by K. Z. Snow
“I know. You were afraid to tell anybody. By then you felt as though you’d contributed to it.”
Almost inaudibly, “By then I wasn’t even sure who’d started it.”
Dare knew all too well how wily pedophiles could be, how adept at securing their victims’ silence and sliding blame their way. He’d been older and savvier than Jonah when Pankin had snared him, but he’d been pulled in just as deep. And he’d also begun to assume responsibility.
“So what finally ended it,” he asked, “once and for all?”
“My disgust grew stronger than all the other feelings combined.” Jonah’s gaze flickered uncomfortably to Dare’s face. “I told my mother.”
“What happened?”
Jonah faced forward without blinking. “She didn’t believe me.”
“Oh God.”
“The harder I tried to convince her, the worse it got. She thought it was sour grapes on my part, that I’d wanted more of Reverend Clay’s attention than I was getting, so I was trying to launch some vendetta. Then she said, ‘He ain’t only a preacher, he’s a married man with a child. You’re probably the one who’s a fag, Jonah. You have some sinful desire for him and he never returned it, so now you’re hell-bent on revenge.’”
Heartsick and incredulous, Dare shook his head. No wonder Jonah had started drinking at such an early age. No wonder he’d fucked around indiscriminately and resisted identifying as gay. Not only didn’t he want to think Clayton Wallace had shaped his sexual identity, he didn’t want to lend credence to his mother’s claims.
“You were very brave,” Dare whispered.
“No,” Jonah said tonelessly. “Just desperate.”
“You’re wrong. You’re the bravest person I know.” Jonah had initiated their relationship, after all, and he’d done it seeking catharsis. Dare hadn’t done squat but try to hide within Pepper Jack. If Jonah hadn’t approached him, Dare knew he would’ve probably pissed away his life toting around the foul burden foisted on him by Howard Pankin.
Jonah still refused to accept Dare’s admiration. “If I was so brave, I would’ve done all the right things. But I didn’t.”
“Nobody ever does all the right things. That’s why the word regret exists. Just keep in mind you did the best you could for a kid your age.” They continued to sit close, to touch absently, then withdraw, then touch again. “So what happened to the preacher?”
“About three weeks after I stopped going there, the church closed.”
“You mean Wallace just folded up his tent and moved on?”
“More or less. He pretty much vanished in the middle of the night. I heard from one of the other congregants that he’d left a scrawled sign on the inside of the door. I went to see it for myself. To all my dear friends and followers: It is with the utmost sorrow I must inform you of a medical crisis in my family. We can no longer afford to keep the church going or give my ministry the time it deserves. Each of you shall remain in our prayers. Humbly Yours in the Name of Jesus Christ Our Savior, and he signed his name.”
“You memorized what he’d written?” Dare asked. It certainly wasn’t out of the question, considering how long that hypocrite had been a part of Jonah’s life.
“Not consciously. It just stuck with me. I knew right away it must’ve spooked him when I stopped showing up. I think he was afraid I’d finally grown a pair and I’d start talking. Or maybe my mother told him I already had started talking.”
“Did you ever find out where he went?”
“Not until I got out of rehab and looked him up on the Internet. Before then I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to drink it all away. Eventually I found out he ended up in Florida. Then in 2010 he was involved in some drug deal gone bad or something, and he was shot. Fatally.”
“Jesus.”
Jonah’s mouth quirked wryly. “I doubt he was behind it. But maybe a Jesus was.” He gave the name its Spanish pronunciation.
“So Wallace never had to face justice for what he did to kids like you?”
“I don’t know,” Jonah said. “Maybe he did but got released. I never paid for a criminal background check. Or maybe he was shot because he was fooling with some boy, and the cops mistook it for a drug situation.”
“At least he’s gone.”
“Yeah, at least he’s gone.”
“Did you ever tell your father and sister what Wallace did to you?”
“No. There was no reason to. My father’s an alcoholic, so we were never close, and Josie’s got problems of her own. My mother might’ve spewed around her version of events, but Dad wouldn’t have given a crap one way or the other and Josie wouldn’t have believed her. So it’s a dead issue to everyone but me.” Jonah got up.
