by B. G. Thomas
Javier had to stop the thought—go on a diet!—from his mind before it would go any further.
Now I’m one of “them.”
Again.
So instead he looked down at the table while he ate. There was graffiti etched, carved, and inked on its surface. Did people have no respect?
Amy loves David.
Christmas is a money-making scheme.
For a blowjob, go to the last stall and tap foot.
But the one that really caught Javier’s attention consisted of two simple words.
What now?
The words jolted him.
What now?
Javier touched the words, traced them with his finger. They were carved deep into the table’s gray surface. What had the author meant?
Was it something existential? Or something much more banal?
What now?
What was there to do now?
Go home.
Take a bath?
Take something else?
The thought surprised Javier.
Kill myself?
Really?
Hadn’t the shopping spree shown that he didn’t want to do something so overly dramatic? Why go to such lengths to clothe himself for a month and more if he was just going to kill himself?
What about the eternal advice he’d always felt so free to hand out to one and all? Go on a diet?
But fuck! He wasn’t eighteen anymore. It could take him years to get himself back into shape. And those high school pounds had dropped off—the muscles had grown easily—because he’d been not much more than a kid. One’s body responded quickly at that age. He was thirty-five years old now. Today it took him almost daily workouts just to maintain his physique. It had. But to get it back? He might never get it back.
The idea nearly made Javier weep again. He had to fight the tears. Appearance was everything! He glanced up to see if the young lady had noticed, but she wasn’t even there.
What if you can’t lose the weight?
Javier gasped. Where had that thought come from? He tried to quell it, but once it started, it was there. What if I never, ever lose the weight? Never get my hot body back? What if that’s part of the bruja’s curse?
(Witch? No. I’m not a witch….)
If not a witch, then what?
(I am a force to be reckoned with.)
“What did I do to you?” Javier cried, and this time he didn’t worry about what others might think. Screw appearance. Wasn’t his appearance shit now anyway? “What did I do to you,” he said again. “I knocked into you. You did this to me because I knocked into you?”
(Call me a biddy?)
“But I didn’t.”
(But you thought it. What other words do you use for people? Blimp? Twink? Troll? Have you forgotten? How did those words make you feel?)
Mother of God. The old woman was punishing him for the way he treated people? “But why me? Why me more than anybody else? My friends are just as bad as me. Worse. Much worse!”
(I think that it’s time you remembered.)
“I remember!” Javier shouted, and this time he was embarrassed by the looks from the crowd. What did he look like? Some crazy person?
He looked down and saw the words again. What now?
What did he do now? He couldn’t go to his friends. He knew—he knew—they would reject him, just as surely as Mark had.
(Some friends!)
He wanted a drink. He wanted to go to a bar and get smashed. But if he did, if someone saw him and recognized him! Gave him one of those looks of disgust. The looks of shock, or worse, pity. He couldn’t deal with it.
He could go to a straight bar. But that idea was worse.
Go home.
Home?
What was at home? The place was as empty as a tomb.
Not that home, came that voice. Your real home. Go see your mama.
The idea shocked Javier. Go home? See his mother? He had not seen her, hadn’t even talked to her, in years. How could he go home? And what about his father? His stinking homophobic father?
You don’t have to worry about him, came that voice. And who was that voice? Was he going crazy?
Go home, Javier. Go home to your mama.
“Will she want me?” he whispered.
Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
They do?
Go home, Javier.
And just like that, Javier made up his mind.
Home.
But first there was something he had to do.
Chapter Three
The house looked the same. White paint turned gray, the porch railing missing a baluster, the steps sagging. It looked sad. Certainly nothing like where Javier had lived for the past decade. Mark’s pool house looked like a virtual mansion compared to the Torres homestead. How many houses like his mother’s could he get for the price of his car alone? Five? Six? Seven? More? Javier sat in his BMW Z4 for half an hour, building up the courage to go to the door and knock.
When he finally did, he heard the voice he knew so well. “Come in, Lupe! You’re late.”
Javier gulped. Knocked again.
“Come in!” his mother shouted again. “Door’s open.”
God. Did he dare?
Javier took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door into a living room that looked almost the same as the house did. The same couch and recliners. There was the spiral rag rug his grandmother made. On the end tables were the lamps and shades he’d known his whole childhood. The house even smelled the same.
A flood of memories hit him. Growing up, watching TV, pulling his sisters’ pigtails, playing with G.I. Joes… and of course the Christmas tree. It stood in the window as it had for decades, the same lights, the same ornaments, the same angel on top—her dress faded with age. And maybe it had even been faded back then? A far cry from the gigantic aluminum tree covered in gold balls in the foyer of his—Mark’s—home.
“Lupe! These pies aren’t going to make themselves!”
Javier went to the kitchen and just stood there. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. He leaned against the doorframe and watched his mother. She was rolling out pie dough on the kitchen table, her sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back, and of course, flour everywhere.
