They all plead "not guilty", but the D.A. tells us that the evidence against them, along with their hateful, vindictive attitudes about Jamie and me, have pretty much fucked them. Along with kidnapping and attempted murder, they will all be charged with depraved indifference. Whether Yvette came along for the ride or not, whether Lydia struck Jamie with the towel rack or not, they all talked, they all laughed, they all conspired, and they all knew Jamie was going to be attacked that night. Everyone will be indicted: Ray Battle, Yvette Feldman, Steve Cantrell, Lydia Rocha, and Benny Feldman. Mrs. Cooke's statement has established beyond a doubt that Cantrell is the man in the "puffed jacket" who drove the car that night. Benny might not have "done" anything per se, but he most certainly is not off the hook. He is guilty of knowing that a crime was going to be committed, and not informing the police. I'd like to lose my shoe in his ass just as much as in all the others'.
Almost every night following Jamie's release from the hospital, he wakes up, crying voicelessly. One morning at about two o'clock, I get up to pee. En route, I get distracted by my stomach rumbling, and I stop at the fridge to snack on the remains of one of Jamie's famous chocolate mousse pudding pies—sex in a graham cracker crust. I am about to resume my original itinerary to the toilet when I see his tiny figure, barely throwing a shadow behind him, in the hallway. He lost a lot of badly needed flesh while he was in his coma, and he looks fragile, adorable, in his white t-shirt and long pyjama bottoms.
"Hey, Sweet Thing," I murmur to him.
He just stares—stares at me with those big, lost eyes. I go to him and kneel so that our eyes are level. "Are you okay?"
It's clear he's not. He's shivering.
"What is it? Tell me."
He moves closer to me, his eyes silently appealing me to touch him.
"Did you have a bad dream?" I finally ask.
He nods, tears splashing on my chest. I hold him. "It's okay now."
He shakes his head, still quaking turbulently. His nails dig into the back of my neck. He won't let go. Whatever he dreamed about scared the holy crap out of him.
I read his mind then. "Did you think I left you?"
He shrugs, his eyes shimmering in the quiet dark. I can hear him shaking.
"Oh, Baby. I only got up to go pee, and I was hungry. I was eating some of your chocolate pie, that's all."
He doesn't move. His face is buried against my throat.
"I'll never leave you alone," I whisper. "Never, ever. That's why I moved in. I can't have you being alone right now."
He begins to sob. He's mute, but I know his thoughts. "What happened to you wasn't your fault, Jamie. I'm not mad at you. But I'm never leaving you alone again, not even when you insist that I should." I don't want him feeling like a prisoner or a helpless child either. "I love you."
He nods, kisses my neck softly.
"I know you're afraid," I murmur. "It's going to take a while for you to get through this, but they're not going to hurt you again."
He lifts his face. He glances around, juts his chin towards the front door.
"I changed the locks, Jamie. Nobody is coming into this house unless we invite them."
He sags against me, limp with relief.
"Let's go pee, then we'll watch Our Gang and go back to bed later."
As Chubbsy Ubbsy duels with Jackie Cooper over the affections of pretty Miss Crabtree, Jamie falls fast asleep in my arms. I stare at his beautiful face, stroke my fingers over his cheekbones, through his soft, curly blonde hair. He's so pretty... no scar will mar that.
He's here, he really is. God answered my prayers. I'm so thankful.
But I miss his voice. I miss that so much. I wonder if when we're able to make love, he'll make any sound at all. He has no idea how I love the sounds he makes when I'm inside of him. We used to "talk" to each other while we fucked. He'd make the sweetest little squeals and grunts, "Mmm-hmm? Mmm-hmm?" while he rode my dick, our lips fastened together, our tongues dancing, my answering groans vibrating into his mouth...
I'll never be able to explain it better than this. It's like part of him is still missing. I haven't heard him speak since before he vanished and was found fighting for his life, under a black garbage bag. It's like his voice is still out in that orchard, trying to find its way back to me. I know it sounds stupid. I know I should be grateful that Jamie is alive.
