Chapter 1-Where I stand

I hated giving speeches. Hundreds of people staring you down, waiting for you to screw up. Eulogies were no exception, maybe even worse. Grasping onto two pages with sweaty palms, expected to give a twenty minute speech on how much I'd miss my mother, the whole while hoping at least the village idiot was buying some of the trembling words escaping reluctant lips.

"She was a beacon of light, when all was dark," I said, trying hard to forget all the times she called me worthless as I held her hair back as she crouched over the toilet. I noticed Mrs. Norton nodding from the first pew in the church, clutching a handkerchief held close to her face. Dying to wipe away false tears, if only they would come.

"She inspired me in so many ways," I continued, trying not to think about the many sculptures of Jesus hanging around me, challenging my deceit with judging eyes.

 "She will not be forgotten," I concluded, picturing her boss on his laptop, typing ads to post a vacancy ad in the newspaper for a new employee, before the body was two feet under, let alone six. I waited a second, not really sure what I was expecting. An applause maybe. The ground opening up and swallowing me whole. I half expected Alec Baldwin to step up to the podium and say, "And the Oscar for best performance by an idiot goes to..."

I didn't stick around any longer than necessary that day. Not really in the mood to mingle with a bunch of people who only showed up to make sure Anne Longman actually got buried, far under ground. A bunch of people who were probably mentally cheering on the old dude with the spade as he filled the whole with earth, soil raining over the huge wooden casket.

No more being yelled at for throwing out the liquor, one load of dirt was tossed.

No more dodgy men walking in and out of my only sanctuary to do unmentionable things to my mother, a second mound of soil was tossed.

No more sleepless nights out searching the streets for a walking corpse with a death wish, three.

No more mustering up lame excuses to her all-knowing boss about why she couldn't be at work again, four.

I frantically wiped away a stray tear that forced its way down my lifeless face. The realisation dawning on me, whether or not I was miserable before, now I was miserable and completely alone.

August had always been incredibly cold, but I somehow lost the ability to feel any discomfort. Hunger was forgotten, thirst, just a memory. I was at least happy to be rid of my robotic mood that seemed to have consumed me for the better part of a month. Clearing all the dust Anne Longman had left in her wake was certainly time consuming and served as a good diversion from self-pity and forced mourning. The house was to be sold in less than a week, the money coming from there would be all I had left to my name. No one really cared what became of the nineteen year old son of the woman who slept with their husbands, corrupted their children, disgraced their neighbourhood. Mr. Trevor cared though, he always had. my boss of two years who owned the nicest video shop in town, without whom I would not have managed my fine income that helped me pay for my part-time studies, as well as food and necessities most months.

A long, heartfelt talk with him opened my mind up to a few possibilities, the wildest seeming my only option left. He encouraged me to return to my father with hopes of reconciliation. Considering I hadn't seen the man since I was four years old, the year I was literally dragged away from my identical twin brother, to be submerged in years of alcoholism and drug abuse at the hands of the person who was expected to protect me from all that feathery bullshit, was a clear indication that he wouldn't be dropping to his knees with teary eyes saying, "Welcome home, son." But it was worth a try.

Only vague memories of my family ran through my mind as the bus trotted its way down open road. My brother, Jack, was the first thing I thought about. I remember Jack being the braver of us two; I remember he made me laugh. Big blue eyes and brown bangs with the biggest brightest smile that always seemed cuter than mine. I wondered if he still had that sparkle or if years with Dad had tainted the hell out of him. Dad, I thought about him next. Back then, the only proper words Jack and I knew to describe him as were, "Big Meanie". Unfortunately my vocab had matured with age and my current perception of the man would need much censoring. I still hoped the years had humbled him.

Like every year, on my tenth birthday, I occupied myself laying on my bed, starring at my photo, the only piece of my past that reminded me I had something identical walking the earth. I starred at the glossed, slightly rumpled image so hard that I physically could not take the throbbing loss that seemed to transform itself into the perfect stomach ache. I begged my mother to let me call him. I begged so long that even long after the sun had completely vanished and she was almost incapable of walking, mind askew from heavy drinking, I still urged on. Eventually she picked up the phone, blocked me from viewing the numbers she was stupidly trying to dial and on her third attempt, I finally heard the line ring as I stood on my toes, leaning in to hear what was going on as best I could.

"Harold, it’s Anne," she barked, hitting eager hands away as I jumped up and down for the reciever. The woman laughed after momentary silence and then snapped, "Of coarse not, Jeremy wants to talk to Jack!"

I remember holding my breath as waited, not caring much for the few choice-words the two adults had to share with each other before my mother looked close to pulling her long blonde waves of hair from her scalp.

"Just give the damn phone to the boy!" she finally shouted, tossing the receiver to me with a grunt and leaving the room

"Happy birthday." she mumbled lifelessly as she disappeared into the tiny living room. I just barely caught the phone with shaky hands, suddenly wondering what on earth I wanted to say to my brother.

