WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Six)
Apr. 9th, 2005 06:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scribblinlenoreTaking a moment out from my company that I have visiting to post the next part of my story. Wow, it's just been a beautiful day here in New York. Spring makes me so happy!
Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part PG, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Six
On the way home, Clark drives the way drunks and kids with brand new learner's permits do, hands locked on the wheel at ten and two, watching the road like it might suddenly get up and walk away, the sort of caution that does nothing to inspire confidence. Beside him, Lex--no, Al, he's got to start thinking of him that way--grips the door handle, as if braced for impact. Or perhaps it's simply a symptom of his continuing reservations about Clark, ready to leap from the truck at the first opportunity and make a wild break for freedom.
It doesn't help matters, Clark feels sure, that he keeps his truck much the same way he keeps house. Every time they go around a curve, Al dodges junk sliding across the seat with an air of offended dignity, and Clark really wishes he'd done something about those crumpled Whopper containers in the floorboard besides just think about throwing them away.
They're both quiet, too quiet, and it starts to feel unsettling. Al looks huddled and forlorn in the thin green scrubs they gave him to wear home. Clark switches on the heater, not that this is a cure for what's really wrong, but it's the best he can do. His brain plays leapfrog with various conversation-openers, the weather seems to be clearing up or they finally built that new mini mall they've been advertising or are you feeling any warmer yet. No matter how hard he tries, though, he can't latch onto any subject. His thoughts skitter away before he can get the words out, too distracted by the emotional funnel cloud swirling in his chest, alternately giddy and dumbfounded by terror.
Lex--Al--watches out the window, taking in the passing landmarks with flint-spark eyes, concentrating with such fierce attention Clark half expects the stores and houses to go up in flames. Al doesn't seem to mind the quiet; maybe he's even grateful for it.
The lack of anything to say gives Clark time to make lists in his head, pitfalls to avoid, props he forgot to buy, various contingency plans for an assortment of disasters. His biggest fear is that Lionel will try keeping tabs on his malicious handiwork, calling the clinic, or having someone on his payroll do it, in the guise of a concerned citizen, pumping the gossip-prone receptionist for information.
Clark has done what he can to thwart such surveillance attempts, asking the doctor to be non-committal to anyone who seems too curious.
"There are so many crazies out there," he'd said, with heartfelt conviction. What was crazier than abandoning your own child? "We don't want any trouble."
Doc Hadley had nodded and promised he'd instruct his staff simply to say, "We're doing everything we can for him." Clark can only hope Lionel will be satisfied with that.
He looks over at Al, who is slumped in his seat now, shoulders hunched, forehead pressed to the glass of the passenger-side window. Clark glances back at the road, then over at him again, frowning.
"Are you feeling okay?"
There's no answer, and panic spirals up Clark's spine, prickling at the back of his neck. He digs around in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out the doctor's list of symptoms, unfolds it with one hand and balances it on the steering wheel, reading while he drives.
"Do you have blurred vision? Ringing in your ears? Do you feel queasy?"
Al keeps on staring out the window. "I don't know this." They whiz past the brightly colored Taj Mahal Burger. "Or that." He shifts in his seat to glare at Clark, his eyes dark and accusatory. "I don't know this place. I've never seen it before in my life."
Clark gives him a mild, reassuring smile. "Well, Doc Hadley did say it would take some time for your memory to come back. And you have only lived here a few days. How familiar is it going to be?"
Al starts to say something, not a very pleasant something if the lightning flash going off in his eyes is any indication, but then he just presses his lips closed, like he doesn't want to waste the effort. Clark checks his mirrors, rear- and sideview, not once, or even twice, but three times, as if safety on the road will somehow carry over into more precarious parts of his life.
At home, he pulls into the yard, practically up to the door.
"I'm not an invalid, you know," Al informs him testily.
But Clark isn't taking any chances. "Just wait. I'll come around and get you."
Al suffers his mother-henning, but not without a look of reproach. They walk around the front of the truck, and Al stops, stares, staggers back a step. Clark feels sure it has more to do with the ramshackle surprise of the house, the dingy, flecking siding and precariously dangling roof tiles, than any actual failure of strength. All it needs is a good coat of paint, Clark's been saying that for six months now. Too bad he never actually did anything about it.
They go up on the porch, and Clark becomes uncomfortably conscious of the police envelope stuck into the waistband of his jeans, covered by his jacket, jabbing him in the side. It's pure superstition, he knows, but it just doesn't feel right bringing it into the house, a reminder of the truth, a jinx, for sure.
He tells Al, "Just one second."
He leaves him propped against the doorjamb, arms crossed impatiently, and goes back to the truck, crams the underwear behind the bench seat, to keep company with the caulk gun and the abandoned Pepsi cans.
"Okay," he says in a breezy voice, taking the porch steps two at a time, whipping out his key. "Welcome home."
Al steps inside and looks around, even graver and quieter than he was on the ride over. He wanders around the living room--as much as the stacks of boxes will allow--and trips over a rain gauge Clark has been meaning to carry out to the fields for weeks now. Clark just manages to catch him before he goes flying.
"I didn't have a chance to clean up before I left for the hospital," he says with some embarrassment.
Al's expression says "no shit" as clearly as any words.
"Have a look around," Clark encourages him in a bright, false voice. "See if it brings anything back."
It's the expected thing, what he'd say if this really were his husband, and he can only hope his well-intentioned fraud doesn't screw up Al's head more than the cold sea and a run in with a fishing trawler already have.
Al trails through the rooms, and Clark follows behind, trying to hang back and give him some space, although it's hard to rein in the impulse to hover. Al picks up one of the sunflower tea towels and puts it down again, his face an impassive blank.
"Are you hungry?" Clark moves to the refrigerator, mentally inventorying its contents, hoping there's something edible. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Are we poor?" Lex wants to know.
