Long Way Out, page 30
“Okay,” Tess responded, gripping the bench and girding herself for the blow. “Fire away.”
THIRTY-ONE
Russell fumbled with the front-door key in the dark in a blind attempt to insert it into the lock. The metallic rattle of the turning deadbolt seemed harsh and brittle, reverberating off the foyer tile. The door closed with a heavy clunk, followed by oppressive silence. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so alone. Vision blurred through tear-filled, bloodshot eyes, he dragged himself to the kitchen and quickly guzzled two tall glasses of tap water. Having shed a gallon of tears over the previous five hours, hydration seemed wise.
After filling his glass for the third time, he dragged himself to the stairs, and began climbing ponderously, on weary, wobbly legs. With each step, water sloshed over the rim of the glass onto the carpet and his hiking shoes. He didn’t care. It wasn’t important. He set the dripping glass next to the clock radio and tumbled onto the mattress like a carelessly tossed rag doll. His stomach muscles ached from sobbing. Still, the tears kept flowing unabated. He despised himself for hurting Tess so severely, for blowing her entire world to bits. The emotional agony was unbearable, the shame devastating, the guilt crushing. He roiled and flailed, wept and blubbered, whimpered and wailed. “I am a worthless piece of shit! A worthless, fucking, slimy, stinking piece of shit!” Feeling a sudden need to see himself in all his ugliness, he caught his reflection in the mirror over Tess’s antique dressing table. The face he saw was twisted and grotesque, with blotchy, discolored skin, red-streaked eyes, and grimacing lips. That man is a monster, he thought to himself. And that monster is me.
Russell replayed his coming-out debacle for the seventeenth time. He and Tess, sitting on a bench beside Byrd Creek in Cumberland Mountain State Park; his tongue dryer and rougher than a floppy scrap of felt. A convulsive inhalation, forcing a raspy cough to dislodge the lump in his larynx. Tess sitting speechless, eyes wide and wary, as if she were the last team member left on her side of the dodgeball court, awaiting the imminent high-velocity barrage from across the center line.
“I’m...” Russell stammered, “I’m... Fuck! How do I say this?”
“Just say it,” Tess urged, with nervous impatience. “You’re killing me!”
“I’m... bisexual.” Speaking this essential truth about himself, out loud, to his life partner, the mother of his children, felt surreal.
“What?” Tess sounded amused and incredulous in the same breath. “No, you’re not!”
“I am, Tess,” he insisted, with no sense of shame. The smile burgeoning across his face wasn’t forced. Rather it sprang from a previously untapped well of joyful liberation. The truth was setting him free. “I am. I’m bisexual.”
“Just because you had one experience twenty years ago doesn’t make you bisexual,” Tess argued. “Is that what you think? That’s... that’s just silly.”
Russell’s instinct, from thousands of sales pitches, was to allow the other party adequate time to absorb the new perspective he had just shown them. A potential client needs to entertain the real inevitability of their demise before they can seriously consider forking over a monthly life-insurance premium. While not exactly a life-and-death matter, the information he’d just dumped on his wife came with every potential of precipitating the demise of a 14-year marriage. Russell sat quietly, owning his declaration, buzzing with perverse exhilaration from having spoken those five honest syllables... twice: “I’m bisexual.”
“Okay,” Tess said, her eyes squinting and her forehead furrowing, as she attempted to comprehend this new landscape. “I’m supposed to... to assume... that you’re serious right now.” Russell nodded, his smile growing pursed. “I mean...” she continued, “bisexual. What does that even mean? I know you’re not gay.”
“No,” he confirmed, “I’m not gay.”
“So, you’re telling me that you’re sexually attracted to men.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “I am.”
“Well, Jesus, Babe! How do you know?”
“You just know, Tess.” Russell placed his hand on her knee. “You just know.”
“Well, then...” Tess took a momentary pause to draw a deep breath and collect her thoughts. “I’m glad you told me. I guess so, anyway.” She shook her head and forced a sympathetic smile. “Wow, that must have taken some real courage.”
