by Matt Dean
"My mother made me gay to improve her ratings?"
"Stranger things have happened," Jeremy said.
But Eliot said, "All of the things your mother did in raising you made it extremely easy for you to come to the decision that you were gay. No male role model, an utter lack of the opprobrium usually reserved for these behaviors, and on the contrary an atmosphere of approval and permissiveness. And an entrenched habit of defiance against religion and morality. Look how far she led you from the path you started out on. You knew you wanted God, but you didn't even know how to talk to him."
I remembered Barbara fleeing the hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant, the mad dash back to the apartment, the raven flutter of her skirt as she scurried up the stairs-all because I'd simply uttered the word God. I remembered her explaining how she'd reinvented herself, how she'd set out to do the opposite of everything she'd ever done. As a child, I could only have gone along for the ride.
* * *
When all the talking was done, I grabbed for my coat and, waving good-bye, made for the door. The chill of wet snow already fallen mingled with the smell of snow yet to fall. The stairs to the street were slick. I trod carefully.
Above me, at my back, Charlie barked my name. He stood, a crisp silhouette, on the lawn. He trudged down the steps. I waited on the sidewalk for him. He hadn't put on his overcoat. One hand was deep in his trouser pocket. With the other hand he extended the Stinson book toward me.
"You forgot this," he said.
I took it. As though it were a calf's bleeding liver or a handful of writhing leeches, I took it. "Thanks," I said. "You didn't have to-."
He put his hand over mine. "That wasn't easy for you," he said, "but don't run away. Don't give up. This is worth doing, and you can't do it alone." Taking the book from me, he unwrapped the bright yellow dust jacket. He kept the glossy paper and handed back the book. Nude, its true colors proved to be sand and olive, entirely respectable earth tones. The spine bore Stinson's name in tiny gold letters. "This keeps it from looking so much like a Joe Boxer ad. If you give the book a chance, if you just read one chapter, it will change your life."
"I'll read it. I promise."
He smiled. "You won't regret it." He hugged himself.
"Look at you," I said. "You're freezing. I'd better go and let you get back inside where it's warm."
Nodding, he took a step toward the concrete stairs. "I'll see you next week?"
I paused. "Okay."
He hugged himself. "I feel like we put you through the wringer. I can only imagine what you feel like."
I shook my head. "I think it was a bitter dose of truth, that's all." I'd said it merely to be polite, but then, after I'd said it, I realized it was true.
"It gets easier. I've been doing this a long time. It gets easier."
"What about the cravings, the-the desires?" I was thinking of the box of bad influences sitting in my living room. I'd looked at the box a thousand times, had thought a thousand times of slipping one of Spike's videos into the VCR. "Please tell me it gets easier."
He looked down. "I'll be honest. The temptations never go away. You have to-. You almost have to distract yourself sometimes." He laughed. "You have to have some damn good hobbies."
I smiled. "I have hobbies. I guess I need different ones."
"Probably so."
"Masturbation probably isn't a damned good hobby."
He frowned. He thrust his hands into his pockets, balled his fists.
"That was a joke," I said. "Not so funny?"
"Drive safely," he said.
"I have to," I said, "or I won't see you next week."
He grinned.
* * *
For a hundred hours, it seemed, I had worn the same wool slacks, the same blue oxford shirt, the same beastly boots with their prickly-hot felt lining. Tossing the Stinson book onto the easy chair, I stripped to skin.
I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Brush hanging from my lips, I ran the flat of my hand down my belly. I thought of Charlie, bringing the image of his sturdy body before my mind's eye. What would he look like, stripped of his business casual dress, divested of the chaussure of the pompous? My cock rose.
I looked at my shaggy reflection in the mirror. Suddenly I hated the freckles across my shoulders, the unabashedly auburn wisps surrounding my nipples, the raw throbbing pink of my penis. My dick looked embarrassingly pied and slender in its nest of ludicrous orange hair.
I spat and rinsed. My flagging erection led the way to the easy chair. I took up the book; it was time. I sat down. I began to read.
