Page 62 of Pages of My Heart
“Tommy . . .” Charlie begins, but then looks away.
“What is it?” he asks, his mind instantly assuming the worst.
“Look, I don’t want an argument, but I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I don’t even know if I’ll make it home. And if I do, it might not be all in one piece.”
“Stop it! Don’t—don’t fucking speak like that.” Thomas pulls his hands away, his temper flaring.
“Tommy, please. I want to know . . . I need to know if—”
Thomas stands abruptly, the chair tumbling over with the force of it. “No!” He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He won’t fucking have it. Not when they have less than four hours remaining. “You know the answer already, anyway. It’s yes and forever. Now come and lie down with me.”
Thomas undresses Charlie in silence, their eyes never disconnecting. He removes his own clothes next and leads Charlie to the bed. They spend their remaining time gazing upon each other, exchanging gentle touches and tender kisses. Thomas presses his ear to Charlie’s chest, directly over the tattoo, and listens to his steady heartbeat. Charlie asks Thomas to turn over and then draws patterns with a finger on his back. He makes Thomas guess what they are—a heart shape, the infinity sign, then the words “CHARLIE LOVES THOMAS” written in all capital letters. It almost breaks him, his voice cracking when he answers, “I love you too.”
They hold onto each other desperately, their bodies as fragile as their hearts. “I’ll think of you every day,” he whispers, his lips brushing against Charlie’s ear.
“I will come home to you, sweetheart.”
The walk to the bus stop is the greatest battle Thomas has ever fought. It may as well be World War III for all the brutality being thrown against the fortifications he’s uselessly placed around his heart. But he must not cry this time. He must not let Charlie leave with the burden of worrying about him.
Even though they have shared their last goodbye kiss in the privacy of their motel room, Thomas still wishes he could have another. Or that he could at least wrap Charlie up in his armsand breathe him in. But it doesn’t matter how many hugs and kisses he gets, he will always,always, want more.
Standing together across the road from the bus station, their eyes meet one last time. Thomas nods his encouragement, eyes blinking back tears as his heart pounds so loudly it drowns out the rest of the world. Charlie visibly swallows hard. There is no way they can utter another word to each other without breaking down in the middle of the street. Charlie takes one step back, smiles and salutes, then turns and strides across the road.
It’s two o’clock on the dot when Charlie climbs up the steps of the bus. Thomas tracks him as he walks halfway down to where there is a vacant seat and slides over to the window, eyes instantly connecting with his own. As the bus starts to pull away, Thomas puts his hand to his heart and forces himself to smile. Charlie nods in return, hand lifting and pressing to the glass. And then he’s gone.
Thomas tilts his hat down, not wanting anyone to see the heartbreak plain on his face. He checks his watch—the next train to Chicago doesn’t depart for another hour. Lighting a cigarette, he picks up his bag and heads toward the station anyway, choosing a seat at the very end of the platform once he arrives. He pulls out the book Charlie gave him and opens it to the first page, rereading the inscription a few times. An image of Charlie writing it in front of the bookstore assistant brings a soft smile to his face. As he reads the first sonnet, Thomas realizes it’s true—their love is a poem, epic and beautiful and triumphant. But only the first stanza has been written. If God is willing, then surely there are still many more verses to come.
Closing his eyes, he whispers, “We still have the rest of the poem to write, Charlie Miller.”
Chapter 31
July 1944
Thomas
When Thomas arrives home from work, he stops at the mailbox, as has been his habit for the past fourteen months, hand hovering momentarily before lifting the lid. The letter he received from Charlie last week still weighs heavily on him. He’s unwilling to accept that Charlie has succumbed to the horrors of war, but his husband is obviously not thinking clearly, and that frightens him. That Charlie could suspect him of being unfaithful, or of leaving him for another, cuts Thomas wide open. Perhaps he made a terrible mistake not telling Charlie about his episode, but at the time, he thought it would worry and distract him too much. Now he understands that the lengthy time between his letters has been grossly misconstrued. Thomas can only hope that his latest letter has arrived by now, and that Charlie has been reassured of his devotion.
Thomas flicks through the day’s mail, his heart stopping at the sight of Charlie’s distinctive scrawl. How could he have another letter so soon? Rushing up the path, he fumbles with the key before bursting into the house. He quickly shrugs offhis jacket, dropping the letter in his haste before taking a seat in the armchair and finally ripping the envelope open.
And then his world shatters.
May 18, 1944
Dear Red,
I’m no good. I’m a broken man. Forget me. Go and find another.
Charlie
He reads it again. And again. Itcannotbe. Thomas rocks his body backward and forward in a childish attempt to soothe himself. It will be all right he tells himself. It will be all right! Charlie hasn’t received his letter yet. Charlie is just confused. A wailful sound originates deep in his chest and claws its way out of his mouth, opening a floodgate of grief. Tears spill onto the wretched letter, the ink blurring before his eyes.
Doesn’t Charlie love him anymore? How could Charlie ever think he could love another? Or forget him? The thoughts swirl around in his head in a dizzying kaleidoscope of emotion until only anger remains. He stands up screaming and rips the letter to shreds, the tiny pieces of paper fluttering to the ground like falling bits of snow. Collapsing back to the floor, he sobs. It feels like someone has ripped his insides out. He needs Charlie. He needs to talk to him and set him straight. Thomas can fix this if only he can justseehim, justtouchhim.
Fists pound on the front door and he gasps in surprise, then stills with the unexpectedness of it. Evie’s hysterical shouts follow a second later.
“Tom! Tom, please . . . it’s Charlie. Thomas! Open the door!” Evie pounds with her fists once again.
Thomas scrambles off the floor, wiping at his tears as he races to the door. When he swings it open, he’s finds an ashen-faced Evie, mascara running down her cheeks and eyes wide with fear.
