The Willow Tree
By
Tim Stillman
(For Jase, for your kindness and laughter and happiness, I wrote this story for you)
"Is it underneath the willow tree that I've been dreaming of?"
"Where is Love?"
LIONEL BART'S OLIVER!
Sometimes, on these late Autumn days, with an occasional squadron of geese flying in arrow point formation, as he craned his neck to see them, and in his heart, go with them, Oliver thought he was meant to sit here under the willow tree, barren and naked for Fall it was, and be as content as he could be. He sat with his knees drawn up against his chest, his forehead on his knees in his torn jeans, and felt the cold through his poor clothing and his inadequate too thin jacket. He was in love.
Love felt beautiful to Oliver and he wished the lake were closer by for another friend, in addition to the tree, for here after school, he contemplated forever; here he dwelt in no territory other than himself; he was not a weak small kid here; he was tall enough to touch the sun; strong enough to move the Earth; he was not a boy with shaggy hair, for price was too dear; he was a boy of melancholy and dreams and he was in love.
He was not glum; indeed, he was wide-eyed and everything seemed a miracle; breathing for one thing; the feel of his heart beating, for another; he loved looking at the stars at night; he even loved school, because he was good at his classes, and if he smiled little, that did not mean he did not smile inside himself, that he was supremely happy he was here; and Autumn come again, and it was here, as he had waited for it all year long; in decent, Oliver was in ascent; in making fortunes of the future, he was a master at it, and if who he was in love with was wrong, then he did not feel need to call a quorum to pass judgment on his whole being; on the stars inside himself; on the star stuff that made him part of the long, lonely sky.
He scratched his left ear and pulled himself tighter into a ball, for the wind blew cold; it might even snow soon and he smiled at that, really smiled, inside and out; oh give me the sky to fly in and give me eyes that know me above all else in the world; swing my life and bring me to a bright shiny apple of a golden sun and let me hear the words I love you. For Oliver was a boy of perspicacity; he was a boy who knew a sum total can be reached even if one is still very young and the ground round him very brown and very cold and very beautiful, all the cobalt night sinking down and in, all the woods over there bring him to me and let me touch; let me converse not with teachers or parents or even friends distant from me they may be; for he knew when he touched himself at night in his bed; for he knew when the pleasure wrapped round his body and said peaceful joy, that he would find him under that willow tree; that he would find him lost and dissembled; what people may have thought Oliver was, but was not.
The cold corridors of the world dressed in amber sun set today, and he now held his hands to his sides, arms straight out, and imagined the November seas he could be plowing through; the great human ship he was, and big and powerful and strong, not emaciated, not addicted to being only with himself; deep he was and the seas in him were formulation of other continents on other planets; other worlds that were spirals in the loose leaf notebook bindings that said whisper to him and tell him, lean over the forest of wooden chairs in the school room, and say, Joel, I love you and Joel would not laugh or drop his pencil in utter shock, and the other students with their mahogany eyes would not look at him as though he would not become part of the woodwork, for he would not be allowed to play anymore reindeer games, had he ever been.
If only, and he took off his glasses and he rubbed his eyes which were tired from the days school and from the wind blowing drear. And he was in love. And thought--music. And thought--magic. And thought--will touching him make me finally at long last touch me? How pitiful we have this enormity in us, he believed, and yet we spend our days diagramming sentences, and doing math problems, and eating fish sticks on Friday, and somehow caring who gets chosen head cheerleader, when we could all be doing such grand things. When we could touch suns and stars in each other, when we could hold and caress and love and undress and see and wonder and feel lips and feel hands and not do it alone anymore, imagine the wonderworks of such a thing; do the ones who get to do it know how blessed they are, at all? He hoped so.
His room was a garret. His life was graphic novels. His notebooks were sealed with secret thoughts, thoughts big and small and medium size that he was not allowed to be thinking, if anyone knew, if Joel knew, if life knew, and what of my territory? He leaned against the willow tree bark. He felt it nice against his thinly clothed thin back and he looked up at the stars that had seemed to hold him from the very first time he looked at them and knew there was somebody for him. He put his hand to his chest and in his shirt and touched his cold skin, wondering how it would feel to be touched there and to touch in return, and what was his body? His skin. His legs and his desires, quick, three two one and over and then turning over and going to sleep.
