Wild Things

by Karin Kallmaker

  I understood the comfort he was offering me, but didn't know if it would be enough to sustain me. I wanted to believe him. I wanted my faith again. People who aren't particularly religious don't understand how faith feeds the soul. "And if it doesn't, what happens to your soul? What will become of us?"

  Patrick raised his eyes heavenward for a moment and his faith, not blind and unquestioning but faith nevertheless, was palpable. Thou art a priest forever, I thought. He was lit from inside in a way I hadn't seen in the older priests at St. Anthony's for many years. "Christ promised us that all things are possible to those who believe. He promised that our faith would make us whole."

  * * * * *

  My dread of telling my parents was as strong as it had been, but after seeing Patrick and talking with him for more than the allotted hour, I no longer felt as if I would wake up one day in Hell. He suggested that I look into the Metropolitan Community Church and other gay-affirmative churches if I wanted to attend services that would welcome me and still be rooted in Christian teachings. Dignity meetings, he also said, might be of help to me if I felt comfortable talking in a group.

  Before I could even consider any of these options, I decided I would take one last Communion at St. Anthony's, to say what I had to say in my heart to the God in that church, and after that find my own way. Taking Communion when I hadn't received absolution was a sin, but I was past caring about rules. I would tell my parents why after Mass on Sunday. Then I would tell Eric.

  So I went to Sunday Mass and took my last Communion at St. Anthony's. I prayed as devoutly as I ever have that God would understand that I still believed in him, that Christ would grant me his charity and love. I felt at peace for the first time in many weeks.

  When we reached my parents' home after church, we had our traditional Sunday supper: a beef roast, mashed potatoes, and boiled vegetables. I found myself a little nostalgic and realized I was thinking of the meal as a Last Supper of sorts. Nutritionally I was better off, but the ritual of the meal was as much a part of me as Sunday Communion.

  The meal was unexpectedly peaceful. Meg and David had wrought changes in my parents, who seemed more relaxed than I had seen them in a long time. David brought out a maternal playfulness I had never seen in my mother, and I wondered what had made her seem so cold and strict to me. I began to hope that this new mellowness might help them accept what I had to tell them.

  After supper my father turned on a football game, and Meg took David upstairs for a changing. Michael huddled in a chair where he could glance at the game, but otherwise occupied himself with his murder mystery. I searched for a way to open the subject and realized there was not going to be an easy way. My palms started to sweat.

  My mother, freed from rocking her grandson, said, "Now, Faith Catherine, perhaps you'll tell me why you've been going to some other church for services."

  My heart sank. Without David on her lap, she reverted to her usual critical form. "I told you on the phone about last Sunday, Mom," I said, ignoring the three Sundays I hadn't gone at all. "A friend of mine died and it was his funeral service."

  "Was he Catholic?"

  "No, but it was a Christian service." I saw how I might use this topic to lead in to what I wanted to say. What I'd eaten for supper was sitting in my stomach like a stone.

  My mother pursed her lips and asked, "What friend was this?"

  "A friend from the university. He and I worked together for several years. He had cancer."

  My mother looked at me suspiciously. "He was just a friend?"

  The question exasperated me. "Mother, when are you going to stop suspecting me of having affairs?"

  "It's my duty to worry about you," she said coldly.

  Her duty. Never that she cared about me. I couldn't help but compare her cold duty to the supportive love Sydney had from Carrie, or that Nara had shown me. I remembered suddenly how Carrie had told Sydney she could bring any special person home, no matter who. I hadn't understood then what Carrie had been trying to say: Sydney could bring a woman home with her and her lover would be welcomed.

  I envied Sydney from the bottom of my heart. Taking a deep breath, I said, "We were not having an affair. Besides, I found out at the funeral that he was gay."

  My father looked up from his football game. "And you stayed?"

  "He was a friend, Dad. A good and kind friend."

  "You should have left. I thought I taught you better than that."

