Never a Hero

by Marie Sexton

  Nick stared at me, clearly confounded. I had no doubt he would have given my mother a piece of his mind if she’d been present. I wondered if I’d feel vindicated or embarrassed.

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. I reminded myself that this was Nick I was talking to. Nick, who would never laugh at me, or roll his eyes, or tell me to spit it out already. Nick, who was my one true friend.

  “The stuttering was my m-mother’s fault,” I said at last. “It’s generally accepted that there’s a cause, whether it’s physiological or psychological. There’s some debate about the specifics. I can’t really speak for others, but for myself, it’s turned out to be largely psychological.”

  “I don’t know if I understand. There must be a physical cause.”

  “Well, there probably is something that starts it. But how much it continues depends a lot on other factors. One thing that’s generally accepted is that anxiety can aggravate it, and the reaction of the listener can aggravate it, which in turn causes more anxiety and more stuttering.”

  “A vicious cycle.”

  “Exactly. So, things like having the waitress f-focus on me, and knowing she’s imp-p-patient, that can trigger it.”

  “You’re talking about the waitress, but you said it was your mother’s fault.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because she handled it poorly?”

  “She wanted me to be like everybody else. She wanted a normal son.”

  “Owen, I wish you wouldn’t use that word. You are normal.”

  I nodded because I didn’t trust myself to speak. On some level I knew he was right. A congenital amputation didn’t mean I was abnormal. A stutter didn’t either. My father had told me the same thing over and over again: “There’s not a damn thing wrong with you, son.” My mother had wanted the best for me, but she’d also wanted me to hide the severed arm that set me apart. And in pushing me to be “normal,” she’d often resorted to tactics that had felt almost cruel. No mother would ever do that, people sometimes said. Except I knew the truth. Mothers could do a lot of terrible things in the name of “helping.”

  “The p-p-point is, it varies a lot from person to person. But for me, my mother is my biggest trigger. High school was the worst, because she’d tell all of my teachers about it, like she was setting me up. And kids would make fun of me. And then….” I stopped there. I wasn’t about to share that part of my story yet. “Anyway, around my junior year, my father and I began to notice how much better my speech was when she wasn’t around. Coming here for college was the best decision I ever made. I did a bit of speech therapy, but the real solution was getting far away from my mom.”

  “I don’t even know what to say to that. Jesus. Your mother sounds like a real peach.”

  I shrugged. “What c-c-can I do? We don’t get to choose our relatives.”

  IT WAS as if by speaking of my mother, I manifested her. Only two days later, my parents called.

  At first, only my father was on the line. “We haven’t heard from you in ages, son. We miss you.”

  I wondered if his “we” was intentional or accidental. “I miss you too, Dad.”

  “How’s Colorado?”

  “Good.”

  “How’s work?”

  “About the same.”

  “Come on, now. Don’t give me the short answers. There must be something interesting you can tell me.”

  I found myself smiling, excited to be able to share my news. “I’m learning piano.”

  “Really? What brought that on?”

  “Well, my friend Nick has one, and his sister talked me into taking lessons with her.”

  “Oh no,” he teased. “A girl talked you into it, huh? Sounds like love to me.”

  “It’s really not like that.” Funny, too, how it had never even occurred to me. I’d been too focused on Nick. “She has a congenital amputation of the arm too.”

  He was quiet for a second, contemplating that. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said at last. “That must be quite a sight.”

  “I think we’re playing in a recital in December.”

  “Perfect timing, then. Your mom and I were thinking about coming down for a visit, just before Christmas.”

  In the blink of an eye, my happiness at talking to him burned up and blew away like ash in the Colorado wind. “Wh-why?”

  “Well—”

  He was interrupted by a click as somebody picked up a second line, and then my mother said, “Owen?”

  I took my time answering in hopes of keeping my tongue under control. “Hi, Mom.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re coming for Thanksgiving.”

  “N-no, probably not.” I hadn’t spent a holiday with my mother in four years. I had no intention of starting again now.

  “The least you could have done is call and tell me.”

  “I’m s-sorry.”

  She sighed, a sudden loud exhale that gave me a clear picture of her face, her eyebrows a sharp V above her eyes, her lips pursed in disapproval. “The neighbors ask, you know, and I have to tell them that my own son doesn’t want to come home.”

  “It’s hard to get time off around the holidays,” my dad said, coming to my rescue. “And we’ll be there in December anyway, Val, so no reason for him to use his PTO. What day is your recital, Owen?”

  I managed not to groan, but I knew what was coming. My mother was like a bloodhound, sniffing out anything that might humiliate me. Any glimmer that I might fail at something and embarrass myself more.

  “What recital?” she asked.

  “Owen’s learning to play piano.” I wondered if they were standing in the same room, phones pressed to their ears, facing each other across the kitchen as we talked, or if my dad was at the other end of the house, avoiding her as I’d always done.

  My mother snorted. “With only one hand?”

  “He’s taking lessons with a girl who has the same birth defect.”

  “It’s a congenital amputation,” I said, hearing Nick’s voice in my head.

  “We know, Owen,” my mother said, sounding exhausted. “So is that what the recital is? Adults with disabilities?”

