I know it's been awhile since I've posted a chapter but, hopefully, once you read this you'll see why it's taken so long. I've been working on this for over two weeks, trying to get it right. I could probably work on it another two weeks, and still not be satisfied, but that's the way it goes. Anyway, I hope you like it, since this chapter moves more back in the literary vein of some of the earlier chapters. I hope you like it or, at least, don't hate it. Mostly, though, I hope you're challenged by it (in a good way). If you're so inclined, let me know what you think. The email address is the same, denis141@hotmail.com
DEDICATION: For James, because now he's a character too (finally).
DISCLAIMER: I don't know any member of NSYNC, and this story purely a work of fiction. This story also contains male-male sex (albeit mostly implied), so, if that's not your thing, or if you aren't old enough to read such things, you should stop reading now.
CHAPTER 19: The One True Thing.
"And now," Shreve said, "we're going to talk about love." But he didn't need to say that either, any more than he had needed to specify which he he meant by he, since neither of them had been thinking about anything else; all that had gone before just so much that had to be overpassed and none else present to overpass it but them, as someone always has to rake the leaves up before you can have a bonfire. That was why it did not matter to either of them which one did the talking, since it was not the talking alone which did it, performed and accomplished the overpassing, but some happy marriage of speaking and hearing wherein each before the demand, the requirement, forgave, condoned and forgot the faulting of the other - faultings both in the creating of this shade whom they discussed (rather, existed in) and in the hearing and the sifting and discarding the false and conserving what seemed true, or fit the preconceived - in order to overpass love, where there might be paradox and inconsistency but nothing fault nor false.
-- William Faulner, Absalom, Absalom (1936)
"There were so many people there, at the party, a hundred at least, from the film set, actors and crew, and a few friends who decided to come to Savannah for it; the place was packed with them, and the music was loud and pounding so that the walls seemed to be shaking, and everyone was shouting over it, the music, and laughing out loud, as if to exhale the clamorous life-fueled noise that filled and dominated the room."
"That's why I couldn't hear what he was saying, hardly at all, and why I needed to keep leaning in, closer, so that I could hear what he was saying to me, and not just stare at his lips, trying to see what he was saying, to see the words forming there, see them because I couldn't hear them; and I remember his lips were puffy and wine-stained, and he kept licking them, like he could still taste the wine there, with the words too; but I couldn't see them, and couldn't hear them, even leaning closer, my hand against the wall to steady myself, even though the wall was shaking nearly as much as me."
"It was late, past midnight, but everyone seemed to still be there, drinking, and shouting over the music, and laughing, but seeming to disappear too, to recede into a kind of background, becoming invisible; - no, unnoticed, or no longer noticed, not by me, or him; and my leaning in, and staring at those puffy wine-rouged lips, opening and closing in speech I could hardly hear, and his tongue sneaking out, like a small animal escaping into the open for a moment, and then retreating again, leaving you to imagine where it went, and wanting to follow it somehow, but not knowing how, or why you wanted to catch it, or how you would, or could, but wanting still to do it."
"And I remember that my head touched his as I watched his tongue disappear into his mouth, because I was leaning in to try to hear, trying to hear what he was saying to me, and his hand was on my back, helping me to lean in, and steadying me, even though my shirt was wet-through with sweat, where his hand was; it was so humid in Savannah in August, or maybe all the time, I don't know; but it was why my back was wet and my shirt was wet-through with it, the humidity and the heat; and why his hand felt like it was stuck to me; still, even if not stuck, he didn't pull it away, and I remember thinking how it was nice that he didn't pull his hand away, even with the sweat there, but he pulled me in instead, toward him, helping me, I think, to hear what he was saying."
"What was he saying, I hardly know, or knew, or now know, and I don't think I'd remember if I did know, although I think I could have known, or almost knew, even though it was all so long ago, twelve or thirteen years at least, which is a long time, or time enough to seem that what has passed should stay past - Don't you think? Because I do, I really do; and, of course, there was all that wine, and the furious heat, which seemed to define that place, Savannah, and made me silly and light-headed besides, even without the five or six or seven glasses of wine I'd had, each one handed to me by someone with a joke about me being thirty years old, which hardly seems old at all now that I'm 42 and looking back; and he'll be 40 tomorrow, 40 years old, and he hates that, the fact of it, the being not so young now, not like before."
