Adam had been struck right on the forehead, leaving a deep half-inch split in his skin. Blood oozed and feel down his face, gathering speed until it dropped onto his shirt. Michael watched him, struck by the wild, agitated way in which he talked; he seemed hysterical or perhaps a little disoriented.
"Adam, what the hell happen to you?" Michael interrupted in an incredulous tone. The rain began to flush out the cut. His friend was acting absolutely psychotic, breathing heavily, and shaking slightly, whether the shaking was caused by anger or fright, Michael did not know.
"I need to stay at your place for the night," he repeated over and over again and then attempted to side-step Michael.
Michael stopped him. "No, not until you tell me what happened. How did you get this cut?" Adam ignored him and continued to head for the apartment building, but Michael caught him by the arm. "Answer me, damnit!"
Adam wheeled around, ripping his arm out of Michael's grip. He piled all his strength on one and repelled Michael, lunging with force. Michael felt a crack explode down his face that seemed to break something, pain bursting across his eyes and throwing showers of orange sparks over him. In the same second he threw out his fists and freed himself. This time he caught Adam by the shirt forcefully. His head was now throbbing out of control. He stared directly into Adam's eyes, showing no mercy.
They stood like that for a few seconds, huffing and puffing, allowing the rain to plunder them. The only sound was the cracking thunder and forks of lightning that shot across the sky. The black cat weaved in and out of their feet, apparently disturbed by the commotion.
Adam's eyes rolled emptily, his face a ghastly white as he angrily yet fearfully wondered how he came to be in such a situation. Michael still kept his grip, not trusting his friend enough to release him, but he could taste the blood from his freshly cut lip. "Now, are you going to tell me what happened?" Michael breathed heavily. "Or are you going to try to attack me again?"
"I need to stay at your place," Adam repeated, but this time the anger in his tone was gone. In turn, he sounded helpless.
When Michael finally released him, he staggered back towards a bench, pale, tired, and defeated. His head hung low and out of nowhere a racking sob worked its way through Adam's chest, but it was nearly muffled by the sound of more thunder. This was one side of his friend Michael never saw in his entire life. He walked cautiously over and sat down next to him.
With shaking hands, Adam fumbled in the pockets of his jeans and retrieved a soggy pack of cigarettes. He started to extract one, but then paused, and tossed the pack on the ground, cursing under his breath. Blood dripped down onto the pack. Michael watched as one red drop smeared across the pack of cigarettes like art work.
"He hit me," Adam said in a low voice, so low that Michael had to strain to hear it over the rain. "The school called my house-and-he was the one to answer the call. I tried to tell h-him it wasn't a big deal, but he said I was useless, good for nothing, and I just got carried away in the moment and told him to fuck off." Michael winced, not from the pain that was searing through his head, but he knew Adam's old man. He wasn't the type to cross.
"What about your mom?" Michael asked soberly.
Adam let out a cynical laugh. "Yeah, she would be the one to step between me and my dad. She just went about cleaning up after dinner." He sniffed loudly, allowing the injured cat to leap up onto his lap.
Michael stared blankly ahead. Wondering. Pondering. Musing. Contemplating. In reality, there was no way Rosa would allow Adam into her apartment, yet there was no telling his friend that he should head back home.
"Isabel!" A voice suddenly called out from behind the sheet of rain. Michael looked in the direction of the entrance to his apartment building. A lady was descending the stairs slowly, holding an umbrella high above her head. "Isabel!" her voice rang out again.
The cat who had settled on Adam's lap perked up at the sound of her name. She leapt agilely to the ground, the bell around her neck jangling. The lady came jostling down the sidewalk in their direction. "Why Isabel there you are," she said in a would-be relieved tone. That's when her eyes fell on Michael and Adam sitting on the bench. "The bus doesn't come down this street," she called out, scooping up the cat with one arm. "You'll be waiting an awfully long time," she paused slightly, "Why Michael, is that you?"
For the first time Michael realized that his eighty year old neighbor, Mrs. Jensen, or most commonly known as crazy cat lady, was addressing them. He thought for a little while, and then produced a cunning plan. The essential difficulty was to have Adam stay over his apartment. But, as it happened, Mrs. Jensen was always keen about taking in strays.
"It's probably not wise to sit out here in the rain," she informed them, stroking Isabel's wet fur. "Lord knows that Rosa would be frightfully mad if you caught your death of cold sitting around outside. . ." she stopped short. "Why, someone has hurt you-all three of you," she said, noting the injuries on Isabel, Michael, and Adam, who was probably the worst one off.
