by Greg Herren
“No,” Frank said with a ghost of a smile. “Can’t say that it does.”
“And that Jared! What a miserable little bastard he is!” Mom started winding herself up again. Affronts to her family were not something she took lightly. “I mean, I suppose we can’t really blame him for being such an insensitive troglodyte—it’s not like Skipper was any kind of father to him, and that revolving door of stepmothers he had to put up with—I don’t even know how many times Skipper’s been married.”
“Four,” I said, taking a bite out of my mushroom cheeseburger and trying not to moan from pleasure. I was starving, and Quartermaster’s burgers are ambrosia.
Mom frowned. “Are you sure it’s only four? I’m pretty sure it’s five.” She put her fork down, and started ticking them off on her fingers. “His first wife was Darla—how long were they married? Not even a year? Then there was Bethany, and after she left him, that’s when he married that Lebanese girl—what was her name?”
“Bethany,” I said to Frank in a low voice, “is Jared’s mother.”
“Wasn’t her name Noor?” Dad replied, wrinkling his forehead. “Or am I thinking of the Queen of Jordan?”
“It doesn’t matter—she only lasted a few months anyway.” Mom dismissed the third wife with a wave of her hand. “And then he married Marybeth, and now Leslie. Five. He’s been married five times.” She rolled her eyes. “But like I said, Skipper can do no wrong in Papa Bradley’s eyes. He could burn the house down and Papa would just say, ‘That’s fine, son, I was tired of the place anyway.’” She smiled at Dad. “And here we are, still happily married after all these years, and all three of our children have turned out so well.” She gave me a big smile. “That must really stick in the old bastard’s craw.” She looked at Frank. “Papa Bradley has always disapproved of me, you know.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Frank replied, giving me a sly wink she didn’t see.
Mom chose to ignore the sarcasm and took it literally. “I’m a bad influence on John. And of course, it’s my fault Scotty’s gay—the liberal, pinko communist way I raised him, you know.” She scowled. “He’s stuck in the McCarthy era. He thinks women should be deferential housewives and mothers, that blacks belong in the back of the bus, Mexicans should all be sent home, and all gays should go back in the closet. Can you believe an educated man, in this day and age, thinks being gay is something you choose?”
“I chose to be gay,” I grinned at Frank, “when I was about five years old. When I saw Greg Louganis diving in the Los Angeles Olympics in that stars-and-stripes Speedo, I was lost to heterosexuality forever.” I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together. “That body! That butt! That bulge!” I batted my eyelashes at him. “There was no hope for me after that.”
“They do always say it’s the mother’s fault,” Frank replied, and ducked for cover as Mom threw her napkin at him.
“Horse shit. I’m so fucking sick of that idiocy.” Mom exploded, her face a thundercloud. “Why would anyone would choose to be gay—”
“The great sex,” I whispered, and Frank elbowed me in the side.
“To be discriminated against and treated like a second-class citizen? Would anyone choose to be bullied and called names in school? Would—”
Dad interrupted her gently.“He was teasing you, dear.”
“Oh.” She gave Frank a black look before grinning and wagging her finger at him. “You’re just lucky I love you, Frank.”
“I know.” Frank patted my leg. “Every day when I wake up I thank the universe for my incredible good fortune.”
“I do the same thing,” Dad replied, rolling his eyes as Mom slugged him in the arm.
We all laughed, and I was crumpling up my burger wrapper when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be Father Dan!” Mom jumped to her feet, heading for the back door. She called back over her shoulder, “He called when we were on our way home and I invited him over.”
“I’ll open some more wine.” Dad got up and went into the kitchen.
“I really hate your aunt Enid,” Frank said once Dad was out of earshot.
I opened my mouth and closed it without saying anything.
“She’s a homophobe,” Frank whispered as Dad came back into the living room, struggling with a wine bottle and the corkscrew. Frank jumped up and took them from Dad with a grin and winked at me as he freed the cork in two twists.
I just stared at him, my mouth open. Where the hell did that come from?