"Well, we're not rich. But we do okay."
Al doesn't look particularly reassured. He meanders back into the living room, eyes moving from a stack of spare parts for the irrigation system to a leaning tower of old magazines. "Do we run a junkyard?"
Clark clears his throat. "Um, no. We're just a little behind on our unpacking. You must be tired. Why don't you sit down?" He pats the sofa cushion.
Lex looks down at the scrubs he's wearing. "I'd like to change." He narrows his eyes at Clark. "I do own clothes, don't I? We can afford that much, I hope."
"Sure, you do." Clark takes a step toward the bedroom. "I'll go get something for you."
"I can dress myself, thank you."
Clark's face goes hot, a memory from the day before, a tiny black swimsuit casually stripped off and tossed aside. Whatever heat he feels at the recollection is quickly chased away, though, as Al starts toward the bedroom and lurches unsteadily on his feet. Clark instinctively grabs for his elbow. He's rewarded with a withering look and hastily removes the offending hand. "Sorry."
If the living room is a cluttered wreck, the bedroom smacks of utter abandonment. The few pieces of furniture stand in dusty isolation, the mattress bare and unwelcoming, the same depressing feeling that empty dorm rooms and jail cells have, no pictures or rugs, just the bare bones of existence.
Clark goes straight to the dresser, avoiding Al's reaction, the dismay, the raised eyebrow. Such a forlorn-looking bedroom must make him question the state of their marriage.
"This is your side," he explains about the dresser, opening drawers, taking out an overwashed, graying pair of briefs, jeans, a sweatshirt that proudly proclaims "Graduate of Beer Drinker's University," not really the thing for Al Pacino-Kent, Clark realizes, but he's already committed himself to it.
He hands the clothes over, and Al stares coldly, until Clark finally gets it. "Oh, right. I should give you some privacy. I'll be," he waves his hand in the vague direction of the living room, "if you need me."
Clark paces the two feet of clear floor space while he waits and keeps an ear out for any hints of trouble, the alarming crash of a head-injured person passing out, the telltale slide of a bedroom window that signals he has a runaway husband on his hands.
Despite his vigilance, it still startles him when an imperious voice rings out, "Can you come here?"
He finds Al standing in front of the mirror, looking like a kid trying on his father's clothes. He demonstrates for Clark just how huge the thrift store pants are, pulling the waistband a good three inches away from his body. "Can you explain this?"
"Well--" He swallows hard. "You see--" And then those same feeble powers of invention that stuck him with Pacino-Kent for a surname come back to haunt him. "You used to have a gland condition."
"A gland condition?" Al repeats skeptically.
Clark nods. "But it cleared up, and now your clothes are kind of big on you."
Al widens his eyes incredulously. "Kind of?"
Clark catches sight of a stray piece of twine. "Here's a little trick you use." He runs the twine through the belt loops and ties it in a neat square knot. "There. That's better."
Al looks down at himself and back up at Clark. "Did I also have a brain tumor?"
Clark mumbles, "We've been meaning to get you some new things."
Al flounces off to the living room, clearly not pleased with the state of his so-called life, and Clark has to scramble ahead of him, scooting Chloe's notes under the couch with his foot to keep him from discovering them.
It's the couch from the loft, and Pete always wants to know why he didn't bring the one from the house. You know, the one people might actually want to sit on. It was a sentimental decision, Clark supposes, to have this reminder of his childhood in his living room. Of course, even back when Clark was in high school the thing had seen better days, and Al perches gingerly on the edge of it, like he's afraid he might catch something.
Clark brings him a pillow and blanket. "You really should try to get some rest."
Al gives him the kind of lock-jawed stare men must have used back in the days when they still challenged each other to duels, and then the phone rings, prematurely ending the standoff.
Pete's voice blares at him when he answers, "What's going on, man?"
"Um, well--"
Al is watching curiously, and Clark smiles, trying to convince him there's nothing wrong, despite the unmistakable shouting on the other end of the line.
"Do you realize that half a dozen people have come up to me in the last hour to say how glad they are that my friend found his husband? How lucky it is nothing worse happened than a bump on the head and some temporary amnesia. What a nice couple you and your imaginary better half make. And you know what I've had to do, Clark?"
"Um, no?"
"I've had to smile and nod and lie. Oh, yes. It is lucky. They are a great couple. I'm so glad everything's okay. Do you have any idea how much I hate that?"
Clark lets out a heavy, guilty sigh. "Sorry, Pete."
"What the hell are you doing, Clark? What are you thinking?"
He gives Al another determined smile and ducks into the kitchen, cupping his hand around the receiver, whispering, "I didn't plan it," then amends, "not at first."
"Man, he's a Luthor. Do you know how much trouble you're in right now?"
"I didn't have a choice!" Clark insists. "When I went down there to identify him, for real, you know who I saw? Lionel Luthor. And you know what he did? Denied knowing his own son. He was just going to leave him there. They were going to put him in an institution. I couldn't let that happen."
Pete is a silent a moment. "I thought you were finally finished with this hero business, man."
It's laced with bitterness, and it stings, but Clark says only, "I know it's a lot to ask, but, please--"
"I'm not going to out you," Pete tells him, with an exasperated huff. "But I really hope you know what you're doing. I mean, when he realizes--"
Clark glances into the next room. In the absence of any reason to resist, Al has settled onto the couch, his eyes closed, dark smudges beneath his eyes, looking exhausted now that he's finally at rest. "I know."
"Well, at least he can't actually kill you," Pete says with a forced little laugh.
Clark shakes his head, but he appreciates the effort. "Funny, Pete. Very, very funny."
Al sleeps for the better part of two hours, and when he wakes, Clark insists he needs food, whether he wants it or not. He roots around in the cabinets and the rather scary refrigerator and manages to come up with a makeshift lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and pickles.
"We haven't really had a chance to go to the store lately," he says by way of an apology.
