Foothills Pride Stories, Volume 2

by Pat Henshaw

  I didn’t hesitate to put my arms around him and clutch him to my chest. He grasped me like I was a lifeline he’d spied in a stormy sea. At first I could feel his tension, slight tremors running down him. I’d never done this before—held someone who was in crisis. Usually the roles were reversed. I rubbed his back, feeling the strangeness dissipate.

  He took a huge breath and sighed.

  “I could have killed him, Frank.” Christopher was shaking, so I held him tighter against me. “Henry’s all I have left, and I could have killed him through my stupidity.”

  He heaved another sigh.

  I rubbed his back again, not knowing what else to do. “Everything’s all right now, Christopher. He’s fine and you’re fine. You have to believe that everything will be okay. Abe will get everything straightened out.”

  He nodded slightly and pulled out of my arms as he stepped back.

  “Thanks. I… I needed… I needed that.” His eyes looked a little watery when he glanced up at me.

  “Not a problem.” I patted his arm. “Now let’s get some food and some necessities before I take you home.”

  I hoped my placid reassurances helped him get back on an even keel before we had to face his son.

  I tried to ignore how right it felt to hug him. He was a man alone and in crisis in a strange town. He was in panic mode. And he’d recognized a strength in me that I was willing to share.

  4

  SOMETIMES MY impetuousness overcomes my common sense, and I usually end up suffering the consequences. Inviting Christopher and Henry to spend the night at my place was just the beginning of this lapse.

  After a quick stop at Target for essentials to tide them over until they could get back inside the house and retrieve their things, and then a bite to eat, the three of us drove to the farmhouse.

  As we rolled up the dirt road, I thought it strange that lights were flickering on the ground floor, since I wasn’t home. So I was shocked and angry to find Emil lounging in my living room with the television on.

  “What in the Sam Hill are you doing here?” I roared. I’d gone from happy to livid in a few seconds. I was sliding into a panic attack.

  Emil jumped, his hand knocking over the cut-crystal wineglass that had been resting on the end table next to the recliner. It shattered as it hit the floor. The glass was the last of my grandmother’s, the only thing I had left of hers. A nearly empty bottle of my special Erba Mountainside 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon sat on the floor next to the table.

  “What? Huh?” He rubbed his eyes. “I was waiting for you to come home, Frankie baby.”

  He sounded as squishy as he looked.

  My head started pounding, and my vision blurred at the edges. I was hyperventilating and feeling dizzy.

  “You’re late, baby.” He frowned at me, squinting. “Dinner’s finished. All done.”

  He wore pajama pants and shearling leather slippers, my slippers. I could feel myself knot up. When I get furious, I tend to freeze. My blood pressure goes sky-high. I’ve been known to pass out.

  “Call the sheriff,” I gasped to Christopher between clenched teeth. I wanted to kill Emil. Fortunately, I couldn’t move or I might have. “Call. Him. Now.”

  “No, wait. Frank! Not the sheriff.” Emil was trying to get up out of the recliner, but his slippers—my slippers—kept falling off.

  I needed Sheriff Lloyd Campbell. First of all, he knew how and why anger and frustration affected me. Second, he knew how to stop the attack. Third, he’d get Emil out of my sight. I needed Emil gone and my house cleansed. Christopher grasped my hand, then put his other arm around my shoulders. I watched as Henry dialed the phone and spoke.

  When he hung up, his father said softly, “In the kitchen, get a broom and sweep up the glass. Please.” Then Christopher pushed me to start walking. His mantra of “Breathe, Frank, breathe” became the cadence to which I shuffled forward.

  The sheriff arrived quickly, muttering something about being in the area. I’d lost track of time in my fury, but Emil was still fumbling around, floundering for a slipper that had slid under the recliner.

  “Frank! Frank! Look at me, buddy.” Lloyd shook me a little. He turned to Christopher. “Keep him moving. Breathe, Frank, breathe.”

  “He. Broke. Into. My….” I was pushing the words out of my mouth, my mind reeling and stumbling like I was drunk. “House. I… I can’t…. Do. Something.”

