by K. Z. Snow
“So how come you’re not going with Jonah?” Carver asked on the morning of GG’s wedding reception. He leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, his arms and legs crossed.
“It’s easier this way.” Standing before the mirror, Dare finger-arranged his hair. “Jonah’s acting as a coordinator, making sure everything runs smoothly—with the hotel staff, florist, caterer, photographer. Whoever’s involved. And I have to set up with the band.” He took a step back and studied himself.
Bob had let the guys dress in simple black pants and white shirts for the reception. Dare was wildly grateful. He took particular pleasure in leaving the top button of his shirt open and setting its collar just right around his neck. The looseness felt liberating, might even keep him from perspiring. He didn’t mind sweating during sex and workouts and Pepper Jack’s performances, but perspiring—which, in Dare’s mind, meant sweating while you had too many clothes on—was distinctly unpleasant.
“Crazy time for a wedding,” Carver said. “Between Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“She’s a crazy woman.”
Even Carver had shed some of his calluses. He’d met (and eyed up) Jonah, whom he decided he liked, and he’d also been talking more with Mom and Dad. They’d surely clued him in about a few things. Not that Carver had become or would ever become the quintessential gay advocate—the fucker was still snooty and judgmental and wouldn’t be caught dead at a Pride parade—but at least he saw his brother as more worthy of respect and less deserving of condemnation as a swishy slut.
Not all progress was earthshaking.
“You’re really hung up on that guy, aren’t you.”
“Guess I am.” Dare leaned toward the mirror to examine a shaving nick just beneath his jaw. He decided it made him look roguish, nestled as it was within his carefully manscaped hint of scruff.
Carver sighed. “Well, I suppose there are worse things in the world than commitment.”
Dare turned toward the bathroom door. “There sure are.” Smiling, he gave his brother three pats on the clavicle and impulsively leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.
For once, Carver was struck speechless.
Dare sidled past him and galloped downstairs. No ill-fitting red pants hugged his legs; no doodle tie flapped on his shirtfront. Ah, so many blessings had recently come his way! He pulled up short at the hall table and tilted to glance through one of the door’s sidelights. Good, the sky was clearing. Only a thin layer of snow dusted the ground, glittering demurely in the frost-hazed sunshine.
He turned back to the console table, lifted the folder that lay there, and flipped through the sheet music tucked inside.
Determined to please Bob, Dare had done a one-eighty on the proposed “Clarinet Polka” duet. About five or six weeks ago, shortly after his dinner date with Jonah, he’d once again played past the past.
Bob had alternately voiced his appreciation and asked if Dare could handle it. As it turned out, Dare handled the duet just fine, thanks in large part to Bob’s goofy but effective encouragements.
“See?” Bob had said during their first practice session, after he’d played the Mickey Mouse Club theme song on his glockenspiel. “It’s a happy sound. Happy. You gotta keep that in mind, reorientate your attitude. The glock should make you think of marching bands and Disneyland and pretty dancing fairies. And before you fly into a snit, I mean storybook fairies. Unless it makes you happier to think of the other kind. Which is okay by me, as long as it keeps your sunny side up.”
“I’m happy just learning a new song,” Dare had answered, which was true. The more his confidence in his playing grew, the more he welcomed challenges. “And seeing you happy.” Which was also true.
“Well, then it looks like we’re a couple of goddamned happy Barneys,” Bob had said. “Now let’s concentrate on learning this son-of-a-bitchin’ song so we don’t get booed off the stage into Sad Land.”
Now, as Dare slipped into his coat, satisfied he had the new duet down pat, Carver called out, “Hey, good luck. And have a good time.”
“Thanks, bro.” When was the last time he’d called Carver bro? Damn, his effervescence was getting out of hand.
“Say hi to Jonah for me.”
“Will do.” Dare turned, his hand resting on the door latch. “Just don’t try to get in his pants, or I’ll paint dots on your eggs and hang them from your rearview mirror.”
“You and what chorus line?”
Laughing, Dare swung out the door, clarinet and music in hand, comb and breath freshener in pocket. Should he have grabbed some condoms?
