A Chapter from Chillicothe

by Philip Marks

(Gayadult49 at gmail dot com)

Forward

Jeremy Gates is the product of a small but strong family and a particular place, Chillicothe, Ohio. As Jeremy has been shaped by family and place, his story shapes both in turn. Here is part of that story.

I. It's County Fair Time Again

July 17, 2018

Shane Andrews walks the edge of the big grassy field, looking with mixed emotions at the billboard.

One last glance at the field and he turns, starts his way home.

Not on his bike; he stopped riding his bike. He's too old, too mature to be riding a bike. Bikes are for kids. High school guys don't ride bikes.

He's taking driver's ed now, ready to test for his permit and then his behind the wheel lessons.

You could hardly ever tell it was there, he thinks. I never gave it any thought before but it's there then it's just all gone. It's always seemed so big and now nothing. And in a few weeks they'll be here setting up and it's county fair time again.

I don't know if I can go.

I don't think I want to.

It's a little uphill, it always takes a little more leg power, but he usually likes that, he had always liked the pleasure of his strong young legs effortlessly pushing his bike up the hill; feeling so alive. He remembers the last time, the night he rode for the last time with his friends. Shay peeled off first, laughing, promising to see his posse the next day. Then Wade in his goofy way pulled off to head for his house, leaving just Shane and Jeremy.

And finally it was my turn, and my best friend went on alone. We'd done it a thousand times. I left him to ride the rest of the way alone. I didn't even think a bad thing could happen.

What if my family lived a half mile farther back? Would it have been me?

Actually, a lot less bike riding has been going on in Chillicothe since last year's county fair.

How many times in the past year has his mind traced this route while his body could not; never knowing what happened, how it happened.

Finally he knows the story – well not all of it of course, but now the men who … the men who took Jeremy, who... did that to him, must have done that to him, and somehow didn't murder him...are dead. Their awful trail is front page news in a time, an era, when there is a no such thing as front page news; and especially in Chillicothe, where the front page news is printed on Thursdays, distributed for free, and is nothing but local color, the 4H, the Little League; the front page exists as filler for shopper sales, weekend ads.

The Chillicothe Shopper-Times front page sits in the free vending machines, behind yellowed plastic; this front page is maps with big, black marks on them; marks where dead boys lived – or died – all across the nation.

And photos of them. Those boys.

And Jeremy's photo...eighth grade photo. It was in there too; it was on TV on every channel at every news break.

And those men. Photos of those men.

It's on national TV; ABC and NBC and CNN and the rest. It is everywhere. And here. There is no corner of Chillicothe that hadn't heard Jeremy's story before, and surely none that has not heard this latest chapter. Sensational news and lies and details and rumors have been ruthlessly splattered across the town. Some openly question whether Jeremy was a real victim. Some say darker things.

For, after all, Jeremy lived and those others didn't.

Things Shane can't contemplate.

Shane is dizzy with unnamed emotion. He is forced forward, knowing where he must go but no idea why, what he will do there. His feet pull him beyond that place where he turned off for home, tired and happy from a stolen kiss behind a fairway tent; from walking with his buddies to attractions; from taking a ride and a ride and a ride and a ride...

Today he traces a ride his best friend took. Alone.

A ride that has not ended.

Coming up Mill Street he can see Jeremy's big white house just down the block... a crowd of cameras were there this past week, he didn't have to come by to know that; but they have gone on, flown like moths to some other flame, finding no porch light shining here. The Gates are not talking to the press. He wonders: are they talking to him. Is he talking to them?

And then … he is there.

He remembers the first morning after the fair, there was still crime scene tape clinging to the trees. Spent flares on the pavement. Chalk outlines he couldn't quite make out. He stood and stared for a long time, one of a small crowd hanging on the street, the sidewalk, into neighboring yards...but not the yard of Remy and Greyson Gates; their lawn was littered with people too but these were all police or some manner of public employee and volunteers gathering posters and setting out across southern Ohio to post them, and others organizing search parties; futile as it had all been.

That was the incomprehensible morning, the morning after the FBI first came to him; after the Chillicothe cops woke him in the night and questioned him, he barely grasped the why of it. That morning the seriousness of it all hit him. Like a load of bricks that morning; that moment; that spot.

He has been near this house a dozen times since, just to look at that spot in the street. After that first day he could never manage to stop there nor move forward past the spot. He tried but always had to turn back; there at that terrible spot in that ordinary block.

He starts moving, closing the journey that, for almost a year, he has never been able to finish.

