by Rick R. Reed
“I heard them taunting you, calling you names. ‘The pussy faggot artist from down at the waterfront,’ one of them hissed. I got there just as one of them hit you over the head with a sock filled with coins. He hit you so hard, it opened a big gash on your head. I saw you drop, but I still wasn’t close enough to stop them from kicking you as you lay on the ground.
“As I got closer, I pulled off the ball cap and sunglasses I wear even in the dark when I go into town, so they could see the full measure of the scars on my face. One of them kicked you again, the other grabbed your stuff, and then they were off running down the alley, laughing. One of them paused long enough to turn and scream, ‘Fuckin’ freak’ at me.
“I would have gone after them, but when I saw how badly you were hurt, the blood almost obscuring your face, I knew to let them go. Your life was more important than whatever it was they took from you.”
Jeanne-Marie kissed him again and Beau offered no resistance, accepting the kiss hungrily, reaching up to grab the back of JeanneMarie’s neck and pull him closer. “My hero,” he whispered.
Jeanne-Marie stepped back and actually laughed. He repeated that he had done what anyone would do, but Beau doubted that. No one else would have been as strong or as intimidating—and those qualities were the things that may have saved Beau’s life.
Jeanne-Marie laughed when they came up for air from their kiss. “For once, I was glad I looked like a monster, or a fuckin’ freak as your friend called me. I think it had a lot to do with scaring those creeps away.”
“I’m glad you look the way you do,” Beau said quietly. “Not so much because you scared them away, but because those looks are what make you…you.”
They fell silent and Jeanne-Marie turned back to the dishes he had originally set out to rinse. “You should go back to bed, rest.”
Beau felt like something had come to an end. The moment had passed and he wanted more. But he didn’t know yet if Jeanne- Marie felt the same. He hazarded a question, “So what happened to you?”
He watched as JeanneMarie’s spine stiffened. “Go. Go back to your room. You ask too much.”
“But—”
“I said go.” Jeanne-Marie turned to him. His eyes were once again bright with tears. He blinked rapidly, Beau supposed, to try and rid himself of them. “Please. You’re hurting me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Please—just let me be.”
Beau reached up, to touch his face, to brush away the single tear that had fallen, and Jeanne-Marie slapped his hand away, not hard, but enough to make it clear that he no longer wanted to be touched.
Beau stared at JeanneMarie for a long moment. “I’ll go. But I want you to, if you feel like it, come talk to me later.”
JeanneMarie nodded and turned back to his chores. “I’ll think about that.”
CHAPTER 6
Beau’s bedroom was dark, but the silvery opalescence of the moon caused it to almost glow. Beau lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the crown molding, and turning his head to stare out the window, where a huge full moon hung on the horizon. Stars glittered in the black sky.
Beau could not sleep because he was waiting —for JeanneMarie to come to him. It didn’t matter to Beau what they would say or what they would do, he simply wanted the man near him. He hoped to convince Jeanne-Marie somehow that he was worthy of Beau’s love, that Beau could be attracted to him in spite of his disfigurement.
He knew how hard it was for Jeanne-Marie to believe the truth. He realized that Jeanne-Marie hid here in the mountains, probably from, at worst, the cruel taunts of the insensitive and, at best, the pity of the compassionate.
But Jeanne-Marie did not come. The moon rose higher, higher, finally disappearing from his view. The room grew darker.
Beau felt the weariness beginning to overcome him, felt himself drifting off to sleep. But then there was a noise that caused him to tense, to suck in a breath.
The door was opening. It creaked just a bit as it slid, nearly silent, open. For some reason, he thought it would be easier for Jeanne-Marie if he, at least for now, feigned sleep. Beau closed his eyes, allowed his breathing to become deep and even.
He could sense Jeanne-Marie moving closer to the bed, attuned to the footfalls of his bare feet on the wooden floor. At last, even without opening an eye to peek, he knew Jeanne-Marie stood quietly beside the bed. Beau listened to his breathing and could feel his gaze upon him.
