Wild Things

by Karin Kallmaker

  "I've got the new draft," he said, setting a two-inch stack of papers on her desk.

  "Thanks," she said, watching him watch her.

  "We can't all like our brother's choice of girlfriend, you know."

  "Eavesdropper," Sydney said, too weary to put any snap in her voice. "It's not disliking her that's the problem."

  John's eyebrows went about halfway up his forehead. "I think I see. You really like to grow blue corn, don't you?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "It's an old Hopi story. When corn was given to the various tribes, the Hopi asked for the blue corn. It was hard to grow and not very nourishing, but they felt it would give them character."

  Sydney shook her head tiredly. "If I had any more character I could cast a Cecil B. DeMille movie on my own. I'll get over it."

  "Chiea, you'd better."

  "Oh get out already. I need to make a call."

  John left at his usual pace. He reminded Sydney of Duchess sometimes — the more Sydney said jump, the less likely it was he'd even move.

  She hoped she'd get Faith's answering machine, but after a few rings an odd-sounding Faith answered.

  "I know this is awkward," she said after strained hellos. "But Eric knows we'll be in San Francisco at the same time and will want an explanation if we don't get together. You need to talk to him, Faith."

  "I know," Faith said. Her voice was not quite right. "Why don't you tell him we will get together. Before we go I'll talk to him, and then he won't care what I do. I just can't talk to him right now."

  "I won't lie to Eric. I won't. The first promise I made to myself when I got sober was that I'd never lie to him, because if I did my life would be in pretty bad shape. And it isn't." It was, she thought. But Faith didn't have to know that.

  "I'm sorry," Faith said, then she sniffled.

  "Are you okay, Faith? You sound odd."

  "I'm all right. I just found out that a friend died. I feel like everything's coming unraveled, particularly me. I just can't talk to Eric right now. I have too much to think about."

  "I'm sorry," Sydney said. She fought down the urge to drop everything so she could dry Faith's tears. An urge that was not in the least sexual, and was all the more dangerous. Lust was one thing, and it was proving a real bitch to handle. Having other feelings. . . absolutely not, Sydney told herself. There was no room in her life for any kind of relationship, even if Faith were available.

  "Thanks. I will talk to him. I don't know... if I'll tell him the truth. I just don't know."

  "That's your decision," Sydney said.

  "No matter what, I won't mention you."

  "I know you won't. I won't either. He's going to be crushed enough."

  "I don't want to ruin things between you."

  "I know." Her intercom beeped. "I have to go."

  "Good-bye then," Faith said shakily, and she hung up.

  Sydney hadn't realized it would be good-bye. She was swamped by a wave of loss. Then she felt hollow. She felt as if she was the one with a dead friend. It was familiar, this emptiness. There was one so very easy way to fill it.

  8

  I will not be ashamed to defend a friend.

  —Apocrypha, Ecclesiasticus 22:25

  If you pay in cash, no one will ever know how much or what you drank. Sydney's rule number 15. It came just after A moving Sydney gathers no girfriends, and just before If she doesn't drink Scotch, don't stay for breakfast.

  Duchess blinked one suspicious yellow eye at her as Sydney settled into the big chair that Faith had liked. She warmed the lead crystal glass in her hands and stared at the bottle on the table in front of her.

  Glenfiddich, in its trademark triangular bottle. So easy to pick up and pour. A deep brown bottle with a brown and gold label featuring moose antlers and heather. Special reserve, 80 proof and aged twelve years. The amber light from its depths promised her oblivion. It promised that when she woke up everything would be all better. It promised that she could forget Faith.

  The glass warmed — an important part of the ritual — she broke the seal on the bottle and deeply inhaled the comforting, familiar aroma of her favorite Scotch. She remembered the sharp, throat-catching smell so well, and knew it hid the smoothness that would coat her throat and slowly spread to her shoulders, her breasts, her arms. She would feel the warmth in her stomach and in her sex.

  She breathed in again, letting it fill her head. Her sex didn't need any heat, there was plenty already thanks to Faith. She smiled and closed her eyes, remembering how delicious and easy sex had been when Glenfiddich had put her perpetually in the mood.