When she didn’t look up, he finally whispered, “Hi, Mama.”
She jerked and looked up. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. For what seemed forever, she only stared, not moving.
She’s going gray, thought Javier. There are lines around her eyes. Otherwise she’s just the same too.
Then the corner of her mouth twitched.
“Javier?” she asked.
“Yes, Mama,” he answered, voice catching.
“Javier!” she screamed, and she was in his arms. She was crying and covering his face with kisses and saying his name over and over and over, and soon he was crying too. “I thought you were dead. Oh, Javier. Javier, Javier, Javier….”
“Yes, Mama, yes… it’s me, Mama. It’s me.”
Lupe arrived to similar shrieks of joy. At her side was a beautiful little boy. “His name is Javier,” she told him, and once again his eyes filled with tears. Lupe looked down at her son. “Javy? This is your Uncle Javier.”
The boy gave him a curious glance and then blushed furiously.
“And if you think he’s something,” Lupe bragged, “wait until you meet his papi. Gorgeous! And you keep your hands off!”
Javier nearly gasped at the comment, but Lupe just winked and laughed. Javier couldn’t believe it. He’d only been home an hour, and his sister was making gay jokes. Funny ones.
In no time, Javier had his nephew giggling with laughter. It was hard helping his mama and sister with the pies and playing with his nephew. The boy dragged a box out from under the bed in Javier’s old room and revealed G.I. Joes from Javier’s childhood. They were in remarkable shape.
“I couldn’t get rid of them,”
his mama explained.
Within a few hours, the house was packed. His sister Juanita, with some female friend—he thought her name might have been Wanda—two aunts and their husbands, and his grandmother. All were thrilled to see him. It was more than he could believe. All wanted to talk to him, all marveled at his car, and not one even mentioned his weight.
But the last time they saw me, I was heavy, he reasoned.
Yet, a bigger part of him knew better.
Home is the place where, he remembered, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Except there seemed to be no “have to” about it.
It took Javier a while to build up the nerve to ask about his father. The room went silent at his words, and then his aunts, his uncles, and his grandmother suddenly busied themselves with other things.
His mama sighed, then stood up straight. “He don’t live here anymore,” she said.
“W-what?”
“It was bad enough what he’d done to you. But you were a man. You could take care of yourself. You showed him good. And because I’m Catholic, I stayed with him. Even though he drove you off. But then a couple years later… he went for Juanita.”
“What?” Javier asked. He hated thinking about his last night at home, what had happened. But the son of a bitch did something to his sister?
Juanita stepped forward. “I came out, Javier. And he beat me up.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Put me in the hospital, the fucker,” she said.
“Juanita, please, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“All right, Mama.”
“He was drinking all the time by then,” his mama told him. “The police came. Your father told me not to say anything, but… but I did. They took him away, and then I wouldn’t let him come back.”
Javier sat down. The man who had driven him from the house. Gone. For years.
“Javier. Can you forgive me?” his mama whispered.
“Of course, Mama! He could have hurt you too. But can you forgive me for leaving?” Javier turned to Juanita. “I’m so sorry. If only I had stayed.”
Juanita shook her head. “No. Getting rid of him was worth the pain.” Then his sister’s friend, Wanda—a big woman—stepped up behind her, put her arms around her, and the light bulb went on.
Javier smiled. Wanda was her lover.
“Javier, don’t ever blame yourself,” his mama said. “All that matters now is that we’re all together again.”
Right before dinner, the door opened and Javier turned to see a tall, good-looking man with dirty-blond hair and a nicely trimmed goatee come striding into the living room. He was wearing a battered old jacket over a black dress shirt that did nothing to hide a very nice chest, and jeans that were wonderfully tight. Who was he?
Young Javier shrieked and ran to the man and threw his arms around his legs.
Oh! He must be Lupe’s husband! Gorgeous is right, thought Javier. Lupe did good for herself.
The man looked over at Javier. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “JT. It really is you.”
JT? No one had called him that in years! Who could he be?
The man disentangled himself from the clutching boy, strode over to Javier, and pulled him into a hard, tight embrace. “I just can’t believe it.” He stood back, holding Javier at arm’s length. “JT.” He was grinning hugely, and Javier couldn’t help but smile back.
“Do–do I know you?”
The man laughed. “It’s me! Cole.”
Javier shook his head, and then abruptly, the image of a scrawny kid who had once followed him around like a puppy snapped into place. “Shrimper?”
The man—Cole—laughed. “Yup! That’s me!”
“My God, you’ve changed.”
“I’m all growed up!” Cole said with laughter and hugged Javier again. “Damn, it’s so good to see you.”
Was that a hitch in his voice?
Javier hugged him back.
When Cole released him, Javier said, “So you married my sister?”
Cole’s eyes went wide (they were wet), and he near guffawed. “Heavens no!” he said just as a second man, perhaps a year older, walked into the room.
“Daddy!” shouted little Javier, and launched himself into the second man’s arms.
