Nevermore!
by and © Henry Higgins
Chapter 3 - Doctor's House Call
Within the half-hour, my doorbell rang and I let Rog and his medical bag in. Blazing red hair sprang in wild curls from under his ball-cap-turned-backwards. Freckles punctuated the boyish grin.
"So here's the Good Samaritan, eh?"
I grinned back as we hugged tightly. "Thanks for coming, Rog."
"Well, you know I just can't turn down free beer. Okay, so where's the patient?" he asked.
"In the guest room. He was sound asleep when I left him to call you." I led the way back to the guest room where Kenny-Like-In-South-Park lay sleeping and we both tiptoed into the room. The boy was still asleep.
Rog opened his bag to take out an aural thermometer that within seconds told us that the kid had a fever of 103.6 degrees Fahrenheit. He still trembled slightly as Rog removed the covers and examined him gently. Next, he took out a syringe with the skinniest needle I'd ever seen, pumped some medicine into it, and quickly injected it into Kenny's right triceps and covered him again. During all of this, the boy never moved. Rog nodded towards the door and we tiptoed back out into the hallway.
"You said he wasn't wearing much?" he asked.
"Just a very thin sweatshirt and cargo pants."
"And he was hustling you?"
"Yeah," I answered. "No undies and nothing under the sweatshirt. That was the biggest tip-off. But then, he propositioned me."
"That means blood tests for STDs when he's back on his feet. What happened next?"
I paused to remember. "When I saw how sick he was, I held him as he finished vomiting. By then his pants were around his ankles, so I turned him around, got his pants pulled up and fastened along with his sweatshirt. Then I suggested that he come with me; I offered to take him home, but he was adamant. No way would he go home. He wanted to come with me, just for a while so he could get some sleep. And from the time he started to puke, he kept mumbling about his puppy and then his belt - like he couldn't find them.
"I propped him up against the wall by the door so I could check for cops. There weren't any to be seen and when I turned around to get him, he'd fainted again, so I picked him up off the floor and we made it down the hill to the Tercel. That's about it, Rog. It was just after dark when we got home."
Rog mused. "For now, it sounds like he could have been going into hypothermia, along with a bout of stomach virus. I gave him an antibiotic to zap any secondary infections that might develop. For now, his lungs sound clear and his glands aren't terribly swollen. He may have picked up the bug about the time he got cold. You know kids - they go down quickly and then bounce back pretty fast. The fever should break sometime tonight or tomorrow and then he'll be on the mend. Do you know who he is and why he didn't want to go home?"
"All he told me is that his name is Kenny - Kenny like in South Park. But wait! I did find a wallet when I emptied his pockets. I wanted to go through it, but decided not to out of respect for his privacy. But, maybe we should check it now."
"He can't do much for himself right now," Rog said. "I think it would be okay,"
I went back into the room and grabbed the kid's wallet as Rog headed back into the kitchen and popped a couple of brewskis. We settled at the table. The wallet didn't hold much: a school ID card with the name Kenneth Davis and a picture that looked like a younger him, a slip of paper with an address and telephone number on it but no name, a scratched-up Lotto card that hadn't won, two fives, and two ones. I kept digging in the wallet and then hit pay dirt - an ID card in a "hidden" compartment - awkward printing listed a name that agreed with the school ID, an address I knew to be in the neighborhood, and a telephone number. Bingo!
"Looks like he was being straight with me, Rog. What do you think? Should we call this number?"
"Couldn't hurt. We ought to tell his parents where he is, at least."
I reached for the phone and dialed the number. After five or six rings, I was about to hang up when a thick male voice answered.
"H'lo. Watcha want?"
"Hi. This is Jim Watson. I live in your neighborhood. Is this Mr. Davis?"
"Huh? Whossis? Whadaya want?"
"I'm Jim Watson. Are you Mr. Davis?" I repeated.
"So whydya wanna know. Whossis?"
"Jim Watson. I was in the park earlier and found a sick boy there who says he's Kenny Davis. Are you his father?"
"Wha? Kenny? Ya got Kenny? So where'd th' little faggit get off to now? Whossis?"
"I'm Jim Watson. I brought your boy home with me because he's sick. I thought you'd like to know where he is."
"Kenny sick? Wha... You a faggit, too? Who are ye? Th' little faggit shacked up with you now? You a fuggin chile molestor?"
"I'd like to leave my telephone number so you could reach your son, Mr. Davis."
"I don' wan' no fuggin tellaphone number from no queer-pedo-chile molestor. Th' little faggit's gonna do wha' he's gonna do. I hope he gets AIDS and dies. All o' you faggits an' pedos oughta die from AIDS!" With that, he hung up.
I was mostly pissed at the conversation. But more than that, deep down, I took all the ranting about faggots and pedos very personally, feeling responsible, guilty, and more than a little tainted with sin.
"I guess I see why Kenny didn't want to go home, Rog. First, the guy sounds like he's on a bender. Next he calls Kenny and me faggots, me a pedo, and says he doesn't care where the boy is... that we all ought to get AIDS and die. Crazy fucking bastard..."
"Real nice guy!" Rog observed. "Looks like you may have a houseguest, at least for a few days. Do you think you're up to that, Jim?"
Rog looked me right in the eye so I knew I couldn't bullshit him. "Yeah, Rog, I can handle it. No funny business."
