Talker's Graduation by Amy Lane Read Free Book Online Page A

community, the joy in the arts, and the
    simplicity. Talker just yearned for someplace where all he could
    hear was the sound of Brian‟s heartbeat—the world seemed so
    jumbled in the city.
    “Who doesn‟t?” Mark asked distractedly. A hole opened up in
    front of the sculpture, and Mark grabbed his arm to steer him there.
    Talker let him. At this point letting Mark show him the one thing he‟d
    been dying to see was a lot easier than sorting out his tangled
    thoughts. “I just… it would be really nice if you could consider it,
    okay?”
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    “Well,” Tate said, irritated, “I would have been happy to
    consider it if I‟d ever heard about… it….”
    All thoughts about Petaluma and a little cottage by the sea
    dribbled out of Tate‟s ears.
    The sculpture was there. There in front of him.
    And it was beautiful. It was beautiful, and it was him.
    The sculpture could loosely be termed a bust—it featured a
    young man, with dark hair parted in the center, ink-black eyes, a
    delicate nose and vulpine chin. His expression was open, open and
    eager and joyful, and his features were clean and perfect, which
    was in direct contrast to the surface he was resting on.
    The surface he was resting on was full of dark twists, wrought
    in three dimensions, with grooves and whorls carved into the clay‟s
    surface, and unsightly lumps punctuating the bizarre, twisting
    landscape. There were spikes and studs—the kind that would go
    into eyebrows or noses—embedded in the clay, and etched over
    the frightening, inky whorl was the face of the beautiful boy. It was
    as though the boy looked into a mirror and saw only the darkness,
    while the person looking at the boy saw only the light.
    The sculpture‟s title was right at the front, on a little placard. It
    said, “Talker.”
    Oh Jesus. Tate wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand. This
    was how Brian saw him—the beautiful, unblemished boy, with the
    open, eager, seeking face. And this was how Talker saw himself,
    with the disfigurement and the confusion and the pain.
    He felt hard sobs well up in his chest. Oh God. God, he
    wanted to cry. He wanted Brian‟s arms around him so he could cry
    and cry and cry—but only when Brian‟s arms were around him,
    because just like Brian was the only one who could look at him as
    he was and see that beautiful boy inside, Brian was the only one
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    who could hold him and care for him and see what was real and
    what was Talker and what was the crying child and the open-eyed
    boy and the scarred, optimistic… oh, God, according to that
    sculpture, the brave man.
    Suddenly Brian‟s arms were around his shoulders and he
    ignored everyone—the patrons at the Library, Mark Orenbacher
    and the ashes of his regret, and even their family, Lyndie, Craig,
    Doc, who were looking at the sculpture and at Talker and Brian with
    a terrible wonder. He turned into Brian‟s embrace and shuddered,
    laying his cheek on that broad, strong shoulder that could carry all
    of his pain, all of his bullshit, and still see the person even he didn‟t
    know was inside.
    “You like?” Brian whispered, and Talker‟s shoulders shook,
    hard, in his embrace. Brian sounded doubtful.
    “Brian… man… you fucking humble me,” Talker whispered.
    He wasn‟t going to sob, he realized. He‟d leak a little, but he
    wouldn‟t totally crack, because Brian‟s arms shored him up and
    gave him strength.
    “Is that good?”
    Talker had to laugh, and he came away, wiping his face with
    the back of his hand. “It‟s amazing, man. It‟s just fucking amazing. I
    can‟t believe you see me like this. I can‟t believe… I can‟t believe
    you just showed me like this to the world.”
    Brian‟s brow puckered. “Is that bad?” he asked, almost
    agonized. “I… I almost just took it home, you know? Just showed
    you. But….” He was trying to grapple for words, and it was hard to
    watch.