"But what did he say? I know he said something, and I know the words formed by those lips were words directed at no one but me, which I know because he was staring at me too, with eyes that were like black glass beads, staring like he could not hear me either, and like he wanted to hear what I might say, because I don't think I was saying anything at the moment, except maybe how hot it was in there right then, or how loud, or just saying "What?" because I couldn't hear, nothing at all, which is what I probably said, nothing at all, because I was just trying to hear what he said, and not say anything myself, nothing important, at least, until he was leaning in too."
"And that was when our lips got on each other, or maybe nearly so, not really on, or touching, because it was just to try to hear, and not a kiss, no, not a kiss at all, although I can see how it might have looked like a kiss to him, seeing it as he did from where he stood, seeing it from a distance, as if standing in the past, and seeing his story, his own story, as if I was not me, but him instead, in the past, and he whom I was trying to hear was not him, but him, and seeing the same kind of mistake that he had made, and wondering, fearing, whether I was making it too, like him, or as him, which was probably how he saw it, the two of us four, and then two again, and four, and then two."
"And he was on us in an instant, it seemed, which was of course another reason why it could not have been a kiss: it was over before it began, because he was on us in an instant, ferocious and striking him to the floor, and on him, squeezing his bleeding face, and screaming words I finally did hear, I thought, screaming as he seemed to choke him, screaming 'I will kill you if you ever touch him again, I will kill you,' seeming to say "I will" even though it seemed to me he was killing him, or maybe I feared he was, killing him, because you could see it, everyone could, his face full of blood, and seeming to gasp for air he couldn't get until he pulled his hands away from him, with me pleading 'Let him go!', or so I suppose, and saying too how it was all my fault (because suddenly it seemed it was), and saying save him, and saying (or shouting) 'Is he dead?' until finally he was off him, away from him, and not over or on him - because I think some other people helped, helped to pull him off him, and then he ran out the door, all the way to the river I think, through fetid air so thick and hot you could barely breathe it."
Lying there, enduring the sticky-heat of having just made love, and the enduringly oppressive heat of another August morning in Savannah, JC smiled remembering how Lance had woken him a half hour ago by kissing his neck, and whispering in his ear, "Time for some birthday love."
Still almost out of breath, JC traced his fingers down the side of Lance's neck and across his chest and to his stomach, where he stopped and opened his hand and rested it there, not minding the heat of it there, and the stickiness, despite the fact that the sun had been up for only two hours and it felt like it was already past ninety degrees. JC smiled as he watched Lance fall asleep again, and his lips part with each breath he took, and then silently exhaled.
"Lance," JC whispered, taking his hand away and gently touching Lance's leg and jostling it. "Wake up, sweetie. You'll be late."
Lance's eyes didn't open, but he moaned in protest, and scrunched his face, and shook his head from side to side, as if to say no, and then saying it, "No, it's too early."
"I know," JC said. "But you're driver will be here in less than thirty minutes."
"Fuck!" Lance yelled, sitting up in bed and opening his eyes.
"Do you want some coffee," JC asked, getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of red Nike basketball shorts. "I'll make some."
"Hey," Lance said, rubbing his eyes. "Get back here."
"What?" JC said, kneeling on the edge of the mattress and leaning toward Lance, and kissing him.
"That's better," Lance said, returning the kiss, and then climbing out of bed.
"Are you going to shower?" JC asked, picking the bed sheet up from where it had slid to the floor while he and Lance had made love.
"Nah," Lance said. "I'll shower in my trailer on the set. It's easier."
"Okay," JC said. "Then can you get Aaron up while I shower?"
"Sure," Lance said, pulling on a pair of boxers shorts, and then a t-shirt.
"And I'll make you breakfast too. What do you want?"
"A bagel's fine," JC said. "And maybe some juice."
"You got it," Lance said, watching JC's butt as he walked into the bathroom. "Oh, wait a second. Are you bringing Aaron to the set today?"
"Yeah, I promised him I would," JC said, turning around and sticking his head through the doorway to the bathroom. "Isn't today the day where you're riding the horse, you and Josh - that final scene?"
"It's supposed to be," Lance said. "But you never know."