As he approaches the house he sees his friend's mother in the yard, she is planting a shrub near the side of the house, a lilac bush perhaps? She didn't seem to see his approach.

It took him a moment and then he stepped forward, still yards away, clearing his throat, he speaks softly.

“Good morning Ms. Gates.”

She turns a little startled. Her once blonde hair is graying, he sees.

“Why Shane, hello!” She smiles widely, she means it when she says, “It's good to see you again. How have you been?”

This boy; so tall, strong, somehow so much older than just a year ago.

Visions of her own boy come unbidden. Arms long to hug this teenager, muscle memory from when he was six, eight, eleven; when a gaggle of boys ran through the yard and neighborhood and romped up and down the big staircase in the hall to Jeremy's room. When they sought innocent adventure in the backyard and park and the schoolyard down the street. When life was safe and carefree and she could still touch children. When it was a safe thing to do, but for a year it has been impossible to imagine, she fears her heart could burst apart with a single hug from any child not her own.

“Yeah, I'm good...” he doesn't know how to start. He's tough; he's a young man; he's not sure why he's here. He just knows he needs to be. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing strongly.

Remy waits him out.

“I'm in high school now. Gonna be a sophomore in a few weeks.”

She knows. That is where Jeremy would be.

“You've grown, Shane, you look good.”

“Thanks. I played JV Baseball last semester, and JV Football last fall, they moved me up from the Freshman team right away...” He considers himself the best athlete in his class. Sports should be a safe place, a solid footing that should be there for him but somehow isn't. His feet shift, seeking a place that can't crumble away under him.

“Sounds like you've had a good year, Shane. Why don't we sit on the porch, we can catch up.”

She leads the boy up the wide front steps and to the large glider on one side of the wraparound porch. They sit at opposite ends but this leaves merely a foot or so between them.

“Sure. Well, I guess it was a good year. I did good in my classes too.” Again he feels awkward, he doesn't want this year, punctuated as it was with unseen pain and sometimes even, something— he doesn't know-- evil? – to hurt Remy.

“I mean, it was good but it was kinda strange... well...”

He can't say he missed Jeremy, nor that, not once, but twice this year he has had to mourn the death of his best friend.

Alone.

He can't even say Jeremy's name out loud to Remy, he can't even say it to his own mother. It was not a good year. Everything was wrong. He tried to pretend it didn't matter to just do sports and class as if nothing happened, and at least in sports he could find moments of forgetting; but in the end it did matter. So much more than he can bear to say; it mattered.

“Well, I'm sorry I didn't visit. I— we all, we, I mean, Shay and Wade too, we wanted to come by to help or something, we just.” He shrugs. “We just didn't know what to do. We didn't think you would want us in the way.”

“Shane, oh, it's all right honey. No one knew what to do, come to think of it we should have reached out to you before this. You wouldn't be in the way, but maybe it was better that you were not here. It was very tense here. Besides, your mom and dad helped us out a lot. Your mom was helping get the flyers made up and your dad did a lot of the distributing them around. We haven't forgotten.”

Having those boys here would have made the house feel so much more empty.

“Just didn't think I should come. And after you said Je— he was safe I...” He falters.

“Oh Shane, it's alright. Really, we should have reached out to you; we were... overwhelmed by things is all.”

“Well, well, ...well, wait.”

Now he knows why he is here, at least part of it. It's going to be hard to say though.

“In April when you told everyone he was safe I should— I have to tell you why I didn't come by then.”

Remy waits, knowing there is something painful in the boy that wants out.

Looking at his lap, face red, teeth clenched, he finally manages, “Right then I was mad at Jeremy. I thought he just took off and not even told us, me. I thought he'd,” the tough teen in him asserts itself just enough to suppress a sob, “just not cared about how I felt.”

There it's out.

“Shane, sweetheart, that's ok, really it's ok.”

“You think it's OK? I don't.” He can't meet her eye.

“Hun, sometimes I've been mad, am mad at him, too. Before I knew he was alive I was mad; I had moments of rage. I blamed him, but mostly myself; why did I let him ride his bike that night, let him take that trip alone. I've been mad at him for the pain of it, even though he didn't cause it. I've been dying and so angry at myself thinking it's my fault.”

“So there is no book to follow for how to feel, especially about all this. Don't blame yourself for feeling, Shane. Everything you felt was perfectly right, because there just is no wrong.” Her voice is low and sincere and soothing and tears are slowly dripping from both of their eyes.

