Mitchell's Presence (4 page)

“If you’d like, but I have to be home by midnight.”

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.” Mitchell removed his hand slowly, trailing fingers along Arthur’s cobalt blue silk tie.

“Maybe I could stay over tonight?”

Mitchell caressed Arthur’s tie, exerting a little more pressure. “No, not tonight, but I don’t need to be into the store here until noon on Sunday.”

Arthur felt his knees go weak at the mere thought of Mitchell in bed with him. “Can I pick you up on Saturday then, after your volunteering, and bring you back to my place and cook you dinner?”

By way of an answer, Mitchell stood on his toes, pressed his hand to Arthur’s chest again, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“What’s the address of the soup kitchen?”

“It’s a homeless shelter, and I’ll call your cell and leave the address.” Mitchell stroked Arthur’s tie once more and pointed a finger at him playfully. “Don’t answer your phone, unless you have a pen and paper handy, otherwise I’ll just have to call again to leave the address.”

Arthur crossed his finger over his silk tie, promising not to answer his cell.
Besides,
he thought as he made his way out of the store,
I can listen to Mitchell’s voice whenever I want.

*  *  *

Saturday, December 16

As he
stirred in bed Saturday morning, Arthur was wondering just how many times he’d listened to the message on his cell phone since Wednesday night.
Who cares?
he muttered to himself,
we get to spend an entire evening and morning together.

Arthur tried to busy himself as best he could but quickly ran out of errands; he’d already cleaned the apartment, shopped for dinner supplies, washed his car—inside and out—and had even ironed his favorite shirt and changed the sheets on the bed, checking to be sure he had condoms and lube in the bedside table. He was prepared for an evening with the most incredible man he’d ever met.

As Mitchell exited the building, Arthur couldn’t help but notice the smile on Mitchell’s face.
Is it because of me, or because he finds something gratifying in volunteering?
Arthur didn’t really like the question that had popped into his head, so he dismissed it. He got out of the car, walking quickly to the other side and opening the door for Mitchell, sure the younger man would appreciate getting into a warm car after four hours of helping the homeless. Arthur couldn’t help but smile, seeing the look on Mitchell’s face as the younger man stowed his bag in the back seat and sank into the heated leather seat.

“Good day?” Mitchell asked as he leaned over and kissed Arthur’s lips.

“Lonely, boring, and you?” Arthur chuckled to himself as Mitchell nodded, smile still on his face. “Why do I get the feeling sometimes that you never have a bad day?”

“Because I don’t.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“People don’t piss you off, get on your nerves, do stupid things?”

“All the time, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad day.” Mitchell put his hand on Arthur’s thigh, and Arthur’s pants feeling a little tighter. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“I should try that sometime, especially with my family.”

“You should,” Mitchell nodded his agreement, squeezing Arthur’s thigh lightly, playfully. “It’s too easy to find the negative in everything.
That’s
boring to me.”

“You are…” Arthur shook his head, grinning, “something else.”

“See,” Mitchell affirmed, “my point exactly. You could dwell on what you don’t like about your family or think about something else.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I met you.”

“You’re an enigma, Arthur.”

Arthur looked over but did not see any judgment or malice in Mitchell’s expression. “I’ll take that as a good thing.”

“As it was meant.”

Arthur grasped Mitchell’s hand and placed a kiss on the knuckles before pulling into his garage. “Here we are.” Arthur exited the vehicle, grabbed Mitchell’s bag for him, and walked around to lead the other man to the kitchen.

“Wow,” Mitchell said with awe, “my entire apartment could fit in these two rooms.”

Arthur didn’t say anything but let his eyes follow Mitchell as he made his way around the kitchen and then into the dining room. He was amused and interested at how the younger man seemed more drawn by the little mementos Arthur had collected over the years than the pricy pieces of art he’d acquired as family heirlooms or through art galleries. Mitchell seemed especially drawn by a set of three black bowls, simple, elegant, each with one Chinese character.

“Those were a gift from my mother,” Arthur explained, a look of barely contained disgust on his face, “from the last time they were in Beijing.”

“What do the characters mean, do you know?” Arthur pointed to each of the characters in turn and explained that the symbols meant
peace, love, prosperity
. Mitchell turned to Arthur, “What a nice thought.”

