aterovis_bm_reapthewhirlwind.p65 (4 page)

The idea was preposterous; the implication being that I might be gay. That, of course, was impossible. Right?

No one jumped to my defense; no one rushed to re-assure me of my heterosexuality. It was just me and my thoughts and they refused to leave me alone.

I’d practically been raised in the church. All my life 27

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I’d heard that homosexuality was wrong, that it was unnatural and against God’s law. I couldn’t be gay, I just couldn’t! I worked at the church, my dad was the pastor, there was just no way I could be gay!

Then why wouldn’t Laura’s question stop haunting me?

Finally, in frustration I threw back the sheets and jumped out of bed. If I couldn’t fall asleep, then I’d find something to physically distract myself. I turned on the light and rummaged through my closet until I found what I was looking for. I flipped through my old sketchbook until I came to a charcoal sketch that I had started for a painting but never finished. For some reason, it had been on my mind all night. It had started out as a school art project, but I had abandoned it in favor of another project I’d been working on at the time. Now seemed like a good time to come back to this one. We were supposed to have drawn a landscape that was symbolic of where we were in our lives at that time. I had sketched out the rough shape of a beach scene from one of my favorite places on earth, Assateague Island.

The beautiful barrier island is home to small, shaggy wild ponies, imported Asian sika deer, and loads of other wildlife. It even boasts its own scenic lighthouse on the Virginia side of the island. The scene I had drawn was simple though, just a small dune complete with dune fence and grass, and a wave breaking on the beach.

Footprints disappeared into the distance.

I cleared off the top surface of the worktable and turned on the overhead adjustable lamp. I dropped the sketchbook into the pool of warm light created by the 100-watt incandescent bulb. The table was arranged under the wide double windows to catch as much natu-28

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ral light as possible, but natural light wasn’t an option at two in the morning. I stared at the sketch for a few minutes. It may have represented where I was a few months ago, but it sure didn’t represent where I was tonight. I picked up a stick of charcoal and started changing a few small details. I darkened the sky, starting at the top and slowly getting lighter as I neared the horizon. Then I made the grass look as if it was being blown violently in the wind. I lifted out a streak of lightning over the waves. The foreboding storm definitely matched my mood, I thought, but it still needed something. I sketched in a funnel cloud dropping down from the sky to touch down where the footprints and the horizon converged.

I sat back and looked at the drawing. It was almost perfect, but something was still missing. The storm suited my situation perfectly. I was beginning to feel like I was caught up in a tornado and everything in my life was veering out of control. With a sudden flash of inspiration, I knew what it needed. There was nothing affected by the storm, just an empty beach. It needed life. Now what kind of life? I thought of several ideas and discarded each almost as quickly as they came to me. The sturdy ponies were too tough to represent how I felt. The diminutive sika deer were too delicate and exotic. A bird was too free. I needed something incon-sequential, something most people never thought twice about. I glanced over at the window and froze. Hanging on the windowpane was a small, bright green tree frog. It was the perfect touch.

I quickly added the little frog into the sketch, drawing him clinging tightly to a stalk of the coarse beach grass. With a contented sigh, I sat back and admired 29

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my work. I was happy with it, but I was still wide-awake. I decided the sketch would make a great painting and there was no better time than the present to get started. My painting supplies were already set out, so I began the tedious process of transferring the drawing onto watercolor paper. I carefully outlined my pencil drawing on tracing paper so that the end product looked like a coloring book outline. Then, using graphite transfer paper, I copied the lines I had traced onto the watercolor paper. A long process, but one that I felt necessary for a good, clean image with no eraser marks or mistakes on my finished painting. When that was done, I began the actual painting. By the time I was done, the sun was just starting to break over the horizon. I stepped back to admire it and had to admit that it was probably one of my best pieces ever. It had accomplished its purpose as well. I was completely exhausted. I cleaned my brushes and dropped into bed, where I fell asleep almost immediately.

My alarm went off less than an hour later. With a groan, I rolled over and turned it off. I wanted more than anything to just go back to sleep, but it was Sunday. The last thing I wanted to do right then was go to church, but when your dad is the pastor it’s not exactly an option, at least not as long as I lived at home.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom.

Maybe I’d feel better after a shower. I turned the water on and as I turned to get a towel, I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. There I was in all my glory, wearing only my boxers—short, skinny, and pale with a charcoal smudge across my nose and matching circles around my eyes. I looked like I was fourteen at the most, and a sick 14-year-old at that.

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I stuck my tongue out at myself and turned away from the disappointing reflection.

If I had thought the shower would make me feel better, I was wrong. And I didn’t feel better after I ate breakfast, or after I drank three cups of coffee, which I hate and usually never drink, or even after I got to church. I somehow managed to get through the morning; although I’m pretty sure I dozed off a few times during the sermon. I was feeling pretty self-satisfied as I drove home, but it turned out to be the afternoon that I should have been worried about.

It never would have happened if I hadn’t been so tired, if I’d had all my wits about me. But I was tired and I didn’t have all my wits about me and when Dad started in on me about leaving my room in a such a mess this morning I snapped.

“You won’t have to worry about it after this week,” I said before I could stop myself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked as Mom froze on her way out of the room.

I tried to think of a plausible lie, but I was so tired I just wasn’t up to the effort. I always was a lousy liar anyway. “I’m moving out this week,” I mumbled finally.

Mom slowly turned around with an odd, fixed expression on her face. Meanwhile, Dad looked as if I’d kicked him.

“What did you say?” Mom asked in a falsely cheery voice, as if she must have misunderstood and thought that it was going to be a funny story to tell the deacon chairman’s wife the next time she talked to her.

What could I say? Just kidding? It was too late to turn back now. I took a deep breath. “I’m moving out this week,” I said firmly.

