The Book of Samuel

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dreaming in the Aftermath

"No gun?" Among the first things Lucas noticed was that Jeff Chertov, wearing a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, wasn't wearing a pistol on his belt.

"I'm required to take paid leave while the U.S. Attorney reviews the shooting."

"I saw news coverage of the robbery in Goldendale but nothing about what happened here."

"You probably won't. The last thing my bosses want is for your name to be splashed about, and people here don't think your business is everybody's; you have surprisingly protective neighbors. We've sent a message to those who needed to receive it. Some of the other members of the National Socialists in Vancouver are being rolled up but only in connection with the robbery. This case was easy compared with most I work."

"The case wasn't easy for us."

"No. I know." He noticed Lucas's expression change. "I mean I can imagine."

"What happened out there? Why didn't you arrest him?"

Chertov thought a few moments about how much of the truth to tell. "My job is keeping you safe. I did what I needed to do. There was no possibility of arresting him. I know that you and your kids don't want to be looking over your shoulders all the time." The statement was true as far as it went.

Lucas didn't push the issue, partly because he was pleased by Chertov's reference to his "kids." His need to know was in general less than most people's; he had made his passage in life learning that he could never know everything going on about him. He was, however, astute at knowing important matters, and he thought that the young Homeland Security agent was fully out to kill the lunatic, and he succeeded.

Lucas didn't have any empathy for bullies, and he figured that if someone was going to die during an assassination attempt, the person trying to kill him because he loved Jerry should be the one. Then Lucas flashed back to conversations with Sam Marshall before his death about the weight that killing others places on a man's heart and mind.

"You okay with what happened out there?"

Chertov looked at Lucas unflinchingly. "Absofuckinglutely."

"You're not in serious trouble?"

"I did what I was ordered to do – to protect you, I mean. I'll be back to work in a couple of weeks."

Lucas thought about how hard it must be for this young gay man. Even if he had no deep moral qualms about killing another man, to do the kind of work he did and to do it in federal law enforcement would be stressful when the object of the protection was a gay man. "If you want to hang out here while you wait, we can find a place for you. But, you couldn't keep any guns with you."

Chertov seemed genuinely affected, and smiled. "I might hang around for a day or two if the invitation is genuine."

"If I invite you, you're invited. I never lie even to be polite. Besides, someone has to show my son that I have at least one gay friend who knows how to dress and cut his hair, and I know one gay man who should hang out with family now and then. If you have someone you'd like to invite to stay with you, do that."

#

"It makes him seem old," JT told the others.

Sam reminded his cousin, "He is old."

Marshall added, "We don't want really young guys replying to the ad. We have to strike a balance when we describe him."

Sam was irritated again. "What makes you the expert?"

Without thinking, Marshall told Sam, "I'm the closest thing to a queer we've got, so I guess among us I am the expert."

"Sorry, Marsh. You're right." Marshall smiled at Sam. He wondered if maybe Sam was still worried that he would make a move on Markie since he wasn't entirely gay.

"What are you three up to?" Vee had caught the last of their conversation as she trailed Markie down the hallway and stuck her head through Marshall's bedroom doorway as Markie went downstairs. The boys couldn't help letting their silence betray some guilt. Vee let the chance to grill them pass for the moment and asked Marshall, "Where's Armin?"

"Napping back at JG's."

"I worry about him."

"Me, too." Marshall stared at his sister, each ticking second making her more suspicious about what they were doing.

The other boys just sat looking at each other until Vee turned back to the hallway, muttering, "You people are hopeless."

JT asked, "Think she suspected anything?"

"Oh, no," Marshall said with plain sarcasm, "nothing. She's not an idiot, JT. She just cut us a break. Be thankful."

Marshall turned his attention back to the questionnaire they were completing while JT worked on the short description that would head the ad. Sam divided his energy between his cousins, trying to help both, but spending more time with JT because Marshall was deeply concentrated on his task. The first problem in using the site had been that it required a credit card to go beyond looking at summaries of ads. Sam had solved that problem because his fathers had added him to one of their accounts with a very small credit limit for emergencies. He'd never tried to use it, but the site took it without question.