“Nope. The honor goes to my brother,” Cole said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder.
“Honor?” asked Lupe, coming into the room. “What honor?”
“JT thought you and I were married,” Cole said with a grin.
Lupe cackled. Downright slapped her knee. “Oh! That’s good! That’s funny!”
“What’s so hilarious?” Javier asked.
“’Cause he plays for your team!” Lupe said with a chortle.
“You’re gay?” Javier asked.
“As the day is long.”
Dinner went well—it was mostly Mexican food for a significantly Mexican family, as was their tradition on Christmas Eve. Turkey and such was for the next day. Tables and card tables were dragged together into the living room, and somehow there was room for the whole family and the food. To his delight, Javier found himself elbow to elbow with Cole.
They did a little catching up, what they could do with the whole family talking.
What really got to Javier, though, was the prayer.
“And thank you, God,” his mama said, head bowed, “for not only the gift of your Son, but for the gift of mine. This is the best Christmas ever.”
Once again Javier’s eyes filled with tears. Why had he stayed away for so long?
Soon it was growing late, and Javier wondered if another tradition, one he dreaded, was next.
Sure enough, his mama soon announced that they all needed to get ready for midnight mass.
“Mama, I’m really tired. Mind if I—”
“Of course I mind!” she cried. “God has brought back my prodigal son. I need, we need, to thank him for your return.”
“He’ll go, don’t worry,” said Cole. “Come on, JT. I’ll go with you. I want a ride in that sweet car of yours.”
Javier shook his head and admitted defeat. “Okay. Sure.”
Cole couldn’t get enough of Javier’s car, inside and out. To Javier’s surprise, instead of feeling that old ego stroke (like he had only a few nights before), he was embarrassed. Suddenly the Z4 seemed way more than excessive.
“Life’s been good to you,” Cole said. “If you can afford something like this.”
Had life been good to him? He’d thought so. A week ago he would have said as much. Now? Javier shrugged. Now Cole’s going to ask how much it cost, he thought. They always do. But that didn’t happen.
“Not talking, huh?” Cole raised a brow. “Okay, be mysterious. Like we haven’t all been wondering. You disappear for over ten years and come back with fancy clothes and an expensive fancy car. Come on. Give. Where have you been? Monte Carlo? Key West?”
“Those places,” Javier said. “But mostly Kansas City.”
“You’re shitting me? How’d you keep hidden?”
Javier tried to figure out how to answer (we certainly travel in different circles) and found he wasn’t liking the direction the whole conversation was heading. He decided to change it.
“How long have you known you were gay?”
Cole rolled his eyes. “Oh, forever. Always.”
“Really?” Javier was always surprised when someone answered that question that way.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“No,” he answered. “I didn’t know until Mr. Schultz seduced me.”
“What? Mr. Schultz? The gym coach?”
Javier sighed. It was one of his most painful memories. “He asked me to come by after school. I was no sooner in the door than he was on me.”
“Oh, no! Javier! How old were you?”
“Oh, I was legal. I was so freaked out at first, but he knew what I didn’t. Or what I wouldn’t allow myself to. He knew I wanted it and that I would wind up loving it. I loved it s
o much I went back. The problem was that when I did, he wouldn’t have anything to do with me. He said I was too fat. He said he almost lost his hard-on fucking me because my ass jiggled too much. Told me if I didn’t lose weight, no one would want me.”
“Oh, my God….”
Javier felt tears at his eyes and fought them back. This was too good an evening. Mr. Schultz had hurt him. He’d been called fat a thousand, thousand times, but it had never hurt like it had that night. Yet it had also changed his life. He’d gone home (fled) and started his diet that night by turning down half of his mama’s enchiladas. And he’d started working out the next day. By the time he lost seventy pounds and gained a lot of muscle, he was getting picked up by men outside of bars. A year later he had a boyfriend, and he was so on top of the world about it that he came out to his family.
His father got in one good punch. The man—drunk, as usual—seemed to have forgotten that his son was over thirty years younger and in a hell of a lot better shape. The rest of the punches had been Javier’s.
That was the night he’d left home and never looked back.
“What a bastard! I just can’t believe….”
Javier shook his head. “Don’t worry. It was a long time ago.” Somehow he managed a laugh.
“Childhood can suck,” Cole said. “I was called faggot the whole time I was growing up. Somehow they all knew.”
(Maricón.)
“Me too,” Javier said. “Everybody knew about me except me. I guess I didn’t want them to be right. They were so mean. Made me feel so bad and dirty, and I didn’t want them to be right.” God, Javier thought. This is getting worse. Subject change! “I just can’t believe how much you’ve changed. I would never have recognized you.” Up ahead, the light turned red, and Javier stopped the car.
“What can I say? I just finally grew up.”
“Grew up is right,” Javier said with his old growl. He smiled. Damn! He was flirting! But that made him remember his new (old) body. Flirting was just not an option. “You look so different.”