The Days of Bluegrass Love Read online

  “Shall we?” Oliver said, grinning.

  “Yes,” Tycho said, smiling too.

  “And maybe this is our chance,” Oliver said, straightening the bows of his shoelaces.

  * * *

  THE FIFTEEN MINUTES THAT followed were like the premiere of a strange play. Watching the Boys, it might have been called. Oliver and Tycho enter stage left. The door is open, so a lot of movements have already been edited out (door handle, fingers, pushing, hinges squealing, swinging open). Then they enter the room. First Tycho and then Oliver, with a relaxed gait and a distance of, let’s say, fifteen inches between them. The end point of their journey—the conference table. They survey the room. Scattered throughout the space are people. Their main preoccupation: observing. But each in their own way—a sidelong glance, a peek out of the corner of their eye, a furtive once-over, and even a wide-eyed stare—all of which comes to an abrupt halt when the camp director picks up his papers and taps on the table. Everyone grabs a pen and goes to find a chair, but only after they’ve all registered the fact that the boys have sat down right in the center. Next to each other.

  Carol is sitting with Gary. Gary is sitting with Director John. Donna has pulled up a chair next to Tycho, and Brahim is sitting with Oliver. Both of them are staring at Josine’s hands, straight across from them. Sherilynn walks in and searches out a seat at the end of the table. People glance over at her, and then from her to Oliver and Tycho, who pretend not to notice, but then Director John puts his palms flat on the table and coughs. All eyes turn toward his mouth.

  * * *

  TYCHO NO LONGER HEARD violins screeching in the air. No vibrato, no pizzicato. He’d resolved to give nothing away, he’d decided he could handle anything. But even if you don’t want to look at it or listen to it, turmoil all around you has a way of seeping into your body. How? Through your skin, your pores? It buzzes around your head like a swarm of mosquitoes. Like the sound of saws whining—impossible to ignore. He breathed out again.

  He looked around the conference table and thought: There’s something reassuring about sitting at a table together, about hearing the director open the meeting, about his American twang. But what did Oliver mean when he said, Maybe this is our chance?

  Thankfully he didn’t need to speak. The meeting was about the flag ceremony, about how to decide who was hoisting the flag. About the hamburger surplus at dinnertime. About bedtime. About little things. He saw that Oliver was using the meeting to doodle. He was drawing a figure with fingers that were a little too short, a belly that was a little too fat, and a baseball cap that was a little too big. And suddenly—Tycho had no idea what had gotten into his head, his arm, his fingers—he leaned over and knocked the pencil out of Oliver’s hand. It skittered across the table and landed in Gary’s lap. “Brother Jacob” Gary.

  Everyone looked up.

  The camp director stopped in midsentence, and Gary pushed the pen back toward Oliver.

  Director John hesitantly resumed his story. The meeting went on, but now Oliver was trying to rip up Tycho’s piece of paper from under the table. When he realized what Oliver was doing, Tycho curled his body into a bulwark. Oliver’s arm was trapped. “Shit!” he said in a half-loud whisper.

  Again the camp director fell silent. Again all eyes were on them.

  Director John took a deep breath and said that he didn’t want to have to stop again. And especially not for foul language. Tycho said, “I’m sorry,” but the last syllable of his “sorry” was smothered by a giggle, because Oliver was squeezing him between the ribs. “I’m sorry,” he said again, this time managing to get the whole word out.

  Frowns.

  Troubled looks.

  “Right, as I was saying …” Director John said.

  Tycho turned his attention to Yoshi rather than Oliver. Yoshi was listening and playing with his pen. He threw it into the air, where it flipped one or two somersaults before he caught it again. An odd sight. Don’t laugh. Yoshi was listening. Yoshi’s hands had stopped moving now, and his head began to droop to his chest. Don’t laugh, Tycho. Yoshi’s eyes were closing—or were they? Don’t laugh, Tycho. He couldn’t hold it in any longer—he cracked up. Loudly, and right as one of the leaders was making an impassioned plea about something. Director John slammed his hand down on the table, but Carol shoved her chair back and said she was taking the junior assistants aside for a separate evaluation.