Marshall knew from talking with Frank Gerard and his Uncle Jason how most personality inventories were constructed. He and his cousins had taken the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator the summer they were twelve. He had learned that he was an introvert and that and Sam and JT were extraverts. Marshall thought their differences explained why they had such friction at times.

Marshall thought that the personality survey he was completing for JG on the dating site was a thin version of the MBTI, and he tried to imagine what his grandfather would answer to questions about whether he preferred to socialize in crowds or one to one, whether he asked other people for advice frequently or whether he preferred to solve problems on his own, and so on. Some of the questions asked about areas of his grandfather's life that he had no direct experience or observation of. For those, he guessed.

He reviewed the answers with JT and Sam before he submitted the questionnaire. When they were all happy with the answers, he was ready to hit the submit button. He was just awaiting the description. Marshall had reservations and almost wished he hadn't agreed to help with this. JT read the brief description he had written for JG:

Young-at-heart and optimistic physician interested in outdoor recreation, reading, many kinds of music, looking for a friendship that might lead to more. I live in a small, rural community in southern Washington State and have a condo in Portland, Oregon. I'm looking for a long-term relationship, not a quick hookup. I have two grown sons and a close family. I'm financially secure and travel from time to time.

Marshall suggested changing the word 'relationship' to 'friendship' and modifying the phrase 'grown sons' with 'adopted', a suggestion that produced a long discussion between the introvert and Sam, one of the extraverts.

Marshall tried to reason with Sam, "I don't want men thinking that he was closeted and married to a woman when he was young."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that."

"Well, don't be so defensive, then."

Finally, JT, who had had enough of the bickering, settled the matter. "Enough, you two. 'Friendship' it is and 'adopted, grown sons'."

They submitted a photo of JG taken on Mt. Adams near Adams Glacier two years ago and used an email address that JT had created on his account with his ISP. The ad was complete, and two out of the three were very happy with themselves. Marshall clicked the submit button, and they would wait for the horde of men perfect for their grandfather.

#

Later in the morning of the day before the kids from Portland would show up for their postponed visit, Marshall walked outside, taking the back door of JG's house. Sam, JT, and he had decided that when they were next together at Turing House they would pump Lucas about what had happened, because they thought he'd give them the straightest answers, but now Marshall had more pressing matters to try to settle, and he knew that he needed to see the gardener.

Frank Gerard, psychiatrist and horticulturalist, was on the south side of the house re-mulching a bed, trying to keep enough moisture available to the root systems of the shrubs that lived there, to fight off the sere summer winds. He looked up to see the blond one approaching and shook off the momentary memory of his talks twenty years ago with the boy's father, North — and the more painful memory of the talks he could never have with his own son. "Marsh, you look good. Give me a hand?"

"Sure, Frank." Marshall took off his shirt and dropped down next to the old man, who still worked as if he were twenty years younger. They spread the mulch in the long bed, sweat soaking the old man's T-shirt and running off the boy's torso into his shorts. Frank always carried with him the burden of his son's suicide, a death about which the men of the family in Lucas's generation knew, but of which Marshall's generation knew little. Everything he did for kids he did in a way for his son.

Finally, Frank threw his water bottle to the boy. As they rested for a few minutes, with the boy leaning back on his outstretched hands, elbows locked, Frank asked, "What's on your mind, Marsh?"

The boy took a few minutes to get going, but once he started, the pain and the questions flowed as he squeezed the water bottle. He sat up, crossing his legs. "The thing is, I think I'm bisexual. No matter which way I turn it over in my mind, I like both — I mean in that way. If I were straight or if I were gay, I could see how to make my way. No one here is worried about me, but how am I supposed to fall in love with someone and make a life with him or her or maybe him and her? When I was at the club in Portland, I had the best time, dancing with a boy and girl together. How can something like that work as a family?"

