Free Falling

by Emery C. Walters

  Maybe it’s too much information, but we really hadn’t done anything like that again. Of course I’d only been out of the hospital a short while, but some of me didn’t care. Luckily, Jamison was apparently not in it only for the sex. And I genuinely wanted to be with him, you know, when my brain was actually working. This was the only class we had together. It was probably just as well, but I was miserable the rest of the school day without him. I think he felt the same. I felt like I had found my other half, my soul mate, all that woo-woo and lovey-dovey crap. Who knew it was true?

  I was still very insecure in this; it was, after all, my first romance, and my family still had no idea that I was not only in love but in love with a boy. That would freak them out. What would they do to me? I was so jealous of Jamison’s dad, who had indeed been my doctor. He was so accepting. I wasn’t going to risk finding out about my family the hard way; that is, by being underage, getting beaten up and/or thrown out of the house or something like that. My dad and uncle and their friends had told way too many gay jokes in the past for me to feel safe letting them know about me. Or at least, not quite yet. I wondered if Dad suspected anyhow, seeing that I was not interested in the same things he, his friends, and my oldest brother Paul were. The fact that Paul now lived on the other side of the country didn’t change anything. Then there was the fact that boob jokes did not make me snicker. It was like how they made jokes about retards in front of my mentally-challenged brother, Wendell. He wasn’t stupid; he knew whom they were talking about.

  This delicate balancing act went on all fall. I didn’t know what we’d do about spring, prom, graduation dances, things like that, but for now, we just walked our tightrope, with many supervised but otherwise enjoyable house-dates at his house. His father was very cool but also very onto things like love, lust, and romance. And spring and my eighteenth birthday were a long way off.

  Jamison had been over to my house one time, and I’d very carefully picked a time when my dad wasn’t going to be home. We’d gone up to my room, he’d gotten to meet Wendell and my mom, and that was it. We hadn’t lingered. I got the book I needed and we split.

  On the walk back to his house I’d told him how jealous I was of his father and him. He said, “It hasn’t always been this way, or maybe it has, but I didn’t know it. Back when my mother was alive…well, I know I haven’t talked about her much and you’ll understand why, but there was a lot of tension in the house, all the time.”

  “Let’s get a Coke.”

  We went into a nearby shop and got sodas and chips and went back out to sit on the low wall to the side of it.

  “I knew I was gay really early but I never talked about it. My mom got sick when I was about fourteen. They didn’t tell me, but that’s when things got tight. I thought her being miserable was my fault. I’d joined the photography club at school, and I knew she’d been hoping I’d go out for baseball instead, because her older brother played minor league ball, and she was always talking about him. And of course at that age you always think it’s all about you anyway.”

  Nobody was nearby; so he leaned over, and we kissed for a while. Then some woman parked her car right in front of us and got out and went, “tut tut,” as she walked by us and we broke apart and laughed. I think she smiled.

  Jamison’s face grew solemn. “That woman looks like my mom, like how I remember her before she got sick. I found out later that she had ovarian cancer. I didn’t know about it then. With my dad being a doctor and all, I think he felt guilty that somehow he hadn’t known early on, and been able to save her. I think that’s why he got so angry sometimes, you know, like he was mad at himself. I thought he was mad at me. Of course.” He smiled the radiant smile that I’d come to love so much, but then he sobered up again.

  “Two things you should know about me then; I had this terrible crush on a boy named Steven. And I loved photography. Loved it. Still do, but I got away from it because, well, you’ll see. You make me want to take it up again, because I want to do pictures of you, and you make me feel, I don’t know, safe? That’s it all right to be who I am and that really, like Dad keeps saying, it was not my fault. Nobody was angry at me. I didn’t want to risk it again though…but now that I have you…well.”

  “I know,” I said, “Sometimes you can’t explain things, not even to yourself.”

  That same lady came back to her car then. She smiled at us and said, “You boys are so cute together. I don’t mind your public display of affection, but be careful. Most people aren’t as tolerant.”

  That made us both blush. I think I giggled. She smiled again, got in her car, and left.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Well, it was the end of summer. I’d been taking photos all that summer at the local swimming hole, a big bend in the river near us. I usually didn’t swim. I hid in the trees and took photos. See, most of the time, the boys swam naked. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, um, anyhow, I took photos of the other boys. I know what you’re thinking and yeah, you’re right.”

