Chapter 11

Thursday Afternoon

I stacked the dishes and drink cans from lunch on the desk, and returned to the bed where Grant waited, relaxing on his back. Grant’s eyes tracked me, his lips curved in a contented smile.

We spent twenty-four hours together in our room, as Grant did with Shawna a few days ago. Neither of us spoke much. It wasn’t even necessary to say “I love you,” for now. It was time for touching. We made love twice this morning, and would again tonight, several times.

Lying down beside him, I reached out to roll Grant toward me. I pushed my right leg between Grant’s, and spread my fingers across Grant’s buttock. I pressed my lips against Grant’s and kept them there, not kissing, just sharing the air Grant breathed.

I had a very good sensory memory. It always helped me as a Noosemeister, my body was always able to reproduce the muscular movements that made me feel right in the noose. I would always remember the way Grant felt against me right now. It was always nice to feel Grant’s chest pressed against mine, feel his heartbeat underneath. But more important, I would remember the feel of Grant’s stomach pressed flat against mine, remember the slow rhythm of pressure as we breathed, sharing it through our mouths.

The taste of his breath.

Breath. Nobody thinks about breath as much as a Noosemeister does. Most people rarely gave it a thought at all, in fact. Breath is a prime focus of a Noosemeister’s studies. How the respiratory system works in concert with the circulatory system. How to make use of breath as efficiently as possible. Training the body to find breath whenever and wherever it is available. Grant and I had worked out special breathing techniques for our shows. I didn’t think they had ever been tried before.

Breath itself is a lover. A Noosemeister considers it constantly, responds to the need for it, feels the sweet yearning for it when it is gone, knowing it will return. And willingly gives it up forever when the right time comes, just as sublings joyously part from their loved ones when it is time to move on to their higher calling, to make friends and family fertile and/or lucky with their thanerone.

I took a long, deep breath, filling my lungs with Grant. Most of the air I breathed in, I would breathe right back out again. But some would stay.

I would have some of Grant, to hold and feel against my skin, and part of him would be inside me as long as I lived. But so much more meaningful to feel Grant in my breath.

To know, always, that Grant was with me, whenever I breathed.

Friday Morning

I sat upright on the bed facing Grant, our legs around each other’s waist, arms holding each other.

After a long kiss, Grant gave me a small smile and suddenly said, “I told Shawna I’d thought about sleeping with her every day, way back then. When we were roommates.”

My jaw dropped. “For real?”

Grant nodded.

“Honey, why didn’t you?”

Grant grinned. “You know why. Tell me why.”

“You were afraid getting involved with anybody would take away from your focus on hanging.”

Grant nodded again. “I got pretty good at pushing the thoughts away. I’d think instead about Seymour’s hanging, I’d remember early hanging sessions with my coach, and how exciting that was. I’d fantasize about my own hanging.” He frowned. “And I got pretty good at pushing people away too. That’s another thing you know.”

I nodded, then smiled suddenly. “You were sort of half-nice to me. Or at least not insulting. Maybe I should feel insulted about that, now. I guess you didn’t feel threatened by any attraction to me.”

Unexpectedly, Grant laughed. “Oh, wow. At least you didn’t get everything about me figured out.” He looked into my eyes. “It’s true I had you in kind of a different category, but you’ve got it turned around. Ask me what else I thought about when I was trying to get my mind off sex with Shawna or any of the others.”

I could read it now, in Grant’s face. My eyes went wide. “Oh, come on.”

Grant nodded, his eyes bright. “Okay, now you can see it. At night, while I’d be lying in bed, trying to fall asleep and not think about Shawna over in her bed ... like I said, I tried to think about other stuff instead. All that hanging stuff, like I was just telling you, but also, when I wasn’t careful, I’d imagine being with you. I tried not to, but I kept coming back to that.”

It took effort for me to bring my jaw back up to speak. “When did that start?”

Grant bit his lip in thought, looking up at the ceiling. “After ... about the first week, I guess.”

I shook my head, stunned. “What about after I moved in? You could see how much I wanted you, right? You knew why I had to run into the bathroom after every time I helped you practice hanging.” I remembered those post-practice masturbation sessions very well.

Grant looked away with a rueful smile. “I remember that. I felt so superior about that. I felt like I was handling my feelings better than you were, keeping my focus on hanging better than you. I told myself I’d be a better Noosemeister, because of that. But I had to really start obsessing about hanging, just to get my mind off you. All that extra reading, and finally...” Grant blushed. “You know.”

I could barely think. I knew exactly what Grant was referring to. That night, that life-changing night, when Grant had used me in an ill-considered hanging experiment.

As the memories rolled through my head, Grant went on, “And you know I was never trying to kill you, right? I was all set to hit the drop button, like I told you. But I just ... I wrapped myself up completely in hanging theory, and it led to ... that. Just so I wouldn’t have to ... think about how it would feel to be in you.”

I looked into Grant’s eyes, and saw myself reflected there, and I realized how much Grant and I belonged to each other. I pulled Grant closer and kissed him, feeling his arms tighten around me.

I broke off the kiss. I opened my mouth, and realized Grant was speaking at the same time, both of us saying, “This is the last time.”

One more time, Grant occupied all of my senses—the sight of his body, the sound of his moans, the touch of his skin rubbing against mine, the taste of his lips and tongue, the scent of his sweat as the excitement built. And I was plunged back in time, to the first time we made love, the weeks of wanting Grant building up to the thrill of that moment ... I knew now, for the first time, that Grant had been just as excited, had, like me, come from the joy of union with the object of his fantasies. And the bridge between that first time and this last time made it seem as though we had been making love constantly for three years. And we really have, I thought. There’s no first time and last time. Just the one, long time, and the memory of it will be clear enough, pure enough, to last me the rest of my life.

