To the Max

by Julie Lynn Hayes

And at the other end of the spectrum there have been people like the little old lady who approached us as we were sitting together on a park bench one summer day, watching the ducks swim in the pond, feeding popcorn to the ones that were brave enough to come close to us. I had one leg looped over Richard’s, and my head was on his shoulder, our fingers twined together in one lap, very content and very happy, when she came and sat down beside us, a colorful sight was she, in a pink-striped dress with a frilly matching parasol, like she had just walked off the boardwalk of Atlantic City. She began to converse with us both, talking about her late husband and their lives together and asking us questions about ourselves. She smiled at us the whole time she talked, very warm, very gentle, and when she left, which we were sorry to see as she had been very nice to talk to, she exhorted us to always be good to one another and she hoped we would always be as much in love with one another as she could see we were now.

  We always have been. Even now, I still love him. I’m still hopelessly, madly, deeply in love with Richard Burke. If I weren’t, this wouldn’t hurt so bloody much.

  I AM roused from my melancholy reverie by the sound of the screen door squeaking indignantly open. Rachel bursts out on the porch in her robe and slippers, orange hair sleep-tousled. “Max, there you are!” She sounds relieved. “I was looking for you. Get dressed. We gotta get going.”

  “Going? Where? Why?” I have no plans to go anywhere today, and as far as I know, neither does she.

  “Josiah just called. We’re going to pick up Juliet and meet him at the church.”

  “What the hell for?” I whine. All I want is to be left to brood, and I certainly don’t want to go to his church.

  “I don’t know, but I think this is what we’ve been waiting for.” Rachel takes my hand to get me to move off the swing. I grudgingly rise. “He said it will be well worth our while to go and to be prepared for anything.”

  I can’t imagine what “anything” might be. What, are they baking marijuana-laced goodies for bake sales? Torturing little animals? Conducting satanic rituals? But I can see that Rachel is determined, and when she gets like this, there is just no use in arguing with her. This better be worthwhile, I’m thinking as I pull on my clothes as quickly as I can, having told Rachel I can manage when she tries to follow me into the library, where I usually get dressed and undressed. And within a very few minutes I join her out front. She is already dressed and sitting in her car, the engine running, just waiting for me. I hop in and we take off.

  First stop, my mother’s house. I wonder what she thinks is going on and what she expects to find? And for the first time, I feel sorry for her, because I have a feeling this is not going to be pleasant for her at all. At least I will be here for her, and whatever it is, we can handle it together. I hope. When she opens the back door and gets in, I look at her in surprise. I had intended to give up the shotgun position for her, not to make her sit in the backseat. She waves me off, saying, “No, you and Rachel sit together, that’s fine.” What, Matchmaking: The Next Generation? Throw enough females at Max and maybe one will latch onto him like Velcro? Jeez! But I set that aside for now. No time to deal with that, nor inclination.

  Rachel drives like she is a pace car driver for the Indianapolis 500, like she is afraid that if we are too slow, we will miss it. Whatever it is. I turn to face my mother, but her features are impossible to read, and I have no idea what she might be thinking. I’m also afraid to ask. I can’t help but feel that one of us is going to be hurt here today, and it’s most likely going to be her. Unless I am totally wrong in my thinking about Terranova Fisher, and maybe he can explain away whatever we are about to see with his silver tongue. We’ll see.

  We park about a block from the church. Rachel says that it’s at Josiah’s instructions. We are to go into the church and go back to Terranova’s office, and the truth will be revealed. His words. So we approach the rented building stealthily on foot. Why am I reminded of The Dirty Dozen all of a sudden? Does that make Reverend Fisher the insane Maggott? Step one, go to the church…. I shake the image and have a random thought that John Cassavetes is cute before concentrating once more on what we are doing.

  There are two cars in the parking lot, but at opposite ends of the asphalt, as if they have some sort of antipathy to one another. Or don’t wish to be seen together? Okay, maybe something is going on, something that bears looking into?

  We make sure we cannot be seen from the window we know houses the office of the Right Reverend Fisher—at least the one he is using temporarily—as we bypass the front door and end up at the back. Which is locked. Now what? But Rachel is not perturbed, not in the slightest. She reaches into her purse and produces a single key. “Josiah gave it to me,” she says softly, “last night. We’re to go to the office and not make a sound.”