  “What do you want me to do? Arrest him?”

  I tried to nod. I wanted to scream for Lloyd to stop Emil, not let him get away, but breathing was too difficult. As Christopher and I turned at the end of the room, I saw Emil sitting in the recliner, his head bowed. He was shaking like he was crying. Lloyd strode over to us, his eyes on mine.

  “Breathe, Frank. Take a breath, buddy.” As my gaze sagged away from his, Lloyd put his arm around my waist on the other side, helping Christopher hold me up.

  Their warmth started to thaw me. My neck loosened; then my fists opened.

  I hated it when I got this angry. More than anything, it was embarrassing when it happened in public, which it had a number of times before I’d visited a therapist. As I relaxed, Christopher and the sheriff moved me toward the couch and let me slip down out of their arms.

  I slumped onto the edge of the cushion, my hands on my face as I sat hunched over with my elbows on my knees. Christopher sat next to me, his hand on my back. He rubbed circles between my shoulder blades.

  “If you could close the door, let’s all sit down and talk about what just happened and why Frank is in such a state,” Lloyd said to Christopher.

  THE SHERIFF was talking to Emil. Christopher turned toward Henry, who had returned from the kitchen with the broom but was watching events unfold with wide eyes instead of sweeping up the glass. He nodded at his father, went to the front door, and closed it.

  When Emil straightened and looked like he was about to say something, the sheriff glared at him. “You stay put and shut up. Can I get anybody else a glass of water? I know you need one, Frank.”

  Christopher and Henry muttered, “Yeah.” Henry fixed his eyes on me, like he wanted to do something helpful but couldn’t figure out what that would be. I was grateful for their concern.

  “Now tell me what happened tonight.” Lloyd had found a tray and put four glasses of water on it. He placed the tray on the coffee table and handed me a glass.

  My hands shook as I took it, but I managed a sip. The world slowly righted itself. Embarrassed and exhausted, I knew I was going to be all right. I put the glass down and stood slowly, like an old man.

  “Excuse me. I have to use the bathroom.”

  I needed to splash some water on my face, urinate, and not break down and cry.

  As both Christopher and Lloyd started to protest, I shakily hobbled back to the master suite and my bathroom. I shut the doors behind me, first the one to the suite, then the second to the bathroom. With trepidation, I looked in the mirror and shuddered.

  The man who stared back at me was old and worn out. He’d spent his life trying to live up to what everyone in his family and his town wanted of him. And what did he get in return?

  He got solitary confinement, with people who he thought of as friends taking advantage of him. He was a joke, a confirmed bachelor with no one in his life to love.

  I was dratted—no, I was fucking!—tired of it.

  I straightened up. The man in the mirror got a crazy idea in his head. An idea so outrageous, he could hardly believe he was thinking it.

  Who said I had to be this man in the overalls with the silly bow tie and the antiquated haircut? Who said I had to let Emil’s actions ride? Who said I had to turn the other cheek and forgive, and forgive, and forgive?

  Who the fuck said I couldn’t be a strong but compassionate man people respected but didn’t push around? Who said I couldn’t be the kind of guy a man like Christopher fell in love with?

  Who said I couldn’t be a bigger, better, stronger Frank McCord?

>   WHILE I changed out of my work uniform—the hated overalls and bow tie—I vowed to tell the sheriff what happened without succumbing to another panic attack, have him take Emil away for breaking and entering. Then I’d get Christopher and Henry straightened out in the guest room and restructure my life.

  A visit to the store tonight for what I needed to change all the locks in my part of the house should help immediately. As usual, making a list—even just a mental one—calmed me.

  In my bedroom shedding my clothes, I felt like a butterfly coming out of his cocoon. Euphoria started to fill me and make me fly. Dressed once more, in a pair of worn jeans, a T-shirt reading Nailed It, and my old Converses, I glanced in the mirror and saw the new me. Not perfect but not geeky. I hadn’t worn these clothes for fifteen years at least, and I felt fifteen years lighter.

