Men Who Love Men

by William J. Mann

  I take a step away from him. I don’t know what to say.

  “If you can’t answer that question, Henry,” Gale asks, “then might you finally be able to answer the other one I posed?”

  My eyes flicker up to his face.

  “What is the most basic thing you want in a lover?” Gale asks again. “You said honesty. Well, I’m being honest with you now, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” I say, barely audible.

  Gale smiles. “It is more basic than that, isn’t it, Henry? The most fundamental thing you need from a lover is that he be a man.”

  I cannot speak.

  “It’s okay, Henry. I didn’t expect you to respond any differently.”

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  Gale walks back over to the sink, staring out the window at the harbor beyond. “I’ll say it again, Henry. I’ll accept your apology only if you’ll accept mine as well.”

  I’m too stunned to move. I just stand there looking at the back of his head for several seconds. But then I force myself over to him, and place my my hand on his shoulder. His muscles are still hard, still solid.

  “If I had known all along…” I say.

  Gale turns to look at me. “Oh, so if when I asked you out the first time, I’d added, ‘By the way, Henry, I’m a female-to-male transsexual without a penis,’ you’d still have gone out with me?”

  “I…I’d like to think so.”

  Gale smiles. “I’d like to think so, too. And well you might have. You’re a good man, Henry. But that’s a lot to spring on a person.”

  I look past him out the window. How can I lie? How can I be so sure that I would have gone out with him? Even if I had, would I have been so eager to make love? So urgent to press for a relationship?

  How can I pretend that, had Gale been truthful with me from the start, I would even be standing here at this moment? The truth is, I probably would not be. It would have ended way before this point. I’m not proud of myself. In fact, at this very moment, I despise my pettiness, my small-mindedness. But I can’t lie and pretend otherwise.

  Gale lets out a breath and continues his story. “I finally came to the conclusion in my relationship with Cathy that I was uncomfortable with being a woman. But that’s not all I realized, Henry. I came to understand that I wasn’t meant to be with women either.” He laughs ironically. “It might have been easier if I’d really been a lesbian right from the beginning. Women don’t seem to have the same hang-ups around genitalia that men do. But I can’t deny my orientation any more than I can deny my gender identity.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  Gale sighs. “Stop saying that. In the end, there’s nothing to be sorry for. It will take a while to find a man for whom genitalia doesn’t matter. Do you see now why I’m so picky, so cautious—so controlling?”

  I grip him by the shoulders. “But by being so controlling, Gale, you’re going to push people away from you before you even know what’s possible with them.”

  He laughs, and the bitterness isn’t completely disguised. “Oh? Given your reaction, Henry, I’m certainly not encouraged that openness would be a better strategy.”

  “Point taken.” I take a deep breath. “But your softness isn’t something you should be ashamed of. It’s not something you should try to hide. In fact, I suspect there’s some parts of the old Gale you really shouldn’t toss.”

  He smiles wryly. “All I really remember about her is that she spelled her name with a ‘y.’”

  I’m not sure what he means.

  “Gayle,” he tells me. “She spelled it with a ‘y.’”

  I look down at him. “Just because you changed the spelling—just because you’ve changed the body—doesn’t mean the same soul isn’t inside.”

  Gale says nothing, just holds my gaze.

  “I’ve been going through my own little awakening lately,” I tell him. “And there are two things that stand out really clearly. First, I’ve got to like what I see in my mirror if Mr. Right is going to like me back.” I pull him close to me, looking into those soulful eyes of his. “And second, whoever turns out to be Mr. Right must like what he sees in his mirror as well.” I press my forehead against his. “Does that honestly describe you, my friend?”

  Gale closes his eyes and does a remarkable thing. He cries.

  “There,” I say. “I knew somewhere under all that hard muscle shell was a real human being.”

  “I never look at myself in the mirror,” Gale says, gently moving out of my arms to wipe his eyes with a paper towel. “At least, not without something to hide the last vestiges of Gayle.” He smiles wanly. “With a ‘y’.”

  “Well, maybe you ought to start looking,” I advise him. “Today I looked at myself and saw a few other things beside my love handles, which usually dominate the whole picture. It was quite a revelation.”

  Gale looks at me severely. “You are a gorgeous man, Henry Weiner. How could you ever think otherwise?”

  “It was easy,” I tell him. “As easy as it’s been for you to look in your mirror and see only what you didn’t want to see.” I take his hand in mine. “You’re a gorgeous, sexy man as well, Gale.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do.” I smile. “Maybe someday things might be different for us. And maybe not. I can’t stand here right now and honestly say how I might feel. But the truth is, right now, I don’t think either one of us is ready for a relationship.”

  Gale looks away. “I thought if I found the perfect man…”

  “You already are the perfect man,” I tell him.

  He looks back at me. “Thank you, Henry.”

  “Once we each believe that about ourselves, well, then maybe we can start looking for Mr. Right.”

