Chapter Eight

After completing the call to Alex, Chris hung up the phone and looked around the room for a bit. He had never stayed in a hotel before, except for one time when he was six years old and his family had taken a trip to visit other family members, but he couldn't remember what the hotel had been like then. This room reminded him very much of his parents' house, with the dry-cleaned bed sheets and the unnecessary and irrelevant artwork on the walls.

As much as he wanted to hate the similarities and the memories that subsequently flooded back, he found himself liking the extraneous paintings of the meadows and lakes which he had never heard of before. He liked the way his body sank into the mattress and the way the smooth sheets rubbed against his bare forearms. He wouldn't mind living here permanently, were it not for two things: The first being the outrageous prices the hotel charged for everything and anything, and the second being the absence of his son. Ty would have liked the paintings, too.

With this in mind, Chris picked up the phone once more (he almost stopped himself – he knew it would cost an arm and a leg) and dialed Kirsten's number. To his surprise, a very tiny voice answered.

“Hello? Um, are you calling for... Kirsten? Because she isn't here right now.”

Chris felt panic pulse through his veins. “Excuse me?”

“Daddy?” the voice gasped, then squealed in delight. Chris did not feel as joyful at the moment.

“Did Kirsten seriously leave you by yourself?”

“Oh, no, mommy's right here,” Ty replied. “She made me answer the phone in case someone wanted to talk to her. You don't want to talk to her, do you?”

Chris breathed a slight sigh of relief; he wasn't too thrilled that Kirsten was forcing Ty to do what she should have been doing, though he was certainly glad that she hadn't been irresponsible enough to leave him all alone. “Not really, no. I called to talk to you.”

“You did?”

Ty sounded so pleased that his tone forced Chris to laugh. “Yes, I did. I told you that I would call you as much as I could, remember?”

“I miss you, daddy.”

“And I miss you, kid,” Chris told him. He repositioned himself on the bed so that he was closer to lying than sitting. “Are you having fun with your mum, at least?”

“Well, mommy and I were doing our schoolwork together earlier. But she's still working now.”

“Wait.” Chris quickly sat up and looked around the room for a clock. “What time is it? Shouldn't you be in bed by now?”

“Well, I don't know how to tell time,” Ty said, and Chris could tell from his tone that he was shrugging. Chris almost laughed, but his adult side got the better of him and he sighed in a frustrated, yet unsurprised, manner. Of course Kirsten would shirk her responsibilities. She probably knew exactly what time it was, but that wouldn't make her care in the least.

“On second thought, could you put your mother on the phone?”

Chris heard Ty’s muffled voice speaking to Kirsten, who seemed to be putting up a fight. A minute later, though, there was a small crackle as the phone changed hands, and Kirsten’s voice broke loudly through the silence.

“What do you want? I’m trying to finish my schoolwork, Chris.”

“Well, you should also be trying to take care of our child, Kirsten. It’s past his bedtime.”

“No, it’s only eight-thirty,” she replied, clearly annoyed. Chris knew then that the conversation was pointless. Briefly, he thought of yelling at her, reprimanding her on her skills (or lack thereof) as a parent, but he decided to forgo the lecture this time.

“Whatever, put Ty back on.” Chris relaxed on the bed again. If Kirsten was going to be intolerable, then he wanted nothing to do with her. He could only hope that she would return Ty in one piece at the end of the month.

Kirsten obeyed Chris’s command, not bothering to say goodbye. Ty sounded excited to speak to Chris once more. Chris asked how Ty’s day at school had gone, and Ty told him all about the art project they started. He said that Ms. L made sure to put Ty and Daren in separate groups, which Chris was relieved to hear.

Then Chris told Ty about the plane ride, though he didn’t think the story was as interesting as Ty found it to be. Ty asked roughly a hundred questions – or so it seemed – yet he never ran out of things to ask. He wanted to know about the people on the plane, what it felt like to be on the plane, where Chris sat, if he looked out of the window, if he saw any clouds floating next to the plane. Chris tried to give more than yes-or-no answers, but he hadn’t honestly done anything on the plane other than think about how lonely he was going to be (though he did play several rounds of tic-tac-toe with himself).

