Alma's Will

by Anel Viz

  He then faced the problem of financing his project, getting it accepted by the authorities, locating a suitable house, finding professional counselors willing to volunteer their time, hiring a cook, handymen, reliable monitors, and all that. He started out on a shoestring budget and could only take in boys where there was clear evidence of physical or sexual abuse in the family or whose parents had disowned them, plus one or two from orphanages eager to hand over their homosexual charges, whose presence "only caused trouble." It took years before Child Protection would admit he was doing vital work.

  Marc never regretted his decision to make the safe house independent of the Church. He still believed, but he'd grown away from religion and didn't miss it. They had refused to support the project and the bishop had actively campaigned against it, though some of his former confreres in the monastery had helped "unofficially" and the connections he'd made while still a monk had proved invaluable. Later, when so many instances of sexual abuse on the part of the clergy came to light, he was glad he hadn't involved the Church and that his project remained untainted by suspicion. Until he heard some of the boys' stories about what priests had done to them, he hadn't known it was going on. It was, in fact, partly his passing the information on to the police—out of spite, according to the bishop—that brought the scandal to public attention. Marc sometimes asked himself how Brother Marc could have been so naïve. Or had he, like so many others, simply closed his eyes to it?

  Now the idea of safe houses had caught on, and more and more resources were becoming available to gay youth, such as the opportunity Jay had called him about. He wanted to share his excitement with someone, and immediately thought of Ed Blacknoll, another of his success stories, who came once a week to lead a group session and play basketball with the boys. But Ed wouldn't be in this Friday or the next. He was on his honeymoon.

  Ed

  Ed and his new husband, Cameron, returned to Boston Sunday night after two weeks in Vermont. They'd spent the first week at a resort on Lake Champlain, where they hiked the Green Mountains, and another week driving home, staying at campgrounds and stopping at pottery studios, glass blowers, and hand-made furniture outlets. They'd picked up a large wheel of Colby cheese and a maple carving board, the first household item they bought as a married couple.

  Monday morning Ed's colleagues and the staff at the clinic welcomed him back and congratulated him on his marriage, all very low key. It would have been tacky of professional psychologists to tease him about it.

  Not so on Friday. After finishing his degree, he'd returned to work one day a week as a volunteer counselor at Pride House, the shelter that had taken him in. He found the place decorated in his honor, champagne corks popping, the congratulations effusive. Marc, the director, warned him about the boys in group. "Prepare yourself for a ribbing. They're excited and happy for you, and you know how they jump at the chance to make a bawdy crack. Relieves the tension."

  That he blushed with pleasure at the card and flowers they'd chipped in for provided the opening they needed. "Look, he's blushing!—All wore out from the honeymoon, I bet.—Hey, Ed! Does it hurt as much as they say when you lose your virginity?"

  In a sense they were right. Marriage had made a difference; after over five years of living together their honeymoon intimacies had felt like a new beginning. The kids were irrepressible, forgot about their own problems for an hour, and spent the whole session on him. He evaded the overly personal questions, while giving them a glimpse into a loving, stable gay relationship that would make their future seem less bleak. It was no secret he'd been in the same boat when he was a kid.

  The director asked him over lunch, "Do you remember Jay Franklin?"

  "I've heard the name, of course. One of your success stories."

  "Like you."

  "If so, you don't lack for success stories. I'm not all that special."

  "You're our first married graduate as far as I know."

  "Oh, you take credit for that, do you?" Ed teased.

  "You know my feelings: It's always the kid who deserves the credit, not me. I'm no less proud for it. But I thought you knew Jay."

  "Not personally. He arrived after I graduated high school, and by the time I got back he'd already turned eighteen and left. What about him?"

  "He called us about the time you left on your trip."

  "It's nice when they keep in touch, isn't it?"

  "I'll say, and Jay especially. I've never seen a kid as fragile as he was when he first came to us. I wondered if he'd ever heal."

  "Traumatized, eh?"

  "Many times over. It took weeks before he'd open up to me, and when he did… But we won't go into that."

