“Mother, lighten up. I was just kidding.” Diana shakes her head.
I am unaware that I have suddenly increased the pressure on my lover’s hand.
“Some things are just not funny,” my mother continues, as if she has completely forgotten where she is and among whom. “Jackson is a perfectly healthy, normal boy—”
Now I am simply seeing red, and I think I’ve stopped breathing.
“Juliet!” Sebastian lashes out, echoed by Moonsong’s, “Juliet!” and Diana’s “Mother!” Rachel and Maggie seem too stunned to even react.
My mother can’t even look me in the eyes now. Is this how today is going to end, then? Prematurely, in an argument, right here, right now?
“Juliet.” I am surprised to hear Richard’s voice, as much because of the steadiness in the tenor, the refusal to raise it so much as a decibel above normal speaking tones, as the words themselves. “As Max’s mother, I both love and respect you, especially as you’ve been like a mother to me in many ways over the last twenty years. But please remember that this is our home—mine and Max’s—and that we are undoubtedly gay, and we consider ourselves to be quite normal.” As he speaks, he punctuates his words by kissing our clasped hands tenderly, at which time I realize how intensely my nails must be digging into his palm, and I relax my fist.
I am so proud of him at this moment, mere words cannot express.
“I could use a drink. How about anyone else?” Sebastian breaks the silence. “Max, I know you always have good wine on hand. What do you suggest?”
“There’s a bottle of blush chilling in the fridge. You can open that. Want me to get the corkscrew for you?” I offer, my voice sounding as if it is coming from a distant cold land, a bit icy even to my own ears.
“No, I can manage,” Sebastian assures me as he and Cat leave the room without further ado.
Well, this is awkward. My mother stands frozen, not saying a word, and for once Moonsong is quiet as well.
“Max, why don’t you play for us?” Rachel suggests, breaking the silence. “You and Richard. You know, that cute duet you two do? The Grainger?”
She means “Shepherd’s Hey.” I glance up at my better half. For a moment he remains immobile; then he inclines his patrician head slightly toward me. He takes my hand and leads me to the piano, seats himself beside me on the bench. Mechanically, I lay my fingers against the keyboard, flex them slightly, and begin the sprightly composition, losing myself in the music as it wells merrily forth. Richard takes it up when it is his turn to play, and we bounce the notes back and forth between us, challenging one another as we up the tempo, to see if the other can keep up. Cat and Sebastian return with the wine which they distribute just as the final notes ring out and we simultaneously play the last chord. And reach for our own wine.
“I’d like to propose a toast!” Sebastian cries out in his stentorian tones. Everyone quiets down and dutifully raises their glasses. It must be an inborn reflex, gained from overexposure to weddings and banquets and the like. “I’d like to wish everyone a happy Fourth of July as we celebrate the anniversary of our country’s birth. And I’d like to drink a toast to good friends and family, to the love which connects us and keeps us strong, and to Max and Richard for being who they are and for allowing us to share in their lives and their love. To Max and Richard!”
“To Max and Richard!” echoes around the room, and everyone is suddenly toasting my love and I. I feel a goofy smile curl up on my lips, and Richard’s arm is around me as we stand to acknowledge the toast. Even my mother is drinking to us, though what that means, I cannot tell you. Richard twines his arm through mine and whispers, “To you, Max,” as he takes a drink, and I respond with, “To you, Richard,” as I join him in our private toast, followed by a soft kiss.
After this, everything settles into an uneasy truce. My angst meter is running extremely high, but I try to quell the anxieties which insist on ruthlessly coursing through my body and attempt to drown them. By popular request, Richard and I play, both separately and together, assorted show tunes, which ends up as a community sing-along, except for when Richard dedicates and sings a song to me alone, “Till There Was You” from Meredith Willson’s The Music Man. God, that man has a beautiful voice; it still sends shivers up and down my spine. I cannot deny it, nor would I want to.