The two chatted for almost half an hour before Chris finally decided it was time to end the call. He could tell by the shift in Ty’s tone that the little boy was fatigued, and it was already an hour past the time he normally put Ty to bed.

Ty protested a little when Chris told him that he needed to go to bed. He claimed that he wasn’t tired at all, and that he could continue talking on the phone for hours before he even started to feel tired. Chris knew better, of course, and even though he would have loved to talk to Ty for a longer period of time, he convinced the five-year-old to hang up and go to sleep, promising that they could talk again the next day.

Then, with nothing better to do until the morning, Chris turned off the lights and went to sleep.

He woke up the next morning and rolled over to find that, according to the clock, he had slept until ten. He felt strange. This was the first time in several months that he was able to sleep past seven-thirty (he had decided at the beginning of summer that he would start preparing Ty for a school schedule). Oddly, he felt no more awake than usual.

He went to the bathroom, dressed, and decided that now would be a good time to eat something. The hotel provided breakfast for all of its occupants, but Chris felt sure that he had missed it – which was fine. He wanted to get out and see the town anyway.

This late in the morning, there were very few pedestrians roaming the streets. He felt strange again. It was like he had stumbled upon an alternate world, an alien world. Everything was so quiet in comparison to the city noise he was normally surrounded by. As he walked down the sidewalk and passed several bookstores, he couldn't help thinking that Ty would love this place.

Even with the lack of people on the street, it still took him ten minutes to find a place to eat. To be fair, he had taken the opportunity to casually stroll past the stores, a luxury he was not used to having. The place that he found had also, not surprisingly, stopped serving breakfast, but this was not a problem. He ordered a sandwich from their lunch menu and got it to go.

Just down the road from the shop was a small park. He thought it seemed the perfect place to eat a sandwich, and so he strolled over and sat himself down on one of the benches. On the other side of the bench, a young woman (though she was clearly older than Chris) sat and watched as her small son played on the ground before her. On the small patch of dirt that stood out from the surrounding grass the little boy had placed a toy firetruck. Beside the truck were several tiny firefighters.

After watching the little boy play for several minutes, Chris noticed that the mother was glaring at him. He coughed and smiled awkwardly.

“My son has never really been big on playing with actual toys,” Chris babbled, unsure of how his words were supposed to redeem him. Was the woman supposed to feel better knowing that he also had a child? “But he's very imaginative.”

The woman nodded. At first, she seemed to remain suspicious, but after a moment she brightened. “You're lucky then. No toys to trip and break your neck on. This one,” she pointed to her son, “likes to leave his firetruck right in the middle of the kitchen. I keep telling him that if he doesn't move that truck, soon he'll see an ambulance come to the house.”

He chuckled. “I guess I am lucky. Even if Ty did have a lot of toys, he would probably put them away without having to be told. He's rather neat. Except for when he's eating.”

“Does he get that from you?” Chris nearly gave her a quizzical look, but she pointed to his sandwich just in time. He looked down to find that even though he had yet to take one bite, some of the mustard had leaked out of the sandwich and onto his pants.

Chris sighed. “Apparently.” As he reached for a napkin in the paper bag at his side, the woman laughed – but it wasn't a regular laugh. No, Chris could definitely detect the flirtatious undertone. He paused as his hand touched the napkin. He glanced at the woman...

The sunlight caught on a shiny object on the woman's left hand. Chris let out the breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. Maybe she was flirting with him, but if she was married then there was no real danger (Chris almost immediately recognized the irony in his thinking) – and he might have misinterpreted her tone anyway.

Chris pulled out the napkin and tried to rub off as much of the mustard as he could. He did remove most of it, though there was still a faint yellow spot left behind. At least he had extra pants to change into.

The woman must not have been too interested in Chris after all, as they spoke not one word from that point on. Chris devoured his sandwich, but by the time that he finished, the little boy had already decided that he was tired of the park and wanted to do something else. His mother had rolled her eyes, and they left without saying goodbye.