“Yeah,” Arthur harrumphed, “my mother has a lot of those.”

“Sore subject?”

“No, not really,” Arthur conceded, “I know she means well, but I’m- I can’t- I don’t know,” Arthur motioned Mitchell to the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you where everything is, and then I’ll feed you.”

Mitchell stopped on the stairs, looking down at the older man. “You know, Arthur, “I don’t know about you, but I’m not really hungry right now.”

“Me either.” Arthur leered at him. “But I want to do this right, Mitchell.” He took another step up so that they were eye-to-eye. “I can’t explain it yet, but I don’t want to ruin this, whatever we might have. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense,” Mitchell agreed and pressed his lips to Arthur’s forehead. “Could I tempt you into a little spooning?”

Arthur growled, the sound coming from deep within his chest. He quickly pushed Mitchell up the stairs and turned them both into the master bedroom. “No clothes come off though.”

“Agreed, I’ll be good.”

Arthur positioned himself so that he was on his side, chest and top leg lying on top of Mitchell, legs intertwining, one hand cradled under the smaller man’s neck, massaging, kneading, the actions eliciting soft moans of pleasure that were slowly wearing down Arthur’s resolve.

“Beautiful, kind, generous, seductive.” Arthur smiled own at the flushed face beneath his. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Nowhere.” Mitchell took on of Arthur’s hands and placed it on his chest. “I’ve lived in this city my entire life, but I think it’s safe to say that you and I live in different circles, so….”

“Yeah, different circles.” Arthur leaned down for another kiss, gentle but probing; his head popped back up just as quickly, asking, “What do you mean, precisely, different circles?”

“Well,” Mitchell began, “you’re uptown and I’m not. You’re vacationing in ritzy places and I’m not. I’m more concerned with social issues and you, not as much.”

“You make me sound so shallow.” Arthur tried to control the annoyed tone in his voice.

“Not at all!” Mitchell protested. He kissed the man’s knuckles. “Look, Arthur, if you hadn’t met me, would you have ever gone near a homeless shelter?”

“I might have,” Arthur squawked defensively, knowing that he was lying. “One day.”

Mitchell sat up, cross-legged on the bed. “Arthur, I’m not trying to be rude or offensive, but, well, let’s just say that I know a little more about you than you think.”

“Oh really?” Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, torso twisted to see Mitchell nodding his head. “Enlighten me.”

“Arthur Aaron James Richardson, only son of William McKenzie Richardson IV and Grace Richardson, née Christianson, born January 15, 1974, older brother to Penelope and Eileen, both married to successful businessmen, both with children—”

“You could have read that stuff anywhere,” Arthur accused, “and besides, that doesn’t mean you have any insights into my personality.”

“You bought a red Mustang—1965, maybe, I don’t know that much about cars—completely restored for your thirtieth birthday and crashed it two days later against a light standard on Wilkins Avenue and had your best friend take the blame so that you wouldn’t risk a second DUI.”

“How could you…?” Arthur searched Mitchell’s face, trying to find out how anyone besides his parents and their lawyer could have known the truth. “Only a handful of people know that.”

“Isaiah Herschel MacDonald would be one of those people, correct?”

“What does my father’s lawyer have to do with—” Arthur’s brain suddenly started putting the pieces together with lightning speed. MacDonald, Mitchell’s last name and that of his parents’ attorney. “MacDonald, are you related to—”

“My father,” Mitchell stated with no emotion. “I was clerking for him at the time of your accident.” Mitchell read the confused expression on Arthur’s face. “Don’t worry; I would never tell anyone.” Mitchell collected his bag and began walking towards the door.

“Wait!” Arthur’s hand was on Mitchell’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”

Mitchell turned, his eyes moist with unshed tears. His smile was sad, just like it had been in the coffee shop. “You know, Arthur, you and I have been in the same room at least a dozen times in the past twenty years, and not once could I ever get enough of looking at you.”

“I don’t understand, Mitchell; what have I done now?”