Without a word, Beau shifted, knowing instinctively that this was not a time for words, not the right moment for eye contact. He threw back the sheet and blanket by way of an invitation, rolling over onto his side, whispering a fervent internal prayer that JeanneMarie would get his message and would slide into bed beside him.
It wouldn’t matter what they did. Just having Jeanne-Marie near again, his warmth combining with Beau’s own, would be enough.
Beau lay on his side, waiting. When finally he felt the opposite side of the bed weighed down, he smiled. Smiled more as he felt JeanneMarie’s arms wrap around him in an embrace, pulling him close.
“Don’t turn over. Let’s just be like this,” Jeanne-Marie whispered in his ear.
So he had known, maybe all along, that Beau was awake. Beau reached up and grabbed one of JeanneMarie’s hands, pressing it into his chest, so he could feel the beating of his heart in response.
Jeanne-Marie kissed his neck and Beau realized that the flesh pressing against his own was bare. Both were naked and the heat between their two bodies was electric. Beau sighed, moving backward to press himself into Jeanne-Marie.
Their grip on one another grew in intensity, right along with the quickness of their breaths, the sweat forming on their bodies. They merged, becoming one, and Beau thought of the hackneyed phrase, “making the beast with two backs” for only a moment.
There was no beast here.
Only warmth.
Only comfort.
Only contentment—and pleasure so deep and satisfying that Beau wondered if he had been searching his whole life for a moment like this one.
And when it was over, the two men, sated, fell asleep in each other’s arms, their bodily fluids gluing them together, their hearts fusing their souls.
Beau awakened as the grayish light of dawn crept into the room. He turned, looking over JeanneMarie’s still sleeping head, at the mountain peaks outside. They were purple silhouettes against the sun they hid, a sun that was now ascending.
Quietly, Beau slid naked from the bed to look at the glorious light outside, its fusion of lavender, tangerine, gold, and blue. He watched until he could look no more, as the sun, in all its naked glory, rose over the peaks, flooding the bedroom with golden light.
Beau turned back and looked at Jeanne-Marie, who slept peacefully, one arm thrown across the pillow next to him. His breath was easy and deep. Beau liked to imagine that he had contributed to the man’s exhaustion and, at last, peace.
Beau crept close to the bed, his artist’s gaze roaming over JeanneMarie’s glorious muscled body, smooth all over to show the definition and power of the sinew, the skin looking like satin. He made himself look at the disfigured face and saw nothing there to alarm, nothing there to cause him to turn away.
He saw the face of his lover—and that could never be anything but a beautiful sight to behold.
Beau made his way to the desk at the opposite side of the room, rifling its contents as quietly as he could until he found what he was after—a piece of paper and the stub of a pencil.
He pulled a chair up beside the bed, positioned the paper on a book, and, after staring at his love for a long time, began to draw.
* * * Beau finished drawing just as Jeanne-Marie began to stir. Beau placed the drawing face down on the bedside table, the book atop it. He peered into JeanneMarie’s eyes, which were brilliant emerald in the sunlight streaming in, almost sparkling. Beau was transfixed. No scar could change the simple and arresting beauty of those eyes.
Jeanne-Marie smiled
and threw an arm across his forehead. “My! I have not slept like that in years.” He turned to look more fully at Beau. “There’s a lot I haven’t felt in years. Thank you for last night.”
Beau cocked his head. “There’s no need to thank me. I believe the pleasure was mutual.”
They were quiet for a while, until Jeanne-Marie finally said, “Why don’t you close those blinds and come lie beside me. The room’s getting hot and I have a feeling we could sleep some more.” He yawned.
Beau complied. Once snuggled down with his head on Beau’s chest, he asked the question he had asked earlier. Their eyes were not engaged as Beau said, “I don’t want to make you unhappy or upset, but I want to know you, all of you.”
JeanneMarie said, “You want to know what happened—how I got so hideous.”
“You’re not hideous.” Beau snuggled closer, letting his hand trace across JeanneMarie’s features. Beau got up on one elbow for a moment to kiss his man lightly on the mouth. He lay back down. “Did someone hurt you?” Beau asked.