Aunt Enid was odd, sure, no argument there, but a homophobe?
Seriously?
“Thanks, Frank,” Dad plopped back down in his chair with a sigh of relief. “It’s like I have a mental block with corkscrews—I can never get them to work.”
Frank sat back down next to me as Dad refilled our glasses. I gave him a look that clearly said what did she say to you and he just shook his head slightly, mouthing “later” to me as I heard the back door shut.
“Scotty! Frank!” Father Dan rubbed his hands together as he walked into the living room, Mom on his heels. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a black and gold Saints muffler around his neck, and a tight pair of black jeans. He leaned down and kissed us both on the cheek and shook hands with Dad before taking his jacket off.
I’ve known Father Dan Marshall almost my entire life—or at least as long as I can remember. I’m not sure how old he actually is, but he’s most likely in his late forties or early fifties. It just seemed like he’d always been around, sitting in the living room getting stoned with Mom and Dad and arguing politics with them. He’s tall, maybe an inch or so over six feet, and has always worked out regularly. He’s striking more than handsome, with a long narrow face, even white teeth, and blue eyes. He’s got a great body—when I was a teenager I’d had a huge crush on him. At the time, the incongruity of having sexual fantasies about a Roman Catholic priest never crossed my mind. He was always tanned, and his body was amazing—broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with a big round hard ass that always seemed to be straining the seams of his jeans. But the most striking thing about him was his hair. He had the thickest, most beautiful blond hair I’ve ever seen. He usually wore it long and parted in the center, but as he removed the muffler from around his neck, I noticed he’d gotten it cut short for him. It was parted on the side and stopped just above the ears, but there was still a lot of it. He was wearing a red and black plaid flannel shirt with the top two buttons undone, given me a glimpse of the smoothly muscled valley between his strong pecs.
He took the glass of wine Dad was offering with a grateful smile and sat down in a wingback chair facing all of us. He took a sip and opened his eyes wide. “Oh, that’s good,” he grinned, taking another sip. “I’ve been needing some wine for hours.”
“A Chilean Merlot,” Dad replied, refilling his own glass while Mom loaded a pipe with some of their best marijuana.
“It’s perfect.” Father Dan set the glass down before taking the pipe from Mom. He lit the bowl and took a long hit, holding it for a moment with his eyes closed before blowing a cloud out toward the ceiling. He coughed a few times, and took another drink of his wine. He passed the pipe over to me.
It’s always a little unnerving to smoke pot with a Roman Catholic priest. No matter how many times I’d done it, I still hadn’t gotten used to it.
I took a hit and passed it to Frank, who also took a big hit before handing it over to Mom, who dumped the ash and reloaded it for herself. I suppressed a giggle. I was smoking pot with a priest and a retired FBI agent, I thought, and had to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing out loud.
Damn, it was good pot.
“So, how did the meeting go? I’m sorry we had to miss it,” Mom said, blowing out a massive cloud of smoke. She checked the pipe and sheepishly reloaded it.
“It went really well—much better than I could have hoped.” Father Dan replied, sipping his wine. “According to our Facebook page, we should have about two or three hundred people at the counter
-rally.” He shrugged. “But you never know how many people that’s really going to translate to, you know? I’m hoping we get more of a crowd than they do—that’s pretty much been the case everywhere this ridiculous tour of hate has been. But this is Louisiana, so who knows?”
“This is the counter-rally at the Dove Ministry of Truth, I assume?” I asked, trying not to cough as I passed Frank the pipe. The Dove Ministry of Truth was a megachurch on Airline Drive in Kenner.
“That’s another one I’d like to punch right in the face—that bitch Peggy MacGillicudy. What’s it to her if gays and lesbians can get married? Who cares? If my marriage isn’t strong enough to survive Frank and Scotty getting married, well, there’s something else seriously wrong with my marriage.” Mom spread her hands. “How are gays and lesbians responsible for the divorce rate in this country?”
