"The Enchanted Cottage" -- Part 24
The miracle.
Las Encantadas Estate, Erie, Pa., November 2006
Justin trudged back to the cottage in the snow.
He thought about the plans he and Brian had made for the first real snowfall. A snowball fight, followed by making snow angels, followed by a careful, but exciting, fuck outside in the drifts. Then another fuck inside, in front of the fire, followed by a soak in the Jacuzzi, and another fuck in the big, fluffy bed.
But now...
The cottage was dark, except for one light on in the living room. Brian's bedroom was dark. Maybe he was already asleep.
Or...
Maybe he was gone.
But gone... where?
He hadn't thought to check to see if the Corvette was still in the garage.
But Brian has said he'd be waiting.
And Brian always told him the truth, no matter how painful.
Brian had believed in the miracle. He knew he had!
He'd denied it at first. Said it was an illusion. Impossible. But then... he really did believe.
Justin thought of the night when Brian got out of bed and pulled down the sheets from all the mirrors in the cottage. Then he stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, naked, and looked at himself. Justin came and stood beside him.
"Do you know that famous photo? Of John Lennon and Yoko Ono? On the cover of 'Two Virgins'?"
Justin had shook his head. Brian was always mentioning some obscure pop culture artifact.
"They're completely naked, as if to say, 'Here we are! This is what it's all about. Fuck everyone else!' Of course, we have much better bodies than John and Yoko, but you know what I'm saying."
"Yes," said Justin. "I know exactly what you're saying."
And the sheets had remained down. Brian passed the mirrors every day without comment. Without cringing.
He had believed!
Or it had been true. A real miracle.
And now...
Justin opened the cottage door and took off his coat. The fireplace was cold. A single lamp was lit. And everything was deathly still.
Then he saw it.
A single suitcase by the sofa.
Waiting. Waiting to leave the cottage.
The door to Brian's bedroom was slightly ajar. Justin went in. The room was dark, but he could see the glow of Brian's cigarette.
He silently undressed and went to the bed. Brian lifted the bedclothes and Justin got in.
"The suitcase..." Justin began.
"Not now," said Brian. "This first."
They made love very slowly, almost painfully so. Justin squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to get it over with. Then he opened his eyes and begged for it not to end. His heart was pounding and his head spinning as he dug in and moved against Brian as if they were one body.
"Fuck!" he breathed, one tear spilling from his eye. I'm not going to cry! I'm not! I'm not some weepy little faggot! If this is the end, then I'm going to meet it like a man. Fuck like a man and not a whiny little girl.
"Jesus," Brian whispered as he came. And he started again.
They continued until they were spent. The room was cold, but they were sweating under the covers. When it was finally finished, they lay there, silently. Brian didn't reach for a joint, as he usually did, but stared up at the ceiling, waiting.
Waiting.
"The suitcase," Justin said at last.
"I packed it for you," said Brian. "You didn't seem to have one, so I used one of mine. I didn't put everything in there, but I'll send the rest of your things later. You can't carry more than that in this fucking weather. And you'll need your art portfolio for the show."
Justin turned and gazed at Brian. "If you think I'm leaving here, you're f... fucked!"
"Yes, you are leaving here," Brian replied. "In the morning. You're going back to the Pitts with your mother to get ready for the art show at the GLC. And after that you're going to apply to the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art. Maybe you won't get in this time, but then you'll try again. And when you're really ready, you'll go. And you'll be a fucking artist, even if it kills you. Because that's what you have to do."
"I can do that here!" insisted Justin. "In the cottage! I have my computer and my camera and my paints -- and my m... model. I don't need anything else!"
"Yes, you do," said Brian. "You need the world. You need to live and not hide away. The longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave. You've already stayed too long. It's time to go."
"But... the cottage!" Justin cried. "It's still enchanted! When I'm here, I'm better! I'm... normal! I don't s... stammer and trip over things and my hand doesn't seize up. And I can draw and paint. I couldn't do that before! It's about being here! This is where I belong -- the only place I belong!"
"No," said Brian. "It's an illusion. The Enchanted Cottage isn't a magical place, it's a trap, Justin. It's served its purpose. It showed you what you can do. Because your art pieces -- they aren't an illusion. They're real. If you could make them here, then you can make them in Pittsburgh -- or anywhere. As long as you can believe you can do it, then you can."
