“No, I don’t know,” I am forced to admit, not even sure what we are talking about.
She hesitates, as if she hates to even mention his name. “Richard and Morgan. I could have sworn that… well, I mean, it’s just that I’ve seen the two of you together for long enough to know that he really loves you, Max, I feel it so strongly. And I’ve seen him and Morgan together, and I’ve never seen any evidence of it, not on Richard’s end. You know what I mean?”
“I guess he hides it well,” I suggest bitterly.
Cat bites at her lower lip thoughtfully. “I don’t know.” She sounds doubtful.
“What do you think, then? Morgan put him under some sort of enchantment? Forced him to put his hands down his pants and kiss him?” I can’t help but be sarcastic, and it shows.
“Maybe,” she says, looking as if she knows I won’t believe her, but still she feels compelled to say it. “There’s something not right about Morgan that I can’t quite put my finger on.”
“He’s a major league prick and a complete bastard.” I try to fill in the blanks, helpfully.
“Does Richard still call you?” she asks, her blue eyes meeting mine.
I shake my head. He did at first, all the time. But the calls have diminished gradually until they have fallen off completely. Not that I answered any of them or listened to any of the messages. But I have to wonder what that means, even though I shouldn’t give a big rat’s ass. “Has he called you?”
“Just that once, that’s all,” she says apologetically. “But that one time told me a lot, Max. I mean, I could hear in his voice how upset he was, and how confused.”
“Confused? What has he to be confused about?” My head aches just thinking about it.
“I’m not sure,” Cat admits, “but I’d like to find out. Max, can I ask you something and not upset you?”
“You can ask me anything, Cat,” I reassure her.
“Can you tell me everything you’ve seen between the two of them?” she asked. “Every encounter that you remember, every detail that you recall? I know it’s a strange question, but humor me, please?”
I shrug. What differences does it make now? I tell her everything that comes to mind, from the moment of their first meeting in this very house to the final scene at the King’s Regency. Down to the last painful detail. Cat listens carefully and makes no comment, storing all the facts in her mind for later perusal. Then she tactfully changes the subject. Cat is such a dear; she goes out of her way to avoid giving pain to anyone.
“Max, you need to get out of the house. It’s not healthy being cooped up here all the time. Why don’t you go into the office, at least? Go in with Rachel one day, just give yourself a break. Maggie misses you.”
“I miss her, too, but I don’t want to.” I am childishly adamant about that. I do miss Maggie, and I have talked to her on the phone, of course. I know that she is very upset about Richard, and she defends him, insisting that I must have misunderstood something. But she didn’t see what I saw that night or she wouldn’t be saying that. I know how she feels about him, though, so I forebear from saying anything bad—or anything at all about him, actually. She’s not the reason I am avoiding the office; I’d rather not run into Amy right now and have to hear news of her fucking nephew. I don’t know what she knows, what anyone knows, and it’s easier for me simply to hide in my cottage, even with all the memories, to burrow into the sand and pretend the outside world—and Richard Burke—doesn’t exist. Call me childish. I don’t care.
But that plan is all for naught when it is brought to me in my own home. Without calling first and even ascertaining that I am home—perhaps she talked to Rachel first, I don’t know—my mother breezes in one day with Amy in tow, ostensibly to check up on me. Am I being cynical about this, considering the level of her concern over the past few months? I don’t know. And yes, I do keep saying that quite a bit, don’t I? Frankly, right now I don’t know much of anything.
She folds me into her arms as if nothing has happened between us, as if she hasn’t defected to the enemy camp and dedicated her life to eradicating the true nature of Maximillian Montague, cookie-stamping it into the new-and-improved heterosexual version. Amy sandwiches me between them—how uncomfortable!—and murmurs the appropriate words of sympathy and sorrow. How fucking hypocritical of both of them! And yet does Max say anything? No, Max does not, weakling that he is. Sometimes I simply despise myself.
We sit in the library. Right now my whole life revolves around that one room, I think. My mother insists on making coffee for us, so I simply let her; it’s easier than arguing with her. While she’s in the kitchen, I sit uneasily with Amy, warily even.
