by Susan Laine
Tom closed the door again, with a soft snick this time, locked it—against his father’s explicit instructions—and plopped down on the bed. He buried his face in his hands and fought back tears. His heart hurt. A weight pressed on his chest and over his shoulders. He couldn’t breathe. Nick usually helped Tom through these bouts of panic whenever a confrontation with his dad was either imminent or recent. Tom always felt raw then. Nick equaled comfort and solace.
That word… that awful, hateful word… If that was you, the hidden part of you… I can’t. I just can’t. I refuse….
Nick’s words cut a slash straight through Tom’s heart. He couldn’t exactly deny what had happened. Tom really had felt all that rage and fury, really had hit a guy—even if he was a bully and a jerk—and really had used a bad word.
At the time it had seemed justified. But Nick’s reaction told Tom with crystal clarity that faggot was never an acceptable word. Was it even a word one could own if one identified with being gay? Like the N-word or the B-word that had been owned by those they were thrown at.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck….” Tom kept cursing under his breath for a long time, as though it were a mantra for his whole existence. “Nick, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Whispering his apologies to an empty room had exactly zero effect. Nick wasn’t there, but Tom was, alone as he should be. He deserved it. Tom had never ever invoked his dad’s position and influence in the mayor’s office, not for any reason. Not even against bullies.
So why had he this time? What had been so different this time that he’d lost his mind and his cool?
I am gay, Tom. You can spin it whichever way you want. That won’t change the facts.
Tom straightened up. A flash of insight swept through his consciousness.
Like watching a video on YouTube, Tom went over the whole incident. He’d sat with Nick on the ground; they’d sat close, almost snuggling; Nick had looked at Tom with such happiness in his eyes that he appeared to glow; the bullies had called them out as lovebirds….
The boiling anger. The fiery rage. The red mist descending over Tom’s reason. The need to hurt, to make the bully stop, to hit till there was only silence….
“No. No, I’m not that person,” Tom murmured, shaking his head. “I’m not violent, I’m not racist, I’m not sadistic. I’m not any of those things. I’m a good guy.”
Again, addressing a room vacant of other occupants proved counterproductive.
Tom fished out his phone to check it for messages or calls. There were none. He tapped to his contacts, and his finger hovered over Nick’s number. He could call. He should call. But would Nick even take his call? He’d been so angry….
Nick had cause to feel indignant. Tom had behaved horribly. Even if Nick wasn’t gay, Tom’s outrageous conduct would have driven anyone away.
Was Nick really gay?
Tom recalled vividly the light of joy shining in Nick’s eyes whenever he looked at Tom.
But that was friendly love, surely, not erotic love… right?
Tom shook his head in frustration. It didn’t matter. What did, however, was his friendship with his best friend. Tom had to do his best to salvage their relationship. He needed Nick. He cared for Nick. That would never change.
Even though change was a natural aspect of life, and everyone and everything existed in a constant state of flux. At least that was what Tom’s mom, Monica, had always taught her son. In touch with her spiritual nature, Monica had held a wisdom of the ages within. Tom missed her so much his heart bled sometimes.
Tom scrolled to a saved shortcut icon on his iPhone and tapped it. He knew what he had to do and how to do it. Thankfully it would take a little over four hours to get where he needed to go by plane.
THE VERDANT, lush hillside bloomed with autumn colors. Vegetable and flower gardens gave way to trimmed pastures and colorful wildflower meadows. Orange dunes and white snow-capped mountains formed the backdrop for the valley below, the view expanding for tens of miles, swaying trees adding the finishing touches. It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky.
Tom breathed in the fresh air, settled on the grassy green, and gazed upon the vista. This had been a scene most familiar to and treasured by his mother. Monica, a devout Taoist Buddhist, had been a frequent visitor at the Crestone Mountain Zen Center. Tom had accompanied her numerous times, even though he didn’t share her beliefs. She’d never pressured him into it.
Not like Charles, a zealous conservative Christian, who’d periodically pushed Tom in that direction.
