Tricks

  harder to accept. Sex is sex. A kiss means love.

  After he left, I cried and cried, called into

  the night, “Andrew, where are you?”

  No answer came then. Or yet. The next

  morning Jerome brought a hot biscuit,

  with butter and honey. Nothing ever,

  ever, has tasted so good. He came back

  that night. Afterward, I cried and cried,

  screamed into the night, “Andrew, save

  me.” But he didn’t. Hasn’t yet. The next

  morning Jerome brought a perfect peach.

  And so it has gone. I have my shampoo,

  unscented so Father won’t notice,

  but at least my hair feels clean. Really

  clean. I even got my Cherry Garcia.

  Another small plus: Jerome always uses

  a condom. That little detail has saved

  more than a badly timed pregnancy.

  It has probably saved my sanity.

  Almost worse than the thought of having

  his baby is the nightmare idea of his “leftovers.”

  After a Few Weeks

  The straight sex has become routine.

  Something I can shut myself off from.

  But now Jerome wants other things.

  Let me watch you touch yourself.

  Creepy things. Did you know guys

  like to use vibrators too? Like this.

  Downright disgusting things. Your

  period? I like the taste of blood.

  How I wish I could say no. But even

  if I thought he’d leave me alone,

  saying yes is how I have convinced

  him to make Father believe I am fit

  for small freedoms. Like working

  in the yard, pulling weeds and picking

  vegetables. Out here, beyond the confines

  of my room, I understand there is no way

  to leave the place on foot. I can see

  forever across the playa, and the road

  is a straight, stretched wound. I can tell

  cars are coming long before they arrive,

  by dust mushrooms sprouting into the hot

  blue Nevada sky. Hot? Working outside,

  even midmorning, sweat pools in my armpits

  and beads my skin, attracting bugs and dirt.

  But anything is better than slow suffocation

  in the tomb of my room. I observe people

  come and go. Memorize schedules. Learn

  where cars are parked, some left unlocked.

  Ironically, Jerome is one of the worst

  about leaving his keys under the floor mat.

  I file that fact away. Plan A has gone awry.

  Maybe it will come in handy with Plan B.

  Plan A

  Was to do whatever it took to get Jerome

  to call Andrew, tell him where to find me.

  But a major flaw in that strategy surfaced.

  Oh, I have played on Jerome’s sympathy.

  Talked about home. Church. Papa. Told him

  Mama is crazy, something he understands.

  Jerome inherited his own “not rightness”

  from the XX chromosome side of his family.

  My mother used to lock my brother and me

  in the closet, he told me. Then she’d sit

  outside the door and listen. If she heard

  us praying to Jesus, she’d let us out.

  Even Mama isn’t that bad. But our conversation

  did reveal some mutual rocky ground. And keeping

  him talking meant less time for other stuff.

  Then yesterday I asked if he’d ever fallen in love.

  He blushed but said nothing for several

  seconds. Finally he confessed, With you.

  Talk About Knocking

  The squall out of my sails. In love with me?

  Looks like loneliness works both ways

  here at Tears of Zion. Jerome will not help

  me reconnect with Andrew. Neither will he

  leave my door unlocked so I can slip away

  into the desert night (Plan B). Unless …

  What would he do if I asked him to run

  away with me? Does he really believe

  he loves me? Would he desert Tears of Zion

  and Father? Is this a job or true devotion?

  Could I convince him? Could I make him

  believe I’m in love with him, too? Could I

  live with myself afterward? Could I ever

  be forgiven for such painful deception?

  As I sit here, alone, questioning, phrases

  tumble into my head: You’ll be here

  for the foreseeable future…. Make

  the best of it…. Guys like vibrators too.

  Plan C begins to formulate. Yes, it’s wrong.

  But not as wrong as everything else.

  Plan C

  Means courting Jerome’s affection,

  pretending to enjoy his deviant sex.

  Tonight that means letting him call me

  “Mommy” as he sits on my lap and “nurses.”

  I stroke his hair as a mother would, dig deep

  inside for the words, “Mommy loves you, Jerome.”

  That excites him, as I guessed it would.

  I love you, too, Mommy. See how much?

  Oh, Andrew. Even if you do find me, how

  can you ever love me again after this?

  I hold stubbornly to the dream that he will,

  as Jerome turns his belly to “Mommy’s.”

  Love or no, Jerome wants to punish Mommy.

  The sex is rough, but it doesn’t hurt nearly

  as bad as the pretense. And it’s even faster

  than usual. When he finishes, I lay my head

  on his knobby chest. “Too bad you have to go.

  It would be nice to sleep together all night.”

  Jerome’s chin lifts and falls against my hair.

  Uh-huh. That surely would be nice.

  I roll on top of him, look up into his eyes.

  “What if we …” Soft kiss. “Never mind.”

  He shivers. Is much too easy. I feel

  almost evil when he whispers, What?

  I sit up, slide the naked place between my legs

  over his skin. “We could leave. Together.”

  He shakes his head. His body stiffens.

  No. I couldn’t do that. It would be wrong.

