by Nikki Sex
It’s odd. Although Sally Ann is her usual gracious and courteous self, if anything she also seems tremendously uncomfortable. I wonder what has her seeming more shy and uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen her?
“I’d enjoy your company,” Renata says, with a welcoming smile. “Briley will love to see you, too.”
Renata, Sally Ann and Mitten leave the room, shutting the door behind them, so Danny and I can speak privately.
“What’s up?” I ask him.
“I had to talk to you,” Danny says, biting his lip uncertainly. Anxiety is radiating off him in waves. “Now that I’m here, I’m not sure how to where to begin.”
“OK.” I lean back on the couch, put one ankle up on my knee and adopt as casual a position as possible. I’ve watched André do that to put me at ease when I’m nervous.
The silence between us is awkward. As the minutes pass, it becomes painful. I suddenly remember something André once said that loosened my tongue.
“Danny, we’ve always been good friends, haven’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because I want you to know there’s nothing you could say or do that would make me think any less of you. So go ahead, jump right in.”
He inhales deeply and blurts out, “Did you know I’m gay?”
“No.”
His eyes narrow and his brows furrow anxiously. “Does it bother you?”
I frown and shake my head. “No.”
Jesus. I thought I had problems.
Our Church places homosexuality near the top of the list when it comes to sin. That was part of the reason I so feared my obsession with dicks—an ingrained belief that same-sex attraction was the devil’s work. What must poor Danny be going through? Especially since his father is a deacon in our church?
Danny leans forward in his chair, studying me intently, while searching my face for any sign of insincerity or deception. He doesn’t appear to find anything disturbing.
“Are you sure you’re OK with it?”
“Positive.” I sigh and give him a one-shouldered shrug. “Danny, people love who they love—no one can change that. If it’s any consolation, I think the church has the subject of homosexuality all wrong. I feel no different toward you, now I know you’re gay. I’m honored you trust me enough to tell me.”
My acceptance transforms his face. Danny smiles, pathetically grateful to find that I think it’s perfectly fine for him to be who he is—poor bastard.
“Thank you, Grant. I knew you’d understand. Most people around here would freak out.”
I nod.
He gives me a shy smile. “I know you like women, but I’ve always had a secret crush on you—I hope you don’t mind my telling you. You constantly came to my rescue when I was at school. It meant so much to me and to Sally Ann. My sister and I have both had hopeless crushes on you.”
I say nothing, letting the dust silently fall.
How can I reply to that unexpected admission? I don’t even want to think about it.
Ignoring his statement, I change the subject. “Is your sexuality what’s been messing you up for all these years? Guilt over who you’re attracted to?”
“Hmm, well, yes… and no.” Danny’s gaze is intense. Now he’s past telling me the difficult part—the fact he’s gay, something has changed. His eyes are brighter and he seems quietly confident.
To my surprise, my phone rings again. I hate talking in general and talking on the phone is even more abhorrent. Most people know this about me, so I rarely get phone calls. I grin as soon as I view my caller ID display.
I glance at Danny. “Excuse me, Danny, but I have to take this call.”
He nods.
“André,” I answer, standing up and walking across the room in order to speak freely to him. “It’s wonderful to hear from you. How are you? Is everything OK?”
“No, mon ami, I regret to say that it is not.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“This morning I have received a subpoena which forces me to release certain details of our counseling sessions. I fear the police must have obtained substantial evidence for them to proceed in this manner.”
My world stops.
Blood-freezing dread ices within my veins.
Fuck! Have the police found a motive? If not, they’ll certainly have it when they see André’s records. Am I going to end up in jail for a murder I didn’t commit?
And then, another horrific thought occurs to me. Jesus H Christ. The police will know, but will others find out about my father’s perversions?
A vivid memory suddenly slams into me. It arrives so quickly I stand there, helplessly staring into space. My living room, Danny, and André’s phone call all disappear as I fall back into my past.
I remember one time in the boys' locker room at school, when I was perhaps fifteen years old. Aloof and alone, for some reason I’ve never fully understood, my peers used to look up to me. Was it because I was handsome, wealthy and from a ‘good’ family? Those things put me at the top of the social ladder. Or perhaps it was because I was such an aggressive football player who helped the team achieve many victories.
Most people thought I was proud and stuck-up.
I didn’t have friends, not real ones anyway. How could anyone know me enough to befriend me? It wasn’t safe for me to open up. Yet on this particular day, just that once, I found myself trying to fit in.
The boys were talking about girls, a common occurrence. However, the conversation had degenerated to cruel jokes about anal sex and homosexuality. At the time, I had been at the height of my porn-watching career.
Luke, the captain of the football team, said, “Ask Grant—he knows all about anal sex.” Silence thickened the air, as every boy there, perhaps ten or twelve of them, turned to look at me all at the same time.
I froze, utterly terrified and humiliated.
My stomach turned into knots as a sense of dread overtook me.
Do they know about my father? Or don’t they know? They must! Why would Luke say that if he didn't know? Has someone discovered my perverse addiction to watching Internet porn?