“And me,” Dare said, reaching for Jonah’s hand. They smiled wanly at each other as their fingers curled, joining for a moment.
Chapter Fourteen
“BE RIGHT back,” Jonah said. “Can I get you anything?”
“Maybe a glass of water.” Dare loved that voice, such a soft, mellow tenor, so easy on the ears, so hypnotically persuasive. He watched Jonah walk away and felt another swell of yearning.
This guy was getting to him like no other man ever had. He only hoped he wasn’t being misled by their mutual empathy, the rare and private connection they’d forged through shared suffering. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of them to mistake that kind of kinship for genuine attraction.
Jonah returned and, with a pallid ghost of a smile, handed Dare a glass of ice water. He drank from the glass he’d poured for himself and then set it on the coffee table as he resumed his seat.
“What about you?” Jonah asked. “Did you finally tell your folks? They seem a lot more enlightened than my mother was.”
“They are. Always have been. But I wasn’t too enlightened myself. I felt like a criminal.” Dare had never told anyone. Not, that is, until Howard Pankin’s arrest had officially and publicly branded him a child molester. And that didn’t happen until Dare was twenty-three.
Dare
2009
IT WAS on the local news at five. Wouldn’t you know, my family had gathered that evening.
The four of us spending time together was a rarity, given my father’s schedule and the fact Carver and I had jobs as well as our own apartments. But there we were: Dad and Carver in the living room, sitting in front of the TV; Mom and I in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
I didn’t hear the report.
But I did notice my dad come into the kitchen, frowning. I knew the look well. It meant he’d heard something disturbing, only he wasn’t sure how to process it.
He looked at me and said, “Didn’t you spend a lot of time at some resale shop near the old neighborhood?”
My stomach plunged. My face might’ve too. I’d avoided that shop for nearly a decade, as much as it tugged at me. For three fucking years or more, from the ages of fourteen to seventeen, I had to fight the impulse to return.
I hated myself for feeling that way. Hated myself. I even used to bang my head against the wall, literally, as if that would dislodge all thoughts of that godforsaken backroom.
At least things got better once I graduated from high school and we moved to Waterford.
Yeah, I’d quit Howard. After two years I couldn’t stand it anymore, feeling defined by him, like he’d become my second skin—a filthy and diseased skin. I knew damned well what a sick fuck Pankin was and that he’d been using me. So I shed him… but it wasn’t easy.
Over time the urge to go back diminished. Being away from him let the truth really sink in. What finally destroyed the lure of Over the Rainbow for me was going to college, meeting guys my age who were interested in me.
Too bad that didn’t obliterate my memories. Thanks to them, my stint at UWM was doomed. I dropped out halfway through my junior year. Barely made it that far. My head was a mess. I couldn’t concentrate, had trouble sleeping. Relationships were out of the question. I couldn’t seem to get close to anyone.
“Yeah, I used to go there,” I finally said in answer to my father’s question. I hadn’t moved from the center island. Even my fingers hadn’t moved from the endive I’d begun to slice. “Why?”
“The owner,” Dad said, “was arrested and faces a slew of charges, all relating to sexual activity with minors. Boys, specifically.” He paused but kept watching me.
“Wow,” I whispered, and barely managed to eke out that one dry syllable.
Stasis. That’s all I remember in the minutes following my father’s announcement. I was the centerpiece of a frozen tableau. Even my mother’s Fiestaware seemed to be staring at me through the glass-fronted cabinets.
“Did he ever make advances to you?” Dad asked. I could tell from the sound of the question that the possibility alone infuriated him.
My parents hadn’t watched me that intently since the day I was born.
They knew I was gay, just like they knew Carver was gay. They’d always been completely accepting and supportive. I’m not sure what I was afraid of, but all I could manage was, “Uh….”
Then Carver jumped in. He’d just entered the room. “Most likely,” he said. “Dare spent an awful lot of time at that shit hole, and he was a cute kid.”
