The Prayer Waltz

by K. Z. Snow

  The familiarity of the scene—that’s what struck me.

  I had a similar photo of myself at that age. Summer camp. Jeff Colter and I grinning side-by-side. By the time we were sixteen, we were having awkward, ecstatic sex together. Our bond had an intensity that made us think we’d never part.

  Just as I was about to turn away, I noticed a picture at the rear of the group. My wistful smile faded. An adolescent Scott stood between his father and another father: Frank Connor.

  A sickish feeling drizzled through my stomach. I wasn’t sure what prompted it, but I had a vague idea. Evan and Frank were both good-looking men, although each man’s appeal was distinctly different from the other’s, and I was… jealous. That was the only way I could describe my reaction. I’d loved one man and now cared about the other, and I’d been intimate with both. But they’d had each other before I had either of them. Their relationship was off-limits to me, another mystery I could never penetrate, another secret of the heart I felt I should’ve shared but didn’t share. And never would.

  I turned away from this truth, telling myself how silly it was to be affected by it, then excusing myself for being affected by it because the human mind works in some pretty strange ways. Not too many people were indifferent to the past or never wished to change it.

  Walking into the bathroom yanked me back to the present, and in a way I really needed at that moment. On the vanity, in spaces not taken up by Evan’s few grooming aids, sat two piles of things he’d set out specifically for me: my neatly folded clothing, freshly laundered, and a stack of bath items, including a thick gray towel, matching washcloth, wrapped bar of soap, and new toothbrush in a cellophane package. That wasn’t all. To the left of my clothing, a thermal mug full of coffee. To the right of the towel, an aerosol can of air freshener.

  I burst out laughing.

  After showering, I went in search of my host and found him in the kitchen, standing over a center island with a cook-top. A small dining table in front of a window was already set for two.

  “Good morning.”

  Evan looked up from the eggs he was scrambling. “Good morning.”

  I stood behind him, ran my hands up his back, and let them rest on his shoulders. I kissed his nape. He leaned his head to one side, and I kissed his neck.

  “Thank you for making my bathroom ritual so pleasant,” I said in a purring voice. I hadn’t intended to sound seductive, but that’s how I suddenly felt.

  Smiling, he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re welcome. I was just repaying you for my night at the inn.”

  “That was totally unnecessary, you know.”

  “I know. But I enjoyed doing it.” He’d stalled in his food preparation, his movements becoming uncertain and directionless.

  “I missed waking up with you, Evan.”

  “Sorry. I can’t seem to sleep past five or six.”

  I slid my hands down to his hips. “Wish we could’ve showered together.”

  “I kind of do too.”

  “We’re back to ‘kind of’ again?”

  “No. But you’re distracting me.”

  “Good.” I caressed his butt. “Don’t I get a good-morning kiss?”

  Evan turned around, whisk in one hand and a shaker of something in the other, and corralled me with his arms. Our kiss was light at first, then took on more fervor, then lapsed back into sweet. We ended it by letting the tips of our tongues meet with a playful, affectionate flick.

  “I didn’t want you to think I was being a sap again,” he said, looking into my eyes. His head moved forward, and his lips briefly touched mine.

  “Be as sappy as you want. I’m starting to like it. I might even start getting sappy too.”

  His cheeks got pink before he turned back to his cooking.

  Damned if I wasn’t falling for him.

  Whether it was serious infatuation or that temporary, delusional high you can get from great sex, I had no idea. Only time and circumstance could sort it out. But I was definitely on a cloud, and Evan was definitely the man who had put me there.

  “Why don’t you go sit down?” he said. “You’re making my dick hard.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. I pulled the whisk out of his hand and tossed it on the granite counter. I grabbed his wrist, forcing him to face me, and undid the button and zipper of his jeans. I undid the closures on mine.

  “Steve,” he whispered, his breath already coming strong and shallow through his parted lips.