  I nod my agreement. My mother says not a word, bobs her head, her lips pressed tight, as if she is waging some sort of inner battle of her own. I lay my hand on her arm, try to squeeze it comfortingly, catch her eye, and let her know that I am here for her. She returns my glance with one of her own and pats my hand, as Rachel quietly unlocks the door. And we enter.

  The Masonic Temple-cum-church is eerily silent, even more hushed than usual. Not even the heavenly choir is singing today, or any of the canned music he usually regales his congregation with. Rachel places her finger to her lips in the universal signal for quiet—as if we didn’t know that already—as we move with one accord in the direction of the office. The door is closed; we hadn’t expected otherwise. But luckily not locked as we discover when Rachel tries the handle carefully. How did she ever learn to do that without making any noise? Me, I would have signaled our presence by now. Or fallen over something.

  This is it, no turning back now. Either we walk in and catch Fisher in the act of something truly heinous, illegal, immoral, or just plain disgusting, or we make complete and utter asses of ourselves for walking in like this. One way or another, it isn’t going to be pretty, I think. I mentally prepare myself for anything and everything. I think I have considered all the possibilities in my waking mind a hundred times on the drive over here—

  Except for this. This surprises me as much as it does Rachel, and it certainly surprises my mother.

  Let me begin by saying that the office where the Reverend Fisher spends his time between sermons is on the small side, but suitable for his needs. It contains a desk, a couple chairs, a table, a file cabinet, a small bookcase, as well as a cot for those times when he spends the night in the church for whatever reason. I have never really understood why, myself, but frankly, I also don’t care. As I understand it, he spends most nights with my mother, and that, too, is too much information as far as I am concerned.

  When we enter the room the first thing we see is that no one sits behind the desk. Or at the table. Or in either chair. But the cot is quite occupied, yes, indeed, its occupants being none other than Terranova Fisher and Josiah King. Both stark naked. And, to put it as delicately as I can, they are joined together at the reverend. King is on the bottom, on his hands and knees, Fisher on top, his dark eyes closed—whether in concentration or so that he won’t have to look at what he is doing, I can’t say. But however you want to put it, he is fucking Josiah King, let there be no doubt about that. Looking like he is enjoying it, too, his usually impassive features seem contorted into a state that might even resemble ecstasy.

  To say that we are surprised is a decided understatement. Shocked doesn’t do it, either. My first thought is “You hypocritical bastard!” as my jaw drops to the floor. Then I think to look at my mother. She has blanched into such a colorless state that I am afraid she will collapse any moment. Her eyes, though, her eyes are blazing with a hellish light, as if a fire has suddenly been lit inside of her. Uh oh, I know that look, and it doesn’t bode well for the hapless Reverend Fisher.

  They heard us enter, but it’s a little hard to stop certain things in the middle without hurting oneself, this I know. But the reverend manages to
pull himself out of Josiah’s ass—literally—make a grab for his black trousers, which hang nearby, and struggle to pull them on before he says anything. Josiah takes a light sheet from the cot and simply drapes it over himself. Of course he isn’t surprised—he arranged this, did he not?—and in his eyes I see a certain light of self-satisfaction, even as I wonder what his motives are.

  “What the devil is going on here?” Terranova begins to bluster, trying to gain the upper hand in the situation. Not happening. With one swift move, my mother’s own hand has risen to the occasion. She slaps that man. She slaps him hard, not once, but twice, for good measure.

  “You fraud!” she says in a voice I find amazingly controlled considering the circumstances. “You great hypocritical fraud!”

  “Juliet, let me explain,” Fisher says futilely, but he adds nothing else, holding his cheek as he attempts to assuage her.

  “Explain what? Explain that while you’ve been telling me how wrong and immoral my son is for his lifestyle, and how you want to help him, help us both, so that we can be a family, so that you can marry me, which you can’t do without Max being saved first, all this time you’ve been telling me how wrong Max is for being gay, and yet here I find you engaging in the same sort of behavior that you condemn him for? If it’s so wrong for Max, how can it be so right for you? That is hypocrisy of the highest order, and I can’t believe I’ve been blind to it all this time. And damn stupid.”