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For a long time no one spoke. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out in a loud whoosh.

“And where are you planning on living?” Dad said slowly.

“With a friend of Joey’s, from college.”

“Do we know him?” Mom asked, then a panicked look crossed her face. “He is a boy isn’t he? Oh, Will, don’t tell me you’re moving in with a girl!”

“No, it’s a boy, and you don’t know him, but I met him last night and he seems like a really nice guy. He said I’ll only have to pay a third of the rent and it’s a really nice apartment. It’s down by the river in this renovated warehouse…” I faded out under Dad’s disapprov-ing glare.

“Will, I don’t approve,” he said ominously.

Big surprise. But caught myself just in time from saying. “I’m eighteen,” I said instead, in what I hoped was a reasonable tone of voice. “It’s time I moved out. If I’d gone to college I would have left already. At least I’ll be in the same town.”

“What is this boy’s name?” Mom asked.

“Aidan…” I realized I couldn’t remember his last name. “Aidan…Aidan.” I finished lamely.

“Aidan Aidan?”

“No, Aidan something, I can’t remember his last name.” I admitted sheepishly.

“You’re not moving anywhere,” Dad said, as if that settled everything. I clenched my jaw and counted to ten.“Actually, Dad, I am,” I said decisively. “Aidan is going to help me move later this week. I’ll still be working at the church, so it’s not like you’ll never see me. It’s just time for me to start growing up.”

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Dad threw up his hands and stood up. “I think you’re making a huge mistake. The real world is a different place from living here at home. If you do this, you’re on your own. You want to grow up? Fine. But mark my word, you’ll be back.” He stalked angrily out of the room.

Mom stared after him for a minute then turned back to me. “Just know this will always be your home and you can come back whenever you want,” she said before rushing out after him.

Over my dead body, I thought. I would never give him the satisfaction of crawling back. I went upstairs to my room and slept for the rest of the afternoon. When I woke up that evening, I started packing. It kept my mind out of areas I wasn’t ready for it to go and reinforced my decision. Putting things into boxes made it all seem more real. Everywhere I looked though something made my thoughts skitter right back to the forbidden place; a love note from Beth, one of Joey’s t-shirts in my closet, a picture of Joey, Laura and me with our arms thrown around each other’s necks.

Joey called once, but I told Mom to tell him I was busy packing. When Laura called I tried the same ploy with her, but I should have known she wouldn’t be put off so easily. She’d barely had time to hang up before she appeared in my doorway.

“Hey,” she said softly as her eyes swept over the mess in my room. I had pulled everything out of my closet and it sat in haphazard piles all around me.

“I’m busy,” I said keeping my eyes carefully averted to avoid her probing look.

“So I see. You wouldn’t talk to me on the phone and I know what that means. It means you’re avoiding me.

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I figured I could corner you in your lair. You need a hand?”

“I’ve got it,” I said.

“Are you okay, Will?”

“I’m fine. I just have a lot to do.”

“Are you really okay? Look at me and tell me you’re okay.”

“I said I was fine didn’t I?” I snapped, still not looking at her.

“I know what you said, but I also know you well enough to know when you are lying to me.”

“Everyone thinks they know me so well.”

“Not as well as I’d like. For someone who is so trans-parent with their emotions you do a pretty damn good job of keeping people away. What are you so scared of, Will?”

“I’m not scared of anything. Look, I’ve got a lot of packing to do. If you’re not going to help, why don’t you just go home? And standing in the door psycho-analyzing me is not helping. All you are doing is pissing me off.”

“I noticed. I’m sorry. I’m also sorry if what I said last night upset you. It just seemed like it needed to be said.”

I didn’t answer, just kept on packing things into the box in front of me. She waited a few beats then sighed and moved behind me to the bed.

“Wow, this is really good, Will,” she said after a moment. “Does it represent something or what?”

She had picked up the painting I had done the night before. “Sort of,” I said.

“It’s beautiful and, I don’t know, strangely disturbing somehow.”

“Gee thanks.”

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“No, it’s a compliment. What’s it mean?”

“It’s my life right now; dark, stormy and out of control.”

“So you’re the frog?”

“I guess you could say that.”

She suddenly went quiet. I sensed that her attention had shifted from the painting to something else. I heard the bed creak as she sat down on the edge. Still she didn’t say a word. Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore so I turned to see what she was doing. She was holding the picture of the three of us that I had found earlier.

“Do you remember when this was taken?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, that’s the summer we all went to Busch Gar-dens. We were what? Fourteen?”

“Yeah, that was the summer I realized that you’d never love me the way I wanted you to. You spent the whole vacation following Joey around like a puppy dog and I followed you. I might as well have not even been there.”

And here we were back here again, come full circle.

Why did everything have to be so complicated?

“What do you see?” she said holding the picture out to me.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Look at it.”

“I am—what am I looking for?”

“Look at us. What do you see?”

I looked closer. In the picture I was in the center with Joey on my right and Laura on my left. Joey’s head was thrown back slightly as he laughed at some joke. His eyes were locked with the camera in a typical Joey expression of challenge. He was always challenging some-35

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thing. At first, I couldn’t figure out what Laura was talking about. And then I saw it.

“You know now, don’t you?” she whispered. I nodded. “You have to deal with it, Will, for your own sake.”

She handed me the photo then stood up and left.

I sat looking at the picture for a long time before I turned the lights out and went to bed. As I drifted off to sleep, the image in the photo seemed to be burned into my retina; I could still see it on the inside of my eyelids.

In it, Laura looked longingly at me, completely ignoring the camera. But all my attention was focused on Joey, a look of complete adoration in my eyes. Joey was the only one who seemed conscious of the camera, oblivious to everything else but his own posing. The rest of us lesser beings were too caught up in our objects of desire.

***