Truth and Consequences

by Sarah Madison

  “It’s nothing, I just remembered a teacher I had in high school. Mr. Dillon. He’d deliberately mispronounce words to be funny, like saying ‘fox paws’ instead of ‘faux pas.’ He taught a course on disillusionment in English Lit and made us read stuff like The Red Badge of Courage.” I chuckled. For one of my assignments, I recited the lyrics to a Pink Floyd song. I got an A, of course. “He’d ball up our report cards and bean us with them instead of handing them out like a normal teacher.” Sad to think these days, he’d probably be reined in by the school board. We’d loved Mr. Dillon. “He had this irritating habit of saying, ‘Where does it say life is fair?’ whenever we’d complain about one of his wacky tests. He said it all the time.” My smile grew evil as I recalled my response when he said that one too many times.

  “You didn’t.” John raised an eyebrow at me, the look on his face both skeptical and admiring. It was addictive, that look. It was probably just as well we hadn’t known each other in high school.

  “Yep.” I smiled into my coffee. “I went into the classroom early one morning and spray-painted ‘life is fair’ in giant red letters on the blackboard.”

  Jean made an unladylike yelp. “Oh, that was so bad of you. I can see where you were tempted, though.”

  “It didn’t hurt that he thought it was funny. Once he got over the outrage, that is.”

  “Or that you didn’t get caught,” John added.

  “That too,” I conceded.

  The teasing conversation lasted most of the way through dinner, when John’s reminiscences eventually turned to his high school and college friends—among them, Paul Cunningham.

  “I still find it hard to believe that he could have done such terrible things. I remember when you used to bring him over, John.” She worried her lower lip as she struggled for the right words. When she looked up at me, her eyes met mine with an expression of pain, as though begging me to forgive her for what she was about to say. “I was raised to believe homosexuality was wrong.”

  John went very still. I believe I held my breath.

  Jean nodded slowly, as though I’d spoken. “Yes. I was taught that such a lifestyle was a sin against God. I believed that too, along with a lot of other things. You should have seen me as a young girl. I read Christian romances. I only listened to Gospel music. I went out with the good boys, and we only held hands. I believed I could ask God for anything in prayer, and he would grant it to me because I was a good girl.”

  Neither John nor I said anything. As if by speaking, we’d break the spell or something.

  “I think in many ways, that’s why I couldn’t deal with Rachel’s… death. I’d done everything I was supposed to do. Everything I’d been told to do. And I still lost my little girl.”

  I gave John a meaningful glance. If he was looking for the right opportunity to tell his mother who killed Rachel, that was his chance. He said nothing, however. I stared at his beautiful profile and mentally sighed.

  Jean wasn’t done. “I was so angry. I was furious with everyone. With myself. With John. With God. I was even angry with Rachel.”

  John’s nostrils flared with a sharp little inhalation.

  “The older I’ve become, the more I realize that none of us is perfect, and that there are worse things in this world than sinning against God. Or rather, the sins most people hold up as the most vile pale in comparison to the sins that others commit every day. Like being unkind or uncharitable. Am I making any sense at all?”

  I folded my lips and, not trusting myself to speak, merely nodded in agreement.

  “Yes. Well, over time, it has occurred to me that what I really feared most about your, um, lifestyle, was the danger that came with it. You know, the risk of HIV, and the discrimination. The kind of violence that Paul inflicted on you.”

  “As opposed to the kind of danger inherent in being an FBI agent.” I spoke gently, certain that she wasn’t concerned about just my life choices.

  “That’s different.” She dismissed being shot at by criminals with a wave of her hand. “Yes, that’s dangerous too, but it’s a different kind of risk. For one thing, you have the government and society behind you, on that one. There’s so much ugliness aimed at gays. The kind of hostility that makes monsters out of men like Paul. That’s what… I mean, if I were your mother, and I were upset with your choice, that’s why I would be upset. Why I would try and make you change your mind.”

  “It’s not really a matter of choice.”

  “I know.” She leaned back in her chair. “Or, at least, I know that now. I’m glad John killed Paul before he killed you.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  John’s face shuttered, his lids partway down like the blinds on a house. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to discover an old friend was a demon, and to be forced to shoot him. A memory flickered like a bulb with a short. John and I were standing on a street corner in front of a pub. I’d just told him that Paul had assaulted me in the bathroom. I could feel the rush of adrenaline flowing through me post-encounter. I felt like I could take on the world. The news had outraged John. I could hear the anger and incredulity in his voice.

  No. Not John’s voice. Mine. On that raw spring night, the person I was looking at was me, not John. The voice I heard speaking to me was mine.

  The room spun, and I clutched at the edge of the table.

  “Are you all right?” John’s touch on my arm was like an anchor. The room steadied and stopped whirling.

  “Um, yeah. Bit of vertigo, that’s all.” I resolutely did not think about the bizarre direction my memories had taken. I had to be hallucinating, and that was bad. Very bad.

  “Perhaps you should go lie down, dear. It’s been an… eventful afternoon.”

