by Craig Moody
My eyes struggled to focus in the dim lighting of the room. Slowly, the brightly highlighted blurb came into view, a condemning passage from Leviticus, ripe with the judgment of abomination.
I sighed, pushing the Bible from my lap, allowing it to fall into the small space between us.
“Did you read it, Dustin? Did you see what God says about man lying with another man?”
She fumbled for the Bible, lifting it and plopping it back onto my lap.
“It’s an abomination!” she hissed through clenched teeth, her breath as vile as her twisted expression.
“An abomination,” she whispered again, this time her voice breaking to the flooding of tears that poured down her face.
“Mom,” I cooed softly, placing my hands over hers. “Mom, please. Please don’t do this to yourself.”
She kept her head down, her shoulders trembling under the weight of her sobbing. I moved to embrace her, when she rose like a king cobra to meet my line of sight.
“Don’t you patronize me, boy,” she seethed, her face gleaming in the soft light of the small lamp that adorned my dresser. “I am trying to help you.”
She allowed her head to fall back to her chest, her tear-heavy breathing shallow and labored. I remained still, too afraid to speak or move. Her emotions made her unsteady while the alcohol rendered her unpredictable. I feared a repeat of our hallway encounter.
“I love you, son,” she sputtered, saliva mixing with the tears that had slipped over her upper lip. “I want the best for you. You know that.”
She lifted her eyes to mine, my reflection lost in the pool of fear and sadness that overwhelmed her face.
“Yes,” I swallowed, choking back my own rising emotion. “I know that, Mom, but you have to understand, this is not something I’ve chosen. It is just what I feel.”
I lowered my hands back over hers, gripping them onto her shaking, tightly balled fists.
“It’s just natural.”
“No!” she screamed, knocking my hands from hers, apparently forgetting or uncaring as to the volume of her voice.
“There is nothing natural about this!” she shouted into my face, droplets of wine and tears splattering onto my skin like a warm ocean spray over a dry sea wall.
“You are just young. Confused.”
She lifted herself from the bed, turning to reach for her Bible.
“I want you to speak with the pastor,” she commanded, her words now controlled and direct.
“I have already made the arrangements. You meet with him tomorrow afternoon.”
She squatted to the floor, crouching before her glass of wine like a hobbit locating some mystical brew.
“Mom, I…no.”
My words stumbled from my lips as if coated with hot lead.
“I can’t, Mom. No.”
She rose to her feet and inched toward me, her eyes glaring down in a tornadic spin of terror- driven control.
“As long as you live in this house,” she began, her voice cold and suddenly emotionless, “you will do as you are told.”
She turned to leave. I jumped to my feet, anger bursting from beneath my breastbone and up the passageway of my throat. I hurled my words at the back of her head as if warding off a prowling predator.
“It’s only love!” I shouted, my voice strong but breaking under the enormity of my funneled hurt. “What is so wrong with being in love?”
She turned and stared at me, her expression frozen, yet revealing a tinge of what appeared to be curiosity.
“It’s not love,” she whispered, lifting her hand to cup my cheek. “It’s only confusion. You are too young to know what real love is anyway. You are just finding your way, and sometimes we need guidance in doing that.”
She cradled her Bible against her breast, her free hand still clasped against my skin.
“We will get this sorted out.”
She turned again, squatting back down to her wine glass, this time wrapping her fingers around it like a deep-sea squid collecting its meal.
“I promise, my love,” she said softly as she lifted to her full height, her knees creaking and popping at the motion. “You will thank me for this in time.”
“Mom—”
My words were interrupted by the sudden appearance of my father, his face weighted with concern, his eyes darting between my mother and me as if absorbing the sight of two restless ghosts.
“Everything all right in here?” he questioned gently, his gaze finally settling onto my mother.
“You okay, dear?” he asked, nervously moving into the room from behind the door. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
She halted him with her words as he neared her.
