by B. G. Thomas
As it turned out, it hadn’t been hil-arious at all. Wyatt had always known that. It was part of why it had taken him as long as it had to admit to himself he was gay.
“Sloan is just a friend.” Well, hardly just a friend. “He’s my best friend in the world.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “We all need best friends. What did that movie say that Mom liked so much? In a cold world, you need your friends to keep you warm? Or something like that?”
The Big Chill. Except his mother only watched it when his father was out of town and couldn’t walk in on her. She wasn’t quite old enough to have been a teenager in the sixties. But her older sisters were, and they had played the music on their record players when she was little. She’d lived the sixties vicariously through them.
“The Big Chill,” he said aloud. Then asked about her husband—the bastard—and her kids.
“Oh, goodness, Mary! She just got straight As. Can you believe it? A child of mine? Miss C Average Wendy Dolan? And my kid is making straight As?”
“That’s nice, Wendy.”
She sighed. “And then there’s Norman Jr. He’s in and out of trouble. Second grade and a terror. Sometimes I don’t know what we’re going to do with him.”
“You’ll think of something.” She was born to be a mom, if not a wife. And why wasn’t she mentioning her husband? “And Norman Sr.?”
“Ummm… Norman is Norman, you know? His job at the dam is stressful. There was so much rain last year, and the lake was higher than it had been in years. It’s calmed down a little with winter, but you know….”
Wyatt didn’t know. Didn’t have a clue. He’d toured the dam, of course. What with Mountain Home, where he went to school, being so close to one of the biggest lakes in the country, there was no way to avoid school field trips there. Plus the fact that the little town where he grew up was so close he could walk to it. But what the workers actually did there had always been sort of a mystery to him. So no, he didn’t know what Norman did. Then there was the fact that he’d never met the man.
He hadn’t met her kids either. And he figured he probably never would.
“He’s leading the men’s prayer group on Thursdays, and he’s applied to be a deacon. I’m sure he’ll get it. I can’t imagine them turning him down.”
“That’s nice,” Wyatt said, not thinking so in the least. The only thing he could think of that sounded worse than being a deacon in the Baptist church he was raised in was maybe being the guy who drove that truck that vacuum-sucked the shit out of the porta potties at Camp.
“He really likes it, Wyatt. He says it gives his life purpose. Oh, and now he’s doing outreach at the prison in Calico Rock. He goes once a week and leads a prayer group there too. He says it’s a wonderful thing to help those men turn from their criminal ways and seek the Lord.”
Wyatt shifted from one foot to the other and found himself thinking about eggnog and whiskey. Was he tipsy enough to listen to any more of this? He went to the kitchen to see what he had to drink. “I….” Wyatt coughed. “I would imagine that adds to his stress, though.” He looked around the kitchen. Oh, thank the gods. Some tequila was on the floor next to the stove. But what did he have to drink it with?
“I think it relieves his stress actually,” Wendy said.
“All that soul-saving,” Wyatt managed without choking. He didn’t have anything in the refrigerator that would go with tequila. Certainly not milk or the eggnog. Did the eggnog have whiskey? He didn’t think so. Did he have any Country Time lemonade?
“Yes,” Wendy said, and then there was a long pause.
Yes? Yes, what? He couldn’t remember what he’d asked her.
Wyatt found a couple of single packets of Crystal Light pink lemonade. It would have to do. In the meantime he opened the bottle and took a slug of the tequila. He winced, shuddered. Gods! Blech! He coughed. Shuddered again. Cleared his throat. Began to make a glass of the Crystal Light. Tried to build up the courage to ask the question.
Thankfully Wendy took that out of his hands. “Momma and Daddy came over for Christmas dinner.”
“Wow,” Wyatt said. “You guys didn’t go over there?”
“Ahh…. No, Wyatt. Not this year. Mom helped, but Daddy…. Well….”
Well what? Wyatt wondered.
“Daddy’s been a little… funny lately.”
“Funny?” Wyatt asked. The last thing he had ever considered his father to be was funny.
“Well, they think he had a little stroke.”
Wyatt jerked. Almost knocked his glass over. “Wh-what?”
“A little one,” Wendy said quickly.
Wyatt’s heart was rushing. “A little one?”
“Yeah. He…. Well, the other day he got up and almost fell over. He said everything was… tilted. He was having trouble walking. And he was having a little trouble talking. Slurring his words, you know? Mom wanted to take him to the hospital, but he wasn’t having any truck with that. Until he did fall, that is, and we insisted. They couldn’t find anything at first, but then they thought he might have had a very minor stroke.”
Wyatt found he could hardly move. Strokes. Were they ever minor?
“His doctor said he should have gone to the hospital right away because there are drugs they can give you to help, but it’s got to be in the first three or four hours. But as Daddy said, I don’t know what good that would have done since they weren’t even sure he had one.”
Wyatt shook himself. “Is—is he okay now?” He reached for the tequila and added a good bit to his glass, put the bottle down and took a hefty drink before stirring. It was a mistake and he began to cough. Whoa! Strong!