No, of course not. He was past the point of preparing for one-offs. He and Jonah didn’t need to couple on the sly in cramped, skeezy spaces—although Dare allowed it might be fun. Buoyant with the thought of just about everything—the holiday time he’d be spending with his parents and Jonah, the new phase of his relationship with Carver, the cleanness of snow and the romance of weddings and the prospect of seeing Bob Lempke bounce while he tickled Lucille—Dare climbed into his aging car and motored toward GG’s reception.
He had somewhat mixed feelings about it. Considering how busy he and Jonah were going to be, this wouldn’t be much of a date for them. But hell, the band’s appearance would make happy Barneys out of a whole lot of people. Ultimately, that was what mattered.
And the fact he and Jonah would be sleeping together tonight.
Besides, Dare would still get to ogle his sweetie, who’d be gussied up and thoroughly buttlicious in his new $200 charcoal wool trousers. As far as Dare was concerned, Jonah could wear a pink yin-yang T-shirt with sparkles as long as his pants hugged his ass just right.
Dare had finally taken the plunge, so to speak, with the most tender passion he’d ever exercised. Now he worshiped that gorgeous and oh-so-responsive part of Jonah’s anatomy more than ever.
He mentally ran through the Doodles’ playlist. Bob had decided to switch things up a bit for GG’s reception. He insisted on opening with the “Wedding March,” then swinging into the “Beer Barrel,” then going straight to the new duet so Dare wouldn’t have time to fret about it.
Dare appreciated the consideration, but he wasn’t fretting. If anything, he was looking forward to showing off in front of his boyfriend.
His boyfriend.
He never thought he could love a word so much, take such pride or find such comfort in it.
On his way from the parking lot to the hall, Dare noticed he actually had a bounce in his step. He chuckled to himself.
The day’s only unpleasant surprise came when Bob handed out red ties in the dressing room. Dare could hardly believe it, but the band actually had something of a dressing room this time. Hal and GG had managed to score a small but classy hotel ballroom for the reception.
Dare grimaced as he lifted the thing, which Bob had unceremoniously thrown over his shoulder. “You’re kidding me. I thought we were supposed to look classy today.”
“Ain’t nothin’ unclassy about a tie, little boy.”
“It’s my fault,” Ernie said. “We coulda got away with red carnation boutonnieres, except for flowers make me sneeze. And it coulda got crushed by my neck strap.”
“But why do we have to wear red anything?” Dare asked. He’d enjoyed having that shirt button undone.
“We can’t look like waiters at a wake, for chrissakes,” Bob said petulantly. “It’s the holiday season.”
“Actually,” Max told Dare, “he started jonesing for color the minute he saw himself in the mirror.”
“What do you expect?” Junior chimed in. “Bob’s a po—”
“Gentleman of Polish heritage,” Max cut in, before Junior had a chance to offend Dare’s twenty-first-century sensibilities.
“And you’re all full of shit.” Bob had never put much stock in the art of repartee. At least his mood changed, eyes gleaming with reverence, as soon as he lifted Lucille out of her case.
Smiling at the familiar scene, Dare wondered if Rose, Bob’s wife, ever got jealous.
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“Hey, you madmen ready to rock ’n’ roll?”
Jonah. Framed by the dressing room door, looking pretty as a picture. Dare’s mouth immediately stretched into a lunatic smile. Okay, so maybe Jonah was as pretty as a well-groomed wire-haired terrier, not a sophisticated model or circuit-party boy, but damned if his eyes weren’t alight and his face wasn’t aglow and his goin’-to-a-wedding clothes didn’t follow the lines of his body like Dare’s fingers did every time they were alone together.
Both of them instantly caught each other’s gaze. Jonah’s grin softened.
“No, we ain’t ready to rock and roll,” Bob said haughtily. “We don’t play pagan music.” His beady eyes shifted slyly. “But we are ready to polka!” he shouted, rolling his head back and throwing his arms into the air.
“Don’t use it up before you get on stage,” Max drolly advised.
Dare and Jonah laughed while Junior and Ernie shook their heads in resignation.
