by Greg Johnson
And there were gag gifts, also from Chrissie’s male friends: a packet of flavored condoms; a “French” dildo, heavily ribbed, which Chrissie stuck playfully in her mouth, letting her eyes close in mock-bliss; and a year’s subscription to Playgirl magazine, the current issue nestled inside the box. Chrissie snatched up the magazine, opened it to the centerfold, and panned it around the room for all to see. The girls giggled, the boys whooped and yelled.
“Yeah, like you guys have anything like this,” Chrissie said.
Then a boy named Brad, whom Chrissie had dated in their sophomore and junior years, cleared his throat and asked for everyone’s attention.
Brad was a tall slender good-looking basketball player with reddish hair and big, boyish blue eyes: during their senior year at St. Jude’s, he and Thom had been good friends, and Thom had something of a crush on him. One day in the locker room after Phys. Ed. he’d caught Brad staring at him as he toweled off, or so he’d thought. He’d supposed it was wishful thinking. Now Brad said, jerking his thumb toward the ornate winding staircase in the foyer, “OK, it’s time for you to come upstairs, Chrissie honey, and get my present.”
There were a few awkward giggles; for a moment, Chrissie went pale, for not only was the remark inappropriate (Chrissie’s new boyfriend, a big scowling boy from Georgia Tech who knew hardly anyone here, was standing next to her), but there had been a snide, unfriendly tone in the way Brad spoke the words. Thom, who’d always found Brad a good-natured, friendly guy, was startled; next to him, he could feel that Abby had stiffened, too.
Chrissie was the first to recover. She gave Brad a brief smirk and said, “Sorry, hon, but I’ve graduated, didn’t you hear?” She took hold of her boyfriend’s massive bicep. “From boys, that is. To men.”
Everyone broke into laughter; a few of the girls even clapped. Brad took a final swig of his beer (Thom supposed he’d had too much to drink), slammed it down on the table, and stalked from the room and out the front door.
“God, what brought that on?” somebody asked.
“He’s been having some problems,” Ginger said quickly. Her face wore a stricken look; she’d always taken her “hostess” role very seriously. She tried to smile, shrugging her shoulders.
“Let’s forget about it,” one guy said, lifting his beer bottle. “Here’s a toast to Chrissie’s birthday!”
Several voices shouted in unison: “Yeah!” “Right on!”
Then a girl named Amber, who had dated Brad for a while after he’d broken up with Chrissie, touched one finger to her cheek and glanced behind her, as if there were someone who might overhear. “But you know what, you guys?” she said, in a loud whisper. “I heard Brad is gay.”
A brief, stunned silence. Thom felt the blood draining from his face.
“Come on, Amber,” one guy said, dismissively. He’d been one of Brad’s basketball teammates. “You don’t know that. He dated girls all through high school.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Amber said pertly. “That’s the way they cover it up, sometimes.”
“God, can’t you see it?” said one of the drunker boys, drawing a line in the air with his beer bottle. “The headline in the school paper? ‘St. Jude’s basketball star’”—he paused for effect—‘“revealed as man-hungry fruit!’”
“Oh my God, Tim, that’s terrible!” one girl shrieked, above the general laughter.
Chrissie took a step backward, clearly upset at the turn the conversation had taken. Thom supposed everyone would be talking in the next few days about the way Brad Chalmers had “ruined” poor Chrissie’s birthday party.
“Listen, I dated Brad for two years,” Chrissie said. “He may be a lot of things, but he isn’t queer.”
For the first time, Chrissie’s burly new boyfriend spoke: “God, I hope not,” he said. Grinning, he stepped away from Chrissie in mock alarm. “I’m too goddamn young to die of AIDS!”
There were a few nervous titters as Chrissie, enraged, turned to him. “Are you implying I have AIDS?” she cried. “Just because I dated Brad?”
Jim’s expression quickly turned contrite; he put his arm around Chrissie and squeezed, whispering something in her ear. Then he said, for all to hear, “Sorry, you guys. Just wasn’t thinking.”
Chrissie, who seemed mollified, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh, the hell with all this. Let’s party!”
