“Four. Most importantly, once you realized I wasn’t going to sire children to support your conversion myth, you got busy. You’ve had three children by the wife that you arranged for me. You had the gall to pretend they were mine. Leigh readily agreed, of course, because she’d do anything for you. Anything. Your willingness to use people,” James choked up, shook his head as if to open the pipes again, “is staggering.”
James let his hands drop. The room was utterly silent. I looked at Kommen. His aura was shocked flat, in full defensive mode. I guessed he hadn’t known this stuff, and now it looked like he was busy figuring out how to distance himself from the good reverend.
“I’ll deny it.” Howard stood up straight in what he must have thought was a gesture of defiance. “Leigh will support me.”
“You idiot!” James shouted. “How can you be so fucking stupid? Do you really think you can pray away reality? Pray away the gay? Pray away the DNA?” James slammed his glass on the table and stood up. “Reality, especially inconvenient reality, is part of God, Howard. It’s time you figured that out.”
He knocked back the rest of his drink, strode to the bar, and got himself a glass of water. “Do you think I’ve just been doodling on a notepad for fifteen years? No, you don’t think at all. I have no Richardson genes. Thank heaven. But I do have DNA samples from myself and the children recorded at two different labs, both of which are recognized by the courts. Enough of the blood tests were authorized by Leigh for other reasons, so you can’t claim I’ve committed some kind of fraud. And I have certified copies of all of them.
“Those are documents beyond your control. They will prove your paternity beyond a doubt.” James raised his glass in a cynical salute. “Copies of the relevant ones are poised to be mailed to some of your fiercest brothers in Christian ministry. I suspect you know what they might do with those. The very same thing you would do with them if the shoe were on the other foot.”
Howard Richardson’s face had gone grey. “Please—”
“Oh, you want mercy? You are so pathetic.” James laughed, joyless and hard. “You cruel, selfish little man. Long ago you abandoned the last scrap of human decency you may have once had. But now when you’re caught with your pants down, you want mercy?”
James dashed to stand in front of Howard, and I braced for physical violence. None came. “When did you show me mercy?”
His voice became a wail. “You let those men fucking torture me! A boy died while I was there, and not by suicide. Death by therapy.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Do you even know what they did to me? Do you?”
He wiped a string of spittle from his chin. “No, you don’t. You didn’t want to know.”
He turned away with a sob. “Listen to the songs on that album again, Howard. You might get a whiff of how bad your shriveled, decaying heart stinks. What’s the term our HR department uses in our employment agreements? Moral turpitude? That’s you, Howard. You should be fired.”
Richardson’s face crumpled, but James wasn’t finished. “It’s your turn, now. It’s time you climbed up on the cross of changes. For the rest of your pathetic life.”
I surprised myself by breaking the long silence that followed. “Tell us about those lyrics, James?” Three heads swiveled in my direction.
Howard opened his mouth, but James cut him off with an abrupt hand wave. “Sure.”
He raised one hand, thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “That following summer, 1994, I was this close to suicide. I couldn’t function with a woman, didn’t even want a woman, and I didn’t dare touch a man. I was drowning, without hope. I was eighteen, trapped in his phony righteousness.” He tilted his head toward Howard.
“Then I heard that song, ‘Return to Innocence.’ It saved my life. I knew it was a sign from the real God, the one that wanted me to be me. I played that song over and over. I wore out tapes, then I wore out CDs. It was my secret treasure. It became my battle cry.”
He took a drink of water. “I had to be patient. But I knew that if I kept the faith, the next step would come. Meanwhile, Howard, you just kept digging your own grave without any help from me or anyone else.
“I found men here and there, decent guys, all very short term, since I wouldn’t tell them who I really was. Then I met Raul. I knew he was the one. We’ve been lovers for three years, and we’re very happy together. We’ll live in Mexico.”
His eyebrows arched, as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh, by the way. I’ve emptied all the church accounts I had signing powers for. That came to about a hundred grand, in case you’re wondering.”
James pointed to the duffels next to the briefcase. “So now it’s time for this money. Andrew, you can do the honors.”
Kommen got a nod from Howard, clicked open the briefcases and began putting the bundled bills into the bags. It didn’t take long. “How do we know you won’t keep asking for more money?” he snarled, stepping back.
“You don’t. I don’t expect to ask for more, but you never know. I’ll be happiest, though, if I don’t.”
James turned to Kommen. “Speaking of money, have you paid Mr. Morgan yet? If not, that should happen now.”
Andrew Kommen made his pissy face, but said nothing. He pulled out an envelope and gave it to me. Feeling cynical, I opened it and checked. Right instrument, right amount.
“What about the children?” Howard was whining again. “They’ll grow up without a father.”