"Well, he wants to see you ride," JC said, pushing his hand through his sweaty hair. "He's been talking about it for two weeks."
"That's cool," Lance said. "It'll be fun. And then we can all go out to dinner to celebrate your birthday."
"Ugh," JC said, rolling his eyes. "Don't remind me."
Lance walked over to where JC was standing in the doorway, and rested his hand on JC's hips, pulling him forward and kissing him.
"What's up with that?" Lance asked. "Are you sad?"
"No," JC said, shaking his head, and then resting it against the doorjamb. "I just can't believe I'm really thirty years old."
"Thirty years young," Lance said, kissing JC again, and smiling at him.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," JC said, shoving Lance playfully away. "Now get out of here so I can cry my eyes out in peace."
"You are such a drama queen sometimes," Lance said, laughing and leaving the bedroom so he could go and get Aaron up and ready for breakfast.
"So tell me again whose idea it was to take Advanced Placement English during the summer?" Aaron asked, looking across the kitchen table at his best friend, James.
"It was yours," James said.
"No it wasn't," Aaron said. "I wanted to go to basketball camp. Besides you're the one that actually likes this literature stuff."
"Whatever," James said, rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to the laptop computer he had opened in front of him. "Besides - it is what it is, and you can bitch all you want, but our presentation is still due at the end of the week."
"Dude, you sound just like my Pop when you talk like that," Aaron said, cringing. "Does he pay you to talk that way?"
"No," James said. "But that's a good idea. Maybe I should ask him."
"Yeah, ha-ha," Aaron said. "Like I need two people nagging me about school."
"Where is he, by the way?"
"My Pop?"
"Yeah.
"He's off planning my Dad's Birthday party," Aaron said. "He's 40 tomorrow, and he's totally freaking about it."
"Who?"
"My Dad."
"Oh, I thought you meant Josh was freaking about the party."
"That too," Aaron said. "But my Dad has been totally acting all tragic, moping around all week and acting like his Doctor just told him he had like a month to live."
"Weird."
"Tell me. It's not like he looks much more than thirty."
"And he's still way hot."
"Dude," Aaron said. "It's like cool that you're gay and all, but don't be huffing after my Dad, because that's gross."
"I was kidding!" James said, laughing.
"Yeah. Right."
"Anyway," James said. "We need to work on this, so tell me what we know about Quentin Compson."
"Okay," Aaron said, picking up his notebook and looking at what he'd written there. "He was at Harvard, the only one in his family to go to school in the North. And the reason he got to go there is because his family sold off most of their land, and it was turned into a golf course, which they thought was shameful to need to do."
"What else?"
"Well, he was obsessed with his sister, Caddy," Aaron said, looking at his notes again. "Like he wanted to marry her almost, but, you know, only to protect her, even though she was plenty strong enough to take care of herself, and Quentin was the one that needed taking care of."
"Kind of," James said. "But, you know, he wasn't so much a wimp in that other book he was in, the one that Faulkner wrote later, Absalom, Absalom."
"What?"
"He was like the main character in another book - Absalom, Absalom."
"No way," Aaron said. "My Dad was in that movie."
"He was?" James said, pushing the laptop to one side and putting his hands on the table in front of him.
"Totally," Aaron said. "It was like, I don't know, thirteen years ago, I think. I was just little, and it wasn't much after I came to live with them."
"That's so weird," James said. "Do you remember him making it? The movie?"
"Not really. But I remember that, afterwards, when it came out, he got his third nomination for an Academy Award. And he'd already won two years in a row, so when he got nominated again it was a totally big deal."
"Yeah, I think I remember reading about that," James said. "But what was that other guy's name, the guy that won, your Dad's co-star in the movie."
"Josh Hartnett."
"That's it," James said. "Now he's totally hot."
"Whatever."
"Seriously, though. Have you ever seen it? The movie?"
"Nope," Aaron said. "Dad hates it when I watch his flicks. It really bugs him."
"But maybe we should watch it," James said. "Like for our assignment. We can do our presentation on how Quentin in Absalom, Absalom is, I don't know, like some kind of explanation of what happens in The Sound and the Fury."
"You mean when he kills himself?"
"Yeah," James said. "The teach will totally be impressed. And we can do screen-caps from your Dad's flick, and put them in the PowerPoint for our presentation."
