Bigger Love

by Rick R. Reed

  Patsy shut the ignition off, and silence filled the car. They were positioned away from the dozen or so streetlights in the parking lot.

  Truman was breathing hard, trying to keep the sobbing at bay. He gripped the armrest with desperation. Would they never let up on him? Ever? He was so sick of it, he wondered if he should have just flung himself from the roof of the school all those years ago. Then everybody could just be happy….

  “There really aren’t that many of them,” Patsy said. “One, two, three—there’s only half a dozen.”

  Truman hazarded a glance. He didn’t recognize most of the figures—maybe it was too dark, or maybe it was because his vision was blurred by tears. But one person stood out. A tall girl—some of the kids called her “Stretch.”

  “Tammy Applegate,” Truman mumbled. He looked at his mom, but he was speaking to Tammy, “What did I ever do to you?”

  “What?” Patsy asked. Her voice was a little high, excited, anxious. Truman knew she didn’t know what to do or say. The plan had been simply for her to drop him off in the parking lot, and then she’d go home to get ready and come back just before the performance.

  Who expected this?

  Maybe I should have. Maybe I was being naïve when I thought people would understand, when I listened to folks telling me they’d applaud me for being good in the part, for being brave. Maybe I’m just the silliest boy in the world for expecting people to behave kindly, to celebrate differences rather than protest them. Truman snorted to himself. He didn’t pay much attention to politics, but he wondered if these people would have dared attack a high school kid like this if it weren’t for being emboldened by a president who sided with bigots and anti-LGBT forces.

  Patsy tapped him. “What do you mean? I didn’t do anything to you!”

  Truman looked over at his mom, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly, and was confused for a moment, and then he recalled what he’d said. “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry. When I said, ‘What did I ever do to you,’ I was talking to her—” He pointed to Tammy Applegate, noticing an older man standing next to her with his hand on her shoulder. How nice, Dad came along for the little hatefest! It’s a family affair! Was she thinking crap about me all along? “—Tammy Applegate. She’s on the stage crew. I never had any idea she thought less of me for playing the part. She’s sat through so many rehearsals without a word, without even giving me a side-eye.” He thought he should just pull out his phone and text Alicia, get her up here. She’d kick these bigots’ asses.

  Why do you need her? The thought stood out, stark, in Truman’s mind. Why do you need any help at all?

  “Ah, people hide their true faces sometimes, Truman.” Patsy blew out a sigh and then put one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on the shifter. “You want me to take you home? You don’t need this.”

  And with her question, Truman found courage. It began to uncoil inside him like something alive—and so it was. “Home?” he asked.

  “Sure. Of course. Sweetie, you don’t have to go through those people. You don’t have to deal with their shit. I don’t care if the show gets canceled or whatever. I’m not gonna let them hurt my boy.” Patsy was looking at him with such pain and such love that it nearly broke Truman’s heart. For a split second, he wished he were a normal boy just so his mom didn’t have to go through this, didn’t have to ache vicariously for her son and the pain he knew she imagined him feeling.

  He reached out a hand and tenderly touched Patsy’s cheek. “I’m not going home.”

  “Well, what do you wanna do?” Patsy asked, befuddled, as if there were no other alternative than to simply flee.

  What do I want to do? Or what do I have to do?

  “I’m not going anywhere, Mommy,” Truman said, reverting for some reason to what he called Patsy when he was little. “Those people aren’t gonna stop me. They’re just assholes, and I’ll pay them no mind. I’ll just walk on by, like in that old song. And if one of ’em dares to try and stop me—”

  Patsy cut him off, at last smiling. “You’ll kick their asses.”

  Truman let out a sheepish laugh. “Well, no. But I will scream real loud. And someone will come to my aid.”

  They both laughed. And then went quiet for several moments. Truman said, “We can’t let them stop me. Then they win. And hate wins. I can’t allow that, Mom.”

