Page 8 of Pages of My Heart

Thomas

Thomas’s pace slows as he approaches Jimmy’s Garage late Friday afternoon, every hard-earned breath evidence of the unease that has been afflicting him all week.

The tightness in his lungs worsens as he walks past the shop’s large bay doors toward the office.

He doesn’t know how Charlie will react to his coming here, doesn’t know if he’s making a horrible mistake.

The odds feel stacked against him, like trying to win a cheap stuffed bear from a rigged carnival game, but there is the smallest window of opportunity before him, and he is determined to reach for it, whatever the cost.

Last Saturday night he had arrived at the club early, too jazzed up to wait around at home.

But ten o’clock came and went, then eleven, then twelve.

Several men approached him where he sat alone at the bar, but he gave them no heed, his eyes remaining glued to the door.

But Charlie never materialized. Finally at one o’clock, with the weight of disappointment enveloping him like a dank, sodden blanket, Thomas had placed his hat upon his head and taken his leave.

Charlie had promised him. Had he lied?

The following day, Thomas prayed in church for guidance. It seemed absurd to pray to a God that saw him as a sinner, but the sad truth was he had no one else to talk to. As always, God remained silent, the rejection bitter on Thomas’s tongue and damn near impossible to swallow.

Some desperate part of him half hoped he would walk out of class on Monday and there Charlie would be, cigarette dangling from his lips and explanation ready at hand, but Thomas saw no sign of him. He was disappointed on Tuesday too.

On Wednesday, he returned to the church, ready to confess his sins, but found that the truth died in his throat.

Instead, he told Father Murphy that he’d had impure thoughts about a girl from college.

The priest told him it was natural, but that he should control his carnal desires until after marriage.

Once home, Thomas had performed his ten Hail Marys, knowing that lying to Father Murphy would likely earn him ten more. He wasn’t sure he cared.

Carnal desires. Those words haunt him. As he sits in lectures, as he walks home, as he lies awake in bed at night.

Memories of Charlie’s hands upon his heated skin, the painful yearning in his helpless moans, the shuddering, white-hot release—they torment and arouse him in equal measure.

Thomas wants more, he cannot deny it. He wants everything there is to be had.

His body all but demands it. And with that, he steps into the garage office, adrenaline rendering his limbs weak and shaky.

A young man with unruly brown hair stands behind the counter. His name tag reads George.

“What can I do for you today, sir?” George’s smile is comically large on his face.

Forcing himself to smile too, Thomas replies, “I’m here to see Charlie. Is he working today?”

“Are you the boy here on behalf of Mr. Livingston? About the Cabriolet?”

Thomas panics. “Yes, that’s me! I was told to speak to Charlie.”

“Sure thing, sir. Just wait here and I’ll send him out.”

The moment Thomas is alone again he exhales deeply, fidgeting with his tie until he forces his unsteady hands into his pockets.

It must take a full two minutes before Charlie walks into the office and abruptly stops in his tracks, rendered motionless like a statue.

Charlie looks alarmed, but Thomas can offer nothing but to stare back, speechless at the sight of the man.

He is in dark blue work overalls, the top buttons undone revealing a white undershirt and a hint of dark chest hair.

There is grease smudged across his cheek and on his hands, and a lock of hair falls onto his forehead.

All the air seems to rush from the room at once and Thomas cannot breathe.

It’s been nine days.

At length Charlie looks over his shoulder at the open door that leads back to the garage bays, then takes a few steps further into the office.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“You didn’t come to the club. You promised. I—I was worried.”

Charlie strides angrily past him. “Follow me.”

Thomas does, and they end up around the side of the building. Once there, Charlie offers him a cigarette and they both light up.

“I couldn’t get away, Red. I’m sorry.” Charlie sounds anything but sorry. “But why the fuck did you say you work for Livingston? Should’ve just said you were my cousin.”

“I’m sorry. I panicked. Look, I want . . .” Thomas already feels like something is slipping through his fingers. He swallows hard, then tries once more. “I need to see you, Charlie.”

“Told ya, Red,” Charlie exhales, smoke flaring from his nose, “I’m getting hitched real soon.”

“I know. Which is why we should take our chance now before it’s too late.

