hair, usually so thick and shiny, now thin
and brittle looking. His eyes were bright in their deep sockets. The dark
stubble on his cheeks accentuated his pallor.
"Charlie,"
he said when he finally found his voice. "What's happened?"
"What's
happened is I've become the Prisoner of Zenda."
Charlie had
never been a sturdy sort, but now he looked positively gaunt. Arthur wanted to
throw his arms around him and tell him how much he'd missed him, but the look in
Charlie's eyes stopped him cold.
He sat on the
foot of the bed, carefully, so as not to upset the tray.
"You know
better than that. This is your home."
"Not with
turnkey Sanchez around."
"Charlie,
I brought you back for your own good. That's not the kind of life for you. For
anybody. It's an abomination in the eyes of God."
"It's my life." Charlie's eyes flashed. Arthur had never seen him so defiant.
"It's a
sinful life."
"Life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness--isn't that what a United States senator
is supposed to protect?"
"Don't be
flip. I want to help you turn your life around."
"By when?
For the primaries in a few years?"
If only it were
that simple, Arthur thought. If that was all there was to it . . .
He shuddered as
old memories surged to the fore. Violently he thrust them back down into the
mire where they belonged.
No. This was
not only for himself. Charlie's sodomite urges were a test. If Arthur could
help his son out of this moral quagmire, he would prove himself, he would . . . redeem himself. And God would know what a weapon he had in Arthur
Crenshaw.
"Do you
like the life you're living, Charlie?"
"It's the
only one I've got."
"That
doesn't answer the question."
"It has
its moments."
"In the
wee small hours, Charlie . . . when it's just you and God and the dark outside
the window . . . how do you feel?"
Charlie's gaze
faltered for the first time. He fiddled with a slice of toast on his breakfast
tray.
"I wake up at three or four in the morning, shaking and
sweaty. And I sit there thinking about how I've failed you. I remember how Mom
never put me down, but every so often I'd catch her watching me and there'd be
this unreadable look in her eyes. I didn't know what she was thinking, but I
have to assume I disgusted her. And I know what you think, Dad--you've
always been up front about how you felt. So I sit there in the dark thinking
about how repulsive
I am to the two most important people in my life." His voice fell to a
whisper. "And I feel like such a loser."
Arthur felt his
throat tighten. He had to help this boy. He reached out and put a hand on Charlie's
arm. Dear Lord, it was so thin.
"You can't
be judged a loser until you've given up trying, Charlie. And that's why I
brought you home. I want you to try."
Charlie looked
up at him again. "Try what?"
"To change."
He shook his
head. 'That's not possible."
"It is,
Charlie," he said, gently squeezing his arm. "With God's help and the
right doctors, you can do it."
Charlie's laugh
rang hollow against the walls. "I think God must have lots of concerns
more pressing than my sexual orientation. And really, Dad, if it's the election
you're worried about, relax. No one will connect me with you. And even if they
did, it could actually work to your advantage. We're a pretty cohesive voting
block now. We proved that in the last election."
We . . . Arthur shuddered at Charlie's casual alignment of himself
with the likes of Act Up and Queer Nation and the pathetic human mutants and
aberrations that marched in those Gay Pride parades. If getting elected
depended on their votes, he'd rather not run.
But public
knowledge of Charlie's homosexuality was only part of the real threat.
"I won't
deny the election is important to me," he told Charlie. "You know
that. There's so much good I can do for this country if they'll only let me. I
have plans. I can make us great again." He didn't just believe that--he knew it. "But if I can't help my own son back on the right path, how can I
expect to
and brittle looking. His eyes were bright in their deep sockets. The dark
stubble on his cheeks accentuated his pallor.
"Charlie,"
he said when he finally found his voice. "What's happened?"
"What's
happened is I've become the Prisoner of Zenda."
Charlie had
never been a sturdy sort, but now he looked positively gaunt. Arthur wanted to
throw his arms around him and tell him how much he'd missed him, but the look in
Charlie's eyes stopped him cold.
He sat on the
foot of the bed, carefully, so as not to upset the tray.
"You know
better than that. This is your home."
"Not with
turnkey Sanchez around."
"Charlie,
I brought you back for your own good. That's not the kind of life for you. For
anybody. It's an abomination in the eyes of God."
"It's my life." Charlie's eyes flashed. Arthur had never seen him so defiant.
"It's a
sinful life."
"Life,
liberty, and the pursuit of happiness--isn't that what a United States senator
is supposed to protect?"
"Don't be
flip. I want to help you turn your life around."
"By when?
For the primaries in a few years?"
If only it were
that simple, Arthur thought. If that was all there was to it . . .
He shuddered as
old memories surged to the fore. Violently he thrust them back down into the
mire where they belonged.
No. This was
not only for himself. Charlie's sodomite urges were a test. If Arthur could
help his son out of this moral quagmire, he would prove himself, he would . . . redeem himself. And God would know what a weapon he had in Arthur
Crenshaw.
"Do you
like the life you're living, Charlie?"
"It's the
only one I've got."
"That
doesn't answer the question."
"It has
its moments."
"In the
wee small hours, Charlie . . . when it's just you and God and the dark outside
the window . . . how do you feel?"
Charlie's gaze
faltered for the first time. He fiddled with a slice of toast on his breakfast
tray.
"I wake up at three or four in the morning, shaking and
sweaty. And I sit there thinking about how I've failed you. I remember how Mom
never put me down, but every so often I'd catch her watching me and there'd be
this unreadable look in her eyes. I didn't know what she was thinking, but I
have to assume I disgusted her. And I know what you think, Dad--you've
always been up front about how you felt. So I sit there in the dark thinking
about how repulsive
I am to the two most important people in my life." His voice fell to a
whisper. "And I feel like such a loser."
Arthur felt his
throat tighten. He had to help this boy. He reached out and put a hand on Charlie's
arm. Dear Lord, it was so thin.
"You can't
be judged a loser until you've given up trying, Charlie. And that's why I
brought you home. I want you to try."
Charlie looked
up at him again. "Try what?"
"To change."
He shook his
head. 'That's not possible."
"It is,
Charlie," he said, gently squeezing his arm. "With God's help and the
right doctors, you can do it."
Charlie's laugh
rang hollow against the walls. "I think God must have lots of concerns
more pressing than my sexual orientation. And really, Dad, if it's the election
you're worried about, relax. No one will connect me with you. And even if they
did, it could actually work to your advantage. We're a pretty cohesive voting
block now. We proved that in the last election."
We . . . Arthur shuddered at Charlie's casual alignment of himself
with the likes of Act Up and Queer Nation and the pathetic human mutants and
aberrations that marched in those Gay Pride parades. If getting elected
depended on their votes, he'd rather not run.
But public
knowledge of Charlie's homosexuality was only part of the real threat.
"I won't
deny the election is important to me," he told Charlie. "You know
that. There's so much good I can do for this country if they'll only let me. I
have plans. I can make us great again." He didn't just believe that--he knew it. "But if I can't help my own son back on the right path, how can I
expect to
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