“I’m fine, Nathan,” she scolded. “Your son and I were only talking.”
My father looked at me inquisitively, his soft eyes labored with concern.
I forced a small smile at him before allowing my eyes to trail the room to the closet. I was afraid any extended eye contact would lead to more questioning.
“I heard shouting,” he continued, turning his attention back to my mother. “Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Yes, Nathan,” my mother snapped. “Just go back downstairs. I am coming down in a minute.”
“Okay,” he concluded after a moment of confused silence.
I didn’t raise my eyes as I felt him take one last look at me before obeying the order to leave. It was at least a minute before my mother spun on her heels to face me.
“Tomorrow,” she stated flatly, waiting for my gaze to meet hers. “I will drive you.”
She peered over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door.
“Say nothing about any of this to your father,” she commanded, returning her head and centering her face before my eyes. “He can’t handle something like this.”
Slowly, she pivoted to face the door but didn’t move forward.
“I love you, Dustin,” she said in a shaken whisper without looking back. “I can’t lose you.”
Before I could question what she meant, she darted into the hallway and disappeared into the darkness.
Stunned, shocked, and completely overwhelmed, I collapsed onto my bed and drifted off into an immediate yet restless sleep.
***
Three weeks later, I sat alone on the front step, the quiet of the neighborhood a stark contrast to the relentless noise inside my head. The meeting with the pastor had gone relatively well. He was a kind man, gentle eyes, who was more interested in recanting tales of his own youth than resolving my supposed “problem.” In between seemingly exaggerated stories of his athletic prowess, he rattled off a few Bible verses and then prayed for God’s wisdom to guide my path. Afterward, he said a few words to my mother, who had waited impatiently just outside his office. Throughout the entire hour-long session, I was distracted by her silhouette as she paced back and forth behind the frosted glass of the office door.
Whatever the pastor said to her seemed to relieve her fear, as she hadn’t mentioned a word on the topic since.
I attended a few meetings with some local community college guidance counselors, but my ongoing disinterest and opposition to being forced into further schooling prevented me from ever making any concrete decisions.
Instead, I busied myself with scanning the help wanted ads that cluttered the classified section of the daily newspaper like blackbirds on a street-side powerline.
I didn’t see much of Gauge. When he wasn’t inside his aunt’s garage toiling away countless hours tinkering on the Indian, he was off at his new job bussing tables at a nearby restaurant. I resisted the temptation to knock on the garage door when I knew he was inside working. Many nights, I would sneak out of the house and creep alongside Aunt Mert’s large aluminum garage door just to listen to the noise within. The sound of Gauge softly singing along to the radio or sporadically conversing with himself was as soothing and comforting as it was painful. I missed him, desperately so, yet I remained steadfast in my avoidance of hi
m.
A part of me was upset that he had yet to try to see me, but I knew he was only obeying my request for distance. At least, that is what I told myself. Some nights, I would stoop beside the garage door for more than an hour, lost to the sounds of Gauge’s world within, only the stinging of mosquitos or a passing car to break my drug- like trance.
The internal chatter of my mind suddenly ceased as I saw Aunt Mert cruise her giant Cadillac into her driveway. Immediately, I rose to disappear into the house before she could see me, when I heard her shout my name.
“Hey, Dustin!” she chirped in her Midwestern twang, slamming shut the massive car door.
I froze in place, contemplating an escape, yet fully aware that it was now too late to disappear without seeming rude and obvious. Slowly, I turned to face her.
“Hey, Aunt Mert,” I called back, hoping the simple hello would end the conversation.
“Won’tcha give me a hand with these groceries, hun?” she shouted in a sweet tone, her arms now full with the brown paper contents of her trunk.
Looking back at the house, ensuring that my mother wasn’t spying from any windows, I tiptoed my way to Aunt Mert. The Florida sun had baked the pavement to an untouchable temperature. The skin of my upper foot and toes stung from the scorch of the ground.
