Xylophone (14 page)

older and savvier than Jonah when Pankin had

snared him, but he’d been pulled in just as deep.

And he’d also begun to assume responsibility.

“So what finally ended it,” he asked, “once

and for all?”

“My disgust grew stronger than all the other

feelings combined.” Jonah’s gaze flickered

uncomfortably to Dare’s face. “I told my mother.”

“What happened?”

Jonah faced forward without blinking. “She

didn’t believe me.”

“Oh God.”

“The harder I tried to convince her, the worse

it got. She thought it was sour grapes on my part,

that I’d wanted more of Reverend Clay’s attention

than I was getting, so I was trying to launch some

vendetta. Then she said, ‘He ain’t only a preacher,

he’s a married man with a child. You’re probably

the one who’s a fag, Jonah. You have some sinful

desire for him and he never returned it, so now

you’re hell-bent on revenge.’”

Heartsick and incredulous, Dare shook his

head. No wonder Jonah had started drinking at

such an early age. No wonder he’d fucked around

indiscriminately and resisted identifying as gay.

Not only didn’t he want to think Clayton Wallace

had shaped his sexual identity, he didn’t want to

lend credence to his mother’s claims.

“You were very brave,” Dare whispered.

“No,” Jonah said tonelessly. “Just desperate.”

“You’re wrong. You’re the bravest person I

know.” Jonah had initiated their relationship, after

all, and he’d done it seeking catharsis. Dare hadn’t

done squat but try to hide within Pepper Jack. If

Jonah hadn’t approached him, Dare knew he

would’ve probably pissed away his life toting

around the foul burden foisted on him by Howard

Pankin.

Jonah still refused to accept Dare’s

admiration. “If I was so brave, I would’ve done all

the right things. But I didn’t.”

“Nobody ever does all the right things. That’s

why the word
regret
exists. Just keep in mind you

did the best you could for a kid your age.” They

continued to sit close, to touch absently, then

withdraw, then touch again. “So what happened to

the preacher?”

“About three weeks after I stopped going

there, the church closed.”

“You mean Wallace just folded up his tent

and moved on?”

“More or less. He pretty much vanished in the

middle of the night. I heard from one of the other

congregants that he’d left a scrawled sign on the

inside of the door. I went to see it for myself.
To

all my dear friends and followers: It is with the

utmost sorrow I must inform you of a medical

crisis in my family. We can no longer afford to

keep the church going or give my ministry the

time it deserves. Each of you shall remain in our

prayers. Humbly Yours in the Name of Jesus

Christ Our Savior
, and he signed his name.”

“You memorized what he’d written?” Dare

asked. It certainly wasn’t out of the question,

considering how long that hypocrite had been a

part of Jonah’s life.

“Not consciously. It just stuck with me. I

knew right away it must’ve spooked him when I

stopped showing up. I think he was afraid I’d

finally grown a pair and I’d start talking. Or maybe

my mother told him I already
had
started talking.”

“Did you ever find out where he went?”

“Not until I got out of rehab and looked him

up on the Internet. Before then I didn’t
want
to

know. I just wanted to drink it all away. Eventually

I found out he ended up in Florida. Then in 2010

he was involved in some drug deal gone bad or

something, and he was shot. Fatally.”

“Jesus.”

Jonah’s mouth quirked wryly. “I doubt
he
was

behind it. But maybe a Jesus was.” He gave the

name its Spanish pronunciation.

“So Wallace never had to face justice for

what he did to kids like you?”

“I don’t know,” Jonah said. “Maybe he did

but got released. I never paid for a criminal

background check. Or maybe he was shot because

he was fooling with some boy, and the cops

mistook it for a drug situation.”

“At least he’s gone.”

“Yeah, at least he’s gone.”

“Did you ever tell your father and sister what

Wallace did to you?”

“No. There was no reason to. My father’s an

alcoholic, so we were never close, and Josie’s got

problems of her own. My mother might’ve spewed

around
her
version of events, but Dad wouldn’t

have given a crap one way or the other and Josie

wouldn’t have believed her. So it’s a dead issue to

everyone but me.” Jonah got up.

“And me,” Dare said, reaching for Jonah’s

hand. They smiled wanly at each other as their

fingers curled, joining for a moment.

Chapter Fourteen

“BE RIGHT back,” Jonah said. “Can I get you

anything?”

“Maybe a glass of water.” Dare loved that

voice, such a soft, mellow tenor, so easy on the

ears, so hypnotically persuasive. He watched

Jonah walk away and felt another swell of

yearning.

This guy was getting to him like no other man

ever had. He only hoped he wasn’t being misled

by their mutual empathy, the rare and private

connection they’d forged through shared suffering.

It wouldn’t have been fair to either of them to

mistake that kind of kinship for genuine attraction.

Jonah returned and, with a pallid ghost of a

smile, handed Dare a glass of ice water. He drank

from the glass he’d poured for himself and then set

it on the coffee table as he resumed his seat.

“What about you?” Jonah asked. “Did you

finally tell your folks? They seem a lot more

enlightened than my mother was.”

“They are. Always have been. But I wasn’t

too enlightened myself. I felt like a criminal.” Dare

had never told anyone. Not, that is, until Howard

Pankin’s arrest had officially and publicly branded

him a child molester. And that didn’t happen until

Dare was twenty-three.