Which is followed by the playing of games. Rachel has brought her Trivial Pursuit, and we break up into teams. I give Richard to Maggie as her partner, knowing that for he and I to partner is to take an unfair advantage, which produces a squeal from her; I take Rachel, and Cat and Sebastian play together. My mother and Moonsong decline to participate, and they decide to take Principessa outdoors for some exercise. And no doubt to smoke, as well, and talk about us behind our backs. I sigh, but I say nothing, deciding to concentrate on the game instead. And drink my wine. We all sit on the carpeted floor of the library. Cat blushes when Sebastian pulls her into his lap, but she doesn’t complain. The tension in the room has relaxed considerably, which doesn’t hurt, as we all try to regain the holiday spirit. When Richard glances at the clock, and then at me, I realize with some surprise at the sudden passage of time that we’re ready to move on to the next phase of operations.
Now the barbecuing begins in earnest. I help Richard to carry out the first batch of meat for the grill. Not that he needs help, but this is just an excuse to get him alone for a minute, as we temporarily excuse ourselves from the game, which has actually degenerated into simply asking questions of one another to see who knows the answer and laughing at some of the goofy responses that are given. Except we aren’t alone. I’ve forgotten—there are Juliet and Moonsong, sitting on the patio, sipping wine and simply chattering away. When Juliet sees me, she stands, moving directly toward me. My temples begin to throb.
“Can I borrow Max for a moment, please?” This question is directed toward Richard.
“Of course,” he graciously replies.
She puts her arm through mine, drawing me away so that we have some semblance of privacy. Not that I care all that much at the moment. Only my lover’s civility has kept me from making a rude rejoinder, but I manage to control my temper and wait to hear whatever she might wish to say. It has turned into a typical St. Louis July afternoon: humidity high enough to wring out, a cloistering sort of heat which makes breathing difficult if exposed for too long a period of time. Hopefully it won’t be quite this bad by the time we’re ready to shoot off the fireworks.
“Max, I didn’t mean to offend you and Richard earlier,” she begins. Her hazel eyes hold a note of concern as she meets and holds my gaze. She is sure that I have my father’s eyes—not that she had any clear view of them from their one encounter, and what she remembers of them mostly is that they were feral—but she says that no one else in the family has quite the shade of blue that I do, which is about the extent of the information that is available on my father. That and the fact that he was a werewolf.
“You should tell Richard that too,” I say, perhaps a bit stiffly. But at least I am speaking to her, right?
She sighs in her typical Juliet fashion, as if I should know why she can’t do that, which is utter bullshit. “I love you, Max,” she says. “You’re my son. I’m proud of you, too, what you’ve accomplished, the life you’ve made for yourself.”
“Except for my choice of boyfriends.”
“Max, you know I love Richard, and he’s been like a son to me in many ways—”
Haven’t we had this conversation before? “I know, but he’s a man and he isn’t good enough for me.” I finish the now familiar litany. “And your dear friend Reverend Fisher was kind enough to point that out to you. Where is he, by the way? Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but I half expected he’d be with you.”
“Terranova had important church business to go over with Josiah King,” she replies, “otherwise I’m sure he would love to be here today. Max, he thinks a lot of you, you know. You and Diana both.” Uh oh. That can’t bode well. Sounds like the typical crap
of someone wanting to get in the good graces of a woman with children—pretend to love the kids and you’re in.
“How can either one of you think a lot of me when you don’t like who I am, which is gay? Mother, I don’t want to have this conversation again, and especially not today. Can we just table this, please?”
“Max, I—” she begins, but then she swallows her words. “I’m sorry. I only want what is best for you.”
“Richard is what is best for me,” I steadfastly maintain, and as if on cue, my beautiful lover joins me, having deduced from my rising tone of voice that intervention is probably necessary.
“More wine?” he asks smoothly.
“Thank you, no, Richard.” She smiles at him. Is she being hypocritical, or does she genuinely like him? I no longer know. Some days I just don’t know much of anything, I think.
“Meat’s cooking. Why don’t we all go in where it’s cooler?” he suggests. I notice that our baby has fallen asleep in the grass at Moonsong’s feet; the heat must be getting to her too, poor thing. I take her into my arms, cradling her gently. Moonsong smiles benevolently. Richard takes my arm as we re-enter the house, our mothers following in our wake.
