by Zoe Whittall
“I said that I still loved you.”
“And?”
He shrugged, shifting around under the duvet nervously. “To be honest, she told me you weren’t worth my time. That she’d make a better girlfriend. I told her I wasn’t interested.”
“That bitch!” Sadie said, smiling, trying to prove she wasn’t bothered. She climbed on top of him, taking off her shirt.
“Then she offered to blow me anyway,” he said, grinning.
“No fucking way,” Sadie said. She pulled the pillow out from under his head and hit him with it, got up, cocking her hip faux casual. She pulled a bra from the back of her desk chair and clipped it around her waist. “Was she any good?”
“It didn’t happen.”
“Are you serious? You turned down a blow job even though I dumped you?” She pulled her bra up, running a finger under the elastic to adjust it, before pulling on a uniform shirt.
He winced visibly at the cruelty of her tone, the mention of her dumping him.
“Not really … Mrs. Collier walked in just as she was about to—”
“Oh.”
“I don’t like her. I’m not even attracted to her …”
“Well, if you were willing to let her do that, then you have to find her attractive somehow.”
“Not really.”
“Whatever, it’s fine. Let’s split … We should actually get to school on time today.”
“You’re jealous,” he said, smiling.
“I’m not jealous of Cheryl!”
“Well, she’s not four hundred years old like Kevin,” Jimmy said.
“I didn’t have a crush on Kevin. I was confused,” she said.
Jimmy started down the attic ladder, ignoring her comment. “Come on, I can’t be late again.”
When Sadie reached the landing, he put his mouth on hers, but she pulled away. It wasn’t his fault, and she had no leg to stand on, but she felt angry about Cheryl anyhow.
thirty-seven
when joan woke up in the late afternoon after her last night shift, she found Jimmy and Sadie in the kitchen, making open-faced tomato and pickle sandwiches. Sadie’s legs were pulled up against her chest where she perched on a high stool, and Jimmy was at the toaster, slathering slices with mayo when they popped up.
“This is the perfect amount,” he explained, “for three slices of pickle and two tomato. I’ve tested it.”
“I like it with a bit of Dijon,” Sadie said.
“The horror!”
Jimmy turned the music up, and they both started rapping along perfectly with a song emanating from one of their phones as she entered the kitchen. They looked up at her but kept singing as she prepped the coffee maker.
“Are you guys stoned?”
“No,” Sadie said. Jimmy laughed.
“Because we are being scrutinized. I wouldn’t want reporters to snap a photo of the deranged daughter. Are you two back together?” Joan crossed her arms. Why was she chastising them for looking happy and relaxed for the first time in ages? Why couldn’t she just let the moment happen? She pulled at the sleeves of her housecoat and tried not to be so grumpy.
Jimmy looked at Sadie’s face for an answer. She took a bite of her sandwich and shrugged while she chewed. Kids could break up and get back together so easily. The way they looked at each other, it was as though nothing had happened. Joan wanted to take a photo of that moment.
“Mom, stare much?” Sadie offered up a look that was part smile, part scowl, just like she used to. Joan wanted to tell her to savour these moments, but she just fumbled with the coffee tin and looked out the window at the lake.
She pocketed her phone and decided to leave them alone. She looked at the to-do list she’d written on the back of an envelope and put up on the fridge. The first item was George’s Office. Now was as good a time as any, she reasoned, to box it up.
It existed like a dusty tomb; the housekeeper ignored it and so did everyone else, generally. When she opened the door, she was overwhelmed by the stale smells, the ones she still associated with him: cigar smoke, the spice candle layered in dust, his aftershave.
She moved around the room faster than she had moved in months, as though her muscles had lost years overnight, springs uncoiled and fluid. She flattened out crumpled papers, threw away notes she was pretty sure George would have thought essential, looked for clues, and when she found none, she recycled everything else. The landline phone rang three times in a row, Bennie’s number on the call display, but she didn’t pick up.
Her cell rang next. She went to her office and retrieved her paper shredder, put Andrew on speaker while she fed pages of George’s work into its teeth.
“Mom, you can’t abandon Dad completely before the trial,” Andrew said. “What is that noise?”
“You visit. You call. I need space! I’m shredding his thesis!” Joan yelled. There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Andrew, I shouldn’t yell at you like that.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I get it,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
She gathered up the refuse in clear plastic bags and put them into the recycling bin outside. She hauled the tallest kitchen stool upstairs and sprayed down the curtain rods and polished the window panes. His large wooden desk, normally covered with papers, mail, books, mugs filled with pens, and knick-knacks, was completely empty by the end of the evening, everything in a file box and placed in the hall closet. Joan set the vacuum robot to On, left the room, and closed the door. George had never allowed the housekeeper into his office, and it was a dusty, disorganized space, and she bet that the rug hadn’t been vacuumed in years.
when clara’s texts went unanswered, she showed up at the house. When Joan got down on the floor to whiten the baseboards, Clara put on giant plastic gloves, tied her hair up, and joined her. Every room looked as if a bright white highlighter was embracing it.
