by B. G. Thomas
“But Katherine…,” he whined, “I’m scared!”
“Wyatt?”
Wyatt jumped again and turned in the direction of the voice. A man was standing in a doorway. He was maybe sixty, with stylish black-and-antique-gold glasses.
Gay. Thank the Queer Ones, Wyatt thought. He raised his hand. “Here!” He winced. Why did he say that? He wasn’t in grade school!
“Why don’t you come this way, Wyatt?” the man said, motioning.
Somehow Wyatt stood up and then asked, “Can my friend come with me?” He turned pleading eyes on the stranger and then Katherine and back again. His biggest puppy-dog expression ever.
The man shook his head. “I’m so sorry. It’s completely against policy.”
“Please…?” Wyatt begged. He looked at Katherine helplessly. Then back at the man. “Can’t you just this once? Please?”
A look of total sympathy came over the man’s face. “I am so sorry, dear,” he said. “I just can’t do it.”
Wyatt felt a hand on his shoulder, and Katherine was beside him, eyes focused deeply into his. “You’ll be fine, Little Bear. I will be with you. Right here. If you need to, just picture my hand in yours. I am right here.”
It was only that and the sympathetic look on the man’s face that did it—allowed him to uproot his feet from the floor and begin walking. Had the guy been some kind of asshole, Wyatt would have fled. He went through the open door, and once more a hand came down on his shoulder, gently but firmly guiding him down the long hall that lay ahead. They turned left at the first corner and toward an open door. “Right in here, Wyatt.”
The room was small but nice and bright. Sunshine-yellow walls, no examining table—which Wyatt thought might be a mistake as far as he was concerned. He liked to lie down when he was getting his blood drawn. In case he fainted. He had before.
“My name is Geoff, by the way,” the man said and held out a hand for Wyatt to shake.
Wyatt almost didn’t take it—this was the guy who was going to harpoon him, after all—but he did, and thankfully it settled him. Strong enough to comfort, but not to hurt. Howard’s handshakes were crushing.
“I really am sorry your friend couldn’t come back with you,” Geoff was saying. “The testing is completely confidential. If you choose to tell her your results afterward, that’s entirely up to you.”
“Why don’t you have a table?” Wyatt snapped, ignoring the comment.
“Why would you need a table?”
Wyatt told him.
“Oh,” Geoff said. “But you’re not getting a blood draw.”
“I’m not?” Wyatt looked at him in complete surprise. “Don’t you need to get my blood for the test? How can you test me without blood?”
Geoff smiled and patted Wyatt’s knee. “Because all I need to do is prick your finger. We’re doing a rapid HIV test today. Normally we don’t on Fridays, but in this case we thought it best to find out right away. If anything, to reduce your anxiety. I imagine you’re quite distressed right now. I know I would be.”
“You don’t have to draw my blood?” An immense wave of relief fell over Wyatt. It was like a comforting blanket. For some reason it made him want to cry. And the man really did seem nice.
“Nope. Just a tiny little prick on the end of your finger and that’s it. I won’t promise you won’t feel it at all, but the needle is very small these days, and I’m pretty damned good if I say so myself. It’ll be over and done in a jiffy.”
Wyatt nodded. Or tried to. He was still going to have to get poked. But then it hadn’t been so bad at the Gay Pride celebrations where he had his done annually. Of course, during those Howard had been sitting at another table within eyeshot.
Another immensity hit him. The full meaning of what Geoff had said previously. Rapid testing? “I’m—I’m not going to have to wait two weeks?”
Geoff shook his head, smiling again. It was such a nice smile. A good smile to have with a job like this. Wyatt wondered how many times the man had had to tell someone they had HIV.
“O-okay…,” Wyatt managed.
Then another image came to his mind.
Peni’s pe’a. The vastness of his Samoan tattoos, spanning nearly half his body. The fact that it had been done with razor-sharp tools of bone and tusk, pounding deep into Peni’s thighs and legs and back and ass, relentlessly, hour after hour, day after day.