“It’s not you, Arthur, it’s me.” Mitchell stroked the hand on his shoulder. “I think I fell in love with you when I was a guest at your eighteenth birthday party, the one where your parents had that God-awful cake in the shape of a football player made.” Mitchell laughed, remembering the orange and brown icing. “I’ve never seen any football player whose head was four times the size of his body!” Mitchell’s laughter died down, and he looked back at Arthur. “I had just turned twelve and didn’t know anyone there but you,” Mitchell caressed Arthur’s cheek. “You were so sweet to me.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I do.” Mitchell let his hand drop down to his side again. “I’ll never forget it. You spent almost twenty minutes talking to me, showing me how to play some video game that I still can’t remember the name of because I was too busy looking at you.”

“Video game…?” Arthur’s memory was not as quick as he would have liked at this moment. “I’m sorry. I still don’t understand.”

“How many overweight, acne’d, four-eyed pre-teens were there at that party, Arthur?”

“Oh my God!” It was as if Arthur was in a movie and the director had just yelled
Action!
on the pivotal scene where the amnesiac recovers all of his memories at once. “My friends wanted to know what you were doing there.”

“I remember those friends.” Mitchell’s eyes teared up again. “They were all very nice to me after you spent those few minutes with me.” Mitchell looked down at his shoes. “But before, they were….”

“I’m sorry, Mitchell, I still don’t—”

“For six years I worked as a lawyer, Arthur, and hated every minute of it.” Mitchell turned to face Arthur, shoulders squared, words firm and authoritative. “I quit because I don’t need the money, didn’t need my father’s money. I realized that there are other people who need it more than I do. So,” Mitchell’s voice faltered a bit, “anyway, when you came into the bookstore, I knew who you were, and you were kind to me even though you didn’t remember me.”

“But what does that—”

Mitchell’s eyes sparkled. “And when you flirted with me, I thought I was going to have a heart attack I was so happy. But then at the coffeehouse, and then on the subway and tonight, I fell in love with an incredible young man who was kind and generous and full of hope, not like some of the other rich kids at that party; and that’s who I thought I was giving my phone number to in the bookstore.” Mitchell walked down the stairs, finding his way to his shoes, Arthur not far behind. When he’d managed to lace up his boots, Mitchell stood and smiled at Arthur. “It’s not you, Arthur, it’s—”

“Mitchell, please, stay.”

“Why, Arthur?” Mitchell found his coat in the closet and shrugged it on. “You’re not the man I fell in love with. You look like him, but the man I fell in love with hugged his mother until she giggled like a school girl, even after he saw that ugly cake.” Mitchell slung his bag over his shoulder. “You obviously don’t feel the same way about her now.” He opened the door, raised his hand in a weak wave, and turned before closing the door all the way. “You’re one of those other kids at the party now, Arthur, and they- they weren’t very happy with anything. I’d rather remember the other Arthur, if you don’t mind. Be happy, Arthur.”

Arthur opened his mouth but knew it was futile to say anything, do anything. He’d asked for enlightenment and he’d gotten it. Of course, he’d been so sure that Mitchell didn’t know what he’d been talking about, just another poor, impoverished soul trying to blame the rich for everything wrong with the world. But that wasn’t the case, was it? Mitchell had come from money, as had Arthur. Mitchell had turned his back on all that money. Why? Why would anyone give up all that money just to spend the rest of their lives surviving from paycheck to paycheck? Deep down, Arthur knew that Mitchell would never truly be without money, that his parents would be there to give him more money, anything to keep their child safe and free from harm.

Arthur didn’t know why at first, but that thought saddened him. It was several minutes before he realized that he wasn’t sad but maybe disappointed for the millions of people who did survive paycheck to paycheck with no rich parents waiting in the wings, no safety net to catch them should they fall.

Arthur rushed to the phone and punched in a number. “Mom?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Mom,” Arthur’s breathing was rushed, “Do you remember my eighteenth birthday party?”

“Remember your eighteenth… Arthur, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Arthur huffed, “I just… Do you remember Mitchell MacDonald?”

“Yes, your father and I play golf with the MacDonalds every Saturday. Of course, I haven’t seen Mitchell since he left the law firm, what, oh, about three years ago, maybe?” Arthur heard the concern in her voice. “Arthur, what is going on?”

“What do you remember about him, Mom?”