“Max, I’m so sorry,” she says, laying a sympathetic hand on my arm. I try not to be too obvious when I pull away from her, reaching behind her to straighten a book on the shelf. “I don’t know what got into Morgan. He’s not usually like that. I mean, well, I don’t know what to say.”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.” I try not to sound too stiff, but I have to question that she didn’t have some inclination of what was going on. After all, the bastard lived with her. Surely she saw them together at some time? Seriously.
“I understand, Max.” She smiles at me, with those muddy brown eyes of hers looking at me like she is ready to pounce on me at any moment. Damn. I glance toward the kitchen. Where is my mother when I need her? Luckily, she has better timing than usual and brings in three cups of coffee on a tray. She sets the tray on the coffee table and takes her place on the other side of me. Once again I am sandwiched.
“Max, I wish I knew what to say,” she says. Internally I am thinking “please don’t start, Mother.” “I’m so sorry, honey. I know you must be devastated. My poor baby.” She rubs my shoulders. It reminds me of when I was little and she would hold me in her arms after the full moon and tell me everything was going to be fine, and that she loved me. Honestly, I do love my mother, very much, even if I don’t seem like I do lately. And even if she sometimes acts like she is ashamed of me.
But then she has to go and ruin the moment. “Terranova is concerned about you too.” Wrong thing to say, Mother. “We’d love to have you join us at church this weekend.” She hesitates for a moment. “There is something we’d like to discuss with you. Something important. You do know that Rachel comes every Sunday, don’t you?”
Yes, I know that, but I also know that it’s not for any religious purpose. Rachel has been talking to Josiah King, in an attempt to ferret out information on the Right Reverend Fisher. Of course I don’t mention that. “I know. I’ll think about it,” I vacillate weakly, even though there is no way in hell I am ever going back to that church—at least not until Reverend T. Fisher is laid to rest there. That’ll be the day I’ll show up and do a victory dance around his coffin. And in the meantime I pray that she never brings him to my home, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her just that
“I told Richard not to bother calling me anymore.” The abrupt change in subject startles me. “That you’re done with him and that he shouldn’t bother trying to come out here to see you, either.”
“Mother, it’s still half his house,” I point out practically, though the idea of having to confront him leaves me both hot and cold at the same time. Why will my traitorous heart leap at the mention of his name one second, then fall broken and dying the next? I’m really surprised that he has made no effort to get any of his things. All his equipment is here, so how can he be working? Not that I should care. And of course I don’t. I really don’t. How many times do you think I need to say that before I begin to believe it myself? Too many to think about….
“I knew it was a mistake back then, putting his name on the title.” My mother never lets anything alone. I sigh.
“He helped pay for it; it seemed the thing to do,” I retort, wondering if the sarcasm will simply go over her head.
“It was mostly your money,” she replies, and I don’t have the time, the in
clination, nor the patience to argue with her, nor do I wish to produce financial records to indicate otherwise. It’s just not worth it. I know the truth, and so does Richard. Richard. Why do my thoughts continue to revolve around him when I should hate the very sound of his name, rather than grow weak at the knees when I hear it? I can’t even hate him properly, can I? Perhaps I should get lessons, take a correspondence course: How to Hate Your Ex 101. But then again, if I could, I guess I just wouldn’t be me. Le sigh.
My mother rises suddenly and bustles out of the room again, saying she is hungry and will fix us all a quick snack. Amy takes advantage of her absence to place one of her hands on my knee, a bony arm around my shoulder, and I try not to show my repugnance at her proximity. She is just trying to be nice, isn’t she? Or is she? Does she have ulterior motives? Or am I simply too suspicious?
“I want to help you through this, Max,” she is saying in what she probably considers to be friendly tones. I just think her voice is unpleasant, even though others have said she has a decent speaking voice. After all, she was once an actress. For what that’s worth. “I want to show you that I’m your friend,” she continues, “and always have been. Max, I want to be more than a friend to you.” Oh God, not again, does she never give up? I hear myself groan. What is it with her and her unhealthy fixation on me, an obviously gay male? “Don’t worry, I won’t rush you,” she reassures me, completely oblivious to my reaction to her declaration—how fucking nice of her. “Take your time, I understand.” And she pats the same knee in a most irritating manner that makes me want to slap her hand away. If Richard could see her, he would surely kill her, I know. Which only depresses me all the more, because he can’t.
