Crush (37 page)
making
me feel
Afew minutes later, a couple of our old high school friends, Patti and Deanna, come to our table and ask me how I’m doing.
“You know he can’t talk,” Tammy says protectively, and I cringe.
Deanna sits down and puts her arm around me. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you, Jamie. I can’t understand how Lydia could do this to you. I can’t understand it!”
I just nod…I don’t know whether to trust Deanna or not. I never would have guessed Lydia had so much hate in her heart towards me, and look what happened.
Patti pats my shoulder. “I’m happy for you and Tam,” she whispers discreetly in my ear, even though she doesn’t have to because, after all, we’re at The End. “And I hope Lydia, Rayand all the others who did that to you get what theydeserve.”
I write on a napkin,
You wrote that on my cast, remember? In high school?
“I did, didn’t I?” she smiles. “Well, they fucking deserve the death penalty. I don’t think they’re Christians at all. Besides, Sylvie is a lesbian! Did you know?”
Are you serious?
I ask.
“Yeah…she lives with her girlfriend in Alabama,” says Patti. “They’re going to get married in a few months. She just told me last week!”
That’s awesome!
“They get all kinds of shit, living in Alabama…the Bible Belt, you know, but they’re determined, they’re gonna get married… they’re going to Canada!”
Maybe Tammy and I will do that someday.
“I think that would be awesome, Babe. You’re both so gorgeous and look so right together. I mean it. You’re the hottest twosome I’ve ever seen.”
Deanna doesn’t say much. Do you think she thinks it’s wrong?
Patti ponders for a second. “I think she’s fine with it, but you shouldn’t care who likes it and who doesn’t, Jamie. It’s your life. We onlyget one life, and we should do what makes us happy.”
I’m just afraid it’ll happen again. I can’t go thru that again!
“I know, Babe.”
I look around, and I see faces that are friendly and nonthreatening. But I also see a few frowns directed my way. Some guy, about sixtyyears old, and verydrunk, comes walking up after a few minutes, and snorts, “I hope you’re happy! Agood cop went to jail, and for
what
?!”
Patti stands up just then, and cements my faith in her sincerity. “That
good cop
shouldn’t have participated in a hate crime! Not to mention distribution of child pornography!”
The man reels drunkenly away from her, then slurs, “You don’t know nothin’! You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”
“Why don’t you take your smelly, drunk ass away from our table before I have you bounced?!”
“Fuckin’ faggots,” the asshole mumbles, and staggers a little. “Sendin’ mynephew to prison!”
Well, no
wonder
he’s pissed.
Tammy stands up. “Sir, you either take yourself away from our table or I will physicallybounce you myself!”
Someone from a nearby table says, “Get lost, fudgepackers!” Raucous laughter ensues.
My heart quickens. Now I remember every minute detail of being beaten in the orange grove. Mylynch mob of three, standing around me, looking down on me…The towel rack flashing in the moonlight, plummeting down onto my head. The stitches have long since been removed, leaving behind a scar that is still vivid dark pink. It begins to burn. Tears blind me.
Another voice shouts, “Shut the fuck up! Fucking hillbilly bigots in this town! Hope theygive those haters the gas chamber!”
Cries of assention come from all directions:
“Go home, bigots!”
“Haters, get lost!”
“Yeah, bounce! Or
be
bounced!”
“We’re in the twenty-first centurynow, bigots!”
“God loves
everyone
! And He hates people who hate!”
“Fuckin’ A!” screams Patti. “Haters aren’t welcome in Sommerville!”
I inhale deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Myheart resumes a slow and steadythud.
Tammysmiles at me.
And I smile up at him.
We have allies…lots of them.
But I write,
Please, let’s go. I think there’s going to be a fight!
I don’t think I’ll ever be happyhere again…if I was ever happy before.And now, everywhere we go, I’ll be the reason for barroom brawls and verbal wars. I never wanted this kind of attention, to always be reminded of the bashing. I’ll never be able to remove from my brain the knowledge that people in this town now know about the videos myparents sold.
I want to leave. I want to take Tammyand go.
I want to start mylife over again.
On a Sunday in February, we make love for the first time since the beating, in our laundryroom. Tammy’s just put in a load and added detergent and closed the lid. I come in to add a shirt… and I don’t know what comes over me…except that I’m horny as hell seeing him standing there with nothing on from the waist up and his long, white PJ bottoms…
“You’re frisky,” he laughs as I kiss him all over his face and neck. I nod eagerlyand grab his cock through his pants.
He lifts me, sits me on the shimmying washing machine, grabs my legs and lifts them up over his head. I’m folded like a paper clip, my ass on the lid of the washing machine, my knees bent over his shoulders, my fingers raking through his short hair, pulling him as close as I can, my tongue assaulting the inside of his mouth as he hammers into me, his pajama pants down around his ankles. The vibrations coming from the washer below me enhance the experience.
