As Luck Would Have It by Mark Goldstein Page B

closeted.  He’s coming over again tonight?  Clifford, are you sure he’s a good friend for you?
    I was quite sure by now regarding the quality of his friendship, and quite positive that I would not argue with her about it, or for that matter make an y excuse s for him or try to come up with any justification for the fact that my best friend was queer.  Counter arguments carried little weight with Aunt Doreen; her convictions, whether rational or not, were as firm as cement.  It was late April and we were sitting in the living room watching a Blackhawk’s playoff game and going over our European History assignment, when there was a knock at the door.  Who could that be at this hour, she wondered out loud.
    An old er man was standing in the doorway and introduced himself to Aunt Doreen, but I couldn’t really hear over the drone of the hockey announcer.  She went out on the porch after announcing that she’d be back in a minute, but at least five had past and she had not reappeared.  Joseph was absorbed in his history book as usual, so I walked outside to see what was going on.  I knew who he was before anyone could offer up introductions.  Even through the darkness, the smoke and the shock of that night, I recognized the man in the truck who stared, but did not speak.  Once again, we just gazed silently for several seconds like some bizarre replay of the event, right into each other’s eyes as we had back in December.   Aunt Doreen remained hushed for once, as we just stood there quietly waiting for what, I wasn’t sure.  He held out his hand which I took and after he introduced himself as Avery Casslemond, I noticed the te ars that had formed in his eyes, threaten ing to overflow.  How is your leg doing, was the first thing that came to mind, which caused him to nod and say it was doing pretty well now, thanks for asking.
    I had tried to avoid the news stories on television and in the papers, but had never the less learned about Mr. Casslemond, his produce business and his badly injured leg.  It had not occurred to me that I would meet him and up until then, had no desire to know anything else.  He’d survived, I’d survived, we were both lucky, and that was enough for me.  But standing there in the cool spring air and seeing him, I was suddenly both interested and intrigued by the old man, who despite his age seemed to me to have maintained a certain vitality and it appeared that he carried himself with a sense of energy and purpose.
    Aunt Doreen seemed uncertain when I asked him to come inside, but she didn’t verbalize any objection just then.  I introduced him to Joseph, who just sat their gaping at Mr. Casslemond without speaking.   For both him and Doreen to fall silent at the same moment in time was even more surprising to me than Mr. Casslemond’s abrupt emergence from the evening's darkness.  Maybe they could just sit there gawking at him, but not me. I’m glad you decided to come by sir.  My wife wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but I really needed to see for myself that you were alright.
    What could I say, that I was doing fine, when in fact I was still suffering terribly, feeling more alone and disengaged from living than I could possible describe?  Should I tell him that I cried in bed still every night until sleep thankfully overtook me, but only as a ploy to coax the nightmares back into my brain to torture me even more than when I was awake?  Or maybe I should talk about how my mother loved to knit sweaters and make the holidays special, but oh wait, this past Easter was so lonely with the Kleins out of town visiting the relatives in New York for Passover and me alone with my sober aunt and uncle, who tried, I’m sure to make things good, but could not possibly double as replacement parents. Or s hould I should tell him about my father instead, who stood up to that prick Strickmann when he went to school after Thanksgiving that time, or when he stayed up all