He settled back down on the pillow he had fashioned from JeanneMarie’s chest and listened, confident that the time had come for Jeanne-Marie to tell his story.
“One of the reasons I was so drawn to helping you was because I could see you were a victim of not only theft, but of a hate crime. Somehow, those hoods pegged you for what you are, and ridiculed and humiliated you for it. The kicking, the blows, those were after you had passed out—there was no need for them if all they had in mind was simple robbery, of relieving you of your valuables. No, they wanted to hurt you—to make you pay for the simple fact of who you were.
“It’s crazy when I put it like that, isn’t it?”
Beau nodded, knowing his simple up and down movement against the flesh of his lover would be perceived as a yes. He traced a finger around one of JeanneMarie’s nipples as the man continued.
“But I couldn’t stand to see them hurting you that way. Not only did it outrage my sense of justice and compassion, but it brought back the horror of my own memory.”
Jeanne-Marie stopped speaking then. No words came forth for a long, long time, and somehow Beau knew not to press him to speak. He instinctively realized that Jeanne-Marie was rallying his own internal forces to tell the remainder of his story.
“Once upon a time,” Jeanne-Marie finally went on, “I was a very happy man. I lived in the city I found you in—Seattle—in the neighborhood that is the epicenter of the gay community there— Capitol Hill. I wasn’t anyone special. I was simply a man who was happy with his life, content. Because of an inheritance, I lived independently and the income afforded me the ability to work for a charity organization for people living with AIDS. It was gratifying work and I was glad to do it.
“Through that work, I met my lover, a man named Jerome.” Jeanne-Marie laughed and Beau could tell he was reliving a memory. “Jerome was all I ever thought I wanted—physically, he was my ideal: stocky, muscular with blond hair and blue eyes, the kind of full lips fashioned exclusively for kissing.
“We were happy and went through the phases most couples do—infatuation, fucking like bunnies, limerance, love, and then nesting. When we moved in together, I spouted the same ‘forever’ sentiments as most lovers do when they’re buoyed up by fresh passion and earth-shaking attraction.
“But I really believed we would never—could never—leave the other’s side. We were soul mates. A match made in Heaven. We were each other’s elusive ‘one.’
“Until we weren’t. Until that night, when our fragilely built house of romance came tumbling down because of the same hatred you experienced.”
Jeanne-Marie paused again, his breath coming quicker and Beau wondered if the faster breaths described sobs. But he knew to stay silent.
“I had worked late that night. There was a fund-raiser and I had remained after to help clean up. I remember it was winter and some snow had begun to fall, rare for Seattle. When I finally left, the air was brisk and the flakes coming down muffled the sound around me. It was very late. But, if you know the Hill, you know it’s full of bars, gay ones mostly, and so the neighborhood still had a certain energy as people staggered home, alone or in pairs, from the closing clubs.
“I must have looked like one of them. And to those who are out looking for the fun of beating up a faggot, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, especially when I cut through Volunteer Park as a shortcut back to the place I shared with Jerome.
“In the shadows of trees and shrubbery, they were on me like a pack of wolves, punching, kicking, calling me the same names they called you. Fag. Queer. Pansy. Fudge Packer. One of them proposed raping me.
“But rape was not the ultimate horror they had in store for me.
“Oh no.
“One of them came up with the bright idea to make ‘Pretty boy, pretty no more.’ It happened so fast. I felt something cold splash on my face, what I learned later was a squirt of lighter fluid, then I heard, even among the night sounds, that peculiar friction sound of the wheel of a disposable lighter turning.
“I could smell the fluid and, in an instant, I knew what they were about to do. But an instant was not even enough time to prevent it.”
Jeanne-Marie fell silent once more and Beau was about to tell him he had no need to go on when the man continued.
“Like you, when that ultimate horror arrived, my conscious mind, to protect me, I suppose, obliterated the memory. I have no recollectionof the flames, the smell of my own burning flesh…. The next thing I knew, I awakened on Pill Hill, in a hospital’s burn ward, my face wrapped in bandages.