And he had the fucking gall to worry about one teeny tiny little pricked finger?
I’m not Peni!
No you’re not, came that voice again. You are Wyatt Dolan. And you are Little Bear!
Somehow, that inner voice did it. And when, on the very tail of that voice, Geoff asked him if he was ready, he held his hand out sure and strong and—damn—barely shaking.
He did look away, though. “Warn me? So I won’t jump?”
“Sure,” said Geoff. Then he did something to Wyatt’s finger, wiped it with something cool, and sort of—touched it?—and then to Wyatt’s surprise said, “Okay. Done. Can you hold this against your finger?”
“What?” Wyatt asked and realized Geoff was pressing a piece of cotton against his finger and then was doing something with a little piece of something. Wyatt wasn’t looking too closely, but Geoff was doing something else with a tiny, tiny little test tube (that didn’t show blood, thank gods). He placed it to the side and set a timer.
Geoff then explained that the rapid test was 99 percent effective and these days just as sure as the two-week-long wait. That the test detected HIV antibodies and not the virus itself. In other words, the body began making antibodies to try and kill off HIV, and that is what they would be looking for. Those antibodies and not the virus itself. And that HIV died within seconds of hitting the air, and that’s why ejaculating inside the body was dangerous and getting semen on you was okay. “That’s the old saying, cum on me and not in me,” Geoff said.
Wyatt nodded. He’d probably known that. Been told that, surely. Right now he wasn’t in the right mind to remember any-fucking-thing.
“Now I have to ask you a bunch of questions. Sorry. All these questions they need to know to track statistics and so on. But it will help the time go by fast. Funny how twenty minutes flies when you’re having fun and drags like hell when you’re not.”
“And this ain’t fun,” Wyatt said sarcastically.
Again the gentle smile. “No. I don’t imagine it is.”
Then Geoff started asking all kinds of questions. Whether he’d had oral sex—“Hell yes,” he said and blushed. Giving or receiving and yes and yes. Anal sex, giving or receiving. Only receiving as far as the last year was concerned. “Howard never let me top him—”
The image of Howard and those two men flashed 70mm once again in his mind.
“—and I lose my hard-on half the time if I try and top anyone while I wear a condom.” So Howard didn’t wear condoms when he topped Wyatt? And the answer was, of course, “no,” because it never occurred to Wyatt that Howard played without wearing them with others.
The picture came back—Howard, Howard, getting fucked. Bareback!
“He always used rubbers while I was there. With the other guys.”
Again, that image.
No! Stop! Stop looking! He shook his head to banish the vision.
“You okay, Wyatt?”
Wyatt sighed. “As okay as I can be.” Knowing that I am about to find out I am HIV+.
“You don’t know you have it” came the echo of Katherine’s voice. He felt her hand. Reached out with his thoughts and felt it, just as she’d told him to do. “It’s going to be okay. Whatever the outcome, Little Bear. It’s going to be okay.”
But how could she know that?
It couldn’t be okay to hear those words, “I’m so sorry, Wyatt. You have HIV. Now this is what we do next….” He’d die. He’d freak out. Geoff was going to be so sorry he hadn’t let Katherine come!
There were more questions. A lot of them had to do, over and over again, with how ma
ny sex partners he’d had—
“None! Not since Howard left!”
—and if Geoff had asked if he’d had sex with someone besides Howard over three months ago, then Wyatt might have been able to say more than one. Howard would have seen to that. Hell, the last time they went to Cactus Canyon—was that September?—he’d had sex with at least four other guys (and gods knew how many Howard had been with, thinking retrospectively).
The questions about if and how often he’d had any vaginal sex made Wyatt laugh. “How about none. Ever. Never-ever. Mr. Gold Star Gay, here.”
Geoff laughed. “Me too.”
Geoff also wanted to know if he’d ever been incarcerated or gotten a tattoo—
“Wait! Why am I asking you that?”