“Tom?” a man called out in a hushed, reverent voice that held a tiny Eastern accent.
Tom turned his head to find a man in his thirties of Japanese descent standing a few feet away. He wore an olive-green hippari jacket, slack pants, and tiny shoes. His black hair was cut short, and his dark-yellowish skin appeared radiant and youthful.
Tom smiled and stood quickly as he recognized the man. “Master Oshin.”
The young man approached, swiping fresh dirt and flower petals from his knees. He held a small green flower shovel. “I am pleased to see you again, Tom.” His voice was deep, vibrating in Tom’s rib cage.
“You too, Master Oshin.” Tom hesitated, not knowing if he was welcome there. “I’m sorry to drop in unannounced. I don’t plan on staying the night.”
Oshin stepped closer, a kind light in his slanted brown eyes. “Does your father know you are here?”
Tom lowered his head in shame. “No. I… he wouldn’t want me to come. But I feel closest to Mom here. She loved this place.”
“How did you get here?”
“I flew. I have a pilot’s license. I’ve been flying solo since I was sixteen. Dad got me a single-engine piston plane, the Mooney Acclaim, for my seventeenth birthday. Its top speed is 242 knots, so I get here way faster than I would by car.”
“Ah, I see. Yes, your mother told me about your interest in flight, I think.” Oshin rested a hand on Tom’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “What troubles you?”
Oshin gestured for Tom to sit and joined him. They sat side by side on the lawn but not touching. Oshin was a respectful, reserved man. Tom realized he didn’t really know Oshin that well, only that he’d been Monica’s teacher.
“I had a fight with my best friend,” Tom confessed.
“Oh. That doesn’t sound like you,” Oshin commented slowly, his perceptive gaze riveted on Tom. “What brought that on?”
Tom winced. Admitting what he’d done made his stomach churn. “I… I sort of punched this kid in the face.”
Oshin said nothing. Tom didn’t dare look at him. Would he see ire or disappointment in Oshin’s eyes? He’d already seen those in Nick’s warm eyes, and that had crushed him.
“He called me….” Tom couldn’t say it, not to his mother’s spiritual advisor and companion. “A bad word,” he finished.
“At the time, him berating you made you feel justified in reacting violently?”
“Kind of.” Tom shrugged, but he didn’t feel casual in the slightest. “Nick was there and saw the whole thing. He ran away. I scared him. When I went to apologize, he got really angry with me, saying he wouldn’t live with such hate. I… I don’t know if we’re still friends.”
“You’ve told me about Nick before. He’s your best friend, yes?”
“Yeah. I respect him. I care about his opinion of me.”
“And your argument made you feel like you had disappointed him?”
“Betrayed, more like.” Tom fisted his hands, exasperated. “You see… he came out to me.”
Oshin sighed. “Oh. That bad word.”
Tom cringed, slumped, and wished the earth would swallow him then and there. “I don’t know why hearing some random asshole—oh, sorry.” Oshin waved his hand dismissively, his smile still in place, so Tom continued, “Like I said, I know Bill’s a jerk. He’s always spouting insults. But when he… used that word…. I don’t know, it’s like there was all this outrage burning inside me. I lashed ou
t. It was stupid. I’d take it back if I could.”
“Are you going to apologize to this Bill?”
Tom grimaced. “I don’t want to. He’s a dickhead. Sorry again. But Nick….”
“So you plan on apologizing to Bill because of Nick, not because you feel that violence in that situation was wrong?”
Oshin had a way of hitting the nail on the head. Tom came clean. “Yeah, basically. I mean, if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t hit him, of course.”
“Why of course when you just said you don’t feel like you did anything wrong?”
That gave Tom pause. “Are you saying one shouldn’t stand up to bullies?”
“Did he hit you first or at all?”
“Um, no…?”
“Was your punching him an equally proportional response to his verbal assault?”
Tom stared at Oshin, flummoxed by the question. He’d never heard Oshin use such phrases. “Proportional response? Is that what Buddhism teaches?”