“Oh Ms. Gates I was so afraid he was dead. I just couldn't come here when he first— first— he's gone and people started saying it, saying what they thought happened to him. And I just couldn't bear;” he hiccups, “bear coming here if he was dead...and I kept thinking, if I just rose all the way home with him... or maybe it should have been me that got kidnapped!”

The teen is not so stoic now. The tears are falling freely. “And I hated him for being dead. I'm so stupid. I was hating him for being dead...” He sobs. “I kept thinking about how hurt I was but now I know the things he went through, the things he survived, I was so wrong and so selfish!”

“Shh. Shh. Shh. That's OK, more than OK Shane,”she strokes his cheek, “you wouldn't have felt that way if you didn't love him, Shane.”

She waits a few moments for him to calm a little.

“Shane have you ever heard of survivor's guilt? When something bad happens to people around us, we sometimes feel guilty that it wasn't us, or that we could have prevented it if only we did something different. We blame ourselves. You've been feeling that, Shane, but it isn't right, it isn't so. The only people who are guilty are the men who took Jeremy away. No one else.”

“I think you weren't really mad at Jeremy either, not most of the time. You were just feeling the way I felt too: helpless. Isn't that so, you were angry about how helpless and vulnerable and hurt you felt in the end? That just comes out as anger. It's easier to be angry than it is to feel helpless. Anger feels like somehow you're doing something..”

Moments pass as the boy sobs and, finally the tears start to slow; he wipes his eyes; rubs them on the sleeves of his jersey.

“Yeah. I – you're right.” Realization dawns slowly for him. “I felt helpless and angry about being helpless. And I felt guilty that he got kidnapped, I did think it wouldn't have happened if I'd gone with him...and that's stupid, I'd have had to ride back alone and they'd just take me instead. Plus – he's done that ride from my house to yours a million times and nothing bad ever happened.”

He can't say right now that he also felt vulnerable, he is a teenaged man, the moment of vulnerability has passed. But the message has come to him and in his own time, in his own way, it will replay.

As he prepares to leave she says, “Shane, please come back again soon, won't you? Bring the other boys if they like. Grey and I would like that.”

To have young life again in this house. Yes they would like that.

“Oh, yeah sure...” and then spontaneously it happens, each reaches for the other; hugs tightly.

In that fleeting moment, for them, Jeremy is home.

II.            The Kids Are Alright

July 21 2018

Three boys are playing video games in the basement of Shay Wilson's house. They are trying very hard to focus on the game but in fact each one of them has his head full of what they have seen in the Shopper-Times, a folded copy lies on the far edge of the couch. They are all sitting carefully so as not to even touch it, with it's scary maps and scary words, black on the newsprint...

“I mean, what... how do you figure it happened?” Shay starts what no one has been willing to openly discuss.

Long silence. The game is paused. This is the real reason they are here today.

Wade pipes up. “Man they must have hit him hard is all. He would have yelled.He would have run away or rode away. But how did they get close to him? I wouldn't let any weird dude get close to me.”

No one knows. No one of them has ever let a weird dude get close to him. When he was ten Wade ran away from a man in the supermarket parking lot who was asking him a question from his truck. He'd been trained well. You don't talk to weird dudes in a parking lot.

Shane finally breaks the silence, “He wasn't looking out. They surprised him. He was all thinking about the fair and shit maybe about kissing Fiona, and they just got him. And they just took him, just stuffed him into their car. Must have knocked him out. Maybe they used chloroform, put him right under.”

“I mean, why? I don't get it. Why him? Why not some girl? Some woman?”

“Don't be stupid, Shay. You just read it, they killed like five boys maybe more, no girls. They didn't want girls.”

“Oh.”

It takes a moment for the dime to drop. “Oh!” Shay's eyes go wide. “Fu-u-u-ck!”

“Yeah. Well, they killed those other kids,” Wade. “They didn't kill Jeremy.”

Everybody is glad of that but no one understands it, what does it mean?

Again, “Why...?” Spoken softly, this time it's a more thoughtful question. Everyone wants to know.

“Because. They were having a good time with him. They wanted to keep him?”

Everyone is silent, horrified at the thought.

“No they gave him away, or they sold him or something to that old dude who killed hisself. They just took him for that...they took him so they could sell him...”

“You mean they sold him, like a slave...?”

“His folks said the old guy saved him, but is that really true? How do they know? Is that what Jeremy said? We never hear what Jeremy says.”

“Oh man do we have to talk about this?”