  Gale laughs. “You know, this isn’t how I expected this would go. I thought you’d run out of here in horror.” He looks at me with real happiness on his face, maybe the first time I’ve ever seen it in his eyes. “It’s been a very pleasant surprise.”

  “For me, too, actually,” I say. “Hey, how about taking a walk with me? It looks like the sky is getting dark. It might rain.” I smile. “And I love walking on the beach in the rain.”

  And so we walk. We break the pattern of my leaving Gale’s apartment alone once things reach an emotional peak. This time, he comes with me.

  It does indeed rain, the raindrops stirring up a rich fragrance of salt and sand on the beach. We don’t talk a lot, just point out crabs moving slowly in the surf and watch fishermen tying up their boats. At one point I slip and nearly fall into the water, but Gale catches me. By the time we reach the pier we’re soaked, but we’re laughing. It feels good to laugh.

  Climbing up onto the pier, we spot an adorable sight. On the same bench where Luke and I sat earlier, a little boy is sitting with a girl, holding an umbrella over both their heads. “Isn’t that sweet?” Gale asks, grabbing my coat.

  I nod. In that moment, I think about Luke—I think about how different my two meetings today have turned out, the one with him and the one Gale. Luke remains a mask for me, with no real evidence that anything at all exists behind it. But where Gale, too, has lived behind a façade, his whole journey has been about reaching the real person inside—a glimpse of which he allowed me to see today. I feel terribly sad for Luke, but my sadness is counteracted by the sense of honest friendship I’ve discovered with Gale.

  As we approach, we’re considering the children ahead of us on the bench. “If only things could stay that simple,” I observe. “Why are adults so good at making things difficult?”

  “Let them always be as happy as they are right now,” Gale says, as if breathing a little prayer.

  The children are sitting rather far apart, as if they’re on a date but too nervous to come to close. They’re quite young, nine or ten maybe. It’s hard to make out much at this distance and in the rain. But it’s clear they aren’t saying anything to each other. They’re just sitting there, the boy shakily holding the umbrella over t
he two of them as the rain grows heavier.

  That’s when I recognize him.

  “Hey, that’s Jeff’s nephew.” I take a few steps forward. “J. R.! Hey, dude!”

  The boy looks up at me with some degree of surprise, even panic.

  I’ve reached the bench, Gale following quickly behind. “What are you doing, sitting here in the rain?” I ask.

  “Nothing!” J. R. shouts, standing up and, in the process, moving the umbrella away from the little girl, a pretty brunette in a yellow raincoat.

  “Hey,” I tell him. “Now your friend’s getting wet.”

  “It’s okay,” the girl says. “I don’t mind.”

  “I know you,” Gale says, looking at her. “You’re Tony Silva’s daughter, aren’t you? I’ve been over at your house with Martin, building some cabinets.”

  “Yes,” the girl says, smiling. “I’m Lynette.”

  I look from her over to J. R. “So I’ll ask again, buddy. What are you guys doing out here on the pier in the middle of a rainstorm?”

  “Nothing!” J. R. yells. “I told you, nothing!”

  I look at him oddly. “Easy, buddy. It’s okay. What’s up with you?”

  “I gotta go,” he tells Lynette. “See you later.”

  “Okay, bye, J. R.,” she says.

  “Wait a minute, kiddo,” I say, nabbing J. R.’s shoulder as he tries to pass. “What’s gotten you so riled up?”

  “I gotta go home,” he tells me.

  “Actually, I think we should all get moving,” Gale says. “It’s really starting to pour.” His eyes find me. “Thanks for everything, Henry.”

  I smile. “Thanks for the walk.”

  “I hope we have more of them,” he says.

  “I do, too,” I reply.

  Gale turns to looking down at J. R.’s friend. “Now I’ll walk you home, Lynette.”

  The little girl turns once more to J. R. “I’ll see you at school,” she tells him. The boy just grunts.

  We watch as Gale and Lynette hurry off the pier. Once Gale was a little girl like Lynette. Except not really. He was always different, always living behind a mask. Now, finally, he’s free. I’m not sure how I feel about all that I’ve just learned about him. I don’t know where another walk with him might possibly lead. But I’m glad he didn’t throw me out once again. I’m glad we at least moved past that point. I’m glad we’re friends.

  Then I turn to J. R.

  “So,” I say, looking down at him. “You going tell me what’s gotten you so anxious?”

  “Can we just go home?”

  I sigh. “Okay, buddy. Whatever you say.”

  We head off down Commercial Street. J. R. tries to offer me some of his umbrella but he can’t reach that high. “Doesn’t matter, buddy,” I tell him. “I like the rain.”

  We walk a few yards in silence. On the horizon I hear a rumble of thunder.

  “So, J. R.,” I say.

  “What?”

  “There’s really no need to be embarrassed about sitting with a girl.”

  He stops walking, two big blue eyes glaring up at me from under his umbrella. “Just don’t tell Uncle Jeff.”

