Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  Joe’s eyes swam for a moment, and he blinked rapidly. “This is — all — fast.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Would you like to sit down?” James sat at the desk and offered Joe the loveseat. Joe sank down onto it. James took out a legal pad, and a pencil, which he patiently sharpened. “Where are you from, Joe?”

  “Bath.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And how did you hear about us?”

  “In London.” Joe chewed his lip, unsure what to reveal. “At a club. Voxhall.”

  “One of my favorites.” James grinned and his eyes went distant for a moment. “Then I suppose it was Howie who sent you.”

  Joe’s eyes bulged. “You really know Howie Yourfather?”

  James nodded. “Old friends. We met at the Royal Voxhall years ago. And I know him as Angela, too.” He smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe that an old man like me ever had a wild streak and went to the cabarets, but Arthur and I always enjoyed them. That’s something I miss since we’ve moved out here.” He tapped his pencil’s eraser a moment against the legal pad. “But that’s a lot about me — can you tell me more about how you came to us?”

  They were interrupted by the tea tray which came to rest on the desk between them. There were sandwiches and biscuits. Joe audibly snorted at the traditional pot, cups, and saucers, and grandmotherly spread of edibles. Rowena fixed him a cuppa and handed it to him. “No milk,” she promised, and shouldered her purse. “I’m off to the market. We were going to have alfredo tonight, so I need to grab some tomato sauce as well.”

  “Right. Ta, dear,” James said as she left.

  “Mum’s relieved about Lance,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Aren’t we all.” James leant forward to pour his own cup, and then sat back to watch Joe as he wolfed down the food and slurped his tea. When he’d finished, Joe was surprised to see a blue glass ashtray had appeared, as if James had read his mind. “Just so you know, we don’t allow smoking upstairs in the bedrooms, and we encourage it on the patio outside if possible. But I think that was thunder I heard.” He nudged the ashtray closer. Joe patted his satisfied belly beneath his Cure tee-shirt and lit up.

  “So,” he said, “who’s Lance?”

  “Come and see.” James waved him over to a cluster of pictures that sat in simple frames on one corner of the bookshelves. Joe left his backpack on the loveseat and joined him. “This is Lance, and his partner Eddie.” James indicated a professional portrait of two men. One was Black, with close-cropped hair faded on the sides. The other was white, with a feathered haircut. They stood back to back like they were in an ad for some kind of network TV sitcom, maybe a buddy cop comedy. Both wore matching gray suits with blue and white ascots. “They run a law firm in glamorous Los Angeles, if you can believe that. Lance went there as a young man hoping to work in the movies. He had a few small parts, but what he wanted to do was represent the performers and the crew working on films to make sure they were treated fairly. So here they are — Lance and Eddie, lawyers to the stars.” He made a small dramatic gesture with his hands, and Joe felt laughter snort out through his nose. Then James' face, lined but not without its youthful qualities, went sober. “Lance wasn’t feeling well, and he was afraid he’d contracted HIV. I assume you know what that means.”

  “Of course,” Joe snapped. He hadn’t meant it to come out that way, but fear drove his voice to a higher pitch. He coughed and masterfully lowered it again. “But you said he was tested.”

  “He and Eddie both were, just to be certain. Negative for both, thank God, or whoever is listening.” James made a prayer motion with his hands before he dropped them to his sides again.

  Joe puffed smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Who’s this?” He used the end of his cigarette to point to another photo. It showed a man and a woman in casual attire standing in front of the ruins of a castle. A little girl leaned on the woman, who was obviously her mother, a well-loved stuffed Pooh bear tucked under her arm. The mother’s waved bouffant suggested the late 1960s.

  “That’s Rowena, and her mum and dad, Viola and Silas. Viola, believe it or not, was my landlady before we became friends. She and her husband live in London, and they still rent out the apartment upstairs, even though they’ve purchased several other properties to let.”