“No. We shouldn't talk about it, we should...” Shay is befuddled, “I dunno we should respect Jeremy more.”

“I'd rather kill myself than let some big ass guys fuck me, man. No guy is gonna stick his dick up my ass!”

“Well that isn't your choice, Wade. You don't get a fucking choice. Did you see their pictures, man? On TV not in the paper? Did you see the shoulders on that one guy? Those dudes were big and strong, they were buff, Jeremy weighs like 100 pounds, they could bench press him with one hand. And they had guns. They could make you do anything they want.”

“No way man. Not me. Besides I bet Jeremy's bigger now, we all are.”

“Don't be a stupid douche, Wade, they probably beat his ass, and, and – and tied him up and shit! You think Jeremy just said 'Oh, well if you wanna fuck me, go ahead!' ” Shay interjected angrily.

“...no...course not.”

“'No, of course not!' Christ if it was you, you big pussy, you'd just roll over for them!”  It's rare for Shay to be so vehement in his friend's defense; or so aggressive.

“Hey! Shut the fuck up!” Wade takes a swing, well more of a slap, at Shay. The two boys begin throwing punches wildly, a furious flurry that doesn't really connect anywhere important. Game controllers hit the floor, papers go flying. The two stop, facing each other, red-faced, hard breathing; hands balled into fists they both do and don't want to connect with. Anger has flashed; teen frustrations boiling out.

“Both of you stop it!” Shane is outraged; stands between the two, “this is no way to show respect for Jeremy!”

Huffing at each other. Staring daggers.

“Why do you think Jeremy didn't come home after he got free? You idiots got any idea? No of course not, not a clue! This is why! This! Because even his friends are gonna blame him for what those guys did to him. Or at least talk about it. Make it seem like he had a choice, call him gay and act like he wanted it. All of it, whatever they did— and we don't know what they did, not with Jeremy.” Shane is hot under the collar now. “And he can't even expect his best friends to stand up for him, can he? Some friends you are!”

Eyes are averted. They are ashamed. Teen anger cools, is quickly forgotten.

“Yeah, you see how many guys said he ran away and shit before they got those guys? Called him a faker and a runaway and shit?” Wade tries to displace some of his embarrassment. “And I seen guys calling him a fag on twitter since those guys got shot. Since the stories got out. Insta too.”

“We gotta … we gotta stop that shit, man! We can't let them say that.” Shay is not the smartest kid, certainly not in this crew, but he is loyal and stirred up. “So. When is he gonna come home?” he demands, “If this is why he doesn't come home we gotta tell him it's ok. We gotta tell him!”

Everyone stops to ponder.

“Let's go talk to his folks.” Shane finally says.

III.          We Got His Back

August 10, 2018

“Jem, we've had some visitors the past couple of weeks. A visit from Shane, and then another from a group of your friends.”

“My friends?” He just draws a mental blank for a moment.

Who are my friends?

Keon? Sophie? Anton and Daniel?

Mary.  Mary is my friend.

“Yes, Wade, Shay, and Shane came by to talk.”

Jeremy for a moment is startled, wordless.

What—

He has to gather his thoughts. It has been months since he thought about the three, other than Shane who left him that voice mail... and the night call to Wade, and he realizes he thinks of them as his before, not his now, and certainly not his future, not the after path Patrick and John started him on.

“Oh. Um. Okay what did they want?”

“They came to us, they all did, because of the news stories. They were pretty broken up about what they've read. First, Shane came, he wanted to tell us how much he has missed you, and how hard it has been to have you gone. How hard it was when he thought you might not have … survived. And how bad he felt about what happened to you.”

“Oh, okay, I, those stories were — were pretty awful....”

But not nearly as bad as being part of them...

“After Shane's visit they all came as a group, I had told Shane we missed seeing them. So, the big reason for their visit was, they want you to come home and ask what they could do to make that happen.”

“Of course, I couldn't explain to them exactly why you haven't been able to come home. It's not safe is not a good answer to them, but then they don't know about San Diego. And it made more sense when those men were... not caught. We told them there were a lot of reasons but we couldn't get specific except that we were not sure it was safe.”

“Jem, they are thinking you may be afraid of people's reactions here. That people will blame you or …assume things.”

“But they wanted to say they don't care what happened,” she stops. “No, that came out wrong, not that they don't care, but they don't want it to make a difference; they asked me to tell you they are your friends and they stand with you, no matter what. They said to tell you they are here for you, Shay said 'tell him we got his back.' ”

Her voice waivers. Remy had been moved by the declaration.

