How Father Tam ... pt 4: What Didn't Happen

How Father Tam Ruined Ash Wednesday for Everybody

Part 4: What Didn't Happen

But Father Tam didn’t make it on the 13th because somebody beat him up bad. As in unconscious in the hospital with tubes and stints stuck in him ‘bad’.

That night I had been asleep for hours when Justin banged once on my door and flipped on the light. He stood next to the bed looking down at me and speaking but the part of my brain that processes his raspy denasal voice was still asleep.

“Hey, now.” I croaked and squinted. “Suppose I was entertaining?”

“You never fail to be entertaining, but listen to me. Obie’s not here.”

“Seriously.” I looked at the clock: 2:37am. “What if I’d been fixing to hop onto Cage, or Diesel Washington, or making a reverse Oreo?” Diesel Washington was my most recent favorite porn god. I actually had been dreaming about Cage when he burst in.

“Dammit to hell Carl, listen to me. Obie didn’t come home and he didn't call.” He pulled the pillow out from under my head.

“So?”

“So something is wrong. He always calls me if he's out past midnight.”

“He does? Why?"

"Because I asked him to. So he doesn't startle us when he comes in."

"Startle you? You could sleep with a gaggle of angry geese in your room."

"Oh goddam it, never mind. Something is wrong.  He never stays out this late, ever.."

"Not true. Remember that time he and wasshisname almost got arrested for trying to steal the G off The Red Angus Diner? Or when his motorcycle broke down somewhere desolate in Williamson County?"

“That’s my goddam point. Twice, maybe 3 times in a year. And he always calls or texts me when he's not coming home. Something's off. I need to call him.”

Now I was awake enough to be irritated. “So pick up your stupid phone and call him. It's not rocket surgery. Do you really want my permission?” And yes, I said rocket surgery on purpose.

“No. Well. But . . . do you think I should? Is it too intrusively parental or something? I’m not a fucking mother hen with her brood.”

“Then you’re doing a good imitation of one,” I said. I got up and gave him my phone. “Here, Galena. Call your little lost squab.”

He turned his back to me while he dialed. “Apparently somebody was having pleasant dreams.”

“Oh.” He meant the tent that was the front of my boxers. “Cage did that.” I popped my wood through the fly and put my hands on my hips. Shocking him would be revenge for waking me up. “There. Is that better?”

He looked and then turned away again unscandalized. “Keep your widow maker away from me. I have no desire to end up like Cage.”

“Like Cage? What’s wrong with Cage?” I roared at the back of his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Please,” he said, walking away. “After a night with you, the poor guy whistles in the wind like a beer bottle.” I wedged my hard on under my boxers’ waistband, pulled my tee shirt over it and followed him to the kitchen to defend Cage's honor and continence.

“He does not whistle. Liar. His sphincter is so tight that … that … the carbon in his poop turns to diamonds when it passes through it. When he flushes it’s like a hundred carrots going down the toilet.”

Justin snorted. “A hundred carATS, not carROTS, you harlequin. You don’t know my sex life. He is versatile. He can catch and pitch like a pro.”

He snorted again. “Listen, Colonel Mustard, Cage is an awesome top and no part of his anatomy ever whistles except sometimes his mouth. I mean lips. But he does that on purpose." I stopped when I was awake enough to know I was babbling.

Justin leaned against the overhanging breakfast bar with my phone to his ear, cool as Bugs Bunny regarding an Elmer Fudd tantrum. “Seriously? ‘Colonel Mustard’?”

“Shut up.”

I didn’t think Obie would pick up but he did. “Obie?” Justin said. “No, it’s me. I know it's stupid but Carl wanted me to call because he was worried about you.” Then I watched his face morph gradually from stunned to afraid to angry and determined.

“Father ... ? Fuck. Oh fucking God. Okay, okay.”

To me: “Somebody beat up Father Tam in Karitz Park. Obie’s with him at St. Sebastian’s.”

Back to Obie: “Oh hell no. Hell no. We’re leaving now…. Yes, we are. This is not up for fucking discussion, Obadiah. We are going over there now.”

“How hurt is he?” My eyes were filling up fast.

“He's hurt enough to be unconscious in a hospital. That's all Obie said. Somebody apparently tried to kill him. Put some clothes on, we’re going."

To Obie: “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I zipped to my room and to pull on some shorts and get my car keys. Because of either grogginess or adrenaline or a slapstick mix of both, I dropped my keys twice before I convinced my fingers to grab and keep them. I ran back -- but he just stood there at the door, looking at my phone in his hand.

“What’s the hold up?” I asked. “Let’s move.”

“No,” he said. His fear and anger was now a confused sadness. “Obie’s coming home. Father Tam will be all right but he’s knocked out on sedatives, and his family is there wondering who the hot Latino is.” He gave me my phone and went to his shabby recliner. “You know, the hospital called Obie because his name and number were in Father Tam’s wallet. He had Obie listed first as who to call in an emergency.”

"Yes. That's good, right?"

“No, it's not, because that son-of-a-bitch gave Obie his power of attorney." He sank into his chair and pushed back like he wanted to disappear in its dusty blue upholstery.

“Ah,” I said. I knew where he was going with this.

“You know what that means in gay terms, right?” I hated to hear the thick sadness in his voice.

“It could mean a lot of things,” I said, trying to be upbeat. But he gave such a pitying look, I conceded his point. “But yeah. It means they’re in love.”

Something inside the recliner creaked like gears grinding as he pitched backwards and the footstool part popped out. “In love with a cock sucking Catholic priest,” he said. “What could he possibly be thinking?”

“I know, who knows. But thinking isn't always up at the top of the list for a man in love. Mr. Heart and Mr. Dick gang up and ambush Mr. Brain. Poor Obie. Poor Father Tam.”

He grabbed the arms of his chair. “Poor Father Tam? Are you fucking kidding? He was beaten up in Karitz Park, Carl. There is only one reason anybody would be in Karitz Park in the middle of the night and it is NOT to hear confessions.”

That was true. Many men have knelt there in the dark, but they weren’t praying, at least not in the ecclesiastical sense. Five years ago it was Austin’s premier nighttime anonymous sex venue.

On a pole at the entrance of Karitz Park, there's a bronze plaque with a bas relief picture of Helmut Walther Karitz and the words he used in 1805 to dedicate this land to the City of Austin: “Let this be a public recreation area where all citizens may come and enjoy what nature has given.”

That was the going joke among Karitz Park habitués; they were nothing more than citizens desiring to “come and enjoy what nature has given.” I popped in a few times in the early 1990s but being so close to the university, it tended to fill up with two kinds of men: young, skittish college guys from the nearby student housing (what Cage calls “boy-curious”), and the men who pursue them exclusively. I prefer them older and furrier so I got bored pretty fast. Still, I have a few good memories of one or two forty-somethings with facial hair and no-holds-barred attitudes. It was an adventure to have sex in a dangerously public place, the smell of the night air, the stars wheeling romantically overhead, my ass exposed to mosquitoes as big as your hand. Fun times. It’s just wasn’t something I’d make into a staple of my sex life.

Later drugs moved in. Dealers and thugs scared off the university boys and the cops really cracked down. Last I heard the only men who still cruised for sex in the ligustrum of Karitz Park were extremely volatile types, pale with jonesing, who’d blow you or let you fuck them for 25 dollars, then freak out in the middle of it and bite you or something. My friend Robin, a pillar of the late-night-anonymous-sex community, persevered until the very end. When one night the guy he was 'entertaining' used his long pinkie fingernail to scoop a white substance into the pee hole of his penis, Robin flew out of there and never went back.

It overloaded us with emotion to think that this man that Obie admired and loved would be lurking there at night, looking for sex or drugs, unfaithful to his community at large and unfaithful to Obie specifically. Justin's sadness was as usual temporary and his ire was back full tilt.

“What that Tartuffe sonofabitch has done to Obie,” he fumed. “I swear to you that if he ever comes into this house, I will personally with my own hands and dull scissors, make sure that choosing celibacy is never an option for him again.”

“When Obie comes home he needs to be our focus, not Father Tam's actions. As hurt as he is right now, Obie probably doesn't want to hear us dissing Father Tam,” I said. I felt tears coming fast and talking was a way to keep them to a minimum. “It might not be as bad as we’re thinking, you know? Maybe he and Father Tam had an open relationship.”

“Obie? Our Obie? Or the one who doesn’t hand out communion wafers at mass and teach ‘How To Become Catholic’ classes?”

“As soon as I heard myself say it, I knew it was stupid. Okay, so let's make a game plan using what we know for sure. Like I know for sure that he’s in a lot of pain, like down to the bones of his soul, and he’ll try to copy and paste his Obiescent tranquility over it. So we won't push him. We follow his lead. We'll listen if he wants to talk and if he doesn’t, we give him space but not advice. No preaching, no righteous indignation, no talk about castrating Father Tam slowly and painfully, all right? Remember, we're his brothers now so we're giving him four gentle, sympathetic ears and all the brotherly love he wants.”

“Right, that’s good. But give me some hints, for fuck’s sake. You read him more often than I do, which is never. He always looks the same to me, like he’s at one with the goddam universe, like you could point a cannon at him and he’d just smile at it.”

“All right, I'll do my best,” I said. “But pay attention and follow my cues for once, ok?”

Justin squeezed his eyes shut and put his head back. “I don’t understand this fucked up need some men have to have anonymous sex in public places.”

“I totally understand it. It’s a quick dip into something that is pure instinct. The danger of getting busted amps it up, and then there’s the exhibitionist part too.” He shot me a look, so I added, “Or so I’ve read.”

“Don’t you mean proof-read? In your finally authoritative book published by Rechy and Sons Press? You know, it’s a fucking miracle that you aren’t oozing diseases.”

“Diseases aren’t a necessary part of the scene. You can have safe al fresco sex just like in your bedroom with the doors locked and the curtains drawn. Back then I had a wad of condoms on me 24/7. It was a fragile, more hormone driven time.”

“Oh sweet lord above. You mean there was a time when you were more hormone driven than now?”

You’ll notice that I ignore him with he gets rhetorical about my sex life. What he calls slutty, I call gregarious.

“Cruise park sex,” I said, “is basic male sexual politics taken to its logical end. It’s drummed into us since birth, that ‘real men’ go after what they want no matter what. They sneak it into our brains, that sex is not really about love and sharing and intimacy like the rest of the world thinks, or pretends to think.”

“Oh, God, sexual politics. Here we go,” he said.

“It’s about getting something from another person. You’re told that sex is all about what you want, your orgasm, Foxtrot Tango Whiskey, screw social convention and splatter sperm its face if you can get away with it.”

“You are so full of shit. Nobody is taught that sex is only about conquering and social convention bukake.”

“In so many words, no. It’s never put that way because to say it would be to give away a secret, i.e. this secret: that selfish, macho-man point of view implies that all male sexual acts are really just masturbation. You’re just using another person’s mouth or butthole or vagina instead of your hand. Cruise park sex offers the perfect venue for that: you don't know your partner's name and if it's dark enough, you don't even see each other's faces. And when you follow the syllogism through from 'real men take what they want' to its logical end, that's where you end up.”

