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the window again. Then he looked at his hands and
the floor before he looked at me.
"Because like you, even though I say it, 1 don't
want to believe all that and besides ... I can't help
wanting to be with you. Most of the time, as you
know from my poem, I feel like I'm in a cage, but
when I'm with you, I feel free, even if it's a reckless
feeling, a reckless freedom, it's still it feels good." "Then it can't be bad, Duncan, and you can't let
your mother or anyone else make you think it is. And.
don't whip yourself with Scripture either.-
"I know," he said softly. "1 know." He looked
up at me again, and this time, I thought there were
tears in his eyes, too. "Will you help me overcome
this idea?"
"Yes," I said. "We'll help each other." He smiled softly. I held out my hand, and he
slowly reached for it. For a moment that was all we
did, hold onto each other's hand. Then his grip grew
stronger, and he rose to come to me. He knelt before
me and lowered his head to my lap. I stroked his hair,
and we were like that for a while, neither of us
speaking.
He's right about us, I thought. We are similar:
According to what he was telling me, he was afraid he
would turn out to be his father, and I was running
away from my grandparents and Sandburg because in
my heart I was afraid I would turn out to be my
mother. These thoughts drove us into the same dark
corner, only at the moment he seemed more helpless,
deeper driven. I was at least trying to escape from
myself.
