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Authors: Jerry Douglas
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the throwaway razors that were left, and he put his
(along with one can of Burma Shave) in the medicine cabinet. I buried mine in
my backpack.
"You want to take this?" he
asked, holding up the remains of our current jar of Vaseline.
I tried to smile. "Not unless
you go with it."
"I'll save it for your
homecoming."
"Not for tonight?"
He shrugged. "I 'm not really in the mood right now."
"Good. Me either."
"Weird."
"Weird."
I glanced down at our clock-radio,
surprised by the time. "Funny. I thought by now we'd have at least two
rounds under our belts already."
Clark shook his head. "It's not
a game anymore."
"Nope. It's a lot more than
that, isn't it?"
He nodded. "Tonight I just want
us to hold each other..."
“...as close as we can."
Clark nodded. Moments later, we were
both naked.
"Do you suppose we should say
our prayers?" my brother asked. "We haven't..."
“...for a long time, I know. Only can
we..."
“...skip the dull parts? Sure."
He moved closer and ran a fingertip over my shaved upper lip. "God bless
Mark."
I responded in kind. "God bless
Clark."
And then we kissed.
It was the first of many kisses that
night. Our tongues explored each other's flesh in a sort of languorous slow
motion until, maybe an hour later, we found ourselves in what we later found
out was called the sixty-nine position. My head was lying on his inner thigh,
his on mine, but the curious thing, in retrospect,
was that neither of us was even slightly tumescent. Without discussion, we
kissed each other’s cockhead goodnight and began to doze off. To this day, I've
not been able to figure out why it never occurred to either of us to suck cock
that night.
"You read it all?" Mark
asked.
Clark nodded. "While you
were asleep. Its good. I'd give it an A, maybe an A-plus, if you had to do it
for class—only you can't. You've got to burn it."
"Burn it?"
"Yeah, burn it. I mean, what
if someone read it? Like Mom. Shit, can you imagine what she'd do if she read
it?"
"I never thought of that. I
just..."
"Well, you can't leave it
here?"
"Okay, then I'll take it
with me to Uncle Clay's."
"You're gonna keep
writing?" he asked.
"Well, sure. Tell what
happens next. You know, like David Copperfield or King Arthur, kind of."
Well, then, promise me you'll
print in big letters across each notebook: Do Not Read Until After Our
Death."
They heard a horn honk. Mark
rushed to the window of their room and waved down to their father, who was
already waiting in his truck. He kissed his brother good-bye, gathered up his
things, and started for the door, afraid to look back, for fear he might not go
if he did. The last thing he heard Clark say was: "Do I really look like
an Olympic gold medal marathon man?"
A little after noon
the next day, my father pulled the pick-up into the driveway of an old
Victorian mansion that had seen better days. The lawn needed mowing, the house
a coat of paint, and the gingerbread latticework that framed the wrap-around
porch was badly in need of repair.
I climbed
out of our truck and retrieved my backpack and the two shopping bags in which
my things were packed. That was when I first saw Uncle Clay. Framed in the
front doorway, he was holding a videocam to his eye, filming my arrival. I
waved and took a good long look.
About my
height and weight, the same ice-blue eyes, the same golden hair, he cut a
striking figure. True, the eyes were a bit hollowed, the skin a bit pasty, and
his clothes hung a bit too loosely on him, but he was blood kin all right. No
doubt about it. All I could think was: This is what I'm going to look like in
forty years.
"Remember
me?" he called out by way of greeting.
"Sure,"
I lied and stuck out my hand. His firm grip was not the handshake of a man
who'd been at death's door for the last year and a half.
"I'd
help you with all that shit, but my fuckin' doctor says I'm not to lift a
fuckin thing for another three months. He's an asshole, but he charges a lot,
so I try to get
(along with one can of Burma Shave) in the medicine cabinet. I buried mine in
my backpack.
"You want to take this?" he
asked, holding up the remains of our current jar of Vaseline.
I tried to smile. "Not unless
you go with it."
"I'll save it for your
homecoming."
"Not for tonight?"
He shrugged. "I 'm not really in the mood right now."
"Good. Me either."
"Weird."
"Weird."
I glanced down at our clock-radio,
surprised by the time. "Funny. I thought by now we'd have at least two
rounds under our belts already."
Clark shook his head. "It's not
a game anymore."
"Nope. It's a lot more than
that, isn't it?"
He nodded. "Tonight I just want
us to hold each other..."
“...as close as we can."
Clark nodded. Moments later, we were
both naked.
"Do you suppose we should say
our prayers?" my brother asked. "We haven't..."
“...for a long time, I know. Only can
we..."
“...skip the dull parts? Sure."
He moved closer and ran a fingertip over my shaved upper lip. "God bless
Mark."
I responded in kind. "God bless
Clark."
And then we kissed.
It was the first of many kisses that
night. Our tongues explored each other's flesh in a sort of languorous slow
motion until, maybe an hour later, we found ourselves in what we later found
out was called the sixty-nine position. My head was lying on his inner thigh,
his on mine, but the curious thing, in retrospect,
was that neither of us was even slightly tumescent. Without discussion, we
kissed each other’s cockhead goodnight and began to doze off. To this day, I've
not been able to figure out why it never occurred to either of us to suck cock
that night.
"You read it all?" Mark
asked.
Clark nodded. "While you
were asleep. Its good. I'd give it an A, maybe an A-plus, if you had to do it
for class—only you can't. You've got to burn it."
"Burn it?"
"Yeah, burn it. I mean, what
if someone read it? Like Mom. Shit, can you imagine what she'd do if she read
it?"
"I never thought of that. I
just..."
"Well, you can't leave it
here?"
"Okay, then I'll take it
with me to Uncle Clay's."
"You're gonna keep
writing?" he asked.
"Well, sure. Tell what
happens next. You know, like David Copperfield or King Arthur, kind of."
Well, then, promise me you'll
print in big letters across each notebook: Do Not Read Until After Our
Death."
They heard a horn honk. Mark
rushed to the window of their room and waved down to their father, who was
already waiting in his truck. He kissed his brother good-bye, gathered up his
things, and started for the door, afraid to look back, for fear he might not go
if he did. The last thing he heard Clark say was: "Do I really look like
an Olympic gold medal marathon man?"
A little after noon
the next day, my father pulled the pick-up into the driveway of an old
Victorian mansion that had seen better days. The lawn needed mowing, the house
a coat of paint, and the gingerbread latticework that framed the wrap-around
porch was badly in need of repair.
I climbed
out of our truck and retrieved my backpack and the two shopping bags in which
my things were packed. That was when I first saw Uncle Clay. Framed in the
front doorway, he was holding a videocam to his eye, filming my arrival. I
waved and took a good long look.
About my
height and weight, the same ice-blue eyes, the same golden hair, he cut a
striking figure. True, the eyes were a bit hollowed, the skin a bit pasty, and
his clothes hung a bit too loosely on him, but he was blood kin all right. No
doubt about it. All I could think was: This is what I'm going to look like in
forty years.
"Remember
me?" he called out by way of greeting.
"Sure,"
I lied and stuck out my hand. His firm grip was not the handshake of a man
who'd been at death's door for the last year and a half.
"I'd
help you with all that shit, but my fuckin' doctor says I'm not to lift a
fuckin thing for another three months. He's an asshole, but he charges a lot,
so I try to get
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