October, 1971

It appears the relationship between my father and me has fallen apart. I've been trying very hard to regain his trust but it's been almost impossible to do. For about two weeks after we had our discussion in the car he didn't speak to me much at all. After dinner I would watch TV with him, mom and John Mark. Occasionally, I would catch him looking at me like I was the child in the Changeling legend. You know the one where the elves come, steal the child and replace him with something that's not quite human. I think he sees me completely differently now. I can read the disappointment in his eyes, I can see him trying not to imagine what Phillip and I have done and not succeeding. It hurts me to cause him such discomfort. The tension got so bad I would either go to my room or upstairs to the game room after dinner. I don't think he misses having me around. I'm a constant reminder of what he sees as his failure as a father. I almost wish he would tell me just how he feels, well, maybe he already has. He's ashamed of me. That says it all. I've also taken to staying at home a lot because I get an interrogation every time I go out. It's become too much trouble.

John Mark went off to college the last week of August and I wept when he left. I didn't let my dad or mom see that, I cried when I took my run. I'm really all alone now. When he loaded up his car and finally got ready to leave I embraced him so hard he said I was suffocating him. He said, "I'm gonna miss you too, buddy." He has no idea. Johnny doesn't know what went on but he has been especially attentive the last couple of months and, though I didn't tell him, I appreciated it and it made me love him even more. I didn't know that was possible. He's always gone out of his way to include me in the things he did even when I was a pain in the ass little kid. I miss him almost as much as I do Phillip.

Mom knows dad and I are having a hard time. I guess its dad who's having a hard time with me. He never hugs me any more or messes up my hair when he walks by. Dad is the kind of guy who kissed his kids even when we got to be teenagers. When he would leave for work in the morning he would kiss all us boys on the cheek and then mom on the lips and be gone. Up until May, he still did it. He'd kiss John Mark and me and then mom. He would tell all of us he loved us and then off to work. He still tells us he loves us, but he's not handing out kisses to anyone but mom. Maybe I'm making too big a deal about it. It just seems odd that he has stopped. I say all this because mom is trying her damndest to be a go-between for dad and me but it's not working out. She knows he's being standoffish toward me and I guess I'm not handling it well.

Football hasn't gone well, especially recently. Coach Wilkins has been telling me I'm not playing to my potential but it's because I'm distracted and I don't have the same level of commitment I used to have. This week, on Thursday, the day before the Homecoming game, we were doing a walk through practice in shorts, shirts and helmets. Coach had thrown in a couple of new plays and I had learned them. Coach Wilkins runs a pretty complex offense for a high school team, but I think I know his playbook about as well as he does. Anyway, we were practicing this play where I am supposed to run a slant pattern but there is an option for a hitch pattern, same play, but the call sign is a different color. When the play was called I ran the hitch rather than the slant and the ball sailed about 7 yards wide of me, a prime target for an interception. Coach yelled at me.

"Shelton, get your head in the game. That was the slant call, not the hitch."

"Yes sir, I knew that but I just ran the wrong pattern for some reason."

Well, in about 10 minutes we ran the same play and I ran the hitch again. Coach Wilkins exploded, he threw his clipboard down and it flew into about three pieces. It struck me as funny and I laughed. Bad decision.

"Shelton, is it funny to screw up the same play twice? Are you bored or just not paying attention?" He yelled as he approached me.

"No sir, I'm sorry, I don't know why I ran that hitch."

"Okay, then let's walk it through." Coach said.

Then he grabs me by the facemask and leads me back to the line of scrimmage. The ball was hiked, Coach led me about seven yards out and then made the slant to the middle of the field, all the while towing me along by the facemask. I was embarrassed. The ball came out from the quarterback, Jake Short, and it hit me in the helmet.

"That's the pattern, Shelton, and if you had been paying attention, you might have caught the pass."

"Yes sir, but it's hard to turn back toward the quarterback with you holding my facemask."

"I know, Shelton, but how was I going to get the pattern through your thick fucking skull without leading you? You've been so out in left field lately, it's a wonder you can even find your way out here from the field house."