The rest of the afternoon Chris spent walking back through the town, admiring the shops from the outside. He thought about going into one of the bookstores and finding something for Ty, but he realized that the bookstore he had chosen was the same one he would be reading at that evening. There were several posters in the windows advertising the event as well as his book. He decided that if he were to get something there for Ty, he could look later.

He also realized then that he was extremely nervous for the event. This would be the first time he ever stood in front of a group of people to talk about something he wrote. He wasn't even sure exactly what went on at these sort of things. He would probably have to read an excerpt.

Throughout the day, he tried to keep his thoughts away from that evening so that he wouldn't worry too much. After all, he usually did well speaking in front of people, and this time would be no different.

Except that when he finally did stand in front of the crowd, right after a lovely introduction from the rather handsome bookstore owner, all the anxiety he had suppressed came rushing to the surface, and he questioned why he just had to write a book about something so personal.

“Well...” he began, hoping that he wouldn't sound too awkward. “Thank you all for coming here tonight. It means a lot to me that even this small group of people care enough about a piece I created to devote an entire evening to. And this is only the first one of these, so I guess I'm in for a treat.”

Several people in the audience laughed. Chris felt a wave of relief rush over him. Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible after all.

He took a deep breath. “You'll all have to bear with me, I'm afraid I've never done this before, nor have I had the pleasure of attending one. I'd like to thank my publisher for giving me no preparation.”

More laughs. Chris began to feel even more comfortable in front of this crowd. If nothing else, he at least felt certain that no rotten fruit would be thrown in his direction on this particular evening.

Indeed, by the time the crowd had lined up for the book signing, not one object had been thrown. The crowd was made up of delightful people who had actively participated in the event without being rude. Chris's anxiety had melted away quickly and he had become quite comfortable with this group.

It soon became apparent to him that not everyone was as at ease as he was. Sure, most of the people he encountered were friendly, smiling and joking with him as he scribbled his name on the covers of their books. But, roughly halfway through the line, one boy approached Chris with an expression which was nothing short of terror.

The boy placed his book in front of Chris with great caution. Chris just smiled at him and asked him for his name, to which the boy replied, “Daniel.”

“Well, hello, Daniel,” Chris nearly chirped. Daniel looked no less frightened at this.

“Hi,” he said in a quiet voice, his wrist twitching a little. “I just wanted to thank you... I read the book three times and... it helped in a way. I have this friend, and... he means everything to me, but... it's not that he's not like that, it's... Well, it's hard to explain.”

Chris stared at the boy in shock for a few moments. “You read it three times?” He realized that it might seem rude for him to focus only on that part, but he had a hard time believing that someone would even want to read anything he wrote three times.

Yet, the boy nodded. “I know it's not like you wrote it with me in mind... Thank you, though.”

“First of all, thank you for your support,” Chris told him. The rest of what the boy had said began to sink in, and Chris felt a bit proud. “You are right; I don't even know who you are. But I am glad that I could help, even in such an indirect manner. I hope things work out with your friend.”

The boy shrugged at the last bit, as if to say that he had no such hope. To see such a reaction saddened Chris, especially as he could never imagine himself giving up so easily on anything even remotely close to love (he vaguely recalled a comment Tristan had once made about his stubbornness). He signed the boy's book – the pages did look worn – writing a message which he hoped would cheer the boy up a bit:

Daniel,

Things have a way of working themselves out. Don't lose hope, even if it seems like everything's lost.

Chris

He handed the book back to Daniel, who clutched it tightly to his chest. Daniel hesitated for a moment, then said once more in a soft voice, “Thank you... again.” Chris nodded his reply, and watched as Daniel slinked away. Before the next person came up to the desk, Chris noticed another boy standing toward the back of the shop, where Daniel was now headed, and he thought this might be the friend of which Daniel spoke. The boy looked very nonchalant and disinterested, as if he had simply been dragged along by his friend. Chris felt an odd mixture of hope and sympathy for Daniel.