And I am grateful. I'm nothing but grateful.
Thank you, God, I meditate, and then my tears flow. Oh, God, I so appreciate you for letting him live. I really do. You know I'm thankful.
But please, let Jamie's voice come home too.
I urge him not to think about the ordeal he's survived, but he scrawls, I have to deal with it, Tammy. It's not going to go away. I wish I could forget about it. I wish I could pretend it never happened. I almost wished I had permanent memory loss, but I didn't want to lose memories of us, memories I love.
He adds, I'll be alright. Just give me time.
Time. That's something I need practice with. Time and patience.
He's taken an extended leave of absence from work. One day, he receives a get-well card from his co-workers at St. Paul's. His friend Marilyn Medrano writes, Angel, it's such a slice of heaven working with you on the noc shift. It's so dull around here without you to make us laugh. I love you, because it's such hard work but you take delight in it. Hurry back!
"I told you people love you!" I say.
He nods solemnly, and writes, You're right.
And to our astonishment, Paulina, that crotchety old Nurse Ratchet, writes, You're in my prayers.
What a world, Jamie writes.
He fills his considerable idle time with writing thank you notes, to every person he can think of who has been kind to him during this mess. He writes cards to me, to Stacy, to my mom, to Patti and Deanna, to Mrs. Cooke from the bakery, to Mr. Bloom, to the staff at UC Davis, and he also tracks down and writes to the four guys who found him in the grove and called 9-1-1.
February arrives, and it takes my proposing marriage to get him to speak, though only in a whisper, and only a few croaking words. He writes that his throat is weak and something keeps getting in the way when he tries to make words. We talk to his doctor again, who reassures us that there is no damage in Jamie's trachea or voice box.
When I pop the big question, it's spur of the moment, my emotions coming to a head after nearly losing him. I don't have a ring or any token of commitment, and I feel bad, but Jamie writes, The angel you gave me. He pulls it out of his t-shirt and stares at it. I kept it close to me that night. I thought of you, and it kept me going. You're my angel, Tammy, not the other way around.
"Oh yes, you are my angel," I say sternly.
OK, we're each other's angels.
"Alright, then."
On every calendar in the house, Jamie writes, Get married!!!!!! We're not waiting. What's the point of waiting? I ask him, "Are you sure you're ready to be married?" He nods, scribbles, I'm sooo ready to marry up with you!
"We're going to do it for real... we're going to go somewhere where gay marriage is recognised, and if we can't, we're going to have the commitment ceremony with every friend we have to witness it!"
They recognise in Canada, writes Jamie. Patti told me. I want her at our wedding. Sylvie is a lesbian, by the way! We could go to Vancouver or Toronto.
"It seems sudden, in a way, but then, we should have been together all those years. I love you. I want you, nobody else."
You're the only one for me, Tammy, he writes. There will never be anyone else in my heart. You're everything to me.
I know, we're making you nauseous. I'll stop for a while.
forty-two:
jamie
(january/february)
My voice continues to elude me. But we try to get on with it the best we can. I want to get back to living as though nothing happened to me, to us. They almost killed me. They almost took me away from Tammy, and that would have killed him. My love for him is undiminished, a
nd I have never been more certain of his love for me. Nobody else would put up with the mood swings that grab me out of nowhere, the frustration of not being able to express myself verbally, the irritation of being unable to articulate, the supreme annoyance of having to fucking write everything I can't communicate with nods, shakes or gestures. The spasm in my throat is long gone, but when I open my mouth to try and speak, there is nothing. I don't moan when I turn over in bed, I don't groan when I stub my toe against the coffee table leg. When I sigh, when I laugh, when I cry, it's in whispers, with no musical quality at all.
Will I ever sing with Stacy again?
Sometimes, Tammy acts like he thinks it's all by choice, and it makes me feel both guilty, and angry at him for making me feel guilty.
One night at The End, Pete Bloom stops by our table, tells me he's going to testify about the three people he saw walking not far from where they found the cougar.
