"Glad to have them back?" I asked.
"Sort of?"
I laughed. "What? I thought that was the whole point."
"Well, it’s gonna be awkward if they find that leash. And the flogger."
"We can keep it at my place?" It hadn’t been easy, living two hours from him. But maybe, just maybe if this worked out, I could move my operation a little farther north. Hell, I’d flown to Florida, Vancouver, Houston for jobs before. I could drive two hours to St. Paul for them, right?
"Or maybe I can get my own, just close to the Moonlight," he suggested.
I smiled. "Maybe, yeah."
And by maybe, we both meant definitely.
The Full Moon Husband
When I returned to Wheeling, it felt like I’d never left. The old MARSH STOGIES mural visible from the bridge to the Island, the drab, almost-Victorian street that the Ohio River flooded too often, the endless country music fans attracted by Jamboree in the Hills. Nothing was breathtaking, least of all anything in the little shop on Main Street where I’d grown up… and where I lived again, now.
Nothing was breathtaking, that was, until a very grown-up Henry Montgomery came in one morning. He didn’t notice me at first, just peered at the racks of nails intently from behind thick glasses--I remembered those from school, how he’d hated them. He’d grown into them since, his face having acquired sharp angles and intriguing shadows in the decade or two since I’d last seen him. He was still a scrawny white boy, but less scrawny. The choice of the cardigan was strange, but Harry had never been a conformist when it came to fashion. Or anything.
I let him do his thing until it became clear he didn’t know what he was looking for. Then I approached, my heart beating like a hippie drum circle. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I’m just…" Harry turned and blinked when he caught my gaze. Recognition dawned in his eyes all at once. "Lucas? Lucas Drake!"
I held out my hand, smiling, and he took it. "Thought that was you, Harry. You look good."
"You too." His grin was large and goofy. It had been a relatively rare thing when we were in middle school, but that age hadn’t been kind to nerds like us. "I’d know you anywhere. What’s it been? Since we moved in--"
"Seventh grade," I finished with a chuckle. "So close to high school we could taste it."
"Ah, yes, the illusion of freedom." He laughed, silent as it had been in his youth. Now it crinkled his eyes at the corners, too. "I teach at West Liberty University now. Medieval History."
"Some things really don’t change." I recalled nights watching terrifying documentaries on witches and plagues and demons of the past. The Medieval fixation on these things had fixated us in turn.
For me, it was no surprise. Witchy blood ran in my mother’s family, all the way back to the Gullah Lowcountry, back to the plantations and the slave ships, back to West Africa, so far as we knew. For Harry, though, it was pure academic fascination, and I never got up the courage to mention my family connections to him. Probably for the best. Usually was.
"I’m static as a rock," Harry cut into my thoughts. "What about you? Visiting your mama?"
"She just retired, so I’m taking over." I glanced around the cluttered store and gave a deep sigh. "Lots of work to do to get the place back up to snuff."
"Where were you before?" he asked.
"Boston."
"That’s a big change."
I shrugged. "Man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do."
Harry smiled. "Your mama must be happy to have you back."
The bell rang as another customer entered.
Harry gave a little jump. "I’m keeping you, though. I just need to find some nails to hang pictures."
"You need a stud-finder?" And I helped him with what he needed then took him to the register.
As he got out his wallet, he said, "I always come here. Reminds me of you."
For a moment I was speechless. Stupid. Had he really just…? Or was he still awkward, uncertain, always blurting out things that could be misinterpreted? There had been moments, as kids, when I’d considered kissing him. Okay, fantasized about it.
But he could just talking about a friendly kind of ‘reminds me of you’, couldn’t he? We had been best nerd-friends, after all.
I managed what I hoped was an easy smile. "We should catch up. Go get a drink or coffee or whatever."
"Wine." He slid exact change across the table.
Of course. I took it and chuckled. "Know a good place?"
