be Sander. He wanted the family that Sander had. He
admired his friend's manners—how people always came
to him and borrowed his kind and gentle shoulder to cry
on.
He loved their first forays into sex, and how each
time was better than the last. He wanted to be loyal like
Sander was. He wanted the old ladies in front of the
bakery to say Hi, Torben, just like they did to Sander. When
they would pass by the bakery, or the little neighborhood
bodega, the old folks never shouted Hi, boys! No, it was
always Hi, Sander. Or There goes the Hansen boy. How's your
mom? Is Ingrid going to nursing school?
One day it became too much.
He started by making up bad things to say about
his friend, always relaying the rumors to the most
obnoxious and meanest kids in the class. What he had
really done was just retell stories from bad things he had
done in his own past, and changed the names.
Naturally, it took absolutely no time for the forest
fire of lies to take hold. And Sander was burned.
The worst of it came when Sander tried to join
some kids at a lunch table. Torben was there. Sander
walked happily across the lunchroom with his tray and a
DVD he planned to loan to Torben. When he approached
the table and tried to set down his tray, Torben looked at
him with cruelty in his eyes and told him not to bother.
At first Sander thought it was some kind of a joke.
He didn't exactly get the joke, but he was sure it would
make sense any minute now. But it was never funny.
Torben told Sander that he hated homos, and that
he'd appreciate it if he would just go get AIDS and die. In
fact, Torben said, do us all a favor—AIDS takes too long. Just
get it over with.
Sander felt his blood drain from his face, a very real
response. He tried to get up and leave but his legs felt
funny. He felt like a trapped animal, and when he finally
did get his lower extremities to cooperate, he spilled his
milk and accidentally dropped his elbow into his lunch.
Voracious gales of laughter quickly followed.
Next he knew, he was walking home. He rounded
the corner leading onto his street and found four boys and
three girls from his class waiting for him. He didn't say a
thing. He just tried to walk past them, but of course that
wouldn't happen.
The girls took his backpack and one of the smaller
boys jumped up and grabbed his beanie. The girls emptied
the backpack all over the road, and the smaller boy started
kicking his belongings into the sewer drain.
Torben appeared behind him and pushed Sander's
head, which caused a kind of mild whiplash that made
him cry. That's when the others joined in, pushing him to
the ground, and spitting on him. They spat on a boy who
had never once hurt them, insulted them, or caused them
any pain whatsoever. And three of those kids had known
Sander since preschool. No one stood up for him. No one
said Stop.
When they grew tired of destroying the one loyal
friend they all had, they spat on him one last time, called
him the Town Faggot, and took their leave in a cloud of
cruel laughter.
Sander got himself home and went to his room and
wrote two farewell letters. One to his family. One to
Torben Petersen. Then he climbed the stairs to his loft,
pulled his belt off, made it into a loop through the buckle,
tied it to a jump rope, tossed the whole affair over the
oaken ceiling beam, stood on his little kindergarten chair,
put the belt around his neck, and kicked the chair out from
under him.
The very instant that he kicked the chair he saw
Jannik, terrified, screaming. Sander's eyesight was affected
right away, flashing weird colors of yellow, red, strobe-like
flashes, and then something felt very hot. So hot; scalding
hot. He felt upside down. In fact, his mother and the
neighbor across the street, Henrik Jacobsen, had put him
back on the chair. Henrik held him while Magda untied
the jump rope. The scalding heat that he imagined was
actually cold water being poured over his head.
He wasn't upside down; he was actually lying face
up on the big mattress bed across the room. And all he
could hear, besides the persistent pumping of blood in his
temples and neck, were Jannik's hysterical screams.
Chapter 18
e drove up the long drive to our cobblestone
parking pad alongside the house, eager to spill out
W of the car, take turns pissing, and then commence
tearing into the best pizzas made in all of Denmark.
"Hello friendly cats! We're home!" Jannik
announced, ducking under the top part of the Dutch door.
"We have pizza! You get cat food!"
We followed him into the great room, and to the
kitchen where the pies were slid onto the French country
table. "Where's your friend?" he asked Sander.
"Don't know. Maybe he's out walking."
"Maybe he's in the loft," I said, and took the service
stairs from the kitchen to the open layout upstairs.
"Torben? You up here?"
We have a small bathroom and shower adjacent to
the loft, and as soon as I stepped onto the varnished
landing I could hear that Torben was sick. He sounded
awful, and I knocked on the door to check on him.
"Torben, it's Johnnie. Can I come in?"
He pulled the door open just as another wave
struck him. He was hurling. "I'll wait right out here if you
need help. Just take your time. We're home now, and if
you need anything, or need us to take you to the doctor we
can."
