any sense.”
His whisper was angry, sharp. “I’m saying it’s over! I’ve got nothing! There’s nothing to hold on to anymore! And when that happens to you, you either lose your mind or your life or both. I’ve seen it happen, over and over.”
“What’s over? Nothing’s changed, has it? The place is still there, the war’s still going on, your squad is still…” I stopped when I heard him gasp again, like he was trying not to sob. “What? Will you tell me what you’re talking about?”
He took a minute to recover. “You don’t want to know.”
I stood up, hovering over him. “Will you knock it off? You’re in here sobbing like a baby, and now you’re telling me you have nothing to live for, and I don’t want to know?” I felt like suddenly our roles were reversed. He was the kid brother, and I was the one who had the right to make him account for himself. He covered his face with his hands, and I waited. I stood there, half bending over him, my eyes boring holes into his head so that maybe I could see what the fuck was going on in there.
But he didn’t speak. I realized that probably he couldn’t; the way he was breathing made it seem like if he spoke, he’d scream. So I sat down again.
What’s changed? If something really has changed, wouldn’t it have to be sudden? Recent? I said, “Who were you talking to? In the den? Who’d you call?”
He started breathing in and out really quickly, like he was hyperventilating. God, there was something really, really wrong. This was so not Chris. I was getting worried now. I got up and sat beside him on the bed, and when I put my hand on his shoulder he trembled, shuddering all through.
He said, “He’s gone. He’s gone, and I’m alone.”
“Who? Who’s gone?”
It was like he could barely say the name. “Mason.”
“Mason, the guy in your squad?”
Chris pulled away from me and reached for more tissues. He grabbed a handful of them and held them over his face. He took several deep breaths and then said, “I loved him.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant—loved, past tense. “He’s dead?”
Chris nodded. “It was his parents I called. He had asked me to, while I was stateside, and I put it off until tonight. And when I called them, they said”—and he had to get his breath under control again—“he’d been killed. While I’ve been home. He’s gone.”
Shit. Well, this would put the fear of God into a guy. But—Chris’s reaction was still confusing me. All I could think of to say was, “That sucks.”
We sat there for nearly a minute, me desperate to think of something helpful to say, him still trying to get himself in hand and not doing very well. Then, again, he said, “I loved him.”
“You said that. I get it.”
“I don’t think you do.”
Now I was getting angry again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Paul, I loved him. I mean, I really loved him. And he loved me. We—I’m…gay.”
I didn’t know I stood up. All I knew was I wasn’t on the bed anymore. The three feet between us turned into thirty. My voice hoarse, I said, “You’re shittin’ me!” I wheeled away from him, paced across the room and back two, three times, I’m not sure. I was giving him time, time to take it back, time to say he was kidding, time to do anything that would undo what he’d just told me. I stopped in front of him, looked at the wall somewhere over his head, and asked, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”
It wasn’t a question for him. It wasn’t a question he could answer. It was for me, but I couldn’t answer it, either. I don’t know where he was looking; I couldn’t look at him. He took a ragged breath and said, “You hate me.”
I backed up, nearly knocking the chair over. Do I hate him? Do I hate Chris, my hero, my big brother? Do I hate the guy who’s been the buffer between me and my dad’s disappointment that I’m not like Chris?
I walked toward the door. I wanted to get out, and I couldn’t leave. Finally I leaned against the frame with both hands. Wasn’t it just the other night I was lying in my room, wishing I could think of something bad Chris had done so I could be mad at him? Be careful what you wish for; isn’t that how the warning goes? Well, here it was. Wasn’t Chris asking me to hate him, really? Wasn’t he giving me reasons with both hands? On one, there was the fact that he was sobbing and moaning in fear, and on the other was the fact that he—I couldn’t even bring myself to think the word. But did I hate him? With something like fury, I realized I was about to cry. Me! I kept the tears at bay with words. I turned toward him.
“All my life, you’ve been the one. The good son. The shining boy. The one I was supposed to look up to. I’ve always come in second, always asking myself, ‘Why can’t I be more like Chris?’ Should I be like you now? Should I want boys?”
“Stop it!”
I didn’t want to stop it. I felt like I was on a roll, like I was about to say everything I’d wanted to say all my life, and finally he’d given me permission. Or at least an excuse. “I won’t stop it. You’re supposed to be the perfect son. And now I find out that not only are you a frightened sissy, but you’re a queer! This is what I’m supposed to look up to? You? My God!”
I had walked away from the door toward the window, and what light there was shone on his face. For some reason I still don’t understand, my knees buckled, and I fell onto the floor. And then I felt Chris’s arms around me. Half of me didn’t want him touching me. The other half, the half that won, reached my arms around him, too. But almost immediately, by some silent agreement, we let go. We sat cross-legged on the floor with him leaning his back against my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. I can’t help it.”
“It’s okay,” I lied, wanting it to be true, knowing it wasn’t.
We sat for a while in silence, and then he said, “Paul? I need to ask you…I need…Please, Paul. Please. Don’t tell anyone.”
I knew what he meant. I nodded. “Do you think you ever will? Tell?”
“I won’t get a chance.”
“What? Why not?”
About twenty heartbeats went by. “I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”
“Bullshit. Bullshit, Chris. Goddamn it, don’t talk like that. Just because Mason…” My voice trailed off. “Somebody else dying has nothing to do with whether you’re coming back. You’ve lost other friends, right? Maybe they didn’t mean the same to you, but lots of guys have died. That doesn’t mean you will. Lots of other guys come home.”
He didn’t answer. And I didn’t know what else to say. We sat there like that, maybe five more minutes. Then he said, “You’ve got school tomorrow.”
“Fuck school.”
“If you get a chance to do this, if the war’s still going on? Don’t join. Don’t go. Do anything you have to do, but don’t go over there.” He pulled away and turned toward me. “Do you hear? And don’t let Dad push you. Don’t let his own frustrated ambitions force you into something like this. Don’t try to live his life for him. Are you hearing me, Paul?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Did he do that?”
“Just don’t, okay? Don’t do it. If you have to go to Canada, you go to Canada.” His voice was getting louder, and I was afraid our folks would hear.
“Quiet!” I was already protecting his secret.
“This is important. Tell me you understand. Tell me you won’t let him do that to you.