Avalon's Last Knight

by Jackson C. Garton

  Handsome. Absurdly attractive.

  In several pictures standing beside him is a girl, whom I assume to be Morgan. They must be twins, because she is absurdly attractive too, with long, well-maintained dreads that match his, and silver beads scattered throughout her hair. They’re dressed in slim-fitting black clothes in all of the pictures—a stark contrast to the matching white outfits they now wear.

  I return to the first image and for a second, an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu consumes me, followed by a strong desire to weep—to grieve—to mourn something that I’ve lost, or that I’m about to lose.

  I drop the phone and cup my mouth. The sensation lasts only a few seconds, but it’s powerful enough to knock me back into the railing. I have met those two before, but where? I cannot say.

  “There you are,” Gwen practically sings when she finds me. “Where’s Arthur?”

  “I have no idea. I thought he was with you.” I drop to the ground and scramble on all fours, searching for my phone. No. No. Please don’t be broken.

  “No,” she replies, firmly grasping one of the eight pillars on the porch with her hands. “I did see him come out here, though. I thought he was following you.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. Are you okay?”

  Gwen swings her body around the pillar to stand in front of me. “I was just thinking the same thing, Lance.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. If I take one wrong step, I’ll smash the phone screen. I’ve done it twice now, and I’ve run out of my student loans. A hundred-dollar screen repair is out of the question. I move my hands in a circular motion, praying that someone’s foot doesn’t find the phone before I do.

  “He came here to be with you.”

  I don’t like her tone. “Arthur is a free man. He can do what he wants. We’re not joined at the hip.”

  “You know damn well freedom is the last thing on Arthur’s mind.”

  “I don’t care to talk about sex with you again, and I’m looking for my phone right now. So can we please not?”

  Gwen pulls out her phone and uses it as a flashlight, holding it above me while I frenziedly look for mine. “I am not talking about sex. That man is desperately in love with you. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

  “Ah ha!” I find my phone and kiss it, not at all caring that I just inhaled a lump of dirt. “He told me he loved me this evening.”

  “What?” Gwen asks. She swings her legs over the railing and balances herself on the metal pole. “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing. I told him that I wasn’t ready.”

  “When will you be ready? You’ll be twenty-one in three months. Are you going to watch him from the bleachers for the rest of your life?”

  “We both know I can’t,” I say. “You and Arthur both know.”

  Gwen clicks her tongue. “So…is this a trans thing? Or like a knight-of-the-round-table thing?”

  Darkness has fallen so Gwen can’t see me roll my eyes, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it. We haven’t discussed either matter in months, because I can’t bring myself to admit these certain truths that I hold about myself and my friends may or may not be true. She knows I don’t believe in coincidences, or the possibility that some things just aren’t connected, so talking to her about predestination is out of the question.

  When I came to Avalon, I was Linda Gonzales. A social worker placed me with six foster families before I was finally adopted by the Lotte family, my forever foster family. Gwen doesn’t believe in legends, and certainly does not believe that the name ‘Gwen Lotte’ has any connection to Gwenhyvfar, the famed woman who notoriously betrayed King Arthur by falling in love with his best friend and confidant, Sir Lancelot, a love that led to widespread destruction and Arthur’s ultimate demise.

  “I do love you,” she says, her voice soft and understanding. “But not that like. You’re my brother, and I’m a dyke.”

  That didn’t stop King Arthur from falling in love with his twin sister, Morgana.

  Morgan. I dismiss the notion immediately that Arthur and the mysterious girl from earlier share a blood connection, but mentally set the thought aside for further investigation, because that’s just how my brain operates.

  “Arthur is dying for you to make a move,” she says. “What is the hang-up?”

  “I can’t. We already know what happened the last time. It was a sign.”

  Gwen flips over the railing and lands beside me, her feet planting firmly on the ground like a gymnast. She places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  “Homophobia is not a sign,” she says. “It’s a mental disorder, and you’re going to die a virgin if you continue to live like this.”