  My mother pressed her hand to her heart. ''What if someone who knew your father had seen you there? Your father is the head usher at St. Anthony's Cathedral. There are people who can't wait to spread malicious gossip"

  "I can't worry about that," I said, my voice on the edge of shaking.

  Michael gave me an odd look and shifted uncomfortably.

  My father set his recliner forward. My courage faltered for a moment as I recognized he was prepared to leap to his feet and tower over me, perhaps do worse. "I have to watch my reputation," my father said.

  I won't be intimidated, I told myself. The cup is before me and I must drink. "I can't spend my entire life worrying about your reputation, father. I have to—"

  He came to his feet and stood in the center of the room. "I won't have my daughter consorting with faggots."

  "I am not consorting—" I began in a shaking voice, then stopped. I realized that I had indeed been consorting and would probably happily do so again. I stood up and faced him. "I think you'll have to get used to it."

  I gulped at the frozen mask of outrage on his face. My mother gasped.

  "I am a lesbian," I said, and then I lifted my chin. Childish, perhaps, but I imagined I was Eleanor facing one of those greedy, prissy abbes who had dared to tell her what she could and could not do. "For obvious reasons I will not be attending Mass in the future."

  Michael was staring at me. My father's face was turning purple as he struggled for words.

  My mother said in a stunned voice, "You don't know what you're saying."

  "I know what I'm saying, and it's not easy to say it. But I won't live a lie."

  My father was trembling with anger. I stood my ground as he advanced on me. I couldn't count on Michael's intervention. He might be as angry and repulsed as my father was.

  "Unnatural child! I should have had a half-dozen grandchildren by now, but instead you live under my roof and practice your filthy, perverted sins." He spat as he talked, and I could smell his after-dinner whiskey on his breath.

  "If you don't want me under your roof again, fine," I said. I stared at him, then at my mother who wouldn't meet my gaze, and finally at Michael.

  "Get out of this house, harlot. Get out of my sight until you repent and have done your penance."

  I continued to look at Michael who, incredibly, gave me a ghost of a smile. I felt a wave of relief. I no longer cared about my parents, but losing Michael would have been a difficult blow.

  "Don't look to your brother for support, tramp. The only thing worse than you would be if my son was a faggot."

  "Don't you ever use that word again," Michael said in a voice that silenced the room. Only the roar of the football game continued.

  I gaped at him.

  My father's attention abruptly diverted from me to Michael. "Are you one too? Are you a faggot?"

  Michael got up, a painful process for him, but once on his feet his back was ramrod straight. He looked like the naval officer he was. "I told you not to use that word. You don't even understand what you're saying. If it weren't for a faggot, you wouldn't have a son."

  Michael pulled the collar of his shirt down for a moment, making his burn scars painfully visible. "Every night I thank God I'm alive. I'm alive because a faggot pulled me out of that burning room. I've only got burns on my arms and chest. He burned his face. I was lying on my back thinking I'm going to burn to death, and there he was, pulling me out. I saw that faggot's eyebrows catch fire. Do you have any idea what I owe him? He could have left me there, but he kept saying, I'
ve got you, Lieutenant, I've got you. And I'm screaming because I'm on fire, and now he's on fire, and at the same time I'm thinking about how every day someone would write faggot on his locker in chalk, and every day he'd have to wipe it off. And I never put a stop to it because of the crap you taught me. Even though I was his lieutenant and he was a damned fine sailor. I never asked, and he never told. And that faggot would have had every right to have left me there to die. But he didn't. So don't you say faggot. I owe my life to a faggot. If they were all like him, I'd want a Navy full of faggots!"

  My father's face had gone white, and he suddenly looked older. I thought irrelevantly that the old dog had finally met a young dog he had to bow to. I didn t see his face flush with purple again, and only when Michael lunged forward did I realize my father was swinging back to me.

  I had enough time to throw up my hands, then his closed fist slammed into my hands, driving them back into my face so hard I fell across the chair I'd vacated. In another second I was on the floor. Through my ringing ears I heard my father screaming with rage.

