“Yes, but I’ve never met him.”
“Well, you’ve probably metsomegay people since you’ve been out there, I’m sure. Mind you, you don’t have to go far down the streets of Mulligan’s Mill these days before you bump into some happy gay couple.”
“Seriously? That was not the case when I left.”
“Seriously,” Dad nodded. “Mitch Winton finally came back and hooked up with Gage Channing. Apparently, they had a little somethin’-somethin’ going on way back in high school.”
“You mean, ‘Wings’ Winton, the ice skater? And Gage, the guy who was once captain of the hockey team?”
“They’re not the only ones. Old Man Raven’s son, River, returned home from the Marines and fell head over heels in love with Clarry from the ice cream parlor. Talk about chalk and cheese, but I tell ya, those two walk around like they’re on a cloud. Then Benji and Bastian from the BnB finally got back together again. Yep, love is in the air everywhere you look.”
“Wow, who would have thought?” My chest had tightened when Dad had asked about knowing any gay guys in LA—which of course I did, a couple of them had even hit on me once or twice although I’d never acted on it—but knowing that there was something of a rainbow shining down on Mulligan’s Mill made me breathe easier about my secret crush on Harry.
Not that there was a remote chance of romance with someone like Harry Dalton.
But it at least gave me hope that if I ever did fall in love withsomeone—other than Harry, of course—that maybe one day we could settle down in Mulligan’s Mill.
I scoffed audibly at the thought, and Dad looked at me.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t like the gays? I know they’re a little different to us, but they’re not hurting anyone, and who they love is their business.”
“Oh God, Dad, you know I’m fine with gay people. I’m good witheveryone.”
“I know, son. I raised you right.”
It was nice to have a father who was as small -town as it gets yet had learned to teach himself tolerance and compassion over the years, which was a far cry from the father who had raisedhim, using a belt or the back of his hand to try and beat any kind of empathy or enlightenment out of him.
My dad could have turned out to be a very different man, he could have continued the abuse down the line, but he chose not to. For that I would always respect him.
“What about you?” I asked. “If love is in the air, has the breeze blown in your direction yet?”
He didn’t quite get the metaphor. “What?”
I kept it simple. “Have you met someone?”
“Me? What the hell?” He laughed so hard the pickup rocked. “Not likely! The only person who could ever love this old coot was your mother, God rest her beautiful soul.”
Mom had died when I was three. I couldn’t remember her at all, but there were pictures in the house still, and whenever Dad mentioned her, he always added, “God rest her beautiful soul.” I wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the loss.
I reached across and squeezed his shoulder. “You know that if someone did come your way… someone you liked… Mom would be happy for you. You know that, right?”
He patted my hand. “I know, son. I know.”
As we pulled into the drive, my entire body seemed to exhale with relief at the sight of our house; our house that was exactly the same as the day I left. The white paint on the porch was still peeling, the broken weathervane protruding from the peak of the roof swung lopsidedly and squeaked noisily instead of spinning with the breeze, and the guttering on one side of the house was still buckled and rusted after a snowstorm a few years back, something that Dad had promised to fix time and time again. I guess when you’re a handyman, the last thing you wanna do is spend all day fixing other people’s properties then come home and have to fix up your own.
“I’ll get to it when I get to it,” was always Dad’s motto… which was better than my grandfather’s motto of “I’ll skin you like a fucking deer if you don’t do as I say, you no-good little bastard!”
We very rarely talked about my grandfather, and when his name did come up, we spoke about him like he was dead. He wasn’t. He lived just outside of town. He was a recluse. He hunted for his own food and rarely came into Mulligan’s Mill. We hadn’t seen him since I was twelve, and even on that occasion we crossed to the other side of the street before he saw us. I guess Dad preferred to avoid the man who made his life hell, rather than poke the Devil if he didn’t have to.
Stepping inside our house I saw once again that nothing had changed.
The glass panel on the clock hanging in the hallway was still cracked, threads of carpet were peeling away on the well-worn line between the couch in the living room and the kitchen door, and the screened-in porch at the back of the house was still set up for Friday night poker with Dad’s buddies.
I wondered if Harry still came over on Friday nights and my heart began to race. I gestured to the beer bottles yet to be taken out to the trash. “You had the guys over last night like you always do, I see. Did he have a good birthday?”
The question came out before I even thought about howknowingit sounded.
Dad just looked at me, puzzled. “Birthday? Who’s birthday?”