  The sheriff was saying something in a low voice about my mother when I walked back into the room. Emil’s smirk annoyed me. I glared at him. He blinked, then turned red.

  I didn’t look at either Christopher or Henry, not wanting to see their pity.

  I knew what the sheriff had told them. Everyone who lived here knew my story. When my mother died, I was ten years old. I understood that she’d been suffering. Cancer treats people that way, or did over twenty years ago. I understood that in death her pain would go away and she’d be at peace.

  What I didn’t know, and what freaked me out, led to a lifetime of panic attacks when I got angry like I did at her funeral. Ten-year-old me didn’t understand that my father and grandfather intended to put Mom in the ground, shovel dirt over her, and seal her in.

  I’d jumped into the hole after the coffin was lowered, wanting to protect her and free her from being unable to move around. I knew she was dead. I got it. But to willfully cut off any avenue of escape if we happened to be wrong and she should suddenly come back to life infuriated me. I couldn’t believe the two people she loved most in the world would betray her like that.

  I ended up cowering in a corner of the grave, standing on her casket and sobbing, refusing to let anyone throw more dirt on her. I went into my first panic attack, which nearly ended my life because of my inability to breathe. I broke that day and had never been fixed. Now I had to heal myself if I was going to become real.

  After my father pulled me from the grave, our family doctor recommended I see a therapist. I went for a while, but I hadn’t been cured. She said I wasn’t trying. She was right. I’d retreated from life and started being a clone of my father and grandfather. Now I understood that I had to fight for me. Even if I couldn’t win Christopher, I could make myself the kind of guy someone equally nice would want.

  The sheriff led Emil away. Emil protested that I’d given him the keys to my place downstairs.

  “In case of emergency. There was no emergency for him to be in here tonight, Lloyd.”

  A grim-looking Sheriff Campbell advised me to come down to the office Monday to complete the paperwork to charge Emil formally. In the meantime, Lloyd told me to get some rest.

  “He stole from me.” I heard the glass crunch beneath my feet, but I was talking about more than the bottle of wine and the broken crystal. I was talking about peace of mind and his betrayal of my trust.

  “I know, Frank.” The sheriff patted me on the back. “Call me if anything else is missing.”

  His hand smacked on Emil’s shoulder, and Emil winced as the sheriff led him outside.

  Silence reigned after the sheriff’s SUV drove away.

  At the front door, I turned to Christopher and Henry.

  “I’m sorry for—”

  Christopher stomped over to me.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for!”

  Henry and I both jumped at his tone. He sounded almost as angry as I’d been earlier.

  “Don’t you ever apologize for what happened tonight. You’ve been nothing but kind and understanding to both of us, to everyone in this town as far as I can tell. So don’t start apologizing.” He was shaking as he stood in front of me, and he hauled me into a tight hug.

  I stared at Henry over Christopher’s shoulder. Cautiously, the teen got up and crept toward us.

  “Uh, Dad?” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Dad? Uh, maybe Frank, uh, doesn’t, uh, want us around right now?”

  Christopher abruptly let me go. He had tears running down his cheeks, which made me feel horrible. Don’t cry for me, Christopher Darling.

  “Guys,” I started with a sigh, “it’s been an emotional night for everyone. Why don’t I show you the guest room? I hate to state the obvious, but let’s all get some rest. Tomorrow is another day.”

  Henry looked so relieved I wanted to hug him. But we’d all had as much physical and emotional upset as we could manage. We each needed solitude and time to get ourselves back in balance.

  I could hear them talking quietly in their room as I cleaned up the kitchen. Emil had made a mess. Whatever he’d been trying to cook looked unappetizing enough that I couldn’t imagine what it was supposed to be when it was fresh. He was no cook and had proven it tonight.

  After settling the house, I knocked softly on Christopher’s door and told him I had to go out for a little while. I didn’t want him or Henry to panic when I left to go to the store and came back.

  That night I changed all the locks into my part of the house, using hand tools to keep down the noise. Then I went through my closet and bundled up all my old hardware uniforms to throw away. Tomorrow I would start my new life as Frank McCord, a sexy gay man of a certain age on the prowl for love and happiness.