  My mother didn't move. When I focused my eyes on her I realized she was in a daze, seeing nothing, remembering nothing. She was always that way when he hit me.

  I got groggily to my feet and realized that my father had stormed out of the house. Michael steadied me, then slipped his arm around my shoulder.

  Meg stood in the door to the hallway holding David, her mouth open and eyes like dinner plates. "Faith, are you all right?"

  "I'll live," I said, shakily. I could feel my lower lip swelling, but the skin wasn't broken. He was never going to get another chance to hit me. "You'll be coming to visit me if you want to see me in the future, Meg. I won't come here again."

  "What is it?" She stepped warily into the room, looking at my mother for guidance. "Mama, what happened?"

  My mother slowly looked up, then seemed to focus on David. Without looking at me, indeed carefully not looking at me, she said to Meg, "You are my only daughter."

  "Faith," Meg said. "What the hell did you do? Marry a Jew by chance?" Of all things, she smiled at me.

  I realized then that Meg had been where I was now, though my father hadn't ever hit her. I was certainly a late learner. "No," I said, and I managed a weak smile. "But I'll probably marry a woman someday."

  Meg shrugged. "Like I didn't know that," she said ironically. "I wondered when you were going to figure it out."

  I blinked at her in surprise. "How did you —"

  "Abe's sister is gay. He asked me once if you were, and though I said no, it got me thinking. You're lovely to look at and there haven't been many men in your life. There were a couple of guys at church today who made me look twice, but you never look."

  "Dad's going to come back soon, Faith. I don't know what he'll do," Michael said. "Spare yourself some grief. I'll come visit."

  "I have a sofa if you ever need it," I said. I took a deep breath and turned to my mother. "Good-bye, Mom."

  She didn't answer.

  "I know you think that God is going to punish me," I said in a flash of anger, "but he's your God, and they're your rules. You burn in hell." As soon as I said it, I regretted it. I had been trying to take a higher road than that. Still, I felt better for saying it. My mother just turned her head away.

  I picked up my handbag at the door. Meg asked David to give me a kiss, which he did quite willingly. The wet smear was comforting. "Thanks, Meg," I said with a tremulous smile. "Aunt Faith can still babysit."

  "I know," she said. She kissed me gently on the side of my face that was a solid, throbbing ache. "There, all better. Moms have magic kisses, you know." She swallowed and her jaw tightened. "If he ever lays a hand on David I'll kill him."

  "They're going to be all alone at the end, you know."

  "No," Meg said. "They'll have the Church." She hugged David. "Maybe they're happy with it, but I'd rather have my son."

  I reached home in a state of exhaustion and fell asleep with an ice pack on my face. I was roused well after dark by the phone ringing and let my new answering machine take the call.

  "Hi there, sweetie. I hope grading your papers is going well. Let's get together this week as soon as you're done, okay? I'm leaving for Hong Kong again next week, so how about Wednesday? And Saturday? I think I can scare up some tickets to a play."

  I drowned out the rest of Eric's message by burrowing my head under the sofa cushions. I needed to recover from today's confrontation before I saw Eric, but perhaps Wednesday would be best.

  I felt really strange and different, but I didn't feel as awful as I had thought I would. James had been right. I'd lost my parents and was surviving. I'd unexpectedly gained a closer relationship with my brother and sister. And, most unexpectedly of all, I'd gained a better relationship with myself.

  9

  That which is crooked cannot be made straight.

  —- Ecclesiastes 1:15

  "Really, Alan? You wouldn't lie to me about a thing like this, would you?" Sydney knew Alan wouldn't, but she wasn't sure she had heard him right.

  "You've got the go-ahead to put your name in. Mark says he can almost guarantee no opposition, and perhaps even staunch party support, even though you have those two strikes against you."

  "Two strikes? My sexuality and what else?"