I don't know why but this made furious and before I knew it I said, "Get fucked." I couldn't believe it when it came out. My entire body went cold because I knew I was in shit up to my neck now. I looked over at the other boys standing on the field and on the sidelines and every single one of them had the 'Oh shit' look.

Coach Wilkins looked at me like I had hit him in the face with a cold rag. His face went red and he yelled at Coach Atkins. "Jerry, I want you and Cummings to meet me in my office with Mr. Shelton." This was bad news for me because every time a teacher or coach hands out swats as punishment he has to have two witnesses.

Coach Wilkins is a big guy, about my height but he has thirty pounds on me easy. He looked like he was ready to kick ass and take names. He led me to the field house and into his office.

"Shelton what in the hell are you thinking? Do you think you can talk to me that way, and in front of the other boys? You have been slacking something awful this year and now this. Do you think your mom and dad would be pleased with what you just did?"

"No sir, I apologize. I just lost my temper. I really didn't mean to say what I did." I was working to avoid punishment here but it didn't look good. Besides, Coach, right now my dad's not pleased with anything I do and my mom is just confused about the whole situation.

"Apology accepted and to reinforce what you've just learned, Shelton, I'm going to give you three swats."

Fuck! Coach Wilkins has this paddle that is a split baseball bat. It looks like a small boat oar. I've never gotten swats from him before but I've heard the tales.

"Okay, Luke, you will need to assume the position." Coach Wilkins says, which means I have to bend over at the waist and grab the front of his desk. Everyone on the football team knows just what this little command means. I hesitate a moment and then Coach yells, "Do it, now!"

I turn around and grab the front of his desk and I brace myself. Coach Wilkins takes his position to my left and slightly behind me, grasping the paddle in his right hand. He takes a high backswing, over his shoulder, and, POW, hits me right square across the ass. It feels like someone has set fire to my butt, a bolt of electricity goes up my spine to my head and my feet lift off the ground. Tears immediately pop into my eyes, but I don't cry. I do however let out a small yelp (shit!).

"What was that, Mr. Shelton?" Coach Shelton asks.

"Nothing, sir," I say through gritted teeth.

He cocks his arm back again and lets me have it. This time the pain is not quite so intense because my ass is already numb, but I get the same shock up my backbone. Then he lets go with the third and final shot. I had broken out in a cold sweat and my knees feel sort of watery. I let go of the front of the desk and stand up. I can feel the sides of my face burning, but my forehead feels like a block of ice.

"Okay, Shelton, I want you to grab a shower. I want you to go home and see if you can manufacture an attitude that will allow you to play football. You will not start tomorrow on either offense or defense, but I expect you to be the first man dressed out for the game. Do you savvy me, mister?"

"Yes sir," I say, a little shakily, much to my embarrassment.

I go to my locker, undress and go to the shower. Jesus Christ, my ass hurts. I take a quick one and I am out of the field house before the other guys are through with practice. I feel completely humiliated and I'm not sure why. Its not like I'm the first guy to get swats, it's more because of my behavior; it was the total disrespect I showed to Coach Wilkins. I think I'm cracking up.

John Mark made it home for Homecoming, just in time for my debut walking the sidelines. I didn't get into the game for a single play. When I got home the first thing John Mark asked me was why I wasn't playing. Since mom and dad weren't around, I went through the whole sorry episode.

"What are you Luke, fucking nuts? You may not play another down this whole year."

"Yeah, I know. Kind of sucks doesn't it," I shrug.

"You don't sound all that upset about it. What's up with the attitude, buddy? You need to act like you give a shit."

I want to tell Johnny that there is nothing on God's green earth to give a shit about anymore, but I think he might ask why, so I don't.

"I should just buckle down and work harder, I guess."

"You think? Did you figure that out all by your lonesome, Einstein?"

"Okay, okay! It was a shitty thing for me to do. Satisfied. I got a little pissed off and said something I shouldn't have. Why don't you fucking line me up and shoot me!" I know I've gone off the deep end because John Mark gives me this little hurt look and, all of a sudden, I am sorry I snapped at him.

"Johnny, I'm sorry, really I am. I don't mean to take it out on you."