  “No more wrong than this.” I lean forward,

  cup my breasts, rub them over his face.

  Confusion seeps into his eyes, and like it

  or not, his muscles relax. All but one.

  I rock back gently, invite him inside. “I’d be

  all yours and take such good care of you.”

  The second time takes longer, but when

  he’s finally done, he says, I’ll think about it.

  After he leaves, I lie in an aura of hope.

  Say a little prayer to Mary Magdalene.

  Hope Begins to Fade

  After two days. I haven’t seen Jerome

  even once. Did I scare him away?

  I’m pretty sure he didn’t say anything

  to Father, who doesn’t act strangely

  at all during our regular sessions.

  In fact, today he is almost friendly.

  Brother Jerome tells me you’ve worked

  hard in the garden, he says. Is that right?

  What kind of game is this? Better play

  along, whatever the rules. “Yes, Father.”

  Good. Hard work deserves a reward.

  Starting Sunday, you may attend

  the regular worship service. If that

  goes well, we can talk about school.

  Worship? School? No more isolation?

  Is this some kind of a trick? Did Jerome

  confess everything to Father after all?

  I have no id
ea what to believe anymore.

  One thing I know. It’s wiser to say too

  little than too much. “Thank you, Father.”

  Brother Stephen

  Walks me back to my room. A girl,

  a bit younger than me, rakes gravel

  outside the chapel door. She looks up

  as we pass and I smile at her, which only

  makes her drop her eyes to the ground

  again. But not before I see the fear

  floating in them. Is she new here, then?

  Or has she been here longer? Long enough,

  perhaps, to know which is the greater

  punishment—isolation or supervised

  communion. The short exchange leaves

  me uneasy. I wish I could talk to her.

  But that won’t happen. Stephen herds

  me forward. Hurry up, would you?

  “Why? Somewhere you have to be?”

  A hard shove lets me know in no uncertain

  terms that my sarcasm is not appreciated.

  Except by what little is left of Eden.

  Thank the Good Lord

  The piece that remains is the one that can

  find a streak of humor, however dark,

  in almost anything. Otherwise, I would

  have gone completely crackers by now.

  Otherwise, they would have already won.

  I’m not conceding yet, and I never will,

  unless Andrew is out of my life forever.

  Why did I think that? He’s looking for me.

  (Unless my parents had him locked up.)

  Waiting for me. (Unless he believes

  our separation was for the best.) Loving

  me. (Unless he finds out what I’ve done.)

  A wave of depression sweeps over me,

  washes me into an icy black sea. I’m treading

  water, poorly, when the door opens.

  Why are you lying there in the dark?

  It’s Jerome. The smell of chicken broth

  tells me he’s brought my dinner.

  He flips on the light, and I jump up to greet

  him, kiss him on the cheek. “I’m so happy

  to see you. Where have you been?

  I thought for sure you were mad at me.”

  He sets down the tray. Now, why would

  you think a thing like that? I had a couple

  of days off is all. He reaches out, strokes

  my hair. So pretty. When we go, I’ll buy

  you shampoo that smells like roses.

  You like the scent of roses, don’t you?

  When we go? Chills charge through me.

  “Of course, Jerome. Roses are my favorite.”

  Good. I thought so. I have to go now,

  but I’ll be back later. We’ll talk then.

  When He Returns

  He outlines his plan. We’ll leave

  tomorrow night, when everyone’s asleep.

  By the time somebody misses you,

  we’ll be halfway to Salt Lake City.

  Salt Lake City? Well, we can’t go

  back to Boise. Still, “Why go there?”

  He shrugs. My brother lives there.

  I can work for him under the table

  until you turn eighteen. After that,

  we’re free to go wherever we want.

  He has really thought this through.

  So, “Why can’t we leave tonight?”

  No hurry, is there? I’m too tired

  to drive very far tonight. Besides …

  He lifts my arms, pulls my shift up

  over my head. I’m in need of your

  special brand of lovin’. Help me

  out? He nudges me toward the bed.

  As He Pokes

  And pinches, I concentrate on ways

  to not reach Salt Lake City. Afterward,

  he takes me in his arms, like in some awful

  romantic movie. Only in the movies,

  the couple would really be in love, though

  they might not know it yet. Despite everything

  before, and what Jerome has hinted will come

  soon, I have to fight not to resist him.

  It’s a losing battle. My body tenses.

  He can’t help but notice. What’s wrong?

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “Nothing.

  It’s just … I’m excited. And scared.”

  Don’t be scared. Everything will work

  out fine. I promise. He kisses me

  and I draw from the deepest well of dark

  deception to kiss him back like I mean it.

  When the Door Closes

  Behind him, I clean myself, as I do every

  time he leaves, with soap and cold water

  from the wash basin. The air in the room

  is thick with heat and the smell of sweaty

  sex, a smell I never knew existed until

  just a few weeks ago. At first it made

  me gag, but it has become something

  I simply accept, because I have no other

  choice. When all choice is taken from

  you, life becomes a game of survival.

  I lay the towel on the bed, lