He snapped his head up to look at Maxwell, lips parted in surprise. “How—?”
Maxwell laughed and shot him a sly smile. “I’m not an idiot, I’ve watched soldiers not even half as healed as I am get sent back. I just put the pieces together.”
Edwin flushed and glanced away. “Well, you needed more time. And I did, too.”
“Thank you,” Maxwell whispered, his voice soft like velvet. He let his hand brush against Edwin’s as he shifted around. If anyone happened to see it would look like an accident.
“How are you feeling?” Edwin asked.
“About going back?”
Edwin nodded.
Maxwell let out a heavy sigh and shrugged. “I knew it was coming so I can’t act surprised, but it would be an understatement to say I’m not looking forward to it. Every day in the trenches is a gamble on my life, and living still means someone else will die. Dying out there is only marginally worse than living through it.”
Edwin pursed his lips and squeezed his hands together. “You’ll make it. You’ll make it and we’ll go home when all this is over.”
Maxwell cocked his head. “How could you know that?”
“Because I’ll climb into the trenches myself to save you again.” He stared at Maxwell with a fiery determination rarely seen in the eyes of the stoic doctor.
“Why?” Maxwell asked, his voice suddenly very small.
“I think we both know why.”
It took everything not to launch into an embrace right there, the wire drawing them together almost taut enough to snap.
“I do,” Maxwell said after a long minute, pressing the side of his thigh against Edwin’s.
Edwin swallowed down the nervousness bubbling in his chest and asked what he’s been wanting to for weeks now. “What happens after you leave? With us.”
“What do you want to happen?” Maxwell retorted.
He hesitated but settled on honesty. There was no way to know how much time they had, and he wasn’t about to waste it. “I want to stay in touch with you. I want to write letters while we’re at war, and I hope to see you again after it’s all over.”
Maxwell smiled wide. “I want the same thing.” Edwin could not be more relieved…
He has not even left yet and I miss him already. Maybe this is the softness my father warned me about. But who would not want the soft strength of love? It will carry me through.
Veneers by Kirk Lawson
Potomac, Virginia, 1902. The ways we erase ourselves. It doesn’t happen all at once. Rather, a steady build-up of denials. Over time, a disappearing act of a person’s true self.
Tom and I stand before a brick three-story Georgian mansion, which I’d acquired after graduating from university and before marrying Ida. Sturdy, elegant. Smacks of money, like the wealth of family through generations. Six baths, eight bedrooms—private quarters for me, the misses, and our two children.
We stand boldly arm-in-arm in front of the boxwood. He’s a neighbor three houses down. A dear fellow. Shy. Tender, yet mischievous. Always ready for me.
Carefully tailored, our suits hold our torsos firmly, pressing against our masculine contours. Boiled wool the color of deep saddle. Vests lined with burgundy-scored velvet, color of blood of the rich and privileged. Paisley brocade piping few will see. Matching kerchiefs and cufflinks. Our vests fasten with buttons made from the same burnished mahogany as the heirloom secretary in the parlor.
Pushing our boundaries, we march just to the point of disclosure. But to Ida, our families and work colleagues, I lead a life of prototypic success. Only by excavating beneath could anyone suspect anything different.
From our youth Tom and I have played rough. As toddlers in the basement, military men, guns cocked, uniforms taught. I stand erect, unsure of what’s happening. As teens, we wrestle. Man-to-man grabbing, hurling, embracing, helmets protect our heads and our hearts from a good bang. End of the day and others gone, we proceed to the locker room, already primed. Under the pulsing hot showerheads, we stroke each other off. Our coach emerges from the steam. Either latent ortolerant, he utters, “Careful now,” and leaves. We don’t ever play so foolishly again.
In university, Tom and I follow separate paths. He pursues architecture and the theater, me the world of finance and cricket. Thick horses and tight leggings. To squeeze such muscle. Taking the bumps to jostle an opponent. An attentive academic advisor becomes my second lover. Older, scholarly, seasoned. Offering endless education, he ignites passion for studies of every degree.
Senior year I meet Ida. Daughter of means, her family has owned the local jewelry store over decades. Attractive, witty, quick. She and I care deeply for one another. We develop a fondness and friendship like that of brother and sister. I offer stability, familiarity, steady support. And unfettered independence to pursue her interests. Together we attend social obligations and share laughs at the pretense. We are intimate on occasion, with no expectations or further discussion. Ida majors in English literature. A fan of Virginia Wolf. So preoccupied with her fictional worlds, she wiles away hours unaware of my antics. As she weaves stories, Tom and I are freer to carry on, outside of her view. She quotes Virginia.A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.
I earn my diploma in finance with honors. Following the path of privilege, I enter the world of finance and manage a bank branch from day one. With time, my empire of influence expands over the region.