  At this point, the minister’s gaze turns to me. His eyes are angry and tumultuous, his face a fiery red. I return his look without flinching. I see no reason to say anything, Mother is doing just fine. Rachel obviously feels the same way, too, as she remains silent. This is Juliet Montague’s show now, no doubt about it.

  “I guess that I’m proof that there’s no fool like an old fool,” my mother continues. “You’d think I would know better, at my age, but I guess not. However, unlike others, I will learn from my mistake. As of this moment, in case you can’t guess, we are through. I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again. You will not call; you will not come to my home or bother anyone that I love ever again. Especially my son. He is worth far more than you’ll ever understand or appreciate. He, unlike you, is a good man, although you’ve managed to blind me to a few things over the past few months. Well, no more. I don’t care what you’re doing or why you’re doing it. Obviously, it is human nature, isn’t it, and not an abomination, as you so often told me? Which makes my son as human and right as you are. And if he’ll forgive me, I want to tell him how much I regret how badly I’ve treated him.” Here she turns toward me, and for the first time, her voice shakes with emotion and her eyes look moist. Of course I forgive her. I love her. She and I embrace, and all I can think of is that it’s over, it’s truly over, and maybe life can get back to the way it was. Well, mostly the way that it was. Still Richardless, I’m afraid.

  “Juliet, no, please, let me talk to you,” the right screwed reverend attempts, trying to come into the middle of this mother and son reunion, but she will have none of it. She finishes hugging me before letting go, gathers herself with dignity, and says to me and Rachel, “Let’s get out of here now, before I get ill.” And as the three of us exit his office, my little spitfire of a mother turns to face Terranova Fisher for the last time, and I will never forget her final words to him. Not words of great wisdom or humor or anything else, but raw emotion and very expressive: “Fuck off!” And then we are outta there. That’s my mom!

  I would love to be a fly on the wall and know what happens after we leave, but perhaps Rachel can get that out of Josiah later. Will they carry on where they were before the coitus interruptus? Or will Fisher realize that Josiah had something to do with what happened and ream him out for it? Ha ha, pun intended. And that is assuming that Rachel is even going to talk to Josiah anymore. After all, she’s accomplished what she set out to do; she has unmasked the reverend for what he really is, a bisexual male who merely pretends to be homophobic while indulging his appetite for members of the same sex, and yes, another pun intended.

  “Mother, I’m sorry,” I attempt to console her as we walk back to the car.

  “No, Max, I’m the one that should be sorry.” She stands beside Rachel’s vehicle while Rach unlocks it and faces me with an expression of deep regret in her eyes. “I haven’t been much of a mother to you, have I?” she says, her voice holding an edge to it I’ve never heard before.

  “No, that’s not true,” I protest, but she cuts me off.

  “Yes, it’s very true. All these years I’ve been trying to get you to change what you are, thinking I was doing it for your own good. But that’s not true. It was for me, because I didn’t understand you, so I tried to change you. I didn’t see what I have because of my own blindness. Max, you’re a wonderful son, a great human being, and I am so very proud of you and what you’ve done with your life. And you’ve got the most loving heart of anyone I know. I wouldn’t really want you to change for the world. And if that means your loving Richard, well, then I wouldn’t change that, either, ’cause it’s who you are. And who he is. And the two of you belong together. Oh Max, I’m so sorry….”

  I don’t remember the last time I saw my mother cry, but the tears are spilling down her cheeks as if a sluice has been opened, and I hasten to comfort her, and I can’t help but cry a bit, too, and there we are standing on the street, sobbing together, while Rachel patiently waits for us to be done before handing us both Kleenex from her purse, and then we head back out to St. Charles once more.

  Wow. What a difference a day makes. Isn’t it ironic? Now Mother and I have something in common. We’ve both seen the man we love in the grip of another man. Small world, isn’t it?

  I can’t help but wonder what comes next? Or maybe I’m just being melodramatic here and life will go on, the same as it ever was.