“Daren?” It was my mother’s voice, quavering. She laid a hand on my arm. I felt her fingers trembling against my skin. She was terrified.
I made my way to the kitchen table, our breakfast and lunch table, and numbly slid into a chair. “Yes… but it’s all right,” I think I said. “It ended a long time ago.”
They swooped in on me then. At least my parents did. Carver just sort of sauntered over. He seemed smug. I got the impression this was one more reason for him to feel superior to me.
I can’t clearly remember how the rest of that evening went, except that I felt trapped and suffocated and wanted to escape. The flurry of questions, my mother’s weeping, my father’s reddened face and bulging jaw, Carver’s undisguised contempt. None of it was supposed to be happening. I’d gotten through those two misspent years without involving anybody else. Then I’d stuffed the dust of Over the Rainbow Resale, and those xylophone notes, and Howard Pankin’s sawing breath and sweaty hands, into some mental crawlspace and boarded up the door.
“You have to go to the police.”
“You need to get into therapy.”
“He can’t be allowed to walk free and keep victimizing innocent children.”
“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you come to us? Why, why, why?”
They bombarded me with all that and more. I hadn’t told them the whole truth, though. Not even most of the truth. I couldn’t. The details were too nasty. Revolting. Worse yet, I felt complicit. I felt nasty and revolting.
Howard Pankin himself spared me the agony of having to relate the tale over and over again. To the police. On the witness stand. And he spared me the agony of having to face him in court.
The day after he was arrested, he hanged himself in his jail cell.
I’ve never cried so hard in my life. I actually cried myself sick. And fuck if I know why.
JONAH remained quiet and thoughtful after Dare’s admission. “Even nine or ten years later,” he finally said.
“Yes.”
Slowly, Jonah nodded. “That’s the most insidious part—isn’t it?—how they burrow their way into us, make us dependent on their attention, make us think they’ve bonded with us in some unique way.”
“It is.” Dare knew that was why he’d bawled his eyes out after Pankin’s suicide. He hadn’t wanted to face the reason, but he knew. Pankin was the only person other than his parents who’d ever expressed affection for him.
“He worked on your mind until you thought you needed him, maybe even loved him. Part of you believed he understood you better than anyone else—understood your loneliness and frustrations and fears—and still wanted you, in spite of all your shortcomings.”
“Exactly.” It was obvious Jonah also knew. Hell yeah, he knew. And his knowledge hadn’t come from a textbook. The realization made Dare hurt all the more.
Only dimly did he realize two rivulets were running down his face. He was silent, but his eyes kept streaming tears. At least those wracking sobs hadn’t seized him again. His eyes, though… his eyes felt like engorged, sandy balloons sitting in the summer sun.
“I didn’t want him to want me,” Dare said in a choked voice. “I despised him. He made me feel soiled. So why did I crave—?”
He didn’t have a chance to finish. Before he knew it, Jonah was holding him again. “You craved it for the same reason I did. But that didn’t make us criminals and it didn’t make us whores.”
Dare returned the embrace, instantly, fiercely, and buried his face in Jonah’s shoulder. A feeling of rightness swept through him, the opposite of how Pankin had made him feel, how Carver and some of Dare’s tricks made him feel, and he didn’t have the slightest impulse to resist.
“The disease carrier is out of your life now,” Jonah said, “and you’re vibrant and beautiful again.”
“So are you.” Dare had never believed anything more fervidly in his life.
They eased apart. Donning an encouraging smile, Jonah swiped his thumbs over the wetness on Dare’s cheeks.
“I have to turn off these waterworks,” Dare said. “I feel dehydrated.” It was then he noticed Jonah’s eyes were also damp. Tenderly, he touched the lashes of the left one. “You too.”
“We both needed to drain out.”
“Like lanced boils.” Dare half coughed, half laughed. He reached for his glass of water.
“That’s actually a good analogy.” Jonah got up. “Let me get some tissues.”
Expelling a breath, Dare flopped against the back of the couch. How did all this happen?
