The Mary's Boys Collection

by Brandon Witt

  He should be home. In bed. The night had been even crazier than normal, but Halloween in the gay community always was. Thank God he’d flaked out on dressing up instead of trying drag for the first time like everyone had wanted. He was exhausted. He should just go home, drink a tumbler full of American Honey whiskey, and fall into bed.

  Well, no. That wasn’t what he should do. Not at all. But he wasn’t going to worry about what he should do. That’s what big sisters were for.

  Bed. He would go to bed.

  Instead he took a newly cleaned glass, tilted it beneath the nozzle, pulled back the lever, and filled it with golden beer.

  Steven sighed before it even touched his lips and again as he lowered the glass, then leaned against the bar, looking out at Mile-High Hamburger Mary’s.

  His Hamburger Mary’s.

  The retro pink-and-gold décor, vintage photos of half-naked musclemen, and a ceiling painted like a blue sky with white fluffy clouds were a far cry from the towering office high-rises of downtown Denver he’d left behind. He glanced at the wall of hooker-style stiletto shoes they used to deliver the bills to customers, and he smirked. Yeah, definitely not the world of corporate finance.

  Finance. Good God. What had he done?

  Steven had been rich, at least comparatively. A nice 401(k), a padded bank account, stock options. All of it traded in a midlife crisis of a choice to open a restaurant. Now here he was, forty-five, not a dime in savings, and so in the red he might as well be a vampire victim. Oh, wait. He was forty-six now. Damn it.

  Fuck, man, melancholy much?

  Steven straightened, let out a huff of breath, tilted the glass to his lips a second time, and drained it dry. He started to wash the glass, then remembered that Vahin was taking the first shift tomorrow because he and his boyfriend had tickets to something or other later the next evening. With a chuckle, he laid the glass on its side about an inch from the sink. Just to let his best friend… bartender… know he was thinking of him.

  Okay, bed.

  Within minutes, all the lights were off and the security system armed, and Steven stepped out into the pleasantly cool night and locked the door. Two cars zoomed up 17th Street, taking the deserted time of night as an excuse to race. A man—well, maybe a man—slept in a bundle of blankets on the sidewalk across the street. Other than that, Steven was alone. A rare moment for him, outside his little apartment. He glanced up at the sky. No clouds. Just stars. Billions of stars.

  “Are you going to let him in? Or maybe send him to the other place?” Steven hadn’t meant to speak out loud, but his whisper didn’t startle him. Morbid thoughts. He didn’t want to picture his father in hell, if it actually existed. But he sure as fuck couldn’t picture the asshole in heaven either.

  Steven had made it to his truck but hadn’t even gotten the key in the ignition when his phone chirped.

  Shit.

  He didn’t need to look, but he did anyway.

  Pat.

  Come now, Steven. If you’re not here in half an hour, I’m coming to get you. And if you make me leave Dad right now, I’ll kill you.

  And she might.

  Steven started his truck and drove to the hospital.

  He should’ve had another beer.

  Pat greeted him outside their father’s room, her eyes puffy and bloodshot, nurse uniform unusually wrinkled, though her frosted hair was still perfectly in place. She wrapped her arms around Steven.

  He hesitated for a moment, then pulled her close. He didn’t hold it against her that she was their father’s favorite. She, who’d defended Steven when they were kids. Who’d stood by him when he’d left it all for a restaurant. Hell, she worked there nearly as much as he did. It wasn’t her fault their father was their father.

  After a moment, he pulled back and met her gaze, only then noticing the streaks of mascara that highlighted her crow’s feet and laugh lines. “How you doing, sis?”

  She started to answer, then paused, apparently changing her mind about how to respond. “I’m glad you came. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  She reached up, patted his cheek, then finished with a motherly caress of his beard. “He doesn’t have much time, Steven. Maybe an hour. The doctors have pulled all the machines, and the other nurses aren’t going to bother us unless I call them.”

