Page 159 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 129

“I’m your lover,” Kick said. “You’re my lover. We’re lovers. We’ll
always want other men; but you and me, Ryan, we’re the home team.”
“If you mean it,” Ryan said, “and you’re not just saying it because you
know that’s what I want to hear, then say it again.”
“We’re lovers,” Kick said. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Ryan said. “You’re my best friend.”
Kick’s big arms squeezed Ryan tight into his pumped chest and tight
belly. Their hips ground together. Kick leaned back and looked Ryan
square in the face. “You are,” the most beautiful man in the world said to
Ryan, “so beautiful to me.”

10

Charley-Pop’s long illness went into countdown. Annie Laurie called
Ryan. “Your dad’s very sick,” she said.
For twelve years, with Charley-Pop in and out of major surgery, she
had kept her grown boys updated, but she never alarmed them. Margaret
Mary from the age of eight had grown up with her father’s illness. Thom
kept in close touch from wherever he was stationed, except for his two
tours of Vietnam. Ryan, before he and Teddy had moved from Chicago
to San Francisco, had flown down to Peoria every third month. Mostly,
the telephone linked them together.
“I think you should come,” Annie Laurie said. “Bring Margaret Mary
back with you.”
Kick drove Ryan and Kweenie to the airport in Ryan’s VW Rabbit.
“Your dad will be okay,” Kick said. “He’s always pulled through before.
He’s a strong man.”
“How can he keep going,” Kweenie was bitter, “after all those
operations?”
“He’s a fighter to have lasted this long. You’ve got good genes.” Kick
said. “You come from strong stock.”
“What about you?” Ryan held onto Kick’s arm in the car.
“What about me?”
“You’ve got two weeks until the Mr. Golden Gate contest.”
Kick smiled confidently. “You’ll be back by then. Charley will do
okay. Like all the times before. You’ll see.”
In the intensive care unit of Saint Francis Hospital, Ryan stood next
to Charley-Pop’s bed. His father looked gaunt. His face was slack. His
body was thin as bone wrapped in a skin of pale yellow tissue paper. Ryan
stood helpless.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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