"That'd be trick," Aaron said. "But my Dad can totally not find out."
"We'll do it at my house then," James said. "He'll never know."
"Right on," Aaron said. "So you want to hit Blockbuster now?"
"Yeah," James said. "My parents don't get back until tomorrow, so maybe you can stay over. You should ask."
"Cool," Aaron said, standing up. "I'll be right back."
JC was sitting with Aaron in shade of an ancient white oak on a blanket that Ang Lee had spread out for them near where the Panaflex camera was set up for the next shot. Ang stood next to the blanket, staring into the distance, toward Fort McCallister and the Savannah River, which was just beyond it. The distant sky seemed to shimmer with heat, as if the sky itself was merely a mirage and what lay behind it only a mystery.
"Where's Lance," Aaron asked, turning to look at JC and then Ang. "Is he going to ride the horse now?"
"In just a few minutes," Ang said, crouching down and smiling at Aaron. "He's in the make-up trailer now. That blue one right over there."
"Oh," Aaron said, pointing at the trailer. "The blue one?"
"Yes, Aaron," JC said. "The blue one."
"Can I go see him?" Aaron asked, still pointing.
"I don't know," JC said. "Why don't you ask Mr. Lee."
"Can I?" Aaron said, standing up and looking at Ang. "I want to see Lance."
"Sure," Ang said, holding out his hand to Aaron. "Let's go."
"Hold Mr. Lee's hand," JC said. "And do what he says."
"Okay," Aaron said, taking Ang's hand. "Don't you want to see Lance, Josh?"
"Oh, sure," JC said, standing up and following Aaron and Ang to the trailer.
"This scar? Fuck, that's a long and weird-ass story, and one I don't much like to tell. Not so much because it's bad, but because I never really know what to say, or how to say it. You know? Because every time I think about it, I think about it different, and remember it different, like I don't know what happened even though I was there."
"You see, it was the last day of location shooting in Savannah on this Ang Lee film Absalom, Absalom. It was a Friday, I think, and we were heading up to Boston the next day, or maybe Sunday, for two more weeks of shooting before we wrapped. Me and Lance - he was starring in the movie with me - we never really got to know each other much, even though we played two parts each and were in most every shot together. He kept to himself, mostly, staying in his trailer, and then heading home to JC and this kid of theirs as soon as we finished for the day. Not a big deal, really, but not too friendly either, since I would've liked to get to know him."
"I guess I knew he was gay, not that I thought about it much, or cared, since I wasn't into him. And I guess I knew who his partner was, and all, because it had been all over the trades after Notorious, this Soderbergh movie came out and started making a shit-load of dough, and he was getting all this press about how he was raising a kid with that JC dude, and how it was all-that, and how everyone was expecting him to get nominated for another Academy Award. So, yeah, I guess you could say I was jealous, and I was looking to have some of that action too, because my career was sort of just stuck in the no-pass lane, and I'd had to read and screen-test to get cast in this Absalom flick. But, he was still cool, Lance was, and it wasn't like I was hating him or anything."
"I met his man, JC, like for the first time, when he brought the kid to the set. I guess he wanted to watch Lance ride a horse, which was what we were doing on the last day of shooting there. It was the final scene in the movie, and it was where my character, Charles Bon, gets shot by Lance's character - this Henry Sutpen dude. It was a weird ass script, but it was wicked cool, and I knew it'd get me some spotlight when it came out, because, you know, it was like Ang Lee directing, and you know people think he's god and all. Plus, Lance's career was red-hot at the time, and if you want to get warm you got to stand next to something hot, you know what I mean?"
"Anyway, JC was all smiles and all walking into our make-up trailer right before the shot, and he was with the kid. I don't think Ang was with him. But he was nice, JC was, and shook my hand, and was all about looking me in the eye when he asked me how I liked working with Ang Lee, and had I seen his last film, and all. Meanwhile, the kid is jumping all over, being a spaz, and asking Lance about the horse, so me and JC just chatted it up. And I remember when he was talking to me, he kept reaching out and touching my shoulder, which seemed all sincere and all, but it also seemed sort of sexy, and I got to say I was liking it and realizing that he was hot. So, you know, I was smiling it right back at him, until Lance did this big clear-the-throat maneuver, sort of like he was all, 'Hey, buddy, back off my man,' which I can respect, but still."