  Alan laughed. 'You're a woman, Sydney, remember?"

  "Oh yeah," she said sheepishly. "Sometimes I forget. Well, I don't need any guarantees from Mark, I'll make them on my own." She was tired after nearly two weeks of nonstop work. It was proving good therapy to get past any drinking urges, and she only thought of Faith in the moments before she fell into exhausted sleep each night.

  "Well, we'll let Mark live with his fantasy, if you don't mind. At least for now," Alan said, always pragmatic. "Let's get together tomorrow and talk about announcement strategy and staff we'll need to hire. I know at least one speech writer who's eager to come aboard your campaign. After all the money you've given to Emily's List you should get a few personal endorsements there."

  "Tomorrow's fine," Sydney said. "I'll clear the evening."

  She hung up in a daze and looked around her desk at the case folders. She was going to have to turn many of them over to associates if she wanted time to plan a Campaign. The associates would probably be happy, but for a moment Sydney felt a little panic. Her cases, by their sheer number, were steady, grounding, and absorbing. The campaign would be a roller-coaster ride.

  She put aside the panic and let the glee of the roller coaster take over. Maybe she wouldn't win, but she would definitely get to say her piece about a lot of issues. Writing discussion briefs and white papers on health-care access, civil rights, domestic violence, education — she looked forward to the challenge.

  Would the challenge be enough fulfillment to make her forget about Faith? It had to be, she told herself. In fact, she was quite sure it was.

  * * * * *

  "I'm so glad to see you," Eric said. He swept me into his arms for a hearty hug, then set me down. As always I felt an inner warmth when he held me, but I no longer considered it something a life partnership could be built on. "Get your coat, it's hellish out there." The warm fall had ended abruptly, and more seasonable rain and cold winds had arrived earlier in the day. "I've got reservations at Ambria, if you feel like French."

  "Sure," I said. I couldn't help a nervous swallow. "But can we sit down and talk first? I need to... tell you something." My heart started to hammer. I so cared for him and dreaded telling him more than I had dreaded telling my parents. He was going to be hurt, and I would be 100 percent responsible.

  "Sure, sweetie." He took off his greatcoat and sat down easily on the sofa, turning toward me as I sat down next to him. He looked so trusting and comfortable. He had no idea what was coming.

  "Eric, this is not going to be easy."

  He sat forward. "What is it, Faith? Have I offended you?" He suddenly looked like a hurt little boy. "Are you breaking up with me?"

  I co
uldn't speak, so I nodded.

  "I thought we got along really well," he said, looking down. I could see he was biting his lower lip.

  "We do," I said huskily. "That's why this is so hard and it took me so long."

  "Can you give me a reason?"

  "Yes. Let me ask you a question, though, because I'm curious." He nodded without looking up. "Why haven't you made any sexual overtures to me?"

  His head shot up. Is that what this about? Are you afraid I'm not really attracted to you? More than anything I respect you, Faith. I could tell you weren't ready for sex, and I was happy to leave it that way. I'm not one of those men who has to have it or die. I frankly don't understand men who can't keep their pants zipped. And we were becoming close friends, and from there I thought, well, I thought we would have something like my parents have. Something that would last forever. I thought sex would come naturally to us when the time was right. I've had some really disastrous relationships that were built on sex, and now friendship matters more to me."

  "You are such a rare man," I said. I took his hand. "If I could be with any man, it would be you, Eric. I do love you." I broke off as his fingers tightened on mine. "I've done a lot of soul-searching this last month or two. And I've come to accept the truth about myself. I. .. I'm gay, Eric. I thought I could change myself. I prayed I would change. You don't know how much."

  His fingers clenched on mine, then he abruptly let go. He turned his head away, and I saw him take a deep, shuddering breath.

  "Eric, I'm so, so sorry. I should never have kept going out with you. I never meant to hurt you." I wiped away a tear. I had done more crying in the last two months than in my entire life. I was sick of being sodden all the time.