While Russell was feeling good about himself for having shed light on an essential portion of his truth, more courage was called for. Yes, he’d ripped the door to a taboo subject from its hinges and, thus far, the house hadn’t crumbled under the weight of gravity. Now, the moment had arrived to air a far more devastating truth. “There’s more,” he announced.
“Oh, God!” Pure terror flashed in Tess’s eyes. “You haven’t found someone, have you? A guy? You’re not...”
“Not one guy.”
“What the fuck do you mean by that?”
“There’ve been... I’ve been with... several men.”
“Who?”
“I...” Russell’s eyes shifted from tree branches to the sawdust trail, avoiding direct eye contact. “I don’t even know their names. I never knew their names. Most of them anyway.”
“That’s...” For the first time in their 15-year relationship, Tess felt loathing for this man. “That’s disgusting! You... How could you do that to me? Oh, my God!” She put her hands to her face, hunched over, bursting into a spate of bitter laughter. “I married Todd Moore!”
When Russell met Tess a decade and half earlier, she was on the rebound from a broken engagement. The ex-fiancé’s name, Todd Moore, represented the entirety of Russell’s knowledge about her romantic history. To avoid any needless pangs of jealousy, Russell had never probed into her past. Now, hearing this insinuation about her previous beaux, he was wishing he’d expressed more curiosity. Tess sprang to her feet, turned in a quick, half circle, looked up into the forest canopy, and raised her arms to the treetops. Laughing and crying simultaneously, she shouted, “I can’t believe it! I married Todd fucking Moore!”
Being so fully absorbed in their own drama, Russell and Tess had blocked out all awareness of the proximity of other humans. “So sweet to see young people in love.” Although the person’s words were directed at a companion, they were clearly audible. Russell swiveled on the bench to see a pair of elderly hikers approaching on the path. At first glance, he assumed they were male and female, probably husband and wife. The closer they came, the less certain he was about the precise gender of either of them. As the pair shuffled past, the second of what turned out to be two women smiled at Tess and said, “Congratulations on your marriage.”
Tess’s laughter was piercing and acidic, erupting from a dark chamber of cynical self-deprecation. “Why?” she wailed to the universe. “Why do I keep doing this to myself?”
By now, the two hikers were 10 yards down the path, still well within earshot. One of them stopped and turned around. “Look, I know it’s none of my business. But, it’s only natural to feel fearful at first. Love is a rollercoaster.” Noticing the stink eye coming from Tess, the woman backed up a step. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “I was just trying to help.”
“You don’t know shit!” Tess shrieked. “Why don’t you keep your ugly, fucking, butch-dyke nose out of other people’s business?” The woman’s eyes bugged in shock and insult. She grabbed her partner’s hand, and they quickly bustled down the path. Russell sat, stunned. His bleeding-heart liberal wife had just hurled a homophobic epithet at a complete stranger, someone who definitely should not have butted in but had simply been offering a few words of wisdom and encouragement. “Take me back to Knoxville, Russell,” Tess demanded.
“Can’t we talk about this, Babe?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “You can bet your sorry ass we’ll be talking about this. But, right now, you are gonna drive me back home to my Mom and Dad.”
“Well... I’m sorry,” he retorted, “but I don’t exactly feel comfortable, you know... going back to your parents’ place.”
“What?” she scoffed. “You think you’d be welcome there anyway? I don’t want you in my bed. You’ve been... playing Russian roulette... with my life!”
“I know.” Russell’s voice was laden with sorrow and regret. “That was wrong. And, I am so sorry.”
“Save it.” Tess’s daggered glower was chilling. “We’re gonna drive back to Knoxville. Right fucking now. You’re gonna drop me off. End of discussion.”
Russell and Tess approached the parked vehicle in muted silence. Across the lot, the elderly lesbian hikers were stashing their trekking poles and backpacks into the trunk of a Volvo 240. “Good luck,” one of the women called out, sending a wave. “It’ll all work out.” Russell obliged with a head nod and a meek wave in return. Tess glared at her husband with evident scorn, before climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the car door.
Tess spent most of the hourlong drive crying softly. At one point, she reached over to place her hand on Russell’s hand. “I love you,” she muttered.
