Date: Tue, 29 Dec 2009 15:48:05 EST
From: park517@aol.com
Subject: Doctor of the Heart Chapter Ten

       Still, my mother wouldn't let me drive back to Montreal until
Friday, and only then because her sister-in-law, Tante Marie-Cecile, was
making her dreaded, compulsory annual visit, bringing, of course, her sad,
homely daughter.  Both women saw me as the spawn of Satan.  I was just as
fond of them.  So I was pronounced officially healthy and given Rosinante's
keys which had been kept hidden all week long.

	The city was hot and muggy, but I was really happy to be heading
home and really, really looking forward to finishing what Mitya and I had
started in the canoe.  In my bed, we wouldn't be attacked by mosquitoes or
scared by sirens going off.  I had decided that I would tell Elaine she had
to move out.  Mitya and I would be a real couple.  Of course, he'd have to
work hard as a medical student, but that would give me time to paint and
really get serious about sculpting.  I didn't understand everything about
him, but I understood that he loved me and wanted me - my mother told me
that he had called Sunday and Monday to make sure I was all right - and I
knew I had been good for him.  I had helped him get over his tragic love
with Rifat.  Now he could love me, and I was totally ready to love him.

	I wasn't ready, though, for the Dubois twins, who appeared out of
nowhere as I was unloading the car.  They wouldn't let me carry my bags or
even the sacks of fruit and vegetables I'd bought at a roadside stand.
"Mitya told us," Luc said

	"that you'd been hurt," Jean-Pierre finished the sentence.

	"He said we had to take care of you," Luc explained as he put a
hand under my elbow.

	"And we're going to," insisted his brother, taking the keys from my
hand, opening the door and holding it for me as though I were an invalid,
or a woman, or something.

	"Look, guys, I'm fine," I protested as they convoyed me into the
all-purpose main room.  "I'm completely recovered.  If it were cooler, I'd
go 'boarding with you and prove it.  You're really nice to do this, but I
can take care of myself.  I really can."

	 I looked around.  Something was different, but I couldn't figure
out right away what had changed.  The twins were smiling.  "Maman," they
chuckled, and I realized what was unfamiliar.  Everything that could shine
did.  The neatness was terrifying.  A vase of flowers on a table by the
easel said, "Paint me.  Make me last forever."

	"Your mother," I said to the boys.

	"She loved the picture of us."

	"She cried.  That's how much she loved it."

	"Yves," Luc led me to the refrigerator. "She cooked some things for
you."

	Jean-Pierre opened the door.  The shelves were overflowing.  A
whole roast chicken.  A ziggurat of squares of corn bread, a bowl of baked
beans laced with chunks of lard, a huge meat pie.  "That's a tourtiere,
isn't it?" I was astonished. "I thought your mother only made that at
Christmas."

	"But you made August into Christmas for her," Luc said.  "Can I go
tell her that you're home?  She wants to thank you.  And I think she has
baked something else."

	"Well, she can't bring it unless she agrees to eat it with me and
with you two.  We'll have a banquet tonight, a home-coming party." Mitya
will have an appetite, I thought.  "God knows, I can't do justice to all
this food all alone.  Luc, will you ask her for me?"

	"Sure," he said, already halfway to the door.  "I'll see if she's
home.  I'll be right back."

	As I closed the icebox, Jean-Pierre put his hands on either side of
my head and pulled me into a kiss.  "Hey," I protested.  "I told you,
Jean-Pierre, I'm in love with ..."

	He kissed me again and then, giggling, let me go.  "That's just a
friendly kiss," he said.  "Because we're friends, and because I wanted you
to see that I know how."  He grabbed my hand.  "Oh, Yves, you were so
right.  And it's - no, not it, he's-- so wonderful.  And kissing makes
everything wonderful."

	"What happened?  What do you mean, everything?  Have you been ...?"

	"He - well his name is Claudio - came to me first.  At LaFontaine,
the park.  He wanted me to help him with some moves.  On the skateboard.
But then we sat and talked.  He's from Toronto.  His family just moved here
this summer.  And he said he'd really like to get to know the city if I
would show him the parts I liked best.  And I did.  That was the next day.
And then we went to a movie.  And the day after, we went swimming.  And
walking home, he said what a great build I had.  And I told him he was
really good-looking. He must have had lots of girls. And he just smiled and
shook his head.  But I knew he liked what I'd said, because he said I was
the first person, except for his mother and his grandmother, to say
anything nice about his looks, and he hoped I really meant it because he
wanted to look like me.  He said I looked like Brad Pitt, except tall."