The sit and eat, and Al doesn't complain. Compared to hospital cuisine, apparently, Clark can hold his own as a cook.
When Al is done, he pushes his plate away and fixes Clark with a penetrating stare. "So how did we meet?"
Clark nearly chokes on his sweet gerkin. "Well-- I was doing some work for you, closet remodeling, and you kind of--"
Al leans forward. "What?"
"You came on to me."
He sits up very straight, his shoulders going stiff. "I did not."
Clark nods. "You did. And we kind of--"
There's a tinge of pink starting to burn in Al's cheeks, although Clark suspects it's more likely anger than embarrassment. "What? What did we do?"
"We had sex. Then I finished sanding. Things just kind of," he waves his hand in the air, "developed from there."
Al stares down at the table. "I had sex with the handy man who was building my closet."
"Remodeling. But yes. I got the feeling you kind of--" He makes a vaguely suggestive gesture with his hand. "You know."
"What?" Al demands.
"Got around."
"I got around." Al glares at him. "You mean I was a slut."
Clark pats his hand reassuringly. "I never thought that. No matter what anybody else ever said."
Al looks like he'd enjoy nothing more than slapping Clark, very hard, but instead he takes a deep breath and launches into a new line of inquiry, "So if we don't actually run a junk yard, what do we do for a living?"
Clark jerks his head in the direction of the window and the grapes vines beyond it. "That's ours."
Al squints. "We own a vineyard? And we live like this?"
"Well, that's really my fault. I've just been kind of," he lets out his breath and tells the truth, "lost these past six months."
The implied "without you" is pure invention, of course, but it's handy, nonetheless.
Al studies him closely and relents a little. "You could have at least unpacked the boxes."
He hangs his head. "I know. It's just-- trying to figure out where to put stuff-- Well, let's just say decorating has always been more your department."
Al nods, with a degree of certainty. "That I believe. Maybe we could start going through things. That might help me remember."
'Oh, sure. We could do that. After you've had a chance to--" Al gets briskly to his feet. "You mean right now?"
But he's already disappeared into the canyon of boxes.
They spend the rest of the afternoon bent over cardboard cartons, pulling out battered lamps and throw pillows. On the one hand, it gives them something to do that doesn't require a steady flow of conversation, which is a good thing, since talking just gets Clark into trouble. On the other hand, it does raise questions, as box after box is emptied, and there are no personal items that belong to Al.
"This can't be mine," he says, holding up a Gameboy with one of the buttons snapped off. "Mine wouldn't be broken." He frowns and adds, "I don't know how I know that. I just do."
Clark nods. "You're right. That's mine."
"And the 'Go Crows' pennant?"
"From high school. Also mine."
"The collection of half-chewed pencils?"
Clark makes a face. They are disgusting. "I've really got to break that habit."
Al asks, exasperated, "Is there anything that belongs to me?"
"Well, " Clark stutters, "you see, you kept a lot of your stuff back East. Six months is a long time to live in an empty apartment. You had it all shipped out right before you came. It should be here soon."
Just in time for a big fire at the shipping company's warehouse, Clark thinks, already plotting his future lies.
"There must be something here," Al says plaintively.
"Let's see..." Clark desperately glances around for something, anything, that will be remotely believable. "Wait. Here's something." He snatches up The Big Book of Baseball, with desperate relief. "This is yours."
Al stares at it disbelievingly. "I like baseball?"
"You love it." He nods emphatically, as if the sheer kinetic force of his head bob will convince him of it.
Al starts to flip through the pages. "The Rockets have built their pennant-winning dynasty on sound starting pitching and sharp defense," he reads. Then snorts. "Not to mention their 220 million dollar payroll." He goes perfectly still. "Wait. How do I know that?"
The answer, of course, is that his family owns the team, and there's probably nothing he doesn't know about it. Clark begins to panic that he may have strayed too close to the truth. Perhaps in another moment, Al--Lex--will throw down the book and get on the phone to his people and whisk himself out of this plebian world where he doesn't belong. If Clark were ever to experience anything like vertigo, now would be the time.
The phone rings, and he shoots to his feet, the loud, insistent chirping making every rib in his chest clench around his lungs, cutting off his breath. He leaves Al pondering his great love for the national pastime and goes to answer it. He hopes, for the first time in his life, that it's a telemarketer trying to sell him a year's supply of car wax.
"There's a waterfall! Lord help me! Come quick!" is shrieked in his ear the moment he picks up.
He squints, calculating which of his many over-excitable elderly customers it could be. "Mrs. Henderson?"
"Yes, yes!" she says, as if she can't imagine why he's bothering with formalities when she's in the middle of a plumbing catastrophe. "Please come, Clark. There's something terribly wrong with the downstairs bathroom. You haven't seen so much water since the Great Flood."
"Have you tried Bert Davis?"
"Oh, he's no use after ten o'clock in the morning." She lowers her voice. "A drinker, you know. You're such a good, reliable boy, Clark. I know you'll help me."
"It's just that it's kind of a bad time right now--"
"Oh, I know, dear. I saw it on the television. And then I heard who that poor boy is from Susie Manard down at the Food Mart. Bless your husband's heart! To be out in the water like that for so long. Thank heavens he's all right. I'm sure you've both had a terrible scare. He looks like such a nice young man, too. I said so to all the girls over at Dulcie's beauty parlor."
"Well, then I'm sure you can understand--"
"Of course, dear. Of course. You want to stay home and look after your husband. I guess it's not such a bad thing there's water standing on the laundry room floor. I'll make do somehow. At least my rattan chairs can float. I am a little worried about the cat, though," she trails off pitifully.
Clark sighs. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
Lex--Al--is still leafing through "his" book when Clark returns. He glances up questioningly, and Clark explains.
Al waves his hand in the air. "Go. I'll be fine. You can't leave a flooded old lady in the lurch."
