Saints of Augustine

by P. E. Ryan

  Sam glanced behind him and saw that Justin was close enough to hear their conversation, and he felt his face flush with embarrassment. “I think I’m through being Shelley Winters for a while.”

  “That’s so not the point,” Melissa said. He glanced at Justin, who gave a little shrug and smiled.

  At home later that night, Sam felt ready for anything but sleep. He could have run a circle around all of St. Augustine without getting winded, so much energy seemed to be coursing through his body. He’d finally given Justin his e-mail before they’d left Melissa’s, and after checking to see if Justin had written him, he wrote Melissa an e-mail thanking her for hosting everyone, and telling her he was looking forward to Tidal Wave, which they were scheduled to watch on the following Monday—the last week before school started up again.

  He was just about to send the e-mail when a message popped up on his screen from nickoftime: Still awake?

  Sam had stared at the napkin with Justin’s number and e-mail enough times to recognize his screen name. He glanced around the room, as if there were people looking over his shoulder. After a moment, he leaned forward again and typed.

  SKFindley: hi

  nickoftime: What’s the K stand for, anyway?

  SKFindley: kenneth…my middle name…what’s nickoftime?

  nickoftime: As in “Justin the.” I thought it was a little less cocky than “JustinTime.” That was fun tonight. Melissa’s a blast.

  SKFindley: yeah…she loves making a big production out of movie night…we’ll probably have to show up dripping wet when we watch Tidal Wave

  nickoftime: Then I dread the night we watch The Towering Inferno.

  SKFindley: LOL…what are you still doing up?

  nickoftime: Ugh. Part of our fence blew down after that last storm. I had to walk Dusty on a leash so she wouldn’t escape.

  SKFindley: dusty’s a dog?

  nickoftime: Yeah, a retriever as big as I am—she yanked me all over the yard. Now I’m wide-awake.

  SKFindley: you should walk my dog…he’s a fat old dachshund who can hardly move

  nickoftime: My ex had a dachshund. It was fat, too. Are all wiener dogs fat?

  SKFindley: ex…

  nickoftime: Sorry. Ex-boyfriend. Back in Dayton. And I ain’t datin’ him anymore, that’s for sure. His name was Tommy. aka Mr. Creep.

  SKFindley: oh…cool…well, not cool, i guess…but you know

  nickoftime: Didn’t mean to just spit that out or make you uncomfortable. I tend to just talk about—whatever. If I like who I’m talking to, that is.

  SKFindley: i’m totally fine with it…comfortable with the topic, i mean

  nickoftime: Really?

  SKFindley: Really.

  nickoftime: t—o—t—a—l—l—y?

  SKFindley: yes! do i have to scream it?

  nickoftime: No, don’t. My folks are asleep. But I thought so.

  Sam sat back in his chair for a moment, one arm wrapped around his chest like a seat belt, his other hand clutching his jaw. Had he just told Justin he was gay? Was that what was happening here? He tried to think of different things he might type next, but he could really only think of one thing. He leaned forward and typed:

  SKFindley: good.

  The next morning, Sam felt on top of the world. He and Justin had messaged back and forth until nearly two A. M., but he still sprang out of bed at eight o’clock feeling charged up and ready to run a marathon. He felt so different that he made himself stand in front of the bathroom mirror after brushing his teeth so that he could really look at himself. On the outside, he looked the same as always. Same hair (a dirty-blond mop—would it ever get spiky?), same face (no major zits, thank god for that), same wiry body. But something was different. It must have been on the inside—it felt like an electrical surge that was somehow attached to his message exchange with Justin. When he’d crawled into bed late last night, Sam had felt like he’d spilled his guts and stamped the word GAY on his forehead; but thinking back on it now, he hadn’t really admitted anything specific. In fact, the word gay hadn’t been typed once by either one of them. Sam just hadn’t worded anything that would give Justin the impression that he wasn’t gay.