  “N-n-no, M-Mom! It’s a r-regular piano recital. W-we’re playing a d-duet, th-that’s all.”

  “I hope you don’t have to give a speech or anything first.”

  “Wh-wh-why w-would I have to give a sp-speech at a piano recital?”

  “Don’t be argumentative. I only meant that it’s bad enough to have everybody see you walk up there with only one arm, as if you can play as well as them. At least they won’t hear you stutter too.”

  I hung my head, biting my lip to keep from speaking because it would never come out right anyway. Her scorn and disgust made my heart pound and my tongue heavy.

  “Owen,” my dad said, “I know you’ll do great. I can’t wait to hear you play.”

  “Th-thanks, Dad,” I said. And then, because I knew I couldn’t stand to hear my mother say another word, I said, “I have to go now, okay? I’ll t-talk to you later.”

  But ending the call didn’t change the horrible weight in my chest or the ache in my throat. I was tempted to climb into bed. To let the weight of my depression bear me down, but then I heard one of Nick’s dogs bark in the backyard, and I knew what I wanted.

  It had been a long time since I’d been so nervous knocking on Nick’s door.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked the minute he let me in. “You look upset.”

  I nodded. I tried to speak, but my mother was still there in my head, making me stammer and stutter. I flashed back to the hundreds of times she’d said, “I hope you don’t embarrass me again,” right before introducing me to somebody new, practically guaranteeing that I’d stumble on the simple words, “Nice to meet you.” The memories made my tongue even more uncooperative now, as I faced Nick. It was worse than the day at the restaurant. I wanted to say, “My mother called.” Given our previous conversation, that would be enough for him to understand, but I couldn’t ge
t past the first m. “M-m-m-m—”

  “Shhh,” Nick said. Not the way my mother had always said it. Not meaning “Be quiet until you can talk right.” Not meaning “Quit making a fool of yourself.” This was a sound of comfort. Of compassion. It was a sound that meant, “I understand.”

  And then he stepped forward and pulled me into his arms.

  Relief swept through me like a drug in my veins. It made me limp, and I clung to him. I breathed in his smell, part disinfectant, part soap, a hint of the animals he worked and lived with every day. I let the comfort of his apartment and his presence wash over me. My heart slowed. The anger and resentment my mother had stirred in me faded into the background.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “My m-m-mother called. They’re coming to visit in December.”

  “Oh, hon. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry she upsets you like this.”

  “I’m fine.” And I was. Standing there in his arms, I felt good. I relaxed against him, and he continued to hold me. He ran his hands up and down my back. He rocked me a little, almost as if we were dancing. I felt at peace. I felt whole and healthy and right. I felt….

  Well, I was beginning to feel more than a little aroused, and if the growing bulge against my hip was any indication, I wasn’t the only one.

  This was what I wanted. Not just Nick, with his strong arms and gentle hands. Not just the comfort of being with him, but the feeling of normalcy that came with desire and with feeling desired.

  I pulled away enough to meet his eyes. “Will you kiss me?”

  He smiled, a sad, sweet smile. He put his hand behind my neck and pulled me close again. He did kiss me, but not as I’d hoped. Not on the lips. He kissed my cheek, and the sensitive spot in front of my ear. “You have no idea how much I’d like to.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “I’m afraid if I open that door, I’ll never be able to close it again.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know.”

  He brushed his lips over my neck, and I tipped my head back so he could do it more. He sighed, almost a moan. “You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, but if I did what you want—what I want—you’d hate me for it. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true.”

  I was disappointed, but not terribly. Yes, I wanted him, but what mattered to me most was being with him. Feeling like I could be myself.

  “Want to watch the rest of the game with me?” he asked.

  “Sure.” We settled on the couch together, and he let me snuggle up next to him, curled into his warmth. “Will you hold me a bit more?”

  “You bet,” he said, putting his arms around me. “That I can do.”

  Chapter Six

  “DO YOU have any plans for Halloween?”

  It was October 29, and I was sitting next to Nick on his couch, eating the blandest popcorn I’d ever tasted. No salt. No butter. It was like eating packing peanuts. “No. And if this has anything to do with June’s conjoined twins idea, the answer is ‘hell no.’”

  He laughed. “Nothing like that, I promise. I wondered if you’d like to come to my office with me and help hand out candy?”

  “You’re open on Halloween night?”

  “Not really. The Light District does this safe Halloween event every year where the kids trick-or-treat at the businesses. I thought it might be fun to have some company.”

  I didn’t have anything better to do, so two nights later, I climbed into the passenger seat of Nick’s Tahoe and rode downtown to his veterinary clinic, which sat right on the edge of the Light District. Down the street, I could see a strangely luminescent glow from behind the buildings.

  “Wow. Is that the lights?”

  “Yeah. Haven’t you been down here?”

  “Not often. Not ever for a holiday.”

  “We’ll check it out later.” Nick unlocked the door to his office and I followed him inside. I’d expected the waiting room to be as bland and sterile as most doctors’ offices. In some ways, it was. The walls were covered with the usual posters detailing healthy diet and weight for both dogs and cats, but they were hard to see through the dozens of paper witches and ghosts that hung from the ceiling.