Again there were whoops and cheers. Everyone turned from the dining room table with its heap of opened gifts, wadded-up paper, scattered ribbons, and broke again into chattering groups. Ginger had disappeared briefly, and Thom noticed that the stereo had been cranked a few notches higher, Olivia Newton-John chanting “Let’s get physical!” at high volume. He and Abby, left to themselves, exchanged a quick look. Thom couldn’t tell if Abby was embarrassed or merely annoyed. Something in the look she gave Thom troubled him: had she expected him to intervene, somehow? Lately he’d suffered a single, generalized emotion no matter where he was, or with whom: if something unpleasant happened, no matter how unrelated to him, Thom felt guilty. Irrational, but he felt it. His fault.
By midnight the party was breaking up. Chrissie had cornered Thom and Abby in the big domed foyer, where a clutch of forlorn, half-deflated pink balloons bobbed dismally above their heads.
“Listen, you guys,” Chrissie was saying, “this was supposed to be a double date, remember? Let’s go somewhere, just the four of us. Where should we go?”
“What happened to Jim?” Thom asked, stalling. He’d hoped to slip out the front door with Abby and go home. The beers he’d drunk earlier had worn off and now he felt groggy, ready for bed. Nor was he particularly fond of Chrissie.
“God, who knows,” Chrissie said, rolling her eyes. “Upstairs banging one of my dearest friends, probably.”
She gave a bright, ribald laugh and took a long pull on her beer. Thom had noticed that both Chrissie and her boyfriend had drunk a great deal tonight—another reason he’d hoped to elude them.
“Um, I don’t know,” Abby said. “What do you think, Thom? Want to go somewhere, maybe get a bite to eat?”
Abby looked as fresh and cheerful as when they’d first arrived. She’d been nursing the same beer for two hours, and Thom saw that it still wasn’t empty. He knew his sister well: he could see that she wasn’t ready to go home.
“OK, I guess you’re the designated driver,” Thom said, smiling.
“Yeah, aren’t you ashamed?” Chrissie told Abby. “You’re supposed to be celebrating. You hardly drink at all, do you?”
“Well, it usually gives me a headache—” Abby began, but Chrissie turned to Jim, who had sidled over and slipped an arm around her waist. “So where have you been?” she asked.
Jim smiled, a bit sheepishly. “Just back in the kitchen, having a cold one,” he said. “Didn’t want good beer to go to waste.”
Chrissie laughed shrilly as though he’d said something witty. “God, you must have a hollow leg or something,” she said.
Or maybe a hollow head, Thom thought. He had met Jim’s eyes a few times and saw nothing much in them. Jim had the flat, pale-blue gaze of the typical muscle-bound football player who didn’t shine in the classroom. He was brawny and square-jawed, his blond hair cut short as a military recruit’s; Thom supposed most women, and maybe most gay men, would consider him a hunk, but he definitely wasn’t Thorn’s type. If he and Jim had to sit in a restaurant together, he had no idea what they would talk about. So he was relieved when Chrissie broke off her chattering and said to Abby: “Listen, why don’t we just go over to my house? My parents will be in bed, and they sleep like rocks. We can make some sandwiches in the kitchen or something. Maybe have a nightcap, too. My dad always has some Jack Daniels.”
“Good idea, babe,” Jim said, giving Chrissie a hug. Thom could imagine what he was thinking: they’d have a sandwich and a drink, then Thom and Abby would go home and he’d have the inebriated Chrissie to himself.
“Sure, great!” Abby said, and toget
her they drifted out into the brisk night air, heading for their cars.
“Don’t you want us to drive you?” Thom asked. “Abby hardly drank anything tonight.”
Under the streetlights Jim stared at him, offended. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’ll meet you there.”
Driving, Abby had said she hoped Thom didn’t mind: “We’ll just stay a few minutes. I didn’t know Chrissie and Jim had gotten so drunk.”
Thom shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. High school revisited.” Impulsively he leaned across, gave his sister a peck on the cheek. “And why not?”
As they pulled into Chrissie’s driveway, Thom was surprised to see that Chrissie and Jim were leaning against the hood of Jim’s Honda, talking, as though they’d arrived long ago. Chrissie’s house was in Buckhead, off West Wesley Road; Abby and Thom had taken Peachtree Road up from Ansley Park, forgetting that Peachtree was always clogged with traffic on Friday night. Jim must have used the side streets.