Frank could see the boy was deeply distressed, almost in tears. "Well, that's quite something to discover about yourself. Sounds like you're okay with how you are, but the practical end of things has you confused."

Marshall set the water bottle between them after taking a sip. When he felt like crying sometimes taking a drink blunted his need to cry. His fingers played around nervously with the top layer of mulch in the bed to his right as he and Frank sat facing one another. "I don't know anyone like me. Everyone around me is settled — straight or gay, and they're all such good people. They love their husbands, my dad loves my mom, and they're honest with each other. How am I supposed to do that with someone without wrecking everything?"

"First, I'm not sure anyone your age is settled. A lot of people think that only one form of relationship is best for everyone. Look around — nature is a palette of variety. What kind of relationship would suit you best, do you think?"

Marshall almost couldn't answer, but finally did, "I think maybe having a husband and a wife. How screwed up is that?"

"Why do you think that arrangement is screwed up?"

"Jeeze, Frank, look around. You don't see many families with three parents or even three adults together. How confusing would that be for kids, if there were any?"

"And that means that the idea is screwed up? You don't see many families with two gay men or lesbians as parents, and a lot of people think that's screwed up, but you and I know that's not so. Just because something is unusual doesn't mean it's screwed up."

"I suppose."

"Look, you have a lot of time before you have to figure out whom to spend a life with. Just continue to be the sort of young man you are now, and you'll find your way. Finding what you want might be difficult, but if it's what's right for you, it would be a shame to dismiss it out of hand."

"How come you always know the right thing to say?"

"Years of training — and the fact that I love you."

Marshall closed the small distance between them and hugged the man tightly. He whispered in Frank's ear, "I love you, too."

When they separated, Marshall thought he saw tears in Frank's eyes. Frank cleared his throat and said, "Why don't you go in and check on Armin?"

As Marshall wiped the sweat from his chest with his T-shirt and rose to go into the house, Frank thought: Boy, your life is going to be complicated. To Marshall's retreating back he said, "You call me if you need to talk, Marsh, and when you're ready, talk to your mom and dad."

#

Freshly showered and dressed, Marshall found his parents in the living room. "Do you guys have a few minutes?"

Annie and North looked up from their reading. The boy's father answered, "Let me see where you fall on our priority list. Name?"

"Very funny, Dad."

"My point is that we always have time to talk to you. You're polite to ask, but we'll let you know if we need to postpone a talk."

"I know." Marshall was concerned that this talk would be more difficult than any in the past, but he was taking Frank's advice. He sat in a chair across the coffee table from the sofa where his mother and father sat. Although the sofa was long enough for four people, they sat in the middle so that their shoulders almost touched. He felt safe when he saw his parents so close to one another, and even if he was sometimes embarrassed by their displays of affection, those displays, along with his observation of their everyday lives, taught him how one should show love for another.

They waited expectantly until finally his mother said, "You'll have to begin."

"Yeah. I'm sure that I'm bisexual or omnisexual or something other than gay or straight." He stopped to let them know he wanted their response.

Annie laughed, but not unkindly, and said, "Omnisexual? Where did you get that?"

"I've been reading a lot," Marsh answered a little defensively.

"Oh, Marsh, I'm not laughing at you. I don't think I've ever heard that word from someone so young."

His father asked, "You say you're sure. How do you know?"

He knew North wasn't beginning an inquisition and that his father was genuinely interested in how he had reached the conclusion he had presented them. "I've suspected for a while, but I really knew when I danced with a couple at Klub Z. I just felt as if I'd come home … that I didn't have to choose, and they didn't seem to want to make me choose. I felt as if we were all for each other."

North pressed his son. "Help me understand what you mean when you say you felt as if you'd come home."

"I felt like I do when I come home to you at the end of a school day. It's just right. But, I also felt excited, as if I'd finally seen a place I've been looking toward for a long time."

Annie asked, "It's not just about getting laid?"

"Mom! No! Believe it or not, I can get laid anytime I want to."