“Here we go, my dear,” she sang as she placed two overstuffed supermarket bags into my arms. The additional weight lowered me further onto the sizzling sidewalk, the fast-moving pain of the burn shooting through my legs and into my brain like an unexpected lightning bolt.
“Oh, my poor dear!” she laughed as she realized my barefoot dilemma. “Here,” she continued, stepping back to allow me a pathway, “run into the house.”
Following her direction without thought, I dashed up the driveway and to the front door. The cool relief of the shaded brick pathway that surrounded the front stoop alleviated the stinging pang of the heat and allowed me to catch my forgotten breath.
Aunt Mert appeared behind me, her giggling endearing yet slightly annoying.
“You are such a sweetheart,” she laughed. “I am so sorry for making you cross all this way without your shoes on!”
She looked down at my feet as if expecting to see flames.
“You are a Florida boy! You know better than to prance around outdoors without your shoes during the summer!”
She looked up at me, waiting for the connection of our eyes.
“Didn’t your mother teach you that?”
The mention of my mother streaked a flash of uncertainty and anxiety across my face like the first wave of a returning tide.
Aunt Mert saw it immediately.
“What is it, Dustin?” she asked, shifting the brown paper bags against her hips. “I could tell something was the matter the other day in the garage, and I certainly see it now.”
She inched closer to me, her familiar lilac perfume accenting the air around us.
“You can talk to me, hun.”
I burst into tears without warning or hesitation. The drops fell from my eyes as though someone had punctured my lower lids. I dropped to the stoop, the grocery bags hugging me like misshapen pillows.
“Oh dear,” Aunt Mert whispered, placing her bags on the ground before lifting the ones from my grip. “Now, now,” she spoke softly, sitting beside me, wrapping her pale arms over my shoulders like two angelic wings.
“I’m sorry,” I managed through my sobbing, my mouth covered in teardrops and snot. “I’m okay, really. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” Aunt Mert stated loudly, allowing her voice to override my rambling. “You listen here, dear boy. There is something clearly the matter, and I will not have you crying like a baby at my doorstep without you telling me what it is.”
I looked to the ground, the site of an ant trail pulling my attention. How I wished I were that small, the troubles and stress of my human life forgotten, my existence now simple and minuscule alongside the instinctual march of millions.
“I’m fine, Aunt Mert, really.”
My lie dropped from my lips as heavy and hollow as a falling, dead tree trunk. Aunt Mert wasn’t buying a second of it.
“Dustin,” she said sternly, placing her hand beneath my chin, pulling my face toward hers. “Talk to me.”
I inhaled, the fury of words collecting on top of my tongue like bullets in a gun barrel. For the next ten minutes, I detailed the two encounters with my mother, revealing every hurtful word and angry snarl. Aunt Mert listened silently, her eyes tender and still as my hapless story washed around her like a swarm of wasps, each sentence stinging deeper than the last, each revelation more painful than the first. When I was finished, she merely stood to her feet, brushed off her blue cotton skirt, and lowered her hand toward me.
“Come,” she said, her voice still and gentle.
“Let’s go inside.”
For the next half an hour, I helped Aunt Mert unpack her lot and prepare her pre-dinner contents. She spoke of Milwaukee and her ex- husband. She chatted lightly about her beloved brother, Gauge’s father, allowing her words to
flow with the certainty and smoothness of tender memory. I listened on bated breath, completely absorbing her story like a fallen bread crumb on a park pond. I knew the purpose of the conversation was to distract me from my own pain, and it worked, but the content of her pointless chatter was both soothing and interesting to me. Hearing of Gauge’s family history, especially of his father, was not only intriguing and exciting but also comforting, as if the mention of the fallen man was some spiritual conjuring of peace and serenity.
Perhaps it was only my emotional exhaustion, but I enjoyed the feeling of both.
“Listen,” she said in a more earnest and serious tone. “Your mother loves you, Dustin.”