A few minutes later, a couple of our old high school friends, Patti and Deanna, come to our table and ask me how I'm doing.
"You know he can't talk," Tammy says protectively, and I cringe.
Deanna sits down and puts her arm around me. "I'm so sorry about what happened to you, Jamie. I can't understand how Lydia could do this to you. I can't understand it!"
I just nod. I don't know whether to trust Deanna or not. I never would have guessed Lydia had so much hate in her heart towards me, and look what happened.
Patti pats my shoulder. "I'm happy for you and Tam," she whispers discreetly in my ear, even though she doesn't have to because, after all, we're at The End. "And I hope Lydia, Ray and all the others who did that to you get what they deserve."
I write on a napkin, You wrote that on my cast, remember? In high school?
"I did, didn't I?" she smiles. "Well, they fucking deserve the death penalty. I don't think they're Christians at all. Besides, Sylvie is a lesbian! Did you know?"
Are you serious? I ask.
"Yeah. She lives with her girlfriend in Alabama," says Patti. "They're going to get married in a few months. She just told me last week!"
That's awesome!
"They get all kinds of shit, living in Alabama—the Bible Belt, you know, but they're determined, they're gonna get married. They're going to Canada!"
Maybe Tammy and I will do that someday.
"I think that would be awesome, Babe. You're both so gorgeous and look so right together. I mean it. You're the hottest twosome I've ever seen."
Deanna doesn't say much. Do you think she thinks it's wrong?
Patti ponders for a second. "I think she's fine with it, but you shouldn't care who likes it and who doesn't, Jamie. It's your life. We only get one life, and we should do what makes us happy."
I'm just afraid it'll happen again. I can't go thru that again!
"I know, Babe."
I look around, and I see faces that are friendly and non-threatening. But I also see a few frowns directed my way. Some guy, about sixty years old, and very drunk, comes walking up after a few minutes, and snorts, "I hope you're happy! A good cop went to jail, and for what?!"
Patti stands up just then, and cements my faith in her sincerity. "That good cop shouldn't have participated in a hate crime! Not to mention distribution of child pornography!"
The man reels drunkenly away from her, then slurs, "You don't know nothin'! You don't know what you're talkin' about!"
"Why don't you take your smelly, drunk ass away from our table before I have you bounced?!"
"Fuckin' faggots," the asshole mumbles, and staggers a little. "Sendin' my nephew to prison!"
Well, no wonder he's pissed.
Tammy stands up. "Sir, you either take yourself away from our table or I will physically bounce you myself!"
Someone from a nearby table says, "Get lost, fudge-packers!" Raucous laughter ensues.
My heart quickens. Now I remember every minute detail of being beaten in the orange grove. My lynch mob of three, standing around me, looking down on me. The towel rack flashing in the moonlight, plummeting down onto my head. The stitches have long since been removed, leaving behind a scar that is still vivid dark pink. It begins to burn. Tears blind me.
Another voice shouts, "Shut the fuck up! Fucking hillbilly bigots in this town! Hope they give those haters the gas chamber!"
Cries of ascension come from all directions:
"Go home, bigots!"
"Haters, get lost!"
"Yeah, bounce! Or be bounced!"
"We're in the twenty-first century now, bigots!"
"God loves everyone! And He hates people who hate!"
"Fuckin' A!" screams Patti. "Haters aren't welcome in Sommerville!"
I inhale deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. My heart resumes a slow and steady thud.
Tammy smiles at me.
And I smile up at him.
We have allies. Lots of them.
But I write, Please, let's go. I think there's going to be a fight!
I don't think I'll ever be happy here again, if I was ever happy before. And now, everywhere we go, I'll be the reason for bar-room brawls and verbal wars. I never wanted this kind of attention, to always be reminded of the bashing. I'll never be able to remove from my brain the knowledge that people in this town now know about the videos my parents sold.
I want to leave. I want to take Tammy and go.
I want to start my life over again.
