Tricks (21 page)

off-Broadway season tickets, not to mention box seats at Churchill Downs. I'm not

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big gambler, and know

squat about horse racing.

But Carl knows enough for both of us. And it is his money we wager.

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Beyond any rush at the rare

win, I love the atmosphere.

Rich people, outfitted in elegance, sipping mint juleps and inhaling the extravagant

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potpourri of leather, grass

hay, and Thoroughbred

manure. It's a sensual

experience, highlighted by

Carl's commanding presence.

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He hasn't made me forget

Loren, or soothed the sting of desertion, but he has made

me realize that I don't have to live my life in isolation.

347

Thinking of Loren

Makes me want liquor.

Dad isn't much of a drinker, but there's usually beer in the fridge, and the afternoon is hot for June. A cold brew

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sounds pretty damn fine.

I'm done tending garden for the day. Carrying gray

water by the bucketful.

Looking up into the sharp

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blue sky, no sign of rain.

We can grow vegetables

this way, but the corn looks

mighty thirsty. We could lose the whole crop, if God

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doesn't cooperate. Weird, but not a hundred miles from here in Illinois, they're

drowning under monstrous

thundershowers. Just goes

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to show the randomness of the Almighty's hand.

Hey, Ma, if you're up there, could you put in a good word for the farm you left behind?

348

I Go into the Cool

Of the house. "Dad?" He has

drawn the shades, flipped the small window air con on.

The faux breeze it has raised

blows gently over the sweat

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on my face. Aaaaah! Soap and water attack the grime on my hands, and now it's

Miller time! I reach into the fridge, find a frosty can,

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pop the top, take a long

swallow. A voice falls over my shoulder like a shadow.
Who the hell
are
you?
Iron hands--

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Dad's hands--grab hold of my shoulders, spin

me around to face him.

The look in his eyes is a blend of disbelief and

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revulsion. He knows.

But, "How?" He points to the kitchen table, to the envelope and pages

lying spread across it.

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I gather Loren's letter, glance at the words, talking about his church, his new

home, his congregation.

Talking about missing me,

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wishing there was a way

we could be together. It's not

pornographic, but there is enough detail so Dad can

have no doubt what it means.

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I saw a New York postmark.

Thought maybe it was from
a college or something.

My God, Seth. How could

you
? How
long have you...?

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A vortex of emotions--anger, relief, fear--roil together, geyser from my mouth,

"I've been gay--can you

even say the word gay?--

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since I was born, Dad.

This"--I wave the letter in front of his face--"is who I am. Who I've always

been. I can't change that."

350

I'd Give Anything

Not to cry. To prove, no

matter my sexual lean, that I am every inch a man.

But tears overflow my eyes, stream down my face.

*

The only good thing is,

Dad's crying too. And

he's definitely straight.

But he says,
No, no, no.

You can't be...
He can't

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say the word, after all.

Thank God your mother

didn't find out about this before she... It would

have killed her. Sooner...

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"No, Dad! How can you

say that? Mom would

have been all right with it. She loved me. Just like

I am. Even if I am gay."

*

He goes silent. Shrinks

somehow, like a corpse

too long in the sun.
She

would not have accepted this.

And neither can I. Not ever.

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"Please, Dad." I reach out for him but he recoils, as if

"gay" was something you

could catch. Time. It will take

time. That's all. "Please?"

*

He shakes his head. Hard.

Homosexuality is a sin, an abomination in the eyes of

God. Just the thought of you...

His eyes go flat, drained

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of love for me. Temporary, right?
I
kept hoping you'd

find the right girl, bring her home. Get married. Have kids.

But not some--some man!

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Not in my house. Not in my

face. Oh my God. What if

you have AIDS? Or some

other sick homo disease?

He slows. Catches his breath.

*

Considers some moments before he says,
You have
to go. Pack your stuff and get the hell out of here.
He turns his back to me. And I know

352

there is nothing I can say to make him change his mind. Still, I have to try.

I swallow the mounting

hysteria. Keep my voice

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low. "I'd say I was sorry, but I can't apologize for being who I am. I didn't ask to be gay. I was born this way, and if you think it's been easy,

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living a lie and knowing

this day might come, you'd be wrong. I'm still the same person I was before you found out. Still your s--"

*

His head starts moving back and forth before I can finish the word. "Okay, then. But

where will I go? I have no job, no money. How will I live?"

*

Still facing away from me, he reaches for his wallet.

Extracts two twenties. Tosses

them to the floor.
Best I can do.

You'll figure something out.

353

Time

It will take time for him to accept this. Right? I
am
still his son. No way he can quit being my father. Quit loving

me. Not because of this. Right?

*

Loren's letter is still in my

hand. I fold it carefully, slide it into my back pocket, along with the forty dollars

I retrieve from the linoleum.

*

My room is still my room.