He nodded and handed me a card with his name and number on it. Dr. Henry Montgomery, Ph.D., Medieval Studies, WLSU.
"I’ll hit you up tonight." I carefully placed the card in my back pocket.
Was he blushing? He was always a little pink, so hard to say. He just nodded again. Then he took his bag of nails, smiled crookedly, and left the store.
***
"Witchcraft in the Middle Ages." Harry raised his glass of purply-red wine to me.
I’d pulled the old "I’ll have what he’s having" thing, so I raised my glass in reply. "Wow. Living the dream, huh?"
"I can’t believe people pay me for this, but I went to school forever to make sure they would, so…" Harry leaned back in his seat, careful not to put his elbows on the table, but he still looked comfortable with that glass in his hand.
I was more of a beer person myself, but he’d looked at the menu for half a second before ordering authoritatively, like someone who knew what was up, so I had to try. It was a pretty bold wine, I guessed, an Italian Sangiovese blend, and it would’ve gone down great with a steak. That was about all I could tell.
"Of course, I still have to teach some of the other, more popular things they actually hired me for, but it’s still good. Trying to get an Arthuriana course running next year."
I shook my head. "I just keep thinking about us watching those old movies and judging the witches."
"So fake." Harry’s smile was bright, unselfconscious, now. That was one thing that had changed. I hadn’t known he’d had a smile like that when we were kids, and it was good to see it.
I wondered how much my smile had changed. Not that anyone, let alone Harry, should notice.
"Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble," I quipped.
He saluted again and took another drink. "The implied connection to Satanism and devil worship in general is what blows my mind. Human fear is a fascinating subject."
"You sound like Spock."
"I get that a lot." But Spock never smiled like that. "But I think it’s what always grabbed me about the Middle Ages. It’s not that people are any different now, we still scapegoat--I mean, the satanic panic back in the day…"
"Dungeons & Dragons kills." I snorted. Ah, the old stand-by game of nerds everywhere. Hard to believe now that back in the 80s, plenty of parents had thought it’d lead their kids into a life of satanic sacrifice and murder. Except not, because, well, the 80s.
"Yes, that. But in the Middle Ages, everything was so heightened, superstition was so palpably real. I find it interesting."
"And because you find it so interesting, I bet your students do too."
"Some." Harry smiled again. "A few just think I’m a boring nerd. Must’ve been that paper I published on the metallic properties of antique scrying mirrors."
"Well, we’ve always been boring nerds. We don’t need antique mirrors for that."
"I’ll drink to that."
We did and caught up some. We talked about my dad dying a few years back thanks to his bad heart, my mom running the place by herself, my little sisters off living their lives in various big cities. Harry was an only child, and his parents had moved him to Iowa back in the day, where they still lived. He’d come back to West Virginia for the job--and stayed for the place.
"I missed it," he admitted. "Iowa was so flat and cold after living here. It was like Children of the Corn. Freaked me right out."
"We watched too many terrible horror movies as kids," I said.
"Can you ever watch too man
y?"
"You still into that?"
"Yep."
"Damn, dude, me too."
"You still into the paranormal stuff in life, too?" he asked, all casual, as he sipped on his wine.
I considered. I’d only had half a glass of wine at that point, but I still went for it: "More than ever. I never told you when we were kids--but my parents were into a kind of spiritualism. Not the weird Victorian fake-out thing…"
"No table-rapping?"
"Nah, we don’t fuck with the dead." I checked myself there, uncertain how he’d respond to my casual ‘fucks’ being thrown around, but he didn’t blink.
Right, we were grown-ass men. Harry had something a little too proper, too controlled about him, though, that made me second guess myself.
I’d get over it. He was waiting for more, so I’d better get over it quicker. I cleared my throat and took a drink to cover my discomfort. "Yeah, it’s more like an old school American form of… I don’t know. Wicca. It doesn’t really exclude Christianity or anything, though. You know Mama still has crosses all over the house."