Al's seeming eagerness to be rid of him makes Clark even more hesitant to leave. But he knows if he doesn't get right over there, he'll be treated to a flurry of panic-stricken, guilt-inducing phone calls. He sets the cordless phone on the coffee table and writes down Mrs. Henderson's number. He lays out the piece of paper with the list of symptoms and says, "If you have any of these, call me. Unless it's number eight. Then just call an ambulance. Okay?"
Al nods, but it's clear he isn't really listening. He holds up an insulated coffee mug with a Rockets logo on it. "Is this mine, too? "
Clark smiles. "Sure is."
The intensity in Al's face as he turns the mug over in his hands, studying it from every angle, this remnant of his past, or so he thinks, makes Clark's throat close up. He has to go quickly to keep himself from blurting out the truth, putting an end to the whole charade.
At Mrs. Henderson's, the problem turns out to be trickier than Clark was hoping, and it doesn't help his concentration that Mrs. Henderson talks pretty much nonstop as he's trying to work.
"I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear you're married, Clark. It's just not right for people to be alone in this world. Mr. Henderson, God rest his soul, and I were together fifty-three years. How long have you and your husband been married? Where'd you meet? At church, I hope. I always say the best marriages are the ones helped along by the Lord. Are planning on having children?"
Clark does his best to give her vague answers and desperately tries to keep track of what he's said. Lying is hard work. By the time he's finally finished with the repairs and the clean up, he's so antsy to get home he can barely stand still. But Mrs. Henderson won't hear of his leaving.
"Oh, no, dear, you can't go just yet. I've got a pot roast in the oven. I made it special for you boys, and it just has fifteen more minutes to go. Your husband can use some good food after everything he's been through. A man needs his sustenance. I always used to say that to Mr. Henderson."
Clark sighs in defeat and pulls out his phone. He lets it ring twenty-three times--he counts--without any answer.
"He's not picking up. I'm sorry, Mrs. Henderson. I really have to go."
"Pshaw. He's probably just in the bathroom. You young people in love are sweet, but you get all worked up about nothing."
It's an irony, really. Clark can bench press an Oldsmobile, but he's helpless at the hands of a ninety-pound old woman who looks like a strong breeze would knock her down.
He stands anxiously near the stove, feet in constant motion, like a racehorse desperate to break out of the starting gate. He hits redial every few seconds, with no luck, and each time his worry level ratchets up another notch. At last, the pot roast is ready to come out of the oven, but Mrs. Henderson has to find the lid and the oven mitts. The whole production takes an excruciatingly long time. He'd almost think she was dragging it out on purpose, except for that the fact that she's closing in on eighty, and "interminably slow" is the only gear she has left.
When she finally hands over the pot, he slurs out a rushed "thank you" and practically runs out the door, while Mrs. Henderson waves cheerily.
At home, he hurries inside, calling "Al," throwing down the roasting pan on the kitchen counter, going from room to room. There's no sign of him anywhere, and the house has the empty ring of nobody home. Finally, he thinks to check outside, throws open the back door, making it groan on its hinges, and bolts into the backyard.
Al is standing stock still by the back fence, staring out at the fields.
The silence in Al's posture is forceful, and it takes Clark a moment to work up to words. When he does speak, it's very quietly, "What are you doing? Are you all right?"
Al doesn't move. "I don't know this."
"You just have to give yourself time--"
He turns sharply. "I don't know this. Don't you think I'd feel something?"
It's snappish, impatient, but there's a mournful quality to it as well, and Clark understands at last. This is what sheer choking terror sounds like coming from Al Pacino-Kent.
He puts an arm around his shoulders and says very gently, "Come inside."
They eat dinner. The pot roast seems to cheer Al up a little, the way pot roast will. Afterwards, Clark does the dishes and excavates the foul-smelling ruins from the refrigerator before putting the leftovers away.
Al starts to yawn, and Clark tells him, "I'll go make up the bed for you."
He heads off to the bedroom and is embarrassed when he can't locate the sheets right away. After some digging in the closet, he finally finds them. "It's been less lonely sleeping on the couch," he tells Al. It seems like a reasonable explanation for the sorry state of the bedroom.
At once, he can see it was the wrong thing to say, because Al's expression closes up and he folds his arms defensively across his chest. Clark briefly considers ways to back out of the implication he didn't mean to give in the first place. Finally he just goes to work putting the clean sheets on the bed, figuring anything he'd say would only make it worse.
As he bends over to smooth out the wrinkles, he notices the truly alarming dust creatures--more ominous than mere bunnies--that have started growing under the furniture.
"I'll clean up in here tomorrow," he promises.
"Do I have pajamas?" Al asks, opening and closing drawers.
"Let me get them for you."
He pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of drawstring bottoms with cowboy hats and lassos on them. Al pads off to the bathroom to change, modest in his forgetfulness, and when he comes back, Clark is just turning down the covers for him.
The t-shirt hangs almost to his knees, and the pajama bottoms barely graze the tops of his ankles.
"They shrunk in the wash," Clark tells him.
Al yawns widely, eyes clenched tightly shut. For now, he doesn't seem to care.
"Go on," Clark urges him, nodding his head toward the bed.
Al slides between the sheets, back pressed warily against the headboard, and the moment turns awkward.
Clark pulls a blanket out of the closet. "I'll just--" He jerks his thumb toward the living room. "I don't want to keep you up with my insomnia."
A hint of gratitude flashes across Al's face for the first time in their brief marriage, and Clark tells him, "Goodnight."
It's far too early for Clark to fall asleep, but he doesn't want to keep Al up. So he flops onto the couch, stares up at the ceiling and listens. He can tell when Al finally drifts off, the restless stir of sheets going quiet. He glances longingly over at the television, and whatever slim hope he had for sleep peters out.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out and thoughts start to zing through his head. Do you know how much trouble you're in right now, Pete's voice rings in his ears.