* * *
19 - Equal and Opposite
Michael Walrath's door stood half-open. I peeked through the gap. Michael sat at his desk, his right foot tucked under his left hip. His hair hung down his back in a long pony tail-a frayed rope of satin strands. He wore shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The muscles of his thighs and calves bulged in thick slabs and stout knots.
I knocked on the door. He looked up, smiled.
"Jonas?" he said, and laughed. "Just kidding." He waved me in. He untangled his legs and came toward the door to meet me.
At the foot of Michael's bed, his sheets and blankets lay in a puffy wad. He'd drawn the vinyl curtain across the wall of windows. He'd cranked up the heat. Baseboard registers ticked and pattered.
A pot of soup bubbled on the cooktop. Chunks of potato and carrot quivered in a thick greenish liquid. The whole apartment smelled of rosemary and of something flowery. Lavender?
"How have you been?" Michael asked me.
I smiled. "Great," I said. "Good. Not bad. You?"
He sighed. "Missing James."
"He's in Paris, right?"
I winced. Surely he'd never mentioned Paris. I knew that James was in Paris only because I'd snooped through Michael's things; that was the only way I could know.
To my relief, he seemed to think nothing of it. "You could use a shave, it looks like." With the back of his hand he rasped his own five-o'clock shadow. He grinned. "Me too, I guess."
I touched my beard. The hairs had gone from wiry to soft. Curls bristled between my fingers. "Guess I do." I shrugged. "It keeps me warm on these cold winter nights."
"Speaking of cold winter nights, I haven't seen you since-. Well, you know."
I blushed. "I brought that receipt," I said.
It was in the inside pocket of my jacket. I drew it out, a flimsy pink sheet of paper, much wrinkled and creased. I unfolded it, handed it over.
He laid the receipt on the counter, smoothed it carefully with both hands. He read it over. "Thanks," he said. "You were the last holdout."
"Sorry. Did they find out-? The boathouse-. Who, how-?"
He shrugged. "A couple of kids. Just trying to get out of the cold, they said. They broke in, lit up a joint, tossed it into a corner where there were some rags stacked up."
"Happens, I guess."
"It happens?" He laughed. "That's a philosophical attitude if I ever heard one."
A couple of kids, he'd said. Suddenly I remembered the two denim-clad boys I'd seen at the beach, and then later on the river road.
"Have you see these kids? Were they like-? Did they-?" I was about to ask if they'd been wearing frayed black denim, if they'd looked strung out, if their eye sockets had been deep and bruised-looking, but of course if he'd seen them, it would have been on a different day, under entirely different circumstances.
And even if he could describe them perfectly, or if I could see them for myself, would I be able to say with any certainty whether they were the same two boys?
"Never mind," I said. "Does it seem-? It was really an accident? That's for sure?"
Crossing his arms, he leaned against the counter. "I'm not really handling that part of it. I'm just doing the insurance part." He glanced at the pot of soup, sniffed. Taking a spoon from a drawer at his hip, he moved to the cook top. He stirred the soup. "I guess I don't much care. It's sort of easier with the insurance
if it was an accident." Leaning over the pot, he slurped soup from the spoon. He nodded appreciatively.
On the desk, where it had been before, the photo of Michael and James sat in its silver frame. Another, smaller snapshot leaned against it now. Blond, pale James stood before the Eiffel Tower, squinting into the sun.
"Why is he in Paris?" I tried to sound casual, as if we'd discussed James's trip to France a dozen times.
"Working on his thesis. Something about-. Fuck, who was it again? Ravel? Debussy?"
"Oh," I said. "He's a music major?"
He nodded. "Getting his master's. He started out wanting to write pop songs, ended up stuck on the French-. Fuck, what is it? French expressionists?"
"Impressionists."
"If you say so. You're sure you're okay?" Michael asked me. "Doing better?"
My shoulders and hips still ached. I shifted my weight. I pressed my fingers into the flesh of my right thigh. I sighed. "Got the flu coming on, or something."
"Flu?" He frowned. "Achy? Muscle aches? Feverish?"
"Achy." And right now, having come from the cold street into Michael's overheated apartment, I did feel feverish. I resisted an impulse to test the heat of my forehead with the back of my hand.
His frown deepened. Stepping closer, he squinted at me. "When were you last tested?"