  Benefits of being a nurse. Steven would’ve rather had them all around, have the focus be on the beeping, the whispered chatter of the doctor and nurses consulting, on anything but the three of them. He took a stabilizing breath, or, at least, that was what it was supposed to be. “Okay, let’s get it over with.”

  An uncharacteristic hesitancy crept into Pat’s tone. “I, ah, have had hours to be with Dad by myself. You need to have that too. Just you and him. But if you think he’s passing, get me. I’ll be right here.”

  Anger rushed through Steven instantly, and he tried to keep it out of his voice as he spoke, but he could hear it anyway. “No. I’ve not spoken to the bastard alone in years. There’s no point to doing it now. The only reason I’m here is because I love you. It has nothing to do with him.”

  He wasn’t certain that was entirely true.

  She slipped into that motherly tone, the one she’d developed when she was sixteen and he was eight. It was so like their mother’s, it had almost made him feel she’d still been there sometimes. That she hadn’t died and left them with their waste of a father. “You need this. Whether you know it or not. Not everyone gets the chance to say goodbye—believe me, I see it here all the time. Family coming too late or not at all. You need this. Your soul needs this. Just say whatever you need to say and then come get me.”

  Steven glared at her.

  “Seriously. It’s the right thing to do for both of you. And he’s dying, Steven. He’s not going to say anything horrible.”

  “Yeah, not to you.”

  Pat leveled a stare at him, and he was eight years old all over again.

  “I hate you.”

  Her lips curved in a hint of a smile.

  He started to move around her and then looked back. “I don’t really hate—”

  A part sob, part laugh broke from Pat. “Shut up. I know that.”

  Even if there had been machines beeping, banging, or playing “The Imperial March,” Steven wouldn’t have been able to hear them over the pounding of his heart.

  The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Steven hadn’t seen his father since Christmas the year before. He’d looked ancient then, so much older than his seventy-eight years. But it was nothing compared to now. He could’ve passed for a hundred years old. Or a dried-up mummy. There was nothing left of his father except bones and leathered skin. Bones, skin, fumes of alcohol and tobacco, and hate.

  Maybe the hate came from Steven himself.

  There had been many things in his life Steven hadn’t wanted to do but had forced himself. It was part of being alive, part of being an adult. But none of them, not one, compared to the power of will each step toward the bed required.

  His father’s sunken eyes were closed. Maybe he’d just sleep through. Through whatever Steven had to say.

  What did he have to say?

  Fuck if he knew.

  Eyelids fluttered, revealing his father’s milky eyes. They met Steven’s, and confusion played in them, then gave way to recognition.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  His father opened his mouth, moving like a fish stuck on the shore. A gray tongue poked through, trembling as he licked his lips.

  Steven glanced away, found a glass of something clear and bubbly on the bedside table. He picked it up and lifted the straw to his father’s lips. “Here.”

  His father drank. The motions and the sounds both painful and gross. When he pulled away, Steven returned the glass to its place.

  “Steven. You made it.” Though raspy and quiet, his father’s voice was surprisingly clear.

  “Of course I
did.”

  His father made a noise, maybe a laugh, then choked.

  Steven started to get the drink once more, but his father spoke.

  “I take it you still do whatever your sister tells you to do.”

  He’s dying. Be kind. He’s dying.

  “Are you in a lot of pain, Dad? Do you need me to get the nurses to give you medicine?”

  His father’s gaze searched his, and again Steven’s will was tested. He didn’t look away.

  “You know I was hard on you because I loved you. Because I wanted the best for you.”

  Terror broke through anything else Steven was feeling. Of all the possible things his father might say, this was the one Steven prayed wouldn’t happen. The request of understanding, the plea for forgiveness.

  Steven didn’t think he could do it. Not even pretend. Not even to make a dying man’s journey into darkness easier.

  He couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t.

  And he knew it meant he was as bound for hell as surely as his father.