"Hello," I heard his voice flood my ear and I couldn't help laughing, a laugh that he easily parroted.

"Happy birthday Jack," I beamed after we were both calmed down.

"Thanks," he said, "you too. Dad says we're gonna visit you and mom for Christmas."

Thinking back to how naive and hopeful we were back then made me fight slightly to hold back stupid tears. Anne and Harold made promises like that all the time just to shut us up, knowing full well that neither had any intention of seeing each other ever again.

"The whole day?"

"I think so," Jack replied noncommittally before we idly engaged in a rushed conversation about our mean teachers, new video games and the girl Jack was pretty sure liked him because she gave him card with teddy bears on it for Valentines Day. I remember listening to him go on and on, wondering if I should tell him about Billy Prince, the boy with blond hair and flapping wrists who kissed me on the lips behind the boys bathroom during recess. But I couldn't tell him that. Not after mom showed her blatant disgust for such acts while watching an episode of Jerry Springer entitled 'Adam and Steve, and the Flying Weave'. "It's just not right," she had said, after clearing her throat, realising that her chain of colourful insults and curses was probably not the motherly thing to do while your child was staring at you wide-eyed, sponging in every sharp insult with delicate ears.

"Jeremy?" my brother’s voice snapped me from confused thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"I have to go;" Jack said solemnly, "Dad said so."

"Okay," I matched his vigour, "I'll see you at Christmas."

"Yeah," he perked up slightly, before saying his goodbyes and leaving me to listen to the dead tone that screeched its way into my head along with a dull sense of loneliness. That was the last I heard from Jack. Unknowingly, socked feet padded into the living-room where my mother was sitting on the arm-chair, eyes closed, TV offering the only light in the otherwise dark room. I walked up to her sleeping form, kissed her head before whispering, "Thank you, Mom".

Memories like that made not thinking of the past seem like a good idea. And those were the good ones, I laughed to myself, tears in my eyes as a few fellow passengers in the bus looked at me strangely, one man looked disapproving. I shrugged them all off, occupying myself by staring out of the window.

As if on Queue, a huge sign flew past, assuring us all that we had in fact reached our destination. The six hour bus-drive feeling a lot less than it was nerves and sparks of excitement taking my mind off the possibility that anything could actually go wrong. After two taxis and a few enquiries as to how to find St Andrews Street, familiarity finally hit me. The neighbourhood was different, not as clean as I remembered. The trees that once lined either side of the road were no longer there. I hated that that was all I could remember, but after paying the taxi driver and facing house number eight, the state of the neighbourhood didn't really matter.

The porch squeaked as I mounted stairs, taking in the chipped paint on the walls and fully draped windows. I took one final step.

I knocked once, and then again, then once more. Were it not for lively sounds coming from inside the house, I might have given up, retreating with my warning nerves. Then the door swung open just as my tail began to curl between my legs.

He looked a lot older, and worn. More worn than aged, actually. Dark hair still covered all sections of his scalp, and a few white strands had taken to residing in random corners. His eyes were cold, and narrowed slightly as he looked me over. Wondering what he must be thinking, seeing me standing in front of him, Back pack slung over one shoulder, scarf wrapped around my neck in a dark jacket and darker beat up pants, I finally spoke up when the silence began to feel unnerving.

"Hey Dad," I tried not to sound too excited. This was easy, because I wasn’t. The incredulous look on his face had me slightly worried, as he slowly closed his tattered robe, covering grey sweat pants and a stained white vest.

"It's me, Jeremy," I forced a smile, stupidly let out my hand intending to shake his and then snapped it back to my side when he eyed it with pupils that spat venom.

I looked past him, half expecting to be offered entry. Red carpets triggered memories, disgusting beige walls and old brown couches. The TV was on, morning eight o'clock news I presumed since I arrived in town with the sun. My stomach turned, not much had changed after all those years, but I couldn't be too sure. It could have been me longing for some familiarity that had me thinking anything was as I remembered. After-all I was only four, how much could one remember after fifteen years.

"Jack doesn't live here anymore," he croaked slowly, the words barely making it passed bearded lips.

"Oh," my disappointment clear, but my smile never faltered, "I came to see you too. You weren't at the funeral and I-"

"They don't have phones where you stay?" he cut in.

"Yeah, they do....I just...”

"Is there something you want?" the man raised a brow, "I'm really busy."

Of coarse he was busy, the slippers he had on was a clear indication of that.

"You're ....you're my father," It was a verbal statement, but an inward question, wandering how on earth I turned out with any bit of emotion left at all after belonging to people like this. Wandering if my brother was anything like the annoyed man standing in front of me.

"Is it money, is that what you want?" he questioned quickly, "Coz I got none, if that's what you're looking for."

