Adam’s cheeks turned red. “If you’re serious about carrying me upstairs, I’d better lay off the dessert.”
Matt chuckled.
Adam ate a small bite of lasagna, wiped his lips with the cloth napkin. “I want to say one thing. All you have to do is listen. Then, we’ll get on with eating, carrying, forking, and spooning. Okay?”
Matt stared down at his plate.Nodded grimly.
“It took me a minute to realize why Bradley thinks I’m the one who can help you,” Adam said. “Which doesn’t mean I think you need help. But if you are hiding a wound, then, yeah, I’m the guy to talk to about that. Try hiding a jagged suicide scar.”
Matt’s eyes darted to Adam’s left wrist. The scar—a 2” barbed, off-white lightning bolt—was a badge of shame in their fundamentalist world, akin to the prophesied mark of the beast that would denote one’s allegiance to the antichrist.
Merely attempting self-murder involved arrogant contempt for God. Failing to finish the job carried the added stigma of cowardice. You were literally damned if you did, damned if you didn’t.
You were Hester Prynne, a walking, breathing cautionary tale—for the rest of your life, with no hope of redeeming yourself. No happy ending for you. Hell, until just 13 years earlier, the Catholic Church had forbidden suicides to be buried in sanctified soil. Were rumored to have buried them upside down, facing west, just to ensure that they got confused and missed the big show at the Second Coming.
“I remember the first time I met you,” Adam said. “You and Josh came to visit me. I still had a bandage on my wrist. Sutures. The whole bit. I was so ashamed and embarrassed. I tried to hide it from you.”
Matt remembered that day for other reasons, all of them tied to the freckled boy with the hazel eyes. The boy who now sat across from him in assless underwear, expecting a serious conversation about secrets, when the only secret that mattered to Matt was the hole concealed by that briar patch.
“People still ask me about the scar,” Adam said. “Complete strangers. A few weeks ago, I was in line at Wal-Mart. A little boy and his mother were behind me. The boy pointed to my wrist, and asked his mom what had happened, you know, how did I get this big boo-boo? His mom shushed him, which only made him ask again, only louder this time…”
“…I caught the cashier staring at my wrist…”
“…It’s been 8 months and still they stare.”
Adam sighed. “I kept waiting for the day when people wouldn’t notice the scar, but my counselor helped me get past that. He says a scar is just a wound that’s healed, which is a good thing, right?”
Matt nodded noncommittally. It was not lost on him that Adam had circled back to the topic of wounds, as in his own hidden one.
“I mean,” Adam said, “it’s better than one that hasn’t—healed, that is...”
His accusation hung in the air like sewer gas. That was the point, wasn’t it? That Matt’s wound was a seeping, open sore, whereas Adam bore only a healthy scar, the whole follow-me-to-the-light bit that was the premise of every altar call Matt had ever heard.
The grandfather clock chimed eight times. The sound echoed through the house, followed by a heavy silence, as if presaging a Ghost of Christmas Past moment.
Or were they in Poe’s poem, with a “Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore,” screeching, ‘nevermore.’”
Matt looked up, met Adam’s gaze. He knew that Adam wanted—expected—him to open up. But he wasn’t ready to do that. Not yet.
They blinked across the table at each other. Stalemate.
Eventually, Adam spoke. “I haven’t been paying attention,” he said. “Does that clock chime on the half hour?”
Matt frowned, puzzled. Thought about it, then nodded. Wasn’t sure how that connected with wounds and scars and buried secrets but braced himself all the same.
Adam grinned. “Then you’d better get busy eating.”
“Huh?”
“We’ve got 25 minutes to polish off this lasagna, eat that fancy dessert, and clean up the kitchen if you’re going to carry me up those stairs before the next chime.”
Matt’s mind heard only the bit about carrying Adam up the stairs. Looped on it.
Adam picked up his fork. “Ready? Set? Go!”
What followed was a frenzy of flashing utensils and wine goblets. Laughter.
They fed each other, aiming forkfuls at the other’s mouth while gabbling babytalk.
