Peter had a small problem with a broken glass tube up his ass in August and I must admit, I didn’t give him much sympathy. In fact he didn’t ask for any because he decided it was pretty funny.
September and school came all too soon, except for the fact that, the faster time went by, the sooner Peter and I would be together again. However, on the first day of school we met a gorgeous new boy named Owen. As he and Peter talked I began feeling very angry, and for a week and a half I would barely acknowledge either Peter or Owen.
Finally, Peter came to my house, barged into my room, and told me that my problem was that I was jealous of Owen. Then he told me, in no uncertain terms why I didn’t need to be. By the time he finished I felt like such an idiot, but he forgave me and we went down to play my piano. After that, things were much better for the three of us.
I talked about all of this with Dr. C., and the upshot of the conversation was that he wanted me to start making a list of times when people made me feel accepted or validated.
For my next appointment, in October, I went with a rather short list. One of the students in my new trio had complimented me on the way I played a passage. My parents congratulated me for putting the trio together. Of course, several times Peter told me that he loved me, but I still wasn’t convinced I deserved his or anybody else’s love. At the end of that session, Dr. C. asked my mother and me if our November session could be together with my parents, and we agreed. He encouraged me to continue making the list and keeping my ear tuned for validation.
In November, my parents and I met together with Dr. C. as planned, while Peter waited in the outer office. “Well, Christian,” Dr. C. began when we were all seated, “have you been continuing your list?”
“I’ve tried, but I really didn’t add much.”
“So how are you feeling about yourself these days?”
“It’s hard to say. Sometimes I feel pretty good. I feel as though I’m making progress in several areas. My parents and I continue to talk from time to time about homosexuality and the Bible. We still haven’t changed each others’ minds on the subject, but I don’t feel that they’re as shocked as they first were.”
“That’s true,” my mother put in.
“But other times I continue to feel sort of dirty. I feel as though they still don’t trust me, or approve of me and Peter, and I feel as though I’m somehow not worthy of their love.”
For a few moments the adults sat thinking. Then my father said, “I’d like to speak to that if I may.” When the others nodded he went on. “Christian, trust and approval are in one category and love is in a totally different one. Trust and approval are usually conditional. You get them because you earn them. I have to admit that when we first learned what you and Peter were doing, we didn’t approve, and we felt we couldn’t trust you. Since then, you have shown us how trustworthy you can be and you have earned back our complete trust. As for approval, it’s very hard for us to approve of what you and Peter want to do, as you know. We may never actually approve in the way you want us to, but we have told you that, when you turn eighteen, if you still want to continue with Peter, you will have our complete support. Meanwhile, we do approve of you and what you do in every other way. Are you with me so far?”
I nodded.
“Good,” he went on. “As I said, Christian, love is in a totally different category. True love is always unconditional. It is not something you earn; it is yours regardless of how you act or what you say. Even if you did something terribly wrong or criminal we would still love you. Of course, as your parents, we always hope that our love is returned, but even if it wasn’t you would have our love simply because you are our son.”
“That’s what Peter says, but I still don’t feel worthy of your love or his.”
“That’s the point, Christian. You can’t be worthy of love. None of us can. It’s simply given to us, forever.”
“Oh,” I said, overwhelmed. Thinking aloud, I slowly continued, “That’s a totally new idea to me. I just assumed that you earned love like you do trust. But I can see that you’re right, because my love for you is unconditional and always will be. Oh, I might get mad sometimes and say things I’m later ashamed of, but underneath the love is always there.”
I stood up and gave both my parents long hugs.
Sitting down again, I said, “I think that’s the way I feel about Peter, too, and I guess that’s how he feels about me. He certainly showed me that when I was being so cruel to him last September.”
“He certainly did,” my mother said, “and that’s why I’m beginning to believe there’s such hope for you and Peter together.”
“OK, Christian,” Dr. C. said, “how do you feel now?”
“A whole lot better.”
“Good. As you know, I too think Peter is very good for you. Keep up your list. Remember that there will be down times as well as up times. Remember that you can always go to your parents when you feel down and you can always call me. OK?”
I agreed and we left. Before Peter went in to Dr. Cushing’s office, I gave him a long, wet kiss and he returned it. “Well,” he said, “what did I do to deserve that?”
“Nothing,” I said, “It’s unconditional,” and he entered the office smiling.
Right after Thanksgiving I told Peter about an idea I had for Christmas presents for each other and for our parents. As a result, on Saturday, we rode the bus together into Westbridge and went into a shop where I had made an appointment. An hour later we came out again, very pleased with ourselves.
The next Saturday, we did the same. This time we made selections based on what we had been shown. On the last Saturday before Christmas, we went yet again and picked up our packages.
As usual, my family went to the Christmas Eve Midnight Candlelight Service at the Cathedral and brought Peter home afterwards.
It was my turn this year to ride to Peter’s house Christmas afternoon, where I arrived in the early afternoon, carrying a package for Peter. When we were all seated in his living room, he and I exchanged presents. This time we didn’t laugh because we knew what the presents were, although we had not yet seen them. There, wrapped in the tissue paper I had opened was a beautiful 9x12, framed, color picture of Peter, showing his gorgeous auburn hair, his beautiful pale blue eyes, and his wonderful, infectious smile. Meanwhile, Peter held up his picture of me.
“It’s perfect!” he said.
“So’s mine!” I added.
Peter got a package from under the tree telling his parents, “This is from Christian and me.”