So we were related, we had something in common.

"No, I just thought....." I searched for words, "Mom died...I've got nothing left, nowhere to go."

"I've got Jacks number," he finally spoke after starring at the vulnerable lump of relative standing in front of him with trembling lips.” you wait right here."

With having said that, the door was slammed in my face and a deafening silence filled with years of pain and unspeakable rejection flooded around me.

I sat at the same bus stop that I had gotten off just minutes before. Dad was nice enough to call me a taxi before shoving the untidy writing on a scrap of paper and telling me that he doesn't know if the number still works, exposing his lack of contact with his other son. The number did work and after several rings Jack picked up. As I sat waiting, I tried to remember Jacks reaction to hearing that I was in town and needed a place to stay, I tried so hard to remember but I was still numb. Felt lost and confused. A lady, holding the hand of a bubbly little girl walked passed. The girl beamed a smile at me and a friendly little wave and all I did was stare at her, wondering if her folks would screw her up. I contemplated warning her but her mother pulled her away, giving me a dirty look as she quickened her pace.

"I'll be right over, okay?" Jack had said five minutes ago. Then before even waiting for a reply, he hung up. I heard my change drop in the pay phone and I pocketed it quickly enough.

Then I sat on the blue bench at the bus stop in front of what looked like a cafe called Hallways. I'd told Jack that's where I was and he seemed to know exactly what I was talking about.

A rundown blue Polo parked in the open parking space across the road, I didn't hold my breath. Several cars had parked and left, none of them bearing my brother. But as the young man neared, crossing the road with his hands in his pockets, I was forced to stand up, my heart pounding. All this time I'd half been expecting the little boy from my photo, not the grown-up who stood in front of me.....needing a shave.

Big blue eyes looked into mine, head covered by a black woollen beanie, torn up designer denim pants and a way too big, hideous brown jacket. Silver neck chains disappearing into cloth and a stud I could barely see on the tip of his hidden lobe. And then there it was. His eyes twinkled; gleaming the same child-like vibrancy, showing me not all was lost.

 "Shit," Jack chuckled, "you look just like me."  

*****

Jack looked at me for the third time since the stop-light turned red, every time bearing straight white teeth in a massive grin, other times even chuckling to himself.

"What?" I smiled back, not knowing at all what to say to this identical stranger.

"Nothing, I just can't believe you're here," he shook his head and turned left once the light turned green, "I really thought I'd never see you again."

"Well Mom and I kept moving," I told him, "she would never give me the number to Dad's house. Things just got so hectic. Anyway, I hunted through some of Mom's stuff to find that old address. It took longer cause Dad's not listed."

"I feel bad for not making an effort," Jack frowned, "I could've tried. I could've tried harder, you know."

"It's not your fault. It's none of our faults. We were young," I shrugged, "and if that’s not excuse enough, our parents were Mom and Dad."

Jack laughed, nodding, focusing on the road. The silence that followed wasn't really awkward, but I still searched my sanity for something to say to him. There were fifteen years worth of important stuff I had to tell him, not one good came to mind. 'I was studying English and History, 'I want to become a Teacher', 'I'm gay', and ‘I’m allergic to peanuts, are you?

"Look at you," Jack smiled, taking my chin into his free hand and briefly inspecting me as I mother would her child. I hit his hand away playfully, more concerned that he concentrate on the road than irritated by his thorough amusement with the fact that he was practically sitting next to himself. "So, did Mom finally drive you crazy enough to just decide to pack up and leave?"

I looked over at my brother, his smile still present, and eyes on the road. Glancing at me a couple more times before his face fell, matching the incredulous look I had on mine.

"You mean...you mean don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Mom passed away..." I offered slowly, not knowing exactly how to put it, not knowing how he didn't know this. Wondering why the hell Dad hadn't at least picked up the phone to tell his son that his mother was dead. I hadn't been completely surprised that Dad hadn't shown up at the funeral, but I had questioned Jacks absence. I just felt he was still bitter, still hurt, or couldn't really see her as his mother anymore. I had hoped I was wrong because I would have shown up for Dad's funeral, whether or not I didn't know the man at all and liked him even less. Or should I rather say I hated him more. "I thought you, knew..."

"Mom's dead?" Jack questioned slowly, expression completely unreadable.

"Last month," I mumbled, realising a lot happened last month. I was exhausted from all of it and as selfish as I might sound, I was in no mood to re-visit that moment and mourn all over again. I felt sick. And tired. I looked at my brother; he was frowning again, looking from his hands to the road then to me.

"Is that why you're here?" he asked, his voice doing nothing to expose what he was feeling, if he was feeling anything at all.

"Yeah," I said honestly, hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way. “I had nowhere else to go." 

