Authors: Anthony Bidulka
“Both of you,” Robin said, motioning with the gun. “On the floor next to Matthew.”
Whazzat? Next to Matthew? But Matthew is right in front of you.
It struck me then. He thought Alex was Matthew…?
Immediately I understood what must have transpired in my house that morning, and why. When I left the message with the fake Clara Ridge telling her I had come back from Africa with her son, I suspected (and hoped) that a meeting would be requested. Clara Ridge wouldn’t show up; the real Clara Ridge was at home in Airdrie, Alberta, and had no idea any of this was going on. Instead, the fake Clara-probably some local actress hired to play the part, or a friend or relative sympathetic to Robin’s cause- would have passed my message (as she’d been doing all along) to the man behind it all: Robin Haywood. It would be Robin who showed up at my office. After finding out where Matthew was, and dealing with me, he’d finally have his confrontation with his childhood nemesis. It was what he’d wanted all along: a one-on-one faceoff. Of course, in my plan, I would be the one confronting Robin with his crimes against Ethan and the Chikosis. But all of that had gone wrong. There were two things I didn’t-couldn’t have anticipated: the real Matthew Ridge’s showing up at my office, and the presence of Alex Canyon in my home, leading Robin Haywood to make his grievously erroneous assumption.
“He’s hurt,” I said to Robin, indicating Alex, hoping to delay the inevitable.
“Yeah, I know,” Robin said with a sneer. “Do you think I care?”
I was guessing not.
After my last phone message to “Clara,” Robin must have begun a surveillance of my home and discovered Alex, whom he mistook for Matthew. I’d done my job for him by finding his childhood tormentor; now all he wanted was to be alone with him.
He’d never intended to meet me at the office that morning. The noise I’d heard there was nothing more 162 of 170
3/15/2011 11:02 PM
than my reasonable suspicions on overdrive. Through the fake message from “Clara Ridge,” Robin had lured me away from my house, leaving “Matthew” by himself and unprotected. It was payback time.
Having figured out he couldn’t gain access to the house or “Matthew” without first dealing with the dogs, Robin must have waited until Alex let Barbra and Brutus out into the yard (a fairly regular occurrence), then took care of them and waited for Alex to come out to investigate why the dogs weren’t returning. When he did, they had some sort of struggle in the snow, which ended up with Alex being shot.
He then dragged Alex into the privacy of the house to carry out whatever his endgame was, probably beginning with a browbeating and interrogation.
“Can I take the gag off of him?” I asked.
“Shut up, or I’ll put one on you too. Now get down on the floor!” Robin ordered again.
Of course, Alex would have denied being Matthew Ridge, which would only have served to fuel Robin’s fury further. Robin would have known he had very little time before I eventually figured things out and returned home, so he tied Alex up, gagged him, and waited in ambush for me somewhere in the backyard.
And now here we all were.
Matthew stepped toward me, his eyes never leaving mine. It must have confused him that the guy with the gun was calling the guy on the floor by his name, but I could see that he was beginning to figure things out as well.
With deliberate movements, his hands raised, palms facing out in submission, Matthew slowly twisted around to face Robin Haywood.
Suddenly I knew what he was about to do.
“No!” I warned him off his intent.
I was too late.
“I’m Matthew Ridge,” he said to Robin, the two of them now face to face. “Not him.” He bobbed his head in Alex’s direction. “I don’t know who this other guy is, but it’s me you want, not him. Let these guys go,” he added. A truly selfless, heroic gesture.
Beneath his tangle of dark hair, Robin’s eyes moved ever so slowly from Matthew’s face to Alex’s bound body then back to Matthew. Dawning recognition filled them, and I was nervous about what that would mean for the real Matthew. In that instant he recognized his arch-enemy, and knew that Matthew was telling him the truth.
“Sit down, I told you!” Robin spat out at me. Then, at the real Matthew: “Not you. Stay where you are.”
I lowered myself onto the floor next to Alex, and we exchanged wordless glances that said a lot. With his rigid back to us, Matthew kept his stance still and straight, standing halfway between us and Robin, and facing the gun that was now pointed at his heaving chest.
“Let these guys go,” he said again. “Or better yet, why don’t you and I go somewhere. We can talk this out. Just the two of us.”
