by B. G. Thomas
Hadn’t Howard taught him that it was only natural for men to want to have sex? They’d evolved that way? To fight it was ridiculous? Of course, Howard had said a lot of things, hadn’t he? Including years of very hurtful things.
But still….
Wyatt watched Kevin make him dinner. Cutting up potatoes, adding them to the frying pan with the small steaks, seasoning them. It had been a long time since a man had made him dinner. It was nice. And the smells were heavenly.
The music was nice too. Songs he’d never heard before. He asked about them.
“I guess you would call them New Age,” Kevin said and leaned back against the wall next to the woodstove, crossing his arms over his (very nice) chest. Nice even with clothes on. And he was used to seeing Kevin (or Hodor in those cases) without much clothing. Hodor wasn’t a nudist. He didn’t wander around naked except on the beach. But like most of the men at Festival, he usually wore little except for a sarong. Days could easily reach the upper nineties at the end of July—the dates for Heartland Queer Men’s Festival—and there had been years when they’d reached 105 degrees. Wearing as little as possible was the best way to prevent sunstroke. That and hanging out in the lake. But heavy clothes—jeans and big winter sweaters—still did nothing to hide that body. Funny that he was finding Kevin sexier than he did when he saw him completely nude.
A strange idea for a man who collected nude photos of celebrities.
Wyatt swallowed hard. “You know, I work in a New Age store. But I’ve never heard any of these songs.”
“I’ll bet you focus more on pagan songs?” Kevin asked. “Songs like we sing around the bonfire at Camp. ‘We All Come from the Goddess,’ ‘Dear Friends, Queer Friends,’ ‘Ancient Mother,’ ‘Purple God,’ and that goddess song. I don’t know the name of it. Where all the goddess names are chanted.”
Wyatt nodded, then sang, “‘Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna….’ It’s the only name for the song I know.” It was a song he loved to sing even though he could hear Howard telling him not to give up his day job.
Kevin laughed. “I can never remember the order that they all go in until I’ve listened to everyone chant it a few times.” He went to the frying pan sizzling away on the stove, did something, flipping and stirring.
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “I was like that forever. I don’t know when I finally got it. There is a god version, but for some reason we hardly ever sing it at Festival. Oh! Have you heard the one about Kali?”
Kevin glanced over his shoulder, nodded, and sang the first line. “Kali loves the little children, all the children of the world….”
Wyatt: “Roasted, toasted, broiled, or fried, with a salad on the side….”
Both: “Kali loves the little children of the woooooorld….”
They both burst into laughter.
“I’ve also heard it with coleslaw on the side,” Wyatt said. “Or french fries.”
This set them off again, and it felt so good to laugh!
“Seriously, though,” Wyatt said, “the ‘New Age’ music we have at Treasures of Terra is the more pagan stuff. Like Celia….” But thinking about that wasn’t good because it reminded him that Howard had taken his autographed Celia CD when they were dividing all their stuff, and he didn’t even like Celia.
“These songs….” Kevin checked the potatoes—ignorant of where Wyatt’s thoughts were going and thank the gods—and then turned back to face him. “They are the essence of what I believe. Paganism isn’t exactly my path—although it’s pretty close. I’ve always been comfortable in a Circle at Men’s Festival. But these songs—” He pointed at the iPod. “—always give me the chills. But in a good way. Make me feel closer to some ‘Higher Power.’ That probably doesn’t make any sense.”
Wyatt nodded quickly. “Yes! It does make sense. I understand. So much more than ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ or that horrible ‘Amazing Grace’ song that everyone loves.” He shuddered. “I mean those lyrics! All about saving some poor ‘wretch like me.’ Well I don’t think I’m a wretch. They even used it in one of the Star Trek movies! People love that song. And even when I was little, everything inside me rejected the whole idea. Imagine! Singing merrily about being a wretch. How can a little kid be a wretch? And I would look around me, and everyone in church would be crying. Taking comfort that God loved them even though they were a ‘wretch’!” He looked away, his heart suddenly hurting. “That’s what my father thinks. He thinks I’m wretched! Well, fuck him! I am not wretched! I’m not!”