The rest of the people Chris encountered that night were far more relaxed than Daniel had been. Chris guessed that those people had probably read his book only once, if at all. A few of the women seemed rather excited to be in his presence, though, which honestly made him feel a little uncomfortable. One of those women didn't even know his name; she had walked right up to him and called him, “Chaz,” but he didn't have the heart to correct her.

As Chris collapsed into the bed of his hotel room later that night, he exhaled loudly in relief, glad that it was finally over and that his job was not one which required a lot of manual labor. He had once, in his teenage years, taken up a job at a fast-food restaurant in order to save up enough money for his own apartment, and he had juggled that job with his schoolwork. It had been rough, he had never had any free time, and he nearly failed one of his classes because of it, but he had survived just fine. Now, though, as he stared at the ceiling and wondered just how many people had been crammed into that shop that evening, he felt more drained than he could ever remember feeling back then.

In the darkness, Chris's mind brought out visions of his past, clips of memories which he had lived through many years before. At first, he thought of that boy, Daniel, and the way he twitched nervously, but that reminded him of the way he had felt when he first spoke to Jonathan. Then he remembered his parents, and Penny, and his friends at public school, and that one neighbor who lived in the apartment next door when he and Ty first moved in, who would invite the two of them over for dinner when she knew that they were running low on food and Chris's paycheck was dwindling, and Ty, who was hopefully sleeping peacefully at the moment, and Kirsten, who couldn't have been a worse mother if she had taken lessons in bad parenting, and Leeroch, who should have done a better job of preparing Chris for the tour, and finally Tristan, which Chris felt guilty about, because he had thought of Jonathan first.

The clips played without ceasing and he fell asleep dreaming of it all.

The following two weeks brought more of the same. Chris would wake up in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar town, and spend the day wandering about, eating sandwiches when his stomach so desired. Nearly every night he had an event to attend, some packed worse than the first, some with only a handful of people in attendance.

He tried to call Ty every night, but as he often lost track of time before his book readings, and by the time he returned Ty should have been asleep, he didn't have the chance to speak with his son as often as he wanted. Ty always answered the phone with great exuberance, even when he probably had no clue that the caller on the other line was Chris (Chris suspected that Kirsten simply handed the phone to Ty and told him to cover for her any time that a number she didn't recognize popped up on the caller ID). According to the little boy, he had no more problems with his classmates (at least, no new problems) and he rather enjoyed spending time with his mother, though Ty made it very clear during every phone call that Chris was sorely missed.

One afternoon, Chris actually realized the time well before he needed to be anywhere, and he was able to make the call without worrying about running late. He lay back on the bed and tossed Ty's stuffed elephant in the air, attempting to then catch it with one hand, while he waited for the phone to stop ringing. As expected, Ty answered the phone with a chirp.

“Hello! This is Tyrone speaking. Can I help you?” Chris rolled his eyes and thought that on the bright side, at least Ty had learned how to use good phone manners.

“Yes, Tyrone,” Chris started in a suave voice, hoping that his normal voice was disguised enough to trick the boy, “I was just wondering if you were interested in purchasing some stock in a company called Stuffed Elephants. We cater to five-year-old boys who own grey, stuffed elephants, and I believe that you fit the criteria.”

“Well... I have an elephant,” Ty replied, hesitantly, “but I don't know what the rest of that means.”

Chris heard some rustling in the background, and suddenly Kirsten's voice rang out, “Ty? Who is it?”

“A man, and he is asking me about stuffed elephants.”

“Probably some drunk. Just hang up.”

“Hey, tell your mother I'm not a drunk,” Chris said to Ty, forgoing his suave tone. He then heard Ty's familiar gasp and squeal of excitement.

“Daddy!!” Then the line crackled some more as Ty held the phone away to speak to Kirsten. “Mommy, it's just daddy.” His voice became much clearer as he said to Chris, “Hi, daddy. What does all that stuff you said mean?”

“Don't worry about it; it's much too complicated to explain over the phone.”

Ty simply replied with an, “Oh,” then steered the conversation toward his school day. He and Chris spoke for roughly an hour before Chris decided he needed to ready himself for that night's reading. Ty sounded disappointed when he said goodbye, and afterward Chris consulted his mental calendar to count down the days left of the tour.