  "Of course not; I know you don't betray confidences. How's he doing?"

  "Good, I assume. Still with the same partner. That's longer than you and Cameron. That's not what he called about, though."

  Marc explained how one of Jay's neighbors had passed away and left her house for him and his partner to turn into a home for gay teenagers; how her daughter was contesting the will, and it was possible a small town Southern judge would rule against them.

  "He needs a lawyer? Why not go directly to Lambda?"

  "He already has. He mostly had questions about the house. You know—seeking advice on how to set one up. Because he values my opinion. If it weren't for us, he says, he'd be dead now."

  "Me too."

  Yes, Ed thought, he and Jay had survived; but how long had they been on the streets? A couple of weeks? Cameron, his longtime partner and now his husband, had lived there for years. He was a born survivor.

  "Marc was saying they might have to sell and get another. Zoning regulations. And, speaking about zoning… Are you listening?"

  "Sorry. Yeah, I'm listening. Any idea what the house is worth?

  "At least seventy-five thou, he estimates."

  "Not bad, but they'll need more than a house. Getting it set up for the kids will cost a bundle."

  "Another reason he called—to help him raise money."

  "So what do you intend to do?"

  "Called Lambda first thing. And I've been asking around if there are any special requirements for Georgia and if there are other facilities of that kind in the state."

  "Georgia, is that where Jay is now? Cameron's from Georgia."

  "I didn't know that. I guess I noticed a bit of an accent, but I never thought about it. Hey, do you think we should ask Cameron, him being from Georgia and all?"

  "Ask him what? Cameron isn't licensed to practice in Georgia. And didn't you say Jay already had a lawyer?"

  "You should tell him anyway. I bet it would interest him."

  "Good luck. He swore he'd never set foot in the South again."

  "I didn't mean you should suggest he go there. What're you shaking your head about?"

  "Just that he wouldn't go if I paid him. Cameron's put that part of his life behind him. Even I don't know much about what it was like for him before he came up north."

  That much was true: It was close to impossible to get Cameron to open up on the subject. This successful, strong, and—on the surface, at least—well-adjusted man would talk about his past only in the most general terms. Funny thing—initially it was Ed's longing for a father figure that attracted him to Cameron, nearly ten years his senior, but when they got married it was Cameron who took Ed's last name and became Cameron Blacknoll. He hated his childhood that much.

  It was no less ironic that he, who had degrees in psychology and social work, should be in no position to work on dispelling his husband's demons. He could be his support person—had been almost from the beginning of their relationship—but not his therapist.

  * * * *

  Ed had intended to stick to the kids' problems during the afternoon one-on-one sessions, but the business with the will had brought back memories of his stay at the shelter, and he easily fell to reminiscing. Much had changed since then. They handled more kids now, placing some in foster homes once they were over the
worst of their depression. They'd come back for group sessions and counseling once a week, more often for recreational activities. Ten years ago the state would never have placed a kid with a gay or lesbian couple, and finding a heterosexual couple, especially one with children, who'd take in a gay teenager was a lost cause. For him it had been little more than a safe home, a place to come back to after school and his afternoon job, with minimal counseling and not much socializing.

  Face-to-face, several boys again raised the subject of his marriage, but with a different tone. They challenged him on it, said "it just seemed wrong." In other words, they felt tainted. Behind their ribbing that morning lay the all-too-familiar lingering self-hatred. It's hard to accept yourself when your family rejects you, he reflected. Self-worth comes with love.

  Husbands

  Having spent most of the day talking up his relationship with Cameron, whether to satisfy the kids' curiosity or respond to their doubts, Ed left work elated and more than a little horny. One look at Cameron deflated him. He was visibly shaken, his face haggard and white as ash.

  "Cameron!—Mr. Blacknoll—you look awful. What is it? Has something happened, baby?"

  Cameron smiled. "It's nothing, Mr. Edward Blacknoll." His smile faded. "Yes, you're right. Something's upset me. I have to go back to Georgia. Will you come with me?"