  She filled the glass to the level of two fingers and then put the glass and bottle on the table.

  So close. So easy. The mantra was so familiar.

  If I drink, I'll forget about everything.

  If I drink, I'll forget about Faith.

  If I drink, I can be my old self again.

  If I drink, I can call some old friends.

  If I drink I can find someone to fuck and I'll forget about Faith.

  If I drink, I'll forget about Eric. I'll forget about Eric loving Faith.

  If I drink, I can be with Faith. I can be with Faith. If I drink, anything is possible.

  She lost track of time, but not of her mantra. The glass was in her hand. No one would ever know.

  There had been another mantra, learned at AA. It didn't seem to help now, but she began repeating it to herself. My name is Sydney and I'm an alcoholic. My name is Sydney. ..

  Duchess flicked her tail, and Sydney realized she was speaking aloud. "My name is Sydney and I'm an alcoholic. Recovery is a lifelong journey. One minute at a time. One hour at a time. One day at a time. One week at a time."

  One sip and she would have to start all over again, counting minutes, counting hours. She had just celebrated her ninth anniversary of sobriety. She trembled and knew she could not live those hard-fought nine years over again.

  With deliberate steps belying the panic in her stomach, she took the glass and bottle into the kitchen and poured their contents down the drain, leaning back from the smell that suddenly nauseated her.

  She would not, could not, come this close again. The only way to keep her sanity and sobriety was to get over Faith Fitzgerald. And she could do that by applying herself to her work and only her work.

  She felt numb inside and heaved a sigh of relief. The Ice Queen was back.

  * * * * *

  I hadn't expected so many people to be at James's funeral. I had arrived just a little late and had taken a pew at the back of the Community Church Chapel. I recognized several other people from campus. The chapel was full, about a hundred and fifty or so. James had had a lot of friends.

  The pastor, accompanied by an ensemble of about a dozen men with beautiful voices, led us in "Amazing Grace." I was too distraught to sing along. When we sat again, my vision was too blurry to read the program.

  A friend read a poem about the cycle of life. Another played a short Bach organ piece that James liked. Had liked, I reminded myself. I gave myself over to listening to the pastor, who spoke from the chancel steps rather than from the pulpit. Close enough to the front pew to occasionally touch a hand or pat a shoulder. I hadn't been to a non-Catholic funeral in a long time and found the simplicity and closeness of the service refreshing and direct.

  "Our friend James asked for 'Amazing Grace' because he identified so strongly with the words. He always spoke freely of his times of being a wretch, of his struggle with alcohol, and of a difficult family life."

  He had never mentioned alcoholism to me. I was surprised and wished he had told me. But maybe he hadn't been so easy about it as Sydney. He had sometimes referred to estrangement from his parents. Well, I guess the measure of how well you know someone is whether you learn anything new at their funeral. I didn't know him as well as I had thought.

  "He found that giving of himself for others helped him feel grace in his life. He was a generous and thoughtful person who l
oved to send cards on birthdays with a hand-penned, inimicable note."

  I smiled. James would never tell me when his birthday was, but he had never forgotten mine. As vitriolic as he could be in person, in the last card he'd written, "Thank you for your treasured friendship."

  "He raised over fifteen thousand dollars in the fight against AIDS through his willingness to join in walkathons and to twist the arm of anyone he knew for sponsorship."

  The truth of that statement was borne out in the gentle laughter that followed it. I found myself smiling. He'd twisted my arm. My smile fled. I had paid him in cash because I'd been afraid my father would somehow see the canceled check. My father often said that while AIDS was a terrible disease, it was also a wage of sin. I was a coward, I reminded myself. Hiding my feelings from myself and my parents was second nature to me.

  "James was notoriously witty. He referred to himself as vaguely normal, but with that his many friends disagree. There was nothing normal, or mediocre, about James. He was unique, and many of us were touched by him."

  The service progressed with an a cappella version of the Twenty-third Psalm from the male ensemble, and I was greatly comforted by the beauty of the arrangement and the voices. I wiped my eyes and looked down at the program to see if it identified the group. The Chicago Gay Men's Ensemble, performing without one of their tenors, James.