	"Well, you do, Jean-Pierre," I cut into his breathless account.  "I
would have said Ryan Phillipe, but it doesn't matter.  You are definitely
hot."

	"That's what Claudio said, and then he asked if I had a girl
friend.  And I told him the truth."

	"What did you say?  You didn't tell him you were in love with me?
Did you?"

	"No, no.  I stammered but I got it out.  I told him that guys
turned me on, that I thought I was gay, but I'd never been with anyone or
done anything.  And I said that I'd understand if I made him want to throw
up, but I couldn't help it.  'I fell for you the first time I saw you.'
Those were my exact words.  'I don't love anyone but you.'"

	Jean-Pierre was trembling with the effort of remembering what must
have been an agonizing moment of vulnerability.  But the memory had left
joy in his eyes.

	"And, Yves," he whispered.  "It was all right. Claudio just looked
at me for a bit and then he said I was brave, so brave.  He said he had
been so scared of telling anyone how he felt, but he felt the same as I
did.  We were on the sidewalk, but there was an alley there, and he pulled
me into it and behind a restaurant dumpster or something, and he kissed
me. He kissed me, Yves, and I kissed him back, and he put his hand under my
shirt and I put mine on his neck, and I didn't want it ever to end."

	"Have you...?"

	"No, not yet.  We don't have any place to go, and we can wait.  I
think we can.  It's enough," he hesitated, "well, almost enough, just to
have this secret of loving him and him loving me back.  His parents are
going away next weekend, and they've said it's all right for Claudio to
stay with Luc and me, so maybe we can have some time together without
anybody around.

       "Don't you think Claudio is a beautiful name, Yves?  And it fits
him.  He is so beautiful.  And I'm so happy," Jean-Pierre wrapped his arms
around me.  "You're happy for me, Yves, aren't you?"

       "Of course, I am.  Falling in love for the first time is like flying
to the moon.  You just float out of this world, and all you have to do to
steer is stretch out your hand to touch his, and you go together into the
dream.  It's like Peter Pan taking the kids to Neverland."

       "And you go on loving forever, don't you?"  Jean-Pierre was beaming.
"Just like you said last week, about you and your friend, your first love.
Right?"

       Forever?  I didn't want to bring the boy down, but Tommy had pushed
me away, and I had let myself be pushed, and I honestly didn't know that I
wanted to go back or that I could.  "You always have the feeling of love,"
I tried to soften the uncertainty I felt, "but you may not always have your
first love as your lasting love.  Life can get complicated.  But maybe
you'll be lucky, Jean-Pierre.  It can happen."

       "It will," he was still alight.  "I know it will.  It's too
wonderful to lose."

       I was going to agree and say something profound about loving and
about being in love, but the noise of Luc coming through the front door
brought me and Jean-Pierre back to earth.  I got busy emptying out my
farm-stand treasures onto the kitchen counter, while the boy hunted through
kitchen cabinets for the right bowls.  Luc, being the bearer of glad
tidings, paid no attention to our diversionary tactics.  "La mere says she
would like very much to eat her food at your table," he grinned.  "Can we
come at 7:30?"

       "That would be perfect," I said.  "It will give me time to clean up
and rest."  And, I thought, to clean Mitya up in the shower after a hot day
on the construction site.  "You guys have been great, but I can take care
of things now.  See you later."  I shooed them out the door.

       While I was setting the table, I couldn't help thinking how much I
owed to Mitya.  I have always liked myself.  Well, almost always.  I am
outgoing and generous and sensitive to other people.  Most of the time.
But with Mitya, I had given more of myself than I'd done with anyone except
Tommy a long time ago.  I had helped him deal with his tragedy and if I
hadn't completely overcome his grief with my love, I knew that with time I
could and I would.

       And together he and I would help Jean-Pierre.  The kid had no idea
how tough things were going to get for him.  I wondered if he'd told Mitya
anything.  I wondered if he understood that Mitya and I were lovers.
Probably not.  He was too blinded by his own love to notice anything or
anyone else.