"For the flu?"
He rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."
I cleared my throat. "Oh, you know??? "
"Never?"
I shook my head.
"That's what I thought. You've been playing safe, right?"
"Well-. I-." I couldn't say to him that I hadn't used a condom in years-literally years, not since my first days with Tom. But what could I say instead?
"I know, I know," he said. "Rubbers stink, literally. They don't feel the same. Blah, blah, blah."
"It's not that. I-." I shrugged.
"You should come in sometime."
"What?" I said. "Come in where?"
He went to his desk, searched it, found a box tucked away in a corner, under some papers. He plucked a card from the box. He handed it to me. In pink, in wavy, curl-seriffed letters, it read, "The Pink House." Below that, in block letters, "Walk-In Clinic." Below that, also in block letters, but in smaller type, an address in Minneapolis, a phone number, and hours of operation.
"Starting next week, I'll be there on Thursdays," he said. "Six to ten. I've been doing Wednesdays forever, but-." He plucked the card from my hand. "Here. Let me write it down." He took the card to the desk and scribbled something on the back of it. Handing back the card, he said, "Thursday, six to ten. Starting next week."
I flipped the card over. Even if none of his other talents or attributes fitted him for the medical profession, his handwriting certainly did.
"It's flu season and all," he said. "Could be the flu. But you can't be too careful. Better to know than not to."
* * *
In a cold sweat, I drove to Eliot's. I stopped for green lights. I coasted through stop signs.
That twitch in my right eyelid-a symptom, a sign?
I laid the back of my hand across my forehead. Warm. Fever?
That gland under my chin, on the left side-was that swollen?
It must mean something that my hips and calves and shoulders had been bothering me for weeks. My muscles ached. My joints ached. It must mean something.
It was flu season, after all, as Michael had said. But-.
Early in the week I'd dubbed the C-sharp minor quartet onto cassette, and as I drove, I plugged one of the Walkman's ear buds into my ear. I pressed play. The tape was cued to the beginning of the second movement.
A slender tune whispered in the violin. The melody meandered in circles, a puppy chasing its tail. An accompaniment of block chords in the lower strings gave way to mimicry, imitation, counterpoint-a whole litter of puppies chasing their tails.
It was all so playful, so lively. And I couldn't bear it. I switched off the Walkman.
Maybe I should skip group altogether. Last week's group had been uncomfortable. I'd had a bad week. I'd had a bad day. With a couple of squinty looks and a couple of nosy questions, Michael Walrath had nearly guaranteed I'd have a bad night.
Michael's bedside manner was-. Well. It was fortunate that, as a researcher, he wouldn't need bedside manner.
By habit or muscle memory, somehow, I got myself to Eliot's. I parked in front of his house and switched off the ignition. I reached into the back seat and felt around for Hope and Healing. I laid the book in my lap. For a time I stared at it, stroked the cool ochre cloth along the spine, traced with my thumb the cooler gold letters of the title and of Stinson's name.
Charlie had been right-somewhat right. I couldn't say the book had changed my life, but reading it had helped. At times it had helped only to fill the hours. But sometimes-over time, as I'd read deeper-it had helped me to feel less lonely, less rootless, less adrift.
And it had helped, certainly, to reform my opinion of Sam Stinson. Most recently I'd read the chapter in which he outlined the merits-yes, the merits-as well as the detriments of being gay. In some shamanic traditions, he explained, homosexuality was considered a gift, an elevated state of consciousness. I might have expected Stinson to scoff at such an idea, but he gave credence to it. Gay men and women, he wrote, possessed characteristics of both sexes, and so they also were endowed with a unique outlook on the world.
Pity, then, that in our modern, fallen times, homosexuals had become alienated from spirituality of any kind, focused on carnality as a political statement-almost as an article of faith. Shamans had once enjoyed a kind of transcendent connection with the divine, yes, but that was virtually unthinkable for most modern homosexuals.
Homosexuality was both an opportunity and a burden-a special kind of challenge that God entrusts to few. According to Stinson, if I could quell or alter my carnal desires-if I could achieve purity of heart, integrity of mind, sanctity of body, tenacity of purpose-then great riches would be mine. Eternal life, yes-but all Christians gained that simply by asking for it. Oneness with God, yes-but also a rare communion with both sexes. Holiness of the highest and best kind-that which is hard-fought and well-earned.