  I shoved my hands under his sweatshirt, felt up his chest, pinched his nipples, then yanked his jeans and briefs past his plumping, lengthening cock. I shoved my own clothing past mine and dropped to my knees.

  In a kind of fellatio-plus-masturbation frenzy, I grabbed his rigid prick and mine and made love to both. I tried to exercise some care with Evan—he certainly deserved it—so I concentrated on teasing his cockhead before I began a slow, firm pump and suck. I worked the underside of his shaft with my tongue. His hands stirred through my hair.

  “Oh baby,” he said thickly, “you’re really getting to me.”

  I started shooting like there was no tomorrow, the contractions sharp and deep. Thank goodness Evan came as soon as he saw me come, because my mind was hazy and my limbs felt numb.

  He eased backward and I fell forward, still holding onto my weakly pulsing dick. Evan joined me on the floor. A small dollop of cum crept down my swollen cockhead. The rest was on my hand and pants leg and the floor tiles. Evan leaned over and lightly drew his lips and tongue over the dick residue. Post-climax sensitivity caused me and my man to jerk reflexively, but we nevertheless liked what he’d done. We liked it a lot.

  Evan and I leaned together, our hands cradling each other’s head.

  “Did you mean it?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I meant it.” He sounded more resigned than euphoric.

  “I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” I said, “because you’re getting to me too.”

  We just stayed that way for a little while. I guess we were letting it sink in, wondering where we’d go from here.

  “Maybe it’ll pass.” Evan got up. “Come on, let’s have breakfast.”

  After swabbing and washing my deposit off hands, jeans, and floor, I poured the orange juice and buttered the toast. Evan fried up the scrambled eggs to go with the hash browns he'd already made. He said he had to check on a job site today and asked if he should come by the Edelweiss afterward. I immediately told him yes, but I preferred we stay out of bars for a while.

  As we neared the end of our diner-worthy breakfast, Evan pushed his plate aside and folded his forearms on the table. I could tell he was about to say something important. Before he started speaking, I grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit in the center of the table, just to have something to do with my hands. And maybe to tease him a little.

  “Steve, something’s been eating at me, and I want to clear it up once and for all because I know it’s important to you.”

  Now I felt stupid holding that banana. “Go ahead.” I began to peel it as I watched Evan.

  “In my heart, I do not believe Frank was interested in boys. Young men, maybe, but not boys.”

  I’d just taken a bite, so I shifted the pulpy lump to one cheek. “Why exactly do you believe that?” I really did want to know. I needed to dig that toxic seed out of my mind.

  “Because he was basically a good man,” Evan said. “And he sure as hell was a smart man. He knew shit would’ve hit the fan if he tried anything, but I honestly don’t think he was inclined to. There was never a hint of it, from him or anybody else. Never so much as a rumor in the grapevine.”

  With difficulty, I swallowed. “Thanks for the reassurance. I mean it.”

  “I owed it to you.”

  “So… what do you mean by ‘young’ men?”

  “Early twenties. I’m guessing Bobby Bruckner was the youngest guy Frank had around here, or maybe had, and he was about twenty-two at the time.”

  “How old w
ere you?” Fuck. I’d promised myself at some point last night that I owed it to myself to put a moratorium on talking to Evan about Frank. But once he got the ball rolling again, I couldn’t seem to stop it.

  “Just a year younger than Frank. Thirty-one or thirty-two when the whole thing kicked off. So that’s more evidence in his favor.”

  I sighed, surrendering to my inquiring mind. “Evan, why did you even mention your son in that context? I mean, why did the notion even flit through your head? And you can’t deny it did, or you wouldn’t have said something.”

  Evan ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the tabletop. Then he got up and lifted the dishes and silverware.

  “Aren’t you going to answer me?” I took another bite of banana and slowly chewed, keeping my eyes trained on him.

  “Yeah, I just have to think about this a minute.” He carried our breakfast things to the dishwasher, arranged them inside, dawdled a little, and returned to his chair.