“Have you told Sadie about Sarah Myers?” Clara started, whitening what was already white as Joan rubbed uselessly at a scuff mark.
“I think Sadie has had her heart broken enough for one year,” she said.
“You’re probably right,” Clara said, standing up and going into the kitchen. “Is she visiting him yet?”
“No, she’s still refusing to go. But they speak on the phone regularly,” Joan said. “I just want her to finish school, solidify her plans for next year, stay on track. I don’t want this year to ruin her life.”
“I don’t want that for you either, Joan,” said Clara. “You should call the divorce lawyer.”
“It’s not like I have a lot of great years ahead of me either way,” said Joan.
“Uh, way to be upbeat. I’m going to make you watch that Molly Shannon ‘I’m Fifty’ skit from snl again.”
“I’m not like you, Clara. I’m not independent. I don’t love being alone.”
“Well, sometimes you just have to accept a shitty situation, Joan. Accept it, and maybe your feelings will change.”
Part Three
the week before the trial
thirty-eight
andrew realized he was seeing another season change in Avalon Hills. His father’s trial was now only one week away, and it was warm enough to wear a T-shirt and sit in a strip of sun on the dock. He no longer felt strange to be back in this landscape as an adult. He was looking out at the horizon across the water and it soothed the jagged edges of his psyche. He was building new associations with the town, with the house. When people recognized him at the drugstore, he was no longer the gay kid who came home for Christmas. Now, he was the eldest Woodbury, who was sticking around to help out. The more he was seen, the more people got used to him. He’d even seen Alan, the cop who used to bully him, and been awarded the nod, that small-town acknowledgement that was like being part of a club of some sort. Still, he missed the city every day and couldn’t wait
to leave.
He dipped his toes in the water and leaned back. The phone buzzed again, and he picked it up to see an endless scroll of calls from various people. A co-worker, Clara, and Jared over and over. Emails came in, all with similar subject lines, like “Have you seen this yet?” They all linked to a Gawker article. The headline read avalon hills gym teacher rumored to have relationship with woodbury son while he was still in high school.
He clicked to Facebook, where his entire page was filled with outraged speculation. He deleted his account, leaned his body all the way back against the dock, and called Jared.
“Okay. I need you this time, honey. I mean it.”
“This is Andrew Woodbury and I want to say on the record that the rumour about myself and the coach at school is not only patently ridiculous, and obviously fuelled by small-town homophobic attitudes, it’s libellous. If you don’t retract immediately, I will be serving you with a lawsuit.” Andrew hung up the phone.
Joan was running in circles around him, mopping the kitchen floor. “Your coach? Really, Andrew? Is this true?” This news would have gutted her a year ago, but he supposed that now it probably didn’t seem so bad, by comparison. He felt a bit of relief at her finding out, knowing. But he didn’t want to add to her grief, either.
“Yes, it’s true. It’s not a big deal. He was in his early twenties, I was seventeen — hardly a difference at all.”
Andrew felt a strange, protective feeling for Stuart. This was the kind of thing that would just devastate him.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, the only excuse he could think of to leave the room. “Jared will be here any minute.”
that evening, when Jared pulled the car into the Woodbury estate driveway, Andrew met him outside and convinced him to go to Icons!
“Let me take my bags in and get settled, don’t you think?”
Andrew nodded impatiently, helping him with his suitcase. Jared hugged Joan while Andrew took his things upstairs. Then he told his mother they were going out and wouldn’t be long. Jared drank a glass of water and shrugged his shoulders at Joan and Sadie as he followed Andrew out the door. Andrew headed to the car as Jared called after him, trying to keep up.
“Is this about Stuart? How are you feeling now that the secret is out?” Jared asked, getting into the passenger seat. “What made you change your mind about inviting me here?”
“No one else would get it. I need your support.” Andrew adjusted the mirrors and plugged his phone into the stereo, turned his music on and then up. Jared turned the volume down as Andrew backed out towards the gate.
“I can support you about everything, Andrew. You don’t need to be alone. This is a heavy secret to come out.”
“It’s not a secret, Jared. It’s just my life. It’s not uncommon and I’m not ashamed of anything. I’m just worried about Stuart, what it’s going to do to him.” He turned to point the remote control gate opener through the gap between their seats and then clipped it back onto the sun visor.
“You’re worried about Stuart? That’s interesting.”
“Interesting? He doesn’t have much, Jared. Just his job, just this small-town life. Being gay around here isn’t easy.”
“I know, honey, I know. But he’s an adult. He was always an adult. And this is one of the wealthiest, whitest areas in the country. Forgive me if I don’t play a tiny violin for him.”
“Gay men of his era are constantly told they’re privileged, but do you know what they went through? Most of them had terrible isolated childhoods, then lost half their friends to aids. Can you imagine if twenty of our friends just up and died?”
“Stuart’s not that much older than us, Andrew. He decided to stay closeted, and live with the associated misery. I just don’t feel bad for him. I feel bad for you, in this situation.”
“Oh Christ, not you too.”
“I’m not trying to pathologize you or use the abuse word, but don’t you ever think about it? That it was wrong?”
“No, it wasn’t wrong at all.”