  "Did Marc tell you about that old woman's will? Sure, if that's what you want."

  "You know about it?"

  "From Marc. He wanted me to mention it to you, but… Well, I know how you feel about Georgia. I wish he'd listened to me. Look how it's affecting you, for God's sake!"

  "Don't worry, I'll be okay. I have to go; that's all there's to it."

  "You sure you're up to it?"

  "No problem… so long as I have you with me." He patted Ed's arm as if to reassure him. "I just don't think I can face those people alone."

  "What people?"

  "The people in Macon. That's where I grew up."

  "As if anyone will remember you! It's not as if that's where you got into all that trouble."

  "No, that was Atlanta. I steered clear of Macon."

  "Like I said, they'll all have forgotten by now except for your folks. It should be easy enough to avoid meeting up with them if that's what's worrying you."

  Cameron's features clouded over. "It's not. There's no chance I'll run into them. They're both dead now."

  The disconnect between his words and his facial expression didn't escape Ed. "You're sure of that? I didn't know you kept track," he observed.

  "I didn't keep track. I just know."

  "So, is the case all that difficult?" (It was time to change the subject.)

  "Hell, no. With me there we'll win in five minutes flat, and then we'll come straight home. They don't have a leg to stand on."

  Cameron wasn't making sense. He wouldn't be representing Jay, but he had to go and he'd win the case for him. Ed could see something was upsetting him, but he didn't dare press him on it. He'd find out soon enough. "The heirs—do you know what grounds they're contesting it on?" he asked.

  "Heir; there's only a daughter. That the old woman had become senile. That Jay and his partner talked her into something against her principles. That everything she owned she'd inherited from her husband, and he'd turn over in his grave if it were used that way, which is right enough."

  "How can you know that?"

  "Because I know what people are like down there," Cameron said with more vehemence than was called for. "I was the local faggot, remember?" Suddenly calmer, he continued, "How soon can you leave? Do you need time to reschedule your appointments?"

  "Don't worry about my appointments. I'll phone the secretary at home."

  "Then I'll see if I can book us a flight, if not for tomorrow, then the day after. Whatever's available. I've already called Jay Franklin, one of the guys she left the house to, and he says they have a spare room where they can put us up."

  Cameron's haste only deepened Ed's concern, but he kept it to himself. "Why impose on them?" he asked. "We can stay at a hotel."

  "I'm going to need all the moral support I can get."

  "Look, if it's going to be that hard on you, why don't you just refuse? Surely they can find someone else to send if the case is that easy."

  "You're not listening. I have to go. I could wrap it up in five minutes."

  "I am too listening; it's you who aren't making sense," Ed objected, nearly at his wits' end. "I'm trying to be supportive, but how can I be when you're holding something back?"

  "I'm sorry. You're very supportive. I just can't bring myself to talk about the things that happened to me then. I want to, but I can't."

  "Just blurt it out."

  "Not now. Later, when I've calmed down some."

  * * * *

  For the rest of the evening Cameron kept his emotional distance, so it surprised Ed when he snuggled up to him as soon as they were in bed. Though Cameron usually took the dominant role, he made it clear by his movements that he wanted Ed to penetrate him that night. Lying underneath him, he pulled Ed's arms around him and hung on to them. He sucked on his fingers, pushing back into him and whimpering, "Make love to me, Ed. Fuck me hard and long."

  When Ed rolled off him, they lay panting for five minutes or so till Cameron again set about caressing him, nuzzling him, running his fingers up and down his body. Then he put his hand on Ed's penis and said, "Let's do it again."

  Startled, Ed looked at his lover. "Now? So soon?" he asked dubiously. "Didn't I satisfy you?"

  "It was wonderful. You were wonderful. But I need you in me." He sounded not so much aroused as desperate. "I feel safe with you pressing down on me, covering me, holding me in place. Do you think you can get it up if I go down on you?"

  "This is about that Georgia thing, isn't it? That's what has you so upset. Really, Cameron, I don't think you should go."