  “Now I know where John gets his gift for understatement.” I gave Jean my best smile, in lieu of the hug I wanted to give her. “However, I’ve got a kitchen to clean.” I started to get to my feet, only to meet the immovable weight of John’s hand on my shoulder.

  He rose in one smooth movement while keeping me in my chair. “I’ve got this covered. Provided you can trust me to clean according to your standards.” His voice was light, teasing, and yet supportive at the same time. I felt as though I’d fallen off the tightrope, only to discover that I had a safety net all along.

  “Nonsense. I’ve sat here and been waited on like a princess. Lee, you made a wonderful meal. The least I can do is do the dishes. Why don’t you boys go downstairs and watch a movie or something?”

  “Don’t you want to join us? I was thinking about checking out the classic movie channel.” I fixed my focus on the corner of the table and spoke carefully, afraid the vertigo would come back if I moved too quickly.

  Jean’s expression was decidedly feline as she too, rose to her feet. “Some other night, perhaps. I’m rather tired. I think I’ll do a little reading and go to bed early. But don’t you two mind me. I’m sure you can find something more interesting to do than watch old movies with an old woman.” She patted me on the shoulder as she came around the end of the table.

  “You’re not old. You’re timeless. Like the classics.” I trapped her hand and brought it to my lips for a kiss.

  “Get along with you, you charmer, you.” Jean beamed at me, pleased despite her protests. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t been scooped up already, Lee.”

  “Maybe I have.”

  She caressed my face with her hand as she pulled it away. “Does he make you happy?”

  “Yes.” More than he could possibly know.

  “Well, then.” Jean’s smile was incandescent. “That’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Eleven

  JOHN WAS predictably quiet as we went downstairs. The cats sidled up to me as soon as I stepped off the landing. I went into the bathroom and fed them, despite having fed them late that morning. Trust me, if you’ve never had a cat, you won’t understand, but sometimes it’s just easier to give in than to listen to their persistent b
egging. What starts out as charming head-rubbing behavior usually progresses at some point to outright yowling and kneading your leg with unsheathed claws. Which is why it works, I guess. I’m convinced cats are the only creatures that domesticated themselves. The First Cat, having figured out that granaries attract mice, walked up to some Egyptian and said, “Dude, you’re feeding me now.”

  When the poor schmuck in sandals nodded in agreement, the cat said, “Oh, and by the way, you’re worshipping me now too.”

  Trufax, as they say.

  After I’d rinsed the empty cans, I found John standing in the middle of the room, doing his best imitation of a statue. He had a faraway look on his face, like someone listening to radio waves playing on their dental work, not something anyone else could hear. Right. I got it. He’d sort of come out to his mother, and she hadn’t freaked out. I could see where that might result in some reactionary freaking out on his part. The truth is, it pissed me off a bit.

  My mother certainly hadn’t handled the news well. Although it could have been because she caught me with one of the Rivers boys. She’d have rained hellfire and brimstone on my head if she’d caught me with a girl, but because it was Eddie, she crucified me. And now she was dead. I felt as though I deserved a teensy bit of consideration. I shivered.

  “You okay?” John asked.

  I rubbed my shoulder above my cast. “Chilly down here.”

  “I can go back upstairs and ask Mom to turn up the thermostat.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine.” I sat down on the couch and pulled one of my blankets around me.

  John took one look at me huddled on the sofa like a homeless person, went to an air vent, and stretched up to close it with one hand. “At the very least, I can shut these.”

  I could admire the glimpse of skin at his waist as he did so, even though the last thing on my mind was making love. Touching him, that was another story. Caressing all that warm, golden skin, and being comforted by the familiarity of his scent and the closeness of his body—that was something I wanted and needed right then. I watched in silence as he closed off the second vent and joined me on the couch. He lifted the corner of the blanket and slid in underneath, his hand a pleasant source of heat as he tucked it between my thighs. I let myself lean toward him and placed my head on his shoulder. He pressed his cheek against the top of my skull. We sat that way for a long time—long enough that Oliver came out of the bathroom to sit in front of us, licking one paw to wash his face.

  “I hate being cold,” he groused.

  “I know.” I smiled. He complained about it regularly. After a pause, I asked, “So, how do you feel about your mom knowing about us?”

  It was easy to talk to him that way. The light from the tableside lamp was suitably dim. Neither one of us was looking directly at the other. It was a time for confession. The only thing that would make it easier would be if the room were pitch dark and we were both dead drunk. John didn’t do drunk. That much I remembered.

  His muscles tensed beneath me. Fight or flight. Rule number one in the John Flynn Handbook. I wondered which one he’d choose and braced myself for the coming storm.

  “I don’t know, to be honest. I’ve spent so much time worrying what her reaction would be, and it turns out her biggest concern is how society will view me. View us.” It was as though he’d willed his body to relax. He leaned into the sofa, and I could feel his muscles gradually soften with each breath.

  “It’s a valid concern. Charles, for one, proved that tonight.” I couldn’t relax so easily, even though I desperately wanted to.

  “Well worth the risk, in his case.” The snort John made was derisive. “You should be glad you bailed on golf this afternoon. He was a colossal asshole. I don’t mind being outed if it means seeing the back of him.”