"Not a problem, you little shit. You're just lucky I'm your brother and I have to forgive you."

I look at him. God, I miss having him around.

"Johnny, would you like to go dove hunting tomorrow? I haven't been all season and I thought maybe we could go for the day."

"Sure, buddy, let's do it."

That night Phillip returns to me in my dream. He does this nightly. I awaken and wish it would just go away. I'm done for the night as far as sleep goes. This dream is fucking killing me. And the reason it does is the dawning realization that it may be as close as I ever get to Phillip again. My mind balks, no, recoils at this thought. I cannot fathom this; my despair at not ever seeing him again is a deepening chasm and I think it may swallow me. Can desire, longing, yearning be an actual voracious, corporeal anguish? I'm beginning to believe it can be, because my wishing and wanting for him has taken me close to the edge of my sanity I'm afraid. I lay here, pillow to my face, crying, waiting to be done so I can get up and run. Finally the tears run their course and I am numb again, ready to rise. The only reminder of the dream still intruding is my hard on. Fucking thing, I should cut it off. Now there's a crazy fucking notion for you. You see I am already there; someone needs to measure me for one of those jackets with the extra long arms. Okay, up and out of bed, out the door running before I do something I'm going to regret.

When I return from my run, it is about 5:30. My dad is the only person up. He must have work at the office he needs to complete. When I enter the breakfast room, he is sitting at the table drinking coffee, reading the newspaper. He glances up at me then back to his paper. I wait for a good morning, but it's not forthcoming.

"Morning, dad, how are you today?"

"Mmm, I'm okay Luke. You?"

"Fine, sir."

And that's it. He's like the father mourning the son the elves have kidnapped and replaced with the imposter standing before him. It feels like my feet are stuck, planted to the floor. I want to ask him what it is I can do to make this up to him? How am I ever going to repay or repair what I have done? I want so desperately for him to hug me or kiss me or just fucking acknowledge me. Isn't one loss at a time enough, goddammit? I mean, I'm only seventeen fucking years old, I am sorry, please forgive me. Please have a heart. But none of this comes out. I want him to tell me everything is going to okay between us. Instead, I leave the room. I go by John Mark's room and see he is still asleep. I might as well take a shower.

While I'm in the shower I decide to pull an old trick on Johnny. Stepping out, I wrap a towel around myself and leave my hair soaking wet. I creep into John Mark's room. He's asleep on his back with the covers pulled up just about chest high. I walk up to the bedside, position my head right above him and shake the water off my hair with a vengeance. Johnny is immediately awake.

"You worthless little shit. Goddamn you, Luke. I am going to pound you!" And he explodes out of his bed.

Before I can get turned around to get out of his room, he has hit me about chest high with a perfect form tackle and we go down like a couple of felled trees. He sits on my stomach and pins my arms with his knees. Shit, I forgot how much that hurts. Then he starts beating a cadence on my chest with his knuckles. "Okay, fucker, you will not get up until you say calf rope, do you get me?"

"Give me a minute, asshole, and you'll be sorry." I struggle under him trying to free my arms. I begin to laugh, loudly, and I think this may be the most fun I've had in a while.

"Say calf rope, pussy." Johnny says moving his face closer to mine

"You boys cut that out, now!" I hear my dad say, his voice raised.

I look backwards to see him standing in the door of John Mark's room. Shit, I thought he had already left for the office. He's upside down in my field of vision, but I can tell he is looking at us disapprovingly.

"You two are a little too old for that kind of horseplay, don't you think?"

"Yes sir, sorry." John Mark says, getting to his feet.

God, I think, fuck you! John Mark and I used to tear it up all the time wrestling and fighting, and dad never said a word. He always said it was a good way for us to wear ourselves out. Now it's out of bounds. Hmmm, I wonder why that is? Perhaps he's afraid whatever it is that's wrong with me will rub off on John Mark. Without a word, I get up and leave the room, brushing past my father on the way out.