"Then I want to stay!" said Justin. "Here -- with you!"
"That's why you have to go." Brian got out of bed and turned on the light. "Look at me! Really look! What do you see?"
Justin stared at his lover. At the scars. The damage that had been done to him. And every imperfection seemed beautiful.
"A b... beautiful man! The man I love. The man I'll always love -- no matter what!"
"No matter what," Brian repeated. "Then it doesn't matter where you are, or where I am -- we can still feel that love. Even after you go."
"No!" Justin jumped out of bed. "I won't go! It's fucked up! Everyone is always trying to make decisions for me -- my father, my m... mother, my doctors, Mrs. Minnett -- and now you. But I'm a grown man! I can make my own decisions!"
"I know you can," said Brian. He went to the window and looked out. The snow was coming down harder. Lake effect snow, hard and stinging, pinging against the glass. "So I want you to understand why I want you to leave. I don't want to carry you, kicking and screaming, up to the main house. I want you to go and know why you have to go."
"Okay," said Justin, crossing his arms defiantly. "I'm waiting."
"You have to go because I love you," said Brian. "And if you love me, too, then you have to trust me. I've lived longer than you and I'm survived shit that should have killed me. Shit that killed better men than I am. And the one thing I've learned is that you can't run away from life. Which is what I've been doing ever since I was a kid. I was hurt so badly by my fucking parents and by the fucked up world I saw around me that I rejected the one thing that might have saved me -- raw human emotion. Love. Kindness. Compassion. I became a heartless shit because it was easy. Easy to not care about anyone but myself. Easy to look at my best friend and know how much he was in love with me, and yet push him away again and again, while at the same time dangling that little shred of hope that one day we might be together... and knowing I would never allow it to happen. And then playing a woman I knew was deeply in love with me, who would have done anything for me, offering tiny pieces of myself, but always with the condition that she could never have what she truly wanted -- which was a life, a family, a future. And then, in a moment of weakness, I gave her a kid. But I'll never be a father to him. Never be the kind of father he needs and deserves. Because that's not what I can do, especially now. I'm not a father and never will be. I'm a sperm donor. A thing. Not a real man."
"It's not too late!" Justin put his hand on Brian's shoulder. His touch was gentle because the scars still burned. "Gus is still young. You can still be a father to him. Even if you can't give Michael or Lindsay what they want, it's not too late for G... Gus!"
"It is," Brian whispered. "It's too late for me. If everything that came before -- my parents and the cancer and my whole fucked up life -- didn't do it, then the bombing did." He turned to Justin. "But it's not too late for you. All you need to do is take the next step. And you have to take it. Now. It's time."
"But..."
"No buts! If you don't leave tomorrow, then I will. And I'll never come back. I mean it. I'll go where no one can follow me. Then you'll have to leave -- or else stay in this fucking Enchanted Cottage all alone until you rot."
Justin balked. "You're bluffing. I don't believe you."
"Believe me. Go out and look next to my computer."
Justin went out to the living room and turned on the desk lamp. Sitting next to Brian's computer was a printed e-ticket -- one way -- to Ibiza. Justin picked it up and crushed it in his right hand. Then he marched back to the bedroom.
"You wouldn't!" He threw the crumpled paper at Brian's feet. "That's what I think of your noble f... fucking gesture!"
"I'll just print another one," said Brian. "I've made a reservation at the best hotel on the island. One that overlooks the sea."
"This is blackmail!" Justin cried.
"If that's what you want to call it. But one of us is leaving here tomorrow -- and never coming back." Brian walked back to the bed and got in. "No matter what you decide, we have one more night. That's all. If you want to waste it arguing, then so be it."
Justin stood, clenching and unclenching his fist. It was trembling, but he wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't be defeated by a fucking hand! Or a fucking baseball bat!
Or Brian fucking Kinney!
Justin turned off the bedroom light and got back into bed.
And he didn't cry. He promised himself that no matter what else happened to him in his miserable, fucked up life, he'd never let anyone see him cry again.
In the first light of morning he packed his portfolio with his prints for the show, picked up Brian's suitcase, and walked out of the Enchanted Cottage.