For a long time Jeremy does not react outwardly and is a bit adrift internally.

“Mom, I have to think about this, I don't really … I just … I feel … I need … ”

What do I need? What do I feel?

Jeremy is mentally and emotionally stopped in his tracks. He has to actually think about this. In fact this has long been part of his fears. But with Patrick and John dead, and having come to a degree of comfort with his being gay— is that still a concern? Does that figure in his decisions?

He feels so separated from Chillicothe, from those boys; he can't even picture himself in that reality. Whether they would accept him, literally doesn't mean anything to him. No, not that it doesn't mean anything, he too is moved by their loyalty; he just doesn't … he doesn't see that it can affect his life. The things they would protect him from are not things he feels threatened by any more. He does not seek the approval of his peers any longer. He does not need it. Or at least he thinks he doesn't. But that leaves him feeling...well he's not sure how he feels. He knows that at one time it would have been massively important to him; and he knows somewhere inside there has to be part of him that cares, but— that's Jeremy, not Fourteen.

And maybe not Jeremy any more…

How can he fit into their society again if he doesn't feel what they feel, value what they value?

“I need some time to think.”

IV. Baking in Chillicothe

August 14 2018

Remy is experimenting with a new recipe for crust for a cherry pie. She always finds baking a stress reliever, it's simple yet offers creativity; she can choose something that lets her work on autopilot without requiring concentration and allow her mind to roam or work on what other matters she needs; or focus tightly on some new recipe, distracting her from the stresses of the day. Hospice work is rewarding but it's also exhausting. She bakes many afternoons and evenings.

Lately she's been doing a lot of the latter. After a particularly difficult time at the hospice this week where she had had to help the passing of a fairly young child, she was relishing some time alone in her kitchen as a diversion. She barely finished and put the pie in the oven; setting the timer when the front doorbell rang.

A little annoyed as she approached the front door, she is puzzled to see a familiar figure through the distortion of the beveled glass windows.

“Why Ms. Clement, how are you today?” Remy says, feeling sudden delight. She always liked Rita Clement since she met her as Jeremy's sixth grade teacher.

“Remy, please call me Rita, won't you? I wondered if I might have a few moments of your time, if you aren't too busy.”

“Oh my yes, do you mind if we talk in the kitchen? I'm in the middle of baking and need to do some cleanup. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Too hot today; but I'd love to help.”

The two women share the work of cleanup and shortly are seated at the big kitchen table, each with a glass of iced tea as the fan hanging from the high ceiling stirs the oppressively humid, August Chillicothe air.

Remy always finds this a comforting place to sit; the homely feel of this kitchen and sturdiness of the table give a sense of safety, she feels anchored when she is here. These days being anchored holds a lot of attraction for Remy, there are times when she feels adrift in a sea that threatens to overwhelm her.

“So what brings you here, Rita?”

These days she expects … Everyone seems ready to offer advice and opinions about her son's best interests; all in the absence of any understanding of his circumstances.

“Remy, I've had a most peculiar communication, an email, from someone who claims to have been talking with your son.”

“Please?”

“I received the email from a woman named Mary Rule. She says she is a retired teacher from Canada, and that Jeremy mentioned my name. And she asked me to help him with his education.”

A startled pause as Remy is at a loss for words. This is not at all what she expected.

“Rita. Well. I'm a bit at a loss to understand what this is about.”

“I understand, Remy. It took me by surprise. And I am a little concerned that this could be somebody's idea of a prank. The message seems credible enough.” She pauses thoughtfully.

“Remy I won't barge in asking questions about where Jeremy is or what he is up to, I totally want to respect the request you and Greyson made for privacy. So I think I'll give you the background story I got and let you decide if this is legitimate. Then we can discuss it only if you wish.”

“That would be nice,” Remy says, thinking that it is about the most thoughtful approach anyone has made in months. Maybe since Dave Kennedy came by from the Church. And she's feeling a little guilty about the defensiveness of her questions to him.

“Well she tells me that she met Jeremy while sailing her boat down the West coast of Central America, has talked to him a number of times as he is a member of the crew of another sail boat going the same way and the two ships are on friendly terms, so she has had a lot of opportunity to talk with him.”

“Oh!” Remy is suddenly breathless with emotions. “Oh.”

“I'm sorry Remy are you all right, was that out of line?”

“I think I'll get a drink of water.” Ignoring the glass of tea next to her she rises and pulls a glass down from the cupboard, fills it at the refrigerator and keeps her back to the teacher, takes several generous swallows, then in control again, turns around.