Found out! Caught!
The appalling fear of being exposed—of my shameful secrets being discovered, made me instantly and thoroughly sick. I’d never known such terror, humiliation and shame.
“Mon ami? Grant?” André’s familiar voice instantly pulls me back to the present, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Yes, André,” I say quietly. “I’m here.”
“My friend, you have much to consider. My phone will be with me all of this day. When you are ready, call me and I will answer any questions you have. This is acceptable to you?”
“Yes.”
“Très bien. Is Renata there?”
“No.”
“Bon. I will call her and speak of this, yes?”
“Yes, please,” I say. “Thank you for letting me know, André.”
“We will talk later, my friend, when it is more convenient for you. Au revoir.”
“Goodbye.”
What André means is, he’d like me to call him once I get myself together. That might take a while. My nerves are fried.
I gaze over at Danny, about whom I'd actually forgotten momentarily. He’s studying me intently. His brows are drawn down in concern.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“No,” I mutter, struggling for control. “I’ve… um, I’ve just heard some bad news.”
“Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to leave?”
“No,” I say, attempting a fake, reassuring smile. Intentionally, I slouch casually back down on the couch, once again sitting across from Danny. I’d much prefer to focus on whatever distraction he might provide.
Diving head first into my safe, detached mode, I count my heartbeats and begin to take slow, measured breaths. I’m hyper-alert, yet emotionally, I’ve shut down. I need to focus. I need to think! This is as dangerous a crisis as any I ever dealt with when
I was in the Army.
First, I’ll hear Danny out—and then I’ll get rid of him.
“What was it you wanted to tell me?” I ask, in an even, measured voice.
Danny shakes his head. “Um… well, there's more. Something happened. I could’ve gone to my counselor, but fuck her! What does she know? She never had a fucking clue. I did talk to my sister, who did her best to understand. Sally Ann knows I’m gay, but this?” He frowns and again bites his lip. “She couldn’t begin to understand it—not really. I told her some things, but the whole truth would upset her too much.”
“OK,” I say, warily. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“The thing is, all of my life, for as far back as I remember, I’ve been totally screwed up. I always felt like a worthless piece of shit, you know? I thought I’d be doing the world a favor if I was dead, but I never understood why.”
Confused, I frown. “And do you now know why?”
Danny sits up straight, leans forward and beams me a wide grin. “I do!” he gushes happily. “I’ve been so frustrated, depressed and angered by sick thoughts and images in my mind. Most of all, I doubted myself. I honestly felt I had completely lost my mind.”
I still have no idea what he’s talking about.
Yet, I experience a peculiar sensation, as though I’m suddenly being consumed by his happiness. Emotionally shut down or not, Danny’s joy seeps into me, lightening my mood.
“It’s dreadful but it’s also fantastic!” he says, face shining. “I mean, I finally found the missing piece of the puzzle. I was ignorant and contrary to popular belief, ignorance is not bliss! I always knew something was wrong with me. My whole life, the paranoia, my screwed-up thoughts, everything—it suddenly all made sense. You can’t imagine the relief I feel at finally knowing what’s been wrong with me!”
“Good for you,” I say genuinely pleased for him. “Can you tell me what happened to cause this epiphany?”
“Yesterday morning, I found this in my mailbox.” Danny opens his jacket and pulls out a standard 4” X 6” white envelope.
“What is it?” I ask.
Danny’s gaze is thoughtful and strangely peaceful. He taps the envelope against his hand. “This brought it all back. It helped me to remember.”
Grinning, he hands me the envelope. “This is the answer to the questions I’ve been asking myself for the past twenty-six years: What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I so bat-shit crazy?”
I take the envelope in my hand and study it. There’s no return address. “To: Daniel Berdeaux,” is written on the outside in simple block letters.
I open it, but there’s no letter inside—only a photograph. Curious, and with no sense of approaching disaster, I extract the photo.
Monster! Pervert!
After the briefest glance at the image, I instantly drop it as though I’ve been scalded.
What the hell?
The picture lands face-up on the coffee table, in my direct line of sight. I want to, but I am incapable of looking away. The soul-crushing shock that sweeps over me cannot possibly be described.
I feel sick.
Danny has been sent a photo of himself as a child, half-dressed in his Boy Scout uniform. There’s a man with him in the photo who is doing terrible things to him. It’s a horrific, monstrous image.
I can’t see the perpetrator’s face, but he’s instantly and intimately familiar to me.
The man in the picture is my father.
The blood drains from my face. I’m burning hot, yet I break into a cold sweat. I didn’t know about Danny and my father.
Why didn’t I know or even suspect this? I should have known.
My mind returns to a time I spent with André. We were in a tent and he was drawing a bullseye to represent my life.
“Here, I think, is the start,” he says, tapping his pencil on the bullseye. “Right now, together we explore only your life. How your childhood affected you, how it colored the emotions, the behavior and attitudes toward yourself and others. We focus on you and consider in what manner we can bring you back to yourself. Back to the true man you are inside—to who you were meant to be.”
