The Lovers in Rossford

 “Bryant’s stressing out,” Todd said as he put the phone to his chest.

“Well, he should have used sense before opening his mouth,” Fenn said. He shook his head. “I do love him, but sometimes I think he’s part jackass. Is he still on the phone?”

Todd lifted the phone from his chest and the sound of Bryant’s frantic chatter was still rattling.

Fenn looked at Dylan, who raised his eyebrow, and then Fenn reached for the phone and Todd handed it to him.

“Bryant… Bryant…” Dylan could hear his father trying to get a word in edgewise. “Bryant!”

Now Fenn spoke. “Bryant! Todd has to go take Maia out, and Tara will raise hell if he’s late. Go make amends with this man. Fix him dinner at that nice new place you have—”

“That’s a great idea. Don’t you like the ceil—”

“And let him teach you about jazz. You all should watch that Ken Burns documentary.”

“You’re a brilliant man, Fenn.”

“Of course I am. Apologize to him. Call him now. Be charming. But first get the hell off of our phone.”

Before Bryant could say anything more, Fenn said, “Good night.”

He hung up the phone and Todd said, “You can be very direct.”

“You have to go so I can have father and son night.”

“Alright, alright,” Todd said. “You know, I think Bryant’s

half in love with this guy.”

“Well, good for him. And let’s hope he has the sense not to say anything stupid when he sees him again.”

When Todd was gone, Fenn said, “What do you have for me?”

Dylan grinned and went to the plastic grocery bag. As he did, Fenn thought, “Who loves me like this boy? How can you not want a son? How can you screw up things with your children so? He thought of Leroy, dead four years now, and how little the death of the old man had affected him.

“All right,” Dylan said, “I was thinking of caramel and cheese, but I can never get it to taste like Chicago mix, right? So I’m using kettle corn and cheese.”

“Ah,” Fenn took the bag from him. “And what do we call it?”

“Rossford mix.”

“But do you think it will be as good as Chicago mix?”

“Well, now you know, Dad, there’s only one way to find out.”

Fenn pushed himself off of the sofa

“Was that an old man grunt?”

“If it was, I’ll never admit it,” Fenn said, gesturing for his son to follow him into the kitchen.

“You pick the movie out?”

“I got Killer Klowns From Outer Space.”

“Then the popcorn was the right choice,” Dylan said as they entered the kitchen.

Fenn reached up for a bowl. Dylan grabbed it and Fenn looked at him, surprised.

“What?” said Dylan.

 “You’re as tall as me.”

“Well that’s not saying much.”

Fenn tapped Dylan in the arm.

Dylan opened one bag and poured half of it in, and then half of the other and began stirring it.

“And now for the microwave.”

 “Yes, indeed.”

As the microwave began to hum, Fenn said, “So are you going to tell me about Lance?”

“What?”

“Your face is so red!”

“Has Laurel been talking to you?’

“Laurel’s been talking to Layla. Layla’s been talking to me. Now what about Lance?”

“Nothing yet, Dad.”

“Alright.” Fenn shrugged.

“Thank you for respecting my privacy.”

“I have to. In forty years you’ll be the one wiping my ass and sponge bathing me.”

“That…” Dylan said as the microwave went off, “is too much to picture.”

“Speaking of too much to picture—ouch!”

Dylan slapped his father’s hand, “That’s what you get for touching it right out of the microwave. Hold on. I’ll get glasses. You want pop or what?”

“I want water.”

Dylan nodded. “You were saying… speaking of too much to picture…”

“Sex. Your sex life.”

 “Dad!” Dylan wailed.

“Well, not talking about it isn’t going to make it not happen. And you’re fifteen. Almost sixteen and… Well, I just don’t want you to ever be afraid to tell me anything.”

Dylan stopped and looked at Fenn.

“I love you, Dad.”

“Are you evading the question?”

“No,” Dylan said, kissing his father on the cheek. “I swear I’m not. I just really, really love you.”

He touched his hand. “Now, let’s go watch a movie.”

“I feel really educated right now,” Bryant said as the credits began to roll.

“Really?” Jack Ferguson said. “I was beginning to feel like you might think it was too long.”

“No, Ken Burns’ stuff is just like a movie. For me at least,” Bryant said on the other end of the couch. “I officially feel stupid-”

“I thought you said you felt educated?”

“I feel educated enough to know how stupid I was for the things I said,” Bryant told him. “That music was some of the most beautiful… does beautiful make sense—?”

“I think beautiful always makes sense,” Jack Ferguson said, sitting back. He was a tall man, only a little rough, slightly dragonish with very blue eyes and a wide smile. He looked like he’d be a tender, lazy lover. Calm and mellow. Bryant decided he’d better stop thinking about that.

“Well,” Bryant said, “then it was beautiful. I never appreciated any of that stuff. I was going to say Louis Armstrong, but they didn’t even talk about Louis Armstrong. I was just really… Say, you have any of that music?”