“It’s just bigotry cloaked in religion,” Father Dan replied. “I for one am tired of having my faith perverted by people who don’t understand the teachings of Christ.” He rubbed his hands together.
“But you’re a priest.” Frank put the pipe down on the coffee table. “Doesn’t the Catholic Church—”
“As long as I keep a low profile, the Archdiocese lets me minister to the LGBT community,” Father Dan grinned. “Of course, I’m sure Archbishop Pugh thinks I’m trying to get them to renounce their sin. And what the Archbishop doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“But isn’t the counter-protest going to be pretty high-profile?” I asked.
“That’s why I’m listed as the organizer,” Mom informed me. “Father Dan’s name isn’t anywhere, and he won’t be there.”
I looked at his smiling face. Many times over the years I wondered why he simply didn’t renounce his Catholicism—it would certainly have made his life easier. As a gay priest, the conflict within himself had to rip him apart sometimes.
“And if they want to have a ‘protect marriage’ rally in Kenner, well, I’m not going to let them go unanswered,” Father Dan went on. “The Community Center, P-FLAG, Forum for Equality—everyone’s getting involved.”
“Why would they have one in Louisiana in the first place?” Frank asked. “There’s already a constitutional amendment here banning same-sex marriage—no one’s trying to repeal it, right?”
“That’s right, Frank—it passed in 2004.” Father Dan sighed. “The year the right clung to power by campaigning against the rights of gays and lesbians nationwide.”
“And there’s no chance of it being repealed any time soon, not with all the ignorant bigots in this state,” Mom went on. “No, she’s just trying to raise some more money for PAM. I mean, really, that’s what this is all about—raising money. Peggy MacGillicudy has turned this into her job.” She spat the word “job.” “She’s gotten all the Louisiana bigots to speak—although for some reason I can’t fathom, the governor isn’t going to be there. I can’t believe he’d pass up a chance to bash the queers, but there you go. And guess who the star speaker of the day is?” Her eyes glinted.
I closed my eyes, remembering her with a wet cloth pressed against her bleeding nose in Papa Bradley’s hallway. “Tara Bourgeois, of course.”
“Tara Bourgeois, our very own homegrown homophobe.” Mom took the pipe off the coffee table and took another hit. “You know her book is being released this week—she’s going to be on all the big talk shows, and of course, they’re going to be selling her book at the rally—she’s donating all the proceeds to PAM.” PAM stood for Protecting American Marriage—but not from divorce or adultery or any of the real threats to marriage. Nope, they were protecting it from the insidious danger of the homosexual. “I really do hope I broke her fucking nose.”
“Violence is never the answer, Cecile,” Father Dan said with a frown. “And where exactly did you run into Tara Bourgeois?”
Mom scowled and proceeded to fill him in on everything that happened at Papa Bradley’s house.
While they were distracted—Father Dan occasionally making “oh dear” noises—I whispered to Frank, “What exactly did Enid say to you?”
His eyes narrowed and his face flushed with anger. The nerve started twitching in his jaw again. “She told me Jared was bringing Tara. Before I had a chance to even say anything, she went on a tirade about how terrible it was the way the gays treated her, and picked on her, trying to keep her from exercising her First Amendment rights, and how she had a right to her opinion, and the gays of all people should know what it was like to be silenced and treated badly.”
My jaw dropped. I was so stunned I couldn’t say anything.
“I couldn’t believe what I was hearing,” Frank went on when I remained silent, “and at first I thought she was yanking my chain, you know? But she wasn’t kidding, Scotty. She was serious, deadly serious. And she kept saying ‘the gays, you people’—things like that. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.” His jaw set. “I know she’s your aunt, but I don’t want that homophobic bitch to ever set foot in our house again. No offense, but I don’t put up with that kind of hateful bullshit from my own family, I sure as hell am not going to from her.”
I nodded—because I still couldn’t speak. My mind was reeling.