  I closed my eyes in shock, tears welling out from under my lids. I felt betrayed — why hadn't he told me? Didn't he trust me? Had I behaved in a way that had made him nervous? Not a word, not a hint, not a glance. Was I, in my silence, as bad as my father?

  I lost track of the service and huddled in misery. I felt as if I'd never known him as I reexamined the friendship we'd shared. Could I call it friendship when he'd never told me this most important thing about himself? We'd squabbled and laughed, but always there'd been a distance. I'd thought the distance was in me, but now I knew it had been in both of us. The distance prevented us from really connecting, from having a friendship that was deep and lasting and that would comfort me now. Our silence made him a stranger to me. Now, instead of saying goodbye to him, I was berating him in my mind. I'd known so little about him that I felt I could now hardly call him a friend.

  Mourner after mourner stood up and said how much they would miss him. Only then did I realize that men far outnumbered women in the chapel. Old lovers cried and put their arms around each other and perhaps I was the only person in the church who felt shock at the sight of men embracing so closely. I felt as if I'd lived in the cloister and was now moving at light speed into a world I didn't know. At St. Anthony's my father had arranged for several showings of The Gay Agenda. Even though I recognized the propaganda tactics of the video as it was shown, I was still repelled by the images. Men dancing naked in the streets, public sex acts. There was a lurid quality to the lifestyle that had made me all the more determined to put Renee behind me.

  But these people were nothing like what I'd seen in The Gay Agenda. The men who cried for James weren't crying over lost sex. Two women with a toddler between them read a letter to James dictated by the little boy. It ended with, "I know you are in heaven and someday I'll visit you." I was not alone in my tears, and I finally realized that my head had been filled with preconceived notions about how gay people behaved. And because I didn't want to behave that way, I had kept myself from considering the possibility.

  When I got home, I decided to call the number Nara had left me. As I suspected, Patrick Greenwood was a therapist. He was willing to see me the following Thursday and was pleased to hear that Nara had referred me.

  I tried vainly to go to sleep that night. I couldn't sleep, not when I felt awake for the first time in my life. If I kept my silence about myself, my family and anyone who called me friend would go through what I had gone through today. Could I be so cruel? I knew James hadn't meant to be, and I had contributed to the silence between us. But on the receiving end it had hurt, and I was filled with regret and acrimony.

  If I held back a piece of myself from everyone, who could truly mourn me? So many people obviously mourned James, from the depth of their souls and in complete understanding of his.

  If I was not truly known by myself and my friends, would God know me? Could any God forgive a life that continued to be a lie?

  * * * * *

  Patrick Greenwood's office was in a small building on East Oakwood. I knew it was silly, but I was glad there was a mix of professions in the building. I had the irrational fear that someone who knew my parents would see me going in. My parents had definite feelings about therapists — that's what priests were for, they would say. But I'd already tried a priest, and after James's funeral my faith was deeply shaken.

  He was younger than I thought he would be, mid-thirties. I had expected someone Nara's age for some reason. But he was clean-cut and all sincerity. We exchanged pleasantries as I hung my coat on the rack. The office was small and sparsely decorated but full of light.

  "Nara told me a little bit about you, but why don't you fill in the gaps?" He opened a notebook as he spoke.

  "You spoke to Nara?" Had Nara told him I was a lesbian?

  "Since she referred you I called to thank her. All she said was that you and she had met recently." He looked at me with such an inviting and compassionate expression that I found myself speaking more easily than I had thought I would.

  "I'm, well, she said you would understand what I'm going through. I was struggling with my sexuality." I felt myself turning red. "I've stopped struggling. I know I'm a lesbian. I'm not fighting it anymore."

  He smiled gently. "Most of my clients come to me for help with the struggle. But you're beyond that now. What can I help you with?"

  I had an overwhelming urge to call him Father. Transference and habit, I supposed. I tried to sound nonchalant and failed miserably. "What do I do now? I'm an outcast from my church. My parents will not want to see me, and I feel as if this mountain of retribution and anger will be coming down on me when I tell them." I twisted the strap of my purse.