  Patsy took a deep breath, then leaned across the center console and the stick shift to grab Truman in a hard embrace. “I’m so proud of you right now.”

  “Ah, proud, schmoud,” Truman said, pulling away and unfastening his seat belt. He opened the door and turned to his side to get out.

  He tried not to let Patsy see it, but he was breathless with terror.

  His back was turned to Patsy when he felt her hand on his shoulder. “You want me to come with? To walk you inside?”

  “No. I have to do this myself.” Even as the words spilled from his lips, Truman was questioning his own wisdom, his own sanity for turning her down. Having an escort was a good idea.

  But his mom? He shook his head. Having her by his side as his protector would just add fuel to the fire—make him seem even weaker than the folks standing outside already thought him.

  For a brief, shaky moment he did wish for an escort, a bodyguard. Mike would have been perfect.

  Mike would have been so many things.

  Patsy squeezed his shoulder. “Are you sure? One of those sons of bitches so much as touches you, and I swear to God, I’ll kill ’em.”

  Truman laughed. “Oh now, you don’t have to go all fierce-and-protective-mama!” He shrugged Patsy’s hand off his shoulder and turned his head to look at her. “Like some kind of lioness.” And Truman let out a little roar, which helped break the tension in the car and made them both laugh.

  Truman took a few deep breaths. He thought the bravest thing—and the most stupid—would be to walk through the crowd of protestors when Patsy left. Did he have the courage to do such a thing? His shoulders slumped. Walking all alone wouldn’t be brave, only foolhardy. So he asked Patsy, in a small voice, “Would you mind just watching after me until I get inside? I’ll feel better.”

  “I’ll come with you, honey. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “No, Mom!” Truman whined. “I told you—I need to do this by myself.”

  “Sure, kid. Again, sweetheart, I’m so, so proud. Those people over there? They’re the cowards… the ones so scared of anything a little different, they have to stamp it out.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “I’ll be right here. But I warn you—if one of them even comes close to you, I’ll be out of this car so fast it’ll make heads spin.”

  “À la Linda Blair?”

  “I should have never let you watch that movie!”

  Truman deepened his voice to a croak and said, “Your mother sews socks that smell!”

  “Get out of the car!” It sounded like Patsy was both laughing and crying.

  He exited. He stood by the car for a moment, his hand on its cool metal surface to steady himself, and drew in a deep breath. You can do this. Just pretend they’re not there.

  He took his first step. Then another. Another. Faster.

  Soon he was close enough to look the protesters in the eyes. But the funny thing was, not a single one of them would look back at him. Truman wondered why, why, when if they were simply demonstrating their convictions, following their beliefs, they didn’t have the nerve to meet his gaze. Even Tammy Applegate turned her back on him, although her dad stood his ground, his face looking angry and screwed up with determination. There was something very much like a baby just before it bursts into tears in this man’s face—and it almost made Truman want to laugh. Unbidden, a thought popped into Truman’s head, directed toward the man he assumed was Mr. Applegate. You’re a weak little man, aren’t you? With your thinning hair, worn-out warm-up jacket, and sweatpants? What difference does this make to you? How does this affect your life?

  It almost s
eemed like he and Truman made a telepathic connection, because he too turned his back, just like his daughter.

  Coward. I’d have more respect for you if you stood your ground.

  He passed by them, making sure he held his head high. There’s no shame here. At least not on my part. He braced himself, shoulders up near his jawline, certain one of them would fling something at him, a piece of rotten food, an egg, maybe even a brick.

  But nothing struck him.

  Just as he neared the double glass doors, someone called out, “Faggot!”

  There were a few titters.

  At the doors, Truman turned to face them. Again, everyone standing there immediately seemed preoccupied with the concrete of the parking lot.

  “Seriously? Is that the best you can do?” He shook his head and pulled open the door. Over his shoulder, he added, “You should be ashamed of yourselves. Even your cruelty is uninspired, stale.”

