Broken Glass
There had been signs. Big, blinding, garish signs, bright like the lights on the Sunset Strip, like the lights on the Las Vegas Strip, like the lights on the marquees that lined Broadway. Kelly could see them all in the rear-view mirror of his mind, though why he hadn't seen them looming over him before he crashed into his bedroom that night he would never know.
Saturday nights were long, wild, crazy nights in every emergency ward in the Western world. Saturday was the first full day of the weekend, and anyone who hadn't had a chance to break themselves Friday night had a good twenty-four hours to catch up. Broken bones, lacerations, dislocated joints and giant bruises were always the order of the night, every week, without fail. This was on top of the usual flow of illness and injury that went through the room day in, day out. There were the weekend warriors who forgot that spending 40 plus hours every week in a chair meant they couldn't fix the roof in a day. They were dragged in with drunken brawlers who couldn't remember which sports team they were rooting for. There was always at least one bullet hole to suture, one shard of glass embedded in the face, one hideously angled limb dangling uselessly - always something violent and gory and positively unfathomable to the average citizen's mind. But the gore was the norm for anyone who worked an emergency ward on Saturday night.
That didn't make Saturday nights any less grisly or horrifying for the people who worked to put these broken folks back together. Exhaustion always wore everyone down Saturday night, from the hospital administrators at home fretting over what would meet them come Monday morning, to the janitorial staff who had to clean up after the patients and medical staff alike. It was easily the hardest shift to pull, the hardest shift to ask anyone to work. And because of that, ever since he'd taken over as head of Emergency at Rampart General, Dr. Brackett made damned sure that he was on staff for at least some portion of the madness of Saturday night, without fail.
It was a policy that he thought would rankle his housemate when Kelly had received his promotion. In the early days of their companionship, Stanford had been quite the swinger, and had made his displeasure known when Kel had hunkered down in his books, and had taken every single graveyard shift of his residency after graduation. Stan had made Kel promise to go out with him every single night once he was settled in his profession. But when Kel spoke of this new opportunity, and his intent to end their Saturday night trips to the jazz clubs and western bars, Stan was warm and supportive. "You're a good doctor, Kel, and a good man," Stan had said warmly. "The county is lucky to have you."
Kelly had thought the praise was sincere and heartfelt at the time. The years had borne out this supposed thoughtfulness as their companionship settled into a comfortable disregard of one another. Oh, there was still warmth and affection between them, and Stan's touch was still a comfort on those days when Kel questioned his own effectiveness in medicine, but each man was left to his own devices - Stan working his way to full partner for a major entertainment law firm, Kel trying to keep the whole of South L.A. County from bleeding out. There was no reason to question the lack of physical connection between them, because the reason was obvious: the need for physical closeness had been replaced by a passion for their respective professions and an undying mutual respect for each other's need for space.
Except professional interest had nothing to do with Stan's inattention. Nothing at all.
They hadn't been in the habit of keeping track of each other's schedules. Stan's schedule was reasonably consistent: a few trips out of town every year, a handful of late nights for company functions, and the occasional all-nighter when some big scandal was in the making. Kel's schedule was usually all over the map, but he kept it posted on a corkboard in the kitchen, so he would know when the hell to show up for work. He knew Stan read it - he wanted Stan to read it, so that there would be no hurt feelings when Kelly couldn't accompany him to a company barbecue or some silliness, and so there would be no hurt feelings when Stan went off to a company dinner without so much as a 'your dinner's in the oven, hope the night isn't too long and don't wait up' on the fridge.
Lately, Kelly had been feeling guilty about manipulating his posted schedule to get in a little more private time. He'd been sneaking on an extra hour at the beginning or end of his actual shifts, just so he wouldn't have to explain why he was leaving a little early, or coming home a little late. Stan never questioned these longer days. He just smiled and kissed Kelly goodbye, and they went on their separate ways, unified in a trust so deep that there was nothing to question.
Except that trust had nothing to do with Stan's unquestioning acceptance. Not a damned thing at all.
As the weeks grew nearer to their twentieth anniversary of commitment, Kelly realized that he could use Stan's acceptance of his posted schedule to his advantage. He had plenty of vacation hours accumulated. He'd done his more than his fare share of taking the brunt of responsibility on Saturday nights, a responsibility he hadn't actually intended to keep beyond his probation period at the beginning of his promotion. He had good doctors and good nurses, a good support staff all around, that could handle the ER just this one Saturday. He'd hemmed and hawed about it, the curse of a major anniversary falling on a Saturday, but Joe Early had been generous in his offer of time, and his dear sweet Dixie had called him an idiot for worrying. One damned Saturday without Dr. Brackett wasn't going to bring Rampart's Emergency Ward to its knees. They'd get by alright without him.
Turned out, they weren't the only ones getting by alright without him.