He nodded slowly. "I get it--I’ve seen some of that around the country. It’s a family thing, though?"
"Passed down," I confirmed. I took another drink and caught the server’s eye. Was gonna need another. "I never talked about it when I was a kid. Didn’t want to be the weird one out."
"We were both the weird ones." He was still smiling, though, and obviously understood. "I’d love to hear more."
"I need more to drink, first."
"I’m buying."
"You may regret that."
The server arrived, and Harry grinned up at her. "We’ll just have a bottle."
We drank our way through it and ate our way through a cheese plate with all the accouterments for good measure. And we talked some more. I told him about my mother’s protection spells--which often included a cross--and my father’s carved wooden totems and stick-figure fetishes. He told me about different cultures that had similar practices and asked questions about the order of things, the materials used, the way they talked to their kids about it. It was entertaining for both of us, and it was just--really nice to reconnect with an old friend. I hadn’t done much of that since coming home. I needed to do more.
Finally, when we were at the bottom of the bottle, I asked, "What about you? I mean, we’re covering all the stuff I didn’t tell you back in the day, but what about now? What’s your life at the University like? Are you, like, married, or…?"
Harry took another drink and--I could’ve sworn a deep breath too. "I was married. My husband died three years ago."
I was over-delighted by the implication that he liked men, and so my expression moved from sympathetic to happy way too fast. I tried to recover by picking up my glass, but it was empty.
He poured the last of the bottle into my glass.
"Thanks." Idiot, Lucas. "Sorry to hear it. I--I didn’t know you were married."
"For almost five years," he said quietly.
"Can you--I mean, is it hard to talk about?"
"I… don’t know." This had the air of a confession about it. "I never tried. Not lately."
"Do you want to?"
His smile was sad. "Probably. Let me think about it when I’m not soaked in wine."
"Sorry." I snorted. "I probably wouldn’t even have asked if I wasn’t, right now."
"I don’t mind, I promise."
We sat in silence for a moment as the check came and we both threw down our cards. Then we spoke to agree to split it.
"We could try dinner sometime," I blurted. I was sure I’d be more embarrassed by my timing and lack of smoothness in the morning. I was glad for the wine, at the moment.
He nodded. "That’d be nice. I usually eat alone with a book. Which I enjoy, but…"
"Yeah, but. I haven’t really re-made any friends since I moved home," I admitted.
He smiled. "I have work-friends. It’s not really the same. I never did learn to make friends the right way, after we moved."
"I was the last friend you made?" I asked, disbelieving.
"That I wished I hadn’t lost, anyhow."
I watched his eyes for one moment, the swimming sensation in my mind and limbs convincing me it was entirely appropriate to enjoy the honey-hazel of them in the low light of the empty wine bar. Then I said, "Sunday night?"
"Sunday night."
***
"That Montgomery boy is a strange one," Mama said, burning sage as she wandered through the room.
I coughed and waved the thick smoke out of my face. "Glass houses, Mama."
"Who’s that interested in the black plague? People like that used to burn people like us."
"People like that used to own people like us, but it’s a new day."
"Don’t be glib."
I sighed. "You’re right. I’m sorry. Harry’s a good guy, Mama."
"You saying that because you finally realized he likes boys too?"
I frowned. "How did you know?"
"I knew when you were both 12 and thought you were being sneaky looking at each other with puppy eyes."
My heart beat hard against my rib cage. It had been surprisingly easy with my parents, accepting their gay son. It just was what it was, and no one in the extended family dared to open their mouths if they felt otherwise. The wrath of my mama was a terrible thing.
But she’d never actively tried to stick her nose into my love life. Or lack thereof. This was new and daunting. "I knew moving here would tempt you to meddle."
"I’m not matchmaking! I told you, I think he’s weird as hell. I’m just saying--"
"Don’t do what you did with Jamila."
"Jamila and Wayne are still happily married and have given me three beautiful grandchildren!"