That was my final thought before the sensations of my body overwhelmed all thought.

Friday Afternoon

I looked around the Party Room. Around the sides of the room, some of the underclass boys were draping festive bunting and balloons, readying the room for tomorrow’s unprecedented big show. Ms. Bennett, the assistant Dean, was supervising, organizing, offering suggestions on the decorations.

The hanging cage was gone. Members would have an unrestricted view of Grant, with no interference from metal bars. In place of the cage was a circular stage, four feet high and six feet in diameter, with the hanging platform in the center. A ten-foot circle of metal pylons wound with various colors of crepe ribbon surrounded the stage. Angie, one of the Second Years, was attaching red velvet ropes to the pylons. Grant and I would be inside, everybody else would have to watch from outside.

Grant leapt onto the stage and up to the surface of the platform. He examined the dangling noose, his fingers running softly along its inside surface.

Grant frowned. “It’s been used. Can we get a new one?”

I turned. “Ms. Bennett? Grant wants a new rope.”

Ms. Bennett nodded, and turned to the nearest boy. “Tracy, would you run and get one from the student store?”

Tracy nodded and ran out of the hall. Ms. Bennett sent Angie to go up onto the catwalk and untie the old rope.

Minutes later Tracy returned, and handed the new rope to Grant. Grant looked it over, again feeling it with his fingers, nodded, and quickly formed a hangman’s knot at one end of it. He threw the other end up to Angie, who tied it in place while Grant held the knot at the height he wanted. He took hold of the rope above the knot, gave it several hard yanks, and used his arms to raise himself off the platform for several seconds, making sure the rope held his weight. He nodded up to Angie, who scrambled down from the catwalk.

Grant jumped down from the platform and walked out of the clear zone. Keeping his eyes toward the platform, he slowly stepped sideways around the circle. He finally stopped at one point. He said, “Amy, this is where I want Kathleen to be standing...”

He stopped suddenly, and spun around to look at me. I had no idea what sound I might have made, perhaps a momentary catch in my throat when Grant mentioned Kathleen.

Grant stared at my face for a moment, reading ... everything. Every thought that had run through my mind in response when Grant said Kathleen’s name. At last Grant broke into a smile, a tear running down his cheek. He put his arms around me and held me close. “Thank you, Amy. Whatever you did, thank you.” Without knowing details, he was somehow able to tell that I had worked desperately, and successfully, to ensure that Kathleen would be here for his hanging.

I let loose some tears of my own. I thought about reminding Grant how much I loved him, that I would do anything for him. None of that seemed necessary. I just held him.

Friday Evening

I pulled open the door to the Hall of Honor, ignoring the polite “Cleaning - Please Wait” sign that Grant had taped to the door.

Grant had told me he would be spending the night there, and nodded when I asked if I could join him, saying “But give me a couple of hours first.”

I understood the significance of the Hall of Honor to Grant. Grant wanted some time to talk to the heads. To tell them he had kept the promises he had made to them, so long ago.

I expected to see Grant stretched out on the mattress he had brought. Instead, he was sitting upright at one end of the mattress, motionless, cross-legged, leaning back against the wall facing a row of heads. His eyes were closed. His uniform lay folded neatly on the floor beside him.

I quietly stripped off my own uniform. Sex was not on the program—Grant was now planning for his hanging, and would think of practically nothing else until the show started. I lay down quietly on the remaining portion of the mattress, trying not to disturb Grant’s concentration. Grant clearly wasn’t asleep. He was in some sort of trance. I sensed that Grant was fully conscious, but not of the outside world. All of his attention was turned inward.

At this close range, I could see a pattern of muscular contractions, suggestive of the rhythms of hanging. A slight flexing of thigh muscles, a twitch of the muscles that would throw his hips forward, a sequence of slight tightening of muscles in shoulder, upper back, neck, that would be involved in the necessary moves for breathing. Grant was rehearsing his hanging—choreographing in his mind all of the moves he wanted to do, the order he planned to do them. I smiled as Grant gave a tiny headshake, not as a hanging move but a sign of mental negation, as if deciding to discard one move and replace it with another. While Grant’s muscular movements were purely symbolic to me as an outside observer, I was sure that Grant was experiencing the hanging in his head, from start to finish.

After a few minutes, I realized I was not entirely correct. Grant had spared a small space in his consciousness for recognition of the world surrounding him. He was holding his hand in the air, extended partway toward me. Grant knew that I was there, even if he wasn’t sure exactly where I was.

I took Grant’s hand, wrapped my fingers around it, and held it between my face and the mattress, palm cupped against my cheek. Content with that much of Grant, I fell asleep.

Saturday Morning

I opened my eyes, but I knew instinctively not to move.

Grant’s navel was directly in front of me. I could feel Grant’s head resting on my inner thigh, using it as a pillow. Sometime during the night, Grant had satisfied himself with his mental preparations, and had stretched out on the mattress in front of me for one last sleep.

That was it, I thought, that’s why I didn’t want to move. I wouldn’t wake Grant from the final recharging of energy before his hanging. There was plenty of time before the show’s scheduled start at 2 pm, and nothing left to do before then, except eat breakfast.

For now, I was content to watch Grant’s navel slowly rising and falling with his breathing.

On any other morning, I would have kissed Grant there, then moved farther south, to Grant’s crotch, to lick him awake. Grant was already in perfect position to return the favor. But today was not for taking pleasure in each other’s bodies. Today, Grant was communing with his inner self. I wouldn’t disturb that.

After about thirty minutes, Grant began stirring. He rubbed his eyes and stretched.