  I swallowed. “If it’s really that difficult for you—”

  “I’m pretty sure Scott was gay,” he blurted out.

  Immediately, I thought of that photo on his dresser, the one of Scott and his cute blond friend with the slight overbite. He was the one. I knew it. He was Scott’s first, crazy love, his only love.

  “I don’t know if he realized it while Frank was still around,” Evan said. “He was just an adolescent when we started going to St. Jerry’s. But they did sort of take a shine to each other. And he was a handsome, athletic kid.”

  “Yes, he was.” When I saw Evan’s look of surprise, I added, “I saw the pictures on your dresser.”

  He nodded. “Oh. Yeah, they’re kind of hard to miss. I guess it just threw me for a loop to find out after he died that he liked boys. Really liked boys.”

  That drew a wan smile from me. “Nothing wrong with that. Maybe it threw you for a loop because you haven’t fully accepted it for yourself yet.”

  “Oh, I’ve accepted it,” Evan said. Our hands were resting on the table, and he extended his fingers toward mine. I did the same until our fingertips touched. “I just never went public with it. What I haven’t accepted is the grief people dish out to anybody who isn’t like them. Dale Mueller isn’t an army of one, you know.”

  “I’m well aware.” Living in a progressive city didn’t keep me from wondering, however subconsciously, where the next arrow of ridicule or scorn or virulent hatred would come from. It must’ve been a lot more stressful in the great American outback.

  Evan got up and began clearing the table. I rose to help.

  “You know, Evan, maybe Scott’s attraction to boys was beginning to stir at the time he knew Frank. Maybe he confided in Frank, and Frank listened patiently and compassionately and managed to smooth his way. Because Frank, of all people, would’ve understood. Maybe that’s why they took a shine to each other. And don’t forget they both had a love of baseball, too. They were kindred spirits. Even if Scott was too young to fully grasp the concept, he might’ve sensed it.”

  Standing over the dishwasher, Evan stared at me as if my head had just turned into a big, bright lightbulb. “That could be it.”

  I kept going, because I needed to believe. Evan did too, I think. “It makes sense Frank wouldn’t have said anything to you. Priests are even better at keeping secrets than doctors and lawyers and Freemasons.”

  Evan nodded. But after he’d closed the dishwasher, his eyebrows began pulling together—a sure sign that something was bothering him. He went to the sink, where he wetted and wrung out the dishcloth. “I wish I’d been a better father to him. I wish I’d been more open about myself and not such a damn coward. Then he would’ve come to me and talked to me. It might’ve made a big difference in… in the quality of his life.”

  I curled a hand over his forearm. “Evan, look at me.”

  When he did, my heart ached for him.

  “Who’s that blond boy in the beach picture?”

  He continued to frown, as if he were trying to figure out which one I meant. “Oh, that’s Travis Burton. He was Scott’s best friend after Smokey. They were really….” The nature of his frown changed as the obvious finally became, well, obvious to him. “Tight,” he said vacantly, then gave me an incredulous look. “He fainted at the funeral.”

  “You might want to talk to him.”

  “He’s away at college.”

  “Then write to him. I don’t think a phone call would be kosher.”

  Evan wasn’t exactly thrilled by the suggestion. “I can’t write worth a shit.”

  “Evan, you have to get this—”

  “Will you help me?”

  One look into those imploring eyes, and I couldn’t have denied him anything. In fact, his humble request made me feel honored. “Of course I will. We can take care of this before we leave. Do you have his e-mail address?”

  “I think he might’ve given it to me when he was in town over the holidays. If I can’t find it, I can always ask his parents.”

  I rubbed Evan’s back and smiled encouragement at him. “Then we’re good to go.”

  Dear Travis,

  I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more when you were in the Falls over winter break. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I can’t keep putting it off.

  Please excuse me if this letter seems out of line. My question comes with no implications. I’m just looking for some answers. Parents don’t always know their children as well as they’d like to or would like to believe they do. All the love in the world can’t guarantee perfect communication. That seems to have been the case with Scott and me.

