Beau, Lee, The Bomb

by Mary McKinley

  “Shall we go?” he asks as we stretch.

  We are finished. The chocolate bomb was delish. We lay our napkins gently on the table as the to-go order is brought with the check. Oscar snatches it up with a flourish.

  “Me! I’m getting this!” He announces it like I’m even trying. I see him calculate the tip on his phone. His signature is huge when he signs the bill.

  We can hear Uncle Frank on the phone to someone when we climb the stairs to the apartment door. His voice is kind of loud. Oscar puts his finger to his lips for us to be quiet so we can eavesdrop.

  So we do.

  “Oh, it was worth it, I guess. I don’t know if I learned anything. To be honest, it was kind of depressing. I know, I’m getting old. We both are. Oscar’s turning fifty this year! Oh yes, he is—as in the one that starts in a couple weeks. Yeah, that next year. Do you know what an oddity that makes us in certain crowds? Outside this town, I don’t even know if there are any gay men left around that age. . . . No, it’s true. It did seem a little like a holocaust. For years it seemed like I went to funerals every day. And the ones a few years older than us? Yikes! Oscar is seven years older than I am and our friends that age and older were hit even harder. We tell each other, ‘Hey, it’s a miracle we’re even still here,’ when the chips are down. So many aren’t.

  “Oh, sweetie, I know! How did we get on this tragic topic? I know, right? ‘The Big Gay Holocaust.’ Oh, what? I can’t say that? Jeez, I lived it. ’Cuz why? Would somebody be mean to me? Hahaha! I know. I am awful. I try!

  “Probably because we were looking at the old photos . . . I just don’t want your poor boy to think that this is all we ever do—sit around surrounded by costumes, sketches of superheroes, and pictures of the dead. Yeah, I am, but whadaya gonna do? It’s laugh or cry. Oh, honey, he is so beautiful! He looks just like you! But he’s annoying like Jason!”

  We grin at Beau, and he rolls his eyes.

  “Oh, I totally saw it! Yes, yes, yes, yes, too, too true. Well, how the hell did I get to be gay Mr. Wizard? Then how come he ends up here looking for the answer to life, the universe, and everything? Hmm? I wonder where he could have gotten that idea. Yeah! You did so! Don’t lie. You know you never could. Ha! Hahaha!! I have no idea. Not very long. I’d think, any minute. They’ve been gone for hours. Actually, Oscar is being really amazing. I know, right? But no! He didn’t run screaming—almost, but he stayed right here!”

  We grin at Oscar—he rolls his eyes like, busted! We hear Frank pause, then continue:

  “He’s so funny. I think he’s really enjoying them. I heard him giving them some long-winded lecture about the price of beans in China or some awful thing, and they were actually responding, speaking in full sentences and making eye contact and everyth—I know, wouldn’t he? I often think what a great dad he would have been . . . the best dad. Yeah, sometimes I do still wonder. Oh well, maybe next lifetime. Oh, honey, that’s so not going to happen. Oh, right, two gay guys in their fifties. Well, I might as well be—yeah, we were always going to be at the top of that list, for sure!”

  I sneak a look at Oscar when we hear Frank say that. I understand then that they had tried to adopt. Oscar isn’t aware I’m peeking at him, and his face wears a wintery expression, just for a second. Then Frank laughs. “He’s fine! He’s good, actually, better than ever. Yeah, I do, crazy time. Remember? It was like night and day when he first started to take it. Yeah. I could see him coming back to life, y’know—back from the brink? Right? Oh, what, maybe thirty or so. We have a little joke that his super­hero name is really Lazarus McPhoenix. Ha, I know! Thank the dears who invented the cocktail!”

  I sneak another glance at Oscar. He’s listening carefully, and his eyes are still distant, but then he sees me and winks. The next thing Frank says regrabs my attention, though.

  “So how do you like his two little friends? The big girl, Rusty, what’s her real name? Rylee? She’s a card! Do you? Okay, that makes me really like her too then.”

  It’s weird to hear yourself discussed. I feel embarrassed he called me “the big girl”—though I am—but also very pleased to assume from what I heard that Gina really likes me. Plus, that I’m a card!