  “Virginity is a social construct, Gwen. It has meaning because we give it meaning. It doesn’t actually exist.”

  Gwen sticks out her tongue at me. “You do realize that’s precisely what a virgin would say.”

  I shake off her hand and pull out my phone. “It’s nearly midnight. Aren’t you supposed to be burning off negative energy or some shit?”

  “Text Arthur, tell him you want to suck his big dick.”

  “What?” I ask. “I thought you were drunk, but now I think you’re experiencing severe psychosis. Because you are absolutely bonkers.”

  “Why not?” she asks. “Do you want me to text him? I’ll do it for you.”

  A screen door slams and someone calls out, “Gwen!” My sister bumps my head with hers and points at my phone.

  “He would probably bust a nut just reading that text.”

  “Why are you like this?” I reply.

  “Just sayin’, is all. Bring that negative energy out back and prepare to get naked.”

  Gwen is always naked, or talking about getting or being naked. She jumps at any and all reasons to undress in front of others. I love her, but she’s mental.

  After she leaves, I walk around the house and find a spot to lean against. My head is swimming and my stomach burns. I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, but I’m not really into the idea of possibly running into Todd again just for a slice of cheese pizza, so I’ll wait to eat something when I get back to Arthur’s.

  I should probably text him to see where he is, so I send him a message, and decide to scroll through Instagram while I wait for a response. The third picture I see makes my gut sting even more—Arthur has two girls on his lap and they’re both kissing. I can’t really see his face, but he’s smiling, so that means he’s having a good time, enjoying himself and the view. The girls are closer to his age, and look like models. A splendid time being had by all, I’m sure.

  I’m self-aware enough to know that everyone, not just me, finds the light in Arthur’s eyes warm and alluring, that the things I admire the most in him are admired by many. But I am not in a good mental space, haven’t been since my arrival, and I know now with utmost certainty that I should have gone home after work.

  “Fuck this,” I say to myself, and push off the side of the house.

  I shove my phone into my bag and make the decision to walk home alone.

  Chapter Three

  The Dioscuri

  A few days after the party, I find myself sitting in Baubles & Books, having coffee and eggs with Gwen. She hasn’t shut up about the party since we got here, though, because apparently after I left, several people got really high, stripped naked and jumped into a creek that runs alongside the old farmhouse. The night ended in someone getting their ass bitten by a baby water moccasin. Must’ve been city folk, because everyone around here knows better than to do such a dumb thing. You never get into a creek at night, especially when you’ve been drinking.

  “Have you heard from Arthur since Friday night?” Gwen opens two plastic containers of creamer and pours each one into her coffee. “Did you go home with him?” she asks. “I don’t really remember much from that night, honestly.”

  I reach for the ketchup and squirt a dollop of dark red brilliance beside my eggs. Gwen makes a retching sound and po
ints at it. I reply, “They’re my eggs. And no, I haven’t. I left before he did.”

  “What pissed you off this time?” she asks, never missing a beat. “You’re ridiculous, you know that, don’t ya?”

  I survey the small, mostly empty store before answering, doing my best to contain the frustration I feel bubbling up from the pit of my empty stomach.

  The store has been here since we were in middle school, but I have trouble remembering specific details about it opening, my memories hazier than usual for some reason. A colorful assortment of resplendent stained glass in all of the windows and wind chimes hanging from every open screen make it difficult to maintain a sour mood in here.

  At the front of the store are two displays, one full of packaged, vacuum-sealed herbs for medicinal purposes, and the other full of calendars, journals and small charms meant for novice witches and those interested in casting spells. A purple calendar attractively adorned in stars and moons immediately catches my eye. Not because I’m a novice witch, but because I’m a sucker for Celtic-inspired art. The plastic-wrapped paper chart reminds me of a journal I have packed away in a box from my dorm room.

