by Rick R. Reed
Mike nodded. He felt sad, knowing he was unable to grasp the point Truman was trying to make.
“That’s not enough, Mike.” Truman looked back at him, and Mike was shocked to see his eyes had welled with tears. “Tonight, for just a little while, I thought you liked me… for me. Just as I am.”
Mike started to talk, but Truman put a finger on his lips, stopping him.
“No. What I’m hearing is you want me to be someone else. A normal boy. Whatever the hell that is. Maybe you’re a normal boy, Mike. God knows, there was a time when I would have given anything to be just like you so all the bullying and hate would stop. But you know what? I could never be.” He nodded. “And I’ve come to realize that’s okay. It’s okay to be me. And there’s nobody, not even you, who can change that.”
Mike felt terrible. But he didn’t know what to say, so he leaned in and tried to kiss Truman, thinking a kiss would make everything better. His mouth was on Truman’s when he heard the screech and slap of the screen door. He pulled himself away guiltily and looked up to see his father standing in the kitchen, taking the two of them in. His eyes were narrowed, his lips a thin, angry line.
“Dad!” Mike said, too bright, his voice too high, too nervous. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Apparently.” His father glowered at him. And at Truman.
Mike hopped up from the couch and stood as far from Truman as he could. “I was just gonna head out, over to Grandma’s. I, um, have some homework.”
Mike hazarded a glance at Truman, who simply sat, arms and legs crossed, staring straight ahead as if neither Mike nor his father were in the room with him.
“I think that’s a hell of an idea.”
And Mike hurried out the front door, face burning and hands shaking. He paused at the edge of the yard, shoulders stiff. He waited for Truman to come out after him.
He wanted to talk more, get things ironed out. Back to good.
Someone did come out behind him. But it wasn’t Truman.
It was his dad.
The old man stood next to him without saying anything for a couple of minutes. Then, “Listen, son, I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”
“Don’t know if what is such a good idea?” Mike spat back, knowing perfectly well to what his dad was referring.
“You and Patsy’s kid.”
“What do you mean?” Mike asked, again knowing exactly what his dad meant, but maybe hoping if he just asked the question, he’d get a different answer from what he was assuming.
His dad moved some dirt around with his toe. Cleared his throat. It was like he didn’t want to meet Mike’s gaze. “You know what I mean, son. He’s a—” His father seemed to be groping for just the right word.
Mike thought to fill in the blank for him. It was what a good son would do, right? So he said, “What, Dad? A fag? A sissy? Queer? Pansy? Homo?” Mike stared off into the cold, cold darkness.
“Now, son….”
“It’s what you meant, isn’t it?”
His dad didn’t answer for a while. And then, kind of sheepish, he said, “Yeah, I guess so.” He breathed out, and Mike wondered if he was just dying for a cigarette. “My point is he’s probably not a friend you want, not when you’re just starting out here and trying to build a reputation for yourself. You hang out with those kind of folks and you get kind of, I don’t know, guilt by association. He’s a nice kid, don’t get me wrong. But you’re not like him, son. And you don’t want folks thinkin’ y’are. You need to find, you know, some normal boys, jocks. Guys we can go hunting with.”
Mike felt chilled. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Dad had used the word “normal” just as Truman had. There was a rage buzzing inside him, like a horde of bees, yet he felt stifled.
Now’s the perfect time to come out. Just to see the look on his smug-ass face. It’d be awesome to see his mouth drop open when I tell him I’m a queer too. And that we come in all different sizes and shapes. Mike laughed bitterly, which caused Dad to stare.
And Mike had just opened his mouth to admit the truth, heedless and reckless as it might be, when he got interrupted.
“Those kind of folks?” Patsy stood just behind them.
Dad gasped and looked over at her. She stood not a foot away, arms crossed over her chest. “When did you come outside? I didn’t even hear you.”
“Clearly.” Patsy narrowed her eyes. She raised her voice a little when she asked, again, “What did you mean, George, by ‘those kind of folks’ in reference to my son? Hmmm?” Patsy smiled, but there was nothing kind or warm in that smile.