After a parting glance at Dare, one laden with promise, Jonah left the room and the Doodles soon followed.
Aside from the smell of food making his stomach growl, Dare cruised through the first set, “Clarinet Polka” included, without a hitch. A number of guests even cheered the performance, and Jonah was one of them. He and Dare beamed at each other through the forest of silvery branches and curling strings of white lights that lent an air of enchantment to the ballroom. Apparently determined to make his approval known, Jonah raised his hands to clap over his head after he’d cut loose with a whistle.
Dare hadn’t allowed his eyes to seek out Jonah while he was playing. The man had become a major distraction for him. Put Jonah in a pair of exquisitely tailored pants, and his power to fuck with Dare’s concentration reached unprecedented heights.
During the band’s first break, Jonah was busy visiting with the guests, particularly his Uncle Rusty. Dare had met him the day before. He was an easygoing building contractor with a dry sense of humor and a live-and-let-live attitude. Other people bustled to and from the buffet table and bar.
Dare slipped back into the dressing room, where someone—probably the Doodles’ wives, who were all in attendance—had set up trays of food for the band. Nice. No standing in the buffet line. Dare filled a plate with dips—spinach, artichoke, guacamole—along with sourdough bread chunks and whole-grain crackers. He loved dips.
Bob watched him with a slight smirk.
“Wha?” Dare said, food garbling the question.
“You know, it’s kinda cute.”
Dare frowned, clueless, and kept chewing. He swallowed, lifted one of the napkins with which he’d blanketed the front of his clothing, and wiped his mouth. “Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“You and JoJo. I never thought I’d say this, but it’s really kinda cute the way you act around each other. Makes my heart go pitty-pat.”
“Quit slinging shit. Don’t you have a ham sandwich to attack or something?”
Bob just kept smirking.
Soon they were back in the spotlight, doing what they did best. Next to ribbing each other.
Bob had bumped the “Fascination Waltz” to this, the second set. Although by now Dare could play it with his eyes closed, he didn’t want to risk Bob’s wrath. Good thing, too, or he would’ve missed an extraordinary event that coincided with the first few notes of the song.
With measured steps, Jonah approached the stage and looked up at Dare. He smiled in a way Dare hadn’t seen before—with an affection so deep, and so mingled with admiration, Dare’s playing stuttered. Then Jonah bent forward in a courtly bow. When he straightened, he extended a hand. Equally bewitched and bewildered, Dare lowered the clarinet from his mouth. Through his peripheral vision, he saw Bob moving. Not bouncing, not strolling around like a puffed-up concertina player in some cheesy bistro, but scowling and emphatically motioning with his head.
Suddenly, Dare could just about hear Bob’s voice: Are you blind, dense, or just plain rude? Get down there! He’s asking you to dance! Without giving a second thought to the other guests’ reactions—because, hell, this was GG’s reception, and she certainly wouldn’t mind—Dare got down there. Bob kept playing “Fascination” as his clarinetist stepped into Jonah Day’s arms, as they smiled into each other’s glistening eyes.
“You still owe me, you know,” Jonah said into Dare’s ear.
“I know.” They never did get to dance on their first official date, except horizontally. But when Dare thought about owing Jonah, other things came to mind. Much more important things. Yes, I owe you. Do I ever.
So they waltzed, heads resting together and bodies close. It felt so natural, Dare couldn’t be bothered thinking about anything else. Like how the guests might react. At one point he caught a glimpse of GG grinning, her hands clasped to her ruffled bodice. It was a blazing affirmation… and for a moment it made Dare feel like a storybook prince. Then he realized he and Jonah didn’t require affirmation. From anybody.
He let his eyelids lower, shutting everything out but his partner and the music. Jonah led beautifully, no crooked seams in his steps. The two of them seemed to float as one around the dance floor.
What was it GG had told them just last week? “Caring is the greatest healer. But”—and here she’d raised a crooked, cautionary forefinger—“only if it’s patient and knows its limitations. Give yourselves time, and don’t be ashamed to look beyond each other for help.”
