Baggage

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

CHANDLER’S CONVERSATION with Marcus about his family photos replayed in his mind dozens of times over the course of the subsequent days. And although Chandler saw Marcus the following three mornings and drove him to work each day, the subject of s****l orientation didn’t again resurface. Instead they talked about Marcus.

Learning Marcus’ real age, twenty-five, somewhat assuaged Chandler’s guilty conscience. He still didn’t believe for a second that he and Marcus were in the same league, but at least Chandler could stop thinking of him as a teenager. Chandler hadn’t seriously entertained any sort of notion that Marcus would ever in any way find him attractive, but it felt wonderful to have a friend. He simply loved sharing the same space with Marcus, having him in his life, even if only in a minor capacity.

Did this make Chandler shallow? Once years ago he’d overheard a conversation in a gay bar where one young patron explained to his female friend that he had nothing whatsoever in common with his good-looking male companion, but he simply enjoyed surrounding himself with attractive people. Chandler had nearly thrown up in his own mouth.

But wasn’t he now guilty of this same attitude. He loved Marcus’ presence. He loved seeing him smile, watching his gestures and facial expressions. His sleek body, with the tight, rock-solid core and long legs, excited Chandler. His deep, baritone voice hypnotically soothed Chandler, even while merely making idle chitchat.

Marcus talked about his new job, offering details concerning the machines he used and products he manufactured. Chandler didn’t fully grasp all Marcus was saying about calipers and micrometers, but he listened politely and feigned genuine interest.

And when he dropped Marcus off at the mill each day, Chandler offered to come back to pick him up at the end of his shift, but every time, Marcus politely refused. He said he was sure he could catch a ride with a coworker who could just drop him off at the park entrance after work.

Not wanting to seem obsessive or nosy, Chandler tried not to be a busybody. As tempted as he was to peer out the window in the evenings to see if Marcus happened to be around, he resisted the urge. He did notice Marcus outside a couple times, talking to neighbors or sitting on the porch. One evening Chandler saw him mowing the grass.

After dropping Marcus off at work on Friday, Chandler returned home and began working in his own lawn. He mowed the grass and then got the weed whacker out of the shed. While trimming around the trees on the far side of the lawn, he looked up toward the parking lot next to his yard and spotted Marcus’ older brother. He opened the driver’s door of a mid-sized sedan and slid behind the wheel.

Odd. So he had another car and yet wouldn’t give Marcus a ride to work. Chandler wondered why he kept the car that didn’t run in the drive and the other parked over in the lot. Perhaps because the parking lot had a canopy which protected against the elements, and the old car in the drive wasn’t worth worrying about.

It made no sense that he didn’t get the older car fixed, at least so that Marcus could use it to drive back and forth to work. But the situation really wasn’t any of Chandler’s business, and if Marcus did get himself a car, Chandler might not see much of him anymore.

Overall, Chandler had enjoyed a productive week. He’d gotten up early every morning to accommodate Marcus, and in so doing, he’d completely altered his morning routine. He showered and got dressed before five thirty, and when he got back home after dropping Marcus off, he worked for a few hours. He knocked off all four of the editing jobs in his queue and then accepted more manuscripts. He even found a bit of inspiration to work on his novel.

Back when Chandler worked at the store, before his mother took sick, he attended community college. After completing an associate’s degree, he continued in a four-year program with the school’s university center to finish up with a bachelor’s. Being that he worked full time, he only took a couple courses at a time.

Then he met Daniel and fell in love.

“You have a G.I. bill,” Chandler pointed out. Lying in bed one night, Chandler curled up beside his boyfriend, using the crook of his arm as a pillow. He draped his own arm across Daniel’s torso and traced his fingertips over his smooth, muscular pectorals. Daniel had always made him feel so sheltered. Protected. “It makes more sense for you to go to college first and get your degree. I already have a decent-paying job.”

“I don’t need you to provide for me, babe,” Daniel said.

“I won’t be. Daniel, that’s just silly. We’re a team. A partnership, right? I’ll work while you go to school, then when you’re done, you’ll have a great job, and it will be my turn.”

It hadn’t quite worked out according to plan. Mom had her stroke, and they’d taken her in. Daniel stayed right there, right by Chandler’s side, and helped in every way. But after three years, she’d died anyway. Shortly thereafter, Daniel graduated, but then Gram got sick. Once more, they took in an ailing family member, and Daniel secured a job as a counselor at an alcohol-drug halfway home. He also began working on his master’s degree.