  “What about the pretty girl? Lee? What a beauty!”

  I glance at Lee; she’s listening too, liking what’s being said.

  “I know, I haven’t really either, except that I think she looks like you, in the day. Yes, you did! You looked like that one girl in that video! I can’t remember! The hot one! With the hair! Yes, you did, yes, you did, yes, youdid, yesyoudidyesyoudidyesyoudid. Hahaha—and you taught him to call me Frankie! Yes, you did! Then who did? Hah! Yes, you did! Yes, you did!”

  We all grin at each other, even Beau for a sec. They sound like we do.

  “Yesyoudidyesyoudidyoudidyoudidyoudidyoudidyoudid! Aahahaha!”

  Oscar looks at us and raises his eyebrows. He shakes his head.

  “One can intuit when the conversation will disintegrate. Let’s go in.” He unlocks the door and opens it.

  Uncle Frank is staring at the ceiling, holding the phone, and lying on the couch. His swinging leg is sprawled over the back of the sofa like a nine-year-old, but when he sees us, he immediately straightens up.

  “Hey, guess who just walked in?” He looks at us and waves at Oscar. He points at the phone and mouths “your mom” to Beau, who glares at him without response. “Should I put him on? I’ll give him the phone to say hi.” He reaches out the receiver to Beau. “It’s your mom!”

  Beau just backs up. He grimaces and shakes his head and puts his hands up like “no way.” Goes in the bathroom. Frank stares after him and then at me. I shrug. I don’t know why Beau is tripping on his mom. Frank tells Gina, “Hang on for a minute.” Then he knocks on the bathroom door and waits. No response.

  Then Frank comes back out and just hands the phone to me.

  I stare at it for a second, then I hear Gina’s distant voice, like a trapped fairy inside the phone.

  “Hello? Beau?”

  The way she said his name makes me answer. It’s so full of longing it hurts to hear.

  “Hey, Gina. He’s in the bathroom. It’s Rust.”

  “Oh, God, Rusty. Is he okay? Are you guys okay, honey?” Her voice is a comfort and a stab. It’s a little wobbly.

  She sounds so sad. I feel so bad.

  I swear I’m not sure I even want to have kids. It’s starting to look way too hard.

  “Yeah. We’re great. It’s been awesome. The ocean and driving down and they have been so chill since we got here. We’ve gone out to dinner twice! Tonight was vegetarian. Giant mushrooms. Yum.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’m just riffing, feeling a little rattled to be put on the spot like this. I grimace at Leonie, who gnaws around her big old fingernails and shrugs helplessly. Some backup she is. I’m running out of steam here. Gina speaks again. Her voice is even sadder.

  “Rusty, listen. Is Beau avoiding me? He is, isn’t he? Could you try to get him to talk to me?”

  “Yeah, just a minute. I’m going to give you back to Un . . . Frank now, ’kay?” I hand him the phone and head to the bathroom, where I hear the sounds of Beau trying not to cry, which sounds exactly like holding your nose and gagging with your mouth closed.

  After several exhaustive snorts from behind the door, I stop hesitating and knock.

  “Beau? It’s Rust. ’Sup, son? Are you okay? Whatcha doin’?”

  He chokes off mid-snort.

  “I’b good.” His nose is totally plugged.

  “Come say hey to your mom. She says hey. Come on.” I try to sound enticing. Fun!

  It’s like trying to get a feral cat in a carrier. I don’t even get close.

  “Dah . . . just say hi frob be, too, ’kay?”

  “No! Just come say one little word and then she will hang up! Dude!”

  “Dude! Dough! Go away!”

  I try the door, but he’s locked it.

  “Beau, your poor mom, right?
She is crying.”

  “Shut up! Shut up! So is yours!” He starts crying again really hard. Still choking.

  I am torn. I look into the other room and try to listen again. I hear what sounds like him punch the wall. Great. But—poor Gina. Should I stay or should I go?

  Then I hear Leo in the other room. She has the phone. I go.

  “They went to the top of the, um, Coit Tower, and then they came home. Like all day. Um, I’m not sure. He was in a hella bad mood, so . . . hey—are you still going to sue the school?”