When my mother returns with a big bowl of popcorn and mugs of hot chocolate, she tells me not to be discouraged, the right person is out there for me, I’ll find her someday, etcetera, etcetera, emphasis on her, of course. I roll my eyes inwardly. Does she lead the Amy Banneker fan club now? Surely it’s not coincidental that they are singing the same theme song: how to change a gay boy into a straight boy with the use of the proper female. Do they think it’s just as simple as flipping a switch or getting up one day and announcing that henceforth I no longer wish to be known as gay?
Once again I repeat: it is not a persuasion; it’s as genetic as hair color or eye color. The size of one’s feet or one’s intelligence. And it wouldn’t be a big deal if people didn’t make it out to be one. I often wonder, just what are homophobes really frightened of, anyway?
And I am soooooooo tired of having to explain myself. Not to mention that I am just not in the mood. “I’m fucking gay,” I growl. “Mother, you gave birth to a gay child, face the facts. No more blind dates!” I abruptly exit the room, slam my bedroom door, leaving them open-mouthed and, at least momentarily, speechless. I can hear them talking amongst themselves – Mother making excuses and Amy protesting that none are necessary. They let themselves out, wisely remaining silent. Damn.
At least I am rid of them at last. Maybe I shouldn’t complain; this is the longest time I’ve spent in my mother’s company in months where she hasn’t been ranting and raving at me and telling me that I am evil because I am gay. Then again, I have every right to complain, and I can’t say I’m sorry I did. I settle myself on the couch, my blanket around me, a book in my lap. What book? Hell if I know. After a few minutes of futilely staring at the page, I realize that I am not really seeing the words, that it is Richard’s image that obscures my vision, his face which fills my mind’s eye.
I sigh and close the neglected tome, shut my eyes, and simply let my mind drift back to a certain blue-eyed blond. Max, you are so fucking weak. One minute you hate the man’s guts, the next you are sighing over him like a lovesick schoolboy. You say you never want to see him again, and yet who is on your mind every waking moment of every day, if not Richard Burke? Honestly! And after what he did to you, after what you saw! Where is your pride, man? Have you no fucking shame?
Luckily, before I can answer my own question, I hear Rachel pushing open the front door, her cheery voice calling out to me. “Max! I’m here!” She knows just where to find me, and it is mere moments before she enters the room and I am being caught up in her warm embrace. God, I don’t know what I’d do without Rachel.
“Have a good day, sweetie?” she asks, although she is the one who has gone out into the real world while Max cowers in the safety of his home.
“Mmmhmmm,” I respond, holding up the book to show her what I have been doing. “Guess who dropped in today?”
She looks at me apprehensively, as if she is afraid to guess, so I fill in the blanks. “Mother and Amy.” She looks relieved; she was probably expecting me to say Richard. I so wish. No, I don’t. Yes, I do. God, I’m pathetic.
“Did you have a nice visit?” she asks, curling up on the couch next to me, setting her briefcase on the floor beside the couch as she lays her head on my shoulder familiarly.
“Yes, if by nice you mean talking about Reverend Fuckface and being invited to his church of torture for some big discussion on Sunday, and then being propositioned by the woman who can’t seem to get through her fucking head that I’m gay and if I weren’t, she is the last woman on earth I’d touch with someone else’s dick, excuse my French!”
“Well,” she tries to laugh, “that wouldn’t be my definition of nice.” She reaches out and pats my cheek. “What do you feel like for dinner?
Shit, I knew I should have been doing something other than sitting here daydreaming about the man who broke my heart! I make an attempt to rise from my place of hibernation, my leg muscles protesting at the unaccustomed movement as if they have no wish to support me any longer. “Don’t get up, Max. I’ll get it in a few minutes,” she protests, preventing me from rising.