Kevin turned to the frying pan, stirred quickly, then took it off the stove. He went to Wyatt and placed a hand on his shoulder. Nodded. Sighed. “I know what you mean. My parents….” He sighed again. “They weren’t religious. Not really. They went to church on Easter Sunday and on Christmas. They thought that somehow they could claim they were Christians that way. All I could see was the hypocrisy.”
“Yes!” Wyatt exclaimed, his heart rushing once again. “Yes! I felt that—although my parents always went to church. At least ever since my dad was struck by lightning.”
Kevin’s eyebrows shot up (of course they did, why wouldn’t they?) and then slowly relaxed. A little half laugh escaped him, and he said, “I thought you meant that literally.” He turned around and began dishing out steaks and potatoes onto paper plates.
He placed them on the table. Gods, it smelled wonderful. Like what Wyatt’s mother always used to make for breakfast. Even during those times when they weren’t flush. Because she grew potatoes and onions in their garden, and a friend from church gave her fresh eggs all the time. Kevin sat down on the side of the table next to Wyatt instead of across from him.
Wyatt debated whether to say anything about what happened to his father that fateful night and then, with a slight lift and drop of his shoulders, went ahead. “I did mean it literally.” He cut into one of the small steaks. They were just the tiniest bit pink—perfect. “My dad did get struck by lightning.” He took a bite, and damn, they were perfect. “This is delicious.” He speared a couple slices of potatoes and popped them in his mouth. Oh! Just like Mom used to make!
“Oh, come on,” Kevin said and laughed. It sounded uncomfortable. “He didn’t really get—”
Wyatt nodded hard. “Yup. He sure did. Coming out of a bar.” Wyatt felt the side of his face tick. He shouldn’t be talking about this. He shouldn’t be thinking about that day and all that came with it (because there was just too much). He should just enjoy his steak and potatoes. They really were terrific, especially considering they were cooked in a little frying pan on a small wood-burning stove with no other seasonings than salt and pepper that came from the little packets you got at a fast-food restaurant. But before he could stop them, memories of Sunday morning breakfasts when he was growing up filled his mind. And of course, that reminded him of…
“When me and my sister, Wendy, got up the next morning, our Aunt Sue was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.” He took another bite of steak with potatoes and talked with his mouth full, using his hand to block the view of his chewing. “She told us. Said he’d been hanging out with this woman, smashed drunk, and he got struck by a bolt of lightning right there in the parking lot. Mom was at the hospital. Wendy started crying, and I was trying not to, you know? To be brave for her? I didn’t do a very good job.” He swallowed. The bite went down like a small stone.
“My God,” Kevin said with a little gasp. “Did he live?”
Wyatt didn’t say anything for a moment, then nodded once, twice. “Yes. But he changed. Not for the better. He stopped drinking. Stopped hanging out wherever he used to hang out. He stopped losing his job. That part was good….”
Wyatt felt the slap then. Felt it. Could almost taste blood. He took a bite to try to taste something else, but it didn’t work. He fought a gag. On Kevin’s iPod a woman was singing about cats and dogs and how four legs were good, two bad.
“He didn’t stop hitting us.” Wyatt took a deep breath and somehow
didn’t choke on his food. “He just hit us for different reasons. Said he was doing what God wanted him to do.” Wyatt gave a strangled half laugh. “Fuck! My dad hadn’t given a shit about God before that night outside the bar. Mom used to take me and Wendy to church, but he never went. He said it was bullshit. I wasn’t crazy about the sermons, but I liked Sunday school. Our teacher, Mrs. Karras, had this felt board. And she would put these cutout characters on it and tell us stories from the Bible. The baby Jesus born on Christmas day and the shepherds coming. And the wise men. Or Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.” He laughed. “Of course, she didn’t call it that. And there was the story about David and Goliath or Noah and his ark. We all got to put different animals on that big boat! Those stories…. They were nice. Never scary. She never talked about hell or anything like that. My favorite story was about Jesus and his flock—the little paper sheep had cotton glued on them—and how he went to look for the one lamb that got lost. It was so… comforting. To think about Jesus coming to look for me if I got lost.
