Chapter Twenty

FINALLY, ENOUGH DAYS passed, and Ricky had recovered enough to come home to our farm. He’d passed the discharge test. He could get up and walk to the bathroom without assistance. Momma cooked up a storm as soon as she got the word he was coming home. She made all his favorite recipes—a pointless exercise since he could only eat pureed foods. She set herself up in my old room downstairs so she’d be close by and she made a place for Ricky in the living room complete with a nest on the couch. Grandma’s quilt, an incense diffuser, magazines, a TV with remote—that was a waste, we still got only two channels—a boom box with all of Momma’s favorite CDs in jeweled cases, and a table close by with everything within reach. Just to be safe she bought what she called a nifty nabber so he could grab something from farther away. That is, he could nifty nab once his broken fingers healed.

He didn’t even laugh about the nifty nabber. It didn’t feel like he was home. For one thing, he still couldn’t talk and Ricky loved to talk. He couldn’t talk or smile his impish grin or offer advice on my appearance. He wasn’t himself. He slept most of the time or seemed dopey on heavy-duty painkillers. His mouth still looked like he tried to swallow a shopping cart—his jaw wired shut.

I helped him eat by squirting syringes of water and nutritional shakes through a gap in his teeth. He seemed to lose weight daily. His mouth and the areas around his eyes weren’t as swollen, but his hands were puffy paddles. His purple bruises had faded to greenish yellow.

I expected Ricky to tell me what had happened that night as soon as he was able. To me, he seemed able. He could talk enough to tell us which flavor of gruel he wanted. His fingers were broken and splinted, but his neck wasn’t. I thought he’d at least answer yes and no questions and help the sheriff, Mumble, and Shuffle to bring the bastards to justice, but when I asked him stuff he didn’t answer me or nod or shake his head in the right places. He just closed his eyes and waved me off like he couldn’t remember.

I wanted to show him mug shots and ask him to nod if he saw the bastards who beat him, not that I had any mug shots. I did have some high school yearbooks, a church directory, and some newspaper clippings of local softball leagues.

A mime by day, at night Ricky had night terrors—he wrestled and defeated his sheets and blankets from the bed. His muffled screams and his crying awakened everybody in the house except Allan. I went downstairs to him.

His eyes were wide and at first, he pushed me away, but then he let me hold him and rock him. “I’ve got you, Ricky. You’re safe.” His eyes peered into mine like he didn’t recognize me. It took a long time before his breathing slowed, and his eyes darted around like he’d never feel safe even in our house, even in my arms. My God. What did they do to you? Eventually, he was too exhausted to keep watch. He relaxed in my arms and fell asleep.

I had heard about post-traumatic stress disorder from daytime talk shows and prime time dramas. It didn’t surprise me that it was painful for Ricky to think about the beating and thinking it was akin to reliving it. I get it. I had watched my sister stab herself and drop into fire. I knew PTSD intimately. I just thought the need to expose the beaters would outweigh the fears. Of course, I didn’t have a tangible person to blame for Becky’s death other than myself.

Mumble and Shuffle called it a hate crime and said similar things had happened in other places. It wasn’t that I didn’t know, but I’d refused to think about people in my own community taking it upon themselves to punish queers. I thought the job had been given and wrongly attributed to some people’s gods. Maybe it was now contracted out to less expensive venders.

I tucked Ricky into his nest. I mostly yammered on about something from People magazine or something cute Allan had done, but all the time I found myself impatient wondering when and if Ricky was going to tell us who hurt him. Was he protecting us?

“Good night, Ricky. See you in the morning. I better get out to the kitchen. Sounds like Dad is searching out Momma’s new hiding spot for his beer.” I kissed him quick on the top of the head, turned on the night light Momma got him, and went into the kitchen to join Dad.

“He can’t sleep.” Dad had a tall glass of milk in front of him. He massaged his feet through his socks. Dad’s double-barreled shotgun and a box of shells were on the chair next to him.

“I don’t know if he’ll ever sleep. I don’t know if he’ll ever tell anyone who did this.” I poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge, but my eyes were glued to that gun. Dad kept his guns in a safe and never left his guns and ammunition in the same spot unless he was planning to go hunting.

“Snitches get stitches—isn’t that what they say?” Dad lowered his head as he glanced at me. “Maybe he’s afraid there’s more coming. Maybe he thinks he’s protecting himself and all the rest of us.”

“Is that why you got that gun out, Dad? You want us to take up arms?”

“No, Lorraine, I don’t want you to take up arms, but it occurs to me that Ricky isn’t safe and by extension this family isn’t safe.”