“Okay,” he said, pausing for a moment. “Okay. I believe you.”
“No, you don’t. You’re placating me because you don’t want conflict,” Andrew said. “That’s not very New York of you.”
“No, I understand it’s not always black and white in these situations, and seventeen is old enough to know what you want and with whom. I get it. I do. I’m just protective of you, babe. I just want you to be okay.”
“I’m totally okay,” Andrew said, turning the music back up and gunning the engine. The Beastie Boys prevented any further conversation.
Andrew could have driven this route in his sleep, and had driven it drunk so many times in his youth, pretending to be coming home from a late theatre rehearsal or from watching movies at his best friend’s house. He’d bet he could close his eyes and still get there in one piece.
Jared laughed when he saw the parking lot outside Icons! “Is this where icons are murdered? It’s an unmarked cement block. It’s like the fucking 1950s. It’s kind of … romantic. How does anyone know what it is?”
“That’s the point. Someone has to tell you,” Andrew said, turning off the car.
Jared pointed towards the only other building in sight, a brick block painted purple that stood a few feet away from Icons! “What’s that building?”
“That’s Sappho’s Muse,” he said.
“You are joking.”
“I’m not, babe.”
“It’s so rough trade,” he said.
“Woodbridge is an industrial town, serious poverty. This is the only gay bar for three counties,” Andrew said, gritting his teeth, feeling a bit embarrassed that Jared was seeing him here.
“Were you scared of this place when you were a teenager? I mean, your childhood photos look like they’re taken from 1990s J.Crew catalogues,” Jared said.
Andrew knew then why he’d resisted showing Jared this side of his past. Jared grew up in Brooklyn, the son of leftist artists. Small-town gay life was fascinating to him — the secrecy, the danger, the customs. Andrew knew the bar would end up being an interesting anecdote he told at parties back in the city, weaving it into the narrative he understood to be Andrew’s life before New York. The truth was, Andrew didn’t share much about his childhood, preferring to refer to it in general terms such as typical suburbia, nothing special.
“This is bananas,” said Jared as they walked towards the entrance. “They don’t even have a sign! It looks like a biker clubhouse!”
inside the bar, a group of ragtag queens were giving a show, all of the performers sitting at a table up front and taking turns getting up at the mic. The place was fairly packed. Jared was, as expected, thrilled to be watching the performers rotate through the seventies classics. He found a stool by the bar and took it all in, pumped.
Stuart was at his usual table, just as he was the night Andrew went dancing with Clara. “Don’t look right away, but that’s Stuart,” Andrew whispered to Jared, who looked right away. Andrew swatted his leg.
“Wow, he’s … a jock. He looks like Tim Allen. Introduce us,” Jared said.
“No!”
“Come on.”
“Let’s get a drink first.”
They ordered pints, and as they sipped their beer, he told Jared stories about his time as a regular fixture at Icons!, with an id that read James Patterson. Every once in a while he stole a glance at Stuart, who was now sitting beside the same young companion from the last visit. Stuart didn’t look happy to see Andrew.
“I feel like I’m in an Andrew Holleran novel!” Jared said.
Andrew frowned and wished he’d come by himself. It was disorienting to be both his regular self and his old self at the same time.
They were almost done their pints when Stuart approached Andrew at the bar.
“Reporters have been calli
ng me non-stop,” he said. “They came to the school. It’s all over the Internet.”
Jared shimmied closer to them, proffering his hand for a shake. “Stuart, I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Jared.”
Stuart turned to Jared, confused. “Who?”
“Jared — Andrew’s partner.”
Stuart shook his hand, gave him a quick scan, and turned back to Andrew.
“The principal told me I have to get a lawyer,” he said. “I can’t afford that.”
“I have no idea where they got this information. I called the original reporter and denied it. I threatened libel.”
“Oh honey, don’t do that. You know that if you did sue, they’d find someone who knew us. Someone would talk. It would just be worse,” Stuart said, sloshing some beer around, which landed on Andrew’s leg. Andrew dabbed at his jeans uselessly with a cocktail napkin, listening to Stuart slur his words and repeat himself. Jared gave Stuart the sympathetic look he reserved for old people or the homeless.
“Okay, okay. I thought I was doing the right thing, denying it.”
Stuart nodded. “Let’s just not speak to anyone at all. It will die down. We shouldn’t be seen together.” He looked around, scanning the crowd, none of whom were paying the slightest bit of attention to them.
“It will be okay. The media is mostly obsessed with my father. I’m sure you’ll be forgotten.”
“Except everyone thinks I’m gay now, you know, at work and stuff.”
“Well, who cares? It’s not a crime. Take a positive from this and use it to be more open about it. There are other gay teachers at the school, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. Everyone thinks gays are pedophiles, and fuck, this is, like, their proof.”
“You should be more careful about your, uh, date over there,” Andrew said.
“Oh, that’s Jay. He’s twenty-three,” Stuart said. “Don’t worry about Jay.”
Andrew nodded and regarded the young man at the table again. He looked even younger than Andrew remembered. Stuart wasn’t being careful at all.