“I love you, too, Babe,” Russell managed, a first tear meandering down his cheek. “Never doubt it.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Russell was cried out. It was approaching 11 p.m. Realizing that he had yet to notify Tess of his safe arrival, he grabbed the bedside phone, pushed “one,” then area code 965. He was trying to recall the prefix to Henry and Miriam’s home phone when he was startled by the ringing doorbell. Who could possibly be dropping by unannounced at this hour on a Monday evening? He placed the receiver back in its cradle and listened with intent ears. Against the quiet, the second ring was more spine-tingling than the first. Seconds later, rapid pounding on the door shook the house, along with the muffled sound of a male voice. “Come on, Man!” the night visitor hollered, “I know you’re in there.” Again, a fist pummeling the door vibrated the walls, followed by repeated rings of the doorbell.
Under the cover of darkness, Russell crept downstairs and into the foyer, an aluminum baseball bat clutched in his hand. A sneak peek through the beveled glass revealed the identity of the surprise caller. Russell unlocked the door, cracked it open, and looked out at the handsome man standing on the front porch. “Bryan,” he said, “what’s happening?”
“Oh, Coach! Thank God!” Bryan answered. “I was worried... you know, that you might have...”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tess called Diane, and...”
“What do you mean?” Russell queried. “Tess doesn’t even like Diane.”
“It was kind of a betrayed wife commiseration call, I guess.” Russell was dumbfounded. That Tess would seek out Bryan’s ex for sisterhood and succor defied logic. Tess had always been a free spirit. She espoused progressive values and possessed an artistic temperament. Diane was a prototypical daughter of the Old South, a haughty belle who would smirk and utter, “Bless your heart,” before stabbing you in the back. Russell tried to picture Tess sitting next to Diane in a church pew, both women dolled up in their Sunday frocks, nodding solemnly and passing judgment on the other parishioners, while some portly, sweaty browed preacher rained fire and brimstone upon his congregation. “Would it be okay if I came in?” Bryan asked.
“Oh, sure,” responded Russell. “Yeah. Stupid to be, you know...” He opened the door wider and stepped aside. Bryan strode over the threshold and, without waiting for the door to close, grabbed Russell by the shoulders and pulled him into a bear hug.
“Everything okay, Deacon?” This voice of concern was coming from the far end of the driveway. Peering out through squinted eyes, Russell immediately identified the stocky figure: Frank from next door, partially camouflaged by the hedge, looking down the scope of a semi-automatic hand gun. “I heard some noise,” Frank called out. “I thought maybe it was a home invasion.”
“Nope,” Russell reassured him. “All’s well here. You can stand down, Frank.” The man obliged by lowering his pistol. “But thanks. I appreciate it. You’re a good neighbor.” Russell started to swing the door closed.
“Okay.” There was a dubious tone in Frank’s voice. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to discern the identity of the person Russell had just been embracing. “You never know, you know.”
“Yep, you’re so right,” said Russell. “Better safe than sorry.”
Bryan held his laughter until the door was shut. “Fuckin’ hell!” he said between guffaws. “If you hadn’t answered the door, that vigilante might have shot me.”
“No doubt,” Russell quipped. “Frank is one trigger-happy dude!” For the first time in days, Russell gave somber self-pity a reprieve. He’d forgotten how cleansing mirth could be.
“And, if good-neighbor Frank hadn’t filled me full-a lead,” Bryan kidded, pointing to the bat in Russell’s hand, “I guess you were planning to crack my skull.”
“You got that right!” Russell shot back. “Show up at someone’s house in the middle of the night? What do you expect?”
Bryan took a closer look at Russell. “You look like death warmed over, by the way.”
“It’s great to see you, too,” Russell parried, motioning with the bat for Bryan to tag along to the kitchen.
“But, seriously, Coach,” Bryan said. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed me? Why?” In his mind’s eye, Russell shuffled through a slide show of Bryan memories: his volunteer assistant’s dazzling blue eyes during Pirates’ infield practice, stumbling upon him receiving oral sex on the creek bank, that risky-yet-arousing thigh grope under the dinner table, that tearful plea for mercy at Rory’s Chuck E. Cheese birthday party, Bryan flagging Russell down outside Ynonah’s Saloon and inviting him inside to experience a first sampling of the gay-bar social scene.