  “Now!”

  * * *

  I DON’T FEEL LIKE TALKING,” Oliver said. Sherilynn gave him a dirty look. Carol shook her head. Donna looked from left to right, at a loss. Tycho was curious. On their way to the kitchen—Carol resolutely marching on ahead—Oliver had briefly brushed his fingers down Tycho’s back. Then they had sat down, on stools by the fridge. Hands in their laps—those hands didn’t know where to go from here either.

  Tycho stopped giggling.

  It grew quiet.

  And then Oliver said, “I don’t feel like talking.”

  “Okay,” Carol said, “okay. I have no idea what exactly is going on, but we’re trying to run a children’s camp here. And so we have a choice. Either we let this derail us or we take a deep breath and pick up where we left off. It’s up to you. I just want to have it on the record that I prefer the latter.”

  Again it was quiet.

  “You have no idea what’s going on?” Tycho asked.

  Carol sighed. “Okay, that’s not entirely true. But to be honest, I don’t care what people do in the privacy of their bedrooms. And personally I believe none of us should be worrying about that.” She looked pointedly at Sherilynn.

  “The only thing that’s important right now is our Little World. So come on, let’s not waste any more time talking about it, and let’s leave this kitchen as a team—Carol and her Four Fantastic Juniors. Whaddaya say?”

  For a moment the room was quiet. It was a slightly less chilly silence than before, but it still had sharp edges. Then Oliver shrugged his shoulders. Tycho nodded. Donna nodded too, and Sherilynn said, “Sure, fine by me.”

  “Good,” Carol said. “Thank you. Then we’ll leave it at that. Go off and enjoy yourselves, and I’ll see you when the kids get back.”

  They walked off. Donna let out a relieved laugh and said she was going to take the longest and hottest shower of her entire life. Oliver and Tycho headed for their supply closet. Sherilynn walked a few feet ahead of them, alone.

  * * *

  TYCHO WAS STRETCHED OUT on the bed. Oliver was sitting next to him, trying to untangle the string of his sweatpants. It was as if everything in the room—their unzipped bags, toothbrushes, clothes, the alarm clock, the shelves, the loom, the shoes they’d kicked off onto the floor—was trying to be very normal. Nothing going on, nothing at all. Tycho felt reassured. These objects weren’t making an issue out of anything.

  A knock on the door. A voice: “Can we come in?” Brahim.

  “Of course!” Tycho called out. Brahim entered with Adele and Josine in tow.

  “Wow, it’s tiny in here,” Adele said. They looked around for somewhere to sit. On a pillow on the floor, their backs against the locker and the door.

  “We just wanted to come say hi,” Josine began, and laughed at herself.

  “Sorry,” she said, “that’s a dumb way to start. We want you guys to know that if it’s true what John told us at the meeting …”

  “What did he tell you?” Oliver asked.

  “Um … He basically said that you guys are together now. But we just wanted to let you know that we don’t have a problem with that. We don’t mind at all. We’ve come to congratulate you.” Josine, Adele, Brahim—all three of them looked from Oliver to Tycho.

  Oliver didn’t say anything.

  Tycho felt the warmth of their smiles seeping into his body. He said, “Thank you” and asked what else Director John had said. He was surprised that the camp director had told them the truth. See? he thought. Things aren’t so bad. He smiled and was about to ask another question, b
ut then he glanced over at Oliver. Oliver wasn’t saying anything. Immediately Tycho thought: Oh, then I better keep quiet too.

  Josine got up and said, “I think the kids are due back any minute. We have to go outside.” Brahim and Adele fluffed the pillows and handed them to Tycho. They smiled and Tycho smiled back, but not too broadly. He watched them go, closed the door behind them, and turned back to Oliver. Oliver got up and said, “Right, we should go too.”

  * * *

  THE CEO OF KNOXVILLE Little World, whose pool and whose barbecue they’d become familiar with earlier, had hosted two children and was now staying the night at the camp to get a taste of the atmosphere. And to catch up with Director John—old friends, jokes, loud voices. He came up to Tycho and asked, “How’s it going?”