“And then Dad had his… accident. He said it was God. And that God had spared his life, and he was now going to be a proper Christian man and father.” Wyatt pushed his plate away, his food barely half eaten, and then winced when he saw Kevin’s reaction. “I’m sorry, Kevin.” He bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling.
Kevin shook his head. “They’re just breakfast steaks, Wyatt. Cheap at twice the price. Don’t worry about it.”
Wyatt sighed and looked out the window. Anywhere except Kevin’s kind face, his sympathetic expression. It was starting to get gloomy out there. It was winter after all, and the sun set early—even though the Oak King had recently beat the Holly King in battle. He should light some candles.
“Are you all right, Wyatt?” Kevin asked in that caring tone.
And then Wyatt went on, as if he’d never stopped.
“That was when Dad spilled the beans about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and all the rest. Wouldn’t even let us go trick-or-treating because Halloween was an ‘evil pagan holiday’ where witches worshipped the devil.
“I think that was probably when I got my first sniggling interest in the Craft. Because I sure didn’t like my father’s god.” A small smile took Wyatt’s mouth. “And that led to me discovering a few years later that Dad was wrong about that whole devil-worshipping stuff because witches didn’t even believe in Satan. They worshipped nature and earth spirits and fairies. And I remember getting all warm inside because anyone who did that couldn’t be bad in my book. There was nothing I liked more than nature. When I was growing up, I would take these long walks in the woods—”
“My religion is nature?” Kevin asked, and it startled Wyatt.
Then Wyatt smiled all the more, although it felt funny on his face. “Exactly.” He nodded. “I liked that church much better than the one where the pastor told us we were all in danger of going to hell. And I liked the Wiccan idea that there wasn’t any hell at all. Especially when I finally accepted that I was gay. I’d been afraid of hell, you know? So when I started learning about Wicca, it was nice to find a religion that didn’t teach that I was damned because of the way I was born. I mean, I wanted to be straight once. I wanted to fit in. Get married. Have kids. Have a house with a white picket fence and a dog, or a cat, or both. But gods. I saw a picture of a vagina in one of Dad’s old Hustler magazines that I found in the garage. All pink and open and….” He shuddered. Then twitched as he remembered he wasn’t supposed to feel that way. He could hear Katherine’s lecture about how women were made to feel about their bodies. Was he a misogynist after all?
“I don’t see how you can be,” Kevin said. “I’ve heard you talk about your boss many times at Festival. You obviously love her a lot.”
Wyatt looked at Kevin in surprise. Had Kevin read his mind, or had he said all that out loud?
Kevin’s hazel-and-honey eyes. So filled with sympathy. Wyatt didn’t know whether to run from the man or be grateful.
He certainly yearned for the latter.
Then hardly knowing he was doing it, he began to speak again. “Now I practically growl when I see a billboard with a picture of Jesus or some Christian rhetoric written on it. The idea of Jesus looking for me doesn’t give me one tiny bit of the comfort it did when I was a little kid. And I want to jump someone’s ass hard when they sprout that shit about how it was the devil that made them do something wrong. Fuck that! The devil didn’t do shit. They did the wrong! They did.” His voice was climbing and dammit, he couldn’t stop. “They pass the responsibility on to some devil instead of taking it for themselves. Dad used to say shit like that all the time. He said that Satan was the one who made him drink and cheat on Mom. No way! He did it all on his own without any help from anyone—especially Satan!”
He saw his father in his mind then—sitting at that kitchen table, the tarot decks and Scott Cunningham books before him. Saw the fire in the man’s eyes. Heard him.