James barked out a short laugh. “What do I have to say to make this sink in? They will grow up with their father, and you’ll take good care of them. Leigh will no doubt make me out to be the villain, but while I’m genuinely fond of the kids, they’re not mine. They’re yours and Leigh’s, you take care of them. Be decent to them. And to my mom, too. I’ll know if you’re not. You don’t want that to happen, believe me.”
James stood up, took the bags and hoisted one in salute, as if he were getting on a plane. Maybe he was. He’d had plenty of time to make reservations. “Don’t try to come after me, Howard. If you do, you’ll lose everything.”
James smiled. No, he was gloating. “See, you’re the one in the closet now. One mistake from you is all it will take. One email from me to a particular attorney somewhere in this great country, and your sordid story—complete with proof—comes blazing out of the closet to be splashed over every Christian network station there is.”
He winked at me and then he was gone. Nobody moved or spoke for what seemed a very long time. I was the first to leave.
I drove home slowly, so sad my chest hurt. For an empath, it’s never easy witnessing a family, no matter how dysfunctional, tearing itself apart. The pain goes so deep, the wounds are so grievous. Pain is pain, and even with practice you can’t always keep a wall between your own and what belongs to others.
Worst of all, it’s usually the innocents who get ground up in battles that never should have injured them in the first place. The sins of the fathers. If this scandal became public, the three Richardson kids would be exposed horribly. At best, they would simply suffer abandonment by the man they believed to be their father.
Later, hopefully when they were strong enough to bear it, they’d probably discover the grotesque truth that their real father and grandfather was the same man, that both he and their mother had lied to them, just as James had. Children may fib, but it takes an adult lying to a child to do real damage.
On the other hand, I believe deeply that at least once, maybe twice in a man’s life, he has to choose between his own truth and all the stories the rest of the world tells him about what he owes others.
James Richardson had faced a terrible choice. He could be true to himself, or be what others wanted him to be. He’d been brave enough to take the path of authenticity, and I couldn’t fault him for that, no matter how many people got hurt. Maybe he should have made the choice earlier, but I’m in no position to judge, given my own story with the bottle.
That was what Mary Oliver’s poem,
the one I’d given him yesterday, was all about. Save the only life you can save.
I was tempted to rescue the kids myself somehow, although I knew as rough as this was going to be for them, their wounds weren’t mine to heal. Someone else would have to do that. Someday.
From what I’d seen of the Richardson adults, it wasn’t likely to be them, either. Howard wouldn’t have a clue about where to start. Maybe Ann, one day, if she could find her way back to Earth. But not Leigh. She was still too certain of her own righteousness to acknowledge her part in this mess. The kids’ suffering would forever be James’ fault, not hers.
I parked behind my house and got out. I imagined making a placard saying, “Be good to your child today!” and marching up Colfax Avenue with it. That made me cringe. I was getting maudlin, and that’s not a healthy place for me, even just to visit.
I needed a meeting. There was one at three on weekdays over at the York Street Club. If I started out now, I wouldn’t have to drive. I figured the walk and the open air would do me good.
Maybe after the meeting, if I felt brave enough to take a risk that could end up hurting both of us, I’d give Colin a ring and ask if he liked baseball.
THE END
Trademarks Acknowledgment
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of the following places and items mentioned in this work of fiction:
Armani: Giorgio Armani, S.p.A.
Versace: Gianni Versace, S.p.A.
Burberry: Burberry Limited Company
Enigma: Michael Cretu
Wax Trax: Nash Group
REI: Recreational Equipment, Inc.
Starbucks: Starbucks Corporation
King Soopers: Dillon Companies, Inc.
Subway: Doctors Associates, Inc.
LLOYD A. MEEKER
Lloyd Meeker can’t help what he writes – stories arising from the “between places”, the mystical overlapping of the worlds of matter and spirit, and the eldritch beauty that dwells there. That’s his natural habitat.
In addition to his written work, which includes novels, essays, poetry and short stories, he has served since 2008 as a judge in the Queer Foundation’s annual National High School Seniors Essay Contest. Its goal is to promote effective writing by, about, and/or for queer youth, and to award scholarships to the winners. (Members of the National Council of Teachers of English select the Finalists from schools across the United States.)
Published under the pen name Rowan Malloy, his fantasy romance Blood Royal won the 2013 Abalone Award, chosen by the Cultural, Interracial and Multicultural special interest chapter of RWA in the Fantasy, Futuristic & Paranormal category.
Happily ensorcelled by music, subtle energy healing, and the wonders of nature, Meeker lives with his very understanding husband in southern Florida among friends and family, orchids, and giant hibiscus that take his breath away every morning.
Also by Lloyd A. Meeker
Blood Royal
Traveling Light
Salvation, Erotica Exotica: Tales of Sex and Magic
Letter to a New Generation of GateKeepers”, Second Person Queer
The Darkness of Castle Tiralur
Enigma Page 6
