“I never did like the guy,” Matt said, skirting her question.
Debbie stroked Cleopatra’s fur.
The old cat stretched, started to purr.
“Maybe Colton wouldn’t have tried raping that fella if he hadn’t had to hide who he is,” Debbie ventured. “Is it fella or gal as regards those female impersonators? I wouldn’t want to sound ignorant.”
“I think most people refer to them as drag queens.” Matt wasn’t about to explain that the pronouns depended on whether the person was in drag or not. Ditto for the fact that he actually knew Vince/Bella.
“Here’s what I’m not buying,” Debbie said. “That girl that snapped the photo of Colton outside the police station. Molly Something. She’s a student at MCU, right? A senior? And I’m supposed to believe she just happened to be standing there when the president of MCU’s SGA paraded by? It smells fishy.”
Matt felt a momentary stab of fear but wasn’t too worried. He’d worked with Molly to craft her cover story.
“Didn’t one of the news stations look into that?” Matt asked. “And it turned out that Molly has an internship for theOklahoman? Like that was her job, to stand out there and take pictures? Lucky break for her, I guess.”
Matt rubbed his temples. This conversation was not helping his headache. Was it his hangover or did Debbie’s questions seem almost like booby traps? Like there were hidden tripwires meant to snare him?
“I’m feeling better,” he lied. “Didn’t you say you had something heavy that needs moving?”
“Let’s give it a few more minutes,” Debbie said. “Better safe than sorry.”
There was awkward silence during which the Kit Kat Wall Clock ticked loudly. Its eyes swiveled and its tail wagged in rhythm.
“And strange how Garland Stone-Dancer keeps turning up,” Debbie said. “He’s been on the TV a lot lately. He’s representing that fe—I mean drag queen, plus he’s suing MCU on behalf of that boy who got kicked out in the fall and then attempted suicide. Poor thing.”
“I think his name is Adam,” Matt said. “The boy who got kicked out of MCU.” Matt tried to sound casual but bristled at hearing his boyfriend described as “that boy”—even by Mom Debbie.
Debbie arched an eyebrow. “You think his name is Adam? Didn’t you deliver a card to him shortly after all that happened? I seem to remember hearing kids talking about that. I remember because it wasn’t too long after you’d brought me a card and a cookie.”
Nope. Not the hangover. Matt’s body hit the panic button. Full fight-or-flightsyndrome. You didn’t grow up gay in Oklahoma without learning to discern when someone was snooping around your sexual orientation.
Matt felt his muscles tense. His heartrate hit the stratosphere.
“OH, YEAH! I DID TAKE HIM A CARD!” Matt feigned sudden recall. Overacted. He did everything but slap his forehead in fake surprise.
Five sets of eyes pivoted his way (Debbie, Cleopatra, Butch, Sundance, and the Kit Kat Wall Clock). No one was buying his act, least of all the clock.
SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!
…shit!
Matt threw in the towel. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. (One didn’t grow up in Oklahoma, surrounded by 38 tribes of Native Americans who’d been “resettled” there without learning a thing or two about lost causes.) “Is there something you’re trying to ask me?”
“Well, honey,” Debbie sighed. “There are some things one doesn’t just out and out ask about—even with people you love. And I love you more than anything! You know that! What I will say, quoting my daddy, God rest his soul, is that ‘I baited my hook and plunked it in the water, but the fish ain’t bitin.’”
Matt felt tears stinging his eyes. “Maybe the fish know what’s on the other side of that hook: a boning knife. That’s what usually happens to fish in this state.”
“Maybe,” he said, tears streaming now, “Maybe the fish don’t want to hurt the fisherwoman’s feelings because other fish hurt her in the past.”
“OH MUSTANG!” Debbie burst into tears.
Cleopatra stood in frustration, ruffled her fur, and jumped onto the back of the couch, joining Butch and Sundance in their half-lidded contempt for human folly.
Matt and Debbie groped towards each other, each blinded by tears, each seeking to comfort the other while they both sobbed. There they were: she, a childless woman deprived of a family by the gay man who had married and divorced her, hugging the son she’d never birthed—a boy born gay just as surely as he’d been born left-handed, a boy who’d never known a mother’s unconditional love.
12:11 p.m.
Matt grunted, pushing the wheelbarrow across the lawn, fighting to keep it upright as it bounced over tree roots and acorns, past the shepherds and angels. He was ferrying brick pavers from the back to the frontyard. Debbie had changed her mind about the location of a planned garden path, which was the favor she had called him about in the first place—moving 600 pounds of bricks.
