don't, Crip?"
"This!" Erik's fist exploded against the man's chin. He staggered, falling backward into the water. The children stared round-eyed, the little girl tugging at her mother's shorts as the woman tried to lift her husband. He roused and clambered unsteadily to his feet.
Erik picked up the beer tins and hurled them into the skiff. "Get out of here and stay out!"
"Okay, okay. You could of asked."
"He did," Erik growled and continued to scowl at them while the woman hastily collected their belongings and pushed the boat back into the water. After repeated pulls on the cord, the outboard reluctantly started.
"I was afraid you'd really hurt him," Kurt said as they walked across the grass.
Erik still shook with anger, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. "Wish I had."
"Did you have to hit him?"
"That's all an asshole like him understands. You'll probably see a whole lot more white trash like that once the season opens."
"I certainly hope not. I think once people realize the place is occupied they'll pass us by."
"I wouldn't count on it. That kind think the whole beach belongs to them just because it's summer. It's good you've got the fence."
His anger eased by the time they were seated on the deck. "I'm sorry, Kurt, it's your place, not mine, but a shithead like that calling you 'Crip' tore it."
"He was right. I'd better get used to it."
"Not when it's said like that."
"Why are you always so ready with your fists, Erik? It isn't just temper."
Erik hunched over in his chair, elbows on his knees, face pressed into his hands. Several minutes passed before he raised his eyes to look at Kurt. "I guess I gotta tell you something I ain't never told anybody before." His face clouded as he struggled to get the words out. "I ... I'm like that man. I'm nothing. Trash. I don't hardly remember my mom; she died when I was five. My old man was a drunk. I couldn't do nothing to please him. Every time I tried, he'd hit me and call me a sorry little shit. I was maybe about eight when he got pissed at me one night and beat me so bad I had to stay out of school. The truant officer came to the house and when he saw me he called the cops. They dragged the old man off to jail and put me in the orphanage. Nobody could adopt me because the old man was still alive, but they wouldn't have wanted me anyway 'cause I was so big for my age. I mean I know how they looked when they saw me. I ran away a few times, but I always got sent back and it didn't take me long to find out I had use my fists 'cause I wasn't one of the goody-goodies.
"The only person who ever gave a damn about me was the music teacher at the school they sent us to. He caught me hanging around the music room listening, so he gave me lessons. He and his wife were what I always dreamed real parents would be like, but when they tried to adopt me after my old man died, those bastards at welfare said they were too old. When I got into my teens, he somehow worked it so I could stay with them on weekends and holidays, and I helped him work on organs which was what he did for extra money. What they gave me was about all the education I got."
"You mean that's all the formal musical training you've had?" Kurt asked, unable to believe what he was hearing.
"Yeah."
"Then how is it that you're such an excellent performer?"
"It's because of Pop. He said I had a natural gift. I'd stay after school every day and practice until he was ready to leave, and he'd take me to the home. He knew there wasn't a piano there, so after he saw how much I love playing he took an old organ keyboard, cut the tails off the keys, and made me a nice practice keyboard. I didn't care it was silent 'cause I could hear the notes in my head when I hit the keys and I could get in lots of practice without disturbing anybody, even after they turned the lights out at night. After I got to spend time with them, I'd practice as much as I could on the organs we worked on. Mom and pop had a piano at home. When I was allowed to spend weekends with them they used to have to drag me off the bench to get me to go to bed. I mean it was something I could really do and I loved it."
"You're fortunate that he recognized your ability."
"Yeah. I just wish I could have gone on to college to study."
"You still could. You'll have some educational benefits from your service, won't you?"
"I guess. I ain't really thought about it, 'cause college is for kids just out of high school, not guys old as me."
"Not at all. You'd find a good many people older than you in classes. I hope you'll consider it when your hitch is up, because a gift like yours is rare."
"It's something I'd like to do, because Pop wanted me to. He died less than a year after Mom," Erik used his fists to wipe his eyes. "They didn't have any kids so he left me what little they had. It wasn't enough for more than about a year of school, so I put it in a bank. Anyway, by then I was old enough to get out of that place, so I joined the Guard. I ain't got anything to be proud of, specially my record, but I guess you know about that." Kurt nodded as Erik's eyes dropped again. "God, Kurt, you're the first person since that old man and his wife who ever acted like I was worth anything. I love you for that, but I guess you don't want any part of me now you know. That's why I didn't want to tell you." A single quiet sob broke as he sprang up. "I knew this was too good to last. I'll get my stuff and clear out."
Kurt reached up for his hand. "Why? You can't help your past any more than I."
"You mean it?"
"Of course. I have very little, Erik, but I want you to make this your home. If I didn't have some feeling for you, I wouldn't say it."
Though freed now of the secret he'd carried for so long, Erik still found himself doubting that Kurt could understand the anger that came with talking about his past. He felt trapped. Joining the guard had not brought freedom, only an exchange of one set of regulations for another. Only the time with Kurt had it been possible to be himself.
To be continued...
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Posted: 07/11/08