"That was when JC like speaks up and says to Lance, 'Instead of going out, why don't we have people over to the house tonight, for a little party or something for the last day of shooting.' And then Lance did this eye-thing, sort of like, 'Let's talk about this later,' which really meant 'No way!' But JC didn't let it drop, and played the birthday card, you know, saying 'But it's my birthday, and I'd like to have a little party at our house.' So what is Lance going to say to that, huh? Nothing."
"Well, the party was severe good, and was pretty out of hand fast, because like the entire crew from the set showed, and there was booze by the bucketful. I thought for sure the cops would come, but they never did, which was right on. I remember though that I never planned to stay long. I wanted to catch an early flight the next day, you know, to get to Boston and chill some before shooting started up again. But JC was on me all night about whether I was having fun, following me around like he didn't want me to leave, and like he was worried that I'd jet if he didn't keep his eye on me. I don't know where Lance was though, watching the kid probably, or talking to some other people. Who knows? I mean, the place was jammed, and I probably wouldn't have seen him if he'd been more than two feet away from me."
"So, around midnight, maybe later, JC like corners me in this one spot in the house that was crowded, but more quiet, kind of like so we could talk without having to shout over the music. Fuck, I don't even remember what we was talking about. Nothing important obviously. What I do remember though is how he had his face in mine, right up there, like he wanted to kiss me, or wanted me to kiss him. And, hey, he was hot and all, and I've danced on the other team a few times, but mostly I ain't into guys, even guys as hot as JC was right then, with his long dark hair all sweaty and sticking to forehead and framing his face, and his blue eyes that sort of looked like blue crystal beads, but with a flame behind them, almost so they flickered. I couldn't take my eyes off them, that is until it feels like someone has hauled off and cold-cocked me, and WHAM - I'm falling like a tree hit by lightning, falling fucking right into the coffee table - total face plant - so that my forehead hits the corner of it, and opens it up good."
"I was out like a light, that is until some paramedic gives me the total smelling salts action and jolts me back to fucking reality. It was grim man. My face and shirt were covered in blood, and you can imagine how my head hurt. And of course it was embarrassing, even though most of the people had cleared out by the time my eyes were back open again, and not too many people were left to see me laying there, waiting to go to the hospital to get my head sown back up."
"Finishing the shoot in Boston, I kept waiting for him to say something, but he never did. He was all pro, just like before. It was weird. But, you know, when I saw him again, at the Academy Awards, because we'd both got nominated for Best Actor, I remember that JC was with him, and he never said word-one to me. Nada. Well, except for when I won the award, because he was really pretty nice then, and he congratulated me, and Lance did too, like they really meant it, and were happy for me. So, it's not like they're bad guys or anything. And I hear they're still together, so you got to give them snaps for that. I mean, you really do."
The house was crowded with at least a hundred people, and the air was thick with humidity and cigarette smoke and the pungent stale smell of body sweat and the pulsing noise of music playing in the kitchen where people went to dance. Lance had worked his way down the staircase after having gotten Aaron back to bed, and now he was standing near the bottom of it, staring across the room at JC and Josh Hartnett. He wondered what they were talking about, and tried to imagine it; he knew he should join them, to see how JC was, and whether it was time to clear everyone out yet. But something in him wanted to leave them alone too, and to watch for a moment longer, just to see.
The party had been JC's idea, and Lance had been surprised by it, because he had been so mellow lately, as if the world outside didn't interest him that much anymore. But the world was here in full force tonight, on JC's invitation too; and so Lance tried not to mind too much, and to understand how JC might be feeling lately, cooped up watching Aaron all the time, and not going out that much, except to the store, or to the park with Aaron, or to an occasional quick night out with him. Lance wondered whether he'd been paying enough attention, not just to JC, but of himself with JC, to make sure both he and they were all right, and that JC didn't feel ignored, or taken for granted, or lonely. Are you lonely JC? Do you feel alone?
Standing there still, at the bottom of the stairs, and watching them, Lance realized that they seemed drunk, swaying back and forth, as if buffeted by wind, swaying so much that he could see that JC had reached out to steady himself against the wall, holding himself up, and that Josh kept leaning forward, as if to speak into JC's ear, even though the music was not so loud that it would be too hard to hear. But, then, maybe it was.