  I knew what he thought I was thinking, and we both roared with laughter. I almost fell over onto my back into the strip of garden behind us.

  “So the last day of school vacation, my folks had had a scorcher. I found out later that Dad had been insisting that Mom go to the hospital and take some more tests and do chemo or radiation therapy again, but that she’d said no, she’d had enough. The odds weren’t good or something. My dad had shouted, “What about Jamison!” and I thought I’d done something wrong.

  “Plus one of the boys had caught me taking the pictures at the pond that day and they’d dragged me out and thrown me into the water, and tried to strip me so I’d be naked like they were, and they thought it was all fun and games, but I was freaking terrified. I…”

  Jamison was breathing so fast now that I took his arm and pulled him close to me, people going by or not. When he calmed down, he went on, “So of course, being the little drama-fiend I am, I went home and decided I couldn’t take any more. The atmosphere at home was deadly. Mom had been crying, Dad wouldn’t eat dinner, and I had no appetite either.

  “So…it was around midnight. I should have been in bed. School started the next day, but I’d already decided I wasn’t going to be there. Of course, I was the only one who knew that. I was on my computer, looking through my summer photo files. My granddad got me a nice camera for my eleventh birthday, so there were over three years’ worth of pictures. Gotta love digital—I took hundreds, thousands, and I’d learned from both the good ones and the bad ones. There were plenty more of the bad ones though, believe me.”

  “You really miss it don’t you?” I asked.

  He nodded. The sun was slanting over us, and we really should have been getting back to his house, but there was no way I was going to interrupt this story. I wanted to know everything about Jamison, and this was sounding like a really important part.

  “I only had that night to delete all the bad photos, and the nudes I’d downloaded from the internet. Of course most of the pictures I had were ones I’d taken at the pond. I didn’t want people to think I was a pervert, though; so I hadn’t taken any of the little kids or girls, only guys my age and older. Anyhow, that was stupid, but I did it, and I was about to delete the evidence. The ones of Steven though, oh my God. It wasn’t like he’d ever looked twice at me, well, maybe that one time in algebra class when I told a joke instead of giving the answer because hey, the answer was so simple a fourth grader could have figured it out, but I was the only one who did. Idiots. And the book was wrong. Mr. Sparkles (not his real name, ha-ha) humiliated me anyhow. It was horrible.

  “So I hesitated to delete Steven’s pictures. This one in particular; he looked so hot in it—it was a perfect image, and I mean that in an artistic way. I do! So I was sitting there in the twilight looking at it, and right then my Dad knocked once and barged right in and saw Steven’s cute butt enlarged on my computer screen. And right next to the screen was the bottle of pills I had taken
from Mom’s bedside table. The now empty bottle.”

  * * * *

  Dad: “Have you seen your mother’s—Jamison, son, what are you looking at? And is that—oh, here’s Mom’s pills.” The top of the bottle is off. The bottle is empty. Dad sees that.

  At this moment in time Mom’s little blue pills are churning around in my stomach as if they were assembling an atomic bomb. I suddenly remember where my left hand is.

  Dad: “Are you—ahem—are you…” he gestures graphically. “Um, to a photo of some other guy’s, um…? Or is that just a really ugly girl, in which case I’ll take your mom’s—wait, this bottle is empty. Jamison…”

  I’m waiting for the we’ve got to talk speech. I glance at his face—emotions are pouring over it like lemmings over a cliff. With my right hand I click off the picture and hit the wrong button. It enlarged it instead. With my left hand I let go of myself. The mood is ruined anyhow—at least that shrank.

  Dad: “Did you—are you—son?”

  The pills decide to answer for me. They weren’t supposed to kick in until sometime during the night, when I’m asleep. The pills decide the heck with later and decide now is perfect. And they can’t decide to go into my bloodstream like they’re supposed to. Oh no. The little jerks say let’s have a party and decide to both come up my throat and head down the back stairwell at the same time, if you get what I mean. I bolt for the bathroom.

  An hour passes. Dad has come in and helped me out of my clothes, into the shower, and back out onto the commode, then back into the shower and then into a warm towel. He practically carries me back to my bedroom. My computer, helpful as ever, is now running a screen show of pictures I have not yet deleted, a free review of every guy who ever swam nude in the pond. Great.