After another long silence he turned into a parking lot in front of a two story apartment. The lot was pretty empty and the place looked like it needed some work. Jack parked the car but made no move to get out, so I sat there with him, wondering what he was thinking. My head snapped up at him when I felt his hand touch my shoulder.

"I'm glad you're here." he smiled, his face looking flushed, eyes slightly glossed. I nodded before allowing him to pull me into a brotherly hug. We had hugged at the bus stop; he'd nearly knocked my wind out. He even lifted me slightly and told me I'm too skinny. But this hug was different. This, we needed.

"It was a coupla months ago," Jack told me as he unlocked his apartment door, "Dad's ex-girlfriend got sick of his crap so she told him she was leaving. She asked me if I wanted to go too and I jumped at it. She was the only real reason I was staying there anyway, I had to protect her."

"From Dad?" I asked incredulously, following my brother into the place. I'd remembered Dad could be a Big Meanie, that was all.

"Dad went all psycho very often," Jack told me, "Debra was a strong lady, but a coupla times I had to take blows for her. She had quite a mouth on her, wouldn't let Dad bully her and that pissed the man off to no end."

I frowned at the thought of my brother 'taking blows' from Dad. Jack pulled off his jacket and beanie discarding them on a couch, revealing slightly shorter hair than mine. Now we looked even more alike. 

"Oh but you should have seen this woman," Jack sighed, "straight out of a wet dream. With these long legs and big-"

"Jack!" I scolded, "She was Dads girlfriend."

"We weren't related," He smirked. "So, what do you think?"

I took in my surroundings for the first time as jack open his arms, displaying the place to me like an estate agent. We were obviously in the living room, open space with a television on a small wall unit and two black couches behind a coffee table. The Coffee table was filled with piles of magazines and the unit was stacked with tapes and CDs. There was a music system in one corner with two guitars propped up against the wall beside it. The wooded floors looked practically dustless and the kitchen was an open plan which allowed you full view of the living room from it. There was a dark passage leading off the three doors, one of which I assumed was a bathroom and maybe two bedrooms if I was lucky. Apart from the place being quite plain with just white walls, it was impressive.

"It's pretty cool for a student, eh?" he walked around triumphantly, " Debra helped me find it, paid my deposit and my first few instalments and told me I should call if anything ever went wrong. She digged me!"

"It's incredible, Jack," I smiled, and it was. “I don't know how I'll ever make this up to you. I'm gonna help pay rent and everything, once I get a job and-"

"Jeremy! Relax, we're brothers, okay," He grinned, "Don't forget that. Now, if you do want to repay me somehow, you could help me clear up your new room. It's got a whole lot of junk in it and we need to get a bed in it before night."                                                    

"You're not gonna buy one, are you?"

"I'm going to make a plan," he motioned for me to follow as he headed down the corridor, "And you're going to stop acting like you're a burden."

We entered a much smaller room, and Jack was right, it was filled. But with junk, on the contrary. There was canvas after canvas stacked all over, some of them blank, some half painted, a quite a few fully painted. Vibrant colours perfectly put together artistically, portraying a woman. In some frames her back was facing forward, completely bare, in other frames it was her face only, eyes sparkling cheeks blushing. The only thing that made me know it was her in almost every frame was the long red hair that flowed over her shoulders and back in perfect waves. The paintings were almost abstract, but it was definitely the same person. Also scattered around the room, were boxes, sketchbooks and some random sketches lying around. An old man wearing glasses, a little girl with missing teeth, they all looked so real.

"Junk, Jack?" I asked, picking up a sketchpad and flipping through it, "You're kidding me! You did all this."

"It's nothing much," Jack shuffled through a few things sheepishly.

"You're crazy! It's amazing. I have an artist brother." Jack chuckled at my amusement. “When did you start?" 

"Years ago, it kept me busy." He shrugged, "but then I had to stop drawing at home cause Dad said it was faggish."

I winced.

"My art teacher wouldn't let me stop though. Said I have something. Debra wouldn't let me stop either so I kept all my work at school. Just recently brought it all in here, didn't know what else to do with it. I'm not doing the whole art thing anymore so-"

"Why not?" I cut in.

"I dunno," Jack shrugged. "Maybe Dad's right."

That certainly brought a thunderstorm down on my parade. I wasn't out of the closet where I came from. I had one boyfriend when I was thirteen (unless you count my countless mythical affairs with random Celebes). But even when Nicholas and I were together, it was unknown to the rest of the world. Plus, he was way too old for me at seventeen, and I would now call our time together more of an experiment than a relationship. An experiment that ended painfully when he left, unfazed for college at the end of the year. Still, I had contemplated telling my brother, it had been on my list of things to do. But after that last comment, I still kept it on the list; I just moved it right to the bottom. Just because my brother didn't want to come off 'faggish', didn't mean that he was a bigot. He couldn't be. Well at least not towards me, right?