17
As Art had expected,nothing came of the investigation into the inscription they’d discovered on their walk. Even with Tony’s generous removal of the carving that had been such a slap in the face to Wes and Art, they had a hard time convincing themselves to return to their spot. Something that was once so beautiful to them had been soiled by Joseph’s hatred—something Art would be reminded of every time he saw Joseph’s face aroundHeathrow.
In all the time Art had lived there, Joseph had seemed innocuous—amiable even. However, Art was more than aware that despite how apparent Kenneth Moore’s disgust toward them was, it was oftentimes the Josephs of the world who were more problematic, for while they hid their rage, it still lingered and found more turbulent ways of revealing itself…insidious, toxic ways that poisoned the beautiful things Art held dear to him. Certainly, Kenneth Moore had made his disapproval of homosexuality clear through disapproving glares, but offensive and insulting as a glare may have been, it was nothing compared to the pains Joseph had gone to so he could violate their sanctuary…their feelings…theirhearts.
Fortunately, between training for Field Day and his and Wes’s blossoming relationship, they didn’t dwell on the incident too much. Life went on, and the following weekend, Art and Wes took a car to visit Justin and hisfamily.
“Hey, Justin,” Art said, offering ahandshake.
“Please, Arthur. I think at this point we can start greeting each other with a hug.” Justin reeled Art in for a warm squeeze. Though he’d seen Justin a few times since he and Wes had begun seeing one another, this was Art’s first time being over to Justin and his wife’shome.
“Now don’t scare off my man, boy,” Wes said in a playfully sternvoice.
“Papaw, Papaw, Papaw!” Justin’s kid, Karl, called out as he threw his arms aroundWes.
“Aw, how’s my little pepperoni doing?” Wes askedhim.
Art smiled at the nickname, reflecting on the times when Wes had brought it up whenever he talked about his great-grandkids.
When Justin pulled away from him, Art hugged Erin, Justin’s wife. Her wavy hair fell past her shoulders, and she was wearing a light-blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a gray skirt and heels, looking as fashionable as Art had recalled her being back when she was in his class a couple of decadesearlier.
“And how about my butterscotch?” Wes asked as he embraced his great-granddaughter, Heather. Her smile had a special charm to it, surely genetic, but she didn’t offer the same enthusiasm as herbrother.
“At that age where you’re too cool for hugs, aren’t you?” Wes askedher.
“Just a littlebit.”
“If you sayso.”
They caught up some, and then Wes helped Justin in the kitchen while Erin offered Art the grand tour of the house. As she showed him around, Art appreciated what a traditional, cozy home they shared…such a conventional, nuclear family with their two-story suburban home and two kids and a little beagle, Torey. Justin and Erin were the living embodiment of the American dream. They were the sort of family that fit in perfectly in Winebourne, and they most certainly did, from what he’d seen of them over the years at various local events—fairs, festivals, town hall and school functions. They were the sort of family that at one time, Art had fancifully imagined for himself, with a man…with kids. That dream that was never meant tobe.
When Erin finished the tour, they joined Wes and Justin at the barbecue grill on the patio out back. The guys were laughing together, Art figured likely at some joke Wes hadmade.
As Wes turned and their gazes met, Wes’s grinbroadened.
Art felt him conveying so much appreciation through such a simple expression, but it was a part of this special connection they shared, that had grown in the time they’d spenttogether.
It was a lovely afternoon, the humidity intense enough to make the air thick, but not so thick as to make their meal on the outside picnic table unpleasant, and there were certainly fewer mosquitoes around than atHeathrow.
Art found it easy to enjoy his conversation with Heather about her classes until Karl drew his attention, poking him from the side and showing him an action figure he was holding, then putting his finger before his lips—some secret, itseemed.
Art leaned to him and whispered, “What isit?”
“Mobile Suit Gundam,” Karlsaid.
“And what is this, a comicbook?”
“Comic book?” Karl asked. “It’s anime. Do-do-do-do you watch anyanime?”
“I’ve watched it in the past, but I don’t believe I’ve watched thisone.”
“I like Heero,” he added before going on about details Art struggled to make senseof.
“Oh,really?”
Karl continued explaining it to him, none of it making much more sense, but Karl’s enthusiasm made up for anything lost intranslation.
“Is Karl bugging you aboutGundam?” Justinasked.