How did that stack up against the well-known Christian teaching to turn the other cheek, Tom wondered. He’d always thought Buddhism was a peaceful faith, one that advocated inaction and harmony.
Oshin’s pensive gaze drifted to the valley below. “There is nothing wrong with standing up for yourself. That notion surpasses religious lines. If and when dialog fails, however, the Buddha teaches us insight and compassion. Suffering is caused by ignorance and desire. The first step is to try and see beyond the suffering to the cause. Why does this Bill person bully others?”
Tom had no idea. Bill was a complete stranger. Tom knew him from school and that he was a bully but nothing beyond that. “No clue.”
“He could be ignorant of the true consequences of his actions,” Oshin supplied. “As for the proportional response, Buddhism encourages wisdom through dialog first. Were you in real physical danger?”
Tom flushed with embarrassment. “N-no….”
“If one insults you out of ignorance, then educate them. If one hurts you physically, protect yourself.”
“That sounds easy, but not all bullies resort to words alone,” Tom reminded Oshin.
“True. If you can extricate yourself from a dangerous situation, do so. If you feel you are a magnet for troublemakers, use mantras of power to give yourself inner strength. Try not to appear weak.”
“I’m not weak, but he still targeted me.” Tom denied the accusation even though he wasn’t being branded as such.
Then he remembered that he and Nick had been close to each other, almost snuggling, joy probably written all over their faces. Had seeing that happiness caused Bill to strike out at them? If so, perhaps his own life lacked good things. Or was Bill interpreting the situation as homosexual out of fear or prejudice? Or had it been to demonstrate his manliness in front of his friends as some sort of twisted face-saving thing?
The truth was, Tom had no grasp on what made Bill tick.
“Instead of violence and hate, then,” Oshin suggested, “did you consider applying kindness and compassion? It’s a lot harder to see people as less than human when they are nice to you.”
The thought of being friendly with Bill hadn’t occurred to Tom, nor would it be likely to, in all honesty, even if the situation repeated. But he couldn’t tell Oshin he would never be sweet to a bully like Bill if given the chance.
“If kindness doesn’t work, as it sometimes fails to do,” Oshin continued, “learn not to respond. Walk away. Do not engage. A bully might initially respect strength, but violence festers within like an infected wound on the spirit.” Oshin held Tom’s gaze, serene. “Violence happens when people are incapable of or unwilling to listen or use their words. They lash out because they feel that words have stopped working or the other isn’t hearing them. That is when people turn to violence and other extreme measures, and that is the wrong approach. Violence creates more violence.”
Deep down Tom knew Oshin was right. Even if that truth was inconvenient. “I guess.”
“If dialog turns to hate,” Oshin clarified, “you have legitimate justification to take the matter to higher authorities, such as your parents, the school board, or the police. There are always other methods to resort to rather than violence.”
Tom smiled lopsidedly, sorrow hollowing his chest. “That’s what Mom always said. That I was smarter and better than that. That people often say they don’t have a choice, but it’s untrue.”
Oshin chuckled. “Monica had a keen perception into the heart of things. She often spoke of her pacifism. How it’s too easy to resort to violence as a method for establishing that you’re right. It’s easier to hit someone rather than take the time to explain why they’re wrong. We as humanity are too divided into arbitrary groups without any real basis for such artificial separations. We’re told we belong to disparate groups of faith, politics, gender, race, and so on. It’s all illusion. We are one, and we will continue to be, despite propaganda to the contrary.”
Tom smiled, relieved in some sense from his emotional burdens. “Mom was great.” Then his phone beeped. It was his dad, demanding to know where he was. Tom shrank, his hopeful mood dissipating. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Dad’s on the warpath.”
They stood together. Oshin touched Tom’s arm softly. “Regardless of what happens with you and Bill, I strongly suggest you disclose to Nick how you felt and thought about the attack. He deserves an explanation if you two plan on keeping your friendship. Secrets will do neither of you any favors.”