He gave me a thumbs up from behind his back just
as another one hit. But he was slowing down. Now he was
just spitting, and he managed to flush the toilet. And the
good news was that he hadn't missed. It had all landed
where it should. He rinsed his mouth and pressed a wet
cloth against his face and forehead, and then joined me in
the room.
"It reminds me of a lot of Friday and Saturday
nights I've had. And a few Sunday mornings," he smiled.
"You're probably not gonna wanna hear this, but
we brought pizzas home from Mamma's on Klaregade," I
chuckled.
"I think maybe some milk might do a little better."
"I think so too. Why don't you stay up here? I'll
send Jannik up with some milk and bread, and you can
dip it in a bowl or something. It smells like a pizzeria
down there, and I don't think you have anything left to
come up," I said. "Lie down on the sofa there, we've got
this."
"Johnnie, I need to know something," Torben said,
lowering himself onto the divan. "Just tell me the truth.
Believe me, after this last year I can handle it."
"What's on your mind?" I asked him.
"Why in the hell are you guys being so nice to me?
Especially you! You must hate me, and now you're
bringing me milk a
nd bread like you're my mother or
something." Torben said.
"Okay. Honesty. I've hated you for nearly a year," I
began. "There was a time—no lie, Torben—that if I'd seen
you on the street, I would've hurt you badly, if not worse."
"I get it."
"Thing is, I'm not doing it for you. Not for me,
either. I suppose I could make you feel pretty shitty if I
wanted to. I could spit in your milk, and lick your bread,
and then smile while I watch you eat it," I told him. "But
here's the deal. That won't happen in this house because of
that man downstairs; the one who invited you to stay with
us as for long as you need to."
"Yeah. I understand," he said.
"No, you don't," I contradicted him. "And the
reason for that is because I don't understand it myself. I'm
not as good as he is. I would have sent you packing. That's
what I would've done. And that makes me feel horrible.
Like I'm covered in slime."
Torben sat back on the sofa and nodded his head in
agreement. "Did he ever tell you what I did to him? I
mean, everything?"
"I think so. Put it this way, I hope he did. Because
what he did tell me was enough to make me blow chunks
bigger than you just did." An awkward silence descended.
Then: "The good thing, Torben, is that I can try to live up
to what Sander is because you're here. And if I can be half
that man, I've succeeded. And you have the same chance,
however many days you've been given," I said. I think it
did some good. I think he needed to hear something
concrete, one way or the other, from the man who had
assumed the role that he had so carelessly tossed away.
"You're a good guy, Johnnie. Sander did well."
"I know that I sure did well, anyway. So, bread and
milk? Maybe some juice?"
He smiled and thanked me. He was sincere. And
anyway, I felt that he knew he would soon be leaving the
world with a knapsack of regret. I promised myself that I
would do nothing to resurrect the past while Torben was
in our home. And I also knew that he was more than just a
lodger. I knew Sander enough to know that Torben would
always be a part of him, and I was okay with that. So from
then on, I would do everything in my power to make
Torben feel welcome and included, even if was just for
Sander's sake. Because that was the only sake I cared
about.
"JANNIK, WILL YOU DO your other brother a very big
favor?" I asked the boy with the mouthful of pizza.
"What took you so long up there?" he smiled,
taking a swig of orange soda to help wash it down. Orange
soda. "...And sure, what ya need?"
"Will you take a break and get the milk, put some
bread in a bowl, and some juice, and take it up to Torben?
He's resting in the loft."
"Doesn't he want some pizza, Johnnie Rocket?"
"I don't think so," I chuckled, "he won't be wanting
pizza for a while. He was really sick," I told him.
"What's wrong?" Pokey asked. "Flu or something?"
"Meds. Total meds reaction I think. But I told him
we'd drive him into town if he needs the doctor or
whatever," I said. "Something soft and soothing's what he
needs right now, I think."
"Thanks."
"For?" I replied. Next thing I knew there was this
handsome Dane with pizza breath kissing me and
touching my hand. He looked deep inside me with his ice
blue eyes and just gave me a sweet, loving nod. And
barely I heard a soft whisper from his beautiful lips.
"Thanks."
"You two are worse than the high schoolers,"
Jannik quipped as he made for the service stairs, arms
loaded to bursting.
"There's no law that says you can't make two trips,"
Sander needled him.
"There's no law that says guys named Pokey can't
shut up, either."
"I'll eat your pizza. I will!"
"Try it and die!"
"Why do you guys do that?" I asked Sander.
"Exercise."