"You end up fucking a faceless masturbation toy in some bushes in a park?"

"Yes, more or less metaphorically."

"And you're all right with depersonalizing another human being until they're just a fucking orifice?"

"I never said I'm all right with it. I said I understood it. It's just a fact of the world. As long as some men believe that it's their right to depersonalize their partners, and others are all right with being depersonalized, it'll keep on happening."

“Who the hell are you? What cold cynic is skulking under that cuddly bear costume? That’s your goddam Catholic brainwashing. Aquinas and Augustine were nothing but frustrated, dirty minded douchebags who were warped with sexual frustration and that’s why they built your church on terror for the uncomplicated act of fucking.”

“That's what I'm saying. Anonymous sex is how some men try to uncomplicate it, to pare it down from the frou frou of making love to plain old fucking."

"Men that debased and self indulgent are the minority. Most of us don't have a problem dealing with lust, at least not to that extreme."

"Maybe not. But it's still a struggle between nurture and nature with the odds stacked in nature’s favor. That’s why it doesn’t make sense to ask what two men in love are thinking. It’s reaction versus response, probability versus actuality, intellect versus testosterone, heads versus tails.”

“So are you yammering to keep from thinking about Obie and weeping like a cold glass in a warm room?”

“Yes. Did you know that the Abe Lincoln heads-side of a penny is a bazillionth of a microgram heavier than the Lincoln Memorial tails-side?”

“I do now.”

“So when you flip a penny, you’re supposed to have a 50/50 chance of getting heads or tails, but it will come up tails more often than heads because it’s skewed from the beginning.”

“So the fuck what? You get tails 50.00000000001 times more. That’s statistically insignificant. Can we focus on ... ”

“Maybe, but it isn’t real-life insignificant. When you’re talking about a drive as strong and basically mindless as sex, that wee, half an iota is all it takes to tip the scales. You can pretend it’s all even-steven and that we’re all tamed and domesticated, but in the long run the head,” I tapped my temple, “loses to the tail.” I pointed my thumbs at my crotch.

“Please stop,” he said. “Your waxing philosophical about The Gay Male and Fast Food Sex is absolutely fucking scintillating but Obie will be here any minute. None of that helps right now. We're supposed to be thinking about how we're going to deal with this. The man he thinks he loves -- a priest for fuck’s sake -- is caught lurking through the brambles in Karitz Park. That’s our focus."

I took a deep breath. "You're right. Sorry. You know how I get."

"Remember: I’m the tactless yet lovable one and you’re the affable, nurturing crybaby. You’re supposed to do all that emotional edification business so now is not the time for a thesis on clandestine public sex.” His voice was getting a little shrill.

I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what had to happen next. “Stand up,” I barked. He was startled enough to do it, but he was suspicious. I went over and put my arms around him and held on. I held on through (1) the surprised recoil, (2) the very loud threats and epithets; (3) the twisting and fighting; (4) the appeals to my rationality (5) fists pounding on every available part of me. I held on until he knew I wasn’t letting go and he relaxed and rested his chin on my shoulder. That lasted for less than a second, but it did the job.

He fell back into his recliner and I sat on the sofa. We turned the TV on and watched in silence, waiting for Obie. After a few minutes he said softly, “You know, this is never going to be public knowledge. It stays here, in this apartment.”

I was genuinely hurt. “Have you ever known me to gossip? I would never tell Obie’s business.”

“I was talking about that hug,” he said.

In five minutes or less he was snoring. I turned the volume on the TV down to listen for the grumble of Obie’s old blue Harley. I heard it coming down the street and turning into the condo parking lot, and it got closer, but stopped too far away. Quietly I opened the front door and went out to wait for him.

In a few minutes he appeared pushing Old Blue. Backlit by an amberish mercury light, he set the kickstand and took off his helmet then shook his head to free his hair. In that weird mix of light and dark, drops of sweat flew and glinted silver. He walked toward me rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and holding his helmet in other.

“I know you didn’t run out of gas,” I said when he was still a yard away.

He stopped. The parking lot lights were behind him, so his face was dark and I felt afraid. Something weird about me:  I panic when people's faces are obscured from my view.

“Right, I didn't,” he said. “But Old Blue gets loud when he has a sore muffler and I don't want to wake people up.” He took another step, close enough to enter the cone of yellow from our door light. I relaxed. It was the usual almost smiling mouth and tranquil eyes of Obie’s face. But I scanned it quickly and there it was in the distance between his black eyebrows to his lashes, a different set to his lower lip, and a new droop to his eyelids: grief.

Another two white-silver drops fell onto his shirt and then I understood they were not sweat. I had a choice; I could do the easy thing – pat him on the shoulder and usher him inside, maybe crack a joke – or the hard thing: hold him close and in all likelihood douse him.

In two steps of his long legs he was a few inches away. He put down his helmet then straightened up to look at me. Easy way or heartbreaking way; I didn't get to decide because both his arms were around me squeezing and he leaned forward at the waist so that his cheek was on mine. I pushed toward him and clutched him, one hand on the small of his back and the other around his shoulder blades, like we were slow dancing.

His crying was a series of muted hiccups that shook his chest. His tears were on my face and mine were on his tee shirt. My arms were sore from holding onto Justin flailing a few minutes ago, but even when they started to ache I wanted to stay there with him. Finally he loosened his hold on me and stepped back. I immediately felt awkward and self conscious, but he wasn’t. He held my gaze and I felt safe. How fair is it that some men are handsome even with their noses running?

“Pleurnichard*,” he said with a terrible accent, like 'ploony shard'.

To admit this to Justin would crash the devil’s advocate app we keep running, but I’ll tell you what I was thinking while Obie and I were crying together: that if you added up all the orgasms in all the cruise parks in the world, all the glory holes of New York City, all the elaborate back room orgy places in Los Angeles, all the anonymous-quickie outlets in North America, then multiplied it by a million, it couldn’t touch this. No human interaction is more seared with joy and packed with meaning than two friends who are also brothers, the politics of sex erased from the agenda board, holding onto each other with no other goals than love and healing.

I wiped my nose with my hand. Don’t judge me. It was either that or let snot drip onto my shirt and how much would that have ruined the moment? “Let’s go in,” I said.

Justin’s hug aversion was 50% claustrophobia, 40% confusion over the meaning of non-sexual bodily contact, and only 10% the WASPy stick up his ass. Embracing people was enclosing, entrapping, and he claimed that the only reason he was a top was because he was claustrophobic.

So when we walked in and he saw our wet faces, he cringed at first but then surged ahead with stoutheartedness in his eyes. I stood behind Obie and watched. I admit feeling a little bit proud; the hug I forced on him earlier primed him for this. It was totally worth dislocating both shoulders.

He patted Obie’s wide upper back, signaling it was over. “You want me to make a cup of spearmint tea?” Justin asked.

“I’ll make it,” he said. He pulled a red bandana out of his back pocket and rubbed it across his nose. “I need to do something familiar and grounding.” We followed him to the kitchen and sat at the table.

“I am so sorry you’re having to go through all this,” I said.

“Me?” Obie asked. “I’m not the one who's going through anything. No that’s not right. Of course I’m in pain too. But that’s like a hangnail compared to what Joseph is dealing with.” He slowly turned a knob on the stove until blue and yellow flames wiggled under kettle.

An ESP moment with Justin. His eyes said to me Joseph.

“We realize you’re in love with him,” I said. “We didn’t know it before. I didn't even suspect.”

“Y’all probably knew before me.” Obie said. “I mean, like, I knew but … tonight made me face some stuff.  It forced me to put those soupy vague feelings into coherent thought. It’s been a rough night. I have so many emotions storming through me right now, buffeting me in like, twenty different directions.” His face was as calm as a Byzantine Christ's.

“My fucking God, of course it’s been rough,” Justin said. “Nobody should have to endure something like this. What your priest did is unthinkable, completely out of my comprehension.”

“If you knew him, you’d understand. He didn’t think twice.” Obie stopped and turned toward us. “Y’all know what happened? How did you know?”

“We don’t know the details, but we have a good idea.” Justin said with equal parts kindness and sorrow.

Obie put the teabag into a mug as gently as laying a sleeping baby down in its bed. “You do?” he asked, but without inflection.

“We’re here to listen if you want to talk, no judgments,” I said.

“I know it’s hard. I’ve been there more times than I’d admit. You give your whole fucking heart to a man and he cheats and lies," Justin said.

There was a pause while Obie leaned against the counter looking down. It was a silence filling fast with the feel of something that I didn’t understand, and as long as his face was focused down on his boots, out of sight, I was lost. When he raised his head again I knew something was wrong; the arcs of the corners of his mouth were different, his neck had a slight forward thrust, his forehead had different furrows, and the tilt of his head was a degree off vertical.

“Justin, wait,” I said. He ignored me.

“Betrayal has to be one of the most persistently painful human conditions and one that isn’t … what? Stop kicking me, Carl.”

“Justin, shut up,” I said.

Obie stared at us and smiled a frostbiting smile. The Byzantine Christ vanished and this emoticon took its place: >:) So, I thought, this is what Odie looks like when he’s mad.

“No and yes,” he said.

“What?” Justin asked, still clueless.

I sputtered, “I … we …”

“No, y’all don’t have any idea of what happened to Joseph tonight, so keep your judgments to yourself. And yes, now that you mention it I am feeling betrayed at the moment. But NOT by Joseph. You have no reason to make ignorant assumptions about a man you don’t even know. FUCK this.” Almost everything he said only a fraction of a decibel louder than his normal speaking voice. The words NOT and FUCK, though, filled up the room like gun shots.

“I’m going to sleep now,” he said and was gone.

Justin was stunned. I was ashamed. A pressure in my chest reminded me that I hadn’t taken a breath in a few seconds.

“Who’d have known Obie had such lung power?” I said, just to break the spell.

“What just happened?”

“We’re idiots. We are idiotic foolish idiots who deserve to be described in redundant terms,” I said.

“What just happened?”

“Father Tam didn’t get beat up for cruising in the park.”

“Then what happened to him?”

The kettle whistle blew like a piccolo’s high E flat. I turned it off. “I don’t know what happened. Maybe Obie’ll tell us. But we made some awful assumptions and we owe him a giant, whopping, groveling apology.”

I knew I wouldn't sleep tonight so I got a glass of water and an Ambien. I offered him one but he shook his head. He looked up at me for another ESP moment. His face: We fucked up but we’ll make it right. Mine: Of course we will, but we’re still assholes. Now go to bed.

*Cry baby

How Fr. Tam ... part 5: What Happened

How Father Tam Ruined Ash Wednesday for Everybody

part 5: What Happened

I willed my body to lie still in my bed but I couldn’t stop my mind from fidgeting. I closed my eyes and tried not to think that even with zolpidim tartrate to help me I’d never sleep tonight. I might as well get up and … then it was 10:30am and my room was full of morning light. Aromas woke me up: coffee and bacon. At first all I knew was that I ached with guilt about something. After blinking at my ceiling fan a second I remembered; I needed to make serious amends to Obie but the risk was high. If he was still mad at me and still upset about Father Tam, my clumsy attempts could cause him even more pain. I hoped it was a good sign that he was like every Saturday, in the kitchen making breakfast.