A cold bottle of spumante in one hand, a large bag of takeout from El Cholo in the other, and thoughts of contentment and commitment on his mind. That was what Kelly carried into the cozy old Hollywood bungalow he shared with Stan. The house was warm and gently lit, though there was no other sign of life when he stepped through the door. Still, he didn't call out. He wanted to find Stan himself. He felt like it would ruin the surprise to call out from the front door. Better to stalk through the house, searching in silence.
A letterman jacket lay draped across the living room couch. Kelly stopped and stared at it for a long time. It was blue and fuzzy and had the word POLY in big yellow letters on the back. Poly. Why would a letterman's jacket for a school neither of them had ever attended be in their living room? Kelly had struggled through Trade Tech and CSULA before scoring a full ride to his doctorate at USC, and as far as he knew, Stan had gone to UCLA and Loyola. So why was a jacket from CalPoly in their living room?
Kelly ducked his head into the kitchen briefly, still pondering the mystery of the jacket. The stove light was on, but nothing else. He couldn't smell food. That was good. Stan would be hungry. He smiled to himself, pleased that he'd come home early with food and drink. Maybe they could light a fire in the den, before they lit a fire in each other.
But there was no sign of Stan in the den, either. Strange. Maybe he'd gone out? It would be just like Stan to attend some work thing on their anniversary. Granted, the corkboard showed that Kelly was supposed to be at Rampart until eleven, but he thought that Stan would hope Kelly had begged off just this once. Well. Even if Stan had gone off to run some errand, he ought be home before eleven, which would give them at least a whole hour to celebrate. Kelly pretended not to be disappointed at the prospect of waiting four whole hours to hold his lifelong companion, and eased the bedroom door open to wait.
Stan was not at work.
Stan was standing over the bed, naked and sweating. And buried to the hilt inside some wiry young thing. The boy - and there was absolutely no doubt in Kelly's mind that this was a boy, at the very edge of seventeen at best - was gripping the sheets repeatedly, absently. He was saying something, something plaintive. Something a little sad, a little broken. And Stan was just standing there, gently petting the small of the boy's back.
Sweat began trickle down Kelly's own rigid back, and pool in the hollow there. A memory, twenty years old, of being petted that same way. He couldn't remember the last time Stan had touched him there.
Stan was talking to the boy trapped on the bed. His voice was sweeter than Kelly could remember it being for a painfully long time. It was sweeter than the tenderest memories he had of their lovemaking. Sweeter and softer and silkier. Almost as if the boy was the purest, most perfect thing Stan had ever seen, and Kelly had been a mere placeholder for all those years. The boy shifted slightly, turning his head towards the door.
Kelly quietly closed the bedroom door. He waited, the longest moment in his life. Would there be a scramble to get dressed? Hasty explanations? But there was nothing. No one had noticed his intrusion.
He turned from the door and walked mechanically down the hall, to the living room, where the letterman jacket lay. POLY. From this angle, facing the door, Kelly could see some textbooks and a folder underneath the jacket. He picked up the heavy coat, pushed aside the science texts, and stared down at the folder. Hurt, rage and pure disgust flooded him as he stared at the words embossed in gold lettering on the blue woven folder.
John H. Francis Polytechnic High School.
Little things that Kelly had treasured as mild and lovable quirks about Stanford shifted into something grotesque, something horribly dirty. The quest for copies of all their childhood pictures, divided into separate albums. They could share one album that started with the beginning of their union, he'd said. But there were hardly any pictures for that third album. Just lots and lots of pictures from Kelly's childhood.
Then there was the way Stan never wanted to kiss Kelly's cheek. The mouth of an angel, the face of a devil is what Stan said. But it wasn't that - he knew it wasn't that, because the reluctance hadn't really set into high gear until Stan came back from a vacation with his family, to discover that Kelly had been trying to grow a beard. Stan complained so bitterly, almost non stop, that Kelly had shaved three days after Stan's return. But in his defiance, he kept sideburns, sideburns that got thicker and wider and longer with each year. Stan hadn't complained, but he kept his kisses strictly to Kelly's lips.
And the strange rituals that precluded what little physical contact they still shared: the way Stan insisted on shaving Kelly's already fairly hairless chest, the massage of lotion into Kelly's chest and shoulders, the putting to bed, the complete cover of darkness.
The way Kelly was only his baby in the deepest dark of night.
A soft, even knocking sound came from the bedroom. Kelly knew that rhythm. That was the one thing that hadn't changed. He knew how long it would take before the bed began to squeak, and then the grunting would begin.
High school. The boy in his bed - in his place - was in fucking high school.
Kelly walked quickly but quietly to the front door. Out the door, in the car, down the street.
High school.
Did the boy know any better? Did he even want this? Hell, how old was the kid?
Kelly pulled over and looked at the bottle of warming wine and bag of congealing cheese and meat. He had no idea what the hell he was gonna do with all that food. He doubted the restaurant would give him a refund. But he couldn't bring himself to just dump it. Fifty damned dollars, down the drain.
