Oh. Shit. So what did I do? I got angry! I was cussing and jerking my legs as if that would work. Of course, in the end I fell face down in the muck. The shock of the cold water on my face made me gasp and then I choked and coughed and sputtered like a Hupmobile running on Kool-Aid. I was stuck in the mud, in the channel, with the tide coming in.
Channel…oh, okay, sure, channel my anger. A tool…not a fool. This almost made me laugh. I gathered my brains (what little were left), and ended up pulling myself to where the sand was dry enough to stand up on. No shoes, they were gone, and the tide was cutting me off again. I ran to the ladder and climbed up, the tide sucking at my legs like it hadn’t had enough of me by eating my shoes.
At least it wasn’t raining. The same bird took off with the same horrible croaking noise, as if a giant frog had grown wings and learned to fly. I shivered. A wind came up. A branch creaked. A—holy shit, there was a huge shadow moving in the bushes off to my right. I could see it passing through the shrubs, behind the trees, rustling the pine-cone laden branches, knocking them silently to the ground. I could hear a grunting, breathing noise, and a squeaking one which was probably me, trying not to scream out loud. What had whatshername said yesterday about Sasquatch? Oh. God.
I didn’t know whether to tiptoe or run screaming. In the end, I tripped over a tree root and fell smashing into the ground, like I had at the beach, only this landing was a lot harder. I heard grunting and felt its breath on my—no wait, that wasn’t grunting, that was laughter, and I knew that laugh. Then I heard a gun cock; I’d watched enough TV to know what—bang!—but I didn’t die. I heard a voice shout, “Run! Run, you hairy bastard! You won’t get to eat my new friend tonight; he’s mine!”
* * * *
I got to my feet slowly. She looked me up and down. She turned her head but not before I saw the emotions roll over her face; shock, horror, humor…
“Would you mind using the outdoor shower this time?” she managed to squeak out, barely able to look at me.
She placed a bath towel on the door knob for me. The naked run from the back porch where the shower was, to the front door, was both thrilling and terrifying. I could just see this huge white blob (me) floating through the woods, looking like an undercooked dinner. Did Sasquatch like sushi?
I wrapped up, tightly, and went inside. There was cheesecake on the table and she was drinking straight out of the gin bottle.
“Now,” she said a minute later, when we were both seated at her kitchen table again. She hiccupped, cut the cheesecake in half and served us. “Let’s start this friendship over. Hello, my name is Genevieve Roberts. It’s nice to meet you.” She blushed. She half stood and extended her hand to me as if to shake it. I stood up too and reached…yep. Down went the towel. I sat down abruptly. This wasn’t going well, was it? Around a mouthful of delicious cheesecake I mumbled, “This is great. Did you make it yourself? My name is—” I gulped. I couldn’t tell her. My mom had this terrible crush on a singer years ago, when I was born. I’m named after him, him, at least it was a guy. I think. Or maybe just a guy at the time. I got courage. “Calix. But call me Cal.”
“Wasn’t Calix one of the queer couples who…um, were in a crack fighter troop back in Greece?” Genevieve asked, reaching for the gin.
“Your name is interesting too,” I ventured. Uh oh. She tipped that bottle back like a sailor.
Leaning back and a bit sideways, she asked, “What’s your last name?” Casually, oh so casually.
“Luring,” I replied shortly. I hated it. It seemed as if it was my dad’s name, and not mine, like our dog had been ‘his’ dog and not ‘the family pet’.
“Ah, um, yes. I know your father.” Dead silence. She looked at the ceiling, very uncomfortable now, but I felt a huge sense of relief in what I saw, or rather felt, emanating off her. Then she leaned forward, shoved the gin bottle at me, and said, “And I know you, too.”
Intimidated, I grabbed the bottle and learned the real meaning of the term ‘fire water.’ She laughed mirthlessly, and long.
After we settled down again, Genevieve told me, “Just call me Jen. It’s so much easier. By the way, you know you don’t have to get stuck out in the water to come and see me. However, no towel for you next time.” She winked at me.
* * * *
These were the kinds of visits we had over the next few weeks. Sometimes we just goofed around, and sometimes one or the other of us would say something deep and meaningful, but we never did really get into any heart to heart conversations, that might, you know, bond us or whatever. It felt like we already knew everything there was to know about each other, like we’d known each other all our lives.
Every time my dad called he talked to my mother for about twenty minutes and then asked to talk to me. I wasn’t allowed to say no, and I wanted him to like me…but he only ever said one thing, ‘Are you over this queer shit yet?’ It broke my heart, and I never answered, and that hurt too. But I’d push the button and disconnect the call. I wanted to add (after that) ‘yeah dad, I love you too, only I love you no matter what,’ but as the calls went on, I felt that less and less.
