Chapter Six

Fred

I know how I appear to people. I dress in fine clothing; I drive a nice car. Upon first appearance, most people would assume a man like me to be a rich yuppie. The truth is, I came from a mid-middle class family in a relatively poor area. Not shacks and outhouses poor, as most people consider all of the state of West Virginia to be, but poor in that expensive houses in the 1990’s, when I was growing up, cost under $200,000. Those were the ritzy places for professionals like doctors and lawyers, who were the only citizens of the community to make a good living. The same houses now would probably cost half a million in other areas of the country.

Another surprise to many people is that I’m a pretty conservative guy, and when I first met Sybil’s sister and her wife, I had a little hesitation in spite of myself. I want to be very accepting of homosexuality and all the offshoots that have emerged in the mainstream in recent years, but being raised in a small town in rural, backwoods West Virginia makes that a little difficult. I don’t think I ever met anyone who was gay aside from this one kid who was two years younger than me in school. Everyone knew he was gay—and he didn’t exactly hide it—but most people didn’t worry about it. Looking back, it may be because we knew there was only one of him against the rest of us. I never stopped to think about how those odds felt for him, and now I can’t even remember his name.

Now homosexuality, bisexuality, and gender issues are everywhere. All over the television, people fighting about legislation over bathrooms and school etiquette, mental health programs and sports functions—when, from what I understand, only 7% of the population even identifies as LGBTQ. And I really don’t know what the plus is. Maybe it’s a stand-in for other variations that will come up as someone explores new ways to sexualize and be sexualized. I’m just saying, it seems like a lot a little too fast for such a fraction of the population. I, too, want this demographic to feel accepted, but I feel like the more they push to change everything, the less they’ll end up achieving in the end. But maybe that’s the white hetero in me talking. It’s hard to reprogram a lifetime worth of experience and thought process.

When I first met them months ago in West Virginia, there were a lot of people there. I knew most of the other family members, so I didn’t interact exclusively with Micki or her wife … whose name I can’t even remember, if I’m being honest. Still, when we show up at Sybil’s sister’s house tonight, I’m greeted with stiff, awkward hugs but genuine smiles. Immediately, I’m set at ease. The pressure and anxiety to get to know someone’s family—especially someone you’re sleeping with—can be a lot even under what I would normally consider stressful conditions. I’m not prone to anxiety; I’m a work-hard-to-get-it kind of guy. I knew I wanted Sybil the first time I saw her. Now I’m meeting the rest of her family, the ones I should be most nervous about, but I’ll tell you what: These two women are being nothing but kind.

Conversation remains light until after dinner, and I think things are going pretty well. It turns out Luna, Micki’s wife, is a fabulous cook.

But Sybil’s sister finds a way to corner me, metaphorically speaking, while our lovers are clearing the food away. Micki offers me a drink and the two of us recline and sip on the couch, one of us at each end. Like we have a buffer zone between us. At least that way she can’t hit me.

“Listen, I know this may be awkward for you. For one, you’re sexing my sister …” she begins.

“Sexing?” I say with a laugh.

She lowers her head, “For lack of a more graphic term, yes …and now you’re meeting her gay sister.”

I nod, not sure where she’s going with it.

“In the interest of full disclosure, I have to ask: What are your honest opinions about the LGBTQ community.”

I squirm a little. This woman really doesn’t play around. “That’s a very forward, kind of awkward question.”

“I figure it’s best to get it out into the open now, in case you continue seeing her. Sybil and I are best friends, so if you see her a lot, you’ll see me a lot.”

“Aha. I mean … I don’t know much about the LGBTQ community. To be honest, I haven’t had a lot of exposure to anyone who identifies as part of that community. Because of that,” I explain, “I suppose I have preconceived notions that may be … erroneous.”

“Like?”

“Well … I always thought girls became lesbians for one of two reasons: they were just experimenting and having a little fun or they’d been emotionally or physically damaged by an asshole.” Micki’s body stiffens, jolting upright. She throws an arm over the back of the couch, bent at the elbow with her back rigid, so I quickly let her know where I’m going with this. “Of course, I do understand it’s not always the case—may not be accurate most of the time, especially in your case,” I add. “I gather by my friendship with your brother that you come from a supportive family.”

She nods, a smirk playing on her lips. “Okay, then. I know it takes a lot for a masculine man to admit that.”

I chuckle, perhaps a little too loudly. “Aha! See—I know what you’re doing there. Touche!”

I lift my glass. “To new acquaintances and new perspectives,” I say. Our glasses meet with a clang.

“To happiness—ours and yours.” She nods toward Sybil, and I already know Micki and I are going to get on splendidly.