For two more years they focused on her care and as her conditioned deteriorated and the Alzheimer’s progressed, Chandler realized he could no longer work full time. At least not outside of the home. Gram needed supervision twenty-four-seven, round-the-clock care. He began looking for freelance jobs in the publishing industry. He started as a proofreader and advanced to editor, then executive editor.

Daniel completed his master’s and accepted a promotion to intake director right around the time he began his affair with one of his clients. Right around the time Gram passed away. Right around the time Chandler nearly suffered a nervous breakdown, and everything changed for the worse.

Then they had Dad for a year and then Alex.

Why did he constantly relive his past? Why’d he torture himself? They were gone now, every one of them, and it did no good to dwell upon things that had already happened. He couldn’t undo his mistakes. He couldn’t relive what had already been.

Saturday morning, Chandler awakened at his regular time in the same manner he always did—jolted from the clutches of a nightmare. The dreams themselves didn’t frighten him. Returning to reality did. In Chandler’s dreams, he had no memory of his mother’s or grandmother’s deaths. They were alive and happy, but when he woke up, he remembered. He grieved, again and again, re-grieving every morning.

When he once again padded his way down the hall toward the kitchen, he realized his morning routine wouldn’t include Marcus today. He didn’t work weekends and so Chandler prepared his coffee and retrieved his two cigarettes, then stepped out onto his front porch.

He placed his coffee on the small table and fired up his Marlboro Ultra Light, inhaling deeply. As he released the exhilarating stream of smoke he looked down at the flower beds. He shook his head, resisting the urge to grimace. The beds, compared to his gram’s handiwork, were cringe-worthy.

In the thirty-one years of life he’d shared with this amazing woman, he’d learned a great deal. She’d taught him how to cook. She’d instilled in him a passion for reading. A voracious reader herself, she’d consumed a minimum of two paperback novels per day. He used to drive her every week to the used bookstore where she’d swap out bags of books for a new supply. She’d devoured thousands of books in her lifetime... until Alzheimer’s.

Sadly, Chandler had never developed the passion and affinity she’d enjoyed for horticulture. Unlike anyone he’d encountered in his life, Gram possessed a green thumb. Dozens of potted plants, floral arrangements, annuals, and perennials filled her home and yard. She knew and loved them all, even talked to them daily as she tended to them.

She’d be disappointed by the sad state of Chandler’s poor excuse for a flower bed. A sparse number of perennials had made their reappearance, but the dearth of blooming flowers made them drab and colorless. He had to do something about it, and since he’d had such a productive week workwise, he might as well take today to work on the flowers. The nursery, if he remembered correctly, opened at seven. He’d go pick out some plants—some that reminded him of Gram—along with some soil, and he’d do his best to make Gram proud. Lord knew his place could stand a little gentrification.

As he finished his cigarette, Chandler sat watching with fascination as two squirrels cavorted in the yard, foraging. They chased one another, racing up and down one of the trees, then stopped to dig up, chew, and store food treasures. Their animation seemed quirky, the way they twitched their heads and seemed to constantly be moving their hands in a series of ceaseless jitters. The life of a squirrel—what exactly did that consist of? Racing around, acquiring, saving, and storing. Constantly on the lookout for more treasure. Constantly consuming. Always on the run.

Were they so different from humans? They lived exactly the same lives, humans and squirrels, though the details of the human existence were relatively more complex. Hadn’t Chandler spent his life thus far racing around trying to acquire, attempting to conserve, seeking treasures to sustain himself? And where had it led? Where was he now?

Soon the squirrels would be gone. They’d die and be replaced with new life. So, too, was the human plight.

After smoking his cigarettes and downing his coffee, Chandler continued to sit on the porch observing the antics of the squirrels and enjoying the peaceful morning. Around seven he went back inside to get dressed. If he planned to work in the yard, he’d wait to shower afterward.

When he arrived at the nursery a little later, he found himself completely at a loss. Gram and Daniel had always taken care of the gardening and though there had been times when he’d helped, he’d always relied on their expertise. Gram could name every type of plant or flower, explain how to care for them, explain if they were annual or perennial, and usually come up with some interesting story that related to that particular type of foliage.

Chandler recognized two flowers: geraniums and petunias. And usually he managed to confuse the two with one another. But he remembered from childhood visiting the graves of his gram’s family members and planting flowers. Each planter or graveside flower bed always contained these varieties of flowers. At the nursery he selected several trays of each, along with five bags of potting soil. The flower trays filled the trunk, and he stacked the soil bags on the floor of his backseat.

He backed his car onto the lawn when he returned home, paranoid he’d get busted by the park director. Driving on the lawns for any reason was contractually forbidden in his lease, but he couldn’t imagine hauling all the supplies clear over from the parking lot.