Every day now I went out on the point and threw some more driftwood onto the pile. I didn’t really want to call it a dragon yet, but it always got into my mind, telling me how the dragon would breathe the fire onto my mom and kill her - ‘you’re gay!? Oh no!’ And pouf! Seriously though, I’d think of it killing my father, firing its flaming breath like a missile or a WWII aircraft gun.
Then I’d cry, notice the tide had come in again, and run to Jen’s little cabin in the woods.
* * * *
It really was starting to resemble a dragon; I only noticed because one day a sailboat was standing off the point, and the people on board were looking at it and taking photos. I hid out until they went away. When I turned around, Jen was beside me. She said quietly, her hand on my shoulder, “You need to go home, honey. Something’s happened.” I looked at her, and something in her face made me turn to stone. I turned and ran off toward home along the beach, the first time the tide was still out.
Take a deep breath. Stand still for a minute and look. Turn to stone. I know what I expected, that my mother had just had a call and my father was dead. When that finally rose up high enough in my mind I reeled and almost ran into a tree. Of course that had to be what it was; Jen had said she knew my dad, and that’s how she knew…before I did. I didn’t understand, but ran. Now my imagination was working overtime and all kinds of feelings were washing through me like the mud rising through my shoes and socks when I’d been stuck in the incoming tide. Rising, rising, like smoke—and suddenly I smelled smoke, too.
I couldn’t run. I couldn’t walk. I’m not sure I was even able to breathe. I could just see through the trees the little cabin where we lived—well, I could almost see it, but it was surrounded by smoke. And people. I could only inch forward, sliding one foot at a time. The damn raven was above me quoting nevermore or some shit. Then I heard human voices; “She never had a chance.” “It looks like she took her own life.” “The fire started in the main room.” “It might have been a cigarette.” My mother didn’t smoke.
All that came to my mind then was: she found out I’m gay. I killed her as surely as if I’d set the match to her clothing myself. I’d teased her once about how flammable her polyester clothes were, like a stereotypical stuck-up fabric-mongering gay, wincing over being seen with his old fashioned mother in public.
Then my dad’s voice took over my mind, like a radio with no volume control and no off switch. It was looping, over and over…“It will kill your mother.”
Now he’ll kill me, I thought. This is all my fault. No! Damn it, no! I had nothing to do with this. There was no way she could know!
So I turned and stumbled back the way I had come, holding my hands over my ears so all I could hear was the damn raven, flying on ahead of me. I went straight to my dragon, found the box of matches I’d tucked into one of the legs in a dry knothole, and
lit it.
Unlike my mother, the dragon burned with an intensity that was seen for miles. Unlike our little cabin, the dragon was front page news. Just like my family, the driftwood fell apart in separate pieces, each one separate from the other, each one in its own little pile of sad, wet ashes, as it began to rain when twilight finally came.
I was still there when the tide turned and started back in again. Jen came and found me and took me back to her house. I got to use the indoor shower this time, and she herself wrapped me in her biggest, fluffiest beach towel. We got snockered on gin and I cried in her arms, not sure exactly why, or knowing what I said. I fell asleep there, and she put me to bed on the couch.
Down on the beach, the ashes of the dragon turned to mush in the incoming tide, and by morning when the tide went out, there was nothing left of it, nothing at all.
THE END
ABOUT EMERY C. WALTERS
Emery C. Walters was born Carol Forde, a name he soon knew didn’t fit the boy he was inside. Transition was unknown back then, so he married and then bore and raised four children. When his youngest child, his gay son, left home, Emery told Carol that she had to step aside, and he fully transitioned from female to male in 2001.
Emery worked in county government and as a college writing tutor before retiring. He and his wife Robyn, herself raised mistakenly as a boy, live in Hawaii where they combine snorkeling, scuba diving, and volunteer work with activities to boost LGBT rights and awareness.
Interested in Ninjutsu, both land and underwater photography, and writing, Emery can usually be found writing, reading, or sailing on his imaginary pirate ship.
Emery’s 2010 first published novel, Last Year's Leaves, is an intense story of recovery from abuse and loss, finding love, and coming out whole. The book is laced with his trademark humor. His recent publications include four other coming of age novels involving coming out and overcoming obstacles as well as two books of short stories. All are humorous and filled with hope. Drystan the Dire, Emery’s Welsh pirate ancestor, shows up at times to help the heroes and annoy the villains. Emery currently has two more novels in the publishing pipeline.
Between them, the Walters have eight adult children, umpteen grandchildren, and one great grandchild, none of whom can do a thing about the genetic material handed down to them—their gift to the future. So there. More information can be found online at ftemery-theemeryboard.blogspot.com.
ABOUT QUEERTEEN PRESS
Queerteen Press is the young adult imprint of JMS Books LLC, a small electronic press specializing in gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender fiction, as well as popular and literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. While our preference is for stories with GLBT characters, we publish stories in any YA genre. Visit us at queerteen-press.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
Driftwood Dragon Page 2