The Vest
Schoenfeld’s Farm
Birch Island, New York
The two stone pillars were crowned with big planters of flowers and trailing vines.
They dripped onto the medallion of the Green Man, fluttering in the breeze as Liko pulled into the driveway.
Every available space to park was occupied, but following Dane’s texted directions, Liko drove past the farmhouse, up toward the spa, toward a plywood sign spray-painted with drippy letters: This spot reserved for Liko. Usurpers will be fed to Pao.
Wondering who—or what—Pao was, Liko left his suitcase and boxes and took only his backpack for now. Walking down to the house, he passed a tall hunk of dude in a cowboy hat sitting on the hood of a pickup truck, hand rolling a cigarette.
“Buenas noches,” he said from under the brim, giving Liko a thorough look up and down.
“Hi.” Liko extended a hand and introduced himself.
“You’re the owner of the coveted parking spot.” He gripped Liko’s handshake an extra beat, then let go and resumed rolling. “I’m Pao.”
“You’re the consequence to taking my spot.”
“I am.” Pao stared unblinking as he ran his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper.
“Eat anyone tonight?”
“Not yet.”
Liko felt his face redden. The gaucho was all kinds of smoking, but a little more force than Liko could reckon with. He smiled with a vague exit line and continued toward the house.
A smile cracked his face as he approached the long pergola, the structure barely visible under an explosion of purple wisteria blossoms. They dripped from the rafters and Liko put up a hand to trail along them.
The porch was crowded with chattering, laughing people, all with drinks in hand. They called a hello or hi or welcome, and a woman opened the door for Liko with a “Climb aboard.”
In the front hall Liko was greeted by a terrific-looking dog. “Hey,” he said happily, sinking to a knee. “What’s up?”
The mutt put a paw on Liko’s leg and raised its muzzle high to be admired. Liko took its face in his hands and rubbed its jowls. “Were you waiting just for me? Hm? Sorry, I hit traffic on the bridge.”
A slim man dressed rather smartly in black reached the foyer and held out a hand. “Hello, I’m Fred. I use they/them.”
“I’m Liko.” He tried to add his pronouns but now the dog was intent on French kissing him.
“Bupkis, sit,” Fred said.
“Bupkis,” Liko said. “That’s great.”
“My ex and I divided the dogs when we split up. My ex got Shpilkis. I got Bupkis.”
Always appreciative of a good divorce joke, Liko laughed harder. “Not sure if that’s win-win or lose-lose.”
“Hey, you got here,” Dane called, coming into the front hall. He wore a white butcher apron over his clothes and had a wooden spoon in one hand. The other palm slapped against Liko’s, hauled him up into a hard hug. “You met Fred? Fred, Liko.”
“We met,” Fred said. “Finally. And we— Hey, where do you think you’re going…” They lunged toward the front door and followed Bupkis outside.
Dane smiled. “You find your parking spot?”
“I did,” Liko said. “Pao almost ate me until I showed ID.”
“Yeah, he takes his watchdog duties a little too seriously. C’mon, I’ll show you where to drop your stuff.” With the spoon, Dane motioned for Liko to head upstairs. “I figure you can stay in the house tonight and move into one of the cottages tomorrow. At your own pace.”
“Sounds good.”
“You’re right along here. Bath is across the hall. I put some towels out. Our Wi-Fi password is a mess of numbers and letters, so I wrote it down for you.”
“You’re quite the host.”
“I try. So… Unpack, chill, don your party dress. Whatever. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Wait,” Liko called.
Dane glanced back, meeting Liko’s gaze with one blue eye and one brown eye.
“You’re looking yourself tonight,” Liko said.
“Clev-er,” Dane said.
“Do you go all brown or all blue on certain occasions?”
Dane nodded. “Usually when I’m unsure of who I’m going to meet. Or what I need from the occasion. But in my house, among my people, I can just…” He made a general circle around his face with his wooden spoon, smiled a shy smile, and ducked away.
The room was simple and neat, the bed made with a white pebbled spread and lots of pillows, a stack of towels on one corner.
Liko didn’t have much to unpack, but he took a few minutes to set clothes in a pile, hang his shaving kit in the bathroom, and plug in his laptop.
Recalling that the guests on the porch looked rather festive, he put on a nicer shirt—burgundy red with a raised textured pattern which, he’d been told, gave him a glow. Whatever that was.
He turned in front of the mirror over the dresser, tucking the shirt tails in before deciding to leave them out.
He couldn’t quite see himself in a mirror lately.