  Tycho was about to say “Fine,” but just in time he thought: Careful now.

  “Could be better,” he said.

  “Is something wrong?” the CEO asked, scanning the room. He saw Director John gesturing toward the soda machine. Before Tycho could explain, the CEO asked, “Have you talked to John about it?”

  “Yeah,” he began, but before he was able to add a “but” the CEO said, “Good! I’m sure he’ll be able to help you.” He patted Tycho on the shoulder and walked away.

  “These silly rules!” he shouted over at the camp director. “Why don’t we have any beer here?”

  * * *

  TYCHO FELT EMPTY. DRAINED. He wanted to leave—he was ready to go to bed.

  “I’m beat.”

  Oliver went with him.

  They trudged side by side down the long hallway, past all the pictures of girls and boys the school was proud of, the showers on the left and the staff room on the right, then around the corner, to the dorm with twenty sleeping children inside it. Into their supply closet—thankfully, Oliver didn’t feel like talking anymore either and, thankfully, Oliver crawled into his bed rather than climbing up into his own bunk.

  There they were, snuggled up. Tycho’s eyes closed. He no longer heard anything. Not Oliver’s uneven breathing. Not Oliver mumbling something into his hair, whispering something: “I don’t want to stay here anymore …”

  Stay where?

  Tycho didn’t ask.

  He slept.

  * * *

  NOT FOR LONG. OLIVER yanked back the covers. “I don’t want to stay here anymore. Come with me.”

  What was happening? What was he doing? He got out of bed and fumbled for his clothes. Was he leaving? Don’t hesitate, Tycho thought, go with him. He got up too. Shoes, socks, T-shirt.

  “Oliver! Where are you going?”

  “Outside!”

  He was already at the door.

  “No! Wait!” Tycho grabbed what was within reach: his wallet, the unused sleeping bag. Oliver turned the door handle, took a quick peek into the dorm, and strode off, down the aisle between the beds. Tycho followed him.

  There was an eerie silence in the hallways, and Oliver was walking quickly. He went into the leaders’ room, turned the light on, and went over to a list that hung on the wall. PROPERTY REGULATIONS, it said. He scanned the text and tapped his finger against the paper. Then he grabbed the key to the front door off a shelf. Lights out, and on they went. Through the auditorium, key in the lock, push, push, push, and there they were—outside, in the still-warm summer night air. They paused for a moment.

  “Where are we going?”

  Oliver abruptly turned his head and looked at Tycho.

  “No idea.”

  * * *

  THE SCHOOL GROUNDS WERE lit up by floodlights. Oliver avoided them. He’d started walking again. Down the driveway, toward the high fence with the barbed wire. The gate was closed. He was panting. But after a while he slowed down and even offered to carry the sleeping bag. He stopped prowling along the perimeter of the fence and turned back to Tycho. His eyes were brighter now. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I’ve had enough of the camp. We’ve got better things to do.”

  “Do you really want to leave?” Tycho asked.

  “Yes. With you.”

  A tidal wave of heat flooded Tycho’s body. “Me too.” He put out his hand and stroked Oliver’s arm.

  “I’m not going back in there,” Oliver said.

  “You don’t have to. Why don’t we sleep out here?” Tycho laughed.

  He was still holding his wallet. He looked at it.

  Oliver started to laugh too. Just for a moment, and then he stopped abruptly, as if it hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I really want to leave. And I’ll find a way.”

  Tycho took a step toward him, and, at exactly the same moment, they lifted their hands to each other’s faces.

  “Let’s sleep underneath the stars,” Tycho said, “and then tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do. We’re together—that’s all that matters.”

  “Yeah,” Oliver said, “okay. Where should we lie down?”

  “I know a great spot,” Tycho said, “come on.”

  * * *

  THE TWO OF THEM could have fit inside one sleeping bag, but Tycho ran back inside to get another, and their pillows. When he got back Oliver was sitting on the ground waiting, his elbows on his knees, staring off into the night.

  “We’ll have a perfect view from up here tomorrow morning,” Tycho said. He zipped the two sleeping bags together and started making their bed on the lukewarm concrete.