Lance hadn't been to a party like this in well over a year. He had skipped the cast party when his last film wrapped, Notorious, because he'd been eager to leave Brazil and get back to San Diego. So the Ghost Road party had been his last like this, the last party where the music was so loud that you could hardly hear, and where everyone was drunk with liquor and the prospect of work soon being over. He'd gotten so drunk at that party, the last one, and Lance remembered being in a corner like JC was now, with someone he hardly knew, with Brendan, talking about nothing at all, except maybe how tired he was, and how glad he was that it was almost over, and Brendan saying,
"I'm glad you came to the party. I didn't think you'd come, you know, because you always keep to yourself, and I figured you didn't like me or something."
"How can you say that? You know I like you. Why wouldn't I like you? It's just that I'm tired all the time, and lonely, and I want to get home, back home, and away from all these damn explosions every day, and stop feeling all the time like I'm fighting World War I for real, and losing it."
Was JC lonely, Lance wondered. Did he feel ignored, alone, abandoned? How could he? He came home every night, to him, and to Aaron, and he called at lunch every day, or came to the house for it when he could get away long enough? Wasn't he doing his best, trying hard, and trying to be there for the both of them? And hadn't he told JC that he was first, even over Aaron, and that he would never do anything to risk losing him, to risk losing his love, or hurting him again? Didn't he think he was keeping his promise? To him? And hadn't he asked JC just the other day, asked him if he was happy, and if everything was all right, and if he needed anything, and hadn't he said he was fine?
Or was he just being brave, and trying not to worry him, like he'd done to JC, every time he'd called him in France during the Ghost Road shoot, when JC always called to ask him how he was, and whether he was doing all right, and whether he wanted him to come visit? Was JC doing that? Just putting on a brave face because he thought that's what was expected, for him to tough it out, and just get through it ...alone? And what was it that Brendan had said to him, said to him in that corner?
"It's tough to be alone, isn't it?"
"It's my choice. I don't have to be."
"So why choose alone when you can choose together. Why not choose together right now. Together with me."
"I can't do that."
"Why, are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid. I'm just..."
"Just what?"
"I'm not afraid. Not of you."
"But you are. Afraid you'll like it, afraid you'll like me"
"Shut up."
"So walk away then. No one's holding you here."
"No."
"If you're afraid. Just walk away."
"No."
"Fine then. I'll walk away."
"No. Wait."
Lance could feel the weight of Brendan's hand on his shoulder now, and feel the heat of his breath as he whispered in his ear, and feel Brendan's other hand pulling him in, pulling him into the corner, into the darkness there, so that it felt like they were nearly alone, nearly together, and feel the truth of the fear he felt, and the fear of feeling it, as if it was the fear he feared, but fear of what? This kiss?
"No but I can't."
"You just did."
"Stop then."
"You stop it. There's no one here to stop it but you. I don't want to stop."
"But I can't."
"Stop it?"
"No, that's not what I mean. I can't do this. I'm with some one right now."
"You're with me right now. Or aren't I good enough for you?"
"It's not that."
"What is it then."
"I don't know."
"Then don't stop."
Why didn't I just push him away? Why?
Lance jumped at the sound of breaking glass, and what sounded like chaotic crashing noise, like things falling; and he blinked hard against the stinging smoke in the room, and felt tears in his eyes, and wiped at them clumsily, like his hands were swollen almost, and nearly useless; and he looked across the room and saw Josh splayed out on the floor in front of JC, his body limp and his head bleeding from where it had probably smashed into the shattered wood and glass coffee table that was underneath him; and he heard JC screaming, "Get away from me! I'm not yours to touch, you fucking asshole!"; and Lance ran over to where Josh lay unconscious on the floor, and he wiped the blood from his eyes and from around his neck, and JC screamed at him, "Is he dead? Did I kill him?" and then he ran from the room and out the front door, as Lance yelled "Come back!" and then ran after him, his hands covered in blood, and tears still stinging his eyes.
"That was a crazy ass movie," James said, turning his head from where he was laying stretched out on the floor in front of the television, and looking back toward Aaron on the couch. "Your Dad was weird-scary at the end when he shot that guy, Charles Bon. What was that about?"