At last, when the police car turned onto their road, progressing steadily towards them, somebody had an idea. Mrs. Jensen remarked that it wasn't the best idea for either Michael or especially Adam to be on the street at this time of night. Though the police were probably just conducting their habitual search of Queens, if they were to see two bloody teenagers they would most likely stop and ask questions.
She led the way to the apartment building and up to the floor of her apartment. About twenty-five other cats were waiting around. A few of them leapt to life at the sound of the locks clicking, the majority, though, ran for cover as Michael and Adam entered. Presently the light flickered on; illuminating her interior apartment that looked strikingly similar to the apartment Michael lived in.
"Isabel never got along well with the other cats," she explained, releasing Isabel. "She's constantly running away and getting injured. So I have to be careful to not leave the front door open partially ajar or else she'll escape. I know she'll come back," Mrs. Jensen added, placing a pot of tea on the stove. "So technically I don't have to go searching for her, but it was raining tonight and I feared."
Michael and Adam exchanged looks. Adam still didn't look any the better. He still had this gaping wound where he was struck and now Michael's cut lip was really beginning to sting. Uncomfortably they sat down at the kitchen table after being invited to by Mrs. Jensen. She handed out the tea, and while they sipped she moved to and fro, talking benignly. She talked mostly about her cats, and about how quickly time passed when you were watching so many cats. Finally, she took a breath from talking about her cats and addressed Adam:
"And you, my boy, what is your name and why do look like a train hit you?"
Michael could tell that Adam was carefully choosing his words before answering. "Adam and I fell-off the curb," he said lamely.
Mrs. Jensen didn't buy it; she placed her hands on her lips and observed both of them with hawk eyes. "That may be so, but I raised two children myself, three if you count my grandson who is currently at your age, and believe me I can tell when someone is telling the truth. You teenagers are horrible at it. It's important to learn how to tell the truth, unless of course you want a career as a successful politician. Perhaps it is none of my business to know the truth, but I thought I would get some of it seeing as I am willing to patch you up."
"Can we stay the night?" Michael suddenly blurted out the question.
She turned her eyes on him. "Rosa and Carlos will want you back. As for your lying friend, Adam, I'm not sure where he came from, but I'm sure his parents will want him back."
"Yeah, I bet," Adam said under his breath. "My father did this to me," he told Mrs. Jensen, as though something big and heavy had suddenly climbed into his conscience. "I can't go back there."
"Well it just so happens that I have a spare room that my grandson typically occupies when he visits and you can wear his dry clothes. So I'll let you stay, but just keep in mind that it takes a strong person to admit and talk out his follies." With that said and done she left the room, a few cats trailing after her.
Adam sunk lower in his chair, delicately touching his bruise. "Listen," he said in a low tone. "I'm sorry I slugged you. It wasn't your fault." He let out a gruff laugh; Michael followed taking it as cue.
"Don't worry about it my lip will heal." He pushed the tea away from him, and began to pet a fat ginger cat that was purring loudly.
"But hey, listen, I can't stay here much longer."
Michael nodded his head. "I know, Mrs. Jensen will probably only allow you to stay the night."
"No, I mean I can't stay here, as in Queens. I have an old friend who lives in Ohio. I'll probably set out tomorrow night."
It was Michael's turn to laugh. "You're kidding right? You'll never make it to Ohio. Adam, it was only one incident that he hit you! I mean, I think you're blowing this way out of proportion."
Adam shook his head gravely and lifted up the one side of his shirt. There was one thing about arguments, the one with the most convincing evidence wins. Adam had enough evidence to prove his point. He lowered his shirt back down, concealing the large black and blue marks. "It's been more than once," he stopped short as Mrs. Jensen came hobbling back in.
"The spare room is all set up," she announced. They followed to the back of a hallway. "Now if you don't want the cats to bother you at night then I suggest you shut the door firmly or else they'll manage to get in."
Michael had little curiosity as to who her grandson was. She mentioned that he was their age. The room d^Âcor was sports themed, with posters of football teams and the Yankees. On a night stand there were various photos of her grandson. Michael observed them and felt his heart stop suddenly.
Adam had noticed the photos as well. "Hey, isn't that the bloke we ran into in the hallways at school? What's his name, Dylan something or other? It sure is a small world, but it's kind of eerie that I am staying with his grandmother. Who knew she was your neighbor."