The rest of the afternoon passes in conversation, and in music, laughing, and joking, and a certain level of camaraderie is re-established, for which I am grateful. Dinner is served in an informal buffet on a table we have set up for this purpose in the kitchen. Everyone is free to take their plate and eat wherever suits them, which today seems to be outside, as a sudden cloud cover has made the temperature moderately bearable now. The boys have emerged from their self-imposed exile long enough to eat and would have immediately returned to their intellectual pursuits, but Juliet tells them to be sociable, so they reluctantly remain in our company. After everyone has eaten enough—and then some—we lay lazily about, letting everything digest and sopping up the after-dinner wine, a fruity German vintage which turns out to be quite pleasing to the palate. The boys drink soda.
Then there comes that peaceful interlude betwixt the end of one thing and the beginning of another where time seems to simply fold over onto itself, neither moving forward nor backward, existing in a sort of sated somnolence, merely awaiting the slightest touch of energy to propel itself into the next arena. In this case, the shooting off of the fireworks. I can see the distinct signs that my lover is getting restless; I know him far too well to be fooled by his apparent calm demeanor. It is with no surprise that he approaches me, whispering in my ear that he is going into the house for a few minutes, and he’ll bring the cake out when he comes back. He just needs to be alone, this I know, and under other circumstances, I would join him, but it is understood why I don’t. I kiss him softly before he disappears inside the house. I know he will take some time to smoke a cigarette or two, although he will cover up his traces carefully with air freshener, but he can’t pull the wool over this lycanthrope’s nose, so to speak. It’s alright. I understand.
Jackson and Nathaniel sidle up to me, one looking cheesier than the other. I prepare to be bombarded with a request to use my bedroom again, but they surprise me. “Uncle Max, do you think Uncle Richard would let us help him with the fireworks this year?”
I look up at the boys with amusement and smile at their youthful enthusiasm. I like the way Jackson calls Richard uncle. Out of the mouths of babes…. “Why don’t you ask him when he comes back out?” I suggest. “I bet he wouldn’t mind showing you some things. You know how he is about his fireworks.”
They exchange glances, grinning. “Awesome!” Nathaniel says. As the two happy teens stroll back to where Principessa is lying in the grass, the center of attention as usual, I can hear my nephew’s friend’s voice, “See? Toldja your uncles are cool,” and Jackson’s laconic reply of, “Yes, I know.”
It’s not ’til I see Rachel and Maggie stir suddenly that I become aware that someone else has entered the scene unexpectedly. I turn in my chair, wondering who else it could possibly be and praying that the sinister minister hasn’t found time from his unholy duties to invade our privacy. My mother is bad enough by herself, much less with him to incite her. But no, it’s not him. I breathe a quick sigh of relief, although I am not all that thrilled to see Amy, either. I know she wasn’t on the guest list.
“Hello, Max,” she greets me. “Happy Fourth!” She leans down just as I stand up, and we damn near collide in the middle. “Oops, sorry!”
Rachel rallies to my side hastily. “Amy! I didn’t expect to see you here!”
“Well, Juliet told me what was going on. I hope you don’t mind?” This aimed at me.
“Of course not,” the cowardly werewolf replies. Why can’t I just be honest and tell her that I don’t want her in our home? Because I can’t can’t can’t, apparently.
Amy is quickly converged upon by my mother and Moonsong now, exchanging female greetings, secret handshakes and passwords, and whatever else comprises the feminine mystique. I glance down into Rachel’s warm sympathetic eyes. “It could be worse,” I tell her, “Little Lord Fauntleroy could be here too.” And suddenly the thought of him chills me, as if my grave has once more been walked across.