  Giving someone the idea that you aren’t interested in being thought of as not gay is practically the same as telling them you might be gay, isn’t it? That was what had happened. And it felt good.

  Really, though, another part of his brain said, how can you know that about yourself? You’ve never had sex with anyone—other than your left hand. How can you really know for sure that you’d like it, without ever having tried it?

  Then it occurred to him that it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to decide what he was. Let whatever happened happen. All he had to know was that he’d had a great time seeing Justin at Melissa’s and, somehow, an even better time chatting with him online, and as he left his bedroom the next morning, Sam felt as if he were walking a foot off the ground.

  “Hey, Biscuit Face.”

  Teddy was standing at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of cereal. His wispy hair was feathered up wildly around his head. He was wearing a long checkered jacket with a ROOF-SMART T-shirt underneath.

  No—not a long checkered jacket. A bathrobe, hanging open.

  And pajama pants.

  “W-what are you doing here?” Sam asked uneasily.

  Teddy looked down at his bowl and shrugged. “Having a bowl of cereal.”

  “I mean, why aren’t you dressed?” He was confused. For one thing, Teddy’s car hadn’t been in the driveway when Sam had gotten home last night. For another, this was Tuesday, and his mom worked on Tuesdays. What the hell was this jerk doing in his pajamas in their kitchen, first thing in the morning?

  “Well, the same reason you aren’t dressed,” Teddy said. He gestured with his spoon toward Sam’s tank top and shorts. “I just got up. Most people don’t jump out of bed and into their clothes. They ease into the day, right?”

  Sam just stared at him, as if staring might make him go away. Teddy stared back and spooned cereal into his mouth.

  Then his mom’s voice broke the awkward silence: “Morning, Sam.”

  Sam spun around. She was emerging from the hall. Hannah was following, her arms wrapped around Jasbo’s wiggling body. “Why aren’t you at work?” he asked. “It’s a Tuesday.”

  “Well, I know it’s a Tuesday. I called in. I’m taking the day off.”

  “Well…what’s he doing here?”

  “Not feeling too welcome at the moment,” Teddy said. “I can tell you that.”

  Sam watched his mom’s face level into a more serious, annoyed expression. “I don’t like your tone of voice, young man.”

  “Sorry,” Sam said without even trying to sound like he meant it. “I just don’t get it. I mean…did he sleep on the couch?”

  His mom’s face leveled out even more. She glanced at Hannah, who was bent down next to her, spilling the dog onto the carpet. When she looked back at Sam, she said, “Would you like to go back to your room and come out again, in a better mood?”

  “I was in a great mood!” Sam snapped. He bounced his eyes from his mom to Hannah to the dog to Teddy. It was like looking at a mutated family portrait. Everything that occurred to him to say at that moment would only have made the situation worse—much worse. He stomped around them down the hall to his room and slammed the door.

  This time, his mom didn’t stay away. She didn’t even knock. The door flew open and she closed it behind her and stepped toward his desk, where he’d sunk down into the chair in front of his darkened computer screen.

  “I have had it with your attitude, young man,” she said firmly, folding her arms.

  “Too bad.” This was harsh—more harsh than he’d meant it to sound. She stepped toward him, then turned away, then turned around again and practically stabbed her body down onto the end of his bed, her arms still folded over her chest. Her lips were clenched and her jaw was sliding from side to side. She was waiting for
him to speak again.

  He said, “So I guess you’re sleeping with him.”

  “Sam!” His mom released her arms, and her hands seemed to move around without knowing what to do. Then they settled into her lap. She didn’t look angry; she looked almost sad at that moment, and it diffused him a little. “Yes. Teddy and I slept in the same bed last night. I’m not going to lie to you about that.”

  “Dad’s bed.”

  “It’s no longer your father’s bed, and you know it.”

  “Where’s his car?” Sam heard himself ask. It was a crazy question: Who cared about the big oaf’s car?

  “Teddy was going to come over last night, but he had a flat tire. So I drove over to his house and brought him back here. He stayed the night.”