According to the mirror over my desk I looked a little less unkempt and insane than Rasputin. I was tempted to brush my hair into a faux hawk to add some kind of semi-ironic ass kissing aspect to the apology, but thought yuck, too much. I tugged the wrinkles out of my tee shirt and took a breath, visualizing myself inhaling peace and diplomacy from the universe. I opened my bedroom door. Then I closed it again. I went back and put on some shorts. Even the sincerest apology can be compromised by grape juice stained boxers.

Justin was already up, at the table, and Obie stirred scrambled eggs at the stove.

I cleared my throat. “Mornin’ glories,” I said and went for the coffee pot.

“Good morning,” Obie said with no audible anger, no audible anything. I had not looked at him yet, but there was something arch about Justin’s expression.

“Look who dressed for breakfast,” he said.

“These are my official ‘I was a judgmental ass and I’m really sorry’ shorts.”

I looked at Obie and all my trepidation dissolved. A child's Magic Marker smiley face would have been more threatening. “Oh they are? Then take them off please,” he said. “You don’t need them.”

"Don't fucking encourage him, Obie," Justin moaned.

“No, my assumptions were ... ” I said and reached for a mug next to the coffee pot and grabbed one I hadn't seen before. It was white, with the letter ‘I’ over a red heart and the words ‘my brother’ beneath. I automatically looked up at Justin who had an identical mug raised in a toast.

He squinted, wrinkled his forehead melodramatically, and pouted, a face that meant This is what you look like right now. I looked back to Obie who, I'm fairly sure, smiled. “A present,” he said. “I got them for your birthdays but July is too far off. Then I thought screw it. Today is more appropriate.”

“Aw, man,” I said. If my bottom lip trembled it would give Justin way too much pleasure, so I held it still with my fingers. “Thank you. This is … aw, man.” My tears piled up and made his face blurry. “I’m so very sorry about Father Tam, for making the worst assumptions, and for being a major jerk,” I bleated.

“If he’s a major jerk, then I’m at least a lieutenant general jerk,” Justin said. “Our groundless conclusions were out of line.”

“Not groundless.” Obie scraped eggs into a serving bowl. “Wrong, but conclusions anybody would draw. It’s Karitz Park, at night, so do the math. Like, if somebody told me the Dalai Lama got beat up in Karitz Park, it would at least cross my mind."

"The Dalai Lama? Seriously, never," Justin said. "That satin robe would get ruined, snagged on heroin needles and bougainvillea."

I looked at my mug and its big red heart. “I’m sorry anyway. And the mug is really sweet and … thank you.”

“Give him a goddam tissue, Obie,” Justin said. “He’s crying. What a surprise.”

“So?” I said. “I’m lachrymose and proud of it. It only means that I’m caring and I connect to people on authentic levels.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heart of gold under the fur of brown and all that. We know.”

“You’re welcome,” Obie said. “Go ahead and see if it works.”

“If it works?” I asked.

“See if it holds coffee. Then get the plate of bacon and come sit down because I want to tell you what happened to Joseph.”

To get the full effect of the story you have to imagine Obie telling it calmly and how clear his emotion came through anyway. The peacefulness in his face and the steadiness of his voice magnified his alarm and sadness times ten.

It didn't go down as late at night as Justin and I thought. It was still light, right at sunset and Father Tam was driving along the park on Pequod Boulevard. He passed a man walking along the curb, and coming toward him also on the edge of the grass at the curb, a young woman was jogging. After he passed her he looked into his rear view mirror and saw the man grab her and yank her to the ground. He stopped his car and looked back. The man was pulling her toward the dry bed of Onion Creek.

The concrete curb there between the street and the park is about a foot tall. Father Tam apparently gunned his car over it, tore out across the grass and barreled through Karitz Park toward the creek. He could see the woman trying to aim a small spray canister at the man’s face, but he pulled it out of her hand the flung it into the grass. The man got one of her arms and a leg, pulling her to an outcropping on the bank. Father Tam said he punched her in the face at least twice but she kept fighting. When his car came up to the outcropping he turned on his headlights and leaned on the horn -- to signal for help or to disconcert the guy, I don’t know. Between Father Tam’s horn and the woman’s fighting he dropped her and ran. Father Tam got out of his car and ran over to the woman who was still flailing. She landed a few good punches, but he kept saying “You’re okay,” and she finally stopped. She was crying and then she screamed “No, don’t!” and when he turned around, the attacker slammed a rock onto Father Tam’s head.

After that the man tried to hit him again in the head, but Father Tam blocked him with his arms, which fractured his ulna. The good thing was how the rock was too heavy for the attacker to handle easily because it slipped out of his hands. Father Tam rolled over and curled his body around the rock so the man couldn’t use it against him. He kicked in Father Tam’s nose and some of his ribs. The woman found her pepper spray and got him in the eyes so he finally ran off. She called 911 and they brought him to St. Sebastian's and that’s when they notified Obie at his job. Old Blue rocketed him over but he sat in the waiting room for 4 hours, begging them to let him see him. Immediate family only they said and nobody wanted to bend the rule for him. But as I mentioned before, Obie’s powers of persuasion are powerful. He got in by 9:00, when Fr. Tam was still conscious but loopy on sedatives. His nurse said the broken parts of him weren’t as serious as the concussion, but used the phrase guardedly optimistic.

Father Tam kept drifting off telling the story, but Obie pieced it together pretty well. He held his hand while he slept and somebody in scrubs came in asking if Obie wanted to take a phone call. It was the woman jogger who Father Tam rescued, calling to ask how he was. Her name was Lisa something, Obie remembered. She asked if he was Father Tam’s son.

“I said that Joseph was a Catholic priest and didn’t have sons.” Obie explained. “Then she cried some more and asked if I was a friend.”

And that you understand, is the question that makes gay lovers and spouses across the globe squirm. Because, yes, you are a friend at the very least, but immensely more. So saying yes is a lie of omission and -- especially in one of these awful emergencies where you need your family most -- it is ultimately a denial of your love. How often to you hear a heterosexual introduce his wife as only his friend? I knew Obie wouldn't answer with just a ‘yes'.

“What did you say?” I asked.

The dramatic pause I expected never came. “I said I was somebody who loved him very much. She promised to visit him today as soon as possible to thank him and bring him flowers for saving her and, oh man, is Joseph going to hate that. I know what he’s going to say.”

Justin said, "That he didn't do anything heroic because he was only doing what any Joe Citizen would."

“No, not that,” Obie said. “He’s too humble to be self-effacing. He’s going to say something like he didn’t save her, that he only helped her save herself.”

“Think that’s true?” I asked.

“No,” he said plainly. Then tears began gushing from his eyes, though his face was still and self contained. It was as disconcerting and awesome as watching flood-tide of rain pour from a cloudless perfect blue sky. Of course my tear ducts immediately joined in the fun.

“Then,” he continued in the same voice, “about one in the morning his parents arrived. They drove in from Houston. They saw me holding Joseph’s hand with my head on the bed next to him.”

“Did that bother them?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, they were very bothered. Even though I was the one who called them.” His shoulders moved a little higher and he almost imperceptively leaned forward in his chair. “They know who I am. Joseph told them about me, about us some time ago. They told me to leave and not come back.”

Fat tears gushed down his cheeks and dripped onto his shirt. Justin and I sat there, no idea what to say. He and Obie hadn’t touched their breakfasts and mine was gone though I couldn’t remember eating it.

“And that’s what happened,” Obie said and swiped his napkin across his face. “But I’m going back today as soon as Joseph calls me. I understand their fears. They’re old world conservative Koreans and Joseph is their only child. He brought them a lot of honor when he became a priest and if he leaves the priesthood or worse, causes a scandal…”

“Dishonor,” Justin said.

“Yeah. Boatloads of it. And honestly, I’m probably just as afraid of those things too.”

“That he would quit being a priest for you?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I don’t flatter myself that he would leave the priesthood for me. But he would leave it for love if he thought that’s what God was calling him to.”

I could tell Justin was editing something in his mind so that it would come out just right. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but people don’t usually believe God calls priests away from the church so that they can be in gay relationships do they?”

I knew the answer to this one. “Yes, but people used to not believe that the sun was the center of the solar system. And most Catholics – if you gave them a shot of sodium thiopental to force them to tell the truth, they’d admit that they don’t really believe half the stuff the church teaches. Like transubstantiation. I mean, they say they believe it. They believe they believe it. But if you watch them when their guard is down it’s clear that they don’t.”

“So then. Bottom line, Obie; do you really think you can convince his parents to accept you?” Justin asked.

“I don’t care about convincing them,” Obie said. “Or whether or not they accept me. They just need to understand something, that I left Joseph’s hospital room out of respect for them last night, even though it was, like, ripping up my insides. But nothing they can do is going to take me out of his life.” Tears rolled down his face as he calmly reached for a tortilla.

I looked at Justin to say something but the rage in his face stopped me. His eyes were glittery wet. I reached over to squeeze his shoulder but he stood up trying to look as regal as possible. “I need to go get rid of some of this coffee," he said, clearing his throat. But he stopped just short of the bathroom door and turned around to face me. "Yes, Mr. I Read People As Well As Books. I’m not like you, with my heart and dick always out in the open for people to see. But that doesn’t mean I’m completely …”

“Lachrymose intolerant?” I offered. He rubbed at his eye with his finger.

“I won’t even dignify that with a groan,” he said and marched into the bathroom with his harrumph face.

When he was out of earshot I said with awe to Obie, "Mark your calendar. That is a rare event."

Obie put some bacon and eggs between his tortilla and folded it in half. "I wish I wasn't part of the reason he's crying," he said.

"No, no. Don't be sorry, man," I said. "That was one of the most honest unrehearsed things I have ever seen from him. I hope he gets to experience lots more of those. Except without the crushing personal tragedy."

“I feel bad that I blew my top last night,” he said and kept right on talking before I could protest: “Because I know how lucky I am to have you both. Thank you for being patient with me.”

I opened my mouth but again he didn’t let me speak. “And don’t make a dirty joke about ‘blowing my top’ just to dilute the gooey sincerity of the moment.” The boy knew me. “Michael was right about you.”

That came out of nowhere. “Right about  - what? What did he tell you?” Michael often coached me, both during and after our relationship, against using flipness to avoid being vulnerable with people. I thought that’s where this was going. I was wrong.

“He said you were decent,” he said. “And that truly decent people aren’t as common as you’d think.”

“I get ‘indecent’ a lot, but never ‘decent’.” I swear, it was past my lips before I could stop it. “My God. It’s like a flipness toggle switch I can’t control.”

He smiled at me even though nothing visibly changed in his face. “Most of the gay people I know are afraid of their sexuality more or less. And they can only deal with it through shame. Getting to the point when you don’t buy into that … I think I’m still learning that lesson. It’s one of the things I admire about you, that you’re not afraid of your sexuality and you’re never ashamed. You’re not pushy about who you are but you’re not apologetic about it either. You probably don’t realize what a moral victory that is. You rise above the bullshit society drowns gay people in and you have some real joy about who you are. That’s not indecent.” A pause while he mulled this over. “Or if it is, then you’re the most decent indecent person I know.”

