by J. D. Walker
As to his sexuality, I often wondered what his deal was. On the surface, he seemed straight. I’d seen Rafe with lots of girls growing up, and he dated widely in town even now. He was a “catch,” after all. But the man was getting near forty and hadn’t settled down. And he never seemed to be that enthusiastic, either, when I saw him with his girl of the week around town. It was as if he was playing pretend. Or that was just my wishful thinking.
There was also that one time, too, that I could have sworn I’d seen him at a gay bar, but I figured I must have been imagining things, things I wanted badly, despite the truth before me.
Who was I to judge, anyway? My own dating life was sparse. I’d had lots of hookups in college, and enjoyed the occasional trick away from town. But I didn’t get out much, content to work on small renovation and woodwork projects around town, and teaching the kids at the school to which I owed so much was my passion. I was a loner, and comfortable that way. Too much attention made me skittish. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Rafe’s drinking concerned me, though, more and more each day. His personality changed when he was soused and things got out of hand, fast. I’d seen it happen many times, and was the one who’d get the call to drag his ass home from whatever hole in the wall where he was making trouble. It was a wonder he still had enough brain cells to do his job.
* * * *
It was a warm Friday afternoon in June and I’d just arrived home from work when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?” I said without looking at the caller ID as I tossed my keys on the wooden table I’d carved from an old tree trunk.
“It’s Serge, buddy. What’s up?”
“Hey, man! Are you coming home?” I asked as I went to the kitchen to grab a beer.
“I’ll be there tonight, maybe around eight. I can stay until Monday. Tell Rafe, would you? They just called my flight and I need more coffee. That croissant I had was gross. Why can’t people bake worth a damn? I’d give anything for a good croissant like back home. Love you, bro!”
“Why can’t you call Rafe and—?” But he’d already hung up.
Serge was a hit-and-run kind of guy. Always moving at super speed, very high energy. Half the time he wore me out with his enthusiasm and mile-a-minute chatter, but he was my brother, and family was everything to me. Serge tended to avoid Rafe when possible, not the least of which because Rafe kept badgering him about wasting his life, that he could do more, that he needed to come home and find a job locally, blah blah.
I sent the sheriff a text, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. He’d want to hear the blow by blow of a ten-second conversation. So overkill. Rafe was still on shift—he made sure that I had his schedule at all times should anything happen to me, God forbid—and I needed groceries.
Back in my truck, I turned on the engine and heard my cell phone beep. With a half-smile, I checked the screen. Rafe had responded…
Come see me right now.
I rolled my eyes and headed into town, merging into traffic. The sheriff’s office was right next to the fire station that was served by a mostly voluntary crew. A spot opened up just when I needed it, and I zipped in.
I headed inside, waving at Jonah Kemberling, the cop on duty at the front desk. “Sheriff said to send you on back when you got here,” he offered with a look of sympathy and a smile. Everyone knew just how much of a hard-ass Rafe Zumpano could be, especially if it was something to do with me or Serge.
“Thanks,” I replied and went on my way.
The place wasn’t that big, and I knew everyone there. I murmured “hello” as I moved along until I arrived at the door marked “Sheriff.” I knocked and heard a gruff “Come in” from the other side.
I opened the door. “Sheriff,” I greeted him, mainly because he hated when I did that.
“Fuck you,” was his grouchy reply as I closed the door and sat in the chair in front of his desk.
Rafe had always looked good in uniform. He filled it out so nicely. He seemed tired, though, and he hadn’t shaved. His eyes looked bloodshot. I wondered if he’d been out drinking late the night before. Or worse, this morning.
I decided to ignore that for the moment and needle him a bit, as only two men who’d grown up around each other could.
“I really don’t see why I have to come in here to tell you something that was clearly explained in a succinct text,” I said.
“I’m a control freak. You know that,” he growled, running a hand over his hair as he leaned back in his chair. The ends stuck up. He needed a haircut.