“I just meant, uh—” George’s voice trailed off as he stammered. Mike was certain his father’s face was a bright shade of red, even though the dark prevented him from knowing for sure.
“He meant queers, Mrs. Reid, Fags, homos, you know,” Mike said. His dad swiveled his head to stare at him, slack-jawed.
“It’s Ms.,” she corrected. She turned back to George. “So let me make sure I heard you right, George—” And on his dad’s name, Patsy’s voice broke a little, letting in some heartache with her anger. “Those kind of folks, gay people, I guess, are not the kind of folks you want your son hanging around? What was it you said? Guilt by association? Why guilt? Is it a crime to love?” She waved her hand at him. “Don’t answer that. You don’t want people thinking your Mike here is one of those people. God forbid!” Her mouth was set in a line once more. Mike thought she might have a good cry later, when she went back in the house—alone—but right now she was mad. He knew it for a fact, even though she never stopped smiling.
“Patsy,” his dad whined, actually whined, pleading. “Don’t go off like that. You got me all wrong.” He reached out to touch her arm, and she stepped back.
“I don’t think so, George. You made it clear that you think my son is less than. Less than yours. Less than all those regular guys out there, guys like you.”
“Truman’s a great kid.”
“Just not great enough to be a friend to your son?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.” Patsy shook her head. In the wan light of the streetlamp above, Mike saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “And if you think my son is somehow not worthy of associating with your kid, then you and me, buddy, we’re not gonna work out.”
“Oh, honey, I know you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, honey, I do.” Patsy stared down at the ground, breathing hard, as though she were trying to gain control over her emotions, which Mike was sure she was. When she looked up, her face was a mask of pain. “Let’s not drag this out. I need you to get out of here. Okay? My son and I are gonna sit back, put up our feet, and watch an old movie. All About Eve, maybe. Or Madame X with Miss Lana Turner.” Patsy laughed, but it was bitter. “I don’t think you folks would be interested.”
Don’t include me with him! Mike wanted to shout, but somehow he couldn’t get his lips to part.
Patsy turned away, leaving both of them standing there in the dark. George yelled after her, “I’ll call you tomorrow!”
And Patsy paused only slightly to slowly raise her arm and flip him the bird over one shoulder.
Dad looked at Mike, sheepish. “She didn’t mean that.” He sighed and at last pulled out his Marlboros, lit one. “Women.” He shook his head.
“Yeah,” Mike said sadly. “And the gays.”
“Fuck ’em.”
Mike shook his head and moved wordlessly to his truck. He knew he should have told his father the truth about himself, but something inside was cowering and afraid.
Mike started the truck up and thought he’d lost a lot of people tonight. And he wasn’t so sure he’d get any of them back.
Chapter 15
THE FRIDAY afternoon Harvey was set to open found Truman a hot mess of nerves, giddiness, eagerness, and out-and-out dread. He was due to be in the Summitville High School auditorium for a run-through in just under two hours.
And what
was he doing? Well, certainly nothing useful or practical like running through his lines one final time. No, he’d secreted himself in his bedroom, holed up on his bed with Odd Thomas and working his way through a bag of Twizzlers. Everyone—except the one person he’d wanted to hear from the most—had given him encouragement. It was wonderful and uplifting to get the praise, confidence in him, and kindness—yet it filled Truman up with a crazy kind of terror because it seemed expectations were so high.
Mr. Wolcott had reminded him once more of all the males who’d portrayed females throughout thespian history. “Listen, Tru, in Shakespeare’s time, none of the female roles were played by women—it was all men. So you’re in good company, historically speaking.” This was last night, at the end of rehearsal, as Truman walked with Mr. Wolcott to his car, a Nissan Leaf. “Same was true for theater in ancient Greece. And of course you know about people like Travolta—” Mr. Wolcott rolled his eyes, but still, he had a point. “And even Adam Sandler, Tyler Perry, Divine, Arsenio Hall, Eddie Murphy, the list goes on and on. There’s nothing gay about you playing Myrtle Mae.” He grinned. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But you have nothing to worry about. I promise you. You’re too good, kid. People will see that and be on their feet at the end of the show, and it’ll be mainly for you. Because you do what all good actors do—inhabit a character.” When he got to his car, “Did you watch Kind Hearts and Coronets?”