“Anyway, that’s why they came to our place. Norman was a little mad at first. Until Momma said she’d already bought the turkey and everything so he didn’t need to buy anything. I just ran to Damview and picked up everything from her place. We didn’t have to buy anything except some Stove Top. You know Norman likes that better than the homemade stuff.”
Wyatt didn’t know that either and thought it sounded crazy. How could anyone like that boxed shit when they could have his momma’s stuffing?
He quite suddenly found himself missing that stuffing, even though he did a fairly good knock-off. He’d even made a change or two through the years: sage from Sloan’s mother’s garden and a can of black olives, chopped up real fine.
Howard had loved it, anyway.
And what the fuck was he doing thinking about black olives?
“H-how did he act?” Wyatt asked her suddenly. Gods. Why was his heart doing that little dance?
Unbidden he saw his father—clearly, as if he were right there—standing over him. Tall. Hair and thick mustache going gray. Those intense blue eyes—like they were chipped from a glacier. And how that mouth could smile… or frown. You didn’t want to see the frown.
“He seemed fine, though he got tired fast. He wanted to help drain the turkey—you know he always does that for Mamma—but with Norman here, there was no sense in that.”
“No. Of course not.” Wyatt took another drink of his pseudo cocktail—drank it slower this time. But it was a big drink.
“I think we can all breathe a deep sigh of relief,” Wendy said in seeming conclusion. “God is taking care of things. He always does.” But why didn’t she sound like she believed what she was saying? “At least now Daddy will pay attention. Dr. Shelvy insisted that he get to the hospital immediately if any symptoms reoccur. Counseled us all on what to watch for. Gave us literature and everything.”
“That….” Wyatt’s voice caught. Dammit! “Th-that’s good.”
“He’ll be fine, Wyatt. I’m sure he will be. Trust in Jesus.”
Trust in Jesus? Had she really said that? She wanted him to trust in Jesus?
Wendy was blind and deaf and who knew what else. She would never learn. Never. Never see him for who he was. Chose not to.
And now the tears wanted to come.
Fuck that!
“What?” Wendy called out.
What?
“Yes. I’m on the phone. Yes.”
Wait. She wasn’t talking to him.
And then she was. “Look, Wyatt. I need to go.” And, “Yes, it’s my brother.”
Wyatt closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the kitchen counter.
“Wyatt, I’m sorry. I have to cut this short. Merry Christmas, big brother.”
Wyatt sighed, forced back his body’s traitorous desire to cry. “And a Happy New Year, little sister.”
“Yes, Wyatt. And that too.” Then, with no preamble, she hung up.
Wyatt stood there a long time without moving. Then he made a second cocktail with the last of the Crystal Light and took the full glass and the one he’d already drunk half of and went back to the living room.
He watched “The One with Phoebe’s Dad,” and let the six people he was getting to know sweep him away. Who knew? Maybe Chandler and Joey would finally get it on. That would be hot!
That night he didn’t dream about Howard.
THE PHONE call stunned Kevin and yet didn’t surprise him. Somehow he’d been waiting for the news all week and didn’t even know why. Cauley looked well enough at Christmas dinner the night before, and yet….
He rocked on his feet and leaned heavily on the kitchen counter.
“God, Lois,” he said.
“I—I know.”
“I can’t believe it.” But he could. He just didn’t want to.
“At least he was at home,” Lois said. “I found him on the couch. I guess he got up after I went to bed. He was watching TV. That’s not a bad way to go, is it?”
“No,” Kevin somehow said. His heart felt like it was made of lead. “It’s a good way. He loved to watch that old TV.” He fought the tears. He couldn’t cry. Wouldn’t.
Kevin turned and walked to the big glass sliding doors that let out onto his balcony and offered him his beloved view of the New York City skyline. The city that never sleeps. The Capital of the World. The city with over eight million people.
Now minus one.
Suddenly those tall buildings he loved so much seemed ready to fall down on him, smother him.
God. He needed to sit down.
“Kevin? Did I lose you?”
He sat carefully on the big black couch. “No. I’m here.”
“They came and got… got his—” Her voice cracked. “It’s gone. They took him—it—away.” There was a stifled sob. She was not the kind of woman who would let anyone see her weak, not even at a time like this.
He needed something to do. “Lois, do you want me to come over?”
“No,” she said quickly. “My sister is here. My brother is practically on a plane right now. I’ll be fine.” Pause. “What about you?”
“Fine,” he managed. “Do you know what’s next?”
“Not exactly. Exactly when, that is. He had it all planned. To the very last i dotted and t crossed. No funeral—by his request. But there will be a memorial service. Just figuring out when that will be. He wanted you to say something…. Well, read something. He made sure I told you that.”
“Of course,” Kevin said and wiped his face. “Anything.”
“He knew how much you hated talking in front of people.”
“Anything,” he said again.
“But he also told me to tell you that you didn’t have to.”
“You know I will,” he said and sighed heavily.
Gone. Cauley was gone. No more flowers. No more Supernatural. Kevin was quite suddenly sure that he would never, ever watch another episode.
“He’s being cremated of course. Said there was no way he wanted people to see him in a coffin looking like….”