“Yes,” Jack Ferguson said. “Who do you want to hear? You remember anyone in specific?”

“That Jelly Roll Morton… That would interest me. And, heck, any ragtime?”

“I do have ragtime,” Ferguson said. “I can bring you some of that.”

“Nice,” Bryant nodded. “Nice.”

Ferguson blinked. “I better go.”

“Why?”

“It’s getting late,” Ferguson said. “I can’t stay here forever.”

He stood up and stretched and Ferguson said, “Should I come tomorrow night? You wanna see part two?”

“Definitely.”

Ferguson said, “Are you a Republican?”

“What?”

“Are you a Republican?”

“I’m gay, Jack.”

“They have gay Republicans.”

“I am not a Republican, and I have no idea why you would ask that.”

“More to see the expression on your face,” Ferguson said with a grin.

He headed to the door and said, “You know what…? I think you are. Deep inside.”

Bryant stared after him in amazement as he went to the door. When he opened it, Jack Ferguson said, “Good night, professor.”

And then he was gone.

“Do you know what time it is?” Todd yawned. He covered his mouth and his hair was sticking up.

“Goddamnit, go to bed!” Bryant heard Fenn’s voice croaking in the background.

“Seriously, Bri.”

“He came over,” Bryant was whispering into the phone.

“Is he still there?” Todd sat up, straighter.

“No.”

“Then why are you whispering?”

“I really don’t know,” Bryant said in a more normal voice. “I definitely got a vibe. Something was definitely happening.”

“Did you kiss?”

“No.”

“Well then not too much is happening.”

“The first time you and Fenn went out, what happened?”

“Well, hell that was over twenty years ago.”

“But do you remember it?”

“Yeah, Bri: the same thing that happened the first time you and I went out.”

Bryant turned red and said, “Well, but you already knew Fenn.”

“I didn’t know you. We just went back to your house and... you know.”

“I forbid you,” Fenn’s voice came over the phone, “to talk to Bryant about fucking Bryant while you are sleeping in my bed.”

“Anyway,” Todd said, rolling his eyes, “what makes you think something was happening?”

“His eyes. His eyes and the electric!” Bryant sang. “And… everything. I’ve never known anything like that.”

“Well, what do you know about him?”

“I don’t even know if he’s gay.”

“Oh, hell!”

“I don’t really have the whole ‘able to tell’ thing. I’m thrown off.”

Suddenly Fenn reached for the phone, said, “And I’m throwing you off. Goodnight.”

And then he hung up the phone and said, “Well, that’s that.”

 

Tom was on his treadmill, running hard, when Fenn and Tara came to get Dylan. They exchanged sarcastic faces, but Fenn admitted to himself that the sight of Tom in little shorts and a sweaty tank top wasn’t entirely displeasing.

“He’ll be down in a minute,” Tom was telling them. “What the hell are you doing?” Tara said.

“Keeping myself in shape.”

Tom stopped and dabbed his temples with a towel. “I’m fifty. We’re fifty.”

Fenn shook his head.

“It might not hurt you to do a little treadmill now and again,” Tom touched Fenn’s belly with a finger.

“It might hurt you to try that shit again though,” Fenn told him, punching Tom lightly in the side.

“It hurts me right now,” said Tom.

“But really,” Tom told them, “when people see me and Dylan together, they think we’re like brothers or something.”

“That’s complete bullshit,” Fenn said. “They might think you’re like… a man who had a son before he was forty, I’ll give you that. But you don’t look like a fifteen year old’s brother, no matter how many times you inappropriately use the phrase ‘like’, or how short your shorts are.”

“My shorts aren’t that short.”

“I can see your shit hanging out,” Tara pointed to his crotch.

Tom closed his legs and went red.

“It’s not bad shit, though,” Tara said.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Dylan came down the stairs. “What’s everyone talking about?”

“How sad it is when people get old and don’t want to admit it,” Tara said while Tom opened his mouth in protest.

“Oh, Tara, you’re not that old,” Dylan said, and Tom snorted.

“Come here, Son.”

Dylan came to his father. Tom shook his son by the shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

“Mind your father,” Tom instructed. “Brush your teeth. I know Fenn always forgets to tell you.”

Fenn shook his head.

“And go to bed at eleven o clock. Even if you’re not in my house, you’re still my son.”

Dylan nodded. “All right, Dad.”

“Tom, I do know how to raise a child,” Fenn said.

“I know you do.”

“And I don’t pretend I could pass for his brother.”

 “What?” Dylan began.

“Nevermind.”

“Of course you couldn’t pass for his brother,” Tom said. “You’re Black—Ouch!”

“It was a grey hair,” Fenn explained, innocently while Tom touched the top of his sore head. Fenn put a hand on Dylan’s shoulder.

“Let’s go.”