Surprisingly, he found that the halfway mark loomed much closer than he had thought. In two more nights, the second week of the tour would be finished, and only two more weeks remained. Though it still felt like a long time to be away from his son, Chris figured that he could survive those two weeks without great difficulty.

Once he had changed into clean clothes (he'd had another run-in with rogue mustard that afternoon), Chris left the hotel, humming to himself. The warm October air, combined with the thought of seeing his son again in a relatively short amount of time, made him feel happy, though as he neared the building in which he would speak that evening, a more ominous feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

This particular town was more familiar to him than the others had been, as it was so close to his hometown. He had never really visited this place often, though he could remember having been there several times during his youth. He figured that must have been the reason for the sudden anxiety which bubbled in his abdomen, an anxiety far different from the bouts of stage fright he had experienced in the past.

As he stood in front of the decently sized crowd and spoke, he expected something terrible to happen – maybe the building would catch fire or someone would suffer from a massive stroke right in the middle of his speaking. Yet, the evening went as planned and no firetrucks or ambulances were required. Chris began to think that he might have just had a weird reaction to the sandwich he had eaten earlier.

The crowd at this event was much friendlier and more social than the other crowds Chris had encountered thus far. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, which made Chris very happy and helped him to forget that he had ever been worried about the night.

Several of the people in the line for the book signing gathered around the table, as they had all come to the event as a group. They stood at the table for a while (luckily, they were toward the end of the line and the people behind them were patient) and chatted with Chris, making jokes that had everyone in stitches, even after several minutes.

“Who am I making this one out to?” Chris asked, still laughing, as another book was pushed in front of him. His smile faded as he looked up and he felt a weight drop in his stomach.

The man in front of him was tall, about as tall as Chris, with nearly identical blue eyes. He even had the same short curls, though this man's curls were entirely grey. Chris felt his breath catch in his throat and his eyes watered slightly.

“Hello, Christopher,” the man said.

Chris quickly looked back down at the book and scribbled a message with a trembling hand:

Dad,

We'll talk later.

Chris

He slid the book away without speaking or even looking up. Once he felt his father's presence leave, though, he watched as his father went to stand off to the side of the line.

“Next,” Chris croaked, still shaken even as he signed the last of the books.

Soon, all of the others had gone, and only Chris and his father were left. Chris took his time helping to pack up the desk, though there was not much to be packed other than a few pens and some paper advertisements for other events at the bookstore. Still, he offered his hand in exchange for a few extra minutes to gather his thoughts.

Yet, he felt no more prepared when he finally did approach his father (and he figured that he never would have been, even if he had taken years to pack that desk). His legs felt a bit unstable and the burning sensation in his stomach had returned in full force. His father was busy flipping through the pages of the book as Chris stopped in front of him.

“What brings you here, then?” Chris asked in a voice that was much stronger than he had expected. He felt a bit of relief when the blue eyes that gazed up at him showed a hint of nervousness.

Cliff closed the book and let his hand fall to his side. His free hand he shoved into his pocket. “I saw a poster hanging in the window of the grocery store. And I thought... It can't be. It's a fairly common name. But I did some research, and I found out that it really was you.” He scuffed the bottom of his shoe against the floor and looked down. “Your mother thinks I'm out for cigars with the guys.”

Chris nodded. It wasn't exactly the answer he wanted to hear. “You just wanted my autograph?”

“I wanted to say that I made a mistake,” Cliff said, staring at his feet. “Your mother and I both.”

That was closer to what Chris had hoped Cliff would say, though he hadn't expected his father to actually say it. He swallowed and tried to prevent his hopes from rising too far. “You did?”

Cliff paused for a few moments, his thumb brushing over the cover of the book in his hand. He seemed to be readying himself for a long speech. After a few more moments, he took a deep breath and looked right at Chris.

“A while after your last visit, I was up in the attic and I found this old photo album with pictures from a trip we took... must have been fifteen years ago now. David was sixteen, Alex was eleven, and you were six. We'd gone fishing. David made out fairly well; Alex didn't even try.