  “And you slept together.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not married, right? I mean, you didn’t elope without telling anyone, did you?” He felt his eyes welling up.

  “No. Teddy and I aren’t married. We’re dating.”

  “Well, if you aren’t married, you shouldn’t be sleeping together.” Another crazy remark. Sam didn’t care if people had sex when they weren’t married. He just didn’t want his mom and Teddy in the same bed—especially not the bed she used to share with his dad.

  She reset her jaw. She studied him. “Listen, Sam. You need to understand how the world works. You need to understand that your father and I aren’t together any longer.”

  “I understand that.”

  “We’re separated.”

  “But you’re not divorced.”

  “No. We’re not divorced. But you need to understand—”

  “I understand!” Sam snapped. “And I understand why! Dad’s gay!”

  She shushed him fiercely.

  Sam lowered his voice. “He’s with David now, I know that! Okay?”

  The look of anger that formed on her face was so pronounced that he wondered if he’d gotten it all wrong.

  “What makes you say that?” she hissed in a loud whisper. “Has your father said anything to you?”

  “No! I wish he would, but he hasn’t. He’s too busy moving to London.”

  “He’s not moving there. He’s visiting. But what makes you say that he’s—like that?”

  “Because I know about it, okay? I just know. And I really know, so don’t try to tell me it’s not true.”

  “Have you talked to Hannah about this?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not stupid. It would totally blow her mind. But, Mom, why are you doing this?”

  The anger returned to her face. “Why am I doing what? Dating someone?”

  He’d painted himself into a corner. His dad was dating David. His dad was living with David. Why couldn’t his mom date someone? The logic of it only made him more frustrated, and he blurted out, “I mean, why Teddy? I hate Teddy.”

  She breathed through her nose. She brushed her blond hair out of her face. “Why?”

  “Because he’s—” A jerk. A loudmouth. No, just say what you really want to say. “Because he’s a homophobe.”

  That would really get her, he thought. There was no arguing with it, given the remarks Teddy had been making lately, and what had happened in their family. But she completely surprised him by narrowing her eyes for what felt like an eternity, and then leaning forward and asking, with a sad look on her face, “Tell me something, Sam. Are you going through some phase where you think you might be gay?”

  No one had ever asked him that point-blank—not Melissa, not even Justin during last night’s online conversation. Never in a million years would he have thought that the first person to ask him this question would be his mom. Suddenly, it all felt so much more complicated. If he said “maybe”—and he wanted to say “maybe” to somebody at this point—his whole gripe against Teddy would seem encapsulated in maybe-gay Sam’s getting his feelings hurt when Teddy made his homophobic remarks.

  His mom was waiting for an answer.

  Options raced through his mind.

  I don’t know yet.

  So what if I am?

  Yes! Okay? Yes!!

  “No,” he said firmly. She still had that sad expression, so he added, “I’m not. I just don’t like it when he says that stuff, because it’s like he’s insulting Dad, that’s all.”

  The look of relief that spread over her face made him feel sick to his stomach.

  “So this isn’t because you think you might be—”

  “No!” he said again.

  “All right.” She smoothed her hands over her knees. “Okay. I’ll talk to Teddy. I’ll ask him not to say things like that. But you really need to work on this, Sam. Teddy’s going to be around. And you need to be able to get along with him. You have to do some work here, too. Okay?”

  This was awful. Beyond awful. He hadn’t accomplished anything other than having a fight with his mom and patching things up by lying to her. He might as well have been one of those passengers on the Poseidon who had no idea that up was the right direction to go and just kept on telling people to move down, toward doom. “I’ll try,” he said, staring at the floor in front of her feet.

  9.

  (You’re like money waiting to happen.)

  The thumb started bleeding again. Charlie was sitting next to his father, watching a tennis match on TV, when the dark spot on the bandage caught his eye. “Your hand, Dad.”

  His father glanced at him. “Huh? Oh.” He looked down. “This is one stubborn thumb. Can you get me the first-aid kit?”