  “Mm,” Oliver said.

  Tycho had dragged him to the little stadium, halfway down the track and then up into the bleachers. They’d climbed up all the way to the top, where they had a view of the fences and the road, with the school behind them.

  Tycho said, “What do you think?” and Oliver dutifully took off his shoes, put his socks and his sweatpants next to the bed, and slid into the sleeping bag. “Goodnight,” he sighed—apparently, he wasn’t in the mood for “welterusten”—and he turned around, put his head on Tycho’s shoulder, and fell asleep.

  * * *

  IT WAS A BLOTCHY sort of night. The heat still hung in the air and mixed unevenly with the creeping cold. The sky was stretched over the city like a pale cowskin. A few stars here and there, scattered glitter stuck in someone’s hair.

  Now Tycho lay awake. He’d folded his arms to make a second pillow and could feel Oliver’s breath, now calm and regular, against his left ear.

  How quickly things can change, he thought. Two hours ago we were still lying in there, in a room without windows with a sky of mattress. And now open sky is all there is. Quite a backdrop. Quite a movie. Not bad, he thought, not bad.

  A little later still, he thought: We’re halfway. Tomorrow we’re leaving. Oliver is leading the way, I’ll fly behind him. Take a journey, take a walk.

  * * *

  NO,” OLIVER SAID.

  Tycho jolted awake, half-sitting up. Oof, that sun! And why was he wet? His sleeping bag and his T-shirt were clammy. What from? Dew? He opened his eyes a little further. Boots. Shit! A police officer’s boots! And Oliver, standing beside the sleeping bag.

  Two cops, asking who they were. Why they were lying here. Didn’t they know minors weren’t allowed to be in public places at this hour? Oh, they were from Europe? Then why were they here? They weren’t underage? Were they able to prove that? What kind of camp? Carol? Carol who?

  “You two stay here,” the police officers said. They didn’t even sound that unfriendly. They headed for the school building and Oliver looked over at Tycho.

  “Good morning!” he said.

  Tycho said, “Trouble?”

  “Nah,” Oliver said.

  Tycho got dressed and started rolling up the sleeping bag. “No?” he said.

  “We’ll see how it goes,” Oliver said. “Who knows.”

  Tycho looked at him. He said, “Okay. Who knows.” But the shoelaces he was tying trembled, along with his fingers.

  * * *

  FROM THAT MOMENT ON, things happened so fast it almost felt unreal. Afterwards Tycho would only be
able to recall the beginning, a moment from the middle, and the finale.

  The beginning: Carol—still in her nightie and slippers—making her way toward them with the two police officers, standing on the track and holding up their passports so they could see that Tycho and Oliver were real and were both over eighteen. Director John following behind in a bathrobe and with bed hair. The cops saying, “Thank you, you take care now.” The director not looking at them and stomping back to the school. Carol shaking her head and sighing, “Boys, you’re really in trouble now …”

  A bit from the middle: the kids sitting up in bed, awake, wide-eyed, watching as Oliver and Tycho brought the sleeping bags back inside. The camp director coming to get them, the CEO following close behind.

  And the end: the full staff room, Carol, Gary, the camp director, and the CEO. The CEO, whom they saw through the little window, shaking his head, and Carol gesturing, and the camp director calling them in and launching into a speech that ended with the words, “I’m sorry, but I have no choice. One of the rules at all of the Little World camps is that anyone who comes into contact with the police in any way is excluded from …”

  “But,” Tycho said, “we didn’t—”

  “Quiet,” Oliver said.

  “… further participation. I’m really so sorry.”

  * * *

  DIRECTOR JOHN TOOK A deep breath, sighed, took another deep breath, and said, “I’m sending you home.”

  JUST ONE LITTLE NUDGE and it all smashed apart. So quickly, so suddenly. To such dazzling effect.

  Tycho loved this violence, the unpredictable rolling around that sent one running off to the left and the other to the right. He liked the strange forces at work. Everything was responding to a law—a law that always played out differently than it had the time before, differently than it would the next time. A law that kept you on your toes.