“You were so excited when you felt a pull on your line. I helped you reel it in, but it was just a pile of leaves. I thought you would be so disappointed, but all you did was laugh. You even named it. You were only disappointed after your mother made you toss the leaves back in.”

“I think I remember that,” Chris quietly said.

Cliff sighed, took his hand out of his pocket and gripped the book with both hands. He stared at the cover, shaking his head slightly. “By then it was too late, much too late. You'd graduated. I didn't know where you were, if you'd gone to university–”

“I didn't go to uni.” Cliff glanced up with a questioning expression. “I got a job my last year of school and saved up enough money so that I could rent an apartment and take care of my son.”

“You... have a son?” Cliff asked, now with a look somewhere between surprised and confused.

“With Kirsten, yes. As I'm sure you remember.” At the mention of Kirsten, Cliff did seem to remember. He nodded his head and transformed his mouth into an 'o'. Chris felt a pressing urge to continue, though he did so hesitantly. “I have a picture of him...” Chris reached into his pocket for his wallet, taking a step forward. He flipped open to the small picture of a grinning Ty and held it out for Cliff to see. “He turned five in August, and he just started school last month.”

Cliff smiled as he examined the photograph. “Cute kid.”

Chris beamed as he shoved the walled back into his pocket. “He really is adorable. He says some of the most ridiculous things at times.”

“He gets that from you,” Cliff said. His tone was a bit stiff, but it was obvious that they were starting to slide into a more casual conversation. “You were like that as a child.”

Though Chris was unsurprised to hear this, he smiled at the thought of passing on his character traits to his son. He briefly wondered then if he shared those same traits with his father as well. He looked up to find that Cliff was staring at one of the bookshelves to the side of where they stood.

“It was a great mistake,” Cliff finally said, though he spoke in such a soft voice that Chris almost missed the words. He kept his eyes on the bookshelf, his one hand returned to his pocket. Where he held the book, his fingers were white. “When I looked at those pictures, I realized something. You are my son, just as much as David is, just as much as Alex is. It was wrong to act otherwise, but I can't take back what happened, and for that I truly am sorry.”

“Are you saying you're OK with having a gay son?” Chris's voice cracked a bit toward the end, but he ignored it. Cliff looked at him with an expression meant to confirm, but it wasn't enough. “Say it. I won't forgive you unless you say it.”

Cliff opened his mouth, but did not immediately speak. Chris suddenly felt overwhelmed and he looked down at his hands.

“I'm... OK with having a... a gay son.” Chris's eyes remained down as his chest tightened. Cliff clearly struggled to speak the words, but Chris could tell by the tone that they were true. “I'm OK with having a gay son,” Cliff said again, and this time Chris looked at him. But only for a few moments, as his vision blurred with tears and he embraced his father.

Cliff placed his arms around Chris as well, his grip tight, regretful and determined. For a while they stood silently, Chris thinking about how ridiculous it was for him to be a grown man crying into his father's shoulder, though he didn't dare try to stop himself.

“I'm proud of you, you know.” Chris sniffed a little, but didn't move. “I read the book. You're very talented.”

“Thank you,” Chris said.

After a few more moments, he pulled away and dried his eyes on his sleeve. He noticed that his father's eyes looked rather watery also.

“I should be going,” Cliff said. “I wouldn't want your mother to start worrying. Or to figure out that I lied to her.”

Chris laughed. “Yeah. It's not good being on mum's bad side.”

“How long are you doing this tour for?” Chris consulted his mental calendar and rattled off the remaining time. “Maybe when you've finished, you could stop by for dinner some time. Bring that kid of yours.”

“I think he'd like that,” Chris replied with a smile.

Once Cliff had left the store, Chris stayed by the bookshelf for a few minutes and replayed what had happened in his mind. He even pinched himself a couple of times to make sure he was awake. The woman working at the shop asked him if anything was wrong, as he had apparently been standing there for nearly ten minutes. He shook his head and smiled at her.

“No, actually,” he said. “Nothing's wrong.”

Chris walked back to the hotel feeling much better than he had earlier – or, for that matter, than he had in quite a long time.