Tammy pants, “God, I hope Mom doesn’t come over for at least twenty minutes.” (She has a key now.) I give my usual raspy laugh. Tammyslows from his frantic thrusting to a gentler rhythm. “Tell me you love me,” he whispers to me. “Tell me…tell me you love me.”
I moan and cry soundlessly, open my mouth, wanting something to come forth, even a hoarse, squawked version of my original tenor.
“Jamie,” he pleads, “saymyname…tell me you love me…”
My heart is bursting with frustrated love. I can’t do what he’s asking. I just can’t. I can’t make the words. I just yawn my maw over and over, like a dog trying to rid himself of a foul flavor. Finally, I clasp his head and pillage his mouth with my own, sucking his breath away, gasping and sighing silently as my tongue and lips and teeth try to convey what he needs to hear. “Oh…Oh, God,” he cries. “Yes, Jamie…I know you love me…I know…I know, Baby…”
No fewer than ten minutes later, his hands stroking the sweat-soaked hair curling around myears, Tammyasks me, “Will you marryme?”
Before I even feel them, tears are streaming down myface. I nod so energetically that my head might fly off. I open my mouth again, struggle to say, “Yes! Yes! I’ll marryyou!”
I just don’t seem to have anystrength in mythroat to bring my voice to life. Like a fish out of water, I gape and suck in deep, ludicrous breaths, trying to get the air, the power, the muscles together. At last, in a rough whisper, “Y-yes…”
Tammysmiles, laughs tearfully. “Jamie…you talked!”
I nod. The single, stuttered word has taken everybit of power I’ve had, for the moment. I huff and puff and open mymouth again, but it takes almost another full minute before I croak, “I…love… you…Tammy.”
Still no actual voice, just a whisper...
It’s good enough for Tammy. He grabs me and bear hugs me, forgetting mystill-sore ribs. We make love again, and I replay the words over and over in my mind, “We’re going to be married! We’re going to be married!”
There is one remaining obligatory yet unwanted event in our timeline, casting a dark, monolithic shadow: the trial.
Yvette Lard-Ash doesn’t have to suffer a public examination. She’s plea-bargained her way down to two and a half years for sending Tammy the video, but when it’s discovered that she’s gone and made
copies
, nearly twenty copies, that have been passed around at parties, given to known “Christian” gay-haters who no doubt watch the pornography, get off on it, and then sit in judgment of
me
, the D.A. is so mad she’s foaming at the mouth, and she slaps Lard-Ash with no less than sixyears.
Cantrell is the one who’s committed the most crimes, introducing the pornographic tape to Yvette, and participating as the most important player in myabduction…after all, if you have no driver, you have no kidnapping. Not to mention the fact that he obstructed the investigation by not admitting outright that he he was at The End that night, that he knew the whole plot against us. His being a cop on top of it all has been a major embarrassment to the Sommerville Police. He’s been fired without any severance pay, and all he has to look forward to now is the trial and a long prison term.
Benny pleads guilty to being indifferent. He admits, “Yeah, I knew theywere going to do it, and no, I didn’t care. He deserved to die and I wish they had killed him!” He gets off pretty light, with a year in jail. Then his lawyer says that isn’t fair, and when all is said and done, Bennyonlyhas a year of communityservice.
If I had anykind of power, I’d
fix
them…I’d fixthem all…
But…
Do something with this, Jamie, Lloyd said. Take this and do something.
Alright then…I won’t waste my time on revenge. I may have a fewbattle scars, but they didn’t win. They didn’t kill me.
I have neither the time, nor the desire, to dwell on the unfairness of it all, how my trauma will outlast even the longest sentence passed down to those fuckers. We’re getting married. We’re not waiting for the trial to be over.
I want to live
now
.
On the plane to Vancouver, I unbuckle my belt and droop my head and hands over the back of my seat. Watching Stacy watching the snowyCascades thousands of feet below, I love her with all mymight and silentlyadopt her as mysister, once and for all. I write to her,
You’re giving me away
.
She blinks awaytears of joyand nods, rendered as mute as I am. Tammytells Ma, “Okay, then you’re walking me down the aisle then, Mom.” And of course, Ma starts boo-hooing happily.
When we’re checked into our modest, mid-range hotel room, we ask Ma to entertain Tammywhile mysister and I steal awayto the shops. I have to get Tammya ring.
perfect
.
chapter forty-three: tammy (getting married, february 14)
We flyto Vancouver, B.C., accompanied byMom, Stacy, Patti, Deanna, Sylvia and her partner Alice, Mr. Bloom and his wife, Mrs. Cooke (dear old lady!), Marilyn (Jamie’s friend from work), and my boss from the Davis station, who I invited, but was pretty sure couldn’t come. We’re surprised and pleased that these people, most of whom are only acquaintances or business associates, plunked down moneyout of their own pockets to join us.