  “She looks like a landlady. Wouldn’t want her asking after the rent.” Joe moved on to another framed portrait. This one showed two elderly gentlemen, one in a wheelchair. They were in a garden, surrounded by a kaleidoscope of flowers. Joe realized it was the garden in front of the house.

  “That’s my father, John Wilde, and his partner Matthew Barlow.” James gave a sad smile beneath his glasses, the curve of his mouth wistful.

  “Partner?” Again, Joe felt the molten words slip out before he could stop them. “Must run in the family, yeah?”

  “One could make that argument.” James seemed completely unfazed by Joe’s insistence on pushing his boundaries. “I’ve met many young people who have told me that they suspect one of their family members may also be homosexual. Of course there isn’t a study to prove such a thing. I think it’s best to keep away from being studied like specimens, at least for now, don’t you agree? Times have changed, but not much.”

  “I think they should study it,” Joe argued, as smoke curled up from his hand. “Because if it’s biological, then it isn’t anyone’s fault, is it?”

  “An excellent point.” James put a brief hand on Joe’s elbow, and to Joe’s surprise, his body did not immediately recoil. “But can love really be scientifically calculated? Can science explain how, when Matthew had his heart attack, that my father, seemingly in good health for his age, died the next morning?”

  Joe had no answer, so he instead motioned to a section of the shelf near the pictures that was crammed with slender volumes. “You wrote those,” he said.

  “I did.” James glanced over the book spines. “Poetry, mostly. Of course, I never became famous, though critics seem to like my work. And I do know a few university faculty members who use my King Arthur sourcebook in their medieval literature classes.”

  “Makes sense now why you moved here.”

  “I think the legends have something for everyone. You have to rethink how you interpret them.”

  “It’s not for me,” Joe argued around his cigarette. “Chivalry, true love, all that shite?”

  “Well, my Arthur is a gay man, and that is his Excalibur.” James gestured to the sword. “Given to him by our own Lady of the Lake, if you will — Matthew Barlow’s mother. We even had our spiritual guides along the way.” James' hand went out to lovingly touch a frame that contained the army portrait of a WWI soldier with familiar eyes — shaped like those of Lance, the Hollywood lawyer. “Legends are written down by the victors, or the ones with the most power, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for the rest of us if we allow ourselves to believe.”

  “You actually believe in true love and destiny and all of that?”

  “I don’t simply believe, Joe. I’m living it.” James' gentle hand guided Joe over to another picture of two boys in their school uniforms, standing next to a tree. “Arthur’s mother took this one. She lives up the road, tough old bird — in her own house, independent like you wouldn’t believe. I’m trying to convince my mum to move down here, too, but she’s just as stubborn. Says the only way she’d leave London is in a casket or an urn.”

  “That’s you and Arthur.” Joe’s dark eyes went wide. “You were only lads.”

  “That was about a year after we fell in love,” James explained. “We went to the same school in the same class. In ‘42 we were evacuated in Pied Piper and were sent to a country estate. That’s how we met Lady Barlow and Mr. Marlin, and when we inherited Excalibur.” He smiled at Joe’s confused face. “But that’s a long story for another night, best told ‘round a fire.” James guided Joe back to the loveseat, and sat down at the desk again. “That’s
enough of my blathering on about myself,” James said. “Why don’t you tell me more about you?”

  Joe thought for a moment, and then dug into his bag. He came up with a laminated ID card and handed it to James. James adjusted his spectacles and examined it. It was a school identification card from 1981. On it was a picture of a girl with wavy dishwater hair and blunt bangs. The name on the card was Josephine Karen Hawkins. James' eyes travelled from the blurry picture to Joe’s face. The wide dark eyes were the same, as were the arched brows beneath the wild, short-cropped platinum hair, framed on either side by many-times-pierced ears.

  “I see,” James said.

  “Do you?” Joe challenged.

  “Explain it to me.” James put down the pencil and folded his hands over the notepad.

  Joe said nothing, and stabbed out his cigarette into the ashtray.

  “Joe.”

  Joe slowly raised his eyes to meet James' green gaze.

