The Bridegroom Comes: Chapter Four: "Behold"

“Uh, no. I don’t think I’m ready for that.”
“Come on, enough talk! And, hell, you don’t even do that: I talk. You’ve probed me enough. I’m beginning to feel like one of those UFO abductees. Or your personal virtual reality machine. Have you ever even been with a guy?”
“Look, I like to take things slow.”
“For Chrissake, I’m just asking you to go to a club; it’s not like I’m asking you to fuck!” Tracy’s forced levity failed to mask his irritation. “Jesus, you can’t even hear the word without flinching. What the hell makes you even think you’re gay?”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?!”
“Yeah, I have. Been with a guy.”
“When?”
Anton felt himself flush deep crimson. He had always hated his inability to control his body in that respect. It made him feel like a schoolgirl. Shit. He hadn’t foreseen this. He had known he would probably eventually have to make up some kind of back story to justify his claims about being on the cusp of ‘coming out’—Christ, what a stupid term—, but somehow, he had avoided the realization that that story would inevitably bend the thread of lies he had been spinning all too close to a reality he had spent much of his life trying to shove deep beneath the layers of so many other events best forgotten. Most of them, of course, having to do with his father. And most of them, like the one he was now being called on to divulge, tinged with guilty recollections of pleasure: memories of a kind of sweetness to the man. There was one . . . Being swung onto his shoulders during a walk by the ocean. Later, in front of tall beach grass bordering the sand, sitting between his father’s long legs folded around him like a protecting wall, arms encircling him, Greg’s big hands in front clutching a blade of goose tongue, showing him how to hold it to his mouth to eke out a raucous, lonely, reedy note. He remembered the saltiness of its taste, mixed with the warmth of his father’s body holding him close, like that other . . . . Shit! What the hell had he gotten himself into?
“So? Are you going to tell me about it? Judging from the look that just crossed your face, it wasn’t half bad.” The playful turn to Tracy’s voice made Anton all the more irritated. Christ, beneath that cynical exterior, the guy really was just as much a queen as the rest of them. Fuck, there was no way around it. If he backed out now . . . .
“When I was a kid, I . . .”
“O for Chrissake. Let me guess: You were in Boys Scouts.”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“And this one time, on a camping trip . . .”
“No! Look, if you’re going to make fun . . .”
“No, I’m sorry. Go on.”
“I was in band.”
“Oh, better! For a moment there, I thought this story might be a little on the stereotypical side.”
“Forget it. Fuck you!”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Tracy made a show of suppressing his laugh and his smirk. “It’s just that you seem so damned earnest about it. Christ, every guy has a story like that one. And most of them are as straight as arrows. This is what makes you think you’re gay?”
“You don’t get it. I’ve never forgotten him. And, believe me, I’ve tried hard. I catch myself thinking about it, about him, . . . a lot, a lot more lately”—damn, that was too close to home—“and sometimes at the worst times.”
“Like?”
Anton’s face flushed deep red again. “Like when I’m with Cynthia, you know . . . .”
“Okay, this is becoming a little more interesting. There’s hope for you yet. Go on.”
“And not just then. Sometimes, at the stupidest moments. Like when I’m at work, in the middle of a calculation, or during some staff meeting.”
“What was he like?”
“I don’t know. He was just a guy, you know.”
“What was his name?”
Anton paused. “Mark.” The strangest feeling came over him. He hadn’t spoken that name in fourteen years. He would have thought its pronunciation would be accompanied with the taste of bile, but instead . . . he found himself suppressing a smile, which broke out distorted into a pained grimace. He clenched his cheek muscles, forcing the grimace into a frown. This was going really fucking wrong. He pushed back his chair and started to stand, leaning against the table. To his surprise, Tracy leaned over quickly and placed his hand on Anton’s. Anton clenched the fist that was about to land square in Tracy’s face, then Tracy leaned over fast and placed his other hand on Anton’s other arm, and he was astonished to find himself leaning in, allowing himself to be supported against Tracy’s surprisingly strong grasp. He felt suddenly disembodied, listening to the small, sharp exhalations that seemed to be coming from someone else’ mouth, from deep within someone else’s lungs. ‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘I’m about to start crying!’ Tracy leaned further over the table, supporting Anton’s weight as he dropped back into his chair. There it was again: strong arms and the taste of salt, as if a past he had fought for years to suppress had collapsed into the present. Anton fought to regain control, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. Thank God, he thought, that they had met at Hunter’s earlier than usual, in mid-morning when the café was empty—Tracy had a noon appointment. He just hoped the barrista was still out smoking on the patio. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. Christ, how pathetic.”
“No.” Tracy spoke softly. “No, it’s not. It’s not the least bit pathetic. You’re not the only one who’s gone through this.”
“Listen, I appreciate you’re trying to help me. But, I need to go. Maybe for a while. I need to find some place where I can think this over.”
“Fine. That’s fine. I mean it. You know how to find me.”