"And what if he comes on to you again? Can you take that?"
"I feel stronger than ever, Rog."
"Okay, buddy. Just don't let yourself or me down - or him. Call me if you have even the slightest problem - with him or with yourself." And deep down, I knew then that Rog affirmed my bringing this kid home, given the condition he had been in at the park. Together, we could deal with any repercussions.
"Okay, Rog. I'll do that." I'd gotten the idea of letting Rog down, or myself; but the idea of letting Kenny down never entered my mind. Hell, the kid had wanted sex - that's what he'd said in the park john. But then I thought about what he said to me as I carried him into the house - that he wanted me to like him, to care for him. How could I do that and have sex with him too? And then, what if I got busted again? He'd be back out on his ass in the street. Oh; so that's what Rog meant!
"Now, about another beer..." said my redheaded friend.
I went to the fridge and got two more bottles.
"So Rog, what do I do when he wakes up?" I asked.
"His digestion may be off for a little bit, so I suggest you give him some broth, Jello, and crackers. Juices are good, too; and Gatorade, if he'll drink it. He's got to replenish some fluids. Then start him on soft solids like cereal and toast. It shouldn't be too long before he'll be ready for solid food again - you know, like pizza and donuts and other kid junk. The bigger issue is getting some blood tests on him. If he's been sleeping around, we want to make sure he hasn't picked up any bad stuff. Can you bring him into my office Monday evening?"
"Sure," I replied.
"That means you'll need to get to the blood lab with him tomorrow or Saturday. The only ones that are open on a holiday weekend like this are in the hospitals. I'll give you a referral slip before I go."
"Okay," I said.
"You might want to see that he gets washed when he wakes up. I noticed he's pretty ripe."
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah..." I said, smiling dreamily.
"Jim! Don't pull this shit. I can't baby-sit you, and you just said you're feeling stronger. Right now, I don't see it," Roger said through thin lips and with a furrow in his brow.
I came crashing back to Earth. "Sorry, Rog. I don't blame you for worrying. It's just that he's so fucking cute! But I can draw the line and keep my distance."
"You're gonna have to, man! There's just too much riding on this for you to slip - get me?"
"Yeah," I said, "I've got you, Rog."
He swigged the last of his beer and rose to go. "I've gotta get back home, Jim. Remember. Call me if the least little thing comes up - with you or with the kid."
"Okay, Rog. I will. One thing, though..."
"Yeah?"
"Why didn't we ever get together? I love you so much!" I blurted.
Roger looked at me intently and I returned his gaze through blurry eyes. We'd talked about it before, but I'd never been this open with my feelings.
"I... Um, I don't know, Jim. I guess it just wasn't in the cards. I wanted you so bad when we were in junior high school together - always had to avoid you in the showers so I wouldn't bone up."
"Me, too, Rog; only I boned up anyway. If only we could have broken down those barriers then!" We embraced fiercely. I sobbed. Neither of us said anything; the touch said it all. We stayed like that for what seemed a long time. But Roger had to go back to Peter and I had a sick teenager to care for, so we parted. Roger turned and opened the door.
"Call me, Jim... Anything..."
"I will, Rog. I love you."
"I love you too, Jim." And with that, he was gone.
I closed and locked the door, as I wept freely over missed chances and the deep ache in my heart that seemed so much bigger then. My charge was waiting; and, so was my responsibility to fence off that part of me that yearned for a young lover to admire me and make me feel whole. But I had to realize that if he were my punk, and I his john, our relationship would have been cast such that the kind of love I thought I needed would have been impossible. If I had learned nothing else in my years of anguish, imprisonment, and subsequent therapy, I had learned that. I thought back lovingly, longingly, to the boy on whom I had unleashed my mad infatuation so many years before, and whom I had trapped in a hopeless web of desire, confusion, and guilt over sending his lover to prison. If for no other reason, I could not ever again cause that kind of pain to anyone, me included!
I went into the laundry room to transfer the wet clothing to the dryer and then back down the hall to the guestroom. Through the door, I could see his face lit softly by the night-light. Could this be the same boy who had so brazenly waved his dick at me and offered to have sex for a price? I knew it was, but that park restroom seemed so far away right then.
Tip-toeing into the room, I sat down quietly in the wing chair just to gaze on him for a while and to ponder how it was that anyone so beautiful could be treated the way his father treated him (IF that was his father I had spoken to). No wonder he didn't want to go home. Well if the situation was what it seemed, Kenny Davis wouldn't be the first gay kid to have to grow up with a homophobic drunk for a father. I wondered what happened to his mother, and guessed that I'd find that out in good time after he woke up.
I reached over to put my wrist near his cheek - not quite as accurate as Rog's fancy ear-thermometer, but close enough. Yep, he was still hot - no fever break yet. As I bent close, I inhaled his funky teenage boy aroma. Rog was right; the kid was ripe - nothing that some soap and water couldn't fix, though.
Meanwhile, I sniffed and appreciated his tart odor. Still, something strange was happening to me. The aroma didn't wire directly to my sex organs the way it usually had before. Normally I'd have been sitting there thoroughly boned by then. Maybe Rog's words and my thoughts were having an effect - finally. Maybe, just maybe, I really could care for this boy without needing to make him into a sexual lover - at least, not for a while.
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