I coughed into my fist while saying, “Overkill.” He glared at me. I smiled back at him, innocent as the day I was born.
“Serge is coming in tonight around eight. He talked at super speed ‘til he hung up the phone on the way to catching a plane.” I snagged a paperclip from the pile on Rafe’s desk. “You have anything aside from beer in the house?” I knew the answer before he gave it.
He had the grace to blush. “You know I don’t. Marianne said she’d bring something over tonight, but I guess I’ll tell her not to worry. And don’t give me that look or start in with the nagging about drinking. I’ve got it under control.” Right.
I felt a ping in my heart, but I ignored it. “Why do you even go out with these girls? You don’t care one bit for any of them.” That bugged me the most about his dating habits, almost as much as his drinking.
“Gotta stick my dick somewhere,” he replied, and I groaned.
“Classy, Sheriff. Real classy.” I leaned forward. “You drink last night? Is this why you look hungover?”
“I’ve got it under control,” he snapped and I backed off. Now wasn’t the time to broach this, though I might have to, soon.
Instead, I said, “Tell you what. I need groceries, too, so how about I shop for the three of us and I’ll cook something up? Maybe on the grill?”
His eyes lit up. “Hey, would you do some ribs in that secret sauce you guard like the Holy Grail?”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”
“I’ll work on a renovation project with you on my next day off.”
I was surprised and oddly touched. The man could handle a gun, but give him a hammer and a nail and he’d hit his thumb every time. “You would do that? It’s not really your thing and you won’t get worker’s comp.”
“Ha.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, but it’s your thing and I’ve been remiss in checking up on you.”
Oh great. He’s being “big brother” again. “I’m an adult and almost thirty. When will you get that through your head?”
“Probably never.” That’s what I was afraid of.
“No need for favors, Rafe. I’ll cook for you anytime. We both know you burn air.”
“Hey now!” He appeared deeply affronted, but I knew better.
“How do you explain the burnt pan in the kitchen the last time I came over to clean your house? If Mila ever found out…”
Rafe imitated a deer frozen in headlights. “Please, don’t ever threaten me like that. Mom would tan my hide.”
Funny to see such a big man, the head of a police department, afraid of a tiny woman like Mrs. Zumpano.
“You’d better behave yourself, then.”
He puffed out his chest, and it was impressive. “Look here. I’m older than you and I’ve been taking care of you and Serge since…”
“Please, we’re adults, remember?”
“Yeah, he refuses to come home and you go to gay bars that reek of piss where you’re likely to catch an STD in the bathrooms while getting a blow job.”
“How would you know about gay bars? Though I suppose, when you’re desperate for a drink, you’ll get it anywhere you can, right?” I shot back, and his expression looked a little fearful for a second.
“What does it matter where I drink?” That wasn’t a denial.
Whatever. “Rafe Zumpano. I’m a grown-up, and I’ll thank you to remember that,” I growled at him. “Don’t forget, I’m bigger than y
ou now and more than capable of handing your ass to you, got it?”
He gave me an undecipherable look. “Yeah, got it.”
* * * *
After buying groceries, I drove over to the Zumpano house. It was up the hill a ways, roughly two miles from my cabin. I’d done work on the house over the years and it was still in pretty good shape, no thanks to Rafe. If it wasn’t for me or Serge, the place would have fallen to pieces after the senior Zumpanos had moved out.
I let myself in with the key that was kept above the door and went to the kitchen. Egads, it was a mess! Maybe the reason why Rafe went through girlfriends like he did was because of his lack of, well, house sense.
I set my purchases on a section of the table that wasn’t packed with detritus, and got to work. It took me forty-five minutes to clean everything and toss all the beer bottles. After that, I headed outside to prepare the grill. Ribs with baked potatoes, salad, and dessert ought to do it for all of us. I made my secret sauce, which I would never share with anyone, no matter what Rafe threatened, then basted the ribs to my satisfaction.