"That’s not the point." Bad example, dammit. "The point is that I don’t want help with my dating situation. Jamila always did."
"Well, fine." Mama shrugged and slipped into the next room, trailing sage after her.
"I gotta get my own place," I mumbled.
"Or you could just pay rent here!" she shouted from the dining room.
Never missed a trick, not when she’d been a thirty-year-old working mom, and surely not now she was pushing seventy and finally retiring. Lucky me.
***
I drank less on Sunday at dinner, but let him order the wine again, which made it hard. "How’d you learn about wine?"
"I take my vacations where I like to drink--and I usually find a work excuse, too. Italy, France, Germany--I’m going to Romania this summer."
"Tell me you’re going to Vlad’s castle, man."
"Hell yes, I’m going to Vlad’s castle." In spite of his grown-up angular features, enthusiasm made him look 12 again.
I’m not usually into cute, so the fact I noticed scared some sense into me for the briefest of moments. I held out my fist for a bump, and he complied--then surprised me by taking my hand in his and squeezing it, then smiling. Our fingers lingered, as if compelled by some magnetism to stay wrapped around each other, as we peeled them apart.
My hand tingled for an hour, but I kept my shit together through the meal, focused the conversation on mutual interests like Vlad the Impaler, ‘monster hunting reality shows’ that were fake as hell, and dope-ass books. We both ended the evening with a long reading list to tuck into our back pockets--written on napkins, of course--and smiles on our faces.
Cool. I was the king of cool. Totally cool.
We did it the Sunday after that, too. And then after that. And then it just became a regular thing. I spent my weeks in the hardware shop reconnecting to my hometown, meeting new people and making new friends, trying to keep Mama from overexerting herself and following Daddy to the grave, seeing as her blood pressure was a disaster. But I spent the weekends wishing it was Sunday night.
Mama said, "You know other people. You could go out for a drink with Reggie."
"Reggie’s, what, nineteen?" I pointed out. "He ca
n’t even drink."
"He’s twenty-five!"
"Well, he looks nineteen."
"You’re not an old man yet." She planted one hand on her hip and gave me that look, the one all mothers master the moment they hold a new child for the first time.
"I’m thirty-eight and I’m tired, Mama. Let me read."
"Let you think about that white boy and his cardigans, more like." But she was smiling when she finally left me alone. Apparently weird was fine if it got me out of the house.
I had a crush. I knew it, and I was pretty sure Harry knew it. If so, he hadn’t said anything, which suggested he didn’t feel the same. And he still hadn’t told me about his husband, which made me think he wasn’t over the loss.
No one ever could be, though. To lose someone at 35, in such a sudden and surprising way as a car accident… it was unthinkable, almost. For me, anyhow. For Harry, it was every day for the past three years. I’d looked in the old papers out of curiosity, and sure enough, there it was. A picture of his husband, handsome, young, with intelligent eyes and a cleft in his chin. The loss tugged at my heart, even if it wasn’t my own.
I’d never had anyone for long enough to consider marriage. A few boyfriends here and there, but once we cohabitated, I always started getting itchy and wanting out. Part of that was my Mama’s fault--and Daddy’s too, probably. Their witchy shit had seeped into my life, and I didn’t like the looks I got when I hung a bundle of twigs over the door or the muttered one of Mama’s incantation-prayers when something inauspicious happened. I once dropped a spoon in the garbage disposal and murmured a spell of protection before I stuck my hand down in, and the look on my boyfriend’s face had been one of instant mistrust. "I thought you weren’t religious."
"I’m not."
"What was that, then?"
That one was a Christian, himself. We broke up soon after. Baptists can be hardcore, man.
Anyhow, it wasn’t just that. I valued my privacy, and now I was well and truly away from my misspent youth… I didn’t need that kind of companionship all the time. Sometimes I missed it, yes, but it was more about wanting someone worth sharing it with than wanting just someone to keep the bed warm.
Witchy Boys: The Complete Collection Page 16