  I steamroll in to grab the phone and glare at her. She has this way of saying such the wrong thing at the wrong time! We need to talk about happy things right now or we will never get Beau out of the bathroom! I stand and speak rapidly into the mouthpiece.

  “Gina, it’s Rusty again. He’s good, but . . . he, uh, got in the tub before he knew it was you!”

  “Rusty, I’m pretty sure that’s not true. He’s just sitting there, isn’t he?”

  “Uh, no . . . he’s in the other room.”

  “Well, just tell him somethin’ for me, would you?” She’s trying to sound chipper, but no, she sounds choked. “It’s why I called: To say if he’ll just come home, I’ll drop the lawsuit and we’ll find a different school or he can graduate early. There’s a program I looked into called Running Start. We can work it out, just please come home. Would you do that for me? Please?”

  Her voice goes completely, and she tries to hold it back, but the last word sobs low in my ear. It travels into my brain and hurts me.

  “Yup. I will. I will tell him that and I will get him to call, ’kay?” I grind through my throttled throat, also trying to sound chipper.

  Awful to be sorry! I’m wishing I was still detached. It seems like things used to be easier to ignore.

  “Okay, honey. Tell him come home and we . . . start over, okay?” She sounds strangled.

  “Will do. Will do. I should probably go. . . .”

  “Okay, I won’t keep you. But if he gets that message, it might make a difference, is what I thought. Tell him I love him . . . lots . . . and thank you, Rylee. He’s lucky to have such a good friend.”

  “Yup. ’Kay. Bye.” It’s all I got. I hang up and lean over, pressing my aching voice box. I wipe off my face, all sweaty with guilt. I feel like I’ve been sprinting. Underwater. I concentrate on deep breaths. Then I return to upright.

  Everyone has shut up and is kind of staring at me. Leo is the first to speak.

  “What did she say?”

  “To tell Beau to come home and she won’t sue the school,” I repeat. Everyone looks at each other. Everyone looks at me.

  We hear Beau from the bathroom blowing his nose and clearing his throat. When he comes out, we look at but pointedly don’t comment on his swollen red face. He stops when he sees all eyes upon him.

  “What?” He sounds surly. I answer him.

  “Your mom says hi. I’m sure that’s what she called for, to hear your voice, and also she says if we come home she’ll drop the lawsuit and you can do whatever instead—switch to another school or do Running Start or whatever. Whatever you want, she just says to please come home.”

  Beau stands and stares at me.

  “So not my home.” His face is remote and inhospitable. Inexorable. Implacable. Grim.

  I stare back at him. He shrugs one shoulder. He speaks like he’s accusing her.

  “It’s her home; she just feels bad because she agreed I could live with my dad for that time in Kansas, and it sucked and now she’s all sorry and wants me to come back so that she can make it up to me.”

  Leonie and I look at each other. Okay, and your problem is?

  It sounds pretty good to us. But not to Beau.

  “Just forget it! I didn’t choose to be there—or anywhere! I feel like I’ve been blown around without a choice of my own for too many years! What am I, a freaking tumbleweed?” Beau’s face is already red, and now it’s glowing brighter. “No roots ever, just blowing in the wind? I’m sick of being the new kid! As if everything else wasn’t enough, I always have to be the new freak, too! Why don’t I just paint a big old target on my back? Because I am!” We can see him getting more and more angry again. He turns his back on us violently.

  “I thought you guys would be able to help me! But no! Apparently there are no answers! It’s always going to be like this! Omg, I hate my life! I hate those jerks at school, and I hate that no one seems to know how to make it stop!” He pauses and looks directly at Leo and me. “I hate everything about my life except you guys . . . I feel like killing myself.”

  He’s not yelling now; he’s speaking through clenched teeth. His fists shake.

  The despair in his voice terrifies us all. We stand frozen for a second. Then:

  “No!!” We all scream in unison. “God, Beau, no!” Everyone panics.

  He stops when we yell like he’s dazed, and holds up his hands. He closes his eyes. Catches his breath and gets a grip.

  “Okay! I’m sorry I said that! I take it back—please don’t start worrying about that too! I’m not going to. I was just venting! But sometimes I think what difference would it make? What am I here for? When, exactly, does it get better?”