"He didn't want that Bon dude to marry his sister, I guess," Aaron said, stretching out his arms and yawning. "No, wait, it was his Aunt, I think."
"Yeah, it was his aunt, because it was his Mom's little sister."
"But what I thought was cool," Aaron said. "Was how when Henry and that Bon dude headed out on their horses to Sutpen's Hundred, how it was those other two guys that were telling the story, like maybe that was not how it really happened, but they were trying to figure it out."
"Exactly," James said, turning around so he could look at Aaron without craning his neck. "Like them telling the story was making it be how it was, how they thought it should be, how it needed to be so that it would make sense to them, even though it might not be true."
"So maybe there was no true story."
"Or not one that anyone can figure out," James said. "Even the people who were part of the story, who were there."
"It's like everyone had their own story," Aaron said. "Like they were trying to tell the story so it made sense to themselves, even if it didn't make sense to anyone else - like when Rosa Coldfield called Quentin to visit her and then told him the story of how the Sutpens were evil and had destroyed her life."
"Yeah," James said, nodding. "And like when Quentin's father tells him the same story, adding a bunch of stuff, but also contradicting things in Rosa's version of it."
"And then Quentin tells Shreve the story, and they end up telling it to each other, trying to get to the truth of it, and filling in the blanks."
"So that was why, like in the story when Charles Bon and Henry Sutpen went riding toward Sutpen's Hundred, it was Shreve and Quentin on the horse too - you know, where in the movie the director made it flash back and forth, so that it was Quentin on the horse at first, and then Henry. And how first it was Shreve and then Bon. Like in telling the story to each other, they became a part of it."
"I wish I could talk to my Dad about this movie," Aaron said. "Because he's got to know what it means better than us."
"Maybe you should ask him."
"I don't know," Aaron said, shrugging. "Like I said, he doesn't really like to talk about the movie's he's been in, or being an actor, and stuff. Sometimes I think he'd rather be a plumber or something."
"Well, it's your call," James said, not wanting to sound pushy. "Or maybe you could ask JC, he'd probably know about it."
"You think?"
"Totally," James said, standing up and turning off the DVD player and then the television. "He's always been into your Dad's movies. And he was there too."
"Maybe I'll do that," Aaron said, standing up now too, and looking at his watch. "But I have to think about it."
"That's cool."
"And maybe since it's not too late, I'll head home. My Dad gets back from L.A. tomorrow, so I can ask JC about this tonight ...I mean, if I decide to."
"Fine by me," James said. "But call me if you find out anything good."
"I will," Aaron said, grabbing his car keys and sliding a baseball cap on his head. "I'll see you tomorrow though, at my Dad's party. Right?"
"Right-o," James said.
"Great," Aaron said, turning to leave.
"Later," James called after him.
"Yeah, later."
"So how's your head?" Lance asked, crouching next to the edge of the bed, and speaking as softly as he could. "Do you want some more water?"
"Could you?" JC mumbled, his eyes clenched tightly closed because he knew the light in the room, even if dim, would cause his head to throb harder.
"Of course I can," Lance said, touching JC's forehead once and then kissing it.
"I hope I didn't make too big of an ass out of myself last night," JC said, hoping Lance could hear him from inside the bathroom where he was getting the water.
"Here," Lance said, returning from the bathroom and holding out the glass. "Sit up and drink this. Otherwise you'll spill."
"Do I have to?"
"Yes," Lance said.
"Okay, but I'm not opening my eyes," JC said, still squinting.
"You were fine, by the way," Lance said, guiding the water glass to JC's lips and helping him to drink from it. "My party-animal co-star Josh managed to get himself good and drunk and then trip over the coffee table and crash into it. But, hey, nothing that a few stitches to close the gash on his forehead didn't cure."
"Yeah, I kind of remember that," JC said, opening his eyes slightly and then fully. "He seemed to follow me around all night, refilling my wine glass."
"Or so I'm told," Lance said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and kissing JC's shoulder. "But you only turn thirty once, and you were entitled."
"I'm sorry you had to spend so much time watching Aaron," JC said.
"Well, it was too noisy for him to sleep," Lance said. "And I didn't want him to be scared from it ... you know, all the commotion."
