especially when you’re not
used to imbibing, and Luke
definitely was not. But the post-
nuptial spirits flowed freely, no
one caring about which direction
and, encouraged by his new
“friend” to match him drink
for drink, my brother managed
to consume a lot. Of course, so
did I, so I didn’t really notice
until Dad came storming across
the clearing where we were sitting—
Luke next to Jeremy, and me beside
our pretty little cousin Persephone
(yes, I know!). I’d been paying more
attention to her than to Luke, who,
as I was about to find out, had been
“making a scene,” though it
was obvious to no one but Dad
until the second he thundered,
What the fuck are you doing?
Do you want everyone to think
you’re a fag or something?
The Slur Factor
Was to the nth degree, but the loud
factor was even worse. Everyone
homed on the unfolding melodrama.
Especially when Jeremy responded
before Luke could even react. What’s
wrong with fags? Personally, I love ’em.
Which might have been okay, except
Jeremy was easily as drunk as Dad,
and actually leaned toward Luke as if
to give him a sloppy kiss. Dad reacted
poorly to that, grabbing hold of Jeremy’s
collar and jerking him to his feet. I thought
he might haul off and punch him straight
in the face, and tried to divert such action
with a moment of levity, launching into
the last verse of “God Save the Queen.”
Most people wouldn’t believe I actually
knew the lyrics to the song, but it so happened
I’d learned them for extra credit on a history
project I’d done the year before. Talk
about fortuitous coincidences! To the tune
of “My Country ’Tis of Thee,” “From every
latent foe, from the assassin’s blow, God
save the Queen.” That cracked up Persephone,
Luke, and Jeremy, who spit laughter
in Dad’s face, initiating an apoplectic
bloom of scarlet in his booze-puffed cheeks.
Any chance at situational lightening
immediately dissolved. What’s so funny,
you little shit? By then, people were
moving in our direction, so I felt
emboldened. “Aw, come on, Dad.
In my humble estimation, that was
hilarious. Hope there aren’t any Brits
here, but if there are, I’m very sorry.
Didn’t mean to be offensive.” I’d like
to say Dad cooled off right away, but
it took Uncle Shawn’s intervention
to make him disengage from Jeremy’s ruff.
Now who’s making a scene, Dad, that’s
what I wanted to say, especially as Luke
withdrew to safety behind his superjock facade.
That Was His Fortress
Fragile as it was. He despised
hiding behind the pretense,
but he hated more:
Pissing off Dad.
Worrying Mom.
Embarrassing me.
Losing his friends
and me losing mine.
All because of who he was.
How he was born. Who
he was programmed genetically
to love. Although, tell
that to Dad, he’d claim
you were insane, that no
gene of his could possibly
be responsible for gayness.
The funny thing is, until
his meltdown at Aunt Sophie’s
wedding, I’d never before
witnessed Dad’s raging
homophobia. Did he only
hate “gay” when it so obviously
manifested itself in his son?
I Watch Him Now
One minute to go in the game,
Cottage Grove leading by sixteen
points, but he’s not celebrating yet.
In fact, he paces the sideline, yelling,
Move it! Watch the block!
Pressure, pressure, even more pressure.
am I to argue with a winning strategy?
Hayden et al scream right along with him.
I slip my arm around her shoulder, pull
her ear against my lips. “We already won.”
Then, in a bold bid for attention, I run
the tip of my tongue along the contours
of her auricle. Great word, and interesting
that the term for outer ear is also a part
of the heart. Are they physically connected?
Could the way into a girl’s inner chamber
in fact be licking her ear?
Apparently Not
Hayden gives me an inelegant
elbow to the ribs and hisses,
Stop it. Do you want everyone to see?
Before I can respond, tell her
I really hope the entire world
sees, the buzzer rings. Game over.
The crowd is on its collective feet,
our side cheering, theirs sighing.
One or two look like they might define
poor sportsmanship. I can see more
than one raised middle finger. Lame.
It’s just a freaking game. Hayden and I
trail the Biblettes down from the bleachers.
As they start toward the exit doors, I figure
I’d better ask, “I’m driving you, right?”
She hesitates. It’s late, and a school
night, and I’ve got a chem quiz tomorrow. . . .
“I swear I’ll take you straight home and only
bum a kiss or two for my effort. Don’t worry.