His mother unwrapped it as his father looked on. “Oh boys!” she exclaimed. “We’ll treasure this forever,” and she held up the picture of the two of us.
We were hugely pleased with the success of our gifts and couldn’t wait to get to my house, where my parents ooohed and aaahed over our individual pictures and then over the one we gave them. It was a most joyful Christmas!
In the second week in January, Owen suddenly disappeared from school. From the rumor mill which a high school always is, we learned that he had been cornered in the boys’ restroom by three older boys and beaten up so badly an ambulance had to be called. We called his father and learned that he was OK but was still in the hospital, so on Saturday, my mother drove us to the hospital to see him.
When we went into his room there was a man sitting, holding Owen’s hand. “Are you Mr. Crawford?” I asked.
He stood up, coming towards us, saying, “Yes, you must be Christian and you must be Peter.”
“We are,” Peter answered. “How’s Owen?”
“Rotten!” came the reply from the bandages in the bed.
Looking closer, we saw Owen wasn’t totally wrapped in bandages, but he did look a mess. Both eyes were blackened, his nose was broken, and there were bruises all over his face. In addition we learned there were bruises on his chest, stomach, and back, and one arm was broken.
At first, Owen was reluctant to tell us what happened, but he eventually opened up. He told us that, in the middle of class, he suddenly needed to ‘go to the basement.’ Since his classroom was on the third floor, he raced down the stairs and into the boys’ room where he was confronted by three seniors.
“Well, if it isn’t the little fairy,” one of them said. They began to back him into the corner. “Want to see what we think of fairies?” the boy continued. He hit Owen full in the face so hard that his nose spurted blood. Immediately, everything Owen had been holding back flooded out into his pants and onto the floor. But not satisfied with the damage he had done, the boy hit him again and again. “How do you like that, cocksucker?” he taunted. Then they got him on the floor in his own excrement and urine, beat him some more, and rubbed shit in his face. He screamed and cried and eventually lost consciousness. He awoke in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, where he remained ever since. He told us the doctors had taken X-rays of all parts of his body. In addition to the broken arm and nose, one of his cheek bones was cracked, and one kidney was badly bruised but fortunately not ruptured.
“Who were they?” I asked, intending to beat the crap out of each one of them on Monday.
Owen told us who they were, also telling us that all three of them had been expelled and were in an alternative school for the rest of the year. He added that the police were going to file charges and that there would be a trial which he would have to attend.
“Were either of you aware of any hostility towards Owen?” asked Mr. Crawford.
“No,” Peter replied, “but we were aware there could be some.”
“I knew you were,” said Owen. “I realized that you were taking care of me between classes, always making sure that one of you was with me. It wasn’t that they didn’t try, Dad. It was just that I was out of the classroom at an unusual time.”
“Well, thank you for trying, boys. Owen and I know it’s sometimes dangerous to be a homosexual. We usually try to go where we won’t be alone, but sometimes that just doesn’t work, obviously. Have you boys had any problems?”
“Not really,” I answered. “Sometimes we get sniggers and nasty comments in the hallways, but we have our own little group of friends who either haven’t figured out about us or don’t care what we are.”
We chatted awhile longer with Owen, who told us he hoped to be home by Friday. We wanted to give him a hug but knew that would be painful, to say the least, so we just held his hand, told him to get better, and left.
On the way home, we told my mother what Owen had said. She and Peter’s mother began to worry about us as well and begged us not to go anywhere alone. We couldn’t really do that because Peter had to walk over to the church to practice and I had to walk to the bus stop, but we did promise we would be careful.
Owen did get home on Friday, and Peter and I visited him on Saturday and Sunday. He looked somewhat better. Some of the bruises had begun to fade. I was worried about his nose because he had such a beautiful face, but Owen said that a plastic surgeon was going to take care of that.
It wasn’t until Monday, a week later, that he came back to school, still showing bruising, so he endured stares in the hallways, which he tried to ignore. Because his right arm had been broken, he had difficulty doing schoolwork, but he did go to classes. We resumed having lunch together and escorting him everywhere he went. Usually, he and I met at the school and walked to the bus stop together, which took care of that problem. So the only time he was really alone was walking from the bus to his house, but we didn’t think he would run into a problem in Meadowbrook.
After that, the days went by quite rapidly. Peter and I continued to be very busy, rushing from one thing to another, and often staying up later than we should to finish homework. The February and April vacations were welcome breaks, when we slept late, did no school work, practiced a lot, and spent a good deal of time with each other. Actually, the times together were in some ways the hardest, because we just couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Often, we resorted to holding hands or the occasional long kiss and tonguing, or even a few times a little groping when nobody was looking.
The Spring Concert came in May. Peter’s Boys’ Chorus sang again, and the orchestra played, a little better than they did at Christmas. My trio played the final movement of the Mozart trio. Again we were very well received. It really did go rather well for beginners. The high point of the concert was the Classical Singers, a group of about twenty boys and girls singing in four parts, often a cappella. They performed everything from madrigals to 20th century music, and sang it beautifully. Peter and I had both learned we would be in the group the next year, he as a bass and I as the accompanist. We were eagerly anticipating it.
In early June, Peter gave an organ recital at the Congregational church. I thought his playing was lovely even though he had had less than a year of lessons. Both he and his teacher seemed pleased.
The summer vacation began, and with it, the anticipation of another trip to Tanglewood with our parents.