Chet’s casket is closed, confined inside the choky funeral
parlor. Corwin takes my hand in his. We move together, two shadows in black
dress. Somewhere, nightingales are chirping in trees dismissed with leaves, and
Ezekiel “Chet” Cue is inspiring angels with John Keats.
You won’t regret this.
You were born for this.
I can almost hear Chet speaking. The echo fills the spacious
room. How could it be that this young boy, so close from birth, inspired a
career?
Corwin looks over to me with heavy eyelids and a heartfelt
stare. He is so beautiful, even in the darkest moment of his life. My arms
collect goose bumps and Corwin begins to pull at his ear the way he always does
when he is uncomfortable. I think back
to the first time I met Corwin, before the training, before the tennis, and
before Ezekiel.
“Are you abandoning the
project” questions Luke as I interrupt the conversation by emerging on the
scene.
“No,” muffles Corwin.
My first glimpse of
Corwin Brookside, a Texas native, is a towering carpenter in faded denim. His
blue T-shirt is stained white around his left breast. I wonder if he lost a
battle with bleach. Somehow, I can tell this is Corwin’s favorite shirt. It
looks as over-worn and faded as his jeans.
Corwin has two very
noticeable scars on his right forearm. The pair of short twig-like lines forms
a dark upside down V. Over the still
stream, beyond the shaven gray tree trunks, the now hammerless Corwin stands with
one hand on his hip. His cocked head points in the opposite direction of my
doughy gaze. Luke’s outdoor radio plays a Bobby Darin song. Nothing else
matters right now save for Corwin and the music.
I gather my words,
praying they will form something that sticks with Corwin for a long time. I
watch from a post on Luke’s patio. In my heart, I am hoping for a tolerable
first impression. At the very least, an acknowledgment of the fact he is male
and I am female would suffice. Corwin surprises me by speaking first, although
not directly at me. His eyes survey mine and without blinking, he repeats
himself to Luke.
“No” is quite possibly
the most powerful word to a civilization of “yes” people. It has the capacity
to accuse someone of a crime, the ability to determine life or death. Corwin’s
unblinking stare and burning-with-passion brown eyes author the word,
transforming it into a lustful poem before me. There is a drastic physical
attraction stirring around inside my body.
I feel myself becoming faint and know this man is going to be the image
in my head during those lonely nights in bed.
Ahhh, those eyes! It
is the desire in his eyes that stays with me more than anything I can say or do
to keep him from forgetting me. The startling tick of their burning fierceness
catches me in sheer infatuation. Corwin’s eyes roam strangely to my nose, and
then briefly to my lips. He approaches me with a deep stare into my face. Those
eager, passion drop eyes resuscitate my deadened pupils.
“Corwin--it means
friend of the heart,” Corwin announces, stretching his sawdust hand to shake
mine.
“Jeanne--it means I
think you’re cute,” I flirt, nearly unintentional.
“Don’t hold back or
anything!” Luke exclaims with wide eyes and a grin the size of a galaxy.
The handsome Corwin
steps closer. Brilliantly, he tugs at his belt. I hide my smile but know it’s
pointless. For once, this is too good to not be true.
Corwin touches my arm
when he talks to me. It is this subtle, flirtatious gesture that keeps my
interest. Or, perhaps it is the one
peculiarity he does that doesn’t remind me of Dylan.
He picks up a pair of
bolt-like hardware from the ground and hands them to me.
“What am I supposed to
do with these?” I question.
“Those are Zerk grease
fittings. Hang on to them for me, please?”
I haven’t the
slightest idea what a grease fitting is used for, but I agree to hold them.
Seeing him reminded me
of how I used to wake up with my head in the clouds. I used to long for the unswerving feeling of
love.
Extraordinarily, this
man, this Corwin Brookside appeared. I no longer yearned for love, but felt
immersed with it. I wanted to convince Corwin that my heart couldn’t be wrong
about us.
Corwin’s hand is stained in sweat now. I can feel it getting
colder, more distant. He is hurting, and I wish so much he were handing me
bolts of hardware in the Texas sun. I wish he weren’t here to witness the
finale of a young life. I would endure and suffer through it on my own if I
could. Corwin would never see to it, though. He is here in this murmurous haunt
of fly-filled summer air. Corwin always withstands the rain. Here he stands.
Bold. My refuge. I know he wants to lie down and cry out to the God we both cannot
completely understand in this life, but worship nonetheless.
Somewhere, the sun is not hidden inside the clouds. That
little boy is smiling somewhere.
