twenty-something

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True North | A Story By Patrick Raymond
Part Three

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"I'm going to let the dog out," she said as they approached the house. "I'll be right in, and we can figure out something for dinner."

Ollie lugged his bags toward the house. It was a mild Thanksgiving Eve, compared to years past. To his delight, the temperature was above freezing and there wasn't a snowflake in sight.

Once his mother opened the back door, he pushed past her and squeezed through with all his luggage, immediately dropping the bags onto the floor of the mudroom. A moment later, James, the family's hyperactive golden retriever, leapt up onto him, wagging his tail and licking Ollie's face.

He never admitted to liking the dog much, but he had warmed up to James during recent visits. His mother and brother got the puppy during Ollie's sophomore year, two months after he had come out to them and gone back to school. He found it hard not to see the connection, or to hate the dog. He never understood how an animal could be a real part of their family.

It was only in secret, private times, when everyone was out of the house, that Ollie dared to openly play with James. He'd pet him, or they'd play fetch and other dog-human games, which stopped immediately when he heard a car in the driveway. Ollie would've figured his hot-and-cold attention would've made the dog wary, but, like most men, it seemed to attract him more.

Ollie had enough of the face licking. "Down, James!" he ordered. "Down!" The dog didn't obey. "Mom," he called out in annoyance.

She had his leash ready. "James! Here!" He sauntered over to her, tail wagging, for her adoration.

"I hate that dog," he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to sound convincing.

"I know you do, honey."

She then spoke to James in her patented dog-baby-talk voice, telling him what a good boy he was, and asking if he missed her. In disgust, Ollie picked up his bags and left the room.

He walked through the rest of the house. It was dark and quiet.

"Henry, I'm hooome," he called out. "Henry?"

Ollie walked upstairs and dropped his bags off in his bedroom, then immediately headed across the hall. He knocked and then entered, finding Henry's room dark and empty. Disappointed, he went back to his own. He lamented its sad, sorry state. Since he had taken most of his earthly possessions with him to Boston over the years, his high school bedroom was bare and boring.

When he was at school, he always pictured his room back home as something right out of a teen movie. There were carefully selected movie and music posters, calculated to communicate the proper image of coolness. The walls and his dresser were overcome with academic awards and hockey trophies. He had a makeshift art studio in one corner, with an easel and everything. The whole room, in his head, was a tribute to a conflicted adolescent Ollie, a star hockey goalie and secret painter.

In reality, the pale gray walls were naked, except for an outdated Sarah McLachlan poster and an old, ugly painting he did many years ago. His awards were packed up in the attic; his skates and stick thrown in the back of the closet. He liked the fantasy better, but the room still felt like home.

He spent a few minutes unpacking his bags, but headed downstairs soon after he became bored. He found his mother standing at the dining room table, above a phone book with the cordless in her hand.

"Pepperoni and black olives?" she asked.

"Where's Henry?"

"He's out with some friends. At the movies, I think."

"Oh." Ollie didn't try to hide his disappointment.

"It's the first day of his break, too. He wanted to go out. He said he wants to spend time with you tomorrow. You'll take him out driving, won't you?"

"Sure. As long as it's before one."

"So pepperoni and black olives?"

Even though he was ravenously hungry, he wasn't interested in food at the moment. He agreed, and she ordered the pizza. They had a quiet dinner, just the two of them. Ollie told her about school, and she filled him in with work and family matters. He ate slightly more than his share, and washed it down with too much Coke. He ate healthy when he was in Boston, but at home, for some reason, his eating habits were horrible. He detested his lack of self-control.

She stayed up with him until 10:30. They watched two sitcoms, a reality show, and one-half of a hospital drama. Ollie rarely watched TV when he was at school, so every trip home was a resocialization to the tube. His mother said good night, and after David Letterman, Ollie headed up to bed himself. He left his bedroom door open, planning to stay up to see his brother.

His bed was softer than he remembered. The sheets were crisp and clean. A cool breeze from the bedroom fan -- turned on by a lingering childhood habit -- blew over his bare chest and arms. He lay awake, desperately clinging to consciousness.

What was Henry was up to out there? he wondered. It was barely past midnight, ridiculously early in high-school, non-school-night two-a.m.-curfew terms. Ollie wondered what movie they'd seen, who he was out with, what they were doing now.

He knew his brother's options were limited. Rutland was a painfully boring place that lived up to its name. Ollie found it hard to entertain himself when he was home. He'd long since lost touch with most of his high school friends. His visits usually didn't align themselves with those of the few old friends he still talked to. He relied heavily on Henry and his mother -- along with food and television -- to entertain him during breaks.

Henry was inevitably at Denny's, the 24-hour diner chain, the only thing in town -- besides Dunkin Donuts -- open past ten p.m. that allowed the under-21 crowd. Henry's group would squeeze into a booth or around a table, depending on their numbers, and order rounds of Cokes and baskets of cheese fries. They'd run into classmates, chat and gossip about inconsequential things, tip poorly, and carpool back to their parents' homes before they got into trouble. Ollie knew the routine all too well, although he had a hard time picturing his brother taking part in it.

What were Henry's friends like? Were they jocks, theater geeks, preps, or something else? Henry hadn't brought a friend around in a long while -- not since middle school -- and Ollie had a hard time envisioning his brother's social group from what he knew of the quiet teenager.

Was he out there with a girlfriend? A boyfriend?

Ollie, when he wasn't too weirded out by it, would occasionally ponder his brother's ambiguous orientation. Would Henry follow in their father's footsteps? Or in Ollie's?

With that thought, Ollie lost his battle with consciousness, sometime before Henry arrived home.

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