  He tried to find the words. I know. I forgive you. It’s okay. Rest now. Anything.

  “It’s not too late, Steven. You can still be the man you were meant to be.”

  All worry about how to forgive flitted away in the hardness of his father’s gaze.

  “You can have a son, guarantee the Conley name continues on. Get a real job again and leave that queer thing you started. It’s not too late to be the man you’re meant to be.”

  Steven started to turn away, but Pat’s words echoed in his mind. You need this. Your soul needs this.

  “Dad, let’s not say goodbye this way. Please. Let me get Pat, and we can be together as a family for a bit longer.”

  Steven hadn’t noticed it before, or at least hadn’t been able to name it until it left. His father’s eyes hardened further, and only then did Steven realize there’d been hope in them, somewhere beneath the cloud of cataracts and hue of jaundice. “Still going to let your sister be the man of the family, huh? A disappointment to the end.”

  A million images played through Steven’s mind. Smashing the lamp over his father’s head. Throwing the bed over, dumping his father to the floor. Spitting in the man’s face. Begging for forgiveness.

  Steven swallowed the sob that tried to form in his throat. “Goodbye, Dad.”

  He left the room. If his father called out to him, Steven didn’t hear, but he was certain that wouldn’t happen.

  Pat’s face fell even further as she met him outside the door.

  Steven cut her off before she could speak. “Go be with him. Don’t mention me.” He rushed past her with little more than a squeeze to her shoulder.

  “Steven!”

  He ignored her call and darted into the stairwell and flew down the steps two and three at a time.

  He nearly made it to the front desk of the hospital when he stopped.

  He couldn’t do this. Not like this.

  With slumped shoulders, he walked to the elevators and hit the Up button.

  A little more than an hour later, Pat finally left their father’s room, tears streaming down her face. She balked when she saw Steven sitting on the narrow couch against the opposite wall.

  Steven stood, knees popping after sitting so long. He opened his arms, and Pat rushed into them, sobbing into his chest. Steven held her close with one arm, using his free hand to stroke her hair. His warmth and embrace was all he had to give her. He had no words. He had no tears.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ryan Fuller

  These were the moments his parents’ voices echoed in his head the loudest.

  All that money wasted on a visual arts degree from Princeton.

  All that talent so few people had, wasted on parties.

  All the prestige he’d been born into and cultivated, wasted.

  All that money….

  Wasted….

  Having spent the past several hours at the funeral home, Ryan couldn’t disagree with them. It all felt wasted. But it was a means to an end, hopefully.

  He was being stubborn, and he knew it. All he needed to do was sell a painting or two, and extra shifts at the funeral home would be a thing of the past for a year or so.

  Stubborn and stupid. Think of all the time he could devote to Confetti if he cranked out a couple of paintings instead of spending hours with dead people? But that would be conceding defeat, wouldn’t it? Of course, if they knew about his moonlighting, that would be seen as defeat too. Which was why they didn’t need to know.

  God, twenty-seven and still motivated by mommy and daddy issues. He should ask his therapist for a refund. He was obviously getting screwed over.

  Ryan stood back and took in his handiwork. Though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. Every memorial service had to be the same, unless specifically requested by the family. The one time Ryan had tried to personalize it, the owner of the funeral home nearly lost his shit.

  The casket in the center—this one cheaper than most, it seemed—then arrangements of flowers placed symmetrically on either side.

  Symmetrically! So boring.

  He chided himself as he walked up the aisle to the casket. No one cared about any of this, anyway. They were here to pay respects to the dead, not be awed by Ryan’s design aesthetic. He still thought artistic flare might comfort the grieving, but whatever.

  Steadying himself, he placed both hands on the latches of the casket. He hated this part. Luckily, most families didn’t opt for the open-casket angle anymore. Grimacing, Ryan opened the top half, revealing the head and torso of the deceased. After fixing the lid in place, Ryan looked down at the old man. He’d heard of him but had never met him before now. A cantankerous sort, apparently. Ryan studied the sunken features. The body wasn’t gross, just unsettling. The humanness was gone, though not quite gone enough. The man lying on silk looked more like a wax figure wearing too much makeup.