Dream me, someone, dream me so I may live in something akin to you, and he picked up his Bluehorse notebook and took his pen out of his pocket protector, though it had little to protect, and he wrote down some more wishes and fished in his mind for the right way to say them before putting the words gently back into the river on the other side of the woods, alive and well. He bent his head downward, and his tongue tip came automatically out to lick his lips in firm concentration with his industriously occupied eyes, and he was in love and wrote, I am in love and the person doesn't have to know I am in love with them, for it would cheapen the love if he kn---
And Oliver stopped writing and his shoulders hunched, as he felt his erection and he felt his blood like cold lemonade on a hot summery day that lacked sugar and verve, only verbiage came and justifications, and with those mourners in his corner he would be here forever, and Oliver was not a boy to spend forever alone, for he was brave in his shyness, and he knew what and who he wanted; he didn't want, for sure, this tiger in his chest for the rest of his life, this tiger that had never known how to growl except in whispers, except when the two of them were fastened in bed alone and alone again. He wanted to feel the joys as Joel held him and he wanted Joel to want him to feel Joel's joys; he wanted to be the earth and sky and the geese flying sometimes arrow formations over head as he wished them safe from all hunters forever more amen. Oliver loved laughter and he loved the feeling of it, the tides of it, for it made him supremely glad he was given the chance to start here and to grow up and to think his own fine thoughts, and he decided this night, when he got home, he would phone Joel, and he would say Hi Joel, this is Oliver, how are you?
And with his heart pounding in his chest, he would hold the receiver hard to his sweaty ear to hear the breath, the silence, the words, possibly the hanging up on Oliver, or the laughter at him, but no, Joel wasn't like that--he was kind and sweet and always polite and he and Oliver acknowledged each other in the hallway between classes sometimes and o how Oliver's heart filled to overflowing with happiness and could not wait to get home to pretend he was making love with the most wonderful faun in the whole of existence, o Joel if you only knew how much I worship you, and he would say none of that tonight, make up some question about homework, and maybe he and Joel could see a movie or go to the Dairy Queen or the root beer stand sometime, just if he wanted to, you know, and had, like, you know, nothing to do--and Oliver slapped his notebook closed and put his pen in his pocket protector that as has been said before had little to protect. No, he thought, I will not put a foolish iron maiden round me of stupid you know like how about if well you know--no, I will talk like me, I have the right to don't I? And Joel will say sure, how about this coming Saturday, and that would be great, see you tomorrow then? And Oliver knew it would not go that way.
But he could still love him, in every rock and tree and person and sky and season, he would spend his life celebrating the faun forever young, and he would write about him, and make love to him that way, he would not give up, he would call him and talk to him, and be hopefully less afraid because-it was even bigger and more beautiful than the boy he loved; it was more exciting and more erotic than being naked together and seeing how the other one does it; it was everything--every mountain and every movie and every song and every dream, it was what Joel was and a million times a trillion times more, and if they became friends, fantastic, and if they became lovers, awesome beyond comprehension, and he would make it work, somehow, he had the stars and the planets and the moons and the suns and the huge beautiful earth all round him, he had everything in existence to sing Joel's praises, and to by the way sing praises of himself too, and all this hugeness, all this massive beauty, what could a little phone call do against all of that, if it didn't work out, and it just might work out, and he smiled and he laughed and he got straight up and he felt his pants crotch and found it now suddenly a bit wet and he laughed at the first time it had happened outside and beneath his willow tree. Maybe some day soon, he and his love will walk to this tree and they will hold each other and the dark afternoon would move round them and hold them in its huge palm and they would kiss the first time and brush their hands over each other's hair and hold tight and know and know......
He gathered up his notebook and school books and started to running home, true home, as fast as the wind pushed him back like in a game Oliver pushed forward laughing, harder, and a scrawny little boy was suddenly created as he really was inside and soon the phone and soon Hi Joel and soon the world would be even a more blessed more magnificent totally unlonely thing, because he would hear that voice soon and that was what he and everything in creation would want to hear and sigh with redemption when he and it did, and he thought, on the running, jogging way, thank you, if I forget somewhere up the line, thank you for me and for letting me play in the fields of forever. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Oliver, and once upon a time's never ever end.