  The rest of the store is pretty much just stocked with cheaply made wooden bookshelves and used books on various types of witchcraft. No real organizational skills or thoughts have been applied to the actual setup of the store. How Baubles & Books has managed to stay afloat this deep in the Bible Belt is beyond me. As unintuitive as it might sound, I suspect it has something to do with magick.

  Gwen and I are seated by a large bay window that looks overlooks an empty parking lot, and wafts from the burning incense snake their way toward us. I love the pure, clean scent of sandalwood, so that smoke doesn’t bother me at all.

  “How can I put this, without sounding like a huge ass,” I finally say. “I’m a very selfish person, I know this about myself, and I don’t particularly like the idea of sharing Arthur with everyone, which is why I won’t commit to the idea of being with him exclusively.”

  Gwen replies, her mouth full of hash browns, “Exclusively? I don’t know what that means. Are you saying that you would be into an open relationship? Because that’s very ‘millennial queer’ of you, if so.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I don’t want him to settle for me.”

  We have had this conversation more than once, and every time, it ends with us arguing about whether I have the right to make that decision for Arthur. I wait for Gwen’s impassioned response, and take a sip of the Earl Grey tea that was just brought to me.

  “I don’t see how you can sit here and say these things about yourself.”

  Ever since I came out as Lance, I’ve struggled with these types of thoughts about myself and others. Gay relationships often seem off limits to trans people, especially among gay men. I’m not white, I’m a trans man, and I’m gay—the array of conflicting identities can be too much for me at times. I can’t share that burden with Arthur, not here in Avalon, and I would never dream of asking him to move to Lexington just for me. I’m not worth the hassle.

  “But I won’t argue with you anymore,” Gwen says. “It’s your journey, and if you’re dead-set on traveling it alone, I won’t force you into doing somethin’ you don’t want. I just wish you’d let him love you once and for all. Oh, I meant to ask you—aren’t Arthur’s kittens cute?”

  I scoff. “You mean Yin and Yang?” Just saying those words makes me feel uneasy.

  “Yes! I helped him name them!” Gwen beams with pride. “Because they’re black and white!”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “You suggested those names? I can’t believe it. Are you that dense?”

  “Dense? I don’t get it. What’s wrong with it? They are black and white.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’ve taken sacred Chinese philosophy and— You know what, just—never mind. I don’t feel like getting into it with you right now.”

  Gwen pouts her bottom lip. “This is a ‘I’m white and have done something horribly offensive again’ thing, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t live here anymore,” I say. “I am not going to dictate how you or Arthur live your lives, but try to be mindful of this shit, won’t you? You’re like this close to being that dumbass who wears a headdress to the bar on Halloween night.”

  “God, Lance, give me some credit. I would never do that, I’m not that stupid.”

  “Just how stupid are we talking?” a voice from behind our table asks. “Mornin’, Gwen, Lance.”

  Arthur and a girl wearing a plain, low-cut yellow sundress walk over to our table. She has blonde dreadlocks and a tattoo of a Japanese symbol just below her clavicle. I know the girl, or at least have seen her at the library a few times. The last time we actually spoke to each other was in passing, at the polling station, where she was helping folks vote. That time she had been wearing a shirt that said ‘A Woman’s Place Is In The White House’, and kept fucking up my pronouns because I was still registered to vote as Linda. I think she was confused about the whole process. Hell, I was confused, and it made voting for the first time suck.

  “Hey,” Gwen says, and kicks me under the table. “Speak of the devil. How are you, Arthur? Tammy?”

  I don’t acknowledge either of them, keeping my eyes on my cup of tea, because I’m a huge baby and haven’t been able to climb out of my dark feelings since Friday night. Besides, I am not particularly fond of Tammy, and just the sight of her irritates me.

  Arthur does his best to ignore my low mood, though, and takes the chair next to mine, turns it around then sits on it, folding his forearms on the back. His leg brushes against mine and he keeps it there, making me acutely aware of his close presence. Normally I would say something and move it abruptly, but that would force me to acknowledge him, so I don’t.