You couldn’t believe how many puns, jokes, and wild-goose tangents twirled through my mind. All right, all right, all right! Stop accusing me! I admit it: I can’t take sincere compliments any better than Justin can. I forced myself to look right at him and didn’t open my mouth until I was sure of what would come out: “Thanks.”

“I liked you the first time I met you, when you touched my hair.” He took two slices of bacon from the serving plate and ate them together in three big crunches.

Now it was time to veer the conversation away from this geekazoid direction. “I liked you too but I imagine everybody you meet likes you.”

“Not even. It seems like, some people like me when they first meet me, but like me less when they find out I’m not whatever they expected me to be.”

“Expected you to be what?”

“Oh anything one dimensional,” he said. “A ferocious top or a subservient bottom or a drugged out party boy. One guy came on to me while I was in a laundromat and when he saw a rainbow flag tee shirt in my hamper he said ‘Oh, you’re gay?’ and lit out of there like his pants were on fire. Other people don’t like me at first then later, they do. Or not. Sometimes even though you’d like to like a person it never happens. Other times it just takes some time and work.”

I felt mischievous. “So how long before you liked Justin?”

"His heart is good," Obie said. "I admit I didn't see that at first. I was actually kinda scared of him, but I watched how you interacted with him and learned how to see him from a better angle. Then once I did, I loved him too." He took off half the tortilla in one bite. He chewed food the same way he did everything else, deliberately and with calm hardiness. “You ever think how rare it is that love looks anything like what you expect it to look like?"

I heard Justin flush – like that would fool anybody -- so I took his food and heated it in the microwave. “No,” I said. “But it sounds right. And if you find love that looks exactly like what you were expecting, it's usually something sneaky that's only pretending to be love.”

"Wow,” he said. Without fully swallowing what he already had in his mouth, he stuffed in the last half of the tortilla and said, “Justin’s not here so I'll say it: that is the fucking truth."

At that second Justin reappeared, his eyes dry. “You better watch your fucking mouth, boy. We don’t allow cussing in this goddam house.” I put his breakfast down in front of him. He poked at the eggs skeptically with his fork. “There better not be any fur in here,” he said.

“Thanks for breakfast, man,” I said. I brought my plate to the sink. “I need to call Cage.”

“Tell him what happened to Joseph,” Obie said.

I stopped in mid-stride. "Is it okay to tell him ... about everything?"

"Of course," he said calmly. "He's your man. No secrets and no blame."

“Soooo...” I heard Justin say as I left the room. “You were afraid of me?”

“Eavesdropper,” Obie said. “Eat your eggs and fur.”

I called Cage and told him what happened, or tried to. He kept interrupting me asking, “They’re together together?” Like me, he left the church a long time ago, but he still retained some dogged Catholic sensibilities and right now they were burning. He was horrified first that anybody would harm a priest and second, that a priest and Obie were lovers. Then I told him about my lurid assumption that Father Tam had been bashed while cruising in Kartiz Park, and Obie’s reaction.

He understood immediately. “Well acourse he was upset about the Father. I know he didn’t mean to holler at you, tee bougre*, ” he said. “You know The Peep** loves you. I just can’t believe he’s having sex with a priest. How weird must that be?”

“Nobody ever said they were having sex,” I said.

“But if they’re lovers … “

“It means that they love each other. We don’t have the right to speculate about their sex life anyway because it’s nosy and not polite. Besides, I learned many years ago not to make any assumptions about love between gay men. When you do, you always end up looking stupid.”

Again he was astounded. “How could anybody be lovers with Obie and not wanna get him naked*** and turn him thirty-five ways to Sunday?”

“Nobody with working hormones,” I said. “But even if Father Tam wants to have sex, doesn’t mean he does have sex. Maybe there’s other stuff he wants more.”

Cage let that sink in a minute then made a sound that meant Never happen.

He brought me my go-to comfort food, kettle corn. We sat on my bed and watched DVD’d recordings of the Batman cartoon that Dietrich Bater voiced. Let the online dating services put that one on their questionnaires: you know it’s everlasting love when A) he looks deep into your eyes and you melt, B) the earth shakes and the angels sing, C) your souls unite in a white hot flame, or D) you laugh at the same cartoons. The answer is D.

Knocking on my door and Obie’s voice on the other side: “Carl?”

He came in and Cage jumped up to hug him. “Mon peep,” he said. “That’s terrible what happened. I hope they catch the sonofabitch and string him up.” I put the DVD on pause and Batman froze with a close up on his scowly half-circle eyes.

“Me too, Frawn-Swass.” This was Obie’s rendition of the name François. Deliberately mispronounced horribly to tease Cage or not? The world may never know. “It’s good to see you,” he said.

Cage’s hazel eyes narrows to slits. “You know … when they catch this lunatic, you get me a lock of his hair. I’ll send it to my tante**** Clothilde in New Orleans and his balls will fall off on the next new moon.”

A ripple scooted across that vast ocean of tranquility behind Obie’s eyes and I can’t even tell you how I saw it. “Thanks. But if I get close enough to him to get a piece of hair I won’t need voodoo to take his balls off.” That was probably the darkest most negative thing I ever heard him say, and it made me shudder.

The ripple of darkness went as quick as it came. He said, “But I wanted to tell you, Joseph is okay. There’s no permanent damage, thank God. A broken arm that’ll need a cast, minor head trauma, and some broken ribs that’ll have to heal on their own. I’m going to see him in a half hour. His parents are threatening to leave and he’s trying to get them to stay. He wants us all to talk about … things.”

“I can go with you,” I offered. “For moral support.  Not to get all up in your business, but I could be there in the waiting room or whatever.”

“Me too,” Cage said. “Anything you need Peep.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he said. “If you drove, I’d have to come back with you. I wouldn’t be tempted to stay there all night sleeping in a chair somewhere. You’re not feeling pressured to do this, are you?”

“Pressured? I eat pressure tacos for breakfast and stress sandwiches at lunch.” I said.

“You eat Spam sandwiches on white bread with mayo, beau coeur.” Cage said.

“It’s simple yet classic cuisine,” I said. “You both know me; if I felt like you were pressuring me into doing something, I wouldn’t do it.”

“Yeah, I know. Just wanting reassurance," Obie said.  "I don’t know how confrontational it’s going to get in there so it’ll be nice to know y’all are within hugging distance."

"And if they make misères,***** I'll stand over them and grrrrrrrowl," Cage said.  Did I mention that he is 6'3"?

“So about a half hour?” Obie asked.

“Okay. That’ll give me time to shower.”

“Thank you. Your supporting me through all this is amazing and I love y’all.”

Cage grinned and said “Back atcha, Peeps.”

“God I hate hate hate hospitals,” I said as soon as he left. I pulled off my shirt and shorts and took a towel from the closet. “All those people with their faces are either overloaded on suffering or blank from medication. But this is to support Obie, right? My discomfort is worth it for him, right?”

“Mon dieu, you are so sexy when you get all naked and altruistic,” Cage said and lip locked me. He pushed me backwards into my bed and started unbuttoning his jeans.

“Cage,” I said. “Baby. No. I need to shower. It’s … I love you but … no time … we don’t have ….”

[Ten minutes later.]

“Consider that a lick and promise,” he said when we were done. “A quickie version of what we’re gonna do later.”

He had kettle corn in his hair. I held on to him for a few more minutes and kissed sweat off his neck and breathed in his smell. Then I felt like I could do anything, even face a hospital full of mad, scared Korean priests’ parents.

________________________

*'Tee' is the Cajun shortened version of petit, small. Bougre comes from the same root word as the word 'bugger' (yes, the way the British use it) but in Cajun French means man, pal, friend. I love that.

** Cage's nickname for Obie, from pipenade which as far as I can tell means omelet. I have no idea why.

*** Pronounced 'nekkid'.

**** 'Aunt,' but you probably knew that.

*****  Pronounced mee-zaaz.  'Misery,' yes, but more in the Cajun culture, like 'trouble' or 'heartache'.

How Fr Tam, part 6: With One Eye Squinted

How Father Tam Ruined Ash Wednesday for Everybody

part 6: One Eye Squinted


After the anguished zoned out faces of the people, that sanitized-to-death odor is what I hate most about hospitals. Nothing conducive to life is supposed to smell that clean. Obie, Father Tam and Father Tam's parents talked in his room while Cage and I sat across the hall in a small waiting area with a tall schefflera and a fish tank full of guppies that Cage labeled 'minners'*. The hospital smell wasn’t so bad there and the air conditioner hummed a warble of about 90 oscillations per second, very relaxing. Cage played Angry Birds on his cell phone and I was using my IPad to re-read Habit of Being because it’s a book you can open up to anywhere, start reading and find something amazing. I stalled out on a line O’Conner had written about her terminal lupus: “I can with one eye squinted take it all as a blessing.” Every time I tried to read beyond it, my eyes would come back to it. I was wondering why when Obie walked by with Father Tam’s parents, very well dressed and older than I imagined.

“Joseph got a little too agitated. They just gave him something to relax him. We’re going to continue our talk in the chapel,” Obie said, leaning slightly on the word talk. “I’ll be back.”

I looked at Cage. “Gave him something to relax him?”

“Well, yeah. Confronting them with their relationship is a bad idea right now. They all should pump the brakes till the Father is better.”

A few minutes later a woman’s voice loudly echoed down the hall and there was no mistaking that she was terrified and furious with an at-the-end-of-your-rope outrage.

I got up but Cage touched my arm. “Hold on, mon coeur. Give him some space.” That lasted about 30 seconds, and then I couldn’t stand it so we followed the shrieking to the chapel. Everybody at the nurse's desk stopped working and looked. When we opened the chapel door I realized how soundproof it was; her screams were a lot louder inside than outside: a lot. They were also less garbled, so the language I thought was Korean I now heard as English: “You make him the woman! You make him the woman!” Her voice was hoarse from shouting.

It wasn't a big room, just a few square feet bigger than an average living room and her very floral perfume filled it. On the wall every few feet soft light glowed from lamps hidden in a short wainscoting, so it was comfortably dim. Obie sat in the front pew and Father Tam’s mother faced him, under a statue of Jesus coming off the cross, with his arms wide open and nail wounds healed to pinkish. I think they call those Risen Christs as compared to I suppose the more common gorier Crucified Christs. Father Tam’s father was off to one side looking panicked.

Father Tam’s mother noticed us. She pointed a trembling finger at Obie while she cried to us: “This man is the evil, a homosexual! A devil! He make my son sin. Do you know he is the evil, the gay?”

Cage grabbed my shoulder as I stepped forward but I pulled out of his grip. “Yes, I do. I know that. And I know that he is one of the best human beings you will ever meet. He loves your son.”

It dawned on her that we too were "the gay" and waves of disgust disfigured her mouth and eyes. “No! Not love! Don’t tell me ‘love’. It’s sick! It’s sin! He made my son sin.”

A hospital security guard with a beaded weave opened the chapel door and poked her head in. “Y’all all right in here? Anybody need anything?”