Spontaneously, Tom hugged Oshin and then retreated, dashing backward uphill and waving as he went. “I’ll come back soon, I promise.”
Oshin bowed. “Speak with your father, Tom. That is another relationship where secrets do you both a disservice.”
Tom nodded as he ran toward the entrance to the grounds and the rental car he’d driven from the airport. But inside he wasn’t sure if he could comply with Oshin’s final proposal.
Because at heart Charles McAllister was just another bully.
Chapter 5
“WHERE WERE you today?” Charles asked Tom as they sat down to dinner. Charles insisted on them dining together in the evening. Tom believed he did it mostly for appearance’s sake.
“I was with Nick,” Tom replied vaguely and stuffed his mouth with food. Technically the answer was true, since they’d been together in the morning. Charles hadn’t specifically asked about later in the day. “We hung around by the lake. Nothing special.”
Charles sipped his white wine slowly, as if savoring it. Tom didn’t know since he couldn’t drink wine yet, nor did he have any desire to.
Tom glanced at Charles casually under his brow, observing the familiar sight. Short blond hair, immaculate suit and tie, stern jaw, perpetual frown. The man of the house sat straight, like a flagpole, proud and sturdy.
Charles cut his salmon dish with swift efficiency and munched so neatly his jaw barely worked. Then again, the fish was well cooked and melted on the tongue. Tom liked fish a lot, only instead of chardonnay, he drank sodas.
“I spoke with Ron Little today,” Charles noted out of the blue, his gaze aimed at his plate. “He had an interesting story to tell. And it involved you.”
Tom gulped, his hand bringing food up to his mouth frozen midair. His stomach knotted as he understood the jig was up. But if there was one thing his dad had taught him was that it was best not to come clean about anything until you learned what the other guy had on you. “Oh?”
Charles harrumphed, apparently wise to Tom’s tactics. It was hard to tell if he was proud or annoyed. Probably both, Tom surmised. “Did you hit his son?”
“Yes.” Tom sat up straighter. He knew he’d done wrong—but his father would not think so once he discovered the details. Tom still hadn’t decided whether he would confess about that.
“Why?” Charles asked, his voice and expression both impassive.
“He’s a bully.” Another ambiguous response, worthy of a politician’s son. Tom felt rotten.
“Yes, I know. Like father, like son.” Charles resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
Tom sat still, flummoxed. That was it? No further interrogation, no demands for details, no prompts for honesty, curfew, grounding, or making amends? Apparently Charles didn’t care if his son acted badly, at least not if it was for reasons Charles approved or condoned.
Angry, Tom frowned and fisted his hands. How could his father not take a stand against an act of violence, even when the culprit was his only son? But he didn’t even get grounded? Tom had an idea of what to do, and he knew it could end in heartbreak, but at least he’d know where he stood.
“Later in the afternoon, I took the plane and went to see Master Oshin in Crestone.”
That finally got an emotional reaction from Charles. This time it was his hand that stopped midmotion and his face that contorted with displeasure. “You did what?”
“I wanted to talk to him about what happened with Bill,” Tom admitted with confidence. “I needed to know if I’d… made an error in judgment.”
Charles looked up at him, his dark blue eyes flashing like lightning bolts. “And why, pray tell, didn’t you come to me instead?”
Because you have no principles and no conscience? Tom left that thought unsaid. “He was Mom’s advisor. I trust him.”
Charles let out a mean laugh that came off as a vicious snarl. “And what would a Buddhist know about values—or bullies for that matter?” He shook his head and drew in a sharp breath through his nose, a clear sign he was pissed. “You need to be a Christian to have a moral backbone.”
Inwardly Tom bristled. What a load of bullshit. What a pathetic hypocrite. All religions, as groups of flawed people, had either the potential for corruption or actual corruption in their ranks. It was inevitable when people got close to power or knowledge. They either wanted to keep power out of everyone else’s hands or hide knowledge and lock it away as a secret for a privileged few.