Voices Past, Part 2 Guest Post Parker
This is the conclusion to the last post, from Parker's point of view.
**********************
I wake in darkness. My head hurts. My stomach hurts. My heart aches. Familiar, so familiar. And yet, I feel an arm around me, a body curled next to mine. Not his arm, but a comforting arm, just the same. I turn over slowly, not wanting the ocean asleep in my gut to surge. He is sleeping soundly, and Clara sleeps on the other side of him, her spine aligned to his. She doesn’t stir. I tuck my head under his chin, and slip my arms around him. I breathe in his warmth, his comfort. My eyes close. I try to block that ghostly voice, but it comes back to haunt me.
“…we’re not going to make it out…it’s a good death…love…”
You bastard. Three times you went up those executioner’s steps and down again. Twice, you could still be here with me now. Twice, you got the people out alive and could have made it yourself. The third time was not your charm, Hero. You always had to push everything to the limit. Why couldn’t you let someone else make that third trip? Hadn’t you done your part? Weren’t you enough of a hero after two rescues?
“…tell Parker my only regret…”
What about this life we had planned together? What about regretting the sacrifice of that life? And then there’s the horror. The horror of knowing enough to know that you’re about to die and to die horribly. Crushed beneath a ton of rubble. The horror of having no way out. But Hero never sounded horrified. He sounded ready. Accepting. At peace. That was a good thing, right? Not to have lived my recurrent nightmare of Hero trying to scratch his way to freedom, trapped and terrified. I never saw Hero terrified. Terrified was not in his makeup. It was fast, instantaneous, take comfort in that, Parker. Try.
“…if he never lets another man love him…”
“Ouch,” another man’s voice. I realize I’ve dug my fingers hard into the flesh of Brog’s back. I lighten up my grip.
“Sorry,” I whisper. At the sound of my voice, Clara’s tail thumps heavily against the mattress and then it’s still. Brog’s arms scoop me closer to his body, and he kisses the top of my head.
“You sick?”
“Funny but I think the stress somehow consumed the alcohol. It’s not so bad,” I whisper against his chest.
“Good,” his big hands are soothing as they stroke my back, my shoulders and my hips. Touch is a good thing, it’s healing. It makes me feel connected to something…to him. I move in even closer, as if his big heart can beat for my shriveled up mockery of a heart. Does he know? Does he just think I went off on a bender?
“There was a tape…”
“I know. I listened to it, Parker. I hope you don’t mind. I was worried.”
I don’t mind. I didn’t want to have to explain it and now I won’t. “It was the shock.”
“You have nothing to explain, nothing. Your reaction was completely understandable.”
“I love you, Brog. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Do you understand that?”
“Of course. Your life didn’t begin when we met. We both have histories. Do you really think I need you to write off your feelings for Hero in order to love me?”
“I don’t know what I feel for Hero anymore,” I get up. The room shifts. I have to sit down. My head in my hands, I stare down at the floor, waiting for the spinning to stop. Maybe I was wrong about that alcohol. I make it to the bathroom and throw up whatever is left in my stomach. It’s that miserable retching where you wish you could expel everything in your body but you know it will still be there to torment you when you’re done. Brog has followed me. He sits me down on the edge of the tub and rubs a damp cloth over my face and neck. Vomiting in front of your lover. How romantic. “I’m sorry.”
“You need to stop apologizing, Parker. You think you got it all up?”
“I got out everything in my stomach. It’s what’s left in my bloodstream that hurts now.”
He hands me Advil and a tall glass of water. “See if this will stay down.”
It does after playing escalator in my throat. I let him lead me back to the bed. The ship is still rocking and I feel unsteady. Clara has escaped to the living room. Far too much drama for her. He helps me undress. “Need to feed the dog,” I remember and he nods.
“I already did.”
“Did you throw out that tape?”
“Of course not, Parker. It’s not mine to dispose of.”
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Why not? I had this taped message on my answering machine that he recorded. My shrink finally made me get rid of it after I became obsessed with replaying it. I never did. I still have it. Can you imagine the fun I could have with this one?”
He takes my face in his hands. “Later, when you’re past the initial shock and you’re not hungover, you can decide what to do with the tape. For now, it’s in a safe place.”
“He didn’t have to die, Brog.”