It's a question he'd really prefer not to contemplate.
Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part PG, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Six
On the way home, Clark drives the way drunks and kids with brand new learner's permits do, hands locked on the wheel at ten and two, watching the road like it might suddenly get up and walk away, the sort of caution that does nothing to inspire confidence. Beside him, Lex--no, Al, he's got to start thinking of him that way--grips the door handle, as if braced for impact. Or perhaps it's simply a symptom of his continuing reservations about Clark, ready to leap from the truck at the first opportunity and make a wild break for freedom.
It doesn't help matters, Clark feels sure, that he keeps his truck much the same way he keeps house. Every time they go around a curve, Al dodges junk sliding across the seat with an air of offended dignity, and Clark really wishes he'd done something about those crumpled Whopper containers in the floorboard besides just think about throwing them away.
They're both quiet, too quiet, and it starts to feel unsettling. Al looks huddled and forlorn in the thin green scrubs they gave him to wear home. Clark switches on the heater, not that this is a cure for what's really wrong, but it's the best he can do. His brain plays leapfrog with various conversation-openers, the weather seems to be clearing up or they finally built that new mini mall they've been advertising or are you feeling any warmer yet. No matter how hard he tries, though, he can't latch onto any subject. His thoughts skitter away before he can get the words out, too distracted by the emotional funnel cloud swirling in his chest, alternately giddy and dumbfounded by terror.
Lex--Al--watches out the window, taking in the passing landmarks with flint-spark eyes, concentrating with such fierce attention Clark half expects the stores and houses to go up in flames. Al doesn't seem to mind the quiet; maybe he's even grateful for it.
The lack of anything to say gives Clark time to make lists in his head, pitfalls to avoid, props he forgot to buy, various contingency plans for an assortment of disasters. His biggest fear is that Lionel will try keeping tabs on his malicious handiwork, calling the clinic, or having someone on his payroll do it, in the guise of a concerned citizen, pumping the gossip-prone receptionist for information.
Clark has done what he can to thwart such surveillance attempts, asking the doctor to be non-committal to anyone who seems too curious.
"There are so many crazies out there," he'd said, with heartfelt conviction. What was crazier than abandoning your own child? "We don't want any trouble."
Doc Hadley had nodded and promised he'd instruct his staff simply to say, "We're doing everything we can for him." Clark can only hope Lionel will be satisfied with that.
He looks over at Al, who is slumped in his seat now, shoulders hunched, forehead pressed to the glass of the passenger-side window. Clark glances back at the road, then over at him again, frowning.
"Are you feeling okay?"
There's no answer, and panic spirals up Clark's spine, prickling at the back of his neck. He digs around in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out the doctor's list of symptoms, unfolds it with one hand and balances it on the steering wheel, reading while he drives.
"Do you have blurred vision? Ringing in your ears? Do you feel queasy?"
Al keeps on staring out the window. "I don't know this." They whiz past the brightly colored Taj Mahal Burger. "Or that." He shifts in his seat to glare at Clark, his eyes dark and accusatory. "I don't know this place. I've never seen it before in my life."
Clark gives him a mild, reassuring smile. "Well, Doc Hadley did say it would take some time for your memory to come back. And you have only lived here a few days. How familiar is it going to be?"
Al starts to say something, not a very pleasant something if the lightning flash going off in his eyes is any indication, but then he just presses his lips closed, like he doesn't want to waste the effort. Clark checks his mirrors, rear- and sideview, not once, or even twice, but three times, as if safety on the road will somehow carry over into more precarious parts of his life.
At home, he pulls into the yard, practically up to the door.
"I'm not an invalid, you know," Al informs him testily.
But Clark isn't taking any chances. "Just wait. I'll come around and get you."
Al suffers his mother-henning, but not without a look of reproach. They walk around the front of the truck, and Al stops, stares, staggers back a step. Clark feels sure it has more to do with the ramshackle surprise of the house, the dingy, flecking siding and precariously dangling roof tiles, than any actual failure of strength. All it needs is a good coat of paint, Clark's been saying that for six months now. Too bad he never actually did anything about it.
They go up on the porch, and Clark becomes uncomfortably conscious of the police envelope stuck into the waistband of his jeans, covered by his jacket, jabbing him in the side. It's pure superstition, he knows, but it just doesn't feel right bringing it into the house, a reminder of the truth, a jinx, for sure.
He tells Al, "Just one second."
He leaves him propped against the doorjamb, arms crossed impatiently, and goes back to the truck, crams the underwear behind the bench seat, to keep company with the caulk gun and the abandoned Pepsi cans.
"Okay," he says in a breezy voice, taking the porch steps two at a time, whipping out his key. "Welcome home."
Al steps inside and looks around, even graver and quieter than he was on the ride over. He wanders around the living room--as much as the stacks of boxes will allow--and trips over a rain gauge Clark has been meaning to carry out to the fields for weeks now. Clark just manages to catch him before he goes flying.
"I didn't have a chance to clean up before I left for the hospital," he says with some embarrassment.
Al's expression says "no shit" as clearly as any words.
"Have a look around," Clark encourages him in a bright, false voice. "See if it brings anything back."
It's the expected thing, what he'd say if this really were his husband, and he can only hope his well-intentioned fraud doesn't screw up Al's head more than the cold sea and a run in with a fishing trawler already have.
Al trails through the rooms, and Clark follows behind, trying to hang back and give him some space, although it's hard to rein in the impulse to hover. Al picks up one of the sunflower tea towels and puts it down again, his face an impassive blank.
"Are you hungry?" Clark moves to the refrigerator, mentally inventorying its contents, hoping there's something edible. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Are we poor?" Lex wants to know.
"Well, we're not rich. But we do okay."