  “You are safe here.”

  Haltingly, Joe began. Part of the way through, James fixed him another cup of tea, and then another, as well as passing over a box of tissues at the perfect moment. Joe spoke of how, when he was young and running around with the lads, that he was simply a tomboy. This became something else as Joe grew up, went through puberty, and still felt most comfortable in trousers and men’s shirts. He cut his hair short and only seemed to have male friends. “I thought I was a lesbian. I fancied girls. I still do. My family chucked me out after they found me with Sara... I started going to the clubs, even had a girlfriend or two. Howie took me under his wing and showed me how to dress. In drag, I guess. And I can. Go as a man, that is. People can’t always tell. That’s when I feel most like me. Mostly.” He heaved a great sigh, and rubbed his forehead. “I can’t explain it, but—” He coughed. “Some days I really do feel like a woman. But others, I’m so sure, I’m so comfortable as a man. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” James promised. “I absolutely do. You’re not the first that I’ve met, Joe, and you certainly won’t be the last. There is a condition in the psychological literature called gender identity disorder, though I don’t like the term disorder — it implies there is something broken about you, which there isn’t. The problem is with a society that can only see gender in binary terms.”

  Without warning, tears cascaded from Joe’s eyes. “There’s — nothing wrong with me?”

  “No, there isn’t. Of course, there isn’t. You’re on a journey now, to becoming the person you feel you are on the inside. And we can help you as much as we can with that journey. For now, that means a safe place to stay until you’re on your feet. In the future, it may mean hormone therapy or other medical procedures, or just learning to think about your identity differently.” James sipped his tea, and dabbed at his own eyes with a tissue. “Now you’ve gotten me started,” he laughed through his tears. “It happens every time. Ask Arthur.”

  Just then, there was a gentle tap on the glass of the French door. James stood up and waved Rowena back in. She smelled like Estée Lauder and summer rain.

  “Having a good talk?” she asked.

  Joe nodded.

  “All right, Joe, it’s time to start on supper, so I was wondering if you could give me a hand. Arthur and the others aren’t back from the cinema yet. I think they’ve gone to see that Mr. Mom show of all things.”

  Joe wiped his nose and shoved the tissue into the pocket of his now-dry leather jacket. “All right,” he said, and followed her to the kitchen.

  As the office door swung shut behind them, the phone on James' desk rang. It was Arthur. “How was the film?” James asked.

  “Dreadful. The lads had a good chuckle here and there, though. After, we were passing by the school. Found a lad walking home, followed by a couple of boys who reminded me of Morgan and his lackeys.”

  “Oh dear.” James sipped his now-cold tea. “Did you handle it?”

  “They won’t be coming after him again,” Arthur promised, “but he’s a bit shaken up. I’ve invited him home for supper. He called his mum, and she said it was all right. She’s actually Trudie, one of the ladies who gives tours at the Abbey.”

  “I saw Trudie this morning,” James exclaimed. “I didn’t know she had a son.”

  “Hope there’s enough to eat. Need us to stop at the market?”

  “No, there’s plenty.” James smiled as the sun broke through the clouds outside. The rays glinted off of Excalibur’s mirror-like surface. “I’ll set an extra place at the round table.”

  Arthur laughed, and rang off.

  THE END

  All passages from “Idylls of the King” were obtained from the Project Gutenberg free online library.

  About the Author

  Amelia is an author, freelance writer, and secondary educator. She was born, bred, and corn-fed in the great state of Iowa. Amelia's short stories have appeared in several anthologies, including the pro-human sci-fi collection Humans Wanted and My American Nightmare: Women in Horror. The literary journals Saw Palm, Quantum Fairy Tales, Wizards in Space, and Intellectual Refuge have featured her work. She also blogs for the parenting website mom.me and at akibbie.wordpress.com. More information can be found at ameliakibbie.com. She lives in Iowa City with her husband, baby girl, and three spoiled cats. They share the condo with a shy ghost.

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