“So, what, you going to guard us?”

“I just thought it might make sense to be ready if some ruffians come to the house to hurt Ricky.” He played it off like it was a joke, but I knew full well Dad wouldn’t have a loaded gun in the house unless he couldn’t come up with another way to keep us safe.

“Be ready? Be ready to shoot somebody, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Lorraine.” He picked up the gun and placed it on the table between us. “I want to protect my family.”

“With a loaded gun? For how long, Dad? How long are you going to be keeping watch over this family? That’s about as dumb an idea as Ricky thinking that not telling on the pukes who beat him will keep them from finishing the job.” I stood up and poured my water out in the sink.

This is getting out of hand. “If that’s Ricky’s logic, it’s stupid logic. It’s an illusion of control. You can’t stop bad things from happening by ignoring them or not telling about them. It’s the telling about bad behavior that gets people thinking about it and demanding change. For those who can’t stop hurting people, they need to be separated from people to hurt. And regular people like us taking up arms isn’t sustainable and it isn’t safe. We’re more likely to shoot each other than any ruffian.”

“Maybe neither me nor Ricky are as hopeful as you are that whoever did this will be held accountable.” Dad opened the box of shells and removed two. “I’m just going to load it and hide it behind that big armchair in the living room across from Ricky’s spot. Allan can’t get at it, but you and I will both know where it is and I’ll let Kenny know too.”

“You going to let Momma know?”

He didn’t say anything.

“I didn’t think so.”

Dad was right that we were in danger. Whoever’d hurt Ricky could and would probably hurt him or somebody else again because the hurting wasn’t connected to the telling. Its tendrils attached to the hating and feeling powerful by hurting someone else. I didn’t agree with his decision to have a loaded gun in the house, but I decided I’d argue that stupid logic another day. I just nodded at him as he loaded the shotgun. Then I left Dad sitting at the table and went back into the living room, where I was certain Ricky was not yet asleep.

“If you think not telling’s going to keep you safe, you’re wrong. The asshole who did this is still out there and maybe next time he’ll take a few other queers or their family with him.” I hated playing the card that he was protecting someone who might hurt me and mine, but desperate times called for ingenuity not loaded guns. I had to get him to talk and put this whole thing to rest.

He did that closing his eyes and turning away from me thing he usually did.

“Don’t you dare ignore me. I’ve been here for you. Christ knows our whole family has been here for you.” I saw tears in the corners of his eyes, his nose ran, but he didn’t wave me off. Watching him cry made me feel like a bully. Chipmunk Ricky, pretty boy with the delicate bones of a bird. How could anyone smash a chipmunk? I backed off, but only a bit.

“You have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Then we’ll know when the wires come out of your jaw. The day it happens, you better be ready to talk. Do you understand me?”

He opened his eyes, looked at me, and nodded.

“Good. I’m glad we’ve got that settled. Nobody else needs to get hurt. It’s going to be okay, Ricky. I promise.”

I went to my room and cried. I lied to him. I don’t know if it will ever be okay again.

 

THE NEXT DAY Ricky met with the doctor. Momma, Dad, and I were all there with Ricky. Dr. Jonah said he would remove Ricky’s wires the following Thursday. I had felt like celebrating. I announced probably too freely and too loudly it would be the day Ricky would tell me who hurt him. The last Thursday of the month loomed large. The sheriff, Mumble, and Shuffle said they’d be at our house with their questions and a tape recorder. Momma, Dad, Kenny, and Twitch wanted to be there. I had expected Russ would want to hear, but he hadn’t even visited Ricky. I heard Pastor Grind announced in church that the vengeance of God had been taken out against a young sinner whom he planned to visit and bring to repentance. So, probably just about everybody knew Ricky was ready to name his attacker. If the culprit remained in town, he likely heard he had a deadline to leave or finish what he’d started.

Perhaps I could legally change my name to Idiot or Screw Up. I’d made so many mistakes, hurt Ricky’s feelings, and maybe put him in more danger. Plus, there was now a loaded shotgun in a makeshift cardboard holster velcroed to the back of the fuzzy armchair in the living room. As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, Charity came back to town without telling me she was coming, and she stopped at the farm the day after Ricky met with the doctor and I had heralded his disclosure date to the world.

The dogs went nuts when they got Charity’s scent. I knew the feeling. They had missed her too. I watched from the window as she gave attention to each dog—rubbing their bellies and scratching their ears. Her hair was longer and her face was more tanned, but her freckles showed. God, she was wearing jeans, a lacy tank top tucked in at the waist so I couldn’t help but notice that perfect waist and those long legs.