"Yes, I believe we've covered that ground with you."

"My fantasies when I … you know … have men and women together with me. Would you think I'm totally weird if I end up with a man and a woman?"

"The French call that arrangement …"

Marshall interrupted. "Ménage à trois. I know."

"Oh, right. You've been reading."

His mother's smile was gentle and her eyes full of concern. Her mind briefly wandered back to the time she first supported him after his delivery, before their umbilical cord was cut. He was finally a person atop her deflated belly and yet they were still one being. She had been entirely of two minds when the obstetrician clamped and cut the cord — proud and sad. She pitied the other parents of their generation, all men, for the lack of this experience. North, being the lump that most men are at times like those, was only proud that his son had arrived. Still, as he usually did, North came to understand her postpartum sadness later.

"You know ménage à trois means more than just a sexual threesome? You would have to do more work than if you were setting up a home with only one other person."

"Frank thinks maybe I'm scared about the practical part of trying that kind of relationship."

His father rejoined the conversation. "Setting up a house is, I hope, a long way off for you. Do you think a person can love a couple? I mean wouldn't you have to love both other people in the relationship individually before you could think about putting everyone together in a triad?"

"I know it won't be easy, but I feel happy that maybe I can try."

Annie leaned forward across the low table, reached for and took her son's hands. "I think you can love more than one person at the same time, but maybe you should try to figure out how to have intimacy with one person at a time before you complicate the picture; it's like learning to ride using training wheels."

"How would that work?" Marshall's voice was full of frustration. "If I date a girl who thinks I'm straight, I'm lying to her; if I go out with a guy who thinks I'm gay, I'm lying to him. I can't just practice on people."

His father tried to reach him. "Dating people, male or female, doesn't mean you're making a life-long commitment, and you shouldn't lie. The end of dating for you doesn't have to be sex. If you find yourself seriously enough involved with someone that you both are thinking of having sex or a long-term relationship, then you can be clear about how you feel and let the chips fall. Just be ready for some disappointment, and don't betray yourself for some short-term gain. I think what you're suggesting would take three extraordinary people — well, two others."

"Well, I would like to have sex before I'm forty."

"You know that your mother and I began having sex when we were not much older than you. When it's right, you'll know, whether it's with a man or a woman or both."

"Besides," Annie added, "some women, and maybe some men, find bisexual men — or omnisexual men — very attractive."

"You're laughing at me."

"A little, but it's true."

"I just think it's going to be so hard to find what I need. I'm not even sure how to start."

His mother released his hands. "Start by not being afraid to be honest with people and by being out about the wonderful person you are. You're a very attractive and caring kid, and you're not inclined to hurt people. If anyone can make this kind of life work, you can.

"How about we try to find some good models of what you want out there? Maybe there are people doing what you think you want to do who would talk with you." Annie saw her boy's face light up a little. "Let us find them, okay? I don't want you doing that yourself."

#

"So, the tests."

"What? Bad news?"

"I think it's begun — the hard part. I hoped it wouldn't start until Sam was older."

"Sam will be okay as long as you're honest with him."

"He's made that perfectly clear."

"What are the numbers?"

"CD-4 is 250 and viral load is 80,000."

"Fuck! I'm sorry, Luke," Jerry whispered as he turned on the bed to put his arm over his husband's chest. "Are you okay?"

"This isn't a surprise. The progression has taken longer than I thought it would. I don't want to frighten Sam."

"Keeping this from him would be worse ‑ a betrayal of a promise."

"I know," Lucas said softly, sighing.

Jerry couldn't remember ever hearing such resignation in Lucas's voice; well, he didn't ever hear hope either, for that matter. He knew the resignation he heard now was born of the terrible promise of love.

#

While waiting for OD to come into the room, Sam looked at the painting of Alan Turing his dad had done. He often looked for formulas and mathematical terms in the drawing, which when he first saw it appeared to contain only random numbers, mostly ones and zeros. He saw for the first time, in the brow over the left eye, an equality he hadn't noticed in the hundreds of other times he had looked closely at his dad's drawing:

∂C/∂t = F(C) + D∇²C.