Her message had been clear enough, probably because Dare and Jonah had already discussed this truth. Neither one of them could singlehandedly undo the damage that had been done to the other. Neither could make all the fractures knit and bruises fade. Like any trauma, molestation experiences had certain core characteristics in common. And like any trauma, each experience was unique. The details of cause and effect were profoundly personal—and beyond the soothing touch of empathy or intimacy.
“That doesn’t minimize how we feel about each other,” Dare had said. “That’s just how it is.”
Jonah had wholeheartedly agreed. They’d certainly come a long way together but they weren’t magicians.
By then, maybe a month after they’d started seeing each other, Dare had learned enough not to rule anything out. So that night, before he and Jonah went to sleep, they vowed to do, separately or together, whatever it took to accommodate their memories of Pankin and Wallace. Repressing the memories sure as hell didn’t work, and banishing them wasn’t possible. Accommodating them, managing them, was the only realistic goal. They might just end up in therapy after all. After the holidays, they’d give the matter more thought.
When “Fascination” concluded, the band took another break and Dare took further advantage of his time offstage. He and Jonah escaped onto a balcony beyond a pair of French doors at one side of the room. The weather certainly wasn’t balmy, but temperatures were moderate for this time of year, and the show of stars was brilliant.
He and Jonah stood with their arms around each others’ waists, hands beneath jackets for extra warmth. They kissed once, lightly, but didn’t speak.
More and more of their moments together were like this—filled with feeling, marked by contented silence. Not everything in life required discussion. In fact, Dare had discovered, the best things required no discussion at all, once a person came to accept them.
“Think we shocked anybody?” Dare finally asked.
“Probably. But not too many people.”
“Think we’ll catch any shit? Or Bob Lempke will?”
“God, I hope not. I doubt it, though.”
“What makes you say that? Most of the guests are GG’s age, maybe even older.”
“Most of them are also her friends, which means they’re not narrow-minded. They wouldn’t be her friends if they were.” Jonah glanced at Dare and smiled. “My grandmother does not suffer fools. She might tolerate them for the sake of civility, but she won’t let them into her life.”
Dare already knew that was why Jonah’s m
other, GG’s own daughter, wasn’t here. She’d been sent a wedding announcement but not an invitation. Her treatment of Jonah following the Wallace incident, based on skewed and damaging beliefs she’d never recanted, had caused a permanent rift between the two women.
Dare found it heartbreaking, especially for Jonah’s sake, but Jonah seemed to have accepted his estrangement from his mother. He was smart enough to know that all the wishing in the world couldn’t repair certain situations or certain people’s thinking. Just like no analgesic in the world could thoroughly numb or erase the pain inflicted by Pankin and Wallace. All a wounded person could do was try to understand and forgive, learn and move on.
And somehow, somewhere find goodness to breathe in.
At least, Dare thought, not everybody in the world was as ignorant as Jerrilyn Day. There were plenty of enlightened folks to help counterbalance the benighted ones.
Jonah leaned closer to Dare, held him tighter. So right. Jonah had made happiness more than an abstraction for Dare. Jonah had made it real.
“I wonder who’ll be the first to say it,” Dare murmured, thinking aloud.
“Say what?”
“‘I love you.’”
Neither of them had yet spoken those words. Two months punctuated by occasional jarring flashbacks hadn’t seemed like enough time. Certainly not enough normal time.
Tonight, though, amid the fairy tale of GG’s golden-years wedding, and the ballroom’s twinkling ambience, and the almost palpable approach of Christmas, the lyrics of the last waltz had been gliding with particular significance through Dare’s mind. He was sure of only a few. It was fascination, I know began the song. Just a passing glance came a little later. Fascination turned to love was the last line.
It seemed like a condensed version of his and Jonah’s relationship, but without the wrenching impositions of the past.
He felt Jonah’s head, just a couple of inches above him, rest against his own for a second or two, then felt the press of Jonah’s lips against his hair.
“I’d like to think you just answered your own question.”
“You know”—Dare returned the kiss, but to Jonah’s earlobe—“I believe I did.”