Wyatt laughed. “No! I have! Look.” He bared his upper arm and showed Geoff the teddy bear, about five inches tall. “It was supposed to say something too, but my friends rightly talked me out of it. If the artist hadn’t been such a hunk and my friends hadn’t taken shifts holding my hand, I wouldn’t have been able to do it.”
—and if he’d ever exchanged sexual favors for sex—
“Oh, please.” Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Who would pay me for sex?”
(“The only reason you get laid is because of me. I tell them they have to have sex with you if they want me.”)
“I don’t know.” Geoff actually blushed. “I think you’re pretty darned cute.”
That shocked Wyatt into silence. He couldn’t remember when someone had said he was cute. Wait! The tattoo artist had flirted with him. Wyatt had just chalked that up to the big guy trying to calm him down.
—and if he’d ever used IV drugs or had sex with any known IV drug users.
And finally there had been the questions about how much risk he thought he’d taken in the last twelve months on a scale of one to ten, with one being the lowest and ten being the highest, in doing something sexually that could have allowed him to contract HIV, or scarier, that he might “test positive today”?
It was just as the timer went bing.
That had almost brought the tears back. “Ten, I guess,” he said and moaned.
“Well, Wyatt. I can tell you right now that you are—”
“Nooooooo…,” Wyatt cried and dropped his face into his palms. He moaned long and hard and actually began to rock in his seat. Positive! He knew it! Geoff had said the words. He was positive! What was he going to do?
“Wyatt!” Geoff all but shouted, making Wyatt flinch back and drop his hands.
“Wyatt. What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy? This is great news!”
“That I’m positive?” Wyatt asked incredulously.
Geoff gawked at him. “Sweetheart! I didn’t say positive. I said negative. You’re HIV negative.”
Wyatt looked at the man, stunned.
The room took on a tremendous quiet.
A celestial mute button had silenced the world.
Time stopped.
Then: “Wyatt? Did you hear me?” Geoff was smiling.
Time decided to start moving again.
“Wh-what?”
Geoff nodded. “Yes, Wyatt. Now I do recommend you get tested again in about one month. From what you said you had sex with your ex about two months ago?”
He had to think. Hard. The world was going all wonky again. Howard had dumped him right at the end of September?
Yes. Of course it was. September 29th. A Monday. He would never forget it. He said the date aloud.
Geoff checked a calendar. “So, wait. End of September? That means all of October and November and December. Wyatt. That’s three months. Honey!” He clapped. He actually clapped. “That makes you free and clear.”
Wyatt gaped at him. “Wh-what?”
A wave of dizziness came over him.
“R-really?”
Then for a second he thought the man might kiss him.
“Wyatt, the HIV antibodies usually show up in about three to four weeks. But to be safe we say ninety days. It’s been more than ninety days.”
“I—I don’t believe it!” Wyatt cried.
Geoff nodded vigorously. “You know, my little man, I honestly cannot tell you when was the last time I so joyously gave somebody that news.”
Wyatt leapt to his feet and threw himself into Geoff’s arms and—godsdammit!—started to cry again.
But of course this time the tears were of joy.
THE JOURNEY home was much better than the drive into the city.
Katherine asked him if he wanted to stop at The Male Box for a celebratory drink first, or even The Watering Hole (he was far too worried that Howard might be at the second), but Wyatt didn’t want that. After crying in her arms in the waiting room—
“Ah, my Little Bear, didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you that you didn’t know you had it?”
—all he wanted to do was go home. Even if it was his new home.
She dropped him off, and he watched her go—insisted she go on even though she wanted to wait until he’d gone inside—and then stared at the house. Suddenly it didn’t seem so awful a place. Even welcoming. Like it was telling him to come on inside and it would keep him warm, just as warm as friends could.
It was nice.
But that wasn’t completely true.
He wanted to see his friends.
So he went directly next door instead and rang the bell, and when Sloan answered the door—Max or even Logan, or hell, Devin would have been okay—Wyatt was so skyrocketing happy that it was Sloan that he threw himself into his best friend’s arms and buried his face in his shoulder and just… held him.