“We’re fine, officer. Just a little emotional,” Father Tam’s father said with a shaky smile.

Father Tam’s mother called out to her. “No, we not fine! These are evil perverts and homosexuals! They have no right here in God’s house. Make them go out!”

The guard took one step in and pulled the door closed behind her. She said, “Ma’am, I am sorry you are upset but you need to lower your voice. Anybody wants to come here can, and it don’t matter who as long as they not disruptive. Sounds to me like you the one has a problem, you the one being loud, you the one needs to leave.”

“We’re all right, thank you,” Obie said. The guard leaned in to Cage and me and said, “I’m Thea. If y’all need anything, I’m across the hall at the desk.”

“Shh. Shhhhhh. We don’t want to make noise in God’s house, in a hospital,” Father Tam’s father said to Father Tam’s mother. “Let’s go now.” He spoke to her gently in Korean and walked her past Obie, toward us and the door.

When she came close I saw that the disgust in her face was defeat and despair now. I wanted to say something compassionate, but nothing I could think of matched what I was feeling. So I went with “God bless you.”

She stopped and looked at me with eyes full of brokeness. Then I heard a loud smack and at the same time felt my head jerk to the left. The right side of my face was numb and when I gasped her perfume pushed its way down my throat. Cage and Obie were there in a blink standing between us. In his growliest voice Cage told her that she needed to leave.

“No!” she said, but the fight had gone out of her. “You the perverts who need to leave. Why you want to come in God’s house? There is no place for you. God hate you. He hate you!” Then she said looking straight at Obie, almost a plea: “You all die with AIDS somewhere else and go back in hell where you belong. Leave my son alone.  God call him.  You leave him alone.”

I was fine till I sat down and they began hovering over me with worried looks. Cage cursed at her and then apologized (to God or us, I don’t know) about cursing in a chapel. Father Tam's father hurried out with his weeping wife.  The physical numbness on my cheek turned slowly into a sting and the emotional numbness went in tandem. It started feeling real: I had just met up with all the might of a mad, tough, mother who thought her child was being hurt. Then the adrenaline rush hit and my hands shook.

“I’m all right,” I said.

“Thank God you are. Thank God,” Obie said with anguish underpinning his voice. I couldn't look at him for more than a few seconds; his deep sustaining tranquility was shattered and his face registered so many emotions that it was dizzying to me, like looking at a spinning kaleidoscope image that changes so fast it's a blur. “I’m sorry Carl. I’m so sorry you’re involved in all this mess. I started this whole thing. All I wanted was for y’all to meet Joseph. You... Like the emotional drama wasn’t enough, now you were physically hurt .... I’m sorry, Carl. You so didn’t deserve… God, I’m so mad I can’t speak.”

“Shut up,” I said lovingly. “One, I’m a big boy, I make my own decisions. Two, you didn't force Father Tam’s mom to bitchslap me. And three, I’m a big boy, I make my own decisions.”

Cage actually looked alarmed. “Lay down a minute and let me go find you both a pop** to sip.”

“It's okay, boyo. I really am fine,” I said. Obie stepped back and held out his arms wide. We went to him and after a minute they squeezed me so hard I had to say “I really really love you guys but I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry,” Obie said. “I’m just …”

“It’s okay,” I said and rubbed my cheek. “There are worse ways to die.”

“Look,” Cage said. He pointed to a spinet the corner. He sat down at it and played a quiet chord. “Sit down and close your eyes for a little minute, cher***. Relax and breathe deep because I'm sorry but this is gonna be corny.”

He played "Inch Worm" from the old movie Hans Christian Anderson. From about the age of 12 I had sleep terrors and woke up smothering, feeling like electricity was jolting through me. If I was at my grandmother's house, she always heard me yelling and came in to sing for me. Apparently the closest thing to a lullabye that she knew was "Inch Worm." Of course it was corny when Grandma did it and it was corny now, but ridiculously sweet too. Obie sat next to me with closed eyes but I watched Cage concentrating with all his might on what he was doing and whispering “oops” every time he hit a clunker. I could hear Obie taking deep, measured breaths in time with the song: One and one are two. Two and two are four. The door opened and Thea the guard stood waiting. When he was finished she said “Aw, that’s pretty. Y'all all okay?”  Cage started to tell her what happened, but I interrupted him.

"The lady was upset about something, that's all," I said.

Thea sighed.  "Yep," she said.  "Here inna hospital you get people at they worst. They sick. They upset. They nerves are all frazzled. Thank y'all for keeping the peace and not making a ruckus with her."

Obie wanted a few more minutes to say goodbye so we said we'd meet him down in the cafeteria. We followed Obie to Father Tam's room and I tried to get a look, but all I got was a quick view of his arm in a cast and the top of his head. I really wanted to see his face. Obie bent forward and stroked his black hair then the door shut. We went down to the cafeteria for coffee which was nasty but if you loaded it up with all the non dairy creamer it could absorb, you could swallow it.

“They musta really upset the Father. Damn but he has some moche**** parents.”

“Mr. Tam seemed nice,” I said. “Since he didn’t assault me, I mean.”

“Eh, coullion***** ,” he said. “Lemme ask you. Is it bad I don’t feel sorry for her?”

“No, it’s not bad,” I said. “But I bet you feel sorry for her at least a little bit, right? She’s dealing with stuff way, way out of her comfort zone.”

“I don’t care. We all gotta do that once in a while. Fritch.****** If your life is so sweet that you never have to punch [sic] the envelope, you sure as hell shouldn’t have a fit when something happens. But ... I do feel a little bad because I don’t feel sorry. I think that should count.”

“It definitely counts, boyo.”

“You notice what seemed to aggravate her worst of all? That the Father was ‘the woman’ in their relationship.”

“Yeah. It makes you wonder what she imagines they do in bed.”

“That’s messed up. Does a straight couple’s mama go around thinking about what they do in bed? It’s two dudes anyway, there’s no woman. That’s kinda what makes it ‘gay’ huh?” He put air quotes around it.

“My dad thought the same way,” I said. “He couldn’t think of any other way to be a couple than male/female. So he assumed all gay male couples are a man and a kind of pseudo-woman something. Obviously that’s what was foremost in the mind of Father Tam’s mom – that Father Tam was being a woman in some way. Obie’s younger. It’s interesting that she didn’t assume he’s the woman.”

“Obie's tall. And probably heavier,” he said. “Maybe she thinks Peep forces him.”

“She probably can’t let herself think anything else because she assumes gayness is all lust. My dad’s unconsidered opinion was that if it’s two men or two women, that’s all it can be, never love. Like I was gay because I was too hyper-sexual to stick with one gender, that any hole will do because I was so eaten up by lust.”

“Yep, that’s how they think. Either that or we got demons in us,” Cage said. “One time in Lake Charles I worked with this super-religious lady. She once told me that because I didn’t act nelly, I could be straight if I just tried a little harder.” He laughed. “But then before too long she started going ‘God bless you’ when I would cough. Not just when I sneezed, but when I coughed too. Me, I take all the blessings I can get, so I didn’t think too much about it. Not till my bud told me she was blessing gay demons out of me.” He laughed again and shook his head with good natured disbelief. He stroked his close cropped beard twice but the third time the stroke became a pinch and pulled at a patch of hair. I noticed but I didn't say anything.

Obie called my name and motioned to us from the cafeteria entrance, waving us over like it was urgent and we didn't hesitate. Trotting to keep up with Cage’s long legs’ strides I scanned Obie's face, but his serenity was back and I was never so happy to be totally unable predict what we were hurrying about.

“The Father is okay?” Cage asked.

"He is, but y’all need to see this.” When we got back to the elevator the UP button was already pushed. I asked, “Did you or Father Tam even get to discuss anything with his parents? Did you get to explain about ….” I didn’t know how to finish my question. “… your love for him?”

I saw it click for Obie. He realized I knew their relationship wasn’t sexual and he looked relieved. The elevator door opened and we filed in.

“I was tempted to," Obie said on the ride up. "It's not my place to discuss the specifics of her son’s sex life. Or non-sex life. If Joseph wants to tell her, fine. All I said was that I loved him and he loved me and I was sorry about their disapproval, but it wasn’t going to keep me away from Joseph. And we do other stuff that they probably wouldn't be happy about, like we kiss a lot. My God, that man can kiss…. And on those rare occasions when we can spend the night together, we sleep in each other’s arms. But sleep, no sex. We hold, we touch, just nothing below the belly button. But that’s still nobody’s business but ours.”

Cage squinted at Obie and his lower lip plumped out; that was his consternation face. “For real, Peep? You and the Father kiss and hug but don’t have sex?"

"We don't," Obie said simply.

"At all?"

"At all."

"Ever?”

"Never."

Cage scratched at his ear with an index finger. “Fil de putain*******. The Father must have some cast iron self control, that’s all I got to say.”

“That silver tongue, Frawn Swass," he said with a smile in his voice. "For now this is what’s right for us.”

Before I could work up the courage to ask what ‘for now’ meant, we were on the 5th floor and out of the elevator. At Father Tam’s room he pushed the door open and a nurse with beautiful red hair put up her hand and came toward us.

“Sorry,” she said. “Only three in the room at a time.” There were exactly that many people around his bed: a tall balding man in slacks, shirt, and tie; a pony-tailed woman with her back toward us; and a crying woman who was talking to Father Tam in a very animated way. Against the wall on the floor stood a silver and black vase 15 inches or taller with at least 24 white roses fanning out from it.

“Lisa,” I said. The girl with the pony tail turned at her name but the nurse shooed us back and shut door.

“Yes,” Obie said.

“Who?” asked Cage. He pulled a few hairs out of his beard, caught himself then shoved his hands into his jeans’ pockets.

“The jogger Joseph saved in Karitz Park. It turns out that her last name is Venn.” Blank stares from Cage and me. “Her father is Bill Venn.”

“Ex mayor of Austin Bill Venn?” I said. “I voted for him."

“Damn,” Cage said. “He came over to thank the Father and look at those roses. That spray is big as a peacock tail.”

The line of Obie’s mouth had (I think) a tenseness to it. ”Father Tam must be uncomfortable with all the attention," I said, fishing.

“Yes,” Obie said. “But that’s not all. They want to thank Joseph by giving him money and they asked permission to use the story in the media. With his name and picture and everything.”

Cage and I blurted at the same time:
[Me] “The media? TV or paper?”
[Him] “Money? How much money?”

“I don’t know,” Obie said.

“Can Fathers even take money?” Cage wondered. He tugged at his beard again, and this time didn’t he catch himself. I thought No, no.

“They can, but he won’t,” Obie said. “If he accepts anything, he’ll give it to the diocese. And he won't let them have his picture for the media at all.”

They filed out of the room. Mr. Venn nodded to us with red eyes, Mrs. Venn (one supposes) openly weeping, backed out of the room saying “God bless you, God bless you, God bless you,” then Lisa came out last. Her cheek had an ugly purple bruise but she was still startlingly beautiful.  She grabbed Obie’s hand.

“Toby! Thank him again for me,” she said. He didn’t correct her. “I’ll come back tomorrow to say hi when he won’t be so groggy. I’m not sure he understood what was going on. If he didn’t, tell him later, okay? Take good care of him.”