He first unloaded the trunk, stacking the trays of flowers along the sidewalk in front of the flower beds. The color choices didn’t quite coordinate. Too many reds. What if he got it all done and hated it? What if they shriveled up and died? He didn’t have a green thumb like Gram. His was brown. Very brown. Black even.

With hands on his hips, he took a deep breath and stepped back. He looked down at the flower trays, willing himself to honestly assess them. “They’re going to be fine. They’ll look nice. Very nice.” He nodded his head determinedly, as if to convince himself and once and for all wipe away the negative thoughts that threatened to ruin his project.

“Hell yeah, they will.”

Chandler spun around to face a smiling Marcus.

Embarrassed, Chandler grinned. “Caught me talking to myself.”

“What’s up? Working on your flower garden?”

“Um....” Chandler suddenly found himself at a loss for words. The sight of Marcus in his skin-tight, sleeveless Under Armor shirt and knee-length basketball shorts took Chandler’s breath away.

“Need some help?”

“Oh, really?” He couldn’t believe the offer. “Sure! I’m uh... we need to um... get the potting soil. It’s in the car.” He pointed toward the backseat.

Marcus nodded and walked over to the car, peering in through the back window. He opened the rear passenger door, leaned in, and pulled out two of the four bags, one in each hand. He stood them on end against the car and grabbed the remaining two bags, hoisting them one at a time onto his left shoulder. With his free hand he picked up one of the two bags that he’d leaned against the car and carried the three twenty-five-pound bags over to the sidewalk where the flower trays had been placed.

“Oh my God! Marcus, don’t hurt yourself.”

“Right here okay?” He said, showing no signs of physical exertion.

“That’s perfect.” Chandler rushed over to the side of the car and hefted the remaining bag of soil, straining as he tried to hurry.

“Speaking of not hurting yourself,” Marcus said with a chuckle. He grabbed the bag from Chandler’s arms and tossed it on top of the stack he’d just created. “That’s a lot of dirt.”

“I can’t believe you carried all that... all at once.”

“I’m used to heavy lifting.” Marcus turned his head to the side to stare at his own biceps as he flexed, posing audaciously. Then he turned to Chandler and winked. “Just kidding. I’m not really that conceited.” But he did have one f*****g hot body, and he obviously knew it. “I used to work out every day.”

Chandler took full advantage of the excuse to stare at Marcus’ toned body, focusing for a moment on the biceps he’d just flexed and the armband tattoo that wrapped around it. The spectacular work of art had been crafted so intricately that the shadowing made it appear three-dimensional.

Marcus apparently noticed Chandler’s fascination and stepped closer, extending his arm all the way out and twisting it side to side to offer a complete view. The image depicted a thick chain secured by a padlock.

“That’s cool,” Chandler said. “Do you have any others?”

“Of course I do. I’m a tattoo artist.”

“Really?”

“Well, amateur, but I guess you could say it’s my hobby.”

“Your passion. So you designed this one?”

He nodded. “And the spider web on my calf....” He twisted his body slightly and pointed to his lower leg. “And the eagle on my back.”

“Wow. So you’re an artist? An illustrator.”

“I been drawing since I was a little kid. Like I said, it’s my hobby.”

“You’re definitely talented. Have any talent with flowers or gardening?”

“Sure. Let’s get this party started.” Apparently he’d been serious about wanting to help.

Chandler smiled and explained he had to move the car first. He couldn’t leave it parked on the grass, lest the authorities discover his indescretion and reprimand him. As he drove the car over to the parking lot, Marcus gathered tools from the shed—a couple trowels and a small hand rake.

Upon returning, Chandler dug out a pair of kneeling pads, offering one to Marcus, who’d already assumed his crouched position on the sidewalk beside the flowers. “Thanks,” Marcus said. “Guess you must spend a lot of time on your knees. These definitely look used.” He smiled before redirecting his attention to the flower bed.

Chandler wasn’t sure how to respond. Was he dropping a hint? Maybe it was an insult. But if so, why would Marcus be so willing to spend time with him and help him with the flowers? Chandler chose to act as if he hadn’t noticed the insinuation and began separating the trays.

For the next two hours they worked on the beds, and to Chandler’s delight, Marcus seemed to know exactly what he was doing. He really did seem to possess some artistic talent, and Chandler quickly deferred to his advice on how to arrange the plants so they’d look best. When they finished the planting, Marcus hooked up the hose to the side of the trailer and watered the beds generously while Chandler stood back and admired their handiwork.

“Wow!” Chandler wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Those look amazing. Gram would be so proud.”