  That must have hit a nerve, because a female voice—young, yet the slightest bit gravelly—called out, “You’re the one who should be ashamed, Truman Reid! You’re an abomination!”

  Truman wanted to smile and take a little bow. That was how he imagined brave Truman would act, but the truth was the epithet hurt. As Patsy had always told him, he was a child of God. And God didn’t create “abominations.”

  Still, it all hurt.

  The pain and the ostracism—the plain meanness—of it all threatened to crash down on his shoulders, sinking him right into the ground. A part of him wanted to release the flow of tears damming up behind his eyes—and his resolve. That same part wanted to dash back to the car and simply tell Patsy, “Go!”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the murmurs of assent behind him, the soft titters. Oh, they’re enjoying this.

  He was halfway inside when the same voice, braver now, louder now, strident, called, “We’re going to be in there, making sure this farce is an epic fail!”

  Truman said, “Well, I hope you have tickets, because we’re sold out.”

  He turned and walked over to Tammy. “Is this how you want things to go? After you worked so hard on the set?”

  She stared at her dad and wouldn’t look at him.

  “Hard to talk, isn’t it, Tammy? You know, face-to-face? Don’t you wonder why you can’t look at me?” He started away.

  She screamed out something that caused his spine to stiffen and stopped him in his tracks. “Everybody knows you love Mike! He wouldn’t be caught dead with a queer like you.”

  Truman clenched his jaw, wondering how to respond.

  And then he rushed inside.

  Mike? Mike? Really? What does she know about him? About them? Has he talked to her? The thought turned his stomach. He was pretty sure no one from the school had ever seen the two of them together.

  So… why did she say that?

  And then a thought seized him with so much pain it was almost like a cramp. What if Mike joins this group of assholes? What if he knows what they’re doing and doesn’t care?

  Truman didn’t know if he could endure the hurt that would accompany such a betrayal.

  At the door he turned to look for Patsy, seriously contemplating just blowing this all off, as horrible as it would have been to everyone who’d worked so hard on the production. He’d learned about the fight-or-flight instinct in biology class. Right now his primal self was coming down on the side of fleeing.

  But the choice was out of his hands. All he saw of Patsy was her taillights. And even they vanished as she descended the hill.

  Truman went inside, feeling numb.

  Alone.

  Chapter 17

  “FUCKERS,” MIKE whispered to himself. “Fuckin’ bigoted cowards.”

  He’d parked the pickup at the far end of the school parking lot, the end that looked down on the valley, the lights of Summitville, the dark snake of the Ohio as it wound through the town, separating it from West Virginia. It could have been a calming view, but what Mike was seeing in his rearview was making him see red.

  Even though he faced away from them, the protestors in his rearview mirror, milling around outside the auditorium, were making his blood pressure skyrocket. He was about ready to hurl himself from the truck and kick some ass. It was getting close enough to showtime that people were arriving to see Harvey.

  Classmates.

  Family.

  Friends of the families.

  Proud parents.

  Even from this distance, Mike could see they were taken aback by the protestors—and their hateful, crude messages written out on poster board—but at least none of the people who had tickets for the show turned away, which must have been disappointing for the protestors.

  “Fuck them,” he whispered to himself. He reached down toward the center console and lifted the can of Iron City and took a swig. “Narrow-minded dicks. What? This gives them a thrill? Picking on a high school kid?”

  His heart ached for Truman.

  He should have known this town would pull a stunt like this. Mike was only surprised they’d waited until now to do it. Why hadn’t they gone to the school board early on, when it was generally known Truman was taking on the part of Myrtle Mae? Because, Mike answered himself, they’re too stupid and disorganized to use their poison in a rational way. A logical way. That would take planning, some thought.

  He wished he hadn’t drunk the beer. He’d only had a couple from the six-pack bought by an older guy for him from the deli and party supply store downtown, but they were already making his head a little fuzzy, his body a little too relaxed.