Sybil

I drank too much last night, and I’m not used to it, so my body is punishing me today. The dull thud in my head warns me I shouldn’t open my eyes. As usual, I reject my own good advice and open them anyway. Fred’s side of the bed is rumpled and empty. It’s past 10 am. No wonder Fred is gone; he’s probably at the gym. I wish I had that devotion to my health.

I roll over to my nightstand and grab a few Advil out of the drawer, swallowing them with what’s left of my bedside cup of water. It’s almost empty, and I don’t remember filling it last night. Or going to bed. That’s a bad sign. I’m also naked, which means we had sex and then I probably passed right out like a rookie. It’s embarrassing.

I settle back onto my pillow and close my eyes, dozing off for another thirty minutes or so to put my headache to bed. Fortunately, I don’t remember dreaming last night, and I don’t dream now, either. But when I wake up, my mind quickly wanders to the events that are trying to break through my dreams. Maybe because I have therapy today. It went well before, but I’m still nervous. I don’t know if this lady can help me, and I don’t know if I can give her any more information today because I just don’t remember anything else.

I finally ooze my way out of bed and move like a slug through the house. I could kick myself for drinking that much last night, and I hope I didn’t do or say anything embarrassing that I don’t remember once we got home.

Fred has already turned on the coffee which is fully brewed. It smells divine, but I make a beeline instead for a glass to fill with lukewarm water so I can chug it. The intensity of my swallowing causes me to burp. Now I’m ready to try a cup of joe. Fred has left me a note beside the coffee pot. He’s sweet that way. Had it been anyone else I would gag at such a sentimentality, but I appreciate it with Fred. The implication of this alien emotion is too much to process, so I once again shove it into the back of my mind.

In my office, I read through my emails. There’s nothing interesting. So I open a new tab and type in demonic influences. Naturally there are a lot of strange sites promoting an array of information on demonic influences, many of them focusing on possession. Being raised Catholic, I stuck to their sites. The Catholic church is really the only Christian denomination that has dealt with this topic in an organized fashion, though I understand many Pentecostals believe in such dark spiritual influences, as well, as do other religions.

What I did find was the cause can be something as simple as not being a believer or a devout follower of Christ. I guess that’s not surprising. Sorcery is also listed as a potential cause. Now, I’m not a sorcerer or a witch, but many religious practitioners would see my gift as an offshoot of such a practice. Of course I know I don’t worship the devil—I’m not even sure I believe in that sort of thing—but I understand that women like me have been accused of heresy throughout history. This is a scary thought. It was a problem for me as a child, and I don’t believe the world has changed its opinion on the matter much since then.

I scroll through pages of material on the topic before clicking on images, finally settling on a famous painting by Henry Fuseli titled The Nightmare. I’ve seen this painting several times, the first time when I was in my early twenties and picked up a copy of Joyce Carol Oates’s Mysteries of Winterthurn. The book’s cover artist took liberties with the painting, in which his rendition placed the antagonist’s face on the incubus’s head. Curious, I found the original—and it spoke to me. I felt like this incubus represented the terror that had been attached to me as a child. Yes, I had learned to grow with it and rely upon it as an adult—especially in my profession—but as a child it was the reason my parents felt I needed barraged by a battery of tests meant to find what was “wrong with me.” My mother’s words, not mine. No, they weren’t cruel to me or anything. They made sure to constantly remind me they loved me in spite of my disability. Only they saw it as a spiritual attack, and they were concerned when the Catholic church said I was under the attack of demonic influences. Then The Church couldn’t help me, causing my parents to turn to scientific alternatives. They could help either…obviously.

Without even realizing I was doing it, my phone made its way into my hand and Father John Abrams’s name and contact information lights up the screen. I stare at it and wonder if I’m still a little drunk. Thank God I didn’t hit dial! Only maybe I should. Maybe I should quit being a chickenshit and find out what really happened, including all the gory, scary details. I mean, I was naked and in pain. It couldn’t have been good.

I press dial, then end. Immediately. It didn’t have time to ring on his end. Just like I’ve done a hundred times before. But I need to know. I really do. So I press dial again and it rings once on my end, then a second time…

Startled by the front door, I click end and drop the phone in my lap.

Seconds later, I hear, “Hey babe.”

I swivel around in my chair and see Fred walking toward me, his sweaty body shirtless and glistening. Even his sweat smells good—musky—which gives me another reason to be concerned about my fondness for him.

I take a deep breath and plaster a welcoming smile on my face. “How was your workout?”

Then I remember the painting on my screen and slam it shut.

Fred leans down and gives me a kiss. It’s slightly salty and I find it a little heady.

“It was leg day.”

“You love leg day.”

“Hmmm.” He kisses me again. “I do. Now I would love a shower. I would love it more if you would join me.

“That sounds nice,” I say. “You get a head start.”

He smirks. “Will do.”

As Fred walks away, I realize I must not have done anything too stupid, because he still likes me. At least one thing is going for me this morning.