Al doesn't look particularly reassured. He meanders back into the living room, eyes moving from a stack of spare parts for the irrigation system to a leaning tower of old magazines. "Do we run a junkyard?"
Clark clears his throat. "Um, no. We're just a little behind on our unpacking. You must be tired. Why don't you sit down?" He pats the sofa cushion.
Lex looks down at the scrubs he's wearing. "I'd like to change." He narrows his eyes at Clark. "I do own clothes, don't I? We can afford that much, I hope."
"Sure, you do." Clark takes a step toward the bedroom. "I'll go get something for you."
"I can dress myself, thank you."
Clark's face goes hot, a memory from the day before, a tiny black swimsuit casually stripped off and tossed aside. Whatever heat he feels at the recollection is quickly chased away, though, as Al starts toward the bedroom and lurches unsteadily on his feet. Clark instinctively grabs for his elbow. He's rewarded with a withering look and hastily removes the offending hand. "Sorry."
If the living room is a cluttered wreck, the bedroom smacks of utter abandonment. The few pieces of furniture stand in dusty isolation, the mattress bare and unwelcoming, the same depressing feeling that empty dorm rooms and jail cells have, no pictures or rugs, just the bare bones of existence.
Clark goes straight to the dresser, avoiding Al's reaction, the dismay, the raised eyebrow. Such a forlorn-looking bedroom must make him question the state of their marriage.
"This is your side," he explains about the dresser, opening drawers, taking out an overwashed, graying pair of briefs, jeans, a sweatshirt that proudly proclaims "Graduate of Beer Drinker's University," not really the thing for Al Pacino-Kent, Clark realizes, but he's already committed himself to it.
He hands the clothes over, and Al stares coldly, until Clark finally gets it. "Oh, right. I should give you some privacy. I'll be," he waves his hand in the vague direction of the living room, "if you need me."
Clark paces the two feet of clear floor space while he waits and keeps an ear out for any hints of trouble, the alarming crash of a head-injured person passing out, the telltale slide of a bedroom window that signals he has a runaway husband on his hands.
Despite his vigilance, it still startles him when an imperious voice rings out, "Can you come here?"
He finds Al standing in front of the mirror, looking like a kid trying on his father's clothes. He demonstrates for Clark just how huge the thrift store pants are, pulling the waistband a good three inches away from his body. "Can you explain this?"
"Well--" He swallows hard. "You see--" And then those same feeble powers of invention that stuck him with Pacino-Kent for a surname come back to haunt him. "You used to have a gland condition."
"A gland condition?" Al repeats skeptically.
Clark nods. "But it cleared up, and now your clothes are kind of big on you."
Al widens his eyes incredulously. "Kind of?"
Clark catches sight of a stray piece of twine. "Here's a little trick you use." He runs the twine through the belt loops and ties it in a neat square knot. "There. That's better."
Al looks down at himself and back up at Clark. "Did I also have a brain tumor?"
Clark mumbles, "We've been meaning to get you some new things."
Al flounces off to the living room, clearly not pleased with the state of his so-called life, and Clark has to scramble ahead of him, scooting Chloe's notes under the couch with his foot to keep him from discovering them.
It's the couch from the loft, and Pete always wants to know why he didn't bring the one from the house. You know, the one people might actually want to sit on. It was a sentimental decision, Clark supposes, to have this reminder of his childhood in his living room. Of course, even back when Clark was in high school the thing had seen better days, and Al perches gingerly on the edge of it, like he's afraid he might catch something.
Clark brings him a pillow and blanket. "You really should try to get some rest."
Al gives him the kind of lock-jawed stare men must have used back in the days when they still challenged each other to duels, and then the phone rings, prematurely ending the standoff.
Pete's voice blares at him when he answers, "What's going on, man?"
"Um, well--"
Al is watching curiously, and Clark smiles, trying to convince him there's nothing wrong, despite the unmistakable shouting on the other end of the line.
"Do you realize that half a dozen people have come up to me in the last hour to say how glad they are that my friend found his husband? How lucky it is nothing worse happened than a bump on the head and some temporary amnesia. What a nice couple you and your imaginary better half make. And you know what I've had to do, Clark?"
"Um, no?"
"I've had to smile and nod and lie. Oh, yes. It is lucky. They are a great couple. I'm so glad everything's okay. Do you have any idea how much I hate that?"
Clark lets out a heavy, guilty sigh. "Sorry, Pete."
"What the hell are you doing, Clark? What are you thinking?"
He gives Al another determined smile and ducks into the kitchen, cupping his hand around the receiver, whispering, "I didn't plan it," then amends, "not at first."
"Man, he's a Luthor. Do you know how much trouble you're in right now?"
"I didn't have a choice!" Clark insists. "When I went down there to identify him, for real, you know who I saw? Lionel Luthor. And you know what he did? Denied knowing his own son. He was just going to leave him there. They were going to put him in an institution. I couldn't let that happen."
Pete is a silent a moment. "I thought you were finally finished with this hero business, man."
It's laced with bitterness, and it stings, but Clark says only, "I know it's a lot to ask, but, please--"
"I'm not going to out you," Pete tells him, with an exasperated huff. "But I really hope you know what you're doing. I mean, when he realizes--"
Clark glances into the next room. In the absence of any reason to resist, Al has settled onto the couch, his eyes closed, dark smudges beneath his eyes, looking exhausted now that he's finally at rest. "I know."
"Well, at least he can't actually kill you," Pete says with a forced little laugh.
Clark shakes his head, but he appreciates the effort. "Funny, Pete. Very, very funny."
Al sleeps for the better part of two hours, and when he wakes, Clark insists he needs food, whether he wants it or not. He roots around in the cabinets and the rather scary refrigerator and manages to come up with a makeshift lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and pickles.
"We haven't really had a chance to go to the store lately," he says by way of an apology.
The sit and eat, and Al doesn't complain. Compared to hospital cuisine, apparently, Clark can hold his own as a cook.