	After I finished getting everything ready for the meal, I thought
I'd go upstairs and unpack, but I noticed that the boys had left my
portfolio on the floor by the front door.  I took it to my work space and
remembered that, while I was recuperating, I'd done a drawing - really, a
caricature -- of Mitya as a fisherman with a mermaid on his hook and a very
angry god Neptune behind him brandishing his trident at the oblivious
mortal.  I thought it was funny, and I propped it up on the easel where
Mitya would see it when he came home.  I also took the other work I'd done
at the lake out of the carrying case, but as I was putting things away, I
realized the portrait sketches of Rifat were missing.  Someone had taken
them.  It had to have been Mitya.  He still longed for that boy.  I had a
lot of work ahead of me.

       Searching, I did find the very suggestive nude drawing that I'd
drawn of Mitya's body, particularly of his cock and balls.  I took it out
and wondered what to with it.  If Mitya had seen it, he might want to talk
about it, and I didn't want to admit to him how much of my feeling for him
came from the lust that showed in this sketch.  Even if I said I'd torn it
up, I'd have to say why.  If he hadn't seen it, and after all, I had sort
of concealed it, it would be better to get rid of it before he did.

       On the surface, it was just a body.  I had purposefully not put a
head, much less a face, on it.  I was actually kind of ashamed of it and
also more than a little turned on by it.  It reminded me of Mitya's
overpowering sexual allure.  I had wanted to make love to him from the
first minute I saw him.  Not just because he was grieving, and I hoped to
help him heal.  No, because I wanted his body, too, maybe even more than
his heart.  And I had gotten his body and had given him mine, or at least I
had been willing to give it to him there on the lake.  And I wanted more.
The drawing showed me what I wanted and how badly I wanted it.

       I'd keep it.  I'd hide it in a chest in my bedroom which he would
have no reason to open.  God, I hadn't had sex in almost a week!  I was
getting hard just thinking about Mitya naked in my arms, putting my hands
all over him and my mouth.  Maybe we could have a quickie when he got back
from work.  Before the boys and their mother came for supper.  Damn!  Why
had I invited them?  I didn't want to eat.  I wanted to fuck.

       And where was Mitya, anyway?

       The answer was waiting for me on my bed upstairs.  Not the sexy,
warm body I wanted to find and wrap myself around.  Just a brown paper bag
torn to make a ragged page covered with awkward handwriting.  I had never
seen Mitya's penmanship, but this example proved that someday he would be a
successful doctor.  The writing was just this side of illegible with lots
of spelling mistakes.  But the message was clear: he had left.  He was
gone.

       "Dearest Yves," the note began.  "I am not hear and I will not be
again for sum time that I cannot now say.  My father has become vary sick
and I must to go to him with spede.  My brother has made me a plane tikket,
and Tommy and your unkle have ayded very much about permit for me to come
back when I can.  If I can.  Please to thank them for everything.

       "How can I thank you, Yves?  I cannot.  You have bin my heeler.  You
have made my hart hole once more.  You have made me possibel for love when
I thot love would not be in my life ever at all.  I will make evary trying
to come to you soon, but if I do or if I do not, you must to know how I
will all times have you in my heart.

       "Golden dreams, Yves, my loved one.  Mitya"

       "Please do not to mind that without to ask you I have took your deep
pictures of Rifat.  They mean very much to me not just for being of him but
also for being of you."

       That was all.  He was gone.  I felt deserted, empty, hopeless,
alone.  I sprawled face down on the bed and cried.  What would I do without
him?  Who would help me?

       I stopped the tears and sat up.  Who would help me?  I knew.  I
found my cell phone and punched the familiar buttons.  Everything would be
all right.

       "Clumsy!  You've probably dialed the wrong number.  If you haven't,
leave a message.  We'll see what happens."  Sirens whined.  Cymbals
clashed.

	"Tommy!" I yelled into the tiny mouthpiece.  "Tommy, pick up.
Please.  It's Yves.  You have to be there.  I need you.  Desperately.
Tommy, I beg you."

	But he didn't pick up.  Maybe he was already on his way over.  He
knew Mitya had gone.  He knew how I'd be feeling.  Of course, he would
come.  I needed him so much.  Of course, he would come.

THE END.  (Or maybe not.  If readers think a continuation is in order, I
hope they'll let me know.  Happy New Year. Park517@aol.com)