“Tell him what?” I asked.

“Tell him to please let my father do this for him. Dad needs to give him something, that’s just how he is,” she said and disappeared around the corner. Cage was still plucking at his beard so I took his hand gently and pulled it away from his face.

The red haired nurse came out and said Father Tam was asleep. Obie wanted to stay and we had to convince him that we wouldn’t go without him before he'd leave with us. The ride home was quiet and he was more tired than he thought; he lay down on the back seat and put one arm over his eyes.

Cage looked back at him and then grabbed my right hand and kissed it.

“What’s that for?”

“For you, beau coeur. You know I love you.” He sighed and turned his face to show a red and bare spot on the side of his chin.

“I know, boyo, and I love you too. This’ll pass. It always does.”

I knew both of us were despondent about what was coming but determined not to let the other see, which was hard because I was tearing up fast. Neither of us spoke for a long time until he said, “You know when I was little my mom and all my aunts wanted me to be a priest.”

I smiled at him lost in his memory. “Father Francis. You’d have made a good one.”

“Poo yie, no I wouldn’t. Looks like it’s not as easy as they made it sound in catechism,” he said, adorably pretending to be utterly serious.

____________________
* His approximation of the word "minnows."

**There is one small enclave in southwest Louisiana that uses the yankee-ish term 'pop', while the rest of the South uses the term 'Coke' to mean any carbonated drink. It leads to confusing conversations such as "You want a Coke?" "Yeah, a root beer."

*** Which means "dear" I'm sure you know. What you might not know is that it definitely does not, according to Cage, sound the same as the "Cher" of movies and song. To pronounce it correctly say the word "shack" but leave off the final 'ck' consonant.

**** Rhymes with "gosh": it means evil in a petty ignorant way.

***** An affectionate form of 'silly' or 'goofy'; think of the Cajun equivalent to the Black "You so crazy."

****** Crap; pronounced like it looks.

******* Literally, male offspring of a prostitute.

How Fr Tam ... part 7: Rain in the Living Room

How Father Tam Ruined Ash Wednesday for Everybody
part 7, Listening to It Rain in the Living Room


I inflated maybe 50 balloons that morning. Pop one and I swear the scent of fried catfish would explode around you like a delicious hand grenade. That smell was so strong in Blessed John Henry Newman Hall, you could almost see it in the air. I inhaled that aroma through my nose as deeply as I could, and then exhaled it into balloon after balloon after balloon. My mouth was so dry that I'd gone through half of a 32 ounce bottle of water in 10 minutes; my stomach was about to bust but my tongue wanted more hydration.

Obie was partly to credit for the aroma, he and two parishioners he introduced as Julia and Molly. The other associate pastor of the parish, Father Frederick, ‘supervised’ the preparations for the Welcome Back from the Hospital Party. The word is in quotes for a reason. All his ‘supervision’ consisted of was darting around giving everybody orders but not, from my vantage point, doing much else. His default mode seemed to be set to frantic. It bordered on comedy, his fluttery zigzagging, especially next to Obie’s slow fluid motions. Do you know people who tell you do to something and say ‘please’ but by the tone of their voice you know they aren’t really being polite? That was Father Frederick; he barked instructions as if he were an overly busy, put-upon matre d' but he always said ‘please.’ Only it meant ‘and for God’s sake get the lead out.'  From my gray folding chair in the large meeting area, I watched Obie and Julia do most of the work. Molly was there to chat with Obie. Worrying and being bossy seemed to be Father Frederick’s only job.

My goal was to support Obie by blowing up a bunch of multicolored balloons. Or that was my immediate goal. My other goal was just to stay busy doing something. It was the only way to stay sane; Cage quarantined himself for another bipolar episode and I hadn’t seen him for almost 3 days. His previous sequesters were less than 24 hours; today it was going on 36. I agreed to leave him alone, per his insistence, but only on the condition that he contact me every day to let me know he was all right. Yesterday and the evening before he’d called me at 6pm but I could hear in his voice that the weight of his depression wasn’t easing, and my God, but it tore out a chunk of my heart. The impulse to be there and to hover around him nervously was irresistible if I left my mind idle for any amount of time, but I told him I’d stay away until he gave me thumbs up. At work, keeping busy, that pot-full of worry simmered low enough to let me think about it semi rationally. At home in the evening, though, I had nothing but TV crime dramas or internet porn to occupy my mind, and the worry boiled over until it overwhelmed me. So I volunteered to help out with Father Tam’s welcome home party.

It was a hero’s welcome. The newspaper was going to pick up the story as well as (maybe) one of the local TV stations. Just that morning the bishop approved it all, and even encouraged Father Tam to allow the media to use his picture. Obie explained the ecclesiastical code-meaning of the term ‘encouraged’ – it meant ‘requested,’ and ‘requested’ meant ‘ordered’. His Holiness figured that with all the recent bad press over pedophiles in the Church, it would go a long way to show a priest doing something extraordinary. Phyllis, my garrulous co-inflater of balloons, was in awe.

“Goes to show you should never judge a book by its book jacket, because you never know what people have in ‘em, till the rubber hits the road,” she observed. “Father Joseph was always such a quiet guy and all, very gentle and …” She struggled with the word. “… unseeming.”

“Unassuming?” I suggested, failing to make a viable knot in the stem of my balloon.

“Yes, exactly. It's amazing how unassuming he is. One of the nicest, sweetest people in the world, not shy exactly but kinda reserved and all. Then he jumps right in and saves that girl’s life." She shook her head in awe. "The whole church was fuh-loored. Oh, not floored that he would put himself in danger to help somebody and all -- that wasn’t surprising. But that he got the jump on that attacker and kicked. His. Butt. The first thing I said to Jim my husband was that God must’ve protecting him, that’s the only way that scumbag didn’t kill him and all, since he was probably hopped up on marajuana or heroin or something. But Jim said that Father Joseph made God’s job a little bit easier by dropping him with a few good Karate moves before the dude came after him with a rock and nearly cracked his head open.” She puffed up a bright orange balloon. She wasn’t a large woman at all but she must have had the lungs of an opera singer because she could pack like a square foot of air into a balloon with two breaths. All of hers were considerably bigger than mine: balloon envy?

“Father Tam knows Karate?” I picked up a dark purple one and blew.

“That’s what Jim heard, yes. Or was it the other one? Tai bo? Whichever one is Korean. I don’t remember, one of the martial arts. Nobody had an idea that sweet unassuming Father Joseph could kick ass like a Chuck Norris ninja, lawdy lawdy Miss Clawdy. It’s all they talked about at the Knights of Columbus meeting, according to Jim, and do you know August Frey? He’s a deacon here and all, a little bit uppity but not too bad, and he works for the newspaper. He saw the whole police report, how Father Joseph kept fighting him off, even with his head cracked open, until the cops came and the dude ran off. They didn’t find him but he remembered every detail of the guy’s face, even with massive head trauma, and they sent an artist.”

“An artist? For … oh, a sketch artist.” After some fumbling, I tied off my balloon that I’d fattened way past my own comfort zone.

“Yes, a sketch artist that recreated his face and all.”

I picked out a new balloon and it went from dark dull burgundy to shiny magenta as I pushed its rubbery limits. Again I fumbled to seal it with a knot. “Here, let me do it,” Phyllis said and my balloon allowed her fingers to tie it off with a neat snap.

“Well, let’s say some novenas that they catch him,” I said. “I wonder who the patron saint of catching criminals is.” I was immediately contrite. Who’s the patron saint of flipness, I scolded myself, taking an orange balloon and blowing.

Phyllis might have been as homespun as a macramé welcome mat, but she wasn’t stupid. She laughed and poked my arm. “We got patron saints for everything else, right? Oh, they’ll catch him, don’t you worry. The daughter of an ex-congressman? Huh. They won’t need too much help from the saints after they put the secret service on that jerk’s ass, excuse my language, and I’d hate to be him when they do. Gimme.” She took my balloon and again snapped a quick knot in it. “Those balloons are giving you fits, aren’t they? How about you focus on what you do best. You just blow and I’ll tie mine and yours both.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.” I picked a pink one and did what I do best. “Yes. The secret service is …” I gave it two more deep exhales and handed it to her.

“The secret service is one bunch of dudes you do not wanna mess with.” She lowered her voice as if the hall was bugged. “They invented waterboards and a kind of electrocution that hurts like a mamma jamma but doesn’t kill you. Interrogation techniques and all. They have cameras in satellites that can see through your walls like they weren’t even there. They can zoom in on you so close that they can see what kind of soap you’re using in the shower, and everything you take a picture of with your cell phone? Goes right to the CIA and the liberal media. Jim gets embarrassed when I say that because he says it makes me sound paranoid and all, but there is too much stuff about it on the internet. And where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Using two breaths, she filled a tannish balloon so full I was amazed when it didn’t pop like a firecracker in her hand.

“Yes, the internet is full of information, but it’s open to both saints and sinners, honest people and liars, so ...” I said carefully and cheerfully.

“There’s even a saint for the internet!” She hooted and poked me again. “The pope pulled out one of the old saints and gave him that … ability. Well, not ability, but you know.”

“His job description.”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s what the Vatican calls other duties as assigned. Ah hah hah hah hah!” She did have a great laugh and I right then decided she was cool, the Mad Tea Party crap notwithstanding.

“What his name?”

“That saint? I don’t remember. One of those old guys nobody picks for their confirmation name.” She almost filled a purple balloon with the first blow.

“You read that on the internet?”

“No,” she said. (“No, smart alec” was what her inflection said.) “Father Novak told us that in a homily.”

“Is that Father Frederick’s last name?”

“Huh? No, Father Frederick’s last name is Frederick,” she said and giggled. “He’s kinda backwards; he has a first name for a last name, and a last name for a first name.”

“What’s his first name?”

“Fointleroy.” She gave her balloon one more seam splitting gust and tied it off so quickly I couldn’t see her fingers move.

“His name is Fointleroy Frederick? You’re kidding.” I got a dark blue balloon and gave it my the depth and length of my lungs. It wasn’t halfway full.

“Yeah, I’m kidding. It's Anders, which I think is either German or Swedish. But he acts like a Fointleroy.” She pursed her lips, rolled her eyes, and made flitting movements with her hands.

“He’s gay?” My balloon slipped out of my fingers and flew right at Phyllis, landing in her lap.

She squinted, aimed, and snapped it back at me like a slingshot. “No, no, not gay. I got excellent [quote fingers] 'gaydar'. I can spot gays and lesbians a mile away. He’s just prissy and pissy. Not that it matters, gay or straight, because when you’re celibate and all, you can’t have sex with whichever gender you're into. He’s just so persnickity and serious all the time. Father Joseph and Father Novak are warm and they smile at you, but especially Father Joseph. Ask anybody in the parish and it’s no secret – Father Joseph is everybody’s favorite, and even Father Novak knows it.”

“So who’s Father Novak?”

“He’s the pastor. The head honcho of the parish. His first name is Gerald. Or Jarrod, maybe. I’m not sure. We all call him Father Novak. Father Joseph and Father Frederick are associate pastors under him.”

