Page 13 of Hush
He was living half a life, with space carved out for a dream he’d killed in 1991.
Flowers in a vase in the center of his kitchen island caught his eye. They were wilting, petals starting to fall. He’d have to buy more on Saturday. He always bought from the farmers’ market, from the one stand with the brightest blooms. Rollicking freesias and laughing daisies, sassy roses and smart sunflowers. He liked the old man who sold the flowers, an immigrant with a thick accent and a megawatt smile. Short and stocky, and bald as Mr. Clean, with hair sprouting from his ears and curling up his forehead from his eyebrows. He picked the best bouquets for Tom each week, clucking over the flowers, wrapping them in butcher paper, making sure the package didn’t drip. He had a cookie for Etta Mae, too. Over Christmas, Tom had brought him a gift, a basket for his family.
Was that the sum total of his social life? He’d never had close friends, not even in the prosecutors’ office, and now that he was a judge… He was the crypt keeper of his social life, watching cobwebs settle in the corners of his existence.
What would it be like to go to the farmers’ market with someone he loved? Would his partner pick out flowers for him? Would they laugh and tease each other? Would his partner tickle his nose with a tulip, or a sprig of baby’s breath? What if his partner surprised him with flowers, walked in the door with a giant smile, a kiss and a bouquet?
Groaning, Tom slumped and stretched across the counter. His forehead hit the surface, and his breath fogged the dark stone. He’d made his choices. The life he’d lived—had chosen to live—didn’t allow for a partner. Didn’t allow him to even dream of loving another man.
But… things were different these days.
Hope was a cancer. Dreams were a parasite. He’d banished his subconscious yearnings to the dark recesses of his gilded closet years ago.
And yet…
God, he was lonely.
Why couldn’t he have half his life back? What if he wanted to smoosh his face against someone and take a ridiculous selfie with them, perhaps cheat and snag a kiss right before the picture snapped? Because who wouldn’t want to kiss their beloved as much as possible? What if he wanted that, wanted to be happy?
Hedidn’twant the wash of terror that yearning triggered. The spine-shivering, bone-puckering flinch of his soul. The fear that being open, being out of his padlocked closet, would be the end ofeverything.
Would it, though? He was a federal judge now, and barring him suddenly leaping headfirst into a wanton criminal spree or accepting bribes to rule in defendants’ favor, he was on the bench for life. He could step down, be impeached if he was a criminal, or die holding his gavel. He’d probably be buried with it still in his hand. That kind of job security didn’t exist anymore.
What if hedidfind someone? What if he—somehow—found a man who wanted a middle-aged, completely boring, practically re-virginized, servant to a Basset Hound?
If he cracked open the closet door, would he be yanked out all the way? Would his old, awful professor rise from the grave and tell him he was worthless, he was a dirty homo, and he was nothing but a fraud? Would the Senate find some obscure law that would un-approve a federal judge, a congressional ‘oops, our bad, we didn’t know you were like that’?
God, it wasn’t like he would be the only gay judge. There were ten openly gay judges. He’d tracked the nominations of each, tallying them up in his brain like he was collecting proof of the world changing, something to weigh against the inevitable hatred and disdain he always felt reaching for him, witches’ claws in the mist or an anvil hovering above him. He was a cartoon character in his own life, plodding along, waiting for the hammer to fall on his head and the laugh track to play. For the world to roar at him, mock him, scorn him.
But what number would be enough for him to join the ranks? What number of “enough gays” was enough for him to feel safe?
It would always be one less than he needed.
Etta Mae snorted and rolled, kicking the air before flopping to her side. She sighed, huffing, and stretched.
He needed to walk her. She needed her nightly walk before bedtime, the capstone to a long day of naps. In his next life, he was going to be a Basset Hound.
He’d probably be gay then, too. Maybe he could find a stately boy Basset at the dog park to drool with.
Christ, he was pathetic.
He pulled himself up, dragging his wine glass closer. He downed the cabernet in three huge swallows, like he was downing beer—or going down on a man—and ignored the burn at the roof of his mouth, the tightening of his nostrils. Cabernet wasn’t meant to be inhaled, and he coughed as his throat seemed to fill with sand. But, for the moment, he just wanted to drown it all out. Go back to 1991 and drink until he didn’t care if he woke up afterward or not.
Why today? Why was today the day he remembered everything? Why were his dusty dreams rattling the old bones of the skeletons in his closet now?
Because of Mike. Because he’d thought Mike, suave, sophisticated, Mike, ridiculously sexy Mike, professional, perfect Mike, was straight. He’d thought there was a girlfriend, or maybegirlfriends, or even a wife and two point five kids at home with a dog and a perfect picket fence. Mike was the pinnacle of what he’d always admired in a man: kind, confident, funny, strong. Deliciously competent in his job, too.
And he’d never, ever, thought Mike was gay. His gaydar, after all these years, was downright rickety. Less reliable than a leaking submarine. Though, he’d purposely unlearned the signs, had stopped looking for when men would check him out. Stopped making eye contact with strangers, stopped letting his gaze linger on other men long enough to see if they’d make the first move. He’d made his world small.
There was no way. No way at all. He shouldn’t, couldn’t think it. Him and Mike? Laughable. Utterly laughable. He’d never be young and sophisticated like Mike’s ex. He’d never be as perfectly put together. Would never catch Mike’s eye in any way other than as a stodgy old judge. Putting on the robe aged him twenty years, it seemed. He’d become a geezer in his mid-forties.
And he could never be asproudas Mike. There was maybe ten years’ difference in their ages? But going to college in 1991 versus 2001 made all the difference in the world. Mike had recent history on his side, protest movements and legislation and pride marches, gay-straight alliances, passionate speeches about equality and affirmation that people actually listened to. Ellen had come out, and found acceptance. Anti-discrimination laws had been passed. Hate crime laws that protected his people actually existed now. He vividly remembered the days when gay men were murdered—and their killers got off—just because they were gay.
Ten years had sped up centuries of progress.
But he’d shuttered the peephole on his closet door and barricaded its gilded frame.
“Come on, Etta Mae.” He called her name, and she popped up, her long ears dragging over the couch cushions, floppy jowls flapping as she shook and shimmied to wake up. She trotted over, her sagging skin swaying back and forth, and wagged her tail as she stretched at his feet. She nipped at his shoes, as if to tell him to hurry up.