He didn't look back.
***
Las Encantadas Estate, Erie, Pa., November 2006
Justin trudged back to the cottage in the snow.
He thought about the plans he and Brian had made for the first real snowfall. A snowball fight, followed by making snow angels, followed by a careful, but exciting, fuck outside in the drifts. Then another fuck inside, in front of the fire, followed by a soak in the Jacuzzi, and another fuck in the big, fluffy bed.
But now...
The cottage was dark, except for one light on in the living room. Brian's bedroom was dark. Maybe he was already asleep.
Or...
Maybe he was gone.
But gone... where?
He hadn't thought to check to see if the Corvette was still in the garage.
But Brian has said he'd be waiting.
And Brian always told him the truth, no matter how painful.
Brian had believed in the miracle. He knew he had!
He'd denied it at first. Said it was an illusion. Impossible. But then... he really did believe.
Justin thought of the night when Brian got out of bed and pulled down the sheets from all the mirrors in the cottage. Then he stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, naked, and looked at himself. Justin came and stood beside him.
"Do you know that famous photo? Of John Lennon and Yoko Ono? On the cover of 'Two Virgins'?"
Justin had shook his head. Brian was always mentioning some obscure pop culture artifact.
"They're completely naked, as if to say, 'Here we are! This is what it's all about. Fuck everyone else!' Of course, we have much better bodies than John and Yoko, but you know what I'm saying."
"Yes," said Justin. "I know exactly what you're saying."
And the sheets had remained down. Brian passed the mirrors every day without comment. Without cringing.
He had believed!
Or it had been true. A real miracle.
And now...
Justin opened the cottage door and took off his coat. The fireplace was cold. A single lamp was lit. And everything was deathly still.
Then he saw it.
A single suitcase by the sofa.
Waiting. Waiting to leave the cottage.
The door to Brian's bedroom was slightly ajar. Justin went in. The room was dark, but he could see the glow of Brian's cigarette.
He silently undressed and went to the bed. Brian lifted the bedclothes and Justin got in.
"The suitcase..." Justin began.
"Not now," said Brian. "This first."
They made love very slowly, almost painfully so. Justin squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to get it over with. Then he opened his eyes and begged for it not to end. His heart was pounding and his head spinning as he dug in and moved against Brian as if they were one body.
"Fuck!" he breathed, one tear spilling from his eye. I'm not going to cry! I'm not! I'm not some weepy little faggot! If this is the end, then I'm going to meet it like a man. Fuck like a man and not a whiny little girl.
"Jesus," Brian whispered as he came. And he started again.
They continued until they were spent. The room was cold, but they were sweating under the covers. When it was finally finished, they lay there, silently. Brian didn't reach for a joint, as he usually did, but stared up at the ceiling, waiting.
Waiting.
"The suitcase," Justin said at last.
"I packed it for you," said Brian. "You didn't seem to have one, so I used one of mine. I didn't put everything in there, but I'll send the rest of your things later. You can't carry more than that in this fucking weather. And you'll need your art portfolio for the show."
Justin turned and gazed at Brian. "If you think I'm leaving here, you're f... fucked!"
"Yes, you are leaving here," Brian replied. "In the morning. You're going back to the Pitts with your mother to get ready for the art show at the GLC. And after that you're going to apply to the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Art. Maybe you won't get in this time, but then you'll try again. And when you're really ready, you'll go. And you'll be a fucking artist, even if it kills you. Because that's what you have to do."
"I can do that here!" insisted Justin. "In the cottage! I have my computer and my camera and my paints -- and my m... model. I don't need anything else!"
"Yes, you do," said Brian. "You need the world. You need to live and not hide away. The longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave. You've already stayed too long. It's time to go."
"But... the cottage!" Justin cried. "It's still enchanted! When I'm here, I'm better! I'm... normal! I don't s... stammer and trip over things and my hand doesn't seize up. And I can draw and paint. I couldn't do that before! It's about being here! This is where I belong -- the only place I belong!"
"No," said Brian. "It's an illusion. The Enchanted Cottage isn't a magical place, it's a trap, Justin. It's served its purpose. It showed you what you can do. Because your art pieces -- they aren't an illusion. They're real. If you could make them here, then you can make them in Pittsburgh -- or anywhere. As long as you can believe you can do it, then you can."