“I’m going to get more wine. I’ll be right back,” I tell her, and before she has a chance to react, I leave, for some inexplicable reason going around to the front of the house, rather than through the kitchen. Which I find odd, as I expect Richard most likely to be in the kitchen. But instead I surreptitiously glide onto the porch and through the front door, making no sound. Who or what am I hiding from? I stand in the living room, listening, letting my ears be my eyes, so to speak. Though what I expect to hear is beyond me. It’s not like Richard talks to himself.
But then I do hear something, faint, indistinct, coming from the kitchen. A sort of singsong melody, words I cannot make out no matter how I try. I move stealthily toward the sound, my heart beating faster, almost afraid of what I will find.
When I do stand in the doorway, this is what I see: my Richard, slouching against the sink, a lit cigarette in his hand, immobile, while standing beside him is the hateful infant. Their eyes are locked, and I swear the sounds I hear are coming from the enfant terrible, but his lips do not move. My heart screams at the sight, while I find myself unable to move at first, frozen in place. But Morgan must sense my presence, as he breaks the contact with my lover, turns to me, his eyes lit with a triumphantly hellish light, and without a word to either one of us, disappears into the backyard.
“Richard!” I hear myself involuntarily blurt out his name. He turns to me with a smile.
“Miss me, did you?” he asks, straightening up at the sound of my voice.
“What was that little bastard doing in here?” I want to know, sounding rather petulant, I must admit. Richard regards me with perplexity.
“Who are you talking about, Max?” he asks.
“Morgan Arthur, that’s who!”
“Morgan’s here? Since when?
“Since he was in here just a minute ago.”
Richard chuckles with amusement. “I’m the only one that’s been in the house since I came in, babe.”
Now I am completely baffled, but I can see in his eyes that he is being totally truthful. So what the hell does this mean? What did I see? Who or what is Morgan Arthur? And should I be afraid?
I reach for his hand as he reaches for mine, pulling me to him. His kiss is warm and natural, albeit he smells like tobacco, his lips sincere. I try to put all thoughts of what I have seen out of my mind.
“Let’s go show ’em some fireworks, Max,” he whispers, “and later on I’ll show you fireworks of a different kind.”
Paranoid to the max and afraid of losing what I have, what I think I have—oh God, what do I really know? Do I have heaven, or am I heading toward hell?
Chapter 22
Into the Valley of Death
I GUESS that in some ways the ongoing battle between the wolf within and the full moon is comparable to that waged by women during their cyclica
l hormonal wars: the closer to that particular time of the month, the more intense the feelings that rage inside, the harder to control one’s emotional stability, and the wolf becomes as bitchy as any PMS-y woman, I have to admit. Which is not an indictment of the opposite sex, by any means, nor a scathing commentary. In fact, I rather sympathize with women for what they have to go through. I don’t even pretend to have it as hard as they do.
But for some reason, this month, the pull on my psyche is worse than usual.
And it doesn’t take a fucking genius to figure out why.
And it doesn’t help to have my mother call every other day to remind us of the date, the time, the location, of the big event. Like I could forget? Damn! Of all the fucking nights. Yes, I know I’m harping on it again; I can’t help it. But every nerve in my body is simply screaming, and it seems as if every morning I wake up with a new headache.
I have warned her that we won’t stay long, that we need to leave well in advance of the full moon so we can return home, so that I am safely out of the world’s way before the selenic bitch forces my transformation into the wolf. I hope that she is really hearing me and not her ministerial partner in crime. Another reason to dread that night. He’ll be there, Morgan will be there, Amy will be there… and my mother will be there, and although I hate to include her with such company, that is where she has placed herself lately. Wow, what major incentives to show up! Weighed against the thought of seeing him leave town, hopefully for good. What is a wolf to do?
Shut up and go, undoubtedly.
The days go by. The time is passing much too quickly for my taste. And yet I don’t know where it’s actually going.
I dutifully write my columns, meet my deadlines. Richard takes his photographs when he needs to. Otherwise we spend our time together, as we’ve always done, and we are simply there for one another. Do the things that couples do, the regular parts of life. The normal things. Cook, clean, do the laundry, pay the bills. Make love. The ordinary threads that make up the warp of the fabric of our lives.
To the Max Page 30