“Ricky, Charity is here. I’m going to go talk with her outside on the porch. Keep an eye on Little Man, I mean Allan. Allan, you watch over Ricky. Maybe paint his toenails. There’s polish in Ricky’s beauty kit.” I pointed the large burgundy tackle box that housed Ricky’s tools of the cosmetology trade. I left Ricky in his nest in the living room. If Ricky had any objections he couldn’t say, and I didn’t care. I checked on the clandestine shotgun and made certain Allan couldn’t see or reach it. I just wanted at least a few minutes alone with Charity.

She hugged me when I came out on the porch. Her hand cuffed the back of my neck and we stood there quiet for what seemed like a long time. It was a hug you give someone when they are hurt or grieving. I wondered which or if both of us were about to know more loss. She kissed me lightly on the lips, but there was no urgency or hint of need from either of us. We sat on the front porch swing together, both of us staring out into the yard instead of at each other.

“I didn’t know you were coming. It’s good to see you. I’ve been trying to write a letter to you. It’s taking me the longest time to finish it.” I examined my hands. I have Momma’s hands—small hands, thumbs like spoons—shit for texting. They would normally be on some part of Charity. Why were they just there in my lap, unemployed?

“Sorry, I didn’t call and tell you I was coming. My mom said you would likely be around because you were helping your mom nurse Ricky. How’s he doing?”

“He’s mending, but he still won’t tell us who did it. I don’t get why he won’t say it.”

“Maybe it was someone he knew who hurt him, and it’s hard to name someone who would betray him. It’s hard to admit people we love hurt us.”

Ah, crap! Is it me or is she speaking code for us? “I was right. We are broken up.” That was brave of me considering I didn’t want to know the answer.

“Oh, Lorraine, I think…I hoped you’d just lose interest in me or be mad and tell me off. You’re just so…loyal.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing—being loyal.” I wouldn’t apologize for one of my best traits. Well, it is one of my best traits if I ignore that I just kissed Marin.

Charity leaned into me. “I didn’t mean this to happen.”

“What has happened exactly?”

“I have a chance to go to Europe. It’s an art tour through Italy, France, and Spain. I can visit museums and churches. I can paint in the open air where artists have painted for centuries.”

“That’s great! I’m so happy for you.” I hugged her. “How did this happen? Did you get a grant? Wait, you make it sound like this trip is the reason we can’t be together. I’ve always supported your art.”

“In order to properly take advantage of this opportunity I would need to be gone a year for sure and probably two.”

Something sounded scripted about the way she talked.

“I’m going with Kelly.”

Shit.

“I’m thinking about getting back together with Kelly.”

Thinking about…that’s a whole trailer load of shit! Now I know the playwright who scripted Charity’s message.

“I’m sorry, Lorraine, but I know myself and there’s probably no way I won’t be with her if we travel like that together for more than a year. It feels inevitable.”

I squinted at her wondering if she had become possessed.

“Lorraine, to be fair I’ve been thinking of calling it off with you, but I wasn’t sure and didn’t know how to tell you.”

My throat felt swollen shut. I couldn’t speak. I swallowed and nodded, looked at my small, strong hands. Tell her, you coward. I’ve been writing you a breakup letter. I already know it’s over. I kissed Marin. She’s sweet on me… I didn’t say anything.

“Lorraine, I don’t want to live in Bend. I think you would be fine living here, but I know I wouldn’t. Eventually, we’d be at this point and I know I couldn’t stay here and this is where you said you want to be even after you finish veterinary school. This was inevitable, Lorraine.”

There was that word again, “inevitable.”

“I can’t believe you decided for me. Maybe it was inevitable, but I’d have liked to have been a part of the decision.”

“Well, are you saying you’re willing to accept that I’m with Kelly and will be traveling with her for a year or more? Are you saying you want to wait for me and see if we can be together after all this?”

I looked at her. Beautiful, beautiful Charity! My first true love. My first and only lover. Could I wait for her while she traveled with Kelly, loving Kelly? I looked at myself, loyal and true; my hands, small, strong, skilled, and empty.

Charity must have been uncomfortable with the silence. She retreated a bit in her decision. “I don’t know, Lorraine. Maybe we can stay together and make it through this. I know I can’t promise I won’t be with Kelly sexually because I would be lying. Let me think more about this and I’ll call you.”

What were we supposed to do next? I don’t suppose she knew any better than I did, although she’d had more experience with breakups than I did. She’d broken up with Kelly and she’d broken up with me before. We stood up, faced each other. We hugged. We both cried. We stayed like that for I don’t know how long. Then we let go. Charity left.