one wall, like a historical archive of me growing up. Me alone, me with my father, riding on the tractor behind him, me picking apples with my sister, but the majority of pictures were of me and Jake.
The first one that caught my eye was obviously posed by my mother, with both of us looking at the camera. We must have been about ten and I caught my breath seeing how uncomplicated life had been for us in that moment. He 8
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
was taller than me, husky with the puppy fat he carried before he’d muscled up as a teenager. His hair was dark, badly cut, and he still had the gap between his front teeth back then. He was grinning and leaning in toward me. I was shorter, skinnier, with straight, dark blond hair falling into my eyes, my arm slanting up as I rested my elbow on his shoulder.
We both grinned at the camera with the happy unselfconsciousness of childhood friendship, before sex or love or yearnings that could never be fulfilled intruded. Well, maybe I was wrong about one thing; the love was there already.
Then there was the one year I was taller than him, ever so briefly; at least now I had photographic evidence. I’d had a growth spurt, which made me tall and rawboned at fourteen, while he was still on the chubby side. I had one arm around his neck, giving him a noogy while he squirmed to get free.
The next photo was from high school, just before I went off to college and left Jake behind forever. He was in front, clowning for the camera with a big smile. The gap had closed up by then, and he was already showing signs of the handsome man he was going to become, although he still looked like a boy. I was behind him, slightly out of focus, but I could see the yearning in my eyes. I thought I’d hidden it well under the patina of sulky emo angst, but it was as obvious as if I’d been wearing a sign.
9
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
I wondered if my mother’s psychic powers had revealed to her that I was gay, because I certainly hadn’t. What was the point? I was never going to bring anyone home to meet the parents unless I loved them, and I was never going to love anyone but Jake.
I turned away from the wall of pictures and tossed my bag onto the bed. I found my sweater in a drawer and pulled it on over my shirt. I was definitely sleeping on the couch tonight, even if I didn’t need to be near the fire for survival.
There was no way I could sleep in here, knowing he was looking down at me with those eyes.
There was a wrapped present sitting on my bed. I roused myself enough to look at the tag. I wasn’t surprised to read my name in my mother’s handwriting, although she had signed it as Santa Claus. I chuckled, wondering if she still hoped I believed in him. There was also a P.S., warning me not to open it until Christmas day. And probably she’d know whether I followed orders or not, what with her extra sensory perception.
I left it there, turned off the light and went down the stairs, pausing on the landing to look out of the octagonal window like I always did, and I could have sworn I heard his horn beeping, and my mom yelling up the stairs to me,
“Andy! Jake’s here!”
“Coming, mom,” I muttered, although there was no old blue truck stopping in a swirl of dust like he always did.
10
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
The flashes of memory just kept assaulting me.
I used to run down the stairs and yell to my mom, “See you later.”
She never asked where we were going or when we’d be back, because she already knew if it was summer, we’d be going to the fishing hole. I heard her tell my dad once that she never worried where I went as long as I was with Jake.
After I hauled in wood from the back porch, I knelt at the hearth, patiently building the foundation for the fire.
Crumpled newspaper first, then a little lean-to of dried twigs.
It seemed to take forever for the twigs to ignite after I lit the paper and blew on it. The logs were damp from the snow and
The first one that caught my eye was obviously posed by my mother, with both of us looking at the camera. We must have been about ten and I caught my breath seeing how uncomplicated life had been for us in that moment. He 8
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
was taller than me, husky with the puppy fat he carried before he’d muscled up as a teenager. His hair was dark, badly cut, and he still had the gap between his front teeth back then. He was grinning and leaning in toward me. I was shorter, skinnier, with straight, dark blond hair falling into my eyes, my arm slanting up as I rested my elbow on his shoulder.
We both grinned at the camera with the happy unselfconsciousness of childhood friendship, before sex or love or yearnings that could never be fulfilled intruded. Well, maybe I was wrong about one thing; the love was there already.
Then there was the one year I was taller than him, ever so briefly; at least now I had photographic evidence. I’d had a growth spurt, which made me tall and rawboned at fourteen, while he was still on the chubby side. I had one arm around his neck, giving him a noogy while he squirmed to get free.
The next photo was from high school, just before I went off to college and left Jake behind forever. He was in front, clowning for the camera with a big smile. The gap had closed up by then, and he was already showing signs of the handsome man he was going to become, although he still looked like a boy. I was behind him, slightly out of focus, but I could see the yearning in my eyes. I thought I’d hidden it well under the patina of sulky emo angst, but it was as obvious as if I’d been wearing a sign.
9
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
I wondered if my mother’s psychic powers had revealed to her that I was gay, because I certainly hadn’t. What was the point? I was never going to bring anyone home to meet the parents unless I loved them, and I was never going to love anyone but Jake.
I turned away from the wall of pictures and tossed my bag onto the bed. I found my sweater in a drawer and pulled it on over my shirt. I was definitely sleeping on the couch tonight, even if I didn’t need to be near the fire for survival.
There was no way I could sleep in here, knowing he was looking down at me with those eyes.
There was a wrapped present sitting on my bed. I roused myself enough to look at the tag. I wasn’t surprised to read my name in my mother’s handwriting, although she had signed it as Santa Claus. I chuckled, wondering if she still hoped I believed in him. There was also a P.S., warning me not to open it until Christmas day. And probably she’d know whether I followed orders or not, what with her extra sensory perception.
I left it there, turned off the light and went down the stairs, pausing on the landing to look out of the octagonal window like I always did, and I could have sworn I heard his horn beeping, and my mom yelling up the stairs to me,
“Andy! Jake’s here!”
“Coming, mom,” I muttered, although there was no old blue truck stopping in a swirl of dust like he always did.
10
The Long Way Home / Catt Ford
The flashes of memory just kept assaulting me.
I used to run down the stairs and yell to my mom, “See you later.”
She never asked where we were going or when we’d be back, because she already knew if it was summer, we’d be going to the fishing hole. I heard her tell my dad once that she never worried where I went as long as I was with Jake.
After I hauled in wood from the back porch, I knelt at the hearth, patiently building the foundation for the fire.
Crumpled newspaper first, then a little lean-to of dried twigs.
It seemed to take forever for the twigs to ignite after I lit the paper and blew on it. The logs were damp from the snow and
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