It’s too dark for your dad to play spy.”
I can tell she’s thinking about saying
no, so I tempt, “Please? I want to tell
you about what my therapist said.”
Success! She taps Jocelyn’s shoulder.
Matt’s taking me home. See you tomorrow.
That nets me a wicked glare from
Big J, but then she shrugs and hurries
ahead. Score one for me, and why not?
It’s only fair that I win once in a while.
The teams are finished shaking hands.
Dad’s at the end of the line, looking . . .
My first thought was “proud,” but I realize
a more accurate word would be “smug.”
Maybe he’s the one who those guys
were flipping off. Whatever. I wave
and he reciprocates. “What got into
my dad? He actually acknowledged me.”
Don’t be so melodramatic, Matt.
Why wouldn’t he acknowledge you?
“Me? Melodramatic?” Only if truth is melodrama.
Outside
The usual mist has turned to out-and-out
downpour. I halt Hayden beneath
the wide overhang. “Stay here and I’ll bring
the truck around.” It doesn’t take long,
but by the time I return, she’s standing
alone, haloed yellow by sodium light,
an angel. If there were any argument
for a heaven, or even paradise on earth,
there it is, embodied by my beautiful
Hayden. I park on the sidewalk, close
as I can, so she doesn’t have to take
more than three steps in the rain. Still,
&nb
sp; when she climbs up into the truck,
her long hair drips, and her makeup
smears beneath her eyes. I think about
making a joke, but she looks fragile,
so wordlessly, I reach into the center
console, extract a tissue, and gently wipe
the black streaks away. “Have I ever told
you you’re amazing?” I expect a love-
sponged response. Instead, she pushes
my hand away. I think we’d better go.
Seriously Stung
I put the truck into gear, pull
into the stream of cars leaving
the parking lot before I say,
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t know.
“Of course you do.
Talk to me.”
I can’t tell you.
“Martha says—”
Who’s Martha?
“My therapist, but you
should know that. I’ve
told you her name before.”
Guess I should pay
better attention. What
does she say?
“That relationships struggle
without open communication.”
I don’t mention the fact that I
was supposed to be the one
communicating my displeasure.
Martha’s right, but . . .
“But what?”
But sometimes I worry
if I tell you what’s on
my mind, you’ll freak.
“Come on, Hayd. You know
I’m the benevolent King
of Cool. What’s the problem?”
She thinks it over. Finally
decides to take Martha’s advice.
It’s just you always say
things like I’m amazing.
And you kiss me like you
really love me . . .
“I love you with all my heart.”
So why don’t you want me?
Want? Wait
Just hold on one freaking second.
Is she saying what I think she is?
“I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”
I mean, if I’m so amazing and
beautiful and all, why don’t you
ever try to have sex with me?
Holy shit! She was saying what
I thought she was. “I—I—I’m kind
of speechless, Hayden. It’s called
respect—for you, and your beliefs.
I just never thought . . .” Not for one
second did I consider she might be
like my mother was at her age.
You could have at least given
me the chance to say no. I feel
like you say all the right things,
but you don’t really mean them.
Maybe I’m not so attractive, or
maybe there’s something else
going on, something a whole
lot worse, like . . .
Oh Man
I think I set myself up with all that
communication business. “Like what?”
We’re closing in on her house,
so I pull over a couple of blocks
away, just in case her dear old dad
has night-vision binocs or something.
Well, I talked to Joce about it and
she said maybe the problem is
you’re like your brother.
“Wait. You talked to fucking
Jocelyn about why I’ve never tried
to have my way with you? And wait.
The prevailing theory is it’s because
I’m gay? Why, because if Luke
was there’s a good chance I am, too?”
Anger courses like a storm-swollen
creek. Judah says it’s possible,
that there does seem to be—
“Okay, screw that! You talked to him
about me, too? What the hell is wrong
with you? Oh, I get it. This is the way
good Christians gossip, right? Bathroom
discussions, post-communion, about
how to make their boyfriends come on
to them, so they can feel all holy about
turning them down—sanctimonious prick
tease.” I grab her hand, yank it into my crotch.
“You want to feel my boner? It won’t take
much. Just wiggle your fingers a little.
Jesus Christ, Hayden, I am so not gay!
Do you have any idea how many times
I’ve left you and had to go home and jerk
off?” As if to prove it, my dick jumps
to attention. “There. See? Let’s have sex
right now! Unzip me. This will be fun.”
