Thirteen Crucifixions, 81

There was nothing good on TV.  And why should there be since it wasn’t yet nine in the morning?  Television was boring anyway, except for the Simpsons and maybe Rem and Stimpy.  Babylon Five and the other late night science fiction soap operas he could do without.  The acting was uniformly abysmal though Lazarus’ housemates had often sworn by them.  He preferred staying in the basement though the TV and fellowship were always there for him upstairs.  How Monica had acquired a key to his suite he didn’t know, but when he caught her rifling through his dresser that was the end of it.  Goth princess that she was she had long lost her hold on Lazarus, and she knew it.  He pinned her arms behind her back and forced her to surrender the key.  Then she squealed to the others that mean horrible Lazarus had assaulted her.  There was a showdown. He was told to move out.  He didn’t much care, seeing this as a deliverance.  They were all burnt-out punk rockers, averaging ten years his senior, making him the kid.  They were on drugs, or they were alcoholics or they were chronically depressed.  No wonder he seldom ventured upstairs.  And Monica, ghastly beautiful as she was, could not lure him into bed with her.  Which, he believed, was why she broke into his room.  He was off women, anyway.  Perhaps had never been on them.  Though, through Amanda, he had the previous year fathered a son.  They were both in Toronto. She never answered his letters now.  He often missed his son, who he’d seen only twice before they bailed on him and the city of Vancouver.  Amanda he cared not a rat's ass for, not even while he was seeing her.  She accurately accused Lazarus of using her as a cover for his homosexuality.  He supposed that she was right, even though the sex was at times enjoyable.  He didn’t think he had a sexual preference.  And even though he was often unremittingly horny, sex didn’t really matter to him.  It actually interfered with his capacity to really connect with someone.  Which was probably why he couldn’t make love to Michael, much as he might have desired him.  Much as he throve on burying himself in his arms.  But Lazarus found it impossible to have any sustained affection for someone he was sexually involved with.  Therefore, needing affection to the point of neurosis, he eschewed having sex with Michael, who seemed amicable towards having a relationship of chaste cuddling.  He was afraid of losing him.

            He was afraid that he’d already lost Michael.  There seemed so many men he would have to share him with—Glen, who he liked, Matthew whom he tolerated, and Adam and Russell, both of whom he loathed.  He still hadn’t forgiven Russell for having sex with Michael though he had forgiven Michael.  It wasn’t fair.  Not that Lazarus particularly wanted either of them that way himself, but he still felt violated.  That some delicate and very precious connection had been severed, for all of them.  He supposed that he was being unfair to Adam, whom, according to Michael, actually liked Lazarus rather intensely, and had never uttered an unkind word about him.  Well, Lazarus was jealous, insanely unmitigatedly jealous.  Possessive.  Not that he could help it.  No one had ever loved him like Michael. Though for a while he simply wanted to punch his lights out, since he could be so sadistically mean.  And so overwhelmingly tender.  Lazarus had never met anyone like that.  Michael was so protective and Lazarus throve on being protected, so vulnerable and naked he had always felt, and more so now, since the death of his mother.  He staunched the grief whenever it rose in him, but he couldn’t do this around Michael, who alone seemed able to summon forth in him such emotions.  Who had also made it clear that he would never betray Lazarus, who clung to him the more fiercely.

            And then there was Glen.  Around Glen he did feel comfortable. Extremely comfortable.  There was no emotional drama to this relationship.  Glen was for Lazarus like a calm sea for his little skiff to bob upon.  He really did need them both in his life, and he was determined tomorrow that he’d give his notice at work and move to the Island with them.

            Though he wasn’t entirely sure about God.  Yes, there was something spiritual in that community that drew him.  And frightened him as well.  He seemed to fit there, which he found frightening. Lazarus was not used to fitting anywhere.  But Chris, the superior, told him that he was welcome any time for as long as he needed to be there.  But did he need to be there?  Did he need to belong?  Would this not be just another lulling, numbing drug for him?  Perhaps Lazarus needed to be drugged. He knew that he wasn’t over his mother’s death, and certainly not over having witnessed her last days of heightened, intensified agony.  He felt now cut adrift.  Not free, so much as abandoned.  And he couldn’t stay long with Sheila, who was selling the house and didn’t appear to like him much.  To be fair, he could tell that she already had a lot on her mind.  Maybe he was hoping she’d be for him a mother substitute.  Somehow, this morning, he was sure that she’d communicated to him that she would not be up to the task.  Well, he needed to live somewhere, to belong somewhere.  He supposed that he was moving to the island.  Nothing else seemed to make sense to him now.