He barked a harsh, painful laugh. Here he was, worrying about the potential waste of a couple hours pay, when twenty years of his life were irrevocably lost. He was irrevocably lost.
How old was that child?
Did he want it?
Kelly thought back to his first days with Stanford, days that he'd laughed about with close friends, days that he usually recounted with a twinkle in his eye. Stan's persistence, his overbearing presence, his inability to comprehend personal space. Kelly told everyone it was what made Stan a good lawyer, this doggedness, this refusal to give in. He told them it was what made them such a strong team, that Stan's unwavering affection bolstered them through bad times.
That memory shifted, too. But it was a shift back into place.
Kel wasn't a child, still carrying around his folder from Narbonne High when he'd met Stan. He was secure enough in himself, his ideals, his way of thinking to follow through and become the man he'd dreamed of being. When he'd bent to Stanford's will, it was because, in the end, they were choices he could live with. He was man enough to know he didn't mind giving what Stan was asking of him.
Or, at least, he thought he had been.
Kelly pulled back onto the street and rolled slowly back towards the house he'd spent the majority of his adult life in, pausing at the 7-Eleven just a few blocks away from their quiet, tree-lined street. He stared at the row of payphones for a long time, pondering his choices. He could go back in there, raising hell, demanding Stan find a new bed for his whoring ways. But he'd never be able to sleep in that room again. He could go back and quietly collect his belongings and creep back out. But then he'd have to listen to Stan's stammering - or worse yet, be drawn into a smooth lie that would capture him and try to set the world back on its axis. He could call the cops and report that his roommate was doing something strange with a high schooler. But then he might be exposed himself, and looked at with recrimination.
Kelly's head hurt.
A pair of young girls flounced out of the 7-Eleven, drinking sodas and sharing a bag of potato chips. Their legs were long and tanned, and they looked like they didn't have a care in the world. They looked to be about the age of that boy in his - in Stanford's bedroom.
Kelly got out of the car and approached the payphones like a condemned man climbing the steps to the galley. Where would he go after this? He couldn't go back there - hell, he wasn't even sure he could go back for clothes. Not if he picked up the phone. Not if he made his secret life a part of the public record. Sweat dripped in his eyes. He picked up the phone. He should just go back to Rampart. Explain things to his friends. They would understand. They cared for him, he was no pariah. He was just Dr. Brackett to them. He dialed the operator. His hands were shaking.
"Hello, this is the operator."
He could just get a room somewhere, think it over.
"Hello? How can I help you?"
He should give Stan whatfor, give the kid a chance to leave.
"Hello?"
Kelly slammed the phone back in its cradle and bent double, suddenly overcome with a nauseating wave of vertigo. Every day he faced people in crisis, often times on the worst days of their lives. Sometimes in the last moments of their lives. The gravity of those decisions never weighed him down. He just got on with the work, and did his best to help them. It was simple. Do what you have to do to save the patient.
Okay.
"Okay."
Kelly picked up the phone and pressed '0' again.
"Hello, this is the operator."
Kelly's throat closed up, and he could hear the exasperated breathing of the young woman on the other end of the line. "I -" His breath shuddered.
"Do you need the police?"
God bless you, Ma Bell, Kelly thought. "Yes," he croaked.
Ten minutes later, Kelly parked across the street from the house in which he could never again peacefully sleep. He watched in seething silence as a black and white pulled into the driveway that was no longer his. A pair of officers stepped out, flashlights on, batons out, and approached the door. Kelly slunk down a little in his seat, insides twisting in fear for what might happen to Stanford. It wasn't that he didn't want them to hurt Stan - he wanted them to beat the everloving shit out of him, actually - but the idea that they would just as soon turned on the pussy little faggot who called it in made him more than a little nervous.
Not that he had any real cause for thinking that they thought any less of him for it. He'd been discreet enough, describing himself to the dispatcher as a roommate, a concerned citizen who sensibly split the household bills with another single professional male in Los Angeles. As far as the LAPD report would say, Kelly's roommate was nothing more to him than a business associate of sorts, where the business was that of keeping a roof over one's head without having to live in a giant apartment complex with a bunch of screaming hoodlum children. And if the responding officers figured out that the gentleman who called it in didn't have his own bed anywhere on the property, well... they wouldn't find him hanging around to test his theory of their true level of openmindedness anyway.
The front door opened, and Stan stood there, in the damned bathrobe Kelly had given him for his 55th birthday. He could see the large blue fleur de lis shining under the porch light. The officers spoke briefly with Stan, and looked as if they were going to turn away, when one of them craned his neck and seemed to peer into the doorway. The mood shifted, then. Stan tried to close the door, but the officers pushed through, and the shouting began. Kelly wanted to stay and see him hauled off in chains, but he didn't want to be any place where Stan could see him. He didn't want even the slightest possibility of a discussion with Stanford. Kelly saw flashing lights turn onto the quiet street in his rear view mirror, and slowly motored away from the scene.