“I knew you were a sodomite. I looked the other way. Prayed for you, in Jesus Christ’s name. That you could be turned from the demon called Homosexuality. But I was wrong. So wrong. I should have confronted you! Look where it has led! You’re a witch! And thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!”
And then there was the slap.
And the taste of blood.
“That’s why my father kicked me out! Not because I was gay. But because I was pagan. Kicked me out! Slapped me out. And I didn’t see him or my mother or my sister for ten years!” Until a few days ago….
And suddenly he was crying. Crying like a fool. A child. An idiot!
He couldn’t stop!
Fuck! He had ruined everything. Just like Howard said he always did. Everything had been going so well. Everything had been so good. The games. Playing in the snow. Laughing. Seeing Belle and the Beast in his head, prancing around in the snow with Mrs. Potts singing that song in the window. And then Kevin making him dinner, whether it was good, cheap steaks or not.
And then I ruined everything.
But to his surprise, Kevin took him into his arms. Had scooted his chair next to Wyatt’s and pulled him against his big chest, gently swaying, stroking his hair and more—not shushing him, not telling him that he shouldn’t cry.
Just holding him. Rocking him.
The tears slowly went away, the hurt in his heart soothed by Kevin’s strokes. He melted against the big man, pressed his face between those hard but padded pecs—listened to Kevin’s heartbeat.
He could almost go to sleep.
Now Kevin was helping him quietly to his feet and over to the bed, laying him down, crawling next to him and holding him close in a powerful embrace.
Kevin was such a big man. Tall like Howard. But even though he was padded—there was no clearly defined six-pack—Kevin was more solid than Howard. His arms were muscular, his chest hard beneath that soft layer, and even his upper shoulders and neck were well-developed.
It felt wonderful.
It felt…
…safe.
Could there be a safer place?
Wyatt finally felt calm and snuggled in even closer. It had been so long since he’d been held—really held. Years, maybe.
And just as he was truly drifting off….
This is my room and it’s robin’s-egg blue
And it’s got a few cracks in the ceiling
This is my street where the minutemen meet
And my dad says I’ll never be leaving….
Wyatt started in Kevin’s arms.
I’m ten years old but know how to smoke
And the drugs help to cure the bad feelings
This is my home and the sticks and the stones
Are made up of the darkest of things….
Those words! Wyatt jerked upright. Those lyrics!
But in my dreams I can fly
And I soar and my feet touch the sky
And it seems I can go
Anywhere if I try
And the world�
��s not so dark
When the clouds make it white
If there’s no hope tell me why
In my dreams I can fly
“Wyatt?” Kevin seemed to ask from miles away.
“That song,” Wyatt cried. “I heard that song just the other day and….”
Here come the tears and I cover my ears
And I swear I can hear my own heartbeat
When they stop fighting to turn out the lights
I pretend I’m already sleeping
After the violence alone in the silence
Just me and the secret I’m keeping
My dad tells me I’m not worth anything
And I’ve almost admitted defeat….
“Kevin…. Gods! That song!” And within a few words, Wyatt was quietly singing along with the man whose name he didn’t know.
But in my dreams I can fly
And I soar and my feet touch the sky
And it seems I can go
Anywhere if I try
Then Kevin was joining him.
And the world’s not so dark
When the clouds make it white
If there’s no hope tell me why
In my dreams I can fly
Wyatt turned and saw that Kevin was sitting up, and he said, “Who is this? I heard this when I was in the car…” driving home from my parent’s house. And it touched me then, and gods, now that I hear all the words, it means even more! “It hit me so hard.”
“In a good way or a bad one?” Kevin asked in reply.
“Both?” Wyatt answered.
This is my room and it’s robin’s-egg blue
And it’s got a few cracks in the ceiling
This is my home and the sticks and the stones
Are made up of the darkest of things
After the violence alone in the silence
Just me and the secret I’m keeping