From the moment he’d gotten together with Jonah, it was as if they’d begun walking gingerly across a frozen pond, trying to build their comfort level with each step. At first the ice cracked alarmingly beneath their feet. Then they’d abruptly fallen through.
The water hadn’t been the frigid shock Dare had expected.
Jonah was with him. That was why. Jonah’s presence not only made the plunge tolerable, it somehow assured Dare he’d come out of this okay.
Now, he felt wrung out but lighter. He felt relieved and safe and at ease. This cozy house made him want to settle in, if just for the night.
He couldn’t, though. Too soon for that. In addition, the circumstances were all wrong. If something came of his friendship with Jonah Day, it would have to come slowly. It would have to be the opposite of Pankin’s and Wallace’s cleverly orchestrated entrapments, the opposite of their feverish insistence on gratification.
Dare took a few long swallows of the water Jonah had delivered earlier. When the tissues arrived, he immediately grabbed a couple and vigorously blew his nose.
“Thanks for inviting me in,” he said as Jonah resumed his seat. “I love this place. It’s like sitting in the palm of a grandparent’s hand. A really warm-hearted grandparent who isn’t a hoarder.”
Jonah laughed. “I guess I do like understatement.”
The admission gave Dare pause. He thought of the Sugar Bowl, of its exuberant overstatement and how jarring Jonah must have found that atmosphere. Not to mention the performers who contributed to it.
“Have you wondered,” he asked, “how I became Pepper Jack?” He needed to explain that, too. He wanted Jonah to understand everything. It was the only way they could get close, stay close; it was the only way of securing Jonah’s respect.
“I might have an idea.” Jonah turned down his eyes and moved his fingertips in circles over the threadbare denim covering his knees. “I mean, if it was a look you chose for yourself, not something your boss suggested.” He glanced at Dare. “But I’d rather hear it from you than jump to my own conclusions.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Dare summoned the reason he’d never given to anybody else, had barely even let himself face. His bl
ithe “androgyny is in” explanation had always been more of a convenience than the honest truth. Jonah deserved more than a few tossed-out words.
“I used to think,” Dare said, “that my stage persona was a way of escaping the past. Pepper Jack isn’t the girly boy Daren Boothe used to be, but he isn’t the man Howard Pankin used to be. He isn’t dainty, but he isn’t burly. He isn’t hairless, but he isn’t hairy. He’s a one-of-a-kind creature, sexless and sexy at the same time.”
“Which puts him totally outside the whole victim-predator scenario.”
“True, but there’s more to it than that. A coworker recently said something that got me thinking. Now I realize Pepper didn’t help me escape my past so much as he helped me claim it, own it. But he’s still protecting me too.”
Judging by the look on Jonah’s face, he was trying hard to understand. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Dare wasn’t sure he knew, either, but he had given the matter a lot of thought. “I’ve always been a little… gender fluid, I guess. When I was growing up it really messed with my head, thanks to my schoolmates and my dear brother. So when that shit with Pankin came down, and especially when he referred to us as Beauty and the Beast, it fucked up my perception even more. Being feminine meant setting yourself up to be ridiculed or victimized. Being masculine meant wanting to ridicule or victimize. But my stage persona, which came so naturally, somehow got me past all that. He brought me home to myself while keeping me out of danger.”
“So even though Pepper Jack reflects this dual nature of yours,” Jonah said, “you think of him as male?”
“Definitely. A gay male, like me. I made him androgynous because when I’m in character, I’m kind of flaunting my true self.”
Jonah’s face was still scrunched as he tried to grasp Pepper Jack’s raison d’être. “So he’s like a vessel? You funneled your femme fatale side into him?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s it. Seeming feminine has only caused me grief in the past. Sometime after the Pankin business, I probably trained myself to be more masculine in my everyday life. I don’t remember it being a conscious decision, but I know I changed. Pepper expresses the other side of me now.” Dare smiled. “But I made him one hell of a strong vessel. Opaque, too. He protects the person within.”