Thom called out, smiling, “You guys observed all the speed limits, I presume?” But as they got closer, under the whitish illumination cast by the floodlights over the driveway, he could see that neither Chrissie nor Jim had paid any attention. Chrissie’s elbows jutted out from her sides; Jim was glaring past her shoulder, shaking his head.
“You asshole!” Chrissie was saying. “You apologize right this second, Jim Driggers!”
Jim had folded his big, beefy arms, defiant. “What, are you riding the rag or something?” he said. He turned aside and spat; the little wet glob landed only a couple of feet from where Thom and Abby had stopped, not knowing if they should come any further.
“Chrissie?” Abby said in a mild, apprehensive voice. “Is everything OK?”
Chrissie glanced over, briefly. “Hi, you guys. Everything’s OK except that Jim here is being a total asshole!”
Abby touched Thorn’s arm, saying in a voice loud enough for Chrissie to hear: “Maybe we should go. I’m not really hungry, anyway…”
At that, Chrissie came running over. She threw her arms around Abby’s shoulders. “Oh, no, I want you guys to stay. I never get to see you anymore. God, I wish I could have gotten into Emory. I just hate going to a state school.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and Thom understood she’d intended this as an affront to Jim, who had gotten into Tech with a football scholarship. Yet Thom had heard that Chrissie was close to flunking out at West Georgia, a school that admitted practically anybody.
Jim had stepped away from his car and was digging in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out his keys and pointed one of them at Chrissie. “No, you stay here with your nice, polite friends,” he said, his voice pitched low and mean. “I’m outta here.”
Thom saw the flicker of panic in Chrissie’s eyes. She said, looking around at all of them, “Oh, let’s everybody just calm down. I was just mad,” she added, glancing at Abby, “because on the way over here, of course this jealous lunatic had to bring up Brad. I’m so sick of all these rumors about Brad, aren’t you?”
Neither Thom nor Abby knew how to answer that.
“If you want to date fags,” Jim said, “go right ahead. I’m sure there were quite a few back at that party, from your fancy-ass private school.”
“There were no queers at my birthday party!” Chrissie cried. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Under her breath, Abby whispered to Thom: “Oh God, let’s get out of here.”
Chrissie had started sobbing. “I didn’t know Brad was gay,” she said. “It’s not my fault.” Then an idea seemed to strike her. She looked over at Thom; her face had crumpled with self-pity, like a small child’s. “Thom, you were his best friend in high school,” she said, “did you ever hear anything? Did he ever tell you?”
Thom had that sudden, blood-draining sensation he’d felt at the party. He said quickly, “We weren’t best friends. Just friends.”
Abby looked at him and their eyes met, briefly. He glanced away.
Jim, next to his car door with the keys out, gave a brief snarl of a smile. “Oh, so you and sweet little Brad were best friends, were you?”
“Oh my God,” Chrissie cried, “would everybody please be nice?” She’d placed one palm flat against her forehead, as though stricken with a sudden headache.
Thom glared at Jim, and Jim glared back, and the look in Jim’s smug, mean little eyes—they had narrowed to slits—ignited something in Thorn’s chest. Within seconds the tiny pinprick of resentment had ballooned into rage. He felt the blood throbbing in his throat where the flame of anger had surged, aching for release. He heard himself say, in a hard, measured voice: “Yeah, Brad and I were friends, but so what? He never said anything about it, but it wouldn’t matter to me if he were gay, would it? Since I’m gay.”
Chrissie gasped. “What? You?”
Thom was too angry, too focused on Jim’s smirking, Neanderthal face to notice Abby’s reaction.
Jim was shaking his head, as though disgusted. “I shouldda known. Well move your car, faggot, because I’m outta here.”
“Jim, wait, don’t leave!” Chrissie pleaded.
“You know what they say about homophobes,” Thom said, in that same rigid, disembodied voice. Whose voice was that? “The ones who make a big deal about hating gay guys are usually closet cases—didn’t you know?”