And unbelievably, from our old church, one of the assistant pastors shows up, a guy who has always been friendly and receptive to me in the past. Since we’ve been left thin-skinned and wary by Jamie’s near-death ordeal, we think he’s gotten wind of our wedding and has come to condemn us, but he hasn’t. “I want to celebrate this with you. I don’t condone what was done to Jamie, and I’m not here to preach. I have a cousin who is gay, and I love him very much. You and Jamie were always a part of our family, in my opinion. I’m sorry that others have taken a different view.”
He’s so nice. We would ask him to officiate, but we didn’t know he was coming and we alreadyhave a judge.
W e
do
have friends. There
are
good, supportive, decent people in the world.
After getting my approval, Mom has also invited Aunt Sharon and my cousin Natalie. My cousin, who once made me green as Vulcan blood with jealous hatred. How can I face her, after I hated her so much just for being born? How can I ever stop hating myself for butchering her Barbie dolls? How can I live with myself after seeing Uncle Price messing with her and doing nothing?
Does she know what I’m guiltyof?
Does she remember?
Does she wish me well, or does she hate me?
Outside our hotel room, I gingerly approach her and say, “Hello.”
She looks awayand I feel mystomach drop like a bomb. But she does say, “Hello,” back. We talk. She wishes me well. I give her a delicate hug. She hugs me back.
I’m going to make amends. I’m going to. It’s too late to do anything about Uncle Price. Aunt Sharon says she had to put him in a nursing home in Elk Grove just a few weeks ago because he was leaving the burners going on the stove and nearlysetting their home on fire, and he thinks Natalie is his wife, not his daughter.
But it’s not too late for me to have a relationship with my cousin. I doubt she remembers me standing there watching her Dad molest her. She was only a baby then. But maybe Aunt Sharon knows that I hurt Natalie’s Barbies. MaybeAunt Sharon put two and two together and knew I was the reason some of the dolls came up missing.
One day, maybe I’ll forgive myself for that, and for not reporting Uncle Price. Jamie says I was onlya boy, and that I didn’t know how to assert myself and have Price stopped. But I’m an adult now, and I still feel like I should have done something.
It’s true…I’d rather feel bad…I’d rather feel the guilt…I’d rather feel like shit about something I did or didn’t do, than be like Uncle Price, just going along, never knowing the damage he’s done to us kids.
Thank you God, for changing me, for never letting me become more vicious than I already was, for making me aware of the wrong in what I did. Thank you for helping me. God, thank you for
everything
!
Late in the afternoon the day before our wedding, as a gift to Jamie, I take him to a professional photographer down the street from our hotel, and we have private photos taken of us naked, wrapped onlyin diaphanous white satin.
Jamie is apprehensive. I can see the memories in his eyes, the way he looks at the man behind the camera. “This isn’t pornography,” I inform him gently. “These are portraits, private portraits, of you and me. And the only ones who will share them are you and me.”
“Don’t pose,” the photographer says as adjusts his settings and zooms. “Just be yourselves. Just do your thing.”
I drape the sheet of white satin, so snowypure that the folds and shadows appear light blue, over Jamie’s head. “Little White Riding Hood,” I chuckle, kneeling naked before him and listening to the hisses and clicks of the camera. Then I pull it awayfrom him and wrap the gossamer fabric around myself like a cloak.Asingle picture is snapped of Jamie, standing naked before me, shivering, so vulnerable and beautiful it makes my heart (and other places) ache. I wrap my arms and the satin around his body and pull him to me until he’s sitting on mylap, his cool buttocks against myhot thighs. We kiss, nuzzle our noses, gaze deeplyinto each other. My lips drift over the graceful, pale curve of his neck as he stares into the camera for one photo. We go on kissing until we begin to make out. The photographer exclaims as he leaps back and forth, “Beautiful! Beautiful! You’re a gorgeous couple…very beautiful, beautiful shot!”
The photos are so intimate, so sexy, so beautifullydone, that I hire the guyto do our wedding pictures too.
“Look at you,” I croon to Jamie that evening. My favorite shot is the one where I’m kissing his neck and he’s looking right into the lens. Every line so clearly etched, every curve caressed by the lens. And those
eyes
…Lord have mercy…
Me?! You’re spectacular
, writes Jamie, staring at the glossy images.
I don’t think our wedding pictures will be this good, even if it’s the same dude. Even if you’re a vision in that tux!
“How can you hate looking at yourself in a mirror, or in a picture?! How can you feel ashamed? How can you feel dirty?
Look
at you!” I groan. “You’re so gorgeous…Damn, these pix are making me hard…I think I’m going to have to pin you down on that bed before I can make an honest man of you tomorrow!”
I pause before soberlyadding, “I did this for you, Jamie. I did this so you could see how wonderful you are. I don’t
ever
want you to feel dirtyabout yourself again.”
He scrawls,
I don’t feel dirty. Except in a good way
.