"SPECIAL DELIVERY FOR THE sick boy," Jannik said,
carefully entering the room. "This will make you feel
better, because Johnnie says so."
"Thanks, Jannik," Torben said.
"You're welcome. Here, we have a folding table to
put it on. Should make it easier." Jannik grabbed the table
and held it against his body. "Watch this!" He pressed a
lever that caused all four legs to snap open at once. "Pretty
cool, right?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah," Jannik replied, as he set the pitchers,
glasses, and bread basket on the table.
"You really like Johnnie, don't you?"
"Yeah, sure. Very much," Jannik said.
"Does he treat your brother really well?"
Jannik nodded, not quite knowing where this was
leading. Torben held his hand out. "Can I shake your hand,
Jannik?"
"Yeah... But why?"
"Because I want to apologize to you for what I did
to your brother. And I want to say thanks for saving him.
I'm really sorry, Jannik. I really am."
Jannik took his hand and responded with a firm,
grown-up handshake. "Okay, Torben Petersen, I'll shake
your hand. But you better never do anything to make my
brother sad ever again, cuz I won't be nice about it."
"I believe you. And I promise I'll be good to him,"
Torben said.
"...And to Johnnie."
"And to Johnnie."
"Okay, then. We're good." And Jannik re-turned to
the kitchen to down some more pizza.
Chapter 19
ext morning brought a soft tap on our back door. A
glance outside the window revealed Ingrid and
N another guy standing behind her that I didn't
"Hey, sexy thang, what brings you out to the
sticks?" I teased. "And who's this tall drink of Nordic water
you have here?" I asked, giving the handsome Viking the
once-over.
"Bjorn, this is my brother's boyfriend, Johnnie. He's
American," she laughed, "so you can blame him for
everything
if
you
want.
Including
my
eternal
unhappiness."
"Hey, Bjorn," I said, shaking his hand. "What'd I
ever do to you, brat?" I smiled at Ingrid, inviting them into
the kitchen.
"It's what you didn't do," she said, giving me a
disgusted push on my shoulder. "We should be married
and on our second kid by now.
"You have Bjorn, here. How about it, Bjorn?" I
joked.
"Well... we... uh..."
"He's fucking gay, just like the rest of you!" Ingrid
playfully fumed. "I've tried to tell him I'm gay
too, but he doesn't buy it."
"I prefer my guys to have flatter chests, and, well...
You understand, Johnnie," Bjorn explained.
"So we're here on business," Ingrid said.
"Apparently you have one of my clients stashed away
here, and I'm supposed to check on him t
hree times a
week. Since when are you guys running a hospice?"
"Uhmm..."
"Where's Sander?"
"He's out with Jannik. The bakery, I think," I said.
"Hello, Ingrid," Torben said. "It's me that you're
here to see, I guess." Ingrid was shocked, and appeared
very confused. She absent mindedly placed her bag and
clipboard on the counter and stared at him blankly.
"So you are the T.J. Petersen?"
"That's me. I guess you weren't expecting to see me
here. Or ever. Sorry for that, I didn't know..."
"Johnnie, what the fuck is going on?" Ingrid asked
plaintively. She was upset, but her logical side soon
grabbed hold enough for me to coax everyone into the den,
where hopefully I could offer up a little reason. I hadn't
even had my breakfast yet, and I was worried that the
boys would get home before I'd had the chance to diffuse
whatever might be fusing up!
"Last week Torben came to the house and asked
your brother to forgive him for... Well, anyway, he was
sincere, and he wanted to apologize, and, well, we all
know Sander."
"I didn't have anywhere else to go, Ingrid, and I
knew your brother would--"
"Okay, yeah, I don't need to hear any more. I can't
fucking believe this!" Ingrid hissed. Then turning to me she
added, "And when were you two gonna tell the rest of us?
I assume Jannik knows already?"
"Yeah, he knows. He's who answered the door
when Torben came," I told her.
"So you've got my kid brother keeping secrets
now? Am I not supposed to say anything either?"
Torben interjected: "Look here, Ingrid, It's not their
fault. I know Sander enough to—"
Ingrid was having none of it. She cut him off and
announced she was leaving. Bjorn must have felt like he
was watching a bad, hysterical reality show on television.
He took the cue and stood up, going to the kitchen to fetch
the nursing bag. Anything to leave this confrontational
scene.
"Tell Sander to call me when he gets back,"
Ingrid demanded.
"I'll let him know," I promised. "But please don't
shit down his throat about this, okay? He doesn't need to
worry about how you guys will take the news, and
anyway, we were gonna tell you at the weekend."
She expelled an angry, guttural sound—couldn't
describe it here if I tried—but she'd made her point crystal