  The owner had offered Ryan a tour when he started working at the funeral home, said he would show Ryan how some of the preparations of the body were done. Ryan had burst out laughing before he’d realized the owner was serious. He’d declined, even though he could tell he’d caused offense.

  Now, as he looked at the man, Ryan was tempted. He’d never touched a dead body before. Would the man’s face still feel like skin or like the wax it appeared to be?

  His fingers were inches away from the man’s cheekbones when there was a shuffling at his back. Ryan jerked his hand away and turned around.

  Pat Pinto walked through the doors at the back of the room, a little Riley Christopher in her arms. As she entered, Ryan could see several others behind her, making their way in. She whispered something to the child, then looked toward the casket. She halted for a moment, seemed to steady herself, then walked forward. Halfway up the aisle, her gaze flicked to Ryan, then back to the casket.

  She halted again, then looked him full in the face. A small smile brightened her weary expression. “Ryan Fuller, it’s been years, honey. Come here.” She adjusted the little boy to her other side and then lifted her newly freed arm toward him.

  Ryan grinned at Riley Christopher, certain the kid didn’t remember him, then stepped into the embrace, surprised to find his eyes stinging. “Hey, Pat. It’s so good to see you. I—” For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was. “I mean… I’m so sorry for—”

  She pulled back, cutting him off. “I didn’t know you worked at the funeral home. You’re a big-time artist now. Thought you’d be in New York, leaving all us little people behind.”

  From many people, such a comment would have been cutting, but not from her. She’d been like a second mom to him when he was growing up. He knew she’d been proud of him. “I decided to try a new adventure.”

  Pat grimaced. “Here?”

  Ryan couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Dear God, no. This is just a side gig.” Again he remembered where he was and what he was saying. He’d just referred to her dead father as a side gig. “I, uhm, saw your family on the schedule
. I requested to be the one to help you all tonight. Thought it might be good to have a familiar face.”

  “You always were lovely. Thank you, dear. I—” The little boy shifted in her arms, drawing her attention away.

  Ryan leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I won’t take more of your time. But I’ll be here if you need me. And you can stay as long as you need tonight. There’s no limit for family.”

  She smiled up at him again, her weariness back in place. “Thank you, sweetie.”

  No sooner had she stepped away than Ryan was caught up in another hug. “Ryan, my man, so good to see you. Thank you for your voicemail the other night. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to call you back yet.”

  Ryan returned Topher’s embrace. Topher had been the other reason he’d requested to take care of this service.

  Their hug was long. Long enough to make most straight men uncomfortable. Topher had never been the kind. Hell, he was the only reason Ryan had gotten through some lonely, lonely years.

  Ryan broke the embrace and looked into Topher’s handsome face. “No need to be sorry. I wasn’t trying to add to your list of things to do right now. Just wanted you to know that I love you and I’m here for you. Tonight included.” He jutted his chin toward Pat and Riley Christopher. “He’s getting so big. Handsome. Looks just like you.”

  “Thanks, brother.” Topher pulled farther back but squeezed Ryan’s forearm before stepping away. “There may not be time tonight, but let’s plan a guy’s night in a week or two. It’s been too long.”

  “You got it.” Ryan stepped to the side of the aisle to let Topher pass. His wife, Carla, and both of Topher’s brothers smiled or nodded at him as they passed, but then Ryan was forgotten. Which was how it should be.

  Within half an hour, the room was filled with members of the Conley and Pinto families. Typically, Ryan would wait near the back of the room as the mourners paid their respects. Somehow, though, despite his love for the family, it felt more intrusive this time, watching people he loved grieve and yet not being able to do anything to really help. He retreated to the office by the vestibule, leaving the door open in case he was needed.