Surely she had to have been teasing him. Enid was one of the first Bradleys to be cool with my being gay—some of them, I reminded myself, still weren’t—and while we hadn’t been close in years, I couldn’t believe she could have changed that much. She used to go to gay bars with me, and had a great time. She used to lecture me for not being more active in the gay rights struggle. She’d volunteered for the NO/AIDS Task Force for years, delivering food to AIDS patients so ill they couldn’t get out of the house.
How could she possibly defend a homophobic bigot like Tara Bourgeois?
To Frank?
To be completely honest, she’d only started getting on my nerves as I grew older—and came to understand her better. As my sister Rain once said, “a little Enid goes a long way.” She could be fun to be around, with her childish enthusiasm and little-girl mannerisms—and she could be really funny. But what I’d always seen as her selflessness actually came with a price tag attached. If you didn’t do exactly what she wanted you to when she wanted you to, all the little things she’d done for you in the past got thrown back in your face as an example of her moral superiority and your own failures as a human being.
And another part of her immaturity was a mentality Storm described once as “I can say anything about anyone any time no matter how awful, but if anyone teases me or is the least bit critical of me, well, YOU ARE THE MOST HORRIBLE PERSON THAT EVER LIVED!” I’d seen this behavior a few times—and it was directed at me once.
After that experience of uncontrollable hysteria with tears alternating with a blinding, venomous rage—I’d kept her at a distance for a long time.
But Frank really liked her. Whenever she needed his help, Frank was there in a split second, literally dropping everything to rush to her assistance. He liked her, laughed at her jokes, and was always available when she needed someone to have lunch with or go see a movie with. It worried me a little, but she always seemed to be on her best behavior with him.
Until now.
Shock slowly began to give way to anger. How dare she? I thought. If Enid had been right there in front of me at that moment I would have cheerfully strangled her. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “No worries, Frank,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, she no longer exists.”
The relief on his face made my heart hurt just a little. “Are you sure? I mean, she’s your aunt—”
I cut him off. “You’re my family, Frank.”
“I love you.” He put his hand on my leg.
I kissed his cheek again but told myself dear old Enid was going to get it from me with both barrels the next time she was unlucky enough to see me.
“You two are coming to the rally, right?” Mom said, bringing me back into the conversation.
When she’d first mentioned it, I’d star
ted thinking of excuses not to go. But now I was angry, and I wanted to do something about it.
“What time do we need to be there?” I asked, and grinned to myself as Mom spluttered a bit before answering. Obviously, she’d expected an argument.
“Meet here at eight in the morning.” Father Dan smiled at Frank and me. “We need to strategize our plan of attack.”
“Dear, remind me to leave eggs out so they’ll be nice and rotten for Saturday.” Mom patted Dad’s leg. “Miss Bourgeois is in for a nice surprise.”
I smothered a laugh. Mom’s aim was perfect. If she had a clear shot, Tara was going to get a rotten egg square in the face.
“Such a pity,” Father Dan said, shaking his head. “I went to high school with her mother, you know. Marilou was such a nice girl, with a big heart. If only—” He broke off.
“People change, Dan,” Mom replied with a sigh. “More wine?”
Isn’t that the truth? I thought angrily.
I was going to make Enid sorry she’d ever opened her mouth.
Chapter Three
Ten of Wands
One who is carrying an oppressive load
I woke up around eight thirty the next morning with a mild hangover.
It wasn’t the worst one I’d ever had—I didn’t feel like death would be a welcome release. I was just slightly nauseous, with a mild headache. Frank was dead to the world beside me, sleeping on his side with his back to me. His body heat was great.
The apartment felt like a refrigerator. We’d turned the heat off when we’d staggered home—the apartment had been stuffy and dry, and we both sleep better in the cold.
There’s nothing better than snuggling underneath a pile of blankets.
It was raining. I could see that out the bedroom window when I turned away from Frank. I moaned to myself. It was another typically gray, cold, and drizzly January day in New Orleans—perfect for staying in a warm bed buried under blankets. I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, to no avail, so I decided I might as well get out of bed and face the day.