"Nobody,"
Mike said in a raw whisper, "taught me not to love men."
John's eyes
darkened.
"My first time was in high school," Mike said.
"Don't..."
"I swore
I'd never do it again. I didn't know how to love a woman, so I knew I
had to be celibate or I'd go to hell."
"I don't
want to hear..."
"That's
why I went into the seminary." Mike leaned his face closer to John's.
"I met my first real lover there. I've had every kind of counseling
the Archdiocese can think of. Nothing works. It's a curse. Sometimes I
think God forgives what you've done but not what you are."
The plastic
bags trembled. "Your mother knows?"
"No."
"You
blame me," John said.
"You
let me grow up alone with the curse."
"Losing
you was the hardest part." John drew a slow, deep breath, closed
his eyes, and smiled at the ceiling. "'Henry raised both hands before
the assembled knights and shouted, 'Who will rid me of this troublesome
priest'?"
Mike sat
up. "'And the knights there assembled withdrew, saying one to another,
'We know the king's will'."
"You
were a tiny thing. I read you history, Shakespeare, Poe, Whitman. On Sundays
- you wouldn't remember - when your mom had other things to do, I took
you to the ocean. We'd sit in the sand under a buttermilk sky, listen
to the rhythm of the waves. You'd sleep in my arms."
Mike took
a quick breath. "Yes, yes. The beach. I'd forgotten..."
I tried to forget," John said. "I loved you, more than you knew."
He blinked. "But you were better off with your mother."
TOM'S TALES