  Following his death, I found some things in his room and on his computer that showed a side of Scott I hadn’t been aware of. They led me to an inescapable conclusion: my son was gay.

  You and he were best friends. If you can shed more light, I’d be deeply grateful. I can’t stand being in the dark about such a significant part of Scott’s life. Can you at least tell me if he’d accepted himself? If he was happy? This is really, really important to me, Trav. It’s been eating at me for the past year that he never confided in me. I would’ve loved him and been supportive of him no matter what.

  Thanks so much,

  Evan McAllister

  Chapter Nine

  ON OUR way back through town to the Edelweiss, snow sifted out of the sky like fairy dust. Evan assured me it wouldn’t be another “dump,” not with the sun shining. I was glad. I didn’t want anything to keep him from meeting me later in the day.

  Maybe the fairy dust would actually work some magic for us.

  “Ever handle a chainsaw?” he asked out of the blue.

  The curious question would’ve made me spit something out of my mouth if my mouth had had anything in it. I gaped at him. “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I’m not kidding. Just because you’re gay and live in a city doesn’t mean you have to be a pussy.”

  “Yes it does.”

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  “Didn’t you know that? It’s in a rulebook somewhere.”

  “I take it the answer is ‘no’, then.”

  “You take it right. Why did you ask? More to the point, do I really want to know why you asked?” I feared for a moment that he’d drive right past the Edelweiss, take me to his job site, and press me into service. If he did, the only detached limbs would be my own.

  “I just thought I might be able to teach you something,” Evan said. “Like the right bar-angle, the correct pressure, how to set a wedge—”

  “Thanks, but you’ve already taught me plenty.” Like what a nice ride bottoming can be.

  I’d all but forgotten just how nice. Evan’s reminder had made me delirious with pleasure. Relishing the memory, I let my hand slither around his crotch.

  Evan squirmed. “Quit that.” Smiling out the windshield, he grasped my roaming hand. “Or save it for later. And as long as I’m telling you what to do, you really need to stop yelling while we’re g
etting it on.”

  “Why? Nobody can hear me.”

  “I can hear you. If I start laughing, Steve, it’s over.”

  “Then I’ll try to make my outbursts less amusing.” I tossed out a few quotes from famous historical figures. Not that I made a habit of memorizing quotes, but I’d used these in some of the scripts I’d worked on.

  Evan started snickering.

  “How can you possibly find those funny?” I asked, since they were all pretty heavy. I mean, come on… Karl Marx?

  “’Cause I’m imagining you spouting that stuff while my dick’s up your ass. Or yours is in my mouth.”

  I laughed so hard I cried.

  By the time Evan dropped me off at the inn, I was willing to give woodcutting a try. I don’t know how he did it.

  “You and Evan having a good visit?” Connie Hofstadter called out cheerily as I headed for the stairs.

  “Great visit,” I answered with a grin.

  When I got to my room, I decided to employ a skill I’d learned in fifth grade. I needed to organize the issues that had arisen around Frank’s life as well as his passing. No working on the bed today. I sat at the room’s desk, probably because I felt I was back in Mrs. Klein’s classroom. The windows’ lace curtains cast faint, webby shadows over every surface. They made an appropriate backdrop for what I was trying to do: unravel the mysteries surrounding a ghost.

  A. Other Men

  1. Frank was conscientiously monogamous

  2. Frank occasionally had more than one lover at a time

  3. Frank was a bona fide ho-dog or sex addict

  4. I’m sick of thinking about it; what’s more, it doesn’t matter (see E)

  B. The “Marks”

  1. Frank was a practicing sub and masochist

  2. He occasionally and inadvertently hooked up with abusive guys

  3. He had accidents like everybody else

  4. Dicked if I know

  C. The Gun

  1. Frank taught history; he bought it as a “show and tell” piece for a particular lesson plan.