When OD walked in, Sam asked, "What's this one mean? I see the matrix in the last term and the partial differential on the left side, but what does it describe, and why is it part of Turing?"

Lucas smiled. "Are you taking calculus in school?"

"No, but I read your books sometimes."

"I asked your dad to include it. Everyone knows Turing for his work on computing machines and AI, but he was also one of the first mathematical biologists. That equality describes the diffusion of what he called morphogenetic chemicals in the skin of developing animal fetuses. After he learned about Fibonacci sequences in the distribution of flower petals, he was trying to figure out a mathematical underpinning for why animals had certain patterns of spots and stripes."

"Is there anything this guy didn't think about?"

"Other than his decision to be honest with the police about his sexuality, not much."

"What did you need to talk about?"

"I told you I'd share my test results with you when I got them."

Sam was suddenly terrified of a future of unimaginable loss and pain. He couldn't shake the fear and almost breathless anxiety born of what he imagined, but he tried not to show OD his fear. He felt somehow that his father's death was fated, and he knew that his father didn't believe a whit in fate. "Oh. What's the news?" He managed to sound calm despite his racing heart.

"Not terrible, but the trend isn't so good. My viral load is going up and my CD-4 count is going down." He saw Sam look toward the floor as if he didn't want his father to see how upset he was. He walked over to Sam and pulled him into his arms.

"I won't ask you to do what I know you can't. I know you'll worry about me and tell yourself stories about me getting sick and dying, but try not to let those be the only stories you tell yourself. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

"What are you going to do — change meds?"

"Yes. So, I may look a little tired for a few weeks."

"Is Dad all right?"

"Neither he nor I am happy about the results, but we've been dealing with my infection a lot longer than you have, so we're okay."

Sam was shocked to realize that he hadn't asked OD how he was doing with the news. He never thought of OD as being distressed about anything. He was about to apologize when his father asked, "Do you know why people tell stories with sad endings?"

"No. I wish I didn't, though."

"I think those stories are a way to get ready for what will probably happen at some point. When we talked at Stonehenge, I asked you not to spend a lot of time thinking about the worst case, and now again I'm asking you to try not to do that. No one knows how long I'll stay disease-free, but I promise you that I'm not going to be seriously sick for quite a while, if I get that far at all."

It was the frightened little boy who had been rescued by two fathers ten years ago and whose legacy was still present in the young man Sam was becoming, who responded. "Don't leave me. Please. I love you so much." Sam began to cry.

Lucas looked up to see Jerry across the room, tears coursing down his cheeks, pulled Sam tighter into the embrace and caressed the back of his head, told him, "I'll do my best. I love you."

Sam, his head resting on OD's shoulder, knew that his father wasn't promising not to leave because he didn't make promises he couldn't keep.

#

At dinner even the large table in the dining room of Turing House was crowded. Everyone in the Goldendale family was present, including Armin who was now indeed just another brother or cousin. He and Marshall were next to each other, as were Sam and Markie.

Lucas felt a respite from the tension of the last few days. Jeff was seated on his left and Jerry on his right. Chertov had declined to invite someone to join him at the farm.

This dinner was prepared largely by JT's parents, Jason and Jonathan, and his grandmother, Vi. Because of the heat, the main dish was a cold vegetable salad in fresh vinaigrette dressing laced with coarse fresh-ground pepper. Jon and Jason had cut the vegetables into very small cubes except of course for the peas. Markie was wildly enthusiastic about the dish, Vee and the boys less so, and Armin would have to thoroughly chew the veggies. JT felt honor-bound to voice his approval, and his fathers told him that he didn't have to fib. Fresh sourdough bread and grilled, sliced chicken breast were available.