  I went to bed calmer and dreamed about my new, better life. I was now in control.

  5

  I GOT up in the morning with only a few hours of sleep under my belt. I stretched, awake as I’d never been awake before. Christopher and Henry had been catalysts, the Prince Charmings who’d wakened me with a swift kick in the ass. The rut I’d been in rivaled the depth of my mother’s grave, but now I was raring to go, ready to start my new, exciting existence.

  I fixed a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, handmade biscuits, and hot, strong coffee. Henry walked into the kitchen bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to help and asking questions about everything from the biscuits—“May I try to make one?”—to the chives for the eggs—“May I go out and cut some?”

  We settled into a pleasant morning camaraderie as he helped prepare the meal.

  “Does your father cook?” I was reluctant to pry, but since Henry was in the room with me, I felt that we should be talking about something.

  “Not really.” He glanced up.

  I didn’t push at his reluctance to talk about his life before Stone Acres. I could see him arguing with himself.

  “My other dad thought he was a good cook.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He was the cook, and I was the wage earner.” Christopher had snuck in behind me, and I jumped. “Or at least he thought he was a cook.”

  “Good morning. Help yourself.” I pointed to the coffeepot and tried to will my blush away. As usual, the plan stunk. “I hope you slept all right.”

  “It’s pretty quiet out here away from town,” he deadpanned.

  I nodded. “You’ll find that it’s pretty quiet in town too.”

  He took a sip and shrugged. Then his brows rose. “Good coffee. Where’d you get it?”

  “Penny’s in Old Town. The owner, Jimmy, will sell you beans if you ask.”

  He nodded.

  “May I have a taste?” Henry asked.

  Without blinking, Christopher handed Henry his mug.

  “It’s better than the stuff you usually drink” was Henry’s only comment after he took a sip. Then he handed the cup back to his dad.

  We all dug into the food after we sat down. We didn’t need to talk as we fueled up for the day. Christopher and Henry eating my homemade breakfast in the family farmhouse kitchen hit me hard. How many times had I sat at this old, scarred table and stared out into the fenced y
ard and beyond to the mountains and wished I had someone to share my life?

  Us sitting around the table seemed like a dream rehearsal for my new life. Someday, I promised myself, this would be real. The man and the boy wouldn’t be stand-ins, but the other pieces of my life. We’d be a happy, healthy unit, living out our days together.

  “What they don’t tell you when you get married, Frank, is that both parties have to buy into the promises with their whole hearts. There’s no test or Geiger counter or scale to measure what each side’s commitment is. Only time can accurately tell when one side might be absent.”

  Christopher didn’t look at me or Henry, but buttered a biscuit and heaped strawberry preserves on top as he spoke. “And when one person decides to move on because he can’t or won’t measure up, he leaves a mess behind.” He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed, or tried to, then took a gulp of coffee. After he cleared his throat, he grimaced at me. “That’s why I wanted this move to go smoothly. I can’t take many more bumps in the road.”

  He looked and sounded completely broken, as if the handsome, confident façade he’d worn when we met in the hardware store had crumbled away and I was seeing the real Christopher Darling. In a small way, I was pleased my meltdown of last night had had so little impact on him. We each had our mountains to climb. Maybe talking about our journeys and knowing how far we’d gotten in our climb would make it easier for us to help each other in the future.

  “Why’d you move here?” I’d been wondering since we’d met.

  “I saw an article about small towns and the values of tiny communities.” He shrugged. “I told myself living in Stone Acres, which friends said was becoming a mecca for no-hate, would help me and Henry get over the divorce and bad feelings.”

  He scowled at the table. “A friend of a friend knew a guy who’d inherited a house here and wanted to sell it fast and get the money. I’d never bought a house before—always rented—so I didn’t know what the procedure was. He said it had been renovated recently, so it didn’t need an inspection or any of the other costly add-ons. Plus we’d be saving money on both sides without Realtors. Henry and I came down to look at it and liked it. I paid cash with a bank transfer, and the owner signed over the deed.”