Truman nodded. Mr. Wolcott had loaned him the DVD the weekend before, just to show him how a real artist, as he said, plays female. Truman and Patsy thought the movie was kind of a snooze, but had to hand it to Alec Guinness, who’d played a multitude of roles in the movie, the highlight among them Lady Agatha D’Ascoyne, a suffragette with a feminist agenda.
“We’ll see you at the show. You’re gonna be amazing.”
Truman remembered the conversation now as he snuggled closer to Odd Thomas. He wished he had the same confidence Mr. Wolcott had in him, the same fearlessness. If he did, maybe now he wouldn’t be contemplating simply running out of the show, grabbing a bus to Pittsburgh or something, never coming back.
And what good would that do? It’s your dream, Truman, to be an actor. So get over yourself and—act!
He thought of Patsy’s encouraging words, despite her broken heart over losing George. “You’ll make me proud,” she’d said, emerging from her bedroom for the first time in days, eyes red and watery. “That’s one thing I know I can count on. God knows there isn’t much else these days.”
“And you’re sure you’re gonna be up for coming to opening night?” Truman wondered. He asked because Patsy had taken losing George hard, even though she was the one who broke up with him. Yes, he’d revealed himself to be a real asshole—like his son? But Truman knew we couldn’t always rationalize away a stomped-on heart. Even he had learned that lesson already. So he understood her grief—and empathized. She’d gone a long time without a man, real love, in her life. So long Truman had forgotten his mother would even need such a thing. When George had come along, he raised her hopes and joy up to a higher place, a very high place, one perhaps over the rainbow in Truman’s vernacular, so that when the truth came out and love became impossible, Patsy had fallen farther and harder than she’d ever imagined she could. The crash hurt.
Yet she’d touched his face, looking at him like he was crazy for even asking such a question. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart. I’ll be in the front row, the proudest mama ever… don’t you worry!”
How could Truman let her down?
Alicia, in her questionable wit, had left him a gift on the front porch—an old cast, probably from one of her brother’s sports injuries, still bearing signatures and a big cut up one side. “Thought you could use this,” her note read, “Because, honey, I know that tonight, you’re going to break a leg! Har-har!”
Even Stacy had managed to get word to him. Just an hour ago, his phone had chirped, indicating he had a text message. He hoped/didn’t hope the text would be from Mike, saying he’d had a change of heart and he supported Truman 100 percent. Hell, as long as he was fantasizing, Truman imagined that he voiced not only his support, but that he understood and was proud of Truman, who was “more of a man, in a way, than I could ever be.”
Ah, if wishes were horses….
But still, even if it wasn’t Mike, it was Stacy, a young woman Truman had come to care deeply about, even though he hadn’t seen her in weeks. She never ventured far from his thoughts and his worries that she was doing okay. Just seeing her name on his phone screen prompted a tremendous sigh of relief to go through him.
Hey, honey, the text read, I know you’re gonna knock socks off tonight! And come hell or high water, I will be there to see it.
The text brought tears to Truman’s eyes and afforded him with yet another reason not to cop out. He quickly texted back Oh I hope you can find a way to get there! It would touch my heart, really.
But his phone, his email, his Facebook, had all remained mute these past several days when it came to Mike. Truman knew he shouldn’t care, but he did. The hurt was like something black and heavy inside, something he carried around invisible but always present, forever weighing him down.
His head told him he was better off without Mike. Sure he’s hot, gorgeous, super sexy and all that, but he’s in the closet. He doesn’t yet know how to love himself for who he really is. And, as one of Truman’s biggest drag heroes always said, “If you can’t love yourself, how in the hell can you love somebody else?”