Chills tingled up Michael's spine. He was really standing in a bedroom where Dylan slept before, perhaps several times. His first instinct was to search for the underwear drawer, just for a thrill, but Michael knew it was impossible with Adam and Mrs. Jensen around.
Mrs. Jensen came wandering through the bedroom door, carrying a pile of fresh clothes. Michael noted immediately on top was a pair of white boxer briefs. He recognized them, because Dylan had worn a similar pair last Friday night... A slight arousal occurred in Michael's jeans, but he suppressed it.
"Come," Mrs. Jensen said, patting Michael on the back. "Why don't we leave Adam to rest? I'll scrounge up the first aid kit and return to check on his wound." She guided Michael out of the room and back to the family room with the cats. "Michael, I feel like I should be honest with you. I've never liked Rosa and Carlos. Maude was fine for the most part, but the others have been exploiting you and told you little about your parents, which is unfair. And I know you've probably heard this before, but I knew your parents."
Michael nodded. He heard that several times before. "And they were great people. That's what I usually hear next.
Mrs. Jensen nodded, while rattling through a desk drawer. "That's true, they were. But there's more to the story that meets the eye." From the drawer she extracted a piece of notebook paper and handed it to him. There was an address scribbled on it.
Michael was lost. "What is this?" he asked, sitting down on an over-stuffed flowery sofa.
"If there was one thing I'm proud of at my old age, it is the fact that I kept an acute sense of hearing. Not many people my age can make that claim." She sat down on the couch next to him. "I heard your friend planning to runaway to Ohio. While I normally won't advocate such rash behavior, your friend is stubborn and will do what he wants, when he thinks the time is right. Also, he's not my child."
"So what's this address," he asked, holding up the piece of paper.
"That's what I am getting to. When Adam goes, go with him. Find this address and you'll find your mother. She's in Ohio."
Michael had a sensory overload. At first he thought Mrs. Jensen must be lying to him, but why would she lie about such a thing? Was his mother really in Ohio? Was she really alive? Should he really go with him? And what about Rosa and Carlos? And school? Michael ran all these questions by Mrs. Jensen.
"I'll explain to Rosa and Carlos. They know she is there, but never wanted to tell you."
"If she's there, then why do I have to live with them? Why did I have to go through hell and tolerate their way of living?" Excitement was replaced with momentary anger. Why hadn't anybody bother to tell him? He felt as though his whole life he had been living a lie.
Mrs. Jensen patted his leg and stood up. "I need to go look in on your friend. I can only answer so many questions. Just go with him and find that address and all your questions will be answered. Trust me on this, Michael. I always wanted to tell you, but you were always too young. You're eighteen now, an adult in my eyes. Good-night."
Michael headed back to the apartment, unable to think clearly. Not a coherent thought streamed through his mind. His mother, at least, was actually alive and nobody ever bothered to tell him until now. He was mad, furious, curious, anxious, and possibly hopeful. He wished he could fly to Ohio right now, the fact that for one more night he would have to return to this dreadful, deceiving life was unbearable.
The apartment was dark. Somewhere a drippy faucet leaked in an off-beat manner. He was glad to learn that no one bothered to wait up for him. His emotions were so mixed it would be hard to say what would come out of his mouth.
In his bedroom he peeled off his wet clothes, stood in front of the mirror and checked out his swelled lip. When he could think more clearly he asked himself a question and, because he couldn't answer it, he was angered. It was this: How come if his mother was alive did he have to live here all of his life? None of it made sense. Perhaps his mother had given him up. There were a number of scenarios, but none of them really made any sense.
He plopped down onto his bed and stared up at the grooves in the ceiling. They made different shapes. One looked like Dylan's face and, as usual, at the though of him Michael slid down his underwear half way, grasping his now hard penis and began to stroke it slowly. Musing over the thought of Dylan naked and when he would be able to see him again with no clothes on. Then he was back in the woods with Dylan, snow was falling around them, but instead of a hot tub, it was just the two of them in their underwear. Their body heat melting the snow as they rolled around...something about that seemed more erotic than a hot tub. It was just them and nature-the imprint of Dylan's muscular nude body in the snow. Their heavy breathing, animals watching from behind the trees... Then Dylan's eyes, there was something about his eyes that got Michael every single time.
His body tensed up immediately, the sure sign that you've reached climax. And just like that, within in those few panting seconds it was all over. Michael was no longer in the woods. No longer in a state of content. He was in reality.
He fell back into a half-sleep. Filled with warm dreams of his mother that he would finally meet and the adventure that lies ahead.