“It
is
you,” Robin half-whispered as if he hadn’t heard Matthew’s request, mesmerized, his eyes covering every inch of the other man.
After a moment, the spell was broken and an ugly sneer crept onto his face. “This other guy kept telling 163 of 170
3/15/2011 11:02 PM
me he wasn’t you, and I didn’t believe him. He wouldn’t admit what he did to me. I thought once I had Quant here, and threatened to kill him, he would own up to what he did, but…” He stared at Matthew,
“…but it’s
you
.”
Matthew’s head moved up and down. “Yes, Robin. It’s me.”
Their voices were surprisingly calm and measured, as if they’d been waiting for this meeting all their lives and were well-prepared for it. The only outward sign of Matthew’s true state was a slight quiver in his raised hands.
I began searching the room with my eyes, looking for a means to end this thing with as little bloodshed as possible. Alex, with his hands bound and mouth gagged, suffering from gunshot wounds, would be of little assistance. Matthew was directly threatened by Robin’s gun. My own firearm was too far away for me to reach without putting both Alex and Matthew in danger of being shot before I got to it. There were no other obvious weapons nearby. Okay, Quant, that’s the list of bad news items. What about good news?
I couldn’t come up with any.
“Do you remember it?” Robin asked Matthew, his voice growing more intense now. “Do you remember what you did to me?”
Matthew nodded.
“Do you remember it
every day
? In vivid, blood-red detail? Do you?”
“I do,” Matthew answered penitently.
“You don’t! You don’t! You don’t!” Robin screamed. “You have no idea what it felt like! You can’t.
You weren’t the one being kicked and punched and spit on! Have you ever been spit on, Matthew? Have you ever had someone else’s spit, mixed with your own blood, running down your face, into your eyes, into your nose and mouth, tasting it? Have you? Have you ever been lying on the ground, defenseless, being hit, being kicked, being called names, being called a fag over and over again?”
He took a menacing step closer to Matthew, his face contorting into vile loathing. He shrieked, “Fag!
Fag! You big fag!” He released a snort of laughter that was painfully sad, and added bitterly, “And I’m not even gay, for chrissakes!”
“Robin, I di…”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up! I’m talking now. I give the orders now. This is
my
time!”
“Okay, okay, just settle down, will you?”
“Do you know what that did to me? What
you
did to me? Sure they fixed my cuts and scrapes, got everything all nice and clean, covered it with bandages and ointment…What a joke; no one ever talked about what really happened to me, or why. Not the doctors, or my parents. I had no friends. No one ever wanted to know if I was okay in here!” He pointed to his temple with the nose of the gun. “They were all so desperate to forget about it, put it behind them, pretend like it never happened; no one wanted to deal with it. I felt like…I felt…it was like…it was like they thought maybe it was partly my fault…maybe I’d asked for it somehow. In the end, they just wanted to go back to life the way it was before.” Another snort. “Yeah, like that could ever happen.”
As I listened to Robin’s anguished telling of his story I couldn’t help but feel compassion. And empathy.
I could picture his poor, child’s body, wrecked and bleeding and left all alone out-doors, in that dark place in the park. And then, shockingly, with everything else that was happening around me at that moment, another unbidden picture filled my brain.
164 of 170
3/15/2011 11:02 PM
Another body, lying unprotected, battered, bloodied, nearly naked, all alone, outside in the dark.
It was my body. Only months ago. Attacked by a madman who’d wanted to rape me. Almost did. I heard Robin’s words:
”…desperate to forget it, put it behind them, pretend like it never happened…” Yes. That was me.
I shook my head to rid it of the memory. Now wasn’t the time. But I knew I would have to make time for it, someday.
“By the time I got out of the hospital,” Robin continued with his harrowing tale, “everyone had it swept under the carpet like dirt they never wanted to see again. They acted like I’d gone in for an operation, had whatever it was that was bothering me removed, and now everything was fine. The ugliness had been excised, and now I was all better. It was over.”
From my spot on the floor I could see only one side of Matthew Moxley’s face, but that was enough for me to know that he was feeling the story as deeply as Robin.