“So you call Father Novak and Father Frederick by their last names, but you call Father Joseph by his first name?”

Clearly she had never noticed that before. “Yeah. I guess so. Everybody does.” She held a white balloon on her lap and stretched it out with two slow tugs. It was the same two motions Cage uses on his dick after he pees, to make sure nothing drips into his underwear. My chest felt flooded with anxiety and hollow at the same time. I blushed.

“Whoa, it’s later than I thought,” I said to my watch. “I gotta go see a man about a horse.”

“Fine. Just leave me here with 2 more packages of balloons. I’m kidding. Good luck with your horse and it was nice of you to lend a hand.”

“Or a lung? It was nice to meet you, Miss Phyllis.”

“You too, Mr Carl. Have a blessed day. You’ll be at the party tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good. I’ll save you a chair next to Jim and me. I’d love for you to meet him.”

“Why?” I asked before I had a chance to not ask.

“I dunno,” she said. “I think he’d really like you. Something about you reminds me of him and that’s a high compliment and all because he is the finest man I ever met.” Her eyes went soft. “I always tell people how I'm the luckiest lady in the world.”

Medium alert lights flash in my mind whenever somebody tells me that I remind them of their straight male friend/family member. Of course it could be something as innocent as my build, my comportment, the way I puff out my cheeks when I inflate small balloons, but if it was the je ne sais quoi of sexuality I’d prefer to stay out of it. “I think Jim is pretty lucky himself.”

She flapped her hand and me and snickered. “Oh don’t you flirt with me, or I'll tell him.”

I smiled and almost said something flip, but caught it in time and went with sincere: "Miss Phyllis, you are quite all right, and all."

She smiled and ripped apart a new bag of multicolored balloons. "You have a good rest of the day and all, and go see about that horse of yours," she said.

I grabbed my half full water bottle, and took a quick swig even though my stomach was daring me to swallow another drop. I went to the kitchen to tell Obie I was leaving.

He was running hot water into a large pot, and I emptied my water bottle into the sink.

"I got the update on the attack in Karitz Park," I said over the water rushing into the huge resounding pot.

"Uh huh," he said, his face as placid as a marble Buddha's. "Word has it that Father Tam used tai bo to keep him away from an ex-congressman’s daughter, kicked ass like Chuck Norris, plus retained a photographic memory even with massive head trauma. And now the secret service, who can see what kind of soap he uses, is hot on his trail, ready for waterboarding.”

Affection shone in Obie's eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like Phyllis."

“Coming through, please,” said Father Frederick. I stepped out of his way.

Molly had been hovering nearby. “Ugh. Has Phyllis been bending your ear off?” she said, smiling at Obie.

Julia heard the conversation and joined us. “Whatever Phyllis tells you, take it with a grain of salt," she said.

"Or a ten pound bag of it," Molly said.

"Phyllis is good as gold, give you the coat off her back," Julia said. "But her relationship with reality gets a little strained sometimes, if you know what I mean. And whatever you do, don't tell her anything because not only will it be all over the parish, all the facts will be completely wrong,” she saiid. “Don’t you hate gossips?”

“Yes, I really do,” I said.

“How’s Cage?” Obie asked.

I froze, a kneejerk reaction to mentioning my boyfriend in the company of religious heterosexuals. But Molly and Julia were oblivious as Obie walked me toward the back of the kitchen. He opened a refrigerator and tossed me a bottle of water.

"Thanks, man, but I couldn't," I said holding my sloshing stomach. "I just drank...."

"Bring it with you," he said. "In case you need it later. How's Cage?"

“I’m worried,” I said. “It’s been three days. He keeps saying he’s really okay and I promised I’d leave him alone unless he asked for help. But what if he’s getting worse? What if he doesn’t know how bad it is? Should I keep my promise and stay away until he gives me the go-ahead? Or go over there and make sure he's all right? Obie, I'm lost here. I am not usually ambivalent about things and it’s driving me nuts.”

The way he looked at me felt like he had grasped me by the shoulders. “Saying he’s okay isn’t the same as saying he doesn't need help,” he said. “Especially in his state of mind. Depression can totally beat you and crush you down hard. I went through something like that when I left home. Thank God my friends didn’t leave me alone when I asked them to.”

I pulled him in close for a quick hug and he kissed the top of my head. He was right, of course. I just needed to hear another person say it. He did that thing where he smiled without changing anything on his face.

“I’m going there now,” I said. I heard a commotion behind me and Father Frederick came barreling through.

“Excuse me please,” he said. With a single paper plate in his hand, he blasted by and pointed at a beat up cardboard box on a shelf. “Obie, can you please get one of those knife sharpener things out of there?”

“Give him my love,” Obie said and I was out the back door and in my car.

The shards of at least three broken plates littered Cage’s kitchen floor. It was the first thing I noticed walking in and the only thing at a glance that was unusual. The rest of his house was neat, if a little pale with dust, but that was normal for him. But I heard something odd: the drone of rain on a metal roof and distant tumbling of thunder, even though the day was clear and it hadn’t rained in months. It came from the living room and that’s where I found Cage lying very still on his futon that he set up as a sofa. The brown and amber afghan his mother knitted for him covered his feet in a wad. Starting in my stomach and moving outward, terror froze me.

I exhaled when he said in a faint and thin voice “Hey, beebee.” He moved his head toward me. I walked calmly over to him, trying to hide my panic and my relief, but of course it jangled though my voice like an old fashioned wind up alarm clock going off. “Aw, boyo. How’re you doing?”

He opened his eyes slowly and saw in them what I dreaded most: nothing. No sadness, no anger, no understanding, no nothing. Worst of all, there was no shame. No matter how much anybody assured him, he was always deeply ashamed of his bipolar episodes, especially of his depression. To allow me to see him like this without even his default embarrassment meant this was serious. He looked like he’d been sleeping a lot, but not well, and he'd shaved off his beard and now had an un-pluckable quarter inch or so of stubble. “I’m okay.”

“You are not,” I said. “It’s three days now. It’s time to call Dr. Foley.”

“No,” he said closing his eyes again. “I’m all right. I will be. All right.”

I sat next to him on the futon and kissed him lightly on the lips. They were dry and his breath was horrendous and even though that freaked me out beyond all telling, I kept my voice low and calm. “Baby, when’s the last time you ate something or had a drink of water?”

He scowled to concentrate but didn’t open his eyes. “Dunno. I think it was… Dunno.” His house is pier and beam so every time you walk across the floor it is to some degree audible; I forced myself to go slowly to his kitchen so my footsteps sounded calm. At the sink I kicked aside the fragments of plates on the floor. Cage has five drinking vessels to his name, all old plastic stadium cups with the remains of various peeling New Orleans Saints logos on them. All five were in the sink, dirty, and apparently had been for a while. I tiptoed to the front door, then, running faster than I have in years, I zoomed to my car and got the bottled water Obie gave me, dialing 911 as I went. When an almost mechanical sounding voice asked me what my emergency was, I gave her the short version but emphasized the word ‘dehydrated.’

When I walked back through his front door, again it chilled me to see him lying so still with his face all splotchy and those dark circles under his eyes, and the sound of a phantom thunderstorm filling up his dusty, airless room made it all the eerier. “Here, sugarman. Have a drink.” I held the water out to him. He opened his eyes then closed them again and didn’t move. “Cage. You are going to drink water now.”

You could tell it took enormous effort to talk. “No. 'M not thirsty.”

“That wasn’t a request.” My voice was still calm and soft, even when I said “Take it and drink or I’ll pour it down your throat.

“Lemme sleep.”

“After you drink this.” He still wasn’t moving so I propped him up against the back of the futon; as I mentioned, Cage is a big boy and he was all dead weight. I had no idea how to get the water into him. Placing his hands on the bottle didn't work and neither did putting it up to his lips. Not knowing what else to do, I wet my finger with water and rubbed it on his lips. He licked them and his eyes opened. Holding himself up, he took the bottle and swallowed a huge gulp. I put my hand over his and told him to start with small sips. He ignored me of course, but with each swallow more life came into his face. At first he looked confused as if his body was drinking instinctually, and his conscious mind wasn’t sure what water was. “More,” he said when he’d drained the bottle. Instead I found a can of low sodium beef broth in the wasteland of his pantry and poured it into a reasonably clean plastic Land O Lakes margarine container. After I microwaved it for one minute, he drank it all quickly and I didn’t try to moderate his gulps; if he threw it up, I’d clean it and find something else for him to sip.

“What’s with the broken plates all over the kitchen floor?” I asked. He gave me the empty margarine tub.

“What?” Again his forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I must have … I don't remember.”

"You were mad about something?"

He squinted.  "I don't.  I don't think so.  I think ... the quiet was getting to me and I needed noise. I needed some noise.  So I pretended they were Frisbies.

“Francis Eloy LeJeune the Fourth. Plates are for eating with, not disk golfing with.”

Consciousness seeped back into his eyes little by little. “That was … I think two days ago. I was hyper, frustrated and confused. Chinet disk golf seemed like a good idea at the time. More water, please.”

I went to refill the water bottle and while I was in the kitchen the doorbell chimed twice. A woman’s voice came through the front door: “EMS.” As I walked past him to the door, Cage waved madly and whispered “No, no, no.”

Letting them in motivated him to stand up, I guess, to look as healthy as possible. I explained the situation briefly to the EMTs over his protestations that he was “fine, really”. He griped the whole time they took his blood pressure and listened to his lungs, whining “I can’t believe you told 911 on me.” He refused to go the hospital and the EMT said he was a little dehydrated but nothing serious. With reassuring animation he insisted that he was as healthy as two horses and had eaten and taken his meds recently although he didn’t remember when. In the end he promised to call Dr. Foley and to let me stay overnight. They gave him a bottle of electrolytes and left.

He wouldn’t look at me. “You ratted me out to EMS,” he grumbled and flopped back down onto the futon.

I crossed my arms and tried to loom over him with all my towering five feet and eight inches. “Yep, I did. And if you’re mad at me about that, then good, because at least you’re alive and still able to experience stuff like anger. I can live with that, so be as pissed off as you wanna be.”

Then and there, Merriam-Webster would’ve paid six figures to have a picture of Cage’s expression by the entry for the word ‘sheepish’ in their next edition. “I’m not mad, beebee. I’m embarrassed when I get this way. I get so disgusted with myself.”

Based on what little he told me about his past, I have no doubt that his bipolar incidents got a lot of momentum from shame and disgust. He grew up in a time when kids’ bipolar disorder and ADD was assumed to be spoiled brattiness. In school they labeled him a trouble maker and worst of all, his dad, Francis III, had an abiding abhorrence to ‘misbehaving’ children. Francis IV, to his dad’s point of view, was lazy, rebellious, moody, and self indulgent and he was determined to straighten him up with a belt and constant verbal humiliation. I don’t think number III was a bad person, but stuff like ADHD, and bipolar disorder are inherited so I think Cage’s father was continuing a cycle of abuse that started many generations before. Besides, think about it: what makes you angrier than seeing in other people what you hate most about yourself?

“I know, boyo. And you know that there’s nothing to be ashamed about. It’s natural to feel disgusted about the disease, but it’s a condition, something that happens to you, a separate thing. It’s not who you are,” I said.