            It was quite a sumptuous looking room, with its period furniture and those three rose windows.  Michael had directed Lazarus’ attention to the gorgeous blue and gold Ming vase on the mantel that held his father’s ashes.  He had told him that his father was gay, and that he died from AIDS.  Somehow the urn seemed to be reaching out, to be summoning him.  He felt suddenly tired, his head tilted downward….

            He awoke refreshed.  He had been somewhere, he knew this.  He’d had a conversation with someone, though he couldn’t remember what this person looked like, but he was imparting to Lazarus some pertinent, vital information.  He only knew that a deep place within him, that went somewhere past his loneliness, somewhere past his grief, had been touched, had been brought to life in him.  He breathed in deeply as one who had just for the first time discovered air.  Tomorrow he would quit his job.  On the weekend he would be joining the Community.

            They stood together around the table, holding hands, their heads bowed in silence.  Stefan pronounced the Amen, and sat down with Letitia and Douglas Furnis for the evening meal.  The idea of saying grace, and of eating together had entered his mind only this morning.  It would not leave him alone.  It wasn’t a bad meal that he’d thrown together, having discovered in one of the freezers snapper filets and frozen vegetables.  He’d also fried up some potatoes in butter with copious amounts of garlic and Parmesan cheese, for Stefan was actually a very able and talented cook.  Douglas he had discovered on the edge of the fountain on the previous morning, staring blankly into space.  Stefan greeted him cautiously, timidly, as though he was trying to befriend a cobra.  Douglas responded with a large, wondering smile.  “Who are you?” was the first thing he asked.  Ever since he had been following Stefan everywhere, not really saying much, but often asking questions—usually about the house, or about himself.  Like Letitia he had completely lost his memory.  Unlike Letitia he clung to Stefan.  Leticia seemed to require and cherish her solitude, occasionally seeking Stefan out to read to him from one of the many books she was discovering in the library, or to question him on matters of ethics and philosophy.  He quite enjoyed having with her this sort of contact.  But Douglas seemed to need him, incessantly, to the point of even wanting to sleep next to Stefan in his bed, who after considering the idea, instead gently led him to the room next door to his.

            They ate silently.  Conversation didn’t seem to occur, nor appear necessary when the three of them were together.  Even the joining of hands in a communal grace didn’t appear to be initiated by anyone.  It just occurred naturally. Organically.  No one commented on the food, which was delicious, nor did anyone thank Stefan for preparing it.  Which rather irked him at first.  What particularly struck him about these two was their childlike blankness.  That they were truly beginning all over again.  And that it was particularly critical that he treat them both with gentleness, kindness and respect.  Towards Stefan each appeared gentle, open and confiding.  They didn’t appear to be particularly aware of each other’s existence, which he thought was just as well.  The meal was finished.  They had vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce for dessert.  Stefan dismissed them both and did the washing up, asking them both to meet with him in the library.  Though to what end he did not know.

            It was just getting dark.  Each sat on a black leather armchair by the bay window.  They were drinking rose hip tea.  They had been silent for several minutes.  Then Stefan asked, “Why are we here?”

            “Where is here?” Letitia asked.

            “In this house.”

            “Why not this house?” Douglas said, his blue eyes wide, blank and innocent.

            “This is all there is?” Leticia said.

            “This is all you know there is”, Stefan said.  “But why are we here?”

            “But we’ve always been here”, Douglas said.

            “Yes”, said Letitia.  “We have always been here.”

            They sat quietly as it grew steadily darker.  Letitia yawned and got up.
“I’m going to sleep.”  She left without saying good night.

            Douglas looked at Stefan and smiled.  “Can I sleep with you tonight?” he asked.

            “Okay.  But just tonight.”      

            It was very late when Stefan woke suddenly from a sound sleep.  Douglas lay next to him, sleeping like an innocent child.  Quite simply, when they’d climbed into bed, he snuggled up to Stefan and fell promptly asleep.  He would not have dreamed of hitting on him.  But now he couldn’t sleep.  He listened to the distant surf, got up, dressed himself, and went down to the library.  He wasn’t sure why he was there, or what he was seeking. Not any particular book.  He went downstairs, then found the dark iron staircase.  He descended to the amphitheatre, then suddenly recognized the green-eyed youth standing on the dais in the centre.  Until then he had completely forgotten their previous encounter.  He signalled him to join him on the dais.

            “He shouldn’t be sleeping with you, you know.”

            “I know.  Sorry.  He seemed to insist.”

            “Don’t cave into his demands.  Letitia is fine this way, but Douglas requires a firm hand.  Otherwise he’ll degenerate again.  Sleep here tonight.”  As before, the youth touched both Stefan’s eyes with the fingers of his left hand.   He sank down onto the dais feeling suddenly very sleepy.  His last memory was of a blanket being thrown over him.