  "Do you have to tell them?"

  "I can't lie. It hurts me, and it would hurt everyone in the end. I can't go to Mass anymore because I don't repent my feelings." I looked up at him. "Do you know anything about being raised Catholic?"

  He nodded. "In fact, that may be why Nara referred you to me. I'm a recovering Catholic," he said with a rueful smile. "And I'm gay. I know what you're going through. The social disapproval is bad enough, but eternal damnation can be daunting."

  I felt an enormous wave of relief. He did understand and had obviously found peace somehow. "Then you can help me, Father. I need guidance."

  He abruptly sat back in his chair. "Why did you call me Father?"

  I was confused, then realized what I'd done. "I suppose I'm just used to it. I won't do it again." I could see it had upset him.

  "Forgive me," he said, lowering his head. "Give me a moment." I waited, feeling awful.

  Finally, he looked up at me. "You hit a nerve. I wasn't just Catholic. I was ordained."

  I gulped. "I'm so sorry."

  "Don't be. You see, I still believe in penance, in absolution, and the sacraments. I've chosen to take a different path, and I believe that this. .. separation ... is what God has chosen for me. But he won't make it easy. So the reminders I have of what I lost when I left the priesthood are painful. I think that's as it should be for me."

  "What made you realize you couldn't be a priest?"

  He smiled wryly. "I've never realized that. It was a who that made me realize I was gay. A bishop decided I was no longer a priest. But I still feel the call. Every time I go to Mass I ache to celebrate it, but I can't. I am a good priest, with a lot to offer. Yet the Church chooses to waste one of its shepherds."

  I bit my lower lip. "Will the Church ever change? There's so much condemnation in the Bible."

  Gently, "Is there? What do you recall?"

  "That it says homosexuality is a sin. An abomination."
<
br />   He relaxed with a sigh, then gave me a reassuring smile. This was obviously familiar ground to him. "Not quite. There are only a few references to homosexuals, and they're all in the Old Testament. The New Testament is completely silent on the topic."

  I hadn't realized that. "But the implication has always been that Christ condemned it."

  "No. He didn't. He did say, Judge not, that ye be not judged. His commandment was that we love one another."

  "The devil can quote scripture for his purpose," I said wryly.

  "You'll have to decide if I'm a devil," Patrick said.

  "I'll let you know," I said with a smile. "So where does it come from? I know there's something in Leviticus."

  "Other than the reference to undescribed sins the men of Sodom committed, Leviticus is the only source for the church's teachings on male homosexuality. Two verses, forty-five words, out of nearly a thousand pages." He spread his hands. "Female homosexuality is not mentioned at all in the Bible. Perhaps, like Queen Victoria, the original writers didn't believe it existed or could create any sinful pleasure."

  Somehow I wasn't surprised. "The writers of the Bible largely ignored women. St. Timothy and St. Paul were explicit about the substatus of women. Omitting female homosexuals in the text isn't a loophole. You can't covet your neighbor's husband just because the commandment says wife." I thought for a moment, then went on, "I guess I have reconciled myself to the misogyny in the Bible, and popes over time have softened those teachings."

  "A lot of what the Bible says has been modified and ignored in the modern church." Patrick tapped his pencil on his notepad. "Leviticus nineteen and twenty are the chapters with the two verses. To put them in perspective, Leviticus twelve says that a woman who has a male child cannot receive sacraments or touch anything holy for thirty-three days. Twice that for a female child. Leviticus seventeen tells us that the blood of all slain beasts should be offered at the tabernacle. Leviticus twenty-one tells us priests may marry; however, anyone with a blemish cannot be a priest. Blemishes listed include the blind and lame, flat nosed and crookbacked. In two thousand years, the Church has done away with many of the rules in Leviticus because they were outdated or supplanted by new teachings. For example, it took pressure from within and without to free some of my sisters in the church from virtual slavery and servitude to men in the Church. I think of those two verses in the same way and pray that someday the Church will recognize it."