While I worked, Rafe arrived. “Honey, I’m home!” he called. To him it was funny to say that. To me, it made me wish for unattainable things. I needed to get laid.
“I’m out here, you ingrate,” I yelled from the back of the house. I checked my cell phone. It was almost eight o’clock. “Why don’t you shower and be nice and fresh so you can terrorize your baby brother when he gets here? You know he expects it.”
“You make me sound so mean,” he replied from right behind me, making me jump.
“Don’t do that!” I chided, glaring at him briefly before refocusing on the grill. His sweaty scent from a warm day in uniform was driving me nuts, though there was an underlying smell of hops. “Go clean up already.”
He kissed me on the cheek and I swatted at him. “You sound like a wife.”
“You diss me, Zumpano, and your ribs will be served raw.”
He backed away, hands in the air. “I’ve learned to never mess with a woman while she’s cooking.” He blew me a kiss and took off into the house, leaving me fuming.
God, he got to me sometimes. Ever since I’d come out to everyone in my late teens, the family had been supportive. Rafe had taken longer to work through it, but once he did, he’d ragged me endlessly and constantly made “woman” jokes. It was worse when he’d had a few. Most days, I tolerated it. Sometimes, it hurt.
Serge showed up in time for dinner, as if he’d planned it that way. He wore a crumpled suit and his tie was askew. “Hey, man,” he greeted me, delivering a huge hug and squeeze before he did the same to Rafe, now clean from his shower and with a beer in hand. “It’s great to be home.”
He kept on talking while he stashed his suitcases—three of them, along with a huge overnight bag, a backpack, his laptop bag and a mystery cardboard box in the foyer. “I’ve been dreaming of your ribs since I got on the plane. I was hoping you’d make ‘em tonight. I figured you’d end up over here anyway, trying to clean the place since Rafe has never cleaned anything in his life.”
The sheriff drank from his bottle, then said, “Whatever, runt. You’re not much better.”
“I’ll have you know that I’ve learned a thing or two about cleaning up after myself in my travels. Makes things easier in the long run. So there.” I was sure he wanted to stick out his tongue, but he didn’t. I held in a snicker.
I listened to the brothers bicker back and forth while I finished dinner. It was like old times. Rafe finished two beers before we sat down to eat.
“God, these are always so good,” Rafe announced, moaning like he was having the best sex as he ate and sucked his way to the bone.
“Is this what you sound like when you’re giving it to one of the girls in town?” I asked.
Serge almost choked on his food. “You did not just ask him that!”
Rafe ignored me in favor of moaning some more, and louder. My pecker became interested.
“Why not? He’s not that scary, you know. It’s mostly bluster,” I replied as I chewed on a tender piece of meat.
Serge was skeptical. “What about the time he blistered our butts when we were eight and went camping without supervision?”
“We deserved that. It was a dumb thing to do.”
“Possibly,” he grudgingly conceded.
Serge, Rafe and I spent the rest of the evening bitching at each other, drinking beer—Rafe on number four, the rest of us still on one—and just having a good time.
“So,” I said as we ate apple pie for dessert, “you’re here until Monday, Serge?”
He looked uncomfortable as he set aside his empty plate. “Actually, guys, I’m here to stay.”
Before I could say anything, Rafe, now ten sheets to the wind, became accusatory. “You messed up, didn’t you?”
Serge immediately went on the defensive. “It wasn’t my fault! And how is this a problem all of a sudden? You’re always whining about me not being closer to home. Well, you got your fucking wish!”
I knew there was more going on here than Serge was telling us because he swore. He rarely used the “F” word unless…Oh no.
I held up a hand so Rafe would cease his drunken tirade for a minute. Miracle of miracles, he did. “What happened, Serge?”
Serge sighed. “My company laid-off people in droves yesterday. I’ve been with these jerks for seven years, and all they said was, ‘here’s your severance pay, have a nice life.’“ Man, that sucked. Naturally, Rafe wasn’t very helpful.