Jim’s reaction was visceral, so rapid that Thom didn’t have time to raise his arms in self-defense. Not that it would have done any good. Jim lunged toward Thom and slammed his big-knuckled fist into his jaw. In the first instant Thom was too numbed to feel the pain, but he heard the sickening crunch of his teeth breaking, tasted the wet salty blood filling his mouth. He’d bitten his own tongue, hard. The next blow—he heard Jim’s low, guttural voice just before it hit, “You fucking faggot”—went to Thorn’s gut, doubling him over. His arms crossed his stomach. He’d fallen sideways, his arm scraping the concrete, his head thudding onto the bed of pine straw lining the driveway. Later people would say there was that to be thankful for, at least: his skull hadn’t slammed against the cement. Curled in a fetal position, he endured Jim’s rapid, methodical kicks against his rib cage, his kidneys, even up the crack of his buttocks, and somewhere beyond the pain he heard Chrissie and Abby shrieking, “No! Stop! My God, you’ll kill him!” Or maybe he only imagined this, for later—the next night, in fact, when he woke bleary-eyed in Piedmont Hospital—the memory seemed vague, improbable.
He did remember, with an almost surreal clarity, the drive to the hospital. Abby and Chrissie had gotten him into the passenger seat of his car, and maybe Jim had even helped (Jim was said, later, to be “really sorry” about what happened, and Thom supposed he was worried Thom would press assault charges: Thom hadn’t, of course), and he recalled how Abby had leaned into the steering wheel, tears streaming down her face, but her chin jutted forward, determined, carefully navigating the traffic and looking both ways before running red lights, clearly hell-bent on getting her brother to Piedmont Hospital as quickly and safely as possible. That image was imprinted in his memory forever. His throat knotted with tears whenever he thought about it.
Another memory from that wild car ride troubled him even more. Pressed against the door, panting, the pain shooting through him with each pulse of his blood, Thom wanted to say something: had wanted to speak, to tell Abby that yes, goddamnit, he was gay. Back in Chrissie’s driveway, after all, he’d been speaking to Jim, and it was somehow shameful that he’d told that stupid football player what he’d never said to her, the one person he might have told and bridged his way out of the loneliness in which he’d dwelled for all these years. So he ignored the pain, cleared his aching throat, opened his mouth, but it kept filling with blood, and he had to clamp it shut. He pawed at his chin and the front of his shirt where the blood gushed so freely from his broken teeth, his bitten tongue.
So he’d hoped, yearned, tried: but still he could not speak.
That had been the only hospital sta
y of Thorn’s adult life, and these days, whenever he’d visited Carter or another friend in the hospital, his mind had reeled back to that long-ago incident, Abby’s panicked drive to Piedmont, the atmosphere of rush and emergency that had shoved away the huge unspoken truth hovering between them. During these past four years that truth had become a gulf, a chasm, separating them, and he’d thought more than once how the current phrase, don’t tell, had been his family’s motto for decades. You focused on minutiae and ignored the larger truths, except at crisis moments like his bashing, like his father’s illness and death, but at such times the crushing weight of the unspoken bore down on everyone, swift and merciless, like a bomb exploding into bits whatever wasn’t firmly joined, secured.
Bombs, minefields, why was he thinking of these things? he wondered. When he was eleven, at a Fourth of July barbecue next door, a firecracker had exploded in his hand, and that incident now seemed meaningful, too, if he stopped to ponder what had happened. But instead of pondering, he tended to plod along with a kind of grim hopefulness, keeping everything together as best he could. What was that quote that had grabbed his attention one time, during a college English class? People lived in silent desperation—no, in quiet desperation, that was it. Almost everyone he knew lived this way, not just his mother and sister. Carter’s family, Connie’s family, his friends themselves—almost everyone he knew was in therapy or taking Prozac or reading New Age books or self-help articles. Nothing really worked, of course, but they tried; like him, everyone else was more or less plodding along, enduring the same mapless journey, the same grief and befuddlement. This was living, and had always been; would always be. To expect more was pointless, wasn’t it?
Such thoughts consoled him, a little.
Carter had died on Wednesday, and by Friday his friends had decided the memorial service should be postponed until after New Year’s. Too many people were leaving town for the holidays, there were too many distractions, and they all agreed there was no hurry, after all. Mr. and Mrs. Dawes had taken the body to Charleston, and though Mrs. Dawes invited Thom and a few others to the funeral, they’d decided not to attend. Carter’s will adamantly stated that he preferred cremation, with no religious service of any kind (Thom knew the stipulations, since he’d gone with Carter to his lawyer’s office), but although Carter had sent his parents a copy of the will, they were busy planning a traditional, rather showy funeral at the same Episcopal church where they’d been married in 1959.