“I know. No one had to die. But they did.”
“He kept going back in.”
“Because that was his job, Park. That’s what he wanted to do. He said that. I don’t know the guy, but I don’t see him doing anything less. Do you?”
I pull the sheet over my mostly naked body, feeling suddenly chilled. “We had such plans, Brog. Such big plans. Why do people make plans? Isn’t there some saying about God laughing at people’s plans?”
“Something like that. We make plans because we’re happy and we see a future for us, and it’s fun to plot that future together. Shit intervenes, yes, but that doesn’t stop human nature.”
He’s undressed and he climbs in bed beside me. “Did you eat dinner?” I ask as he takes me in his strong arms.
“No, but that bell’s been rung. I’m not hungry. You?”
“Don’t even say it.”
He kisses my neck. I tense. He spreads a hand on my stomach. “Relax, Parker. I don’t want anything from you. Just relax.”
Good. I don’t have anything to give.
We sleep. We wake up. I take more Advil for the residual headache. I drink coffee he brewed and manage to keep down half a bagel. He walks Clara for me while I pack my briefcase. I don’t know where he put the tape, but at least it’s not where I have to see it and confront it. He picked up the picture of Hero and put it back on my desk, sans the broken glass. I avoid that smiling face. We ride to work together, neither of us saying much. He holds my hand in the taxi, and I’m grateful for that gesture. But I feel like I’m still in shock. I feel much like I did the first few days after Hero’s death when pain was still shielded by disbelief.
We go to separate offices and agree to meet for lunch. Work intervenes, a welcome distraction. Lunch comes sooner than I expected and we sit alone in the cafeteria, not talking much. I don’t want the food, but he forces me to eat something. My headache is worse. Afternoon classes and student conferences drag on. Finally, we can leave. He comes by my office to fetch me. Hero’s picture is face down in a drawer. I wonder if he notices that it’s gone.
We get a cab and he is talking to the driver as I slip in the back seat. My eyes close as the headache throbs. His hand rests on my thigh. I feel encased in frost. When the cab stops, I don’t see my loft building. “What are we doing?” I don’t feel like dinner out. Or dinner at all.
“Trust me,” he says, helping me out of the car. Rockefeller Center is beautiful even without the Christmas trees and lights. It’s a strange hour to be going there. The office workers are leaving, the tourists haven’t yet arrived for the other aspects of the building. We go up sixty-five floors. My ears pop, my head throbs, but I’m too numb to argue. The Rainbow Grill is open for business. But the Rainbow Room with its revolving dance floor and big band music is not open for another half hour.
“I don’t want Italian,” I complain, thinking the grill is our destination. Frankly, I don’t even like their Northern Italian fare that much. Too touristy for a New Yorker, and it lacks the ambiance of its sister establishment next door.
“Good, because I’m Irish,” he teases me. We walk into the as yet unopened Rainbow Room. The maitre de calls him by name. The place is busy with tables being set up and flowers being arranged by the staff. The band is warming up.
“How do you know him?” I ask.
“I don’t. Brian does. Don’t ask. Brian knows everyone, or if he doesn’t, he knows someone who does.”
“Brog, it’s a sweet thought, very romantic, but I’m in no mood for a fancy dinner and…”
“Shut up, Parker. Come on,” he leads me out to the dance floor, polished and empty, under glistening crystal lights. He nods to the band. A subset of the musicians launch into a rendition of “You Can’t Take That Away From Me”. I stare at him. No. I can’t do this. He leaves me no choice as he pulls me into his arms. He takes it slow, I can barely move. “The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea…” the lyrics haunt me.
This is the dance we never had, and Brog is standing in for Hero. I close my eyes and rest my cheek on his shoulder, letting him lead me to the music, replaying a relationship that ended too suddenly. Hero’s holding me, Hero’s turning me, Hero’s having this last dance with me, this dance we never had. We always talked about going to the Rainbow Room and whether two men dancing together in a romantic clench would get us expelled. We had plenty of time to test that issue. Plenty of time. Or so we thought. I open my eyes and look up at him, this man who holds me in his arms so gently.
It’s not his face. But it’s a nice face. “I love you,” I say to him as Brog smiles and pulls me in.
“I love you, too.”
The two of us move together, in time to the music, as the third dancer drifts slowly into the midnight of my memory.