Listen . . .” Thomas moves closer, finally trapping Charlie’s gaze.

“My family left to visit my grandparents in Milwaukee for the weekend. I was supposed to go too, but I said I had an important paper to write for class. The house will be empty until Sunday night.”

Charlie’s eyes roam over Thomas’s face, searching for the meaning beneath his words. Once he finds it, Charlie’s expression turns hostile.

“Just what are you fuckin’ suggesting?” Charlie’s voice is accusing and threatening, his jaw tight.

Thomas blinks rapidly, trying to sharpen his blurring vision. “You could stay the weekend. At my house. With me.” He drops his cigarette, unable to concentrate enough to finish it. “Please, Charlie. I know what you felt with me. I feel it too.”

Charlie steps closer, his voice sharp and low. “And what if someone catches us? What if your family comes home early? And what am I supposed to tell my family, huh? Or Ruthie?”

Thomas longs to reach out and reassure Charlie, but he stops himself. Charlie looks like a deer caught in a hunter’s scope—one misstep and he’ll spook.

“No one will catch us,” Thomas says, trying to sound confident.

“We visit my grandparents a few times a year and we always come home late Sunday afternoon, just in time for dinner. Never any earlier. And …” Thomas is grasping for anything.

“And you can tell your family you’re helping a friend move out of town! ”

Charlie remains silent, chewing on his bottom lip. Thomas waits, holding his breath.

“If I agree,” Charlie says slowly, “you gotta give me your word you won’t contact me ever again. This is a onetime deal, Red. You understand?”

Thomas doesn’t want to agree to Charlie’s terms, but he will say anything right now if it means spending a night alone with this man. “I understand,” he says. “So, you’ll come? Tonight, after you finish work?”

Charlie takes a final drag off his cigarette and flicks the butt toward the street, eyes never leaving Thomas’s face.

“Where do ya live?”

Charlie

It’s nearly dusk when Charlie walks up the front path of the O’Reilly house, overwhelmed by all the evidence that Thomas is way too good for him.

Even though he knows Thomas’s family was poor before his older sister married into a wealthy one, the difference in their neighborhoods is stark.

The two-story house is impressive—painted crisp white with pretty lace curtains visible through the front windows and an immaculate front lawn landscaped with colorful flowers.

Added to that, Thomas is a college man while Charlie is nothing but a lowly grease monkey with rough, calloused hands and no knowledge of fancy books or history.

And Thomas is beautiful and courageous in a way Charlie knows he could never be.

He had earnestly tried to make it to the club last Saturday, but there was just no sneaking away.

Sitting on the couch under his father’s watchful eye, arm slung around Ruthie’s narrow shoulders, it had seemed for the best, anyway.

Why continue something that could never be?

Something that would only cause heartache and shame.

Only now he’s recklessly standing at Thomas’s front door, fist suspended in mid-air.

But he doesn’t knock. Part of him—the part that speaks with his father’s voice—wants to turn tail and run, and part of him wants to embrace the boy on the other side of the door with every ounce of his being.

But if he does this, he’ll be crossing a line—a line he can never come back from.

This will not just be stealing a brief moment of pleasure in an alleyway.

No, this will be laying himself bare, whispered truths, exposed skin, and an intimacy that scares him beyond comprehension.

It will be deluding himself that this is normal when it is anything but.

Two men are not supposed to act as man and woman.

The word sodomy loops inside his head, making his face burn with shame. He chews hard on his lip as the heat creeps up his neck to his scalp. Dropping his hand to his side, he takes a step back from the door, his head falling forward under the weight of it all.

Charlie has touched himself there once before. The desire to penetrate himself had been strong. He’d wanted to know what it would feel like, if he would even like it, but somehow he’d found restraint, instead choosing to simply caress himself, knees falling open like a loose woman.

Closing his eyes, he imagines Thomas touching him there, breaching him and pushing inside.

Charlie starts to harden despite all his efforts not to.

A onetime deal, he reminds himself. Then he can walk away.

A gift to himself. His secret to carry close to his chest. Something to comfort him in his darkest moments, as surely they will come.

“I’m sorry, Ruthie,” he whispers.

Charlie steps forward and knocks.