He looked up at me with a weak smile. “You must get tired saying that to me every time. Then I’m ashamed because I piss and moan so much.”

That wobbly smile gave me such relief that I sprawled out next to him. I shoved him over and scooped him up into my arms. Up close the sweaty smell of his unwashed hair was almost as bad as his dehydration breath so after a few minutes of nuzzling I suggest a shower.

“Come with me?” he asked.

“Okay, but there will be no coming involved. Washing, rinsing, and repeating only,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t couldn't get it up anyway.”

Thinking that a little stimulation might help his mood, I made the shower a little cooler than tepid. He complained that it was cold but I explained it was bracing, not cold. I scrubbed his back, furry butt, and legs lightly but briskly with his loofah while he shampooed his hair. When he looked at me from under the spray with water raining down on him, running over his face and down his furry chest, he again smiled something like his normal crooked smile. He was so unspeakably beautiful and sweet that I thought if Phyllis was the luckiest lady in the world, I was the luckiest bear.

“You know, I noticed something,” I said rubbing soap into his chest hair. “When you have a bipolar episode, you don’t pepper your speech with Cajunisms. It’s all English.”

“Busted,” he said, looking weary. "It's something I do to stand out in the crowd, I guess."

I was not shocked. “I know, but it’s not all fake, is it?”

“No, beebee. Not fake, just playful. And when I get this way I don’t have it in me to be playful.” He shook his floppy dick and shrugged. “See? No playfulness. Damn Father Tam’s mama.” Seeing her slap me had triggered his episode; dropping Cage to the floor with an open palm slap was another of his father’s tools for dealing with "bratty kids". (This explained something I’d noticed before; holding hands and watching a movie, if an actor slapped somebody, his palms would immediately get sweaty and warm.)

I got out of the shower and dried off but he wanted to stay. I went to the land line in his bedroom: 11 missed calls and 5 messages. Two of them were from Bluebonnet Mall asking where he was and why he missed work. The next was the same voice apologizing but slightly angry, telling him that he was terminated from his security guard job for not showing up and not calling.

It was my version of a prayer: Really God? Do you in your infinite wisdom think he needs something else to stress about right now? If you’re as omnipotent and extant as Obie thinks you are, then it’ll be easy for you to give him a break, so please. Consider it. Um, through Christ our Lord, amen.

A fourth message was from Dr. Foley. Apparently he had called her yesterday, but she didn’t understand the message he left and was he asking for a refill on his medication? The last call was his brother Rich calling from Louisiana. Apparently Cage had called him too yesterday but didn’t leave a message and he was worried. He was the only one of Cage’s 3 siblings that knew about his bipolar condition and trichotillomania.

I heard him turn off the shower. he had had stripped his bed (except for his pillow cases)so I looked for clean sheets. The dirty clothes hamper was empty except for his pair of flying toaster underwear. I checked the washing machine in the utility room and it had a strong odor of mildew and an agitator full of damp clothes and linens. I threw in some soap and restarted it. He walked up behind me and put his arms around my chest.

“Don’t worry about that, beebee,” he said, leaning his full 210 lbs into me. I sniffed and smelled something horrendous; on his fresh, clean body, he had his ancient terrycloth robe that smelled almost as bad as he did before he showered. “I’ll do all that tomorrow.”

“Excellent. So if you're thinking about tomorrow does that mean we're out of the woods?” Signs of life skittered around his face, but there was still something blank about it.

He stood next to me, leaned back on the washing machine and put his hands in his robe’s pockets. “Yeah, definitely. Probably.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Maybe, I dunno. But I’m a lot better since you got here.”

“It was the beef broth.”

He shook his head. “It was my beefy bear.”

“Let’s put on some pants and go for a walk around the block.”

“Naw. I’m done with the physical activity for today,” he said. “Walking to the den is all I’m going to do for now.” I followed him.

“You take that side, beebee,” he said and gripped one end of the futon. I took the opposite end and with a few clicks and a thud we changed it from a sofa to a bed. He tossed his robe onto his coffee table (4x3 pane of Lucite on four legs from an old desk) and sprawled out. His old CD player gray with dust sat on the floor in the corner, producing the sound of a thunderstorm. I gave him that CD of rain storms last year when the drought refused to break and he mentioned that the one thing he didn’t like about Austin was the summertime weather. He missed his gulf showers and grandiose thunderstorms that rumbled through almost weekly and slashed the air and boomed around like a hammy actor.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. There were still a few almost bald patches under his jaw line. He patted the space next to him so I got in and used his arm as a pillow. He sighed. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to stop eating or drinking anything.”

“I know, boyo.”

“It’s weird when I get like this one of the main things I worry about is that you might think I’m doing it on purpose. It’s not self destructive or anything like that. I know it sounds weird as fuck-all, but when it gets this bad I just ... forget. I forget to eat and drink. It’s like my mind is so involved with the bipolar thing that hungry and thirsty don’t register.”

“I know it’s not on purpose. I just wish you wouldn’t isolate yourself. I wish you’d let me help.”

“You always help, beebee. You’re always in my mind, even when it’s fuzzy. But when I’m manic I’m so sad I feel like I’m gonna bust, and what makes it worse is, there’s nothing specific for me to be sad at. There’s no object for it, so it goes everywhere. It's like I’m in this huge endless sea of sloshy anquish and the nicest thing I can do for the whole human race is to hide inside my house, and not inflict it on the world. Like my dad did. When he was hurting he wanted to make everybody around him hurt too, and I always swore I wouldn’t ever be like that. Then when I’m depressed, all I feel is that I'm turning into him and there's nothing I can do about it.”

“Don't underestimate me or how stubborn I can be when I love somebody like I love you. I’m pretty sure I could handle it.” His closed eyes didn’t even flutter; it looked like he was talking in his sleep.

“I know you could, beebee. I don’t wanna sound like I doubt you. But me, myself, I couldn’t handle it if I ever inflicted that on you. Because I ... love you ... so much...” His voice was getting quieter and his speech was slowing. I moved in closer and pulled his arm across my shoulders. In his dusty, dry living room, the middle of city in a seven year drought, we listened to a downpour of rain and let its wet drone soothe us.

After a minute he said groggily, “People want good weather, but years and years of it is bad. A sky that’s always clear is not good, right? The world needs the air to be disturbed, for the clouds to build up and get mad, and the rain to make everything muddy for a little while. I must have a weird seasonal affective disease. You know, where people get depressed if they don’t get enough sunlight. I think I have the opposite. If there’s a constant good weather, constantly a hot blue sky, I start feeling smothered. Trapped. Claustropobic. Too much good weather makes you a desert.”

“You’re right, boyo,” I said. I stood up and kissed him on the forehead.

“At least it's still February and not hot yet.  You gotta go home already?” Had he already forgotten I was staying the night with him?

“No, I’m here.” I pulled his afghan up over him. “Right now I’m going to Central Market to pick up some stuff for you, something you can eat that won’t upset your stomach. Soup?”

He opened his groggy eyes. If he’d have been in a better frame of mind, he’d have been smirking. “Yeah, ‘soup’. Try and find me some Cream of Yankee Bear Cub.”

“Horndogginess, the first sign of recovery. Soup or no soup is the question on the floor,” I said.

“Yeah, soup. Whatever they have, just something without noodles or rice in it.”

I kissed him again and brushed my beard against his cheek, a gesture he always liked.

“Get me some crackers and chocolate milk, too. The kind without salt.”

“Chocolate milk without salt, got it.” That got no response. “Love you, boyo. I’ll be right back so sit tight.” To the back of my head he said sleepily, “Bye,” one small syllable that so massively broke my heart I cried all the way to Central Market and walking down the aisle with wet red eyes I’m sure half the people in there thought I was crazy or 'hopped up on marajuana or heroin.'

He was asleep when I got back so instead of waking him, I went to his bedroom. As it happens Cage’s bed with no Cage in it is a hard place to sleep in. It was empty, vast and the only thing I could smell was the cheapo detergent he uses. I dozed on and off and in a wee hour he crawled in next to me slowly, as if not to rouse me: unnecessary, because his size 12 footsteps on his hardwood floor woke me up the minute he got off the futon. But I pretended to be out cold and rolled over as though throwing my arm across his chest was sleepy instinct. With the smell of him, his warmth and weight against me, the soft sound of his breathing: that’s when I slept.

I woke up to the pop-bang of the futon being switched from bed to sofa. Then, he laughed. His unmistakable, regular, non-depressed laugh that starts in second tenor and ends in bass. I jumped out of bed and shot to the living room; he was on his cell.

“You laughed,” I said as my eyes adjusted to the light.

I scrambled up next to him and kissed him in loud pecks all over his prickly stubbly face. “It felt so good to hear,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah, Carl is up. Of course he’s naked! He’s Carl!” he said into his phone. He pointed to it and mouthed ‘Justin.’ “That’s my [i]mignon[/i]** little nudist hus-bear.”

I went to the kitchen to look for breakfast. No coffee, no cereal, no eggs; the only food there was what I brought in last night, chocolate milk, crackers, and one of his quick and easy favorites, sardines packed in mustard. I heard him say, “Okay, I’ll tell him. You too. [i]Voir soi plus tard[/i]**, bro.”

I stood in the wide kitchen/hall entrance. “We’re going to Kirby Lane Café for breakfast, unless you want chocolate milk and mustard sardines.”

He didn’t respond except to give me that look that said I had his full attention. Standing up and depositing his robe in a heap on the floor.

When the massiveness of his depression sets in, the desire for sex, like hunger and thirst, gets quashed; and when he got his land legs back, it returned -- tripled. I gulped. The considerable hair on my arms was prickling and I expected to see bolts of electricity arcing between us like electrodes in a mad scientist’s lab. He walked toward me, pure, loving, lechery percolating from his eyes. When he was so close to me that my forehead could feel the breath from his nose, I felt I should say something, but my mind was blank with love and lust. “What did Mr. Kamoski want?” I have no idea why I called him that instead of 'Justin.' It was all I could think to say.

“He has some news, but never mind that now,” he said. “What I’m wondering is what Mr. Brown wants.”

Our bodies was resonating like two tines on a tuning fork. and it was inconceivable that the all glass in the house wasn't shattering into shrapnel. The hair on my neck and scalp joined the standing ovation my dick had starting.

“I want …” I didn’t have enough breath in my lungs to complete the sentence, so, deep breath and start again: “I want the rest of that lick and promise you made me three days ago.” I grabbed his head and lunged toward his mouth but he stopped me. He ran the back of his fingers across my cheek, petting my beard unbearably lightly, then kissed me just as softly, so softly that every nerve in my body focused like a laser. “Are you sure you’re up for this, boyo?” I panted.

He looked down at our dicks crossed in the ‘en garde’ position. “Oh, I'm way the hell past ready. The question is, are you ready to do some work, bee bee?" he said.

What happened after that was all a blur and a matter for private, not public release, so talk among yourselves for twenty or so minutes.

______________________


* "MEE yahn" Yeah, like the steak. It means cute.

** "VWAH swah ploo TODD", or 'see you later.'