  “Paul’s been busy,” Nick said, turning on the light. Instead of the normal white incandescence, we were suddenly bathed in orange. The countertop was covered with cotton cobwebs.

  Somewhere in the back, a dog began to bark. “I have a few of them here overnight. Give me a minute to check on them and calm that one down.”

  As soon as he was gone, the door opened and a horde of kids came in. A princess, a Jedi Knight, and a toddling ladybug whose costume was as wide as it was tall. She could barely walk on her own. “Trick or treat!” Through the door, I could see two women standing by the curb, waiting for them.

  The kids all stared at me, bags held out in front of them. I searched behind the counter and came up with a bowl of SweeTarts. I tucked it under my arm and began handing out candy with my right hand.

  “What happened to your arm?” the princess asked.

  The Jedi elbowed her. “Don’t be rude.”

  I blushed. My tongue turned heavy. I didn’t dare speak. I was relieved when they went back out the door.

  “Wow, they’re starting early this year,” Nick said, emerging from the back. He’d changed clothes. He still wore jeans, but now he sported a baggy striped convict shirt and a black mask over his eyes.

  “Nice costume.”

  “Don’t laugh. I have one for you too.”

  It was a T-shirt with the Superman logo, a red mask, and a cape. “Are you serious?”

  “Be glad I didn’t buy you the blue spandex pants.” He looked pointedly toward my groin and winked at me. “Kind of regretting that decision now, to be honest.”

  My cheeks began to burn, but it was a pleasant kind of embarrassment. I went into the bathroom to change so he wouldn’t see me fumbling with my shirt. It wasn’t lost on me that he’d given me the superhero costume. When I emerged, the bowl of SweeTarts had been replaced by a bowl full of Halloween pencils, tops, whistles, and glow sticks. “I think they’d rather have the candy,” I said to Nick.

  “I refuse to hand that shit out. It’s not good for them.” In the back of the building, the dog began to bark again. This time a second dog joined her. He sighed. “Listen, do you mind handling things on your own for a bit? This will go better if I take them on a quick walk.”

  “Sure.” I sounded more confident than I felt. I hoped every group of kids didn’t ask about my arm, but it was only five minutes later when the subject came up again.

  “What happened?” a Power Ranger asked me.

  I faltered, not knowing what to say, until June popped into my mind. “It was ea-eaten by a bear,” I stuttered.

  His eyes went wide. “Wow! That’s awesome!”

  I couldn’t help but smile, pleased with my response. “No kidding.”

  After that I quit worrying about it so much.

  Nick wandered in and out, sometimes helping, but he seemed to be inclined to spend most of his time in the back with the animals entrusted to his care.

  “Are they all sick?” I asked.

  “No, not really. Most of the ones here tonight are from the humane society. I do their spays and neuters for free.” He shrugged. “But right now they mostly want attention.”

  Which was why he was in the back when I had my first childless visitor. He wore a ruffled shirt, a pirate hat, and a plastic hook on his right hand. “Hey!” he said. “You must be Owen. I’ve heard all about you. I’m Paul. I work for Nick.”

  He stuck his right hand out, then laughed when he realized it was still covered with the plastic hook. He reached to take it off, and as he did, his eyes landed on my truncated left arm.

  The smile fell from his face in a second flat. He went pale. “Oh God,” he said, looking pointedly back at my face. “Umm… wow. I’m sorry?”

  It was said like a question, as if he wasn�
��t sure whether I wanted to be apologized to or not. I wasn’t sure either. “I guess Nick didn’t actually tell you all about me, did he?” I asked, trying for a lighthearted tone.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “For what? Wearing a Halloween costume?”

  He laughed nervously. “This might be the most awkward thing I’ve ever done.”

  Which was exactly why I’d become something of a hermit. That kind of thing happened to me all too often.

  “Where’s Nick?” Paul asked.

  “In the back.”

  “Oh. Good.” His smile turned mischievous. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “So, tell me. Are you Nick’s boyfriend?”

  The directness of the question embarrassed me. “No.”

  Paul was clearly disappointed by my answer. “Are you sure?”

  I thought about what had happened the week before. About how it had felt to have Nick’s hand cupping my groin. “I think I’d know if I was.” But my voice came out shaky.

  “So is he gay?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. I was pretty sure he was, but it seemed strange to have Paul ask me. “You’ve known him longer than I have.”

  “Yeah, but he’s really elusive about the whole thing, you know? I always thought he was straight, but after we helped him move, El said he was pretty sure I had that wrong.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just not out?”

  Was Nick in the closet? That might explain his sudden about-face after making a move on me, but somehow it didn’t fit. He was too confident to be in denial about his sexuality. “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “But you do think he’s gay?”

  I felt my cheeks begin to turn red. “Pretty sure, yeah.”

  He grinned at me. “So you are his boyfriend!”

  I was saved from answering by a swarm of trick-or-treaters. I’d never been so relieved to see packs of children in my life. Butterflies, fairies, stormtroopers, several things I couldn’t identify.

  “What happened to your arm?” one of them asked.