  “Yeah.” Charlie walked into the kitchen, a faint sensation of panic creeping into his chest. He brought the kit back to his father and knelt down in front of him to help.

  They’d gone through four bandages of folded gauze and surgical tape in the past two days. When his father cut away the old gauze, the wound—surrounded now by pale, wrinkled flesh—began to seep bright red. “We should have gone to the emergency room,” Charlie told him.

  “I don’t think they would have stitched it; it’s a puncture. Cut me some tape?”

  “Maybe you should get a tetanus shot.”

  “That’s for rusty metal. This was just a piece of glass.”

  “Well, why won’t it stop bleeding?” Charlie dangled the strips of tape from the ends of his fingers. The feeling of panic was clutching the inside of his chest. He and his father hadn’t talked about what had really happened that night. They’d talked about how the glass had exploded like a grenade. They’d talked about how his father had gone to bed early and slept for ten hours, and how he hadn’t been able to eat for most of the next day, but it was if they were discussing someone who had the flu and was just fighting normal symptoms. Neither one of them had mentioned the drinking.

  Charlie was still angry at his father for throwing a wrench into his evening with Kate. He was mad at himself, too, for getting high (though who wouldn’t want to get a little high after watching your drunk father practically bleed to death at dinner?) and for taking that stupid nap in the middle of getting ready to go. The whole evening was like one bad joke. Here it was, two days later, and Kate still wouldn’t take his phone calls (and boy, was he sick of hearing Mrs. Bryant say, “I’m sorry, Charlie, but Kate doesn’t wish to…”).

  More than anything, he was worried about his father. Watching the thumb get rebandaged, he fought his sense of panic, and yet couldn’t help wondering if there was something wrong with his father’s blood. Maybe it wasn’t clotting right. Maybe he was a bleeder, a…whatever the name was for that condition they’d studied in human anatomy just a few months ago that he couldn’t think of now if his life—or his father’s life—depended on it. What’s happened to your memory, Perrin? He imagined himself hearing it from a doctor: The results of some awful blood test were in, his father was at the start of a long illness and probably wouldn’t recover. Forget it, Charlie thought. Get it out of your head. He knew he was only thinking about something so grim because of his mother. That’s what her tests had said: T
here was a problem with her blood, and it was something she wouldn’t recover from. And they’d been right on the money with that one; she’d stayed sick until the day she died. It wasn’t a virus, stupid. It’s not like Dad could have caught it from her. But even thinking about it made Charlie realize that, deep down, he was panicked at the idea that he might lose his father, too.

  “It’s just a puncture wound, Charlie.” His father held up the newly bandaged thumb for inspection. “They’re always slow to heal.”

  Charlie closed up the first-aid kit and returned it to the kitchen. When he got back to the couch, his father had returned to watching the tennis match on TV. He looked calm, almost hypnotized. “Dad?”

  “Hmm?” he said, without looking over.

  “Can we…talk…about the other night?”

  His father blinked at the television. “There’s no need, Charlie.”

  “I just thought it might be a good idea, you know, if we talked about what’s been going on lately.” He hesitated, realizing there was a slim chance his father knew about his pot smoking, and Charlie certainly didn’t want to talk about that. “With you,” he clarified.

  “There isn’t any need, Charlie. Everything’s going to be fine.” His father sounded confident, if drowsy. He glanced over at Charlie, finally, and added, “We’re survivors, right?”

  Charlie opened his mouth, but no words came out. This time, he was the one who looked away, shifting his gaze to the television. He swallowed and thought, Are we?

  He was clipping the gardenia bushes in the front of the house when he glanced over at the Volkswagen parked in the driveway. Right in the middle of the shining red hood was an enormous splatter of bird shit. “Damn it!” he said, throwing the hedge clippers down. As he crossed the yard, he peered up at the sky and saw the faint shapes of seagulls zigzagging against the blue. He’d just washed the Volkswagen that morning. It had looked perfect.