**********************
I wake in darkness. My head hurts. My stomach hurts. My heart aches. Familiar, so familiar. And yet, I feel an arm around me, a body curled next to mine. Not his arm, but a comforting arm, just the same. I turn over slowly, not wanting the ocean asleep in my gut to surge. He is sleeping soundly, and Clara sleeps on the other side of him, her spine aligned to his. She doesn’t stir. I tuck my head under his chin, and slip my arms around him. I breathe in his warmth, his comfort. My eyes close. I try to block that ghostly voice, but it comes back to haunt me.
“…we’re not going to make it out…it’s a good death…love…”
You bastard. Three times you went up those executioner’s steps and down again. Twice, you could still be here with me now. Twice, you got the people out alive and could have made it yourself. The third time was not your charm, Hero. You always had to push everything to the limit. Why couldn’t you let someone else make that third trip? Hadn’t you done your part? Weren’t you enough of a hero after two rescues?
“…tell Parker my only regret…”
What about this life we had planned together? What about regretting the sacrifice of that life? And then there’s the horror. The horror of knowing enough to know that you’re about to die and to die horribly. Crushed beneath a ton of rubble. The horror of having no way out. But Hero never sounded horrified. He sounded ready. Accepting. At peace. That was a good thing, right? Not to have lived my recurrent nightmare of Hero trying to scratch his way to freedom, trapped and terrified. I never saw Hero terrified. Terrified was not in his makeup. It was fast, instantaneous, take comfort in that, Parker. Try.
“…if he never lets another man love him…”
“Ouch,” another man’s voice. I realize I’ve dug my fingers hard into the flesh of Brog’s back. I lighten up my grip.
“Sorry,” I whisper. At the sound of my voice, Clara’s tail thumps heavily against the mattress and then it’s still. Brog’s arms scoop me closer to his body, and he kisses the top of my head.
“You sick?”
“Funny but I think the stress somehow consumed the alcohol. It’s not so bad,” I whisper against his chest.
“Good,” his big hands are soothing as they stroke my back, my shoulders and my hips. Touch is a good thing, it’s healing. It makes me feel connected to something…to him. I move in even closer, as if his big heart can beat for my shriveled up mockery of a heart. Does he know? Does he just think I went off on a bender?
“There was a tape…”
“I know. I listened to it, Parker. I hope you don’t mind. I was worried.”
I don’t mind. I didn’t want to have to explain it and now I won’t. “It was the shock.”
“You have nothing to explain, nothing. Your reaction was completely understandable.”
“I love you, Brog. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Do you understand that?”
“Of course. Your life didn’t begin when we met. We both have histories. Do you really think I need you to write off your feelings for Hero in order to love me?”
“I don’t know what I feel for Hero anymore,” I get up. The room shifts. I have to sit down. My head in my hands, I stare down at the floor, waiting for the spinning to stop. Maybe I was wrong about that alcohol. I make it to the bathroom and throw up whatever is left in my stomach. It’s that miserable retching where you wish you could expel everything in your body but you know it will still be there to torment you when you’re done. Brog has followed me. He sits me down on the edge of the tub and rubs a damp cloth over my face and neck. Vomiting in front of your lover. How romantic. “I’m sorry.”
“You need to stop apologizing, Parker. You think you got it all up?”
“I got out everything in my stomach. It’s what’s left in my bloodstream that hurts now.”
He hands me Advil and a tall glass of water. “See if this will stay down.”
It does after playing escalator in my throat. I let him lead me back to the bed. The ship is still rocking and I feel unsteady. Clara has escaped to the living room. Far too much drama for her. He helps me undress. “Need to feed the dog,” I remember and he nods.
“I already did.”
“Did you throw out that tape?”
“Of course not, Parker. It’s not mine to dispose of.”
“Will you?”
“No.”
“Why not? I had this taped message on my answering machine that he recorded. My shrink finally made me get rid of it after I became obsessed with replaying it. I never did. I still have it. Can you imagine the fun I could have with this one?”
He takes my face in his hands. “Later, when you’re past the initial shock and you’re not hungover, you can decide what to do with the tape. For now, it’s in a safe place.”
“He didn’t have to die, Brog.”
“I know. No one had to die. But they did.”
“He kept going back in.”