“Rita, that is probably a genuine story. It fits what Jeremy has told us... well let me show you.” She reaches for a cell phone on the counter nearby and sits again. She turns the phone on and brings up a picture of a shirtless, well-tanned, grinning young teen, riding what looks to be sixty feet up, atop the mast of a sailboat, a broad blue ocean dotted with a few sails in the distance.

“Ah, he is looking very well, Remy,” says the older woman, “quite the healthy teenager,” very gently feeling her way in this uncertain emotional landscape.

“Yes he is, isn't he...” and the tears begin silently creeping their way down her cheeks. It has been very hard, even knowing abstractly that he is well, even having the photo, to maintain her poise and reign in her emotions. Suddenly, having someone to share with breaks down a wall within her. She can only rarely share these feelings with Greyson, she knows it's as hard on him as it is her. She weeps silently for minutes while Rita Comfort lives up to her name.

“I am so sorry, Rita,” she manages, “Showing the photo to you has just made the point so strongly about how much I am missing him...” she looks sadly at the table. “No matter how well he is, he's not home, and I so long to take him in my arms...”

When she is again composed, Rita continues.

“Remy I'm still going to try to do this without asking a lot of questions, but if I can help don't hesitate to ask, all right?” Taking silence as consent, she continues, “Apparently Jeremy has been making a half-hearted plunge into some GED material. She says he is interested in learning but needs someone who can really work with him long-distance, adapt material to his learning style and circumstances, and help make it happen, hold him accountable for his progress and the like. She said Jeremy told her I had been his favorite teacher and wondered if I'd be open to filling that role or could find someone who would. Of course I can't answer; I need to talk to you.”

“Rita, I can see some immediate questions. Do you have any interest in this; is there a way to be sure Jeremy gets appropriate school credit for it. Also in what you would cover, oh also, how could you remotely teach him, and I guess, no— cost isn't going to be a big issue, if you have the bandwidth and the ability and the interest we can pay for it and we must do. But if you can estimate the costs that would be something we want to anticipate.”

“Well let's go slowly here, Remy. First I remember Jeremy very well; he was a good student and I enjoyed working with him. I am open to doing this but it will depend on probably some of the same questions you have...”

“I'm a certified secondary teacher which means I can teach some high school subjects. My teaching certification will allow me to tutor him and get him credits. I doubt the school district would be at ease sponsoring this and even if they did I think there'd be a busybody factor neither of us want. I have to see what paperwork needs to be done to get the credit through the state superintendent's office but I know it's possible. For curriculum I would want to put together a year long program to get him through almost two years of high school if he can do it. And I think he can. That would have him caught up and maybe ahead.”

“Usually when a teacher works one on one with a child the process is a lot faster. So two or three hours a day or fifteen a week, most of which can be done in his own time, at his own initiative, can cover every bit as much as six hours a day or thirty a week in a larger class. If he really digs in he can catch up and maybe get ahead. But I would suggest we start out slowly and see how it goes. No use getting everyone pumped up to find it's just too much for him.”

“Once we get past his first year of high school though, I'll have to bring in some others to help with subjects where I'm not qualified. Science and Math in particular. I think I can find retired substitutes or someone else who will be able to do it.”

“Yes, certainly. I think I need to speak with Grey about this. Many things for us to consider.” She pauses a moment in thought. “We've been struggling, to be honest, with how to guide him, what to allow him to do, and how much influence we have over him these days.”

“Well, he is a teenager, Remy, they can be rebellious, contrary, It comes with the territory sometimes.”

She shakes her head. “Not that; not that he's rebellious or contrary, not unusually so anyway. But he has carved a strange spot out, a sanctuary of sorts maybe, a refuge from the horrors I think. A niche that he feels fits him, that works for him.”

“And I'm guessing he thinks Chillicothe may no longer work.”

Phil's Full Chapters at Wordpress... these will include some illustrations;  and revisions made after publication at Nifty.

 Chapter 52 Patrick & John: “We Got Shoes” 

Chapter 36 Patrick & John: Summer Camp Day 

Chapter 27 Levi: Dustoff 

Chapter 24: The Chillicothe Interlude 

And a further collection of Chillicothe segments

Fourteen: Scenes from Chillicothe 

Nifty stories by Philip Marks:

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/a-fathers-love.pdf 

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/i-can-see-clearly-now.pdf https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/stories-in-the-human-calculus/