“Amen,” Truman whispered to himself, and his head continued talking. You need to find yourself a boy who not only loves you for you, but who’s secure in who he is too. You can live quite well without Mike’s self-loathing baggage, thank you very much.
Truman closed his eyes. He didn’t want to hear what his head had to say, logical as it was, as much sense as it was making. His head was urging him to go blissfully forward, to excise Mike from his brain and his life like a small tumor.
His heart knew the truth, difficult and wrong as it was. His heart said I want Mike.
His heart could see not only Mike’s physical beauty, which was considerable, but also his kind heart, his confusion, and his feelings for Truman, which Truman knew were real. He knew because his own feelings were so acute, so poignant, so tender.
I want him back. I want to work things out. I want to show him that he can be him and I can me, and together, we can both be stronger. Just as we are.
But Mike had broadcast nothing but radio silence since that fateful night when he suggested Truman might want to try to be a little more normal. Truman hadn’t even seen him around school or over by his grandma’s. He’d stopped coming to rehearsals.
Mr. Wolcott told Truman Mike had quit.
And Truman’s first thought was Maybe he just can’t bear seeing me in that dress! That makeup! Kitten heels! A straw hat!
He sighed and got up from his bed. His makeup and costume were in his locker at school. Patsy had promised to get off work early to take him up so he wouldn’t have to walk. He could now hear her old car pulling up in the gravel in front of the house, the little toot of her horn.
“Here goes nothing,” he said to Odd Thomas, who’d jumped down from the bed when Truman rose. His tail thumped once, twice on the floor, and he looked up at Tru, seeming to grin.
But Truman knew he was only panting. Still, he imagined his dog wishing him luck, hoping for only the best.
The front door creaked open. “Tru? Honey? You ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said more to himself and went to open another door, the door on what felt like a new chapter in his life.
Chapter 16
TRUMAN’S MOUTH dropped open as they mounted the last small hill to get to the Summitville High School parking lot.
His breath abandoned him, even though his heart rate accelerated.
He couldn’t quite make sense of what he saw. Dusk had just about finished its murky displa
y of colors, but the light was still bright enough to show a small crowd of people milling around outside the high school auditorium. Truman blinked, wondering why they’d shown up so early for Harvey. The play wasn’t set to begin for another three hours.
He’d been lulled into a sense of peace and calm by the colors of the night sky as Patsy drove up the hill toward the high school, her old car whining and coughing as it ascended. The sky, though, was perfect, a manifestation, maybe, of divine order. Dark midnight blue at the top, with just a few stars beginning to sparkle, and then layers as Truman looked down—lavender-gray, pale peach, and finally a burst of tangerine where the sky kissed the hilltops. It was easy for Truman to focus on the painting-like beauty before him and to put on hold, at least for a few minutes, his anxiety over his performance.
“What the fuck?” Patsy asked as she pulled into a parking space about a football field away from the small group that had formed outside the auditorium’s doors.
When Truman had first caught sight of the few people outside, he’d simply thought they were a bunch of eager audience members waiting for the doors to open. You know, a good thing. But a quick reality check told him that couldn’t be. It was just too early.
And then, with a sinking heart, he spotted the signs they carried as they milled about, back and forth on the sidewalk:
Truman = Tru-Woman
Boys will be Boys, EXCEPT for Truman Reid
No cross-dressers at our school
Let our kids be NORMAL! Don’t see HARVEY!
Several people had the same sign—the word cross-dressing with a circle around it and a line through the circle, like a No Smoking sign.
“Oh God,” Truman muttered, his stomach churning.
Patsy put a hand on his arm. “You okay?”
He looked over at his mom, tears in his eyes. “How can I be okay? I thought crap like this was over for me. Or at least lightened up some. Mr. Wolcott said people would understand, that there’s a long history of men playing female in the theater.” Truman hung his head, staring down at his feet. “I’m not cross-dressing. Don’t they get it? I mean, cross-dressing is fine for some, but it’s not what I’m doing in that part or even in my life. It’s never been about that.”