I go back to the bathroom, close and lock the door. I take the towel off and dry my hair. Goddamn him, I am so pissed. There is absolutely nothing I can do anymore that is not contemptible in my father's eyes. I wish I could run away, find somewhere to go. I sit down on the closed toilet and try to compose myself. I am breathing like I just got in from running. I get up and look in the mirror. My face is flushed, probably from the wrestling, maybe partly from being angry. There is an irregular circle of red on my chest from John Mark's knuckles. I hear a knock at the bathroom door.

"Hey Luke, buddy, you might want to get ready. We're going hunting this morning, remember? John Mark says.

Yeah, if dad trusts me around you, I think. "Okay, I'll be out in a minute."

I retrieve the towel, place it around my waist and exit the bathroom. As I do John Mark, our ambush specialist, jumps me from behind. He puts his right forearm across my chest over my shoulders, pins my left arm behind my back and hoists me back against his body. "Alright, buddy, gotcha. You didn't think you were gonna get away that easy, did you?"

The ambush surprises me and I struggle against John Mark's hold briefly, then I relent.

"Shit, okay Johnny, calf rope."

"What? Are you kidding me? You never give until I make you."

"Well, I don't think dad wants us to tear up the house. We're too big to be doing this."

"He's already left for the office so there's no excuse for me not to kick your ass now."

"No really John, just let me go, please." I plead.

"Jeez, Luke, you're no fun anymore. I thought you enjoyed it when I wiped up the game room with your ugly self." John Mark says and then he slowly relinquishes his hold.

I turn around and face him. I almost decide to jump him right there in the hall and continue the match, but I think better of it. Why? It doesn't seem right now. Whatever was spontaneous and fun about our roughhousing before seems suddenly tainted. Was it always this way? Did I always get some kind of perverse thrill from it? Is my dad right about me? Instead I give him a little punch in the shoulder.

"Johnny let's go hunting."

"Sure buddy, let me take a shower and we'll do it."

I get dressed while Johnny showers. For mid-October, it is still warmish outside. I put on a tee shirt, a light flannel shirt, my jeans and a pair of Wellington boots. I prepare my shotgun and get out my hunting vest. John Mark exits the bathroom and goes to his room to dress. I take my stuff out to the back porch to be loaded.

Soon Johnny enters the breakfast room with his shotgun under one arm holding his hunting vest in his hand. Mom is not up yet so we don't have anyone to see us off. We take our guns out to dad's old pickup, load them in the gun rack and head out to the ranch.

As we drive up to the cabin, I get a hard lump in the middle of my chest. I hadn't been here since, oh I guess, late February. I think that was the last time Phillip and I had stolen a day together here. I almost get a little emotional, no I'm lying, I almost get a lot emotional but I restrain myself. I'm getting better at that. We pull up and get out.

Since it's still early morning our hunting pattern will be different. What we will do is walk into the fields of goat weeds about a mile behind the cabin in the opposite direction of the San Ysidro. In the mornings the dove fly from the sheltering dust close to the water back out to their feeding places in the goat weeds. Johnny and I will walk into these fields maybe a mile to a mile and half, then slowly make our way back up to cabin taking the birds as they fly out.

As we hike back to our hunting spot, Johnny begins talking about his new girlfriend Catherine. He is pretty animated when he talks about her, his face lighting up and I can tell he might really be in love with her. He says he is bringing her home at Thanksgiving. It dawns on me how well I know him, how well I can read him and how much I want him to be happy. I look at him. Johnny is shorter than I am and he looks more like dad than mom, but his hair is sandy colored not dark like daddy's. For as long as I can remember I've adored him. I don't know if I could ask for more in a brother, as a matter of fact I know I couldn't. It's the same with my father, really. But it seems that Major Stecker's revelation to my dad has permanently altered the landscape of our attachment and that has compounded the ache of losing Phillip. My greatest fear, other than never seeing Phillip again, is that somehow all of this will affect the connection I have with John Mark.

After a long trudge, we decide we've come about far enough and we crouch down, separated by about 6 feet. John Mark and I have hunted together enough that we trust one another in close proximity shooting.

"So Luke, what's up with you and dad?" John Mark asks.

I look over and I can see him peering at me.