Isn't it? This has always been my haven. My sanctuary. How

do I leave it, especially knowing it may no longer be mine to

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return to? Because I am who

I am? I don't understand.

Nothing is different. Not one

damn thing, except there's

no reason to hide anymore.

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I am not an abomination.

In fact, I could easily argue

that God wanted me this

way. Dad will come around.

All it will take is time. Right?

354

Meanwhile, I've Been Banished

Damn you, Loren. This is all your fault, and you're

not even around to give

me a place to stay. I put in a call to Carl. He's not

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home, but I leave a brief

message, asking if I can

spend a day or two at his place. Hopefully he'll say

okay. Not sure what else to do.

*

On my way out of town,

I stop by the cemetery.

Might be a while before

I can get back for a visit.

"Hey, Mom. How're things

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Up There, anyway?" I kneel beside her grave, yank the weeds that have grown around her headstone. "Guess

you know what's going on

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here. I'd appreciate it if you

could maybe send a message

Dad's way. A little intercession?

You're not mad at me, are you?

I mean because of..." A fresh

355

storm of tears erupts.

"You still love me, right?"

A little breeze picks up suddenly, lifts my hair like fingers. I'll take that as a sign.

*

I sit in the cool grass, as close to Mom as I can get, at least for now. I take Loren's letter from my pocket, begin to read, dunking myself in loneliness.

*

Dearest Seth,
he begins. No

wonder Dad kept reading.

Sorry I haven't written

Sooner. You probably think

I've forgotten you. Never!

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Your touch, your taste,
your scent, are etched in my brain forever....

Why did he write these

things to me now? Every

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sentence brings the pain of missing him so alive.

I read until the letter ends:

Our time together will always

remain a treasured memory.

356

Ba-bump!

Not that I didn't already

suspect his leaving meant he was dumping me for good. But to have it put so succinctly, long distance,

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is a two-fisted gut punch.

And to have a Dear John

letter be the one to bring

me so completely down is more like chopping me

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in two, midsection. Why

write at all? Just to make

damn sure I knew that he was never coming back?

A low throb begins in my

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temples, and my eyes glaze

red with anger. That son of a bitch! If he were here,

I'd rearrange his face.

Not that I'm one hundred

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percent sure how you go about doing such a thing.

It's a whole new, horrible

thought for me. Hell, maybe

I'm a
real
man after all.

357

I Contemplate the Meaning

Of "real man" all the way to Louisville. I cruise

slowly--I have nothing to hurry for--and by the time I reach the city

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limits, I've decided if being a real man means

smashing someone in the face or turning

your back on a person

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because of their sexuality,

I'll just stay a girl. Guess

my dad is a real man because he's decided

I'm not. Oh damn well.

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I arrive at Carl's door, determined not to break

down. But the minute

I see his face, hear his mellow-voiced welcome,

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it all comes pouring from my mouth. What is it about

Carl and confessions? He

fixes strong drinks, listens

patiently. Finally he touches

358

my cheek gently.
I'm sorry.

I never dared come out
to my parents. They both

went to their graves without knowing. I've regretted that.

*

He thinks for a minute.

Finally he says,
I have so
enjoyed your company.

You have been a balm for this lonely old man. You may

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stay for now, and I'd ask

you to stay longer, but only yesterday I received

news that my company

has landed a big contract

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in Las Vegas. I have to move
to Nevada as soon as I can

put it together on this end.

I'll be there at least a year;
maybe many more, with luck.

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Vegas. Hot. Dry. Fifteen hundred

miles away, give or take. Forty

bucks won't cover a ticket. But

maybe I can convince Carl

I'm worth buying a ticket for.

359

A Poem by Whitney Lang
Worth

How much would you pay to stay alive? I mean, if you could somehow

get the money?

What is your life worth?

Ten thousand? A mil?

How do you measure

something like that?

Is

your life more dear than a homeless person's?

Or a mercenary's--who

kills innocents for money?

My life

might seem valuable to a kidnapper or a life

insurance agent.

But what, really, is it worth?

360

Whitney Screw Lucas

Who needs the a-hole anyway?

I hope he and Skylar are totally

miserable together. And, no

doubt, they totally are. But

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even if they're totally in love,

I am too, and with someone so much better than Lucas

could ever pretend to be.

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On a scale of one to ten, Lucas

might rate an eight point five.

Bryn is an eleven--classically

handsome, so smart it's almost

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scary. Yes, he's a few years

older, but nothing wrong with maturity. He knows what he wants, where he's going.

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And unlike Lucas, who is a world-class bullshitter, Bryn, I know in my heart, would never lie to me. I trust him with my life.

361

That Night After Lucas's Party

Just as he promised, it took

twenty minutes (okay, maybe

twenty-five) for Bryn to collect

me, buzzed and brokenhearted.

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While I waited, several people, some of whom I've known for years, walked on by me without a word, despite

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the steady rivulets of tears

ruining my makeup, streaking