  We got rid of Reverend Fuckface. Thrilled to the max and dancing around the fucker’s grave—well, mentally, that is!

  Chapter 27

  What You See Isn’t Always What You Get…

  MY MORNINGS normally begin with wet kisses from Principessa. I’ve placed her bed near my temporary haven in the library, and every day when she decides it is time for breakfast, she jumps up on me and lets me know it, at first with her tongue on my nose, but if that doesn’t seem to sufficiently gain my attention, she has no hesitation in becoming vocal. I’ve learned that it’s no use at all to ignore her; she only grows louder, so now she has me trained to just get up and give in rather than prolong the inevitable. I stumble to the bathroom, clattering spaniel in my wake, do my business, then go straight to the kitchen to fix the princess’s meal, a mixture of rice and dry food. I make the rice myself in large quantities which I only have to reheat to take the chill off it, add a little gravy for flavor, and stir it into the kibble. She wags her perky tail in appreciation, and I then proceed to brew myself a pot of coffee to get my own heart started. Rachel is usually gone by this time, and there is often a note for me next to the clean cup she leaves out for me on the kitchen table, telling me her schedule for the day, reminding me to eat and to call her at some point, and invariably ending with “I love you, Max.” She makes me smile in spite of myself.

  Then once I am sure that I am fit to face the world, I am off to work. Well, to my laptop, anyway. As much of the world as I see any more, hiding out here in my cottage in the woods, sure that I am safe from unwanted intrusion from quarters best not heard from.

  But I am so very wrong.

  I log onto the Internet, type in my e-mail information. Okay, how many new pieces of mail today? On an average day, I can accumulate five to ten overnight, which isn’t too bad, as I don’t give this address out to very many people. But today I see fifty! What the hell?

  I don’t recognize the return address, so I open one, and then it hits me. Three guesses who it’s from. Who they are all from. He’s merely assumed a number of aliases to get under my radar, but they all contain the same basic message: Max, I l
ove you, we need to talk, please….

  Oh dear God, what am I going to do? Please, please, please, give me strength and wisdom. Should I, should I, should I… Should I respond? Should I agree to talk to him, hear him out, take a chance on having my heart stepped on again? I want to, I really want to, but I am so afraid. I am still too weak, too fragile to resist. I’ll bend before him like the spineless creature that I am, give in to everything, forgive everything, and never make myself heard, never say the things that need to be said that eat away at my soul on a daily basis. I have rights too. I have a heart. Am I ready to have him break it again? I take a deep breath, and I count to ten. And then I simply click delete and send all of his messages crashing into the trash bin, where they cannot haunt me any longer, although I know they will anyway.

  I have a stack of mail that Rachel has brought home from the office the day before, and I sit in my fortress of solitude—a.k.a. the library—coffee close at hand, as I read and sort them into piles for answering, assigning them priority codes. A=top priority, B=urgent, but not as, C=handle soon, D=whenever I have the time, and L is for the loonies who don’t really have a problem but are making random observations, anything from comments on previous writers to proposals of marriage. I save these in a file for the police—in case anything ever happens to me, they should check out these people first. I’m not kidding. Some of them are downright scary.

  Left to my own devices, I would lazily lounge about in my pajamas, but around here, especially lately, you never know who might drop in unexpectedly, so I dress each day as if I am going to the office, but casually. Jeans and T-shirts, most likely. I sit in the big comfortable armchair in the library—Richard’s favorite chair, if truth be told, where we’ve spent many an hour squeezed together, engaged in various pursuits—and read over the letters, formulating answers in my head before I go to the computer to type them in, format my column, and send it to Rachel. I am invariably ahead of myself, and I keep track of what I have sent her, prioritizing each day which letters to send out. I do the same with all the other papers I am syndicated in. Actually, Rachel takes charge of that for me. She acts as an unofficial agent for me. “Unofficial” in that I don’t pay her anything, not like she would accept it, but official enough that she can negotiate terms for me, which she has done and which is why I am doing as well as I am now. Which is very comfortably well, indeed. Between me and Richard, we have more than enough income for our needs and to enable us to play when we like, such as to take our trips to our favorite spots around the world, particularly Greece, and to spoil one another to our heart’s content.