“I don’t know,” said Bryan. “I guess I’ve always felt like me and you, we have a lot in common.” Russell understood. Both men had faithfully followed the same hetero-normative, happily-ever-after script to the letter by marrying women, fathering children, and betting the house on white-picket-fence domesticity. Too, they both shared a passion for sports. However, those commonalities would scarcely be worth mentioning if either of these two married-with-children guys hadn’t spent years secretively hound-dogging down parallel trails, noses to the ground, determined to catch the scent of a warm, willing body and a next clandestine, tangle-free, same-sex encounter. But, although certain undeniable impulses lured each of them to a common pursuit, Russell and Bryan had, for the most part, operated on separate frequencies. Only recently had Russell begun engaging in risky business. Bryan, on the other hand, had thrown caution to the wind from the get go, making his a double-or-nothing game of chance.
“Yes,” Russell responded, “and no.”
“Right,” cracked Bryan. “I’ve got blue eyes and you’ve... What color are yours?”
“Right now,” Russell chuckled, “probably red, white, and hazel.” Russell opened the refrigerator door. “Wanna beer?”
“I was thinking we could go down to Ynonah’s for a couple...” suggested Bryan. With Russell continuing to gawk blankly into the fridge, Bryan sweetened his offer. “I’ll buy.”
Just 10 minutes earlier, Russell had felt more alone than he could ever remember feeling in his life, flailing on the bed, weeping, wallowing in despair. Now, he was in the presence of a friend who cared, who not only understood his situation, but was freshly familiar with this exact kind of emotional turmoil. Too, Russell was now presumably free to act in a way consistent with his self-identity and desires. What could be more fitting than to top off his coming-out day by strolling proudly onto the deck at Ynonah’s with one of the handsomest, hunkiest guys in Nashville?
But, inexplicably, the idea of cruising a gay bar lacked any allure. Now that he’d finally laid his bi cards on the table and confessed to his covert infidelities, Russell felt zero compunction to go right out and wave his rainbow flag. To celebrate blindsiding his wife with such unwelcome, hurtful news seemed wrong. Certainly, he looked forward to being welcomed as an authentic member of the queer community, by men with whom he could be his open, honest, true self. However, being out also meant that, from henceforth, before indulging in man sex, he’d be obliged to ask questions, learn names, and take precautions. “I’m not...” Russell closed the fridge and turned around, gripping a long neck in either hand. “It’s too soon. I don’t think I’m... quite ready.”
“Okay...” Grinning slyly, Bryan was detecting a coded message in Russell’s reluctance to attend the club. “You’re right. It’s late. Monday night. The bar is probably dead anyway.”
Russell handed Bryan a beer. After twisting off the caps, they toasted by clicking bottle necks. “Here’s to friendship,” said Russell.
“To friendship,” Bryan said, smiling that smile. “And to coming out. I’m proud of you.”
The frosty brew tasted heavenly. After draining half the bottle in a single pull, Russell said, “Thanks for coming over, Man... you know, to check on me. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it,” responded Bryan, taking a step forward, backing Russell against the refrigerator door. Russell lowered his eyes to the floor tile to evade Bryan’s hypnotic gaze. His heart accelerated. Bryan reached out and gently lifted Russell’s chin, preparing to plant a kiss on Russell’s beer-dampened lips. At that moment, Russell noticed something on Bryan’s neck, dark in pigmentation and ovular, like the shadow of a tiny bird’s egg.
“What’s that?” Russell inquired, with evident concern.
“What’s what?” Bryan traced Russell’s sight line to the spot on his neck. “Oh, that. You must know what that is.”
“No,” Russell insisted, “I don’t.” He was hoping he didn’t know what it was, that it was something else altogether, that he was leaping to an incorrect conclusion.
“I thought everybody knew.” Bryan was attempting to hide his shame under a dispassionate swagger. “Yeah,” he confessed. “I tested positive. About two months ago.”