  Mom comes in. “I talked to Dr. Tilton. He said the same thing as Poison Control. He’s probably going to be all right but we’re supposed to take him to the emergency room anyhow. They may want to pump his stomach. You probably know all that already but you were too busy for me to ask you. And I’m—” here she glared at me, “—out of my pills now and I really need one. Why on earth do kids do this sort of thing to us?”

  Then she sees the computer. It’s back to Steven again…

  Mom sinks onto the bed beside me. Yes, her cheeks are red with anger but I see that’s she also been crying hard. She takes a deep breath. “Is there something you want to tell us?” she asks as cool as a cucumber.

  “Noooo, not really,” my cowardly little voice speaks for itself. “But, maybe, like, uh, I’m gay?”

  My mom could be a role model for overly-dramatic gay men everywhere. She actually places the back of her hand on her forehead. “And that is reason enough to steal and take my pills, scare your father and me out of our wits, and try to kill yourself? You’re gay? That’s all?”

  She has to stop and draw another deep breath. I’m looking from one to the other now, Mom to Dad, Dad to Mom, wondering what they are going to do now it seems like I haven’t managed to kill myself and they aren’t going to either. All I’m feeling right now is confusion, and stupidity. And a bit insulted, if I have to be honest. I mean, big fucking deal, you’re gay, that’s all? Like, it’s a huge thing to me, Mom.

  Mom rolls her eyes. She tries to hide it but I see it anyhow. Dad grunts. He doesn’t look happy. They look at me, then at each other. “I told you he was gay,” Mom says to Dad, all prissy and prim. “You owe me twenty bucks. You can pay me later. After we get this one back from the hospital.” Mom strokes my cheek. “And you—” she pokes me in the chest now, “—you owe me a bottle of pills.”

  I’m starting to think that this is going to be okay, when Steven’s picture comes back on my computer screen. “Nice butt,” Mom says, getting to her feet. “Isn’t that Steven?”

  * * * *

  Jamison was so absorbed in what he was saying, that it was like he was on another planet, in another time, which he was, really. He drew a deep breath, looked at me, embarrassed, but then added, “My mom died six months later. I was out at home but really still closeted at school and everywhere else. My dad had told me it was all right if I was gay but not to worry about it too much yet, that sometimes it’s only a phase boys go through. I think we both knew better than that, but it went underground for a while, and of course, my mom went downhill real fast. I think I used up all my rational thinking talking myself out of taking the blame for that.

  “I mean, I’d gotten over thinking her being sick was my fault, but then I went and did that stupid semi-suicide stunt and then she got sicker and I was back to, Ohmygod, I did this to her. Dad knew what I was thinking, and he began talking me out of it. He said he didn’t know whether or not to tell me that they’d even had a good laugh about it, and he loved seeing her so happy, even if it was over such an almost tragic reason, but then, that’s the way life is sometimes. Still, it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and if I had succeeded, if nothing else, I never would have met you. And that would have been a real tragedy.”

  When our eyes met this time, it was soul to soul.

  It was dark out by then, and a full moon was rising, glowing as if only for us. We rose to go to his house. We’d be late for dinner, but we knew it would be all right. What a safe feeling that is, to know you can tell your parents why you weren’t where you were supposed to be, and they’d understand. Even if they punished you, you know? It would be all right. I thought about what it would be like if my mom died like that, and how horrible everyone would act. My dad would probably drink right through it. I shuddered. I wished if someone had to die, it would be him, but then I felt bad about thinking that. It sure brought me and Jamison closer together though, and I appreciated his father even more.

  Chapter 3: Ten Percent

  So now that Mr. Marshall knows I can actually write a paper. I got an A+ by the way, thanks so much for asking, with a smiley face, two stars, and the comment, Great fiction at the bottom, but the smiley face had a smirk on it and not a smile. Anyhow, now he wants us to do a paper on, “How to Improve our Planet.” So here’s my topic; I want to write about overpopulation. See, he wants us to write about a problem and offer a solution. And do research; either online, at the library, or by interviewing people. Ha, ha, and ha. This should be fun.

  Mr. Marshall is my favorite teacher. He always tells us to marshal our thoughts. How funny is that?