“Yes,” Kevin broke in—so she wouldn’t have to say it.
“…see me lying there like a fucking concentration camp victim” came the echo of Cauley’s voice. “I couldn’t stand that, Kevin! I couldn’t rest! It’s too humiliating. Too horrible to even think of. I want there to be pictures. When I was young and hot and sexy. I’d have you put some of my nudes out, but the old relatives wouldn’t be well for that, would they?”
“No,” Kevin had said.
“I suppose not even the one with me in my jockstrap? The one where my dick looks simply enormous?”
Kevin had just shaken his head. “Your Aunt Anne would faint.”
Cauley had laughed at that! “Oh wouldn’t that almost make it worth it?”
Kevin had laughed too. He couldn’t help it. It might just be worth it.
“No,” Cauley continued. “But I did ask Tam down at The Back Door if he’d do something….”
The Back Door had been Cauley’s favorite bar.
“He said that would be fine. After my memorial service, all the queers could head on down there, and he said you could put out any kind of pictures I wanted. There would be discounts on the cocktails for anyone showing a program that proved they’d been at my service. Isn’t that great?”
Kevin had told him that would be great indeed.
“Extra incentive to go, right?”
“Are you going to be okay, Kevin?” That was Lois. She had come downstairs to make her son breakfast and found him dead on the couch and she was asking Kevin if he was okay?
(“And you are so lonely. That’s what makes it worse. Worse than me being lonely.”
“Cauley, I’m fine. I’m not lonely.”
“Yes you are. I see it in your eyes….”)
“I’m… okay,” Kevin assured her. He had almost said he was fine, but he wasn’t fine.
“Kevin, dear… do you need anything?”
“No.” He shook his head—as if she could see him. Thank God she couldn’t. “Not right now. But promise me you’ll call me if I can do anything.”
“I will. And I am sure there will be. But as far as the service and all that… like I said… he had—” Then her voice caught again, and so Kevin finished for her.
“All the i’s dotted and the t’s crossed.”
“Yes. Yes, exactly.”
“You’ll need help with the house,” he said.
“No,” Lois replied firmly. “He even did that. All I really have to do is make phone calls.”
And there would be money to do it all. Kevin had taught him to take care of his money. With what his aunt had left him, there would be enough. Especially since there was no coffin, no burial, no plot.
Another pause. Finally she said, “I have to go now, Kevin. A lot of phone calls to make. You were at the top of a long list.”
“Do you need me to help with that?” Looking for something to… to do.
“No. It gives me something to do. I really need that right now, you know?”
He did.
“O-okay. I’m hanging up now.”
“All right, Lois.” He wiped at his face again. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she replied. And then, just as he was putting his cell phone down on the coffee table—sure that she’d hung up—her voice came again. “He loved you, Kevin. I suspect more than he did me.”
It was a stab to the heart. He put the phone back to his ear. “Nonsense, Lois. You were his mother.”
“And a man shall leave his mother,” she quoted. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be. If we loved our mothers more than our husbands, we would never leave our family home to start one of our own.”
“I—I suppose.”
Then she hung up. He only knew by a soft little beep from the phone.
Kevin sat down. Sat for a long, long time. Staring. Staring. And now the damned tears wouldn’t come. He figured he’d already done the equivalent of that a long time ago. In some ways he’d just been numb for months since. But now? Now he felt even number. Was that even a word?
Gone.
And th
e world really did seem emptier.
Theresa.
Her name and her face filled his mind, and he knew he would—needed to—call her. No need to wait. She wasn’t working today. She had a long holiday weekend.
So he called. In no time she was on her way. And in not much longer than that she was there, bottle of whisky in hand.
They got shit-faced.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS the second day of the year, and luckily Treasures of Terra wasn’t nearly as busy as Wyatt had feared it might be. A lot of people tended to hit the store right at the beginning of every January—resolutions or some such thing—looking to somehow “fix” their life so that the new year would be better than the last. They usually sold about a million tarot decks for instance. And there was all the crap involved with returns and gift cards, the anticipation of which had prepared him for throngs of people. But so far that hadn’t been the case. Just little rushes here and there instead. He’d even had a chance to run to Café Namasté for a vegetarian lunch with Sloan and Max.
“I’m not complaining,” said Kitty, one of his coworkers. She was cute in that way that straight boys liked, and from what she said, she never had problems finding a date. At least a first one. If she got started on astrology too soon, though, a lot of guys thought she was too weird, and that was that. Too bad, Wyatt often thought. She was one of the best he’d ever encountered at drawing up a chart. Pretty damned good at tarot readings as well.
Wyatt wasn’t complaining either. He’d gotten a lecture that morning from Katherine, his boss, and he didn’t know whether to be pissed about it or cry. Dealing with a bunch of customers just wasn’t on his bucket list for the day. “It does make the day go by way faster, though,” Wyatt said. And lately, he wanted the days to go by fast. Wanted as much time to flow away as possible. Wasn’t time supposed to heal all wounds? Well, he had some doozies. And they were still bleeding, and he couldn’t get over how many times the grief would sneak up on him. He’d always thought that he and Howard would be doddering old men together.