  Cameron sat up in bed. He spoke nervously, without looking at his partner. "I didn't want to, but Marc insisted I jot down Jay's phone number, and I said I'd think about calling him. Then I did, and he gave me his address. That decided me."

  "What decided you?"

  "The address. It's right next door to where I grew up."

  "Jesus! But that doesn't necessarily mean… I mean, how can you be sure they didn't sell the house long ago?"

  "No, it's my mom's will. I knew it couldn't just be a coincidence, so I asked for her name. And the woman fighting it must be my little sister, Livvie."

  Ed put his arms around him and held on tight. Cameron was trembling and had broken out in a cold sweat.

  "That's why she's leaving us the house. Because they threw me out of it. Maybe she's been looking for me all along. I should have tried to contact her."

  "Don't start blaming yourself. You did nothing wrong." Like the kids this afternoon, he thought. The hurt never goes away.

  "I'm so scared, Ed, just like the day they threw me out."

  Ed had lived through the same trauma. Just remembering it was enough for the panicked child to rise up inside him, too, and with him the guilt, the feeling it was he who had betrayed them.

  They were both shaking now. "I'll be there with you," Ed whispered. "I promise," he added, clinging to his lover as much for his own comfort as for Cameron's.

  Liv

  Liv poured herself a tall glass of lemonade, her third that morning. She'd forgotten how hot Macon could get in summer. Unless the heat affected adults more. The twins and Li'l Eric didn't seem to mind as much, playing out in the back yard. "Hotter'n hell and a helluva lot less comfortable," Daddy used to say. "Thank God for cold beer!" Of course she remembered about the heat; only her body had forgotten how it felt. Had July always been this hot? Maybe those activists were right about global warming.

  She looked out the kitchen window to check on the children before returning to the pile of half-packed boxes in the living room. She saw that one of those men next door—the white man, Franklin—had come out to work in his garden. N
o harm in that other than his apparel: a sleeveless tee-shirt and one of those skimpy Speedos men like him liked to wear. He wasn't paying them any attention, and they'd been warned not to talk to those neighbors. That black cat of her mother's, the one she called Ronnie, lay curled up in the sun. How fitting that that cat had attached itself to them!

  The thump-thump of Li'l Eric's ball on the back of the house blended in with the familiar sounds of a Macon summer: flies buzzing, the whirring of the ceiling fans, and the absolute quiet in the street outside on a scorching day. What other physical memories had stayed with her? The sour odor of beer on Daddy's breath and the sweat sticking to his body when he'd hug her close. "You like the feel of a strong man's arms, doncha Princess? Nothin' queer about you!" Her brother, Ronnie. No one ever mentioned his name. Had Daddy been that attentive when he was around? She only remembered wishing for a brother or sister to share in those hugs.

  Now she was sweating like Daddy. Why hadn't Mama put in central air like those men next door? It wouldn't have surprised her to learn it was the heat that killed her. She'd refused an autopsy when the police called, out of consideration for the doctor who'd have to perform it. She'd been dead for a week when they found her… and in this heat!

  The heat. She'd have visited more often after Daddy died except for that, she told herself, but only their summers were free since the twins had started school. Christmas was for Eric's family—dozens of people from all over the country, while in Macon there were only Daddy and Mama, and Eric loathed Daddy, loathed him from the very first, even before he got drunk at their wedding. "Thank God for cold beer."

  They'd come home to ask permission to marry. She wasn't quite eighteen yet. She'd gone to Atlanta with a girlfriend to take some secretarial courses so she could land a decent job, and never really came back. She signed up for a course on investments, thinking it would come in handy, but it turned out to be corporate investments and not much use. The instructor, though, was a young man out to earn a little money on the side while he finished up his MBA. Eric—so smart, so worldly. A few weeks into the course she found herself shacked up with him. Then, towards the end of the semester he was offered a good job in Idaho. She figured she'd never see him again. She never expected him to propose. So they went to Macon and he met her father.