“Rach, I’m not crippled,” I point out, “and it’s not like I’m doing anything.”
She just laughs at me as she adjusts the cushion she is leaning against in an attempt to make herself more comfortable. “Ouch, what is so lumpy?” she asks, frowning at something, and before I can stop her, she reaches behind the cushion and pulls out… “A shirt? What the heck?” I reach for it hastily and take it back into my possession, guiltily, as she gives me one of her infamous Rachel looks. “It’s one of his, isn’t it, Max?” she says knowingly.
I nod slowly, holding it against me, not meeting her eyes, as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong. And yes, it’s one of Richard’s shirts, and it still has his scent on it, and I hold it at night and breathe him in. And yes, I know how pathetic that must sound, but there you go.
“Oh Max!” Rachel sighs and just envelops me in her warmth. “Everything will work out, you’ll see!”
I, on the other hand, am not so sure. Rachel glances at her watch. “Maybe I’ll pick up something on the way back,” she says finally, “I hadn’t realized how late it is. How does pizza sound?”
“On the way back? From where?”
“I told Josiah I’d meet him tonight, someplace not too far from the church.”
“Why? What’s going on?” I frown.
“I think he’s almost ready to tell me what we want to know,” she confides. “Cross your fingers, Max, that tonight is the night!”
I dutifully cross my fingers for her, still clutching the shirt. She grabs at her purse from beside her briefcase and rummages in it to make sure her cell phone is still there. “Pizza okay?” she asks again.
“Sure, sounds good,” I agree. “You should know what I like by now.”
“I should, shouldn’t I?” She bends down and kisses my forehead tenderly. “I won’t be too long; we can watch a movie while we eat, so pick one out while I’m gone.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say obediently. She waves to me cheerily and flies out the door, and moments later I hear her engine start, and then she is on the road.
I hope something comes of this. I would dearly love to know what secrets lie behind the phony facade of Terranova Fisher. There is no doubt in
my mind that he is as phony as a three dollar bill. And that somehow Amy and Morgan Arthur are suspect as well, I’m not sure why. Perhaps because they seem so thick. As thieves, as the saying goes.
I settle back against the cushions of the couch, wrapping my comforter around me, hold his shirt up to my cheek, feeling the fabric texture against my skin, breathing in the traces of him that linger on it, and dream of what might have been.
Still in love with Richard to the max. Why does it have to be this way?
Chapter 26
Of Ministers and Men
EARLY morning. I am asleep on the couch, but I’ve worked myself into a position where I’m half hanging off of it for some reason, my arm draped over the side, my hand knuckle-dragging along the floor. Must be comfortable, I’m sleeping. But then my cell phone goes off, and it startles me so much that I end up rolling completely off and onto the floor. Good thing I have soft carpeting. I reach for it sleepily, without bothering to check the caller ID. I don’t function well when awakened unexpectedly, I’m afraid.
“Max?”
The familiar voice quickly brings me to full consciousness as I try to scramble back onto the couch, my heart thumping in my chest. I’d recognize it anywhere. For a long moment, I hold the phone to my ear, indecisive and very vacillating. Should I stay or should I go?
“Max, it’s me. I’d like to talk—”
The verdict is go. I quickly press the OFF button. Then wonder if I should have. Should I have given him a chance? Listened to his side of the story? I know how smooth he is; he can explain anything, given enough time. “Swan Lake” again. Here’s my opportunity. Do I take it or not?
Not. I sigh as I simply turn the power off on my phone. I can’t do this. Not now. I’m just not ready.
I wander out of the library, leaving the cell phone on the couch, clad only in my pajama bottoms, bare feet softly padding onto the porch, careful not to make too much noise with the front door lest I disturb Rachel’s slumber. I settle myself onto the swing, tucking my feet beneath me, curling up in one corner with my arms wrapped around the cushion, my chin on the armrest, gazing out into the woods that surround my home. The cheery song of the early bird fills the air as he seeks the elusive invertebrate. I envy him his happiness. I did what I needed to do. Why then am I so unhappy?
To the Max Page 35