  He needed a clear head. He needed to help Truman.

  He knew he’d been a shitheel, being out of touch since the night his dad told him not to associate with Truman. He’d been so furious at his dad, wanting to just do something to hurt him, punch his lights out, take a baseball bat to his prized Ford F-150.

  But he’d done nothing. Was it because there was a small part of him that agreed with his father? A little self-loathing part that maybe saw the sense of what his father had said? It was true, after all, that Mike’s high school life, of which he only had this year left, would be much easier if he simply stayed in the closet, passed for white, so to speak… and was just one of the guys. There were plenty of girls who wanted to go out with him, Tammy Applegate first among them. He could pretend for a while—pretend to like sports, girls, cars—all the things Truman would say normal boys liked.

  It would be easy. He could skate by the next few months, not put himself out there, be one of the jocks, one of the motorheads. A dude.

  He hazarded a glance in the rearview mirror and watched the people milling around outside the auditorium, placards held high, so sure of their purpose and of their hate. Dimly their chants floated over to him through his open window, along with the cold autumn night air. “Keep freaks out of our schools.” “Boys should be boys.” It made him sick. And he realized that for him to pretend to be someone or something he wasn’t made him a lot like those people. Even if he didn’t mean to take sides, he was.

  Being silent on things that mattered—that put him on the wrong side of love too.

  With them. The haters. The losers. The people who had nothing better to do than piss on someone, just because he was different.

  Never mind that he was beautiful. Sexy as hell. Kind. Funny.

  A boy I love. This last thought caught Mike up short. It caused a fluttering of both his heart and his gut, the places he realized his truest emotions were located.

  Is that who I want to be, huh? Them? At least Truman has the courage to be himself. Hell, he’s more of a man than I could ever hope to be. More of a man than my dad. Because he’s a true man, true to himself, not backing down because somebody says who he is, is wrong. How could who he is be wrong when he was born that way? Just like I was….

  Mike straightened up a little more in his seat. He finished the beer he was drinking in one long swallow. He set the rest of the six-pack in the space behind the fro
nt bench seat, knowing he would drink no more tonight.

  Maybe it was the cold of the night air sobering him up. After all, there was a frost warning out, and temperatures were forecast to go below freezing.

  But Mike thought the real thing clearing his head was simply realizing the truth.

  He was a young gay man in love, maybe for the first time, with another young man. And what on earth could possibly be wrong with that?

  By being silent, by avoiding Truman, he’d been avoiding himself and his own feelings. He’d been a discredit to his own self. And he’d been, in his quiet, do-nothing way, complicit with his dad, letting him set the tenor for Mike’s own moral code.

  And that was just wrong.

  Mike crushed the beer can in one hand and flung it to the floor. He started the truck’s engine with a roar and put it into gear.

  Smiling, he made a U-turn and headed, at a pretty good clip, out of the parking lot. He hummed to himself as he headed down the hill and away from the school, toward the house he shared with his mother.

  She, of course, wouldn’t be home tonight. Wonder of wonders, she was actually out for dinner with his dad. They’d headed up to Boardman and the Olive Garden there to, as she said, see where they were at, see what could be “salvaged.” Mike laughed at that.

  It didn’t matter if she was home. He was going to do what he was going to do. Whether his mom, dad, or those fucked-up protestors outside the school liked it or not.

  Chapter 18

  A COUPLE of stage crew members opened the two sets of double doors at the back of the auditorium, propping them open with the little kickstands at the bottom of each door.

  It should have been a happy moment, one filled with promise.

  Instead, the promise was usurped by despair as the protestors marched inside, hoisting their signs high. Sure, there were also clusters of family and friends who’d come to see their loved ones take to the stage. But they couldn’t compete with the little group of haters and the threat they carried with them. There was a curious silence in the space when there should have been a hubbub of excited conversation.