After dinner, as they ate vanilla ice cream with fresh huckleberries courtesy of Vi, they began to plan for the arrival of their other guests. Before the discussion could begin, Sam innocently asked Lucas, "Why are the kids coming so late this year? Is something going on here? Marsh said Uncle North told him to stay in the barn with Armin for a while the other day."

Almost everyone looked at Jeff Chertov, who turned to his right: "I'll defer to Dr. Jansen on this one."

"Coward," Lucas muttered.

Lucas, as he always did, began a matter-of-fact explanation. "You all heard about the robbery in town and that the robber died." The kids all nodded. "One of the robber's accomplices was near the farm, and we were afraid that one of you might be hurt if you were wandering around."

Sam persisted, "Why would a robber be out here?" The question was a challenge to his father, an insistence to reveal all.

Jerry took over, "These men were part of a group that hates gay people, and because Luke is well-known and gay, they were trying to hurt him." He smiled at his husband, and looking around at each of the kids, continued, "The surest way to hurt Lucas is to hurt one of you. So we decided to postpone the visits until Jeff could get things under control. He did that, and now we can go on with our summer."

Sam suddenly realized that these men didn't just wanted to hurt his father; they wanted to kill him, and that meant they wanted to kill one of the youngsters, too. He looked at Jeff. "You stopped it?"

Jeff was nonplussed. "I did my job."

Sam rose, walked over to the young federal agent, pulled him from his chair and hugged him whispering, "Thank you — for my father's life and maybe for the lives of the rest of us."

Chertov was moved in a way he didn't think possible and had no response that he thought would be adequate or genuinely appropriate. He just said, "If I helped, you're welcome, but you should talk to your fathers about this."

When Sam was seated again, Lucas said, "Gunmen are the least of the problem. We should be much more concerned with the deeply religious people who are inimical to the slightest difference others may have with their particular brand of religion. Make no mistake, I think all religion is superstition, but religion of this sort develops a brand to identify itself. In this case, sometimes brand loyalty causes death."

Everyone at the table reacted with stunned silence at what for Lucas amounted to a diatribe; no one, least of all the kids, had ever heard him so voluble. Jerry put his hand on his husband's shoulder. "That's the closest to impassioned that I've ever heard you … in public." Lucas blushed, and Jerry closed the discussion. "We're safe for a while, anyway."

The rest of the dinner was more relaxed, and gradually the humor present at all the family meals returned. Chertov invested his time in listening. He felt particularly protective of the sick boy he had escorted to Turing House. He had seen much death, and he thought the boy not far from it. But, the boy's small smile and his interaction with the other kids, especially North's son, he thought precious. For now, for him, death seemed forestalled by life here in Goldendale. This variety of people, this breadth of humanity was nothing like the dinners he had experienced in his boyhood home in Provo.

The last of the family had returned to their own houses, and after sunset, Jeff Chertov was out on a run with North and Jason before he turned in.

Sam was in his bed looking forward to the new arrivals tomorrow in the early afternoon. He started a playlist of ragas from his docked phone, recordings of Shivnath Mishra and Ustad Allarakha Khan, both long dead. His grandfather had told him about the time he and Grampa heard both these men at a Seattle concert. As he listened to the conversation between the sitar and the tabla, he wished he could get as much melody out of his guitar as Allarakha coaxed from the drums.

Then, music and darkness. He awoke before dawn, puzzled but not disturbed by the dream. His skin was dry.

It was another afternoon in which the invariable climate pulled almost every bit of moisture from the ground into the upper reaches of the air, Vayu's air. A little after one o'clock, a car and a white van raised dust clouds until they stopped in line at the end of the drive near the side of Turing House. The cousins, absent Marshall and the most of the adults, waited. Chertov unfastened his seatbelt and hopped from the driver's seat of the van. He had tried to make himself useful to this wonderful, strange family that he felt had somehow adopted him, agreeing to use the government van for transportation. The passenger doors to the van opened, and four teenagers piled out, squinting in the bright sun and trying to orient themselves to the absence of pavement, house-next-to-house, and the sound of constant traffic. They had entered rural America.