“Because that was his job, Park. That’s what he wanted to do. He said that. I don’t know the guy, but I don’t see him doing anything less. Do you?”
I pull the sheet over my mostly naked body, feeling suddenly chilled. “We had such plans, Brog. Such big plans. Why do people make plans? Isn’t there some saying about God laughing at people’s plans?”
“Something like that. We make plans because we’re happy and we see a future for us, and it’s fun to plot that future together. Shit intervenes, yes, but that doesn’t stop human nature.”
He’s undressed and he climbs in bed beside me. “Did you eat dinner?” I ask as he takes me in his strong arms.
“No, but that bell’s been rung. I’m not hungry. You?”
“Don’t even say it.”
He kisses my neck. I tense. He spreads a hand on my stomach. “Relax, Parker. I don’t want anything from you. Just relax.”
Good. I don’t have anything to give.
We sleep. We wake up. I take more Advil for the residual headache. I drink coffee he brewed and manage to keep down half a bagel. He walks Clara for me while I pack my briefcase. I don’t know where he put the tape, but at least it’s not where I have to see it and confront it. He picked up the picture of Hero and put it back on my desk, sans the broken glass. I avoid that smiling face. We ride to work together, neither of us saying much. He holds my hand in the taxi, and I’m grateful for that gesture. But I feel like I’m still in shock. I feel much like I did the first few days after Hero’s death when pain was still shielded by disbelief.
We go to separate offices and agree to meet for lunch. Work intervenes, a welcome distraction. Lunch comes sooner than I expected and we sit alone in the cafeteria, not talking much. I don’t want the food, but he forces me to eat something. My headache is worse. Afternoon classes and student conferences drag on. Finally, we can leave. He comes by my office to fetch me. Hero’s picture is face down in a drawer. I wonder if he notices that it’s gone.
We get a cab and he is talking to the driver as I slip in the back seat. My eyes close as the headache throbs. His hand rests on my thigh. I feel encased in frost. When the cab stops, I don’t see my loft building. “What are we doing?” I don’t feel like dinner out. Or dinner at all.
“Trust me,” he says, helping me out of the car. Rockefeller Center is beautiful even without the Christmas trees and lights. It’s a strange hour to be going there. The office workers are leaving, the tourists haven’t yet arrived for the other aspects of the building. We go up sixty-five floors. My ears pop, my head throbs, but I’m too numb to argue. The Rainbow Grill is open for business. But the Rainbow Room with its revolving dance floor and big band music is not open for another half hour.
“I don’t want Italian,” I complain, thinking the grill is our destination. Frankly, I don’t even like their Northern Italian fare that much. Too touristy for a New Yorker, and it lacks the ambiance of its sister establishment next door.
“Good, because I’m Irish,” he teases me. We walk into the as yet unopened Rainbow Room. The maitre de calls him by name. The place is busy with tables being set up and flowers being arranged by the staff. The band is warming up.
“How do you know him?” I ask.
“I don’t. Brian does. Don’t ask. Brian knows everyone, or if he doesn’t, he knows someone who does.”
“Brog, it’s a sweet thought, very romantic, but I’m in no mood for a fancy dinner and…”
“Shut up, Parker. Come on,” he leads me out to the dance floor, polished and empty, under glistening crystal lights. He nods to the band. A subset of the musicians launch into a rendition of “You Can’t Take That Away From Me”. I stare at him. No. I can’t do this. He leaves me no choice as he pulls me into his arms. He takes it slow, I can barely move. “The way you wear your hat, the way you sip your tea…” the lyrics haunt me.
This is the dance we never had, and Brog is standing in for Hero. I close my eyes and rest my cheek on his shoulder, letting him lead me to the music, replaying a relationship that ended too suddenly. Hero’s holding me, Hero’s turning me, Hero’s having this last dance with me, this dance we never had. We always talked about going to the Rainbow Room and whether two men dancing together in a romantic clench would get us expelled. We had plenty of time to test that issue. Plenty of time. Or so we thought. I open my eyes and look up at him, this man who holds me in his arms so gently.
It’s not his face. But it’s a nice face. “I love you,” I say to him as Brog smiles and pulls me in.
“I love you, too.”
The two of us move together, in time to the music, as the third dancer drifts slowly into the midnight of my memory.