As they worked together, Chandler had explained to Marcus how his gram loved her plants. Marcus said his mom was sort of the same way, which was how he’d learned so much about gardening.

“I don’t know ’bout you, but I’m like dying of thirst.”

“And famished.” Chandler nodded. “How about breakfast? I can either fix some or take us out.”

“Sure, man. But... uh, I don’t have money yet.”

“I’m buying, silly. I’m not about to let you pay, anyway, even if you had a million bucks. Not after you helped me like this.”

“You’ve been helping me all week.”

Chandler shrugged. “I want to change my shirt, though. Do you mind? Let’s go get some water and I’ll change.” He led the way, stepping up onto the porch and pulling open the screen door. As he did so, the piercing shriek of the smoke alarm went off, and Chandler gasped at the sight of the billowing gray smoke roiling upward from the top of the stove.

He leapt into the house and dashed across the room toward the kitchen. Apparently Raymond had been cooking again, and he’d left a pan of grease on the stove, the burner on high. Chandler quickly flipped off the burner and grabbed a potholder, then removed the pan from the heat.

Marcus hurried over to the smoke alarm, reached up and removed it from the wall, and pulled out the battery.

“Raymond!” Chandler shouted. He shook his head, once more shocked by his brother’s carelessness.

“Huh?” Raymond lumbered out of his bedroom and stood in the hallway. “What?”

“Didn’t you hear the alarm? You left this pan on the burner. You could’ve burnt the house down!”

“I didn’t,” Raymond said, scowling. He stood beside Marcus, who was approximately his height but contrasted him in every imaginable way. Raymond’s pale skin and prematurely gray hair made him look old and sallow. He’d lost most of his hair to a receding hairline that extended halfway up his scalp, and his slumped shoulders contributed to his slovenly appearance; the opposite of Marcus’ perfect, statue-like posture. “I turned off the burner,” Raymond said.

“Um... no, you didn’t. Look at the smoke.”

“I turned it off! I know I did.”

“Obviously you didn’t, Raymond. Please, just be more careful.”

The sudden change in Raymond’s demeanor prompted Chandler to take a step back. He braced himself against the kitchen counter as he mentally ticked off the seconds... three... two... one.... He knew Raymond, and he recognized the look—pure rage.

“I SAID, I TURNED OFF THE f*****g BURNER!” The ear-piercing decibel at which he shouted didn’t even sound human. To say he was yelling at the top of his lungs would have been a grave understatement, and the way he lunged forward, menacingly pointing his finger at Chandler, sent a ripple of terror down Chandler’s spine.

When Raymond got like this, when he became enraged, there was no reasonable course of action. Chandler had endured these fits since Raymond moved in, and each one seemed worse than the previous.

“Stop riding me!” Raymond yelled. “That’s all you f*****g do is ride me. b***h, b***h, b***h about everything, and I’m f*****g sick of it! I didn’t leave the burner on, goddammit! I f*****g turned it off! You faggot!”

Instantly Marcus stepped between them, shielding Chandler completely from his brother’s rage. “Back off, man!” Marcus said. “Leave him alone.”

Chandler stepped aside and continued to stare into his brother’s enraged face. His dark eyes, opened wide, conveyed unbridled fury. “Raymond,” Chandler said in his softest, calmest voice. “It’s okay. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, but the smoke alarm went off. Everything’s fine now.”

“I didn’t do it!”

“Okay.”

“I turned it off! I know I did. I get so sick of people accusing me.”

“Why don’t you go lie down—”

Raymond spun around, stormed back down the hallway to his bedroom, and slammed the door behind him. When Marcus turned around to face Chandler, Chandler’s entire body began to tremble.

“Dude, are you okay?”

Gulping, Chandler tried to speak but couldn’t. Instead he nodded and again grabbed hold of the counter. “I should have....”

“You should have told him to go f**k himself,” Marcus said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

“Shh....” Chandler didn’t want Raymond to hear and come back out for another confrontation. If he did, it wouldn’t be pretty.

“He has no right to talk to you like that.” Marcus had lowered his voice to a stage whisper.

Chandler shook his head. “I don’t think he can help it. He’s... um, disabled. He has bipolar disorder.” Chandler was whispering.

“Come here.” Marcus wrapped his arm around him and pulled him close. “I don’t care what he has. He can’t treat you like that. Not when I’m around.”

Chandler looked up into Marcus’ face and felt his eyes moisten.

“You’re my friend, right? Nobody treats my friends like that.”

Chandler nodded. “Yeah. We’re friends.” Marcus pulled him closer and squeezed his shoulder.