On a Sunday in February, we make love for the first time since the beating, in our laundry room. Tammy's just put in a load and added detergent and closed the lid. I come in to add a shirt and I don't know what comes over me, except that I'm horny as hell seeing him standing there with nothing on from the waist up and his long, white PJ bottoms.
I want his hands on me, all over me.
"You're frisky," he laughs as I kiss him all over his face and neck. I nod eagerly and grab his cock through his pants.
He lifts me, sits me on the shimmying washing machine, grabs my legs and lifts them up over his head. I'm folded like a paper clip, my ass on the lid of the washing machine, my knees bent over his shoulders, my fingers raking through his short hair, pulling him as close as I can, my tongue assaulting the inside of his mouth as he hammers into me, his pyjama pants down around his ankles. The vibrations coming from the washer below me enhance the experience.
Tammy pants, "God, I hope Mom doesn't come over for at least twenty minutes." (She has a key now.) I give my usual raspy laugh. Tammy slows from his frantic thrusting to a gentler rhythm. "Tell me you love me," he whispers to me. "Tell me. Tell me you love me."
I moan and cry soundlessly, open my mouth, wanting something to come forth, even a hoarse, squawked version of my original tenor.
"Jamie," he pleads, "Say my name. Tell me you love me."
My heart is bursting with frustrated love. I can't do what he's asking. I just can't. I can't make the words. I just yawn my maw over and over, like a dog trying to rid himself of a foul flavour. Finally, I clasp his head and pillage his mouth with my own, sucking his breath away, gasping and sighing silently as my tongue and lips and teeth try to convey what he needs to hear. "Oh... Oh, God," he cries. "Yes, Jamie! I know you love me. I know. I know, Baby..."
No fewer than ten minutes later, his hands stroking the sweat-soaked hair curling around my ears, Tammy asks me, "Will you marry me?"
Before I even feel them, tears are streaming down my face. I nod so energetically that my head might fly off. I open my mouth again, struggle to say, "Yes! Yes! I'll marry you!"
I just don't seem to have any strength in my throat to bring my voice to life. Like a fish out of water, I gape and suck in deep, ludicrous breaths, trying to get the air, the power, the muscles together. At last, in a rough whisper, "Y-yes."
Tammy smiles, laughs tearfully. "Jamie. You talked!"
I nod. The single, stuttered word has taken every bit of power I've had, for the moment. I huff and puff and open my mouth again, but it takes almost another full
minute before I croak, "I... love... you... Tammy."
Still no actual voice, just a whisper.
It's good enough for Tammy. He grabs me and bear hugs me, forgetting my still-sore ribs. We make love again, and I replay the words over and over in my mind, "We're going to be married! We're going to be married!"
On the calendars in our home, I write, "Get married!" on February 14th, Valentine's Day.
There is one remaining obligatory yet unwanted event in our timeline, casting a dark, monolithic shadow: the trial.
Yvette Lard-Ash doesn't have to suffer a public examination. She's plea-bargained her way down to two and a half years for sending Tammy the video, but when it's discovered that she's gone and made copies, nearly twenty copies, that have been passed around at parties, given to known "Christian" gay-haters who no doubt watch the pornography, get off on it, and then sit in judgment of me, the D.A. is so mad she's foaming at the mouth, and she slaps Lard-Ash with no less than six years.
Cantrell is the one who's committed the most crimes, introducing the pornographic tape to Yvette, and participating as the most important player in my abduction. After all, if you have no driver, you have no kidnapping. Not to mention the fact that he obstructed the investigation by not admitting outright that he was at The End that night, that he knew the whole plot against us. His being a cop on top of it all has been a major embarrassment to the Sommerville Police. He's been fired without any severance pay, and all he has to look forward to now is the trial and a long prison term.
Benny pleads guilty to being indifferent. He admits, "Yeah, I knew they were going to do it, and no, I didn't care. He deserved to die and I wish they had killed him!" He gets off pretty light, with a year in jail. Then his lawyer says that isn't fair, and when all is said and done, Benny only has a year of community service.
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