Graduation | Amy Lane
50
“Look at that,” Brian had whispered, and sure enough, they
could see the stars and the moon on the water through their back
window. Later they would put the insulation up, so they only had to
see it when they wanted and they didn‟t wake up shivering, and
they would add area rugs and remember to wear moccasins
because the gorgeous, hardwood space of the cottage was not
always warm. Tonight, though, it was like looking at the whole wide
world spread out below their toes, while they cuddled in bed with as
many blankets as they could find.
“God, it‟s like we can reach out and touch something,” Tate
had whispered back reverently, and he caught Brian‟s quick grin in
the dark.
“Wait until tomorrow—I‟ll reach out and touch something!”
Tate rolled his eyes. “You know—you‟re supposed to be an
artist or something, but I swear, you don‟t have a scrap of poetry in
your soul.”
Brian‟s mouth had been hot and demanding on his, and Tate
hadn‟t said another coherent thing after that. The message was
clear as they huddled under the thousand and one blankets on their
newly stained sheets: with them, sex was all the poetry Brian‟s soul
ever craved.
THEY both put on trunks and hoodies because their wetsuits were
outside, hanging over the fence by the outside shower, and it was a
little too chilly to be wandering around in their underwear. Brian put
on coffee for when they were done, and then turned to go out front
to the pens with the animals when the phone rang. He grimaced
and Tate said, “I got it, baby. I’ll meet you in the water.”
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
51
He had a feeling he knew who it was and had to brace himself
when he saw the caller ID.
“Tate?” JoEllen had the voice of a large middle-aged black
woman, which was good, because that’s what she was, big bosom,
red lipstick, and short-cropped girl-fro and all. Her voice made Tate
feel warm and cared for, which was probably a job perk, because
she was the local social worker in charge of foster children in the
area.
“Hi, JoEllen. How are you doing this morning?”
“Fine, baby—how’s Brian? Is he a wreck yet?”
“Naw—you know Brian. He puts that stuff out and acts like he
didn’t throw his heart and soul into it, yanno? He’s a rock.” Until
after the show. This was his fourth show, his third in Petaluma, and
each time was the same—Brian was all serenity and Zen until
everyone went home, and then the shakes took him over and he
needed Talker with an intensity that would have frightened anyone
else on the planet.
“Well, good. I came yesterday and set up the kids’ work, did
he tell you that?”
“Yeah—he said it looked real good.” Brian had actually praised
Tate until he’d told him to shut up and fuck off, because he was
never good at taking a compliment, but Brian had kissed him
senseless.
“Well, baby, that’s good. You know why I’m calling, right?”
Tate sighed. He was a big boy—he told himself that
repeatedly, but it didn’t stop his voice from getting gruff. “Shelley’s
parents got custody again, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. And the last place they’re going to take her is to an art
gallery. I’m sorry, sweetheart. She won’t be there tonight. I thought
you’d want to get that out of your system before the show.”
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
52
Tate nodded and swallowed hard, feeling achy all sorts of
places and not just his throat.
“Yeah, okay. Thank you.”
“Hey, Tate—we talked about this, right? We talked about how
people get attached, but they’ve got to be ready….”
“I can take it, Jo, okay? I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yeah, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight, and the other kids will
be with me.”
“I can’t wait.”
He hung up the phone and walked toward the back, where his
wet suit and surfboard waited, and tried to pretend his eyes weren’t
stinging with
50
“Look at that,” Brian had whispered, and sure enough, they
could see the stars and the moon on the water through their back
window. Later they would put the insulation up, so they only had to
see it when they wanted and they didn‟t wake up shivering, and
they would add area rugs and remember to wear moccasins
because the gorgeous, hardwood space of the cottage was not
always warm. Tonight, though, it was like looking at the whole wide
world spread out below their toes, while they cuddled in bed with as
many blankets as they could find.
“God, it‟s like we can reach out and touch something,” Tate
had whispered back reverently, and he caught Brian‟s quick grin in
the dark.
“Wait until tomorrow—I‟ll reach out and touch something!”
Tate rolled his eyes. “You know—you‟re supposed to be an
artist or something, but I swear, you don‟t have a scrap of poetry in
your soul.”
Brian‟s mouth had been hot and demanding on his, and Tate
hadn‟t said another coherent thing after that. The message was
clear as they huddled under the thousand and one blankets on their
newly stained sheets: with them, sex was all the poetry Brian‟s soul
ever craved.
THEY both put on trunks and hoodies because their wetsuits were
outside, hanging over the fence by the outside shower, and it was a
little too chilly to be wandering around in their underwear. Brian put
on coffee for when they were done, and then turned to go out front
to the pens with the animals when the phone rang. He grimaced
and Tate said, “I got it, baby. I’ll meet you in the water.”
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
51
He had a feeling he knew who it was and had to brace himself
when he saw the caller ID.
“Tate?” JoEllen had the voice of a large middle-aged black
woman, which was good, because that’s what she was, big bosom,
red lipstick, and short-cropped girl-fro and all. Her voice made Tate
feel warm and cared for, which was probably a job perk, because
she was the local social worker in charge of foster children in the
area.
“Hi, JoEllen. How are you doing this morning?”
“Fine, baby—how’s Brian? Is he a wreck yet?”
“Naw—you know Brian. He puts that stuff out and acts like he
didn’t throw his heart and soul into it, yanno? He’s a rock.” Until
after the show. This was his fourth show, his third in Petaluma, and
each time was the same—Brian was all serenity and Zen until
everyone went home, and then the shakes took him over and he
needed Talker with an intensity that would have frightened anyone
else on the planet.
“Well, good. I came yesterday and set up the kids’ work, did
he tell you that?”
“Yeah—he said it looked real good.” Brian had actually praised
Tate until he’d told him to shut up and fuck off, because he was
never good at taking a compliment, but Brian had kissed him
senseless.
“Well, baby, that’s good. You know why I’m calling, right?”
Tate sighed. He was a big boy—he told himself that
repeatedly, but it didn’t stop his voice from getting gruff. “Shelley’s
parents got custody again, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. And the last place they’re going to take her is to an art
gallery. I’m sorry, sweetheart. She won’t be there tonight. I thought
you’d want to get that out of your system before the show.”
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
52
Tate nodded and swallowed hard, feeling achy all sorts of
places and not just his throat.
“Yeah, okay. Thank you.”
“Hey, Tate—we talked about this, right? We talked about how
people get attached, but they’ve got to be ready….”
“I can take it, Jo, okay? I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yeah, sweetheart. I’ll see you tonight, and the other kids will
be with me.”
“I can’t wait.”
He hung up the phone and walked toward the back, where his
wet suit and surfboard waited, and tried to pretend his eyes weren’t
stinging with
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