“Well, if you’d tried harder maybe it wouldn’t have happened. You’re a fuck-up, always have been. I’m the only one who’s ever upheld the family name.” Rafe belched. Yeah, he was doing such a good job of that.
Serge kind of folded into himself. Great, Rafe, rub salt in the wound. Moron.
I stood. “Rafe, shut up. You’re a lush and you say dumb things when you’re drunk.” I glared at him.
He got up and glared right back, his eyes watery. “That’s enough lip out of you, girly man.” He laughed like he’d said something funny. It wasn’t.
I got all up in his face. “Don’t call me that. Serge needs your encouragement and love right now, and this is what he gets? No wonder he’s never wanted to come home. You’re an asshole, and you treat him like shit. Everyone has to do things your way, or it’s doomed to failure, even when it doesn’t. I can’t believe you’d be this unfeeling to your own brother. You’re a drunken buffoon.”
“Guys,” Serge tried to cut in, standing between us and not a little alarmed, but neither of us was listening. And Rafe was now livid.
“I’m not a lush! Who do you fink…think you are, anyway?” he yelled, words slurring and spit flying everywhere as he swayed on his feet. “Fucking ingrate, after all my f-family did for you, pathetic little orphan boy, and now you think you have the goddamn right to accuse me, with your queer ass running people over in the street?” He was referring to a recent car accident that still haunted me. “Neither you nor Serge have the balls to survive without me. I’m the only real man around here.” He almost toppled over as he said this, and Serge caught him before he fell.
I, on the other hand, was struck dumb. Is that how he really saw me? Saw his own flesh-and-blood brother? What a jerk.
Through the haze of disbelief and pain that overcame me, I heard Serge say, “You fucking cretin. Do you hear yourself, you closeted, drunken hypocrite?”
Even Rafe was taken aback by the venom in Serge’s voice. He had never, ever talked back to his big brother. Not like this.
Suddenly, Rafe appeared a bit more sober. He swallowed, twice. “I’m straight. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Though I was still trying to process the shit-storm, I realized one thing. Rafe was lying. Oh God.
“Please,” Serge shot back, “I’ve seen the magazines you hide in your bedroom. I know all about you, but you’re too chicken to let other people know, too. So what if the big bad sheriff swings for the other team.
It doesn’t fucking matter! Yet here you are, ashamed and cowering like a goddamned dog behind a label that isn’t even yours to claim. And another thing—”
“Serge…” I managed to say, but he plodded on.
“Was it lip-service when you told me and Woody to stand up to others and not let them bully us? To be ourselves no matter what?”
“I—that’s not…” Rafe was scrambling for words, but Serge was unstoppable.
“I used to look up to you, Rafe, but after years of seeing you hide behind the skirts in this town because you don’t have the balls to be who you really are, I couldn’t stay here, no matter what you said. Knowing my own brother was a coward made me feel ashamed.”
“I’m not a coward!” Rafe blurted, but he didn’t seem to be that convinced himself.
Serge pointed a finger at me while still glaring at his brother. “Woody is the best of the three of us, the one who overcame a tragedy and a disability to survive in this town. He lives with the stigma of that every day of his life. He’s gay and he doesn’t hide it, and you could learn a thing or two from him. You use alcohol and machismo to cover up the fact that you’re miserable. You owe me and Woody an apology to start with, and that may not ever be enough for what you just did. Asshole.”
Rafe muttered, almost to himself. “I can’t be a faggot. No way. I’m not. I’m straight.”
Serge shook his head in disgust. “You keep telling yourself that while you drink yourself into the grave. You’re disgusting.” He went into the living room to gather his things. “You ready to go, Woody? I’ll stay with you at the cabin tonight, if you don’t mind.”
I stared at Rafe Zumpano, the man I’d looked up to for too many years to count and felt hope and love wither inside me. He appeared shocked himself, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d said and how fast things had spiraled. He had no way to take back the words, vitriol fueled by alcohol. There was no way he could. I walked past him and went out the front door with Serge.