“You’d been sent away to some reform school or something,” Robin spewed. “For them, that was enough. Out of sight, out of mind. You’d been dealt with. Dealt with! Dealt with! Dealt with! Can you believe it?” he directed this last to Alex and me. “That’s all it takes to deal with someone who almost beats you to death and then leaves you in a lake of your own blood and piss and shit and vomit. Is that enough punishment? Do you think so? Do you?”
We decided not to answer.
“But for me, it had only just begun,” Robin kept on, the tortured planes of his face moving in and out of shadow. “Because then came the nightmares.”
“I have them too,” Matthew whispered.
This stopped Robin. He gave the other man a guarded, questioning look. “You do?”
“Every night,” Matthew said, his own face showing the strains of repressed memories, bubbling to the surface, as unpleasant as raw sewage. “I know I can’t feel your pain, Robin, but the pain of remembering what I did to you, remembering each…and… every…time I hit you and called you a name.” He stopped for a moment, to swallow a lump in his throat. “I know exactly how many times I kicked you-fourteen-how many times I punched you in the back-twice-punched you in the gut-six times-how many times I hit you in the head-twelve-how many times I spit on you-four times, Robin-how many times I called you a fuckin’ faggot-eleven times. I know each time by heart. I relive them in my dreams every night. And I know…” And here he hesitated, momentarily overcome with a choking remorse. “I know how many times you yelled out for me to stop. Stop!” He cried it out as if it were him calling out for help.
“Fifteen times. Fifteen! Fifteen times you pleaded with me to stop!” Then his voice became quiet. “I hear it every night. That sound. Those words. They haunt me to this day. Stop! Stop, Matthew! Stop! Stop.”
“But you didn’t,” Robin said, implacable, his words stone hard.
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“I…” Matthew could go on no longer. He lowered his head to his chest and he began to cry. Fat tears spouted from his eyes, like droplets of water through a crack in a glass, so big that I could see them from where I sat on the floor, sliding over the hump of his cheek toward his trembling chin.
After a moment, he kept on. “I didn’t stop because I wanted you dead. I wanted you dead because
I
wanted to be dead. I wanted to be dead because I knew I was gay and I didn’t want to be. Every time I hit 165 of 170
3/15/2011 11:02 PM
you I was imagining hitting myself, the faggy boy I saw in the mirror every day, I was trying to…trying to…trying to beat the gay out of me.”
“Why didn’t you just kill yourself?” Robin asked in an ugly tone. “Why did you have to do this to me?
To me!”
Matthew’s head came up to face Robin and he gave the simple, honest, difficult answer: “It was easier.
I was angry. I was a coward.”
The silence that followed this admission was long, and hard to sit through, for countless reasons.
I was nowhere nearer to finding a way to disarm Robin, to bring this to an end, but suddenly I had hope that perhaps, just maybe, he would do it himself. Robin Haywood had needed to confront Matthew, the boy who had changed his life with an act of atrocious violence. Was this exchange between the two, twenty years after the fact, going to be enough to dissolve the animosity Robin had been cultivating and nurturing for all those years? Would this bring Matthew some semblance of inner peace, the absolution he’d denied himself for so long? Could this end well for either of these men? Could the grace of
ubuntu
exist between them? Save them?
“I’ve never been with a woman,” Robin said flatly.
Matthew could only nod.
“Not because I’m gay,” he said. “I’ve
never
been able to form a normal sexual relationship with
anyone
. Never. Can you comprehend that? Never. No one wants to be in bed with someone who wakes up screaming from nightmares. No one wants to be with someone who can’t stand to be touched because he fears that every stroke or rub or simple kiss of affection might be followed by a fist in the gut. If anyone tries to touch me, I recoil. I’m always afraid. Always alone. And I’ll always be this way, Matthew.
Because of you.”
Another nod.
“Because of you,” he repeated the conviction.
“I’m sorry, Robin,” Matthew responded. “I’ve never said it, and I need to. I am so sorry for what I did to you, Robin. If I could take it all back, I would. If I could change places with you, I would. If I can do anything to help you now, I will. Let me help you.”
They stared at one another for a long time. Finally, it was Robin who broke the silent communion. “I know how you can help me,” he said.
“Tell me,” Matthew replied quickly. “Anything.”
“You can die.”