Wyatt didn’t cry. He thought he would. He thought for sure he would. Hadn’t he cried a mammoth amount lately? But somehow he didn’t. And when they finally separated—a bit, not much—he looked into his friend’s dark, honey-colored eyes and said…
“I don’t have it.”
Sloan hunched closer, and for half a second he thought Sloan was going to kiss him, and then he saw puzzlement in those eyes.
“It?” Sloan asked.
“HIV,” Wyatt exalted. Funny the way that word sounded. Like an alleluia.
And Wyatt told him. Right there. In the threshold of Sloan and Max’s home, neither in nor out, and then Max was there and so was Logan and they led him inside and he started telling it all again from the beginning and Sloan was calling Scott and when Scott got there with Cedar he told it again.
They called Asher too. He actually answered his cell phone. He was on a break and he “Hee-hawed!” in great shouts and said he would call Peni right away.
Somehow it had all come out all right. After one horrid, awful thing happening after another for months, finally something had turned out right.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WYATT GOT the phone call the next morning.
He almost didn’t answer it. He was taking a wondrously hot shower—the shower at the home he and Howard had made had something wrong they hadn’t fixed yet, and it had near zero water pressure. This one, on the other hand, felt so good he didn’t want it to stop.
But then…
Something told him to go ahead and answer. And as his cell was resting right there on the top ledge of the sliding shower doors, he could. He stepped out of the direct spray and grabbed it and saw it was his sister.
What was Wendy doing calling at this time in the morning on a Saturday?
Especially when it wasn’t his birthday or Christmas?
“Hey, Wendy,” he answered.
“Oh thank the Lord I didn’t have to leave a message,” Wendy said, a desperate sound to her voice. Desperate and something else. There was a strange sort of sound—a strangled sound?—on her end. Crying?
Wyatt stood upright.
“Wendy? What’s wrong?”
“Wyatt….” And yes. A sob. Quiet. “It’s Daddy.”
A shiver went through him, despite the heat of the water and the steam swirling around him. “What about Daddy.”
He
’s dead….
“Wyatt. You know… I told you… they think he had a little… little stroke before Christmas?”
Wyatt nodded. Then realizing she couldn’t see him—thank the gods!—said, “Yes.”
“Well, he’s had another one.”
“Another little stroke?”
“B-bad one, b-big brother. R-really bad. They’re trying to figure out how bad.”
“Fuck,” Wyatt said before he could help it. “Is he in a coma?”
“He w-woke up this morning…. But it’s bad, Wyatt. The whole left side of his body…. He’s in ICU. He…. Well, he can talk, thank Jesus. But it’s hard to understand him. And he can’t do shiiii… anything with that side of his body.”
Crap. Crap, crap, crap….
“He wants to see you.”
Wyatt froze.
What?
“What?” he asked aloud.
“He wants to see you.”
“Me?” Incredulous.
“He told Momma and he told me. He wants to see you.”
Lick a witch, thought Wyatt. “M-me?”
“Yes, Wyatt.”
“Why?” See his father? He hadn’t seen the fucker in ten years. More!
“Don’t ask why! He wants to see you. This could be it. You two finally making peace.”
“Us making peace,” Wyatt exclaimed, still standing there in the tub, the shower pounding down at his feet, the steam swirling around him. Stood there, hearing, seeing, his father screaming at him in his mind’s eye, feeling the smack on his face that knocked him to the ground. “Us?”
“Wyatt…. This is serious.” And he could tell Wendy was crying. “The doctors are telling us to prepare, that he might not come out of the hospital.”
Wyatt stepped back until he could lean against the shower wall.
“Will you come?”
He didn’t answer.
Maybe if he didn’t, she’d hang up. He wouldn’t have to answer.
Come? She wanted him to go home? To see his father?
Had he woken up in the fucking twilight zone?
“Wyatt?”
“Yes,” he blurted. “I’ll come.”
Fuck. Why had he said that?
“I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”