Page 87 of The Evening Wolves

“I understand that he’s upset,” Emery said. “And that he’s not thinking clearly. And that this isn’t about me, not really. So I don’t need to talk. And I don’t need your help.” For some reason, he thought of what Colt might say if he heard that, and he added, “But thank you.”

Tean nodded. Their breaths steamed in the air, the rhythm alternating, and it made Emery think of trains, the steady billowing of an engine. The day was already deepening toward dusk, the sun low in the sky, small and diffuse and distant, so pale it was almost the color of cream. Sunset, when it came, would be a nothing band of orange and yellow. And then night.

“Did you know I was raised Mormon?” Tean said.

“I thought you were supposed to say Latter-day Saint.”

Tean smiled. His bushy eyebrows arched. “That’s right. But growing up, everyone always said Mormon. I still think of it that way.”

“No,” Emery said. “I didn’t know that. I wasn’t sure—I mean, I knew it was a probability.”

“My family still practices. Believes, I guess. That’s a more generous word. I think they really do believe it.”

The silence was like a crust of snow waiting to be broken.

“I imagine that makes it more difficult,” Emery said.

“I knew I was gay when I was a teenager, but for a while, I thought I could balance things. That’s not what I mean. Make things work, I guess. I went on a mission. And then I couldn’t anymore.”

“Why?”

“I loved someone. And for a while, he loved me.”

Across the street, the fences were painted white with snow. More snow licked the leeward sides of the trees. A long apron of sunlight fell across part of the lawn, picking out the crystalline structure of the ice. A breeze lifted, and a tiny rosette of snow spun across the street.

“I appreciate you sharing this with me,” Emery said, “but I’d like to be alone.”

“Of course.” But Tean didn’t stand. He was staring out at the world through those chunky black glasses. His chest rose and fell so slowly he might have been sleeping. “When I came out, when I accepted it, I mean, I felt like my life was over. I’d lost everything—that’s what I told myself, anyway. In a sense, it was true. I’d lost so much of what made me me. My family was devastated. The religious foundation of my life had crumbled, and along with it, my sense of purpose and place in the universe, my orientation toward good and evil, my knowledge of myself as a being of worth and dignity. That’s putting it all in rather fanciful terms, but you know what I mean. I still had things I cared about. I had school, and then I had a career. I found friends, although believe it or not, not that many.”

Emery couldn’t repress the snort, and Tean chuckled.

“But for a long time, I was grieving. I think, in a way, I was grieving until Jem came into my life. I was grieving the relationships I’d lost. And I was grieving the self who was gone, who would never come back. And I was grieving the future I’d thought I was going to have. And I wish someone had told me back then that those griefs were real, and that they were valid, and that it was ok to mourn those losses.”

That seemed to be the end because he fell silent. His clothing rustled as he adjusted his position on the porch, his gaze fixed on the middle distance. Maybe he was looking out at the tracks that had broken the crust of snow. Rabbits, Emery thought. Even in the snap-jaws of winter, life managed to go on.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About the shovel.”

A laugh broke out of Tean, and he covered his mouth. But Emery heard his own words, and a chuckle escaped him, and they both looked at the shovel with its mangled aluminum blade, and the laughter came again. Emery laughed until his chest hurt. Tean laughed with him, pushing his glasses up to wipe his eyes. Their laughter died in fits. In the silence that came after, Emery was aware of the knots in his shoulders that had loosened, of the heat pack and the warmth easing the ache in his hands.

“It’s really not funny, I know,” Emery said. “It’s a terrible example for Colt. He has enough anger already, and it’s a miracle that it hasn’t consumed him, as young as he is. Every time I do something like this, it’s teaching him the wrong way to handle powerful emotions.”

“Maybe not the best way,” Tean said in his quiet way. “But not the worst either. He’s a smart young man; I think he knows that.”

“He knows I shouldn’t yell at John. He’s going to ride me about that, believe me.”

Tean’s smile was a quicksilver flash.

“How much did you hear?” Emery asked.

“The volume, mostly. Not what you were saying.”

Maybe he hadn’t noticed it until now. Or maybe it was new, something that had come about as the angle of the sun changed. Across the street, rainbows bent along the prisms of icicles hanging from the eaves of Mr. Johnson’s house.

“For so much of my life, I’ve been angry at this town. Angry at John. Angry at the bigotry and intolerance, at all the injustice of it. It’s been a weapon. And a shield. Growing up here, with people the way they were, I felt…”

“Powerless?”

Emery nodded. “Weak. Vulnerable. But when I was angry, I didn’t feel any of those things.” He adjusted the heat pack. He remembered the night he had understood the importance of his anger, lying alone in the dark in his childhood bedroom, with three fresh cuts on his belly, lines that made the crude beginnings of a G. Mikey Grames had caught him. And John had been there too, had held one of his arms as Mikey cut. And in the dark, smart enough to know what to worry about, he had envisioned nightmare scenarios of infection run rampant, flesh-eating bacteria, MRSA. He had lain there, watching the headlights move past his window like ships out on a vast, black sea, and his belly hot and itching and inflamed, and still he hadn’t told his parents. And he had come to understand, during those long hours, that it felt so much better to be angry than to feel scared and hurting and alone. “I’ve tried to—to be better. With John, especially. With our children.” Then his throat closed, and he couldn’t say anymore.

---