“Jerome stayed by my bedside day and night and I could hear him looking after me, ensuring the many doctors and nurses assigned to me were doing all they could to help me heal.
“He stayed until the day came when they took off the bandages and my face was revealed for the first time.
“When they allowed me to look in a mirror, I fainted dead away, like some romance novel heroine, but the shock and horror of my own face was enough to do that.
“And Jerome?
“I never saw him again after my new face was unveiled. I tried for a brief time to contact him, but he made himself unreachable.”
“That’s horrible,” Beau whispered, hot tears tingling at the corners of his eyes. He felt outraged and protective all at once.
JeanneMarie shook his head. “I don’t know how horrible it is. The change was not what Jerome had signed on for—and perhaps it was just more than he could live with. I understand. Believe it or not, I forgive him.”
“How could you forgive him? Love is all about not just being there for someone during the good times, but especially during the bad ones. He deserted you,” Beau spat this last part out bitterly.
“I loved him. And I think he loved me. But it was too much for him. I could never hold it against him that he left.
“That’s when I knew I had to leave, too. And that brings you up to where we are now.”
Beau had lots of questions about details—fine, practical points, but he would save those for later. For now, he said what he thought was the most important thing he could say, “I wouldn’t leave you. I won’t.”
JeanneMarie stroked his hair and gently kept Beau’s head pressed to his chest. “Yes, you will. Now, you are grateful to me for saving you. I’m your hero.” He laughed. “But soon, you’ll get strong again and you’ll see this situation for what it is—you, a handsome creative young man with his whole life ahead of him— trapped in isolation with a monster.”
“That’s not so.”
“Shhh. It is. Which is why I want you to leave. I know from the hole Jerome left in my heart what will happen. I have been through too much pain. I am better off alone.”
JeanneMarie sat, gently disengaging from Beau’s warmth. He slid from the bed and padded, naked, to the bedroom door. He did not turn back as he said, “I will have a driver here for you in the morning.”
Beau started to protest, but Jeann
e-Marie held up a hand to silence him, still not turning around. “Please, if you care for me— and I believe you do—you will leave me in peace. Your being here has ignited—poor choice of words—something in me I don’t think I could endure if I allowed it to go on. I know it can only end badly.
“My driver will take you back to Seattle and I will have some money for you, so you can get back on your feet.”
Before Beau could say a word, Jeanne-Marie quickly closed the door behind him, refusing to show Beau his ravaged face. Beau slumped back in bed, wondering if JeanneMarie didn’t want him to see his scars—or his tears.
CHAPTER 7
Beau didn’t leave it too long. He launched himself from the bed he had shared with Jeanne-Marie and went out in search of him.
But the house appeared to be empty. The rooms revealed to Beau only furnishings, paintings on the walls, appliances, and the utilities of living. But each room was empty. Jeanne-Marie, it seemed after hours of Beau hunting, did not want to be found.
“What’s wrong with him?” Beau wondered aloud, sitting on his bed again, staring outside as the day wound down into dusk, the sky’s gray only deepening into black. “Why can’t he understand that I’ve fallen in love with him, real love, true love, the kind that sees beyond the physical? Didn’t our lovemaking make that clear?”
Apparently not, because the only answer to his queries was silence. Not even a footstep stirred in the big mountain house, deserted for all intents and purposes.
Still, Beau waited, sitting, and finally reclining on the bed as darkness claimed the room. He may have slept—there were phantom snatches of joy when he thought he heard Jeanne-Marie returning, but he never did. When Beau would reach out in the darkness and touch the other pillow on the bed, hoping to feel JeanneMarie’s hair or even his scarred skin, there was nothing there but smooth linen.
He supposed that JeanneMarie’s tale of trauma and love deserted formed in the man a deep mistrust, one that would simply not allow him to entertain the possibility that someone else could care for him and see beyond what he considered his imperfections. Too, glancing into a mirror and seeing the destruction looking back at him would make it hard to believe someone could fall— romantically—in love with him.