Stop it! She jerks her hand away,
and now somehow it’s her who’s
pissed. Her eyes spill pain-spiked
tears. Why are you being so mean?
“I’m not the one talking shit about
you behind your back! Might as well
give you something to bitch about
tomorrow. Anyway, I thought this is what
you wanted. Make up your mind, okay?”
I’m out of breath, and she’s out the door,
stomping up the sidewalk in the rain. Fuck.
I Drive Home
Way too fast on the storm-slicked streets, but recklessness
feels good, feels right. This late on a weeknight, traffic
is light, but should I come across someone minding
the speed limit, I punch the accelerator, pass without
much thought. The abandon initiates a major head rush,
no foreign substance required. I’m buzzed. Buzzing.
It feels so good, I drive right by the turnoff to our house,
head out a deserted back road, almost daring some lazing
cop to fire up his engine and come after me. But I see
no cruisers. No other cars. Nothing but a fucking deer,
smack on the center line! “Oh, shit!” I hit the horn,
stomp the brakes, steer into the inevitable fishtail,
and somehow manage to correct without losing
the asphalt or catching the doe with my bumper.
Now I feel better than buzzed. I feel invincible.
At least, until I remember what brought this on
in the first place. One close call tonight is more
than enough. I drive home ten above the limit.
I Walk Through the Door
A little past eleven. The house is already
fast asleep, or at least pretending to be.
No need to expose the ruse. I’m still wound
up, and in fact the recent exhilaration, coupled
with the earlier conversation with Hayden,
has made me want a shower. And not a cold one.
I go to my room for clean post-soaping clothes,
and when I extricate my cell from my jeans,
notice I’ve got a text. Unbelievably, Hayden
has already apologized. VERY SORRY. I WAS
TOTALLY WRONG. FORGIVE ME? Bitch. I toss
the phone on my bed, grab fresh underwear,
a folded T-shirt, some flannel pants, try
to remember not to slam my way down the hall,
into the bathroom. By the time the water
steams, I’m hard as hell—from frustration
and anger and that incredibly close call
on the highway. I am a warrior, and suddenly
I understand the base desire of the conquerer.
Having no one to rape and nothing to pillage
but myself, I step into the hot water stream,
lather up with Mom’s fancy rosemary bath gel,
and when I close my eyes, it is Hayden I imagine
ramming into, take extreme pleasure in her pain.
Marginally Satisfied
Skin and hair scented with rosemary,
I return to my room, check my cell.
Sure enough, there’s another text:
YOU’RE NOT STILL MAD AT ME, RIGHT?
Had it really been her in the shower,
I might have found a small measure
of forgiveness, but as it is, hell yeah,
I’m still pissed. Thankfully, Martha
has prescribed medication for nights
like this, when I just won’t sleep any
other way. The dosage on the label
reads, Take one or two for anxiety.
Since I already brushed my teeth
and won’t be chasing the pills with beer,
I pop three with water, turn off the lights,
burrow in beneath my thick, heavy quilt,
wait for the plunge into paradise. My brain
begins to thicken, a not altogether unpleasant
sensation except for the way it coalesces
around a single word: forgiveness.
Forgive
Forgive.
Forgive.
Forgive.
Over and over,
smaller and smaller,
a receding echo.
Forgive Hayden.
Forgive Mom and Dad.
Forgive yourself.
And where did that come from?
Forgive myself for what, exactly,
you bastard internal voice?
I wait for the answer,
but before it comes, I’m falling,
somersaulting down into Shangri-la,
courtesy of Miss Martha’s little helpers,
followed by a random echo:
Luke.
Luke.
Luke.
By Friday
I still haven’t forgiven a single person.
Least of all myself.
On the surface, Hayden and I are fine.
Except, not really.
Dig a millimeter beneath my epidermis.
Blood trickles, chilled.
I told her I’m okay. With her. With us.
But I’m not so sure.
I don’t know how to act with her.
What to do. What to say.
Should I tell her she’s totally stunning?
Or insist she’s hot as hell?
Should I coax her hand into mine?
Or maul her boobs?
What freaking role should I play?
Respectful boyfriend? Stud?
And maybe the biggest question of all:
Would the true Hayden please step forward?
Zero Communication