Full Circle. Michael Thomas Ford

was seven and convinced that a terrible evil lived under my bed. Tired of having me appear at his bedside every time I woke up scared and looking for refuge, my father taught me to focus my thoughts on counting. Monsters, he said, hated counting, especially by threes. If I could keep my attention focused on counting as high as possible in triple steps, I would be safe. As I always fell asleep before getting past even one hundred, I quickly came to believe in the game’s power. And long after the monster under the bed was vanquished, I continued to utilize it in times of stress. It calmed me.

      I began counting quickly—3, 6, 9, 12, 15—and Donna Michelle’s breasts became a dim memory. My blood slowed as my brain required more of it to process numbers, and my erection subsided as its powering agent ebbed. I kept going—18, 21, 24, 27—and soon fell into the familiar rhythm, like the chugging of a steam locomotive, passing through the thirties and into the forties.

      Around 57, I heard something that interrupted my counting. It was a faint rasping sound, like the rustling of leaves, but sustained and more rapid. I stumbled, forgetting whether I’d reached 63 or 66, and came to a halt. The sound continued, more quickly and loudly, and now it was accompanied by something else, the sound of breath.

      I lay quietly, the darkness thick around me. The sounds continued, and I realized that they were coming from Jack. I almost asked if he was all right, then suddenly understood what he was doing and clamped my mouth shut before I could embarrass us both. I listened as he continued, apparently assuming I was asleep and oblivious to what was taking place inside his sleeping bag.

      Worse, I was once more becoming hard. I’ve since come to understand that desire is infectious, and that once the fire is lit, it spreads quickly to those in close proximity. Then, however, I knew only that I was about to break my vow.

      I did it quietly, trying not to breathe. I matched the motion of my hand with Jack’s, hoping that if he did hear a sound he would think it was his own. I wondered if he was thinking about Donna Michelle, with her rosy nipples and long hair. Maybe, I thought, he was imagining what he would do to her if she were there in the flesh. As I myself had no idea what one would do with a naked girl, I had to leave it at that.

      Whatever his thoughts (later he would tell me that he was thinking of nothing, just acting on impulse), Jack soon reached climax. I heard a sharp intake of breath, then a muffled moan, as if he had turned and buried his face in the pillow to keep from crying out. I followed soon after, my hand filling with sticky heat. Almost immediately I sank into the cold blackness of guilt. Even before my flesh had softened in my hand, I was berating myself for having been so weak. The wetness on my fingers felt like blood, staining my skin. I wiped them hurriedly on my shorts, wanting to be rid of the evidence.

      Within moments, Jack was snoring, apparently exhausted by his exertions. I, however, was more wide awake than before, tormented by the demons that leapt, monkeylike, from the cracks and fissures of my mind. They danced through my thoughts, poking me with accusing fingers and laughing meanly at my disappointment in myself. I suppose I could have taken solace in the moment, in realizing that I was not, after all, alone in my depravity. Jack, too, had felt its touch. But reaching that conclusion would have required the reasoning of my adult self and he, sadly, was years away from being able to offer his opinions and reassurance. Instead, I felt even worse, convinced that, somehow, my immorality had rubbed off on my best friend.

      It was, of course, all terribly dramatic. But as I say, I was young, and inexperienced, and in the throes of first love, although that was something I couldn’t even begin to recognize or understand. I knew only that I was unhappy again, and that alone was enough to keep me awake for most of the night. Finally, near dawn, I succumbed to exhaustion. Minutes later, or so it seemed to my weary self, Jack was waking me up so that we could watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

      Our families alternated holding holiday dinners, and it was my mother’s turn for Thanksgiving. (Mrs. Grace would get Christmas, and the following year they would reverse duties.) So everyone convened in our house for the day, mothers in the kitchen and fathers with Jack and I in the living room. Despite my exhaustion, I do remember the parade. Elsie the Cow led the way as the newest balloon to make the march to Herald Square. Although the floats were draped in black in honor of Kennedy’s death, a festive air still surrounded the events, and I couldn’t help but be thrilled by the sight of Felix the Cat, Bullwinkle, Mickey Mouse, and Charlie Brown bouncing through the streets of New York as their handlers navigated the turns with aplomb.

      Dinner was the usual affair, everything cooked to perfection following recipes from Good Housekeeping and The Joy of Cooking. Jack and I ate heartily, piling our plates with corn pudding, oyster stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, and, of course, the ubiquitous roast bird. We grew probably two sizes in the course of an hour and a half, and when we finally pushed ourselves away from the table, it was to collapse onto the floor in front of the television, bloated and groaning. We stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, watching with our equally stuffed fathers the annual Lions versus Packers game, in which we were only marginally interested, but which was far preferable to actually trying to move. When the game ended in a disappointing tie (we didn’t care who, but we wanted someone to win), we managed to roll over and sit up long enough to eat two pieces of pie apiece topped with whipped cream.

      I was half asleep by then, lulled away by food and my restless night at Jack’s. When he and his parents said good night, I was up the stairs to my room in a matter of minutes. Pajamas on and teeth brushed, I slipped beneath the covers, not even bothering to read a few pages of the Jules Verne book I’d picked up after finishing the last Hardy Boys mystery. I closed my eyes, and within minutes fell asleep.

      Donna Michelle came to me like Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Future, wrapped in snowy fur and bedecked with a crown of holly and gently flickering candles. She smiled as she reached for the clasp of her robe and unfastened it, letting it fall open to reveal her perfect breasts and, below, the bright flash of hair she’d kept to herself in her centerfold shot. She held out her hand to me, waiting.

      “Don’t you want to see what I have to show you, Ned?” she asked.

      Reluctantly, I reached out and took her hand in mine. Instantly, we were flying through the air, snow rushing past us as we sailed over a city twinkling with lights. Donna laughed, her voice sparkling like diamonds, and pointed to something far below. We descended, the city rushing up at us so that I had to cover my face with my arm. And then all was still.

      I opened my eyes and saw that we were in a room. It was a hospital room. Someone was in the bed, tubes protruding from his arm and connected to bags of clear fluid hanging from poles. Lights flashed on machines behind the bed, their holiday red and green colors hideously ironic in a room that stank of sickness and death. From beyond the slightly open door to the room I heard the sound of carols sung by voices weak with pain.

      “Is that Jack?” I asked Donna, looking at the figure in the bed. His face was thin, the eyes sunken, and the skin the color of ash. Ugly purple spatters stained his arms and exposed chest, the bones of which protruded menacingly.

      “That can’t be him,” I said, looking away. But Donna nodded and pointed again.

      “What’s happened to him?” I asked her, but she turned away. I grabbed her hand and spun her around to face me. “What’s wrong with him?” I demanded of her.

      “He’s dying,” she said. Tears ran from her eyes and down her face.

      “From what?” I asked.

      “From love,” said Donna. “He’s dying from love.”

      I didn’t understand her. How could Jack be dying from love? Love was something good. What was she talking about?

      Before I could ask any further questions, the lights on the machine behind Jack’s head flickered and turned solid red. A faint buzzing filled the air, and a moment later the door was pushed open and a worried-looking nurse ran in. She looked at the machine, quickly pulled a pair of gloves over her hands, and held Jack’s wrist in her fingers. After a moment, she gently laid his arm down at his side, reached over, and silenced the machine with the push of a button.

      “Merry