"Then I want to stay!" said Justin. "Here -- with you!"
"That's why you have to go." Brian got out of bed and turned on the light. "Look at me! Really look! What do you see?"
Justin stared at his lover. At the scars. The damage that had been done to him. And every imperfection seemed beautiful.
"A b... beautiful man! The man I love. The man I'll always love -- no matter what!"
"No matter what," Brian repeated. "Then it doesn't matter where you are, or where I am -- we can still feel that love. Even after you go."
"No!" Justin jumped out of bed. "I won't go! It's fucked up! Everyone is always trying to make decisions for me -- my father, my m... mother, my doctors, Mrs. Minnett -- and now you. But I'm a grown man! I can make my own decisions!"
"I know you can," said Brian. He went to the window and looked out. The snow was coming down harder. Lake effect snow, hard and stinging, pinging against the glass. "So I want you to understand why I want you to leave. I don't want to carry you, kicking and screaming, up to the main house. I want you to go and know why you have to go."
"Okay," said Justin, crossing his arms defiantly. "I'm waiting."
"You have to go because I love you," said Brian. "And if you love me, too, then you have to trust me. I've lived longer than you and I'm survived shit that should have killed me. Shit that killed better men than I am. And the one thing I've learned is that you can't run away from life. Which is what I've been doing ever since I was a kid. I was hurt so badly by my fucking parents and by the fucked up world I saw around me that I rejected the one thing that might have saved me -- raw human emotion. Love. Kindness. Compassion. I became a heartless shit because it was easy. Easy to not care about anyone but myself. Easy to look at my best friend and know how much he was in love with me, and yet push him away again and again, while at the same time dangling that little shred of hope that one day we might be together... and knowing I would never allow it to happen. And then playing a woman I knew was deeply in love with me, who would have done anything for me, offering tiny pieces of myself, but always with the condition that she could never have what she truly wanted -- which was a life, a family, a future. And then, in a moment of weakness, I gave her a kid. But I'll never be a father to him. Never be the kind of father he needs and deserves. Because that's not what I can do, especially now. I'm not a father and never will be. I'm a sperm donor. A thing. Not a real man."
"It's not too late!" Justin put his hand on Brian's shoulder. His touch was gentle because the scars still burned. "Gus is still young. You can still be a father to him. Even if you can't give Michael or Lindsay what they want, it's not too late for G... Gus!"
"It is," Brian whispered. "It's too late for me. If everything that came before -- my parents and the cancer and my whole fucked up life -- didn't do it, then the bombing did." He turned to Justin. "But it's not too late for you. All you need to do is take the next step. And you have to take it. Now. It's time."
"But..."
"No buts! If you don't leave tomorrow, then I will. And I'll never come back. I mean it. I'll go where no one can follow me. Then you'll have to leave -- or else stay in this fucking Enchanted Cottage all alone until you rot."
Justin balked. "You're bluffing. I don't believe you."
"Believe me. Go out and look next to my computer."
Justin went out to the living room and turned on the desk lamp. Sitting next to Brian's computer was a printed e-ticket -- one way -- to Ibiza. Justin picked it up and crushed it in his right hand. Then he marched back to the bedroom.
"You wouldn't!" He threw the crumpled paper at Brian's feet. "That's what I think of your noble f... fucking gesture!"
"I'll just print another one," said Brian. "I've made a reservation at the best hotel on the island. One that overlooks the sea."
"This is blackmail!" Justin cried.
"If that's what you want to call it. But one of us is leaving here tomorrow -- and never coming back." Brian walked back to the bed and got in. "No matter what you decide, we have one more night. That's all. If you want to waste it arguing, then so be it."
Justin stood, clenching and unclenching his fist. It was trembling, but he wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't be defeated by a fucking hand! Or a fucking baseball bat!
Or Brian fucking Kinney!
Justin turned off the bedroom light and got back into bed.
And he didn't cry. He promised himself that no matter what else happened to him in his miserable, fucked up life, he'd never let anyone see him cry again.
In the first light of morning he packed his portfolio with his prints for the show, picked up Brian's suitcase, and walked out of the Enchanted Cottage.
He didn't look back.
***