  It was my turn to go still. “But otherwise…?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The tension came back, but this time I made a concentrated effort not to move or shift uncomfortably. I didn’t sigh or indicate that I was disappointed with his answer. I knew he’d only recently come to grips with the fact that he was gay. It’s a big deal, admitting that to yourself. Just because you did, however, didn’t mean you were magically okay with it. Particularly when it had the ability to impact every aspect of your life, your career, and your relationships with family. I knew all too well what it meant to come out to a family that was less than accepting. John wanted to keep things as they’d been before. I didn’t need an open declaration of undying love. What we had worked for the two of us. At least, I thought it did.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry your mom wasn’t cool with who you really are.”

  “I was dead to her. She said as much. I was dead and going straight to hell. I told her it would feel just like home.”

  John’s snort ruffled my hair. “Bet that went over well.”

  “Like a ton of bricks.” The warmth of John’s body seeped into my bones. Inexplicably, my eyes began to water. It felt almost as though I were made of ice and a thaw was setting in. I wiped my face with the heel of my hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Shock.” John shifted his arm around my shoulders and pulled me onto his chest. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.” There was a long pause. I wiped my face again and listened to the slow thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear. Phoenix came out of the bathroom and, with a little burble of noise, leapt lightly onto my lap. She turned in a circle and kneaded my legs beneath the blanket. When she finally settled between my thighs, the rumble of her purr was infinitely soothing. I never wanted to move again. I wanted to stay that way, in John’s embrace, forever.

  John spoke again. “Anyway I just wanted to say I’m sorry. How about some Doctor Who?”

  Before I could say that, while I loved Doctor Who—I’d finally gotten up to the Tenth Doctor, and it was painfully obvious that I have a “type,” seeing as he reminded me of John—I wasn’t up for something quite that intense, John changed his mind. “No, I know. The Princess Bride.” He said it with the air of someone finding the perfect Christmas gift. I’d already gathered it was one of those cultural things I needed to see, given how often it got quoted.

  “Sure,” I said, not entirely truthfully. I could watch television and movies when he wasn’t there. It felt like a waste of time watching something with him, even though he probably needed to unwind as much as the next guy. And he was working all day, and I was not.

  His grin was infectious. “It’ll be like you’re watching it for the first time. I want to be the guy who introduces you to the Man in Black. And no, he’s not an FBI agent.”

  Well. Put that way….

  It was the most fun I could ever remember having. And not just because of the beautiful, quotable lines, or the Rodents of Unusual Size, or the gorgeousness that was the young Cary Elwes. It was because John had one eye on me as I watched the film, experiencing it anew. It was as though I’d never seen it before, and his delight in sharing it with me made me enjoy the film that much more. We’d be quoting it endlessly for the rest of our lives.

  The “rest of our lives” was a wonderful thought. It might be as ephemeral as a snowflake caught in your hand, but I’d take it.

  “You want to watch something else?” John asked as the credits were rolling.

  It was early, but all I wanted to do was curl up next to him and sleep for a thousand years. “Anything else would be anticlimactic. Take a rain check?”

  “Sure,” John said. “As you wish.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE REST of the weekend passed too quickly. Sundays, in particular, have a way of doing that. You’d think that being on leave, the days wouldn’t matter to me, but they mattered even more. I greeted Friday with great anticipation. With any luck, John would have the weekend off. I prized Saturday for all the time we could spend together. Sunday, however, was tainted with faint regret, a sense of mourning even before the day was half over. Sunday couldn’t escape the k
nowledge that Monday was just around the corner.

  I suspected that I felt that way when I was working, but it was worse having John go off to the Bureau without me. It made me realize that if we didn’t work together, we’d actually spend very little time together at all. To make things worse, John hit me with the news he had to go to DC first thing in the morning. I couldn’t help but feel abandoned.

  “I won’t be gone long,” he said, playing it oh so casual.

  “I know.”

  “A day or two, at most.”

  “I know.” I couldn’t shake the sense of depression, but for his sake, I tried. “I’ll be fine. I have a therapy session tomorrow, and then your mom and I are taking that cooking class Tuesday evening.”

  “You don’t have to do that, you know. It’s a waste of time for her, and it will be boring for you.”

  “It’s something to do.” I hated feeling so useless.

  He shrugged, knowing he couldn’t talk me out of it.

  “I wish I could come with you.”

  “That would be boring for you too. Administrative stuff. Some consulting.”

  I said nothing. Like sitting in the basement contemplating my navel wasn’t the ultimate definition of boring. If you looked it up in the dictionary, you’d find my picture.

  John did the laugh/cough thing. Something funny must have occurred to him. “You are the least boring person I know,” he said, then brushed my lips with a kiss.

  Yeah, right. Maybe I could do a little research into some of the lighter aspects of BDSM, while he was away. I knew he didn’t want me to do that sort of thing. We weren’t really into that scene, yet the dominance/submission roles seemed to put him in the headspace he needed. Perhaps he needed to relinquish all control for a short window of time. Maybe it was that simple.