  So: Problem; overpopulation. Solution: The Gay Agenda. Subtitle: What if ten percent of the people weren’t born gay, but straight, and ninety percent were gay, I mean LGBTQI etc.?

  I asked my dad what he thought and he snorted into his beer so hard he blew foam out the other side of the glass. He said they aren’t born that way, they choose that lifestyle, and they should all be shot. “But Dad,” said I stupidly, “what if one of us were gay? You know, me or Wendell or your sister or my cousin Herbie?”

  He made a gun with his finger and pulled his thumb back like a trigger. “It’s just for a paper,” I said. “But honestly, do you think someone would really choose to be gay?”

  “People are stupid,” he said wisely, and I mean “wisely” with heavy sarcasm because he often speaks of himself…And believe me, in my opinion? He is very stupid. Sometimes Wendell seems a lot smarter than Dad. Sure, Wendell’s IQ is somewhere in the seventies, like seventy-four or something, but P.S., in school that’s still a passing grade. Anyhow I added, “Yeah, you’re probably right,” because he was looking at me really funny, and it made me very uncomfortable. “It’s just a paper,” I repeated, and walked away. I felt like one of the stupid ones then for even bringing it up.

  Here’s another Mr. Marshall saying: “You never know what you’re going to learn when you set out to learn something.” Sometimes I think I could ask him anything and he’d answer me fairly and honesty. Sometimes I want to tell him I’m, uh, g…g…you know. And sometimes I wish he were my dad. Which is weird, because I also think he’s hot.

  Okay, let’s not go there. Back to my paper. I ask
ed my mom what she thought would happen if all of a sudden, ninety percent of babies were born gay. “You’re crackers,” she said. “That could never happen. See, they aren’t born that way anyhow, it’s something they decide sometimes, or someone gets to them and convinces them they should be gay. I dunno, it’s weird though, why anyone would do that. I’ve heard a lot of stupid ideas about what causes it. I won’t go so far as to say it happens in the womb and it’s caused by the devil, like my mom and dad’s church always taught. I don’t know, but if you think about it, like in scientific terms, then yeah, only it’s not the devil, it’s, I don’t know. Take this beer to your father, will you? Something must go wrong, and they think they’re, you know, attracted to, um, you know? Ask your father.”

  I could ask Wendell and have as much of an answer. So I did. He said, “What does gay mean? You mean happy? Oh, that thing where a boy likes a boy? I like boys. I like girls and boys and dogs and cats. And firemen. And Lego people. Does that make me gay?”

  I suggested he go play with his Legos, which he did. Wendell is nothing but love anyhow. I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him who or what he could love, and in what way. He was smarter than I was in many important areas. That was one of them.

  I wondered if my parents thought Wendell had chosen to be the way he was, or if he had been born that way. That made me so angry that I almost tore up my paper. I could not help being the way I was any more than he could help being the way he was, and really, who’s to say that we’re not perfect as we are? We’re normal too, but not average. Okay?

  So I went into my room and got online and Googled it. Why are people gay? Time magazine did an article and mentioned stuff like dominance and mistaken identity, like among animals and insects. That only made me more confused. That wasn’t much of a help, nor was the towel-snapping locker room analogy. That towel shit stung; it didn’t make anyone gay. Pissed off maybe, but not gay. I also found that in 1860, Walt Whitman published Leaves of Grass, which was supposedly an inspiration for many gay poets later on. And here I’d never even heard of it. I’d have to read it, then wow Mr. Marshall with it. I could tell him it’s my inspiration. Wait till I tell Jamison; maybe we can read it together. Maybe it will inspire us. Which reminds me; I need to find a treehouse or something where we can be together without his father calling up that he has doughnuts or making sure Jamison’s bedroom door is open. Personally, I think he keeps a spy camera somewhere in Jamison’s room too. A little really alone time would be nice. Now that I know about the appendix thing and everything else Jamison’s dad taught me before he found out exactly who I was dating. Or in love with. Or, had sex with, or, you know, whatever. Then we got the we need to talk sessions together. “Sit down, boys, and let’s have a father-son talk. Let’s talk about protection again.” Boy, were those embarrassing. One time, Jamison interrupted him and asked, “Slow down, Dad. What do you want to know?” His dad didn’t think it was nearly as funny as I did. Oh my God, the look on his face before he realized Jamison was joking.