  “Lance, do you know Tammy Dixon?” Gwen asks. “Tammy, this is my brother, Lance.”

  Tammy must not recognize me, because she is all smiles and giggles when she introduces herself, but that doesn’t stop me from ignoring her greeting. Arthur rubs his leg against mine and I shoot a look at him.

  “I’m glad to see you made it home okay on Friday night,” he says, leaning over. “I would have given you a ride if you had said something. You didn’t have to walk all that way. I spent the rest of the night thinking that Todd had done something awful again. Do you even know how to respond to text messages?”

  Arthur isn’t usually this disgruntled, or at least, frames his questions differently when it’s just the two of us. The irritation saturating his voice is almost palpable. I’m not sure if it’s vexation or disdain, but I’m not used to such a black, accusatory tone.

  “Lance, I feel like I know you.” Tammy must sense the beginnings of an argument, because she interjects before I have time to respond to Arthur. “Have we met before?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe,” I reply, my eyes still locked with Arthur’s. “White people all look the same to me.”

  Arthur stifles a laugh and Gwen huffs.

  “I’m sorry,” Gwen says. “My brother is being very rude at the moment. Maybe he’s about to be on his period?”

  “Fuck off,” I say to Gwen. “You expect me to be nice to some white chick with shitty dreads and a fucking Asian tattoo on her left boob that probably means ‘barbecue’?”

  Tammy shuffles uncomfortably in her seat, and when I think she’s about to apologize for existing, she says something even dumber, sending me into a fit of rage. To make sure I heard her correctly, I ask her to repeat herself.

  “Don’t you think it’s misogynistic to imply that your brother is about to be on his period just because he’s mad?” Tammy asks Gwen again, in all seriousness.

  The table falls silent, and Arthur, Gwen and I exchange looks. I scoot my chair back and stand up.

  “Are you serious right now?” I ask. “Don’t you think it’s transphobic to suggest that men don’t get periods? You know what? I actually don’t give a damn about what you think bec
ause I’m leaving.” I reach into my pants pocket and pull out two five-dollar bills, then toss them on the table. “That should cover my breakfast, tip and all. I’m out of here.”

  “Lance!” Arthur stands up. “Hey, wait!”

  I can hear Gwen telling him to let me go, that I’m on one at the moment, that it’s not worth it. She’s probably right.

  “Lance!” Arthur calls out once more, ignoring Gwen’s sound advice. “Where are you going?”

  I make my way to the front of the store, and throw up a hand, before opening the screen door. “Later,” I say.

  I don’t know why I’m so mad, maybe Gwen’s right.

  The overhead sun is in full force this morning, so I reach for the sunglasses in my shirt pocket and take a few deep breaths before finding a shaded seat on the ground.

  Outside, the streets are much busier than inside the shop, and while this would normally exacerbate my anxiety, there’s something unusually calming about watching joggers and random folks with dogs share a sidewalk with one other. Sometimes life is so simple in this little Podunk town.

  Across from Baubles & Books is a tiny vintage boutique that sells hats and scarves, called Hatsapalooza, and beside that is a candy store that specializes in making old-fashioned rock candy and homemade ice cream floats. I have no idea how some of these shops are still around. Who even buys hard candy in bulk anymore? Camelot Crafts is Baubles & Books’ next-door neighbor, and the only store on the block that I know of with a steady stream of customers on the reg. Thank God for church ladies and preschool teachers.

  Gwen has worked at Baubles & Books for the past two months, I think. It’s her third job in the past four years. She’s a hard worker, always on time, never calls in, that type of person, but doesn’t take shit from customers who pinch her ass or call her sweetie. I wonder how long she’ll last at this job. She has a cool boss and seems happy, but she’s been at it for only a couple of months, so only time will tell.