I nod.
“Once emotions, thoughts and goals have been explored and you are stable and happy, then you can go further. These other circles I use as an example, you perceive.”
He points to the second circle, the next size up moving out from the center of the bullseye. “Your father, he created oh-so many negative effects on others. This circle may represent your brother, your sister and other family members, do you see?”
“Yes.”
“Bon. I continue with my illustration.” He points to the third circle as it moves out from the center. “If the center represents you, and one ring out from the center represents your family… then this ring, the third ring, represents others who are not in your family.”
“OK.”
“Your father, his unchecked power and influence was most wide-reaching. Did you ever consider? He may have abused others—people not in your family?”
Fuck.
I’ve spent my life, so self-absorbed in my own misery I’ve never considered this possibility. A tremor begins in my hands. My palms are sweating, so I tightly grip my thighs.
My father was a powerful man with a voracious sexual appetite. Of course he would have interfered with other children! He was perfectly safe to do so. Who would dare to stop him? And who would possibly believe such evil about a pillar of the community like my father?
I suddenly remember his beloved Cannon camera.
Jesus, he took pictures?
“… that’s another reason why being gay seemed like such a terrible sin,” I hear Danny say. “It’s incredible! As soon as I saw that picture, it all came back to me. Now I remember everything!”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. …forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven. I count my heartbeat, I count my breaths as I tried to calm down.
Danny doesn’t seem to be conscious that for a moment there, I tuned him out. With an almost vicious effort, I manage to tune back in again.
“I knew it was wrong, even as a child, I knew,” he says, gesturing excitedly with his hands. “Somehow I forgot or subconsciously buried it. Maybe, because I couldn’t face what happened. All I was left with were nightmares and guilt. I felt sick and twisted! I’ve always been overwhelmed with such shame and guilt, yet I never really knew why!”
I nod with complete understanding.
Guilt was the loudest demon to torment my soul.
“How could I look for love when I knew in my heart I was some sort of pervert?” he asks. “But it’s not the same when you have sex as an adult! It’s different when you have consent.”
“Yes,” I say. “Sex by choice, with love, friendship or at least honest, mutual lust, is completely different. Not with a child. Never with a child.”
“Yes,” Danny agrees.
“Do you remember who the man in the picture is?” I ask with trepidation.
Danny tilts his head and studies me. There’s a look of surprise in his features. “Of course, I do,” he says. “It’s your father.”
A long period of silence passes while I sit utterly motionless. My gut twists, but my features are a mask of composure. I don’t know what to say.
This is terrible! It’s all so terrible!
He was my father, so I can’t help but feel responsible. The police know about me now, or they will soon enough. I have to tell Danny. I have to confess.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “My father molested me too. Unlike you, I remembered it—all of it. I couldn’t forget it if I tried. If I’d known he’d also done that to you…”
My words trail off and I stare down at my hands. I consider how I might have acted, if I had known about Danny’s abuse. I was an angry teenager, full of hate and despair. Yet, as screwed up as I was, I realize with certainty and relief that even back then—even before I knew André, I would have done something.
I loudly clear my throat and my gaze lifts. “I promise you, Danny, I had no idea. If I did, I’d… like to think I’d have found some way to stop it.”
“I know,” he says. “You’ve always protected me, but now it seems we were both stuck in the same fucked-up boat.”
Danny doesn’t blame me.
A wash of utter relief douses the flames of violent, guilty heat burning inside of me.
“I know you would’ve stopped it,” Danny says, absolving me of guilt. “That’s the kind of man you are.”
André, Sally Ann, Renata and Danny. Why do they all have a better opinion of me than I have of myself?
I stare at Danny and he stares back at me. Neither of us say a word, but we’re not uncomfortable. We understand each other. This poignant silence that rests between us is strangely intimate and companionable.
We’ve separately shared time in the same hell.
Two survivors, both connected by the arrogant, depraved, self-indulgence of one man.
Alex makes that three of us, but his secrets are not mine to tell. It strikes me then, if there are three of us—why not four? Or five? Or even more?
André’s shrewd words echo in my mind: “Your father, his unchecked power and influence was most wide reaching. Did you ever consider? He may have abused others—people not in your family?”
How many children endured my father’s perverted attentions? All of these victims must be like me—burdened with shameful secrets and nightmares from their past. How could I have been so utterly unaware of what others around me were suffering?
No one knew about me either, I remind myself.
Who sent Danny this photo?
Who else knows of the monster behind my father’s public facade? Another victim? An observer? Or worse… another perpetrator?
The solution to my problems with the police suddenly becomes blindingly obvious.
Alex and I are not the only ones with a motive to commit murder.
At this point, I can now name three people who would have wanted my father dead. If I look into his activities as a Scoutmaster, surely I’ll discover even more victims. It’s terrible to imagine. I can hardly face the truth. Yet, I can’t help but see the silver lining behind this cloud.