  He eyeballs the uncles.

  “No offense, dudes—but look at you! You guys are old now! Your whole lives have been used up waiting for stupid people to give you your rights! Which they never did!” Beau is regrowing enraged at the outrage. “So now I still don’t have any rights, either! If things don’t get changed, they never will! I’ll wait my whole life for something I should have been born with! How is that progress? Freaking whatever! I’m so pissed off! This is an epic injustice! It’s bigotry! It’s . . . freaking”—Beau sputters, at a loss for words—“un-American—injustice shouldn’t be allowed!”

  He shuts up and scowls and slams himself down in the chair by the window, then folds his arms up tight.

  Oscar and Frank take a few deep breaths. They look at each other before they say anything. That was a lot of stuff.

  Frank speaks first.

  “Look, Beau, to start with, I’m sorry about today. I didn’t mean to get so impatient with you, it’s just I felt I was explaining the same thing over and over. You thought I was going to have some magic beans or something and then you’d just climb a beanstalk to a better land? Great! I want to go there too! Sounds awesome! But please, don’t think we’ve just been waiting for our rights.”

  “Well, where are they, then?” Beau says like a brat.

  “Omg, Beau! We have done so much. There’s just so much left to do! You know, being ‘outed’ used to be the worst thing that could happen to someone. There was no movement until us! We were zapping homophobic politicians and businesses before you were even born! Do you even know what a ‘zap’ is?”

  “No.” Same way.

  “Really?” Frankie is sarcastic. “Well, quelle surprise! I do. You lie down on some filthy city sidewalk and refuse to get up. You and your friends, some of whom are so sick they can barely walk and are only there for you, because it’s too late for them, ignore the hate and the spit and the snot raining down and you block the entrance to their vile little endeavors until you are all arrested and hauled off to jail. Violently. There they ensure you are given a record, which, by the way, makes it nearly impossible to travel to other countries. Which is ridiculous!”

  Frank’s voice rises a little, and Oscar looks at him. He subdues himself and takes time to chill. Beau scowls.

  “Don’t ever think we just sat around!” Oscar adds, but more gently. “We were an angry bunch of activists with nothing left to lose. We watched our friends and family die in droves, and from the government?” He looks at Beau, who gives him nothing. So he answers himself.

  “Not a word or a care or a cure.” Oscar shakes his head, still somewhat disbelievingly.

  Frankie resumes. They kind of tag team Beau.

  “We’re old now? Good lord, Beau! Like being snarky much? Why don’t I g
et my damn hankie so you can dry yourself behind the ears?! But you’re right! We are old! You want to know how aggressively old we really are? Oscar’s so old he worked on The Quilt! Do any of you even know about that? Really? Not even you, Rusty?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know about a quilt. Uncle Frank continues.

  “Okay, briefly, there were so many deaths in the early years that the survivors decided to make a quilt. It would have a panel dedicated to each life that was made by the loved ones—who they were, where they lived, what they loved, stuff like that. Things the friends and families could design just for the loved one, in this big creation of love. We hoped it would help comfort us and ease our hearts. . . .” He trails off. We wait. So Oscar takes a round.

  “But nobody imagined how long things would go on before we stopped ignoring the growing crisis and did something about AIDS! The quilt kept getting bigger and bigger, until its size alone became an accusation, and still nothing! Years passed. The quilt could only be shown on a football field, it had gotten so huge. And even with all those panels, it was just a small percentage of the dead. It was insanity!”

  Back to Frank:

  “Right?! Apparently, the government didn’t feel much sense of urgency, judging by the time it took to notice hundreds of thousands of young Americans dying horribly. They almost ignored the epidemic! And why? Because the young folks were dying from this thing the press was calling ‘gay’ cancer!” Uncle Frank snorts and shakes his head in derision. “And you know what? We were so used to it, at first we just thought it was a new way of hating on us—call this death sentence a ‘gay disease.’ ”

  “ ’Cuz it’s not, right?” asks Leo.

  “For the record—not just gay men—anyone’s blood can be infected, so being straight was a risk, as well,” Frank says wearily. “We started using this strange new term constantly: safe sex. But since we were mainly the ones dying, it wasn’t that surprising no one cared.”