The book had helped. Charlie had been right. It had helped, though in fact I'd tried few of the techniques Stinson prescribed. I'd not had much luck making every thought a prayer, because my thoughts-prayerful and otherwise-always seemed to wander from one subject to another. I didn't own a Bible, and I hadn't read a word of the Psalms of praise. I couldn't sing hymns, because I didn't know any. I hadn't taken any physical exercise since the loss of my boat.
One technique, though-enjoying the company of those who shared my journey-was available, freely and easily available. Right now, as I sulked in the car, men who shared my journey already enjoyed each others' company at the top of the concrete stairs, at the end of the brick walk, in Eliot's fire-warmed living room.
The book had helped. Group would help. Seeing Charlie would help.
I got out of the car.
* * *
I'd never heard Rob speak so ardently, so rapidly, as he did now. As I hung my coat in the entryway and kicked my boots onto the mat, I caught a few words. "Lovely" was among them. "The one." "Can't believe-."
Charlie patted an empty chair next to him. It was my turn, this time, to sit in the ladder-backed chair, but Charlie-or someone-had dragged it into the circle for me. He leaned over. "I thought you were skipping," he whispered.
I looked at him. "Traffic." Plausible, right? Traffic?
Eyes were on us. I said, "Sorry I'm late, everyone. The traffic was beastly."
Tigger was absent, I saw now. Maybe he had actually gotten caught in traffic.
Eliot said, "Rob was just telling us about a relationship he's thinking of pursuing."
"Her name is Chloe," Rob told me. He sat across from me, in one of the armchairs. "She has the loveliest green eyes. I met her just-oh, just at random, at a Christi
an bookstore. We went for coffee and had the nicest talk. We see eye to eye on so many things."
"Are you planning on seeing her again?" Fred asked Rob.
"Of course, of course," Rob said. "I'm visiting her church this Sunday."
"Which church?"
Soon, I lost the thread of the conversation. I froze my face in a smile. I looked at Charlie. He kept fidgeting and shifting his weight in his chair.
Eliot addressed the group. "Any other good news? Charlie? It looks like you're itching to say something."
Charlie cleared his throat. "I-." He winced. "Never mind."
"What do you want to say, Charlie?"
Charlie looked at Eliot. He looked at Rob. He looked at me. He looked at Rob. "No disrespect, Rob, but is this really good news?"
Rob looked stricken. He raised his hands, as if to cover his mouth in shock or plug his ears in horror, but he stopped them halfway. They dropped, limp, into his lap.
Charlie held out his hands. "No offense," he said. "No disrespect, but-." He looked around the circle. Everyone looked a little stricken, now. "I don't believe a leopard can change its spots."
Rob's face was a pile of ash. "Wh-? Wh-?" He didn't seem fully capable of speech.
"I made it a good long way down that road and almost wrecked two lives with my selfishness," Charlie said. He stroked his bearded chin. "I'm not attracted to women. I never will be. I'm satisfied with my own company, and the company of good friends." He looked around the room. His eyes brimmed.
No one spoke.
I said, "How close did you get?"
Charlie looked at me. "A ring and a date."
"You broke it off?"
Nodding, he leaned back into his chair. He looked around. "You all know this story." To me, he said, "We were registering at Marshall Field's. In Chicago. I lived in Chicago then. We were registering, and laughing, goofing on all the useless junk we were putting down on the form, all the trash we knew we'd never use. I put my hand on her shoulder, just lightly laid my hand there and squeezed, like I'd done a thousand times before."
To demonstrate, he placed his hand on my shoulder. Through the fabric of my shirt, his skin was warm, perhaps slightly damp. He squeezed lightly, almost not at all, but even so I sensed the potential strength of his grip.
"But this time it struck me how slender it was," Charlie told me. "I could feel her bones." He took his hand away, flexed it as if it had been injured. "It was like holding a kitten. You feel the bones slipping around under the skin, and you know how frail and vulnerable they are."