"Yeah, I know," JC said, taking the water glass from Lance and thirstily drinking from it again, and then licking his lips because they were dry and cracked and the water felt good on them.
"Besides," Lance added. "All you've been doing is watching him, so it's not like I can complain for filling in."
"Lance," JC said, his voice hushed and nervous. "About last night. I hope you don't think there was anything going on, you know, between me and Josh. He's nice and all, and I know it might've looked that way - I don't know, maybe it did. But I'm yours. You know that, don't you?"
"I know," Lance said, kissing JC's shoulder again. "Nothing happened, except the tragic destruction of a rented coffee table."
"Okay," JC said, leaning back against the pillow that Lance had propped behind him. "But don't lie to me. If you're upset - tell me."
"Josh," Lance said, turning JC's face toward his own, and looking into his eyes. "I'm not lying to you. And I'm not upset. I love you more than anything, Josh. And that's the one true thing I know."
"I love you just as much, Lance."
"That's true too," Lance said, pulling JC into his arms and holding him for several long and unhurried moments.
"Now," Lance said, standing up and smiling at JC. "Can I get you anything else, because I need to make lunch for Aaron."
"No, I'm fine," JC said, sliding back down under the bed sheet and pulling it up to his chin. "I think I'll just sleep for a while longer."
Lance kissed JC lightly on the forehead and then stood up. The room seemed suddenly to remind him of the room in the first scene of Absalom, Absalom, where his character, Quentin, meets Miss Rosa Coldfield for the first time, because she summoned him there to tell the story of the Sutpen family - a dim hot airless room with the blinds all closed and fastened for forty-three summers because when she was a girl someone had believed that light and moving air carried heat and that dark was always cooler, and which (as the sun shone fuller and fuller on that side of the house) it became latticed with yellow slashes full of dust motes which Quentin thought of as being dead old dried paint itself blown inward from the scaling blinds as wind might have blown them. There was a wisteria vine blooming for the second time that summer on a wooden trellis before one window, into which sparrows came now and then in random gusts making a dry vivid dusty sound before going away...
Lance could hear the sparrows now, coming and going, and he was glad that, like the sparrows, they would be going away too, he and JC and Aaron, all going home, and away from this dusty old house, which seemed fit to contain nothing now but ghosts.
"And I ran after him, barely able to breathe it seemed, but able to see, because the moon was nearly full, and the sky was clear and the air was still, because there was never any breeze in that town; it was like the whole place had been sealed in a box and long ago stored in some hot and airless room, stored away and forgotten, except for the pitiful people consigned to live there, like relics of a past forgotten by all but the them."
"I remember it was like I was chasing a ghost, or some vague apparition conjured from somewhere beyond imagining, running and thinking that maybe it was not really there, that he was not really there, and that I was chasing something that was not really there, and I was worried that I might never catch up to him, which was when I slowed down at last, at the river, and it seemed suddenly that it was him that caught up with me, and that maybe I was the chased and not the chaser, because he caught me and held me, held me with hands so covered in blood that I may have pulled away at first, not wanting to have that on me, not wanting to be consecrated or cursed, which ever it would be, and that I wanted to get away; but he held me, held me so tight that I think I gave into it, gave into him holding me."
"That was when I heard my own sobs, and me saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" - oh, I could have said it a hundred times, or maybe only once; but I know I said it, and I know I meant it, even though I was no longer sure why, or why he said, "It's not your fault," and he meant that too, meant it as he carried me in his arms, carried me up a long dark avenue, back toward the house, and up the stairs, and into the room where we slept, which was where he laid me down, laid me down and undressed me, and washed my face so that there would be no traces of the blood there, and I'd be free of it, and not haunted by it, or cursed, cursed by a mistake I'd thought I'd made, but hadn't; I hadn't."
"You see - he understood what it meant to be cursed by a past mistake, and to be full of finding fault in himself because of it, and unable to forgive or forget it, even though it was not necessary to do anything other than accept the love of another, me, and now you too; because that is what love is, it is redemption, and it is forgiveness, and it is the joy of laughter and forgetting that frees us from the burden of remembering, and of always telling the same story, again and again, frees us so that we may have a future, and not just a past; no, not just a past."
"And that's why Quentin Compson killed himself."
"Yes."