  “Why? You weren’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Just don’t tell him!”

  I’m mystified. “J. R., talk to me. What’s gotten you so upset?”

  “I don’t want Uncle Jeff to know I like Lynette.”

  We’ve resumed walking. “Are you afraid that Lynette’s going to think you’re gay or something? Is that what this is all about?”

  “No,” he says decisively.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Just don’t tell Uncle Jeff, okay?”

  “Fine.” I stop walking. I stoop down and grip the boy by the shoulders, finding, for a moment, a little shelter from the rain under his umbrella. I look him in the eyes. “But listen to me for a minute, dude. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. I’ve been thinking about how sometimes I try to be something that I’m not. How sometimes I don’t tell the truth about how I feel, even to myself. Do you think sometimes you do that too, buddy?”

  “I don’t know,” J. R. says.

  “I think maybe you do. And it’s okay. We all do it. But once in a while, it’s a good thing to check in with yourself and see what’s going on.”

  The boy is silent as we hold each other’s gaze.

  “When I’ve been the most confused about myself,” I tell him, “do you know who have always been my best friends? Who’ve always been able to help me figure stuff out? Your Uncle Jeff and Uncle Lloyd. I think if you tried talking to them, they could help you out, too.”

  He shakes his head. “They wouldn’t like what I told them.”

  “Listen to me, buddy. No matter what you told them, they will always like you. They love you, dude. You’ve got to trust that.”

  His eyes flicker away as the first crackle of lightning cuts through the gray sky.

  “Come on,” I say, standing up. “Let’s go home.”

  We hurry through the street as it fills up with rain.

  22

  HERRING COVE BEACH

  So here we are. Jeff and Lloyd’s wedding day. The rains lasted nearly all week, only to have the clouds suddenly clear out this morning, to everyone’s relief and surprise. The sun seems to be burning away any lingering haze. For the first time in several days, we can all see more clearly.

  Actually, for me, it’s the first time in more than a year.

  Straightening my tie at the mirror, I like how I look. Not in a very long time have I been able to say that. Staring back at me, Henry Weiner looks pretty dapper—pretty stylin’—in his blue suit and checkered bowtie. That studly escort Hank, I tell myself, has nothing on Henry.

  Out at the beach, I help Lloyd’s mother from her car. She arrived on Thursday with two of Lloyd’s brothers, and has been staying at the guesthouse. She’s a delightful woman, small and white haired. Completely no-nonsense, she’s thrilled that her son is “finally settling down,” as she put it, and it doesn’t matter if it’s “with a man or a woman or a goldfish.” She’s just happy, she told me, that her baby has a “home.”

  That he does. And I’m part of that home, I realize, as he’s part of mine. I take Mrs. Griffith’s arm and help her onto the wooden ramp we’ve installed from the parking lot onto the beach. She walks with a cane, but she’s pretty agile on her own. I can see where Lloyd’s resiliency comes from.

  The next car to arrive is Ann Marie’s. She’s got J. R. and her mother with her. Far more tightly coiled than Lloyd’s mother, Mrs. O’Brien, I’ve been quick to learn, is not one to smile without great cause. She seems overly solicitous of J. R., and frequently leans down to talk to him. He’s her talisman, I realize, her steady compass through a world she doesn’t know very well. With her dyed red hair and too bright lipstick, she wears her fear quite plainly on her face. Jeff being gay has always been difficult for her to accept. But she’s here. That’s what matters. She’s here.

  “Now don’t leave Grandma alone,” she’s saying to J. R., who takes her arm. “Stay with Grandma now, Jeffy.”

  “Don’t call me Jeffy,” the boy says, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his gray suit, his collar open without a tie.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say as he passes. “How are things back at the house?”

  He just shrugs. Sad to say, my little pep talk to him last week didn’t produce much in the way of tangible results. He’s remained just as distant as before, and when Jeff and Lloyd asked him one last time if he’d be their ring bearer, he again said no.

  “Are Jeff and Lloyd on their way?” I ask Ann Marie, who looks fabulous in a bright yellow dress.

  “I think so,” she tells me. “They were tying each other’s ties last I saw them. Is the singer here yet?”

  At the last minute, Jeff had canceled the divas. Or maybe they backed out, I don’t know. All I know is, earlier in the week, one of them, I’m not sure which, was balking about flying in on Cape Air
, and wanted to be picked up at the airport in Boston. There was also the question of somebody’s fee being higher than what Jeff had originally been quoted—and all of a sudden, instead of Connie Francis and Kimberley Locke, we’ve got some local singer, a waitress from the Mews, one of our favorite restaurants. “Who was I trying to impress by bringing in divas?” Jeff asked rhetorically, shaking his head. Like the Botox, I suppose, a high-profile wedding suddenly seemed unnecessary.

  “Yes, the singer is here,” I tell Ann Marie, nodding out toward the beach, where the waitress has begun to tune her guitar. “I think everybody’s here but the grooms.”