I looked at her, stunned by the clarity and beauty of her pale blue eyes.
“She is only scared for you. She doesn’t know Gauge, and she is only trying to protect you. That’s her job, you know. She is your mother.”
I shook my head.
“No, Aunt Mert. It’s more than that. It isn’t about Gauge. It’s about all of it. She will never accept something like this.”
Aunt Mert dropped what she was doing and made her way to me.
“Dustin,” she whispered, her warm breath heavy with the smell of peppermint. “She loves you. Give it time.”
I closed my eyes, wishing what she said were true, though deep within me a voice confirmed that it was not.
“Please,” I said, placing my hands on hers. “Please don’t tell Gauge about any of this. I don’t want him to be upset.”
Aunt Mert smiled, her eyes filled with security and strength.
“Of course not, dear,” she said, moving her hands to softly tap my cheeks. “You only tell him what you see fit.”
She shuffled back to her place before the dinner ingredients.
“Though, I must say, if my Gauge were to fancy gentlemen the way you do, I would certainly be pleased if he were taken with such a sweet, fine young man such as yourself.”
I blushed, lowering my head in embarrassment.
“It will all work out as it is meant to. I promise you that.”
Before I could reply, the slamming of the garage door echoed from the hallway, the sound preceding the sudden appearance of Gauge.
“Hey,” he said, his eyes locking with mine, a look of confusion and uncertainty gripping his expression.
“Oh…hey, love!” Aunt Mert called to him, immediately moving toward him for an embrace. I could tell her movement was to quietly subside the sudden cloud of awkwardness that now filled the kitchen like the mist of a rainforest.
“Dustin was kind enough to help me with the groceries,” she continued, pulling Gauge’s pack from his shoulder and placing it on the counter beside her. “We were just chatting about how things were back in Wisconsin. I told Dustin how cold it gets. I don’t think his pretty little Florida self would ever stand a chance at surviving a winter up there!”
She laughed at her own joke, her voice slightly tense with an uncomfortable nervousness.
Gauge smiled at her before reconnecting his gaze with mine. Like the bursting of the universe, a plethora of unspoken words filled the space between us as enormous and powerful as a supernova.
“So, how was work, dear?” Aunt Mert questioned, forcing her words into the intensity of the energy between us. “Make any big tips today?”
“It was all right,” Gauge responded, moving to the sink. He kept his eyes focused on his hands as he washed them. I allowed my eyes to trail the floor in resistance to the palpable awkwardness. So much of me wanted to jump from my chair and run to him, but just a bit more of me kept me seated in place.
Gauge moved from the sink and back to his bag. Aunt Mert and I observed in an uncertain silence as he shuffled the contents of the pack until he located a portable cassette player and headphones. He paused, keeping his face aimed toward his hands, and then slowly turned to face his eager audience.
“So, how’ve you been?” he asked, keeping his eyes focused on the electronic device that he fumbled in his grasp. “Haven’t seen ya for a while.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly hollow and dry. My pulse began to race as I struggled to locate the use of my vocal chords.
“Good,” I coughed, clearing my throat as the stuttered response fell from my lips. “Just trying to find some work and stuff. Looking into school.”
A warm, comforting sense of ease fell over my skin like a familiar blanket as I felt Gauge lift his eyes to mine. My breathing became stunted and shallow as I searched for more words to ease the silence with.
“Cool,” he replied, keeping his eyes firmly connected. “I’ve missed seeing ya around.”
He turned to look at Aunt Mert, who had quietly returned to preparing her vegetables. From the position of my chair, I could see that she was smiling.
“Well,” Gauge announced, “I guess I better hit the shower.”
He lifted his arms to smell his armpits.
“Bussing tables has a way of making ya sweat.”
I chuckled, lowering my head as he walked by.
I remained still and silent as I heard him move into the distance of the house. It was only when Aunt Mert began to continue her colorful recollections of Wisconsin did I dare to rise from the chair.