He’d lost thirty pounds after Kyle’s death.
The gym was a good place to kill time, but the utter lack of appetite left his overworked, unrecovered body no choice but to eat itself.
Neglecting rest days, he had no idea what damage he was doing until he got blood drawn for his upcoming physical and Dr. Acevedo called him immediately.
“You have an alarming amount of myoglobin and creatine kinase in your blood,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I need to see you in my office. Today. And pack a toothbrush.”
Am I dying, Liko wanted to ask, but didn’t because he didn’t want to sound too excited about it. The nurse squeezed him into the last evening appointment, where Acevedo grilled him like a burger before handing over a specimen cup.
“Go pee in that,” she ordered, and then shook her head at Liko’s efforts. “How long has your urine been this dark?”
Liko could only reply with “Um…?”
“Are you hydrating properly?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t. Ever hear of rhabdomyolysis?”
“No.”
“You’re overworking and underfeeding your body.
Instead of building muscle, you’re actively breaking it down and releasing myoglobin and other harmful things into your blood.
Things that damage your kidneys while they try to filter it all out.
That’s why your urine looks like this. Are you in pain? ”
Liko gave a bitter little laugh and Acevedo’s expression softened.
“Your heart is in pain. I know, Liko. But is your body in pain? Is all this exercise making you feel stronger? Do you feel good physically?”
Liko shook his head, teeth pressed tight. “I feel pretty terrible,” he said, barely trusting his throat to let the words out.
“You’re on the edge of some big medical trouble.” Acevedo hitched forward on her rolling stool and looked hard at her patient. “Are you trying to slowly kill yourself? Tell me the truth.”
Liko closed his eyes and repeated the question to himself.
Are you trying to slowly kill yourself?
Do you want to die?
Really. Truly. Do you want to die and be no more? Leave it all? Just go forever because there’s nothing left to live for?
Tell the truth.
He thought of things to do. Places to go. People to meet. TV shows to binge. Music to discover. Books to read and books to write.
He thought about what Kyle would want him to do.
And he told the truth.
“No,” Liko whispered, the tears falling warm down his gaunt face. “I’m just trying to kill time.”
Acevedo nodded. “Have you been seeing a grief counselor?”
“I was.”
She plucked a tissue and handed it to him. “It’s time to go back.”
“All right.”
Acevedo took him in hand, firm but compassionate.
She admitted him to the hospital for kidney scans and intravenous treatment to flush him out.
He was indeed close to some big renal trouble, but they caught it in time.
He stayed three days, which was probably overkill, but Acevedo wanted him observed and supervised.
He was banned from the gym until he gained ten pounds, and only allowed to resume with a personal trainer and nutritionist. And he was to get his bony ass back into therapy. Pronto.
Now, almost a year later from that emergency, he looked pretty good.
Well, not too bad. All the lost weight gained and then some.
He couldn’t reverse the gauntness in his face, but the beard filled out the hollows.
The seat of his pants wasn’t flapping in the breeze anymore and he gave a little vain smile at the line of his shoulders in the dark red shirt.
Unfortunately, being fifty-five, his waistline was a haunt for sugar and carbs.
“I have washboard abs,” he’d always quipped to Kyle.
“There’s just a lot of laundry on them.”
God, it sucked how dad jokes lost their edge when you weren’t a dad anymore.
“You’ll always be a father,” his therapist said, which wasn’t much consolation.
A burst of loud laughter from downstairs snapped him out of it. Enough brooding. This was a party. And the start of an adventure. He ran hands through his hair, rehearsed a friendly smile, imagined Kyle backhanding his ass and telling him to go for it.
He turned off the dresser lamp and went for it.
As with all good parties, the best energy was in the kitchen.
One end of the long table was set up as a bar.
The rest crammed with appetizers, chips and nibbles.
The sofa and chairs in front of the fireplace were occupied, including the armrests.
Dane was at the far end, back to the sink with ankles and arms crossed as he looked over and up at Pao, who was sitting on the counter like a vulture.
Liko made his way through the crush. Saying hello here.
A quick nod and smile there. Taking a paper plate and making himself a nosh.
Covertly watching as Dane smiled, tipped his head back to laugh first at the ceiling, then at his shoes.
He was being attentive to the leering cowboy, but those arms and legs stayed crossed tight, protecting guts and jewels.
“What’s up, my man,” he called when he saw Liko, freeing one hand and waving. His two-toned gaze widened theatrically, then went cross-eyed a split second. Clearly signaling, I need backup.