"We're sort of on the outs right now. It's no big deal. We'll get over it." I answer. Boy if ever there was an understatement of the facts that was it. What can I say? Well, Johnny boy, dad found out Phillip and I were messing around. He kind of blew a gasket and he thinks I am someone he's never known at all, that I was fooling him all along, pretending to be normal but now, you see, I'm the kid who must be wired up a little differently and there's just no fixing me.

"Well, if there's anything I can do to help smooth things over you let me know okay?" John Mark offers.

"Thanks, but it'll all blow over. Don't worry." For some unknown reason, I am almost compelled to spill my guts, tell him the whole fucked up story, confess my behavior and try to prevail upon him to still love me despite what I've done. It takes a physical act of will to stop myself. I shift uneasily in my crouch.

Thankfully a small squadron of dove comes flying in. Johnny and I stand, bringing our shotguns to our shoulders and open fire. We decimate the small grouping taking six, the rest diving toward the ground with purpose; the dead plummeting like feathery hailstones. We walk up to where they have fallen and divide them between us.

We begin the slow move back toward the cabin, pausing to crouch in the weeds until a new flight of birds descends and we shoot. By the time we get back to the cabin it is about noontime and we both have our limit; the pouches in the backs of our hunting vests are full, handing heavy.

"Luke, what say we toss these guys in the truck, head back to town and clean them at the house." John Mark says.

"Sounds like a plan. Let's go."

So we load up and pull out. I look back at the cabin as we pull away. I don't think I'll ever come back here again. I don't feel any deep regret but what occurred there is something I may never get back. I have enough reminders of my loss and my failures as it is; I can do without the self inflicted ones.

February, 1972

It has been a cold February. I'm hoping for spring and a better year ahead. The year that just passed was one for the ages as far as I'm concerned. Of course I'm being a little self-absorbed, but it started out well, went completely into the shitter and then got worse, just my humble opinion. The dream about Phillip doesn't come nightly anymore, only every other night. I guess that's an improvement. However, it still upsets me and I still run. I know I have lost weight. My jeans hang on me now and my mom asks me about it just about every day. I think I may be down to about 185. That means I've lost 15 lbs. since October. No big deal. The running just keeps me in shape.

This morning, over breakfast, my dad asked me about spring practice (He Speaks!).

"So Luke, are you guys going to start practice March 1?"

"Well dad, yes, spring practice will start March 1, but I don't think I'm going to play football this year."

My father stops, fork poised midway between his plate and his mouth. He slowly lowers it to his plate and fixes me in his gaze.

"What led to this decision?" He asks.

"I just don't think I've got the commitment I used to dad. I've never been all that good at football anyway."

"Luke, you've always done pretty well. It's going to be your senior year. Don't you think you should give this decision some serious consideration?"

"I have thought about it daddy and I don't think it's something I want to do. I'm planning to practice with the track guys after school, train with the cross-country team. I'm not going to compete, just to stay in shape."

Dad has this sort of disappointed look on his face, what the fuck else is new?

"If that's what you want to do, I can't make you play if you don't want to."

I sit at the breakfast table, listening to my mom bustling around the kitchen, my appetite completely gone now and my dad resumes eating, conversation over. I want to ask him so many things right now. When am I going to get to come home from this exile? Are you ever going to look at me like you used to? Is this estrangement permanent or is there a possibility you will ever love me like you used to? Am I as displeasing to you as I seem to be or am I just overreacting? Would you, just once, hug me and tell me you forgive me, that you know I am trying to be what you want me to be? Am I ever going to be back in your good graces and do you know how much that means to me? Do you know how afraid I am you don't love me anymore? Do you know I think the world of you and I will do anything, anywhere, anytime to fix what I have done? I can feel my eyes burning as I look at him, but I tell myself I will not cry. He looks over at me briefly then he picks up the newspaper and begins to read. I can't bring myself to ask him these things because I fear the answers.

I don't have Phillip around and I wish I did. We could always talk about things like this. It's like I don't have a father anymore, I've created a rift that may be beyond healing and he won't give me a clue how to mend it. I just want him to put a hand out so I can catch hold of it, then maybe we could pull it closed. It's as if the fire of my father's love has burned out and I am trying to get warm, but the embers are cold and I'm still here, insensible to the collapsing.