Dare

2009

IT WAS on the local news at five. Wouldn’t you

know, my family had gathered that evening.

The four of us spending time together was a

rarity, given my father’s schedule and the fact

Carver and I had jobs as well as our own

apartments. But there we were: Dad and Carver in

the living room, sitting in front of the TV; Mom and

I in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

I didn’t hear the report.

But I did notice my dad come into the kitchen,

frowning. I knew the look well. It meant he’d

heard something disturbing, only he wasn’t sure

how to process it.

He looked at me and said, “Didn’t you spend

a lot of time at some resale shop near the old

neighborhood?”

My stomach plunged. My face might’ve too.

I’d avoided that shop for nearly a decade, as much

as it tugged at me. For three fucking years or more,

from the ages of fourteen to seventeen, I had to

fight the impulse to return.

I hated myself for feeling that way.
Hated

myself. I even used to bang my head against the

wall, literally, as if that would dislodge all

thoughts of that godforsaken backroom.

At least things got better once I graduated

from high school and we moved to Waterford.

Yeah, I’d quit Howard. After two years I

couldn’t stand it anymore, feeling defined by him,

like he’d become my second skin—a filthy and

diseased skin. I knew damned well what a sick

fuck Pankin was and that he’d been using me. So I

shed him… but it wasn’t easy.

Over time the urge to go back diminished.

Being away from him let the truth
really
sink in.

What finally destroyed the lure of Over the

Rainbow for me was going to college, meeting

guys my age who were interested in me.

Too bad that didn’t obliterate my memories.

Thanks to them, my stint at UWM was doomed. I

dropped out halfway through my junior year.

Barely made it
that
far. My head was a mess. I

couldn’t concentrate, had trouble sleeping.

Relationships were out of the question. I couldn’t

seem to get close to anyone.

“Yeah, I used to go there,” I finally said in

answer to my father’s question. I hadn’t moved

from the center island. Even my fingers hadn’t

moved from the endive I’d begun to slice. “Why?”

“The owner,” Dad said, “was arrested and

faces a slew of charges, all relating to sexual

activity with minors. Boys, specifically.” He

paused but kept watching me.

“Wow,” I whispered, and barely managed to

eke out that one dry syllable.

Stasis. That’s all I remember in the minutes

following my father’s announcement. I was the

centerpiece of a frozen tableau. Even my mother’s

Fiestaware seemed to be staring at me through the

glass-fronted cabinets.

“Did he ever make advances to
you
?” Dad

asked. I could tell from the sound of the question

that the possibility alone infuriated him.

My parents hadn’t watched me that intently

since the day I was born.

They knew I was gay, just like they knew

Carver was gay. They’d always been completely

accepting and supportive. I’m not sure what I was

afraid of, but all I could manage was, “Uh….”

Then Carver jumped in. He’d just entered the

room. “Most likely,” he said. “Dare spent an awful

lot of time at that shit hole, and he
was
a cute kid.”

“Daren?” It was my mother’s voice,

quavering. She laid a hand on my arm. I felt her

fingers trembling against my skin. She was

terrified.

I made my way to the kitchen table, our

breakfast and lunch table, and numbly slid into a

chair. “Yes… but it’s all right,” I think I said. “It

ended a long time ago.”

They swooped in on me then. At least my

parents did. Carver just sort of sauntered over. He

seemed smug. I got the impression this was one

more reason for him to feel superior to me.

I can’t clearly remember how the rest of that

evening went, except that I felt trapped and

suffocated and wanted to escape. The flurry of

questions, my mother’s weeping, my father’s

reddened face and bulging jaw, Carver’s

undisguised contempt. None of it was supposed to

be happening. I’d gotten through those two

misspent years without involving anybody else.

Then I’d stuffed the dust of Over the Rainbow

Resale, and those xylophone notes, and Howard

Pankin’s sawing breath and sweaty hands, into

some mental crawlspace and boarded up the door.

“You have to go to the police.”

“You need to get into therapy.”

“He can’t be allowed to walk free and keep

victimizing innocent children.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t

you come to us? Why, why,
why
?”

They bombarded me with all that and more. I

hadn’t told them the whole truth, though. Not even

most
of the truth. I couldn’t. The details were too

nasty. Revolting. Worse yet, I felt complicit.
I
felt

nasty and revolting.

Howard Pankin himself spared me the agony

of having to relate the tale over and over again. To

the police. On the witness stand. And he spared me

the agony of having to face him in court.

The day after he was arrested, he hanged

himself in his jail cell.

I’ve never cried so hard in my life. I actually

cried myself sick. And fuck if I know why.

JONAH remained quiet and thoughtful after Dare’s

admission. “Even nine or ten years later,” he

finally said.

“Yes.”

Slowly, Jonah nodded. “That’s the most

insidious part—isn’t it?—how they burrow their

way into us, make us dependent on their attention,

make us think they’ve bonded with us in some

unique way.”

“It is.” Dare knew that was why he’d bawled

his eyes out after Pankin’s suicide. He hadn’t

wanted to face the reason, but he knew. Pankin

was the only person other than his parents who’d