When Al is done, he pushes his plate away and fixes Clark with a penetrating stare. "So how did we meet?"
Clark nearly chokes on his sweet gerkin. "Well-- I was doing some work for you, closet remodeling, and you kind of--"
Al leans forward. "What?"
"You came on to me."
He sits up very straight, his shoulders going stiff. "I did not."
Clark nods. "You did. And we kind of--"
There's a tinge of pink starting to burn in Al's cheeks, although Clark suspects it's more likely anger than embarrassment. "What? What did we do?"
"We had sex. Then I finished sanding. Things just kind of," he waves his hand in the air, "developed from there."
Al stares down at the table. "I had sex with the handy man who was building my closet."
"Remodeling. But yes. I got the feeling you kind of--" He makes a vaguely suggestive gesture with his hand. "You know."
"What?" Al demands.
"Got around."
"I got around." Al glares at him. "You mean I was a slut."
Clark pats his hand reassuringly. "I never thought that. No matter what anybody else ever said."
Al looks like he'd enjoy nothing more than slapping Clark, very hard, but instead he takes a deep breath and launches into a new line of inquiry, "So if we don't actually run a junk yard, what do we do for a living?"
Clark jerks his head in the direction of the window and the grapes vines beyond it. "That's ours."
Al squints. "We own a vineyard? And we live like this?"
"Well, that's really my fault. I've just been kind of," he lets out his breath and tells the truth, "lost these past six months."
The implied "without you" is pure invention, of course, but it's handy, nonetheless.
Al studies him closely and relents a little. "You could have at least unpacked the boxes."
He hangs his head. "I know. It's just-- trying to figure out where to put stuff-- Well, let's just say decorating has always been more your department."
Al nods, with a degree of certainty. "That I believe. Maybe we could start going through things. That might help me remember."
'Oh, sure. We could do that. After you've had a chance to--" Al gets briskly to his feet. "You mean right now?"
But he's already disappeared into the canyon of boxes.
They spend the rest of the afternoon bent over cardboard cartons, pulling out battered lamps and throw pillows. On the one hand, it gives them something to do that doesn't require a steady flow of conversation, which is a good thing, since talking just gets Clark into trouble. On the other hand, it does raise questions, as box after box is emptied, and there are no personal items that belong to Al.
"This can't be mine," he says, holding up a Gameboy with one of the buttons snapped off. "Mine wouldn't be broken." He frowns and adds, "I don't know how I know that. I just do."
Clark nods. "You're right. That's mine."
"And the 'Go Crows' pennant?"
"From high school. Also mine."
"The collection of half-chewed pencils?"
Clark makes a face. They are disgusting. "I've really got to break that habit."
Al asks, exasperated, "Is there anything that belongs to me?"
"Well, " Clark stutters, "you see, you kept a lot of your stuff back East. Six months is a long time to live in an empty apartment. You had it all shipped out right before you came. It should be here soon."
Just in time for a big fire at the shipping company's warehouse, Clark thinks, already plotting his future lies.
"There must be something here," Al says plaintively.
"Let's see..." Clark desperately glances around for something, anything, that will be remotely believable. "Wait. Here's something." He snatches up The Big Book of Baseball, with desperate relief. "This is yours."
Al stares at it disbelievingly. "I like baseball?"
"You love it." He nods emphatically, as if the sheer kinetic force of his head bob will convince him of it.
Al starts to flip through the pages. "The Rockets have built their pennant-winning dynasty on sound starting pitching and sharp defense," he reads. Then snorts. "Not to mention their 220 million dollar payroll." He goes perfectly still. "Wait. How do I know that?"
The answer, of course, is that his family owns the team, and there's probably nothing he doesn't know about it. Clark begins to panic that he may have strayed too close to the truth. Perhaps in another moment, Al--Lex--will throw down the book and get on the phone to his people and whisk himself out of this plebian world where he doesn't belong. If Clark were ever to experience anything like vertigo, now would be the time.
The phone rings, and he shoots to his feet, the loud, insistent chirping making every rib in his chest clench around his lungs, cutting off his breath. He leaves Al pondering his great love for the national pastime and goes to answer it. He hopes, for the first time in his life, that it's a telemarketer trying to sell him a year's supply of car wax.
"There's a waterfall! Lord help me! Come quick!" is shrieked in his ear the moment he picks up.
He squints, calculating which of his many over-excitable elderly customers it could be. "Mrs. Henderson?"
"Yes, yes!" she says, as if she can't imagine why he's bothering with formalities when she's in the middle of a plumbing catastrophe. "Please come, Clark. There's something terribly wrong with the downstairs bathroom. You haven't seen so much water since the Great Flood."
"Have you tried Bert Davis?"
"Oh, he's no use after ten o'clock in the morning." She lowers her voice. "A drinker, you know. You're such a good, reliable boy, Clark. I know you'll help me."
"It's just that it's kind of a bad time right now--"
"Oh, I know, dear. I saw it on the television. And then I heard who that poor boy is from Susie Manard down at the Food Mart. Bless your husband's heart! To be out in the water like that for so long. Thank heavens he's all right. I'm sure you've both had a terrible scare. He looks like such a nice young man, too. I said so to all the girls over at Dulcie's beauty parlor."
"Well, then I'm sure you can understand--"
"Of course, dear. Of course. You want to stay home and look after your husband. I guess it's not such a bad thing there's water standing on the laundry room floor. I'll make do somehow. At least my rattan chairs can float. I am a little worried about the cat, though," she trails off pitifully.
Clark sighs. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
Lex--Al--is still leafing through "his" book when Clark returns. He glances up questioningly, and Clark explains.
Al waves his hand in the air. "Go. I'll be fine. You can't leave a flooded old lady in the lurch."
Al's seeming eagerness to be rid of him makes Clark even more hesitant to leave. But he knows if he doesn't get right over there, he'll be treated to a flurry of panic-stricken, guilt-inducing phone calls. He sets the cordless phone on the coffee table and writes down Mrs. Henderson's number. He lays out the piece of paper with the list of symptoms and says, "If you have any of these, call me. Unless it's number eight. Then just call an ambulance. Okay?"
Al nods, but it's clear he isn't really listening. He holds up an insulated coffee mug with a Rockets logo on it. "Is this mine, too? "
Clark smiles. "Sure is."
The intensity in Al's face as he turns the mug over in his hands, studying it from every angle, this remnant of his past, or so he thinks, makes Clark's throat close up. He has to go quickly to keep himself from blurting out the truth, putting an end to the whole charade.
At Mrs. Henderson's, the problem turns out to be trickier than Clark was hoping, and it doesn't help his concentration that Mrs. Henderson talks pretty much nonstop as he's trying to work.
"I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear you're married, Clark. It's just not right for people to be alone in this world. Mr. Henderson, God rest his soul, and I were together fifty-three years. How long have you and your husband been married? Where'd you meet? At church, I hope. I always say the best marriages are the ones helped along by the Lord. Are planning on having children?"
Clark does his best to give her vague answers and desperately tries to keep track of what he's said. Lying is hard work. By the time he's finally finished with the repairs and the clean up, he's so antsy to get home he can barely stand still. But Mrs. Henderson won't hear of his leaving.
"Oh, no, dear, you can't go just yet. I've got a pot roast in the oven. I made it special for you boys, and it just has fifteen more minutes to go. Your husband can use some good food after everything he's been through. A man needs his sustenance. I always used to say that to Mr. Henderson."
Clark sighs in defeat and pulls out his phone. He lets it ring twenty-three times--he counts--without any answer.
"He's not picking up. I'm sorry, Mrs. Henderson. I really have to go."
"Pshaw. He's probably just in the bathroom. You young people in love are sweet, but you get all worked up about nothing."
It's an irony, really. Clark can bench press an Oldsmobile, but he's helpless at the hands of a ninety-pound old woman who looks like a strong breeze would knock her down.
He stands anxiously near the stove, feet in constant motion, like a racehorse desperate to break out of the starting gate. He hits redial every few seconds, with no luck, and each time his worry level ratchets up another notch. At last, the pot roast is ready to come out of the oven, but Mrs. Henderson has to find the lid and the oven mitts. The whole production takes an excruciatingly long time. He'd almost think she was dragging it out on purpose, except for that the fact that she's closing in on eighty, and "interminably slow" is the only gear she has left.
When she finally hands over the pot, he slurs out a rushed "thank you" and practically runs out the door, while Mrs. Henderson waves cheerily.
At home, he hurries inside, calling "Al," throwing down the roasting pan on the kitchen counter, going from room to room. There's no sign of him anywhere, and the house has the empty ring of nobody home. Finally, he thinks to check outside, throws open the back door, making it groan on its hinges, and bolts into the backyard.
Al is standing stock still by the back fence, staring out at the fields.
The silence in Al's posture is forceful, and it takes Clark a moment to work up to words. When he does speak, it's very quietly, "What are you doing? Are you all right?"
Al doesn't move. "I don't know this."
"You just have to give yourself time--"
He turns sharply. "I don't know this. Don't you think I'd feel something?"
It's snappish, impatient, but there's a mournful quality to it as well, and Clark understands at last. This is what sheer choking terror sounds like coming from Al Pacino-Kent.
He puts an arm around his shoulders and says very gently, "Come inside."
They eat dinner. The pot roast seems to cheer Al up a little, the way pot roast will. Afterwards, Clark does the dishes and excavates the foul-smelling ruins from the refrigerator before putting the leftovers away.
Al starts to yawn, and Clark tells him, "I'll go make up the bed for you."
He heads off to the bedroom and is embarrassed when he can't locate the sheets right away. After some digging in the closet, he finally finds them. "It's been less lonely sleeping on the couch," he tells Al. It seems like a reasonable explanation for the sorry state of the bedroom.
At once, he can see it was the wrong thing to say, because Al's expression closes up and he folds his arms defensively across his chest. Clark briefly considers ways to back out of the implication he didn't mean to give in the first place. Finally he just goes to work putting the clean sheets on the bed, figuring anything he'd say would only make it worse.
As he bends over to smooth out the wrinkles, he notices the truly alarming dust creatures--more ominous than mere bunnies--that have started growing under the furniture.
"I'll clean up in here tomorrow," he promises.
"Do I have pajamas?" Al asks, opening and closing drawers.
"Let me get them for you."
He pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of drawstring bottoms with cowboy hats and lassos on them. Al pads off to the bathroom to change, modest in his forgetfulness, and when he comes back, Clark is just turning down the covers for him.
The t-shirt hangs almost to his knees, and the pajama bottoms barely graze the tops of his ankles.
"They shrunk in the wash," Clark tells him.
Al yawns widely, eyes clenched tightly shut. For now, he doesn't seem to care.
"Go on," Clark urges him, nodding his head toward the bed.
Al slides between the sheets, back pressed warily against the headboard, and the moment turns awkward.
Clark pulls a blanket out of the closet. "I'll just--" He jerks his thumb toward the living room. "I don't want to keep you up with my insomnia."
A hint of gratitude flashes across Al's face for the first time in their brief marriage, and Clark tells him, "Goodnight."
It's far too early for Clark to fall asleep, but he doesn't want to keep Al up. So he flops onto the couch, stares up at the ceiling and listens. He can tell when Al finally drifts off, the restless stir of sheets going quiet. He glances longingly over at the television, and whatever slim hope he had for sleep peters out.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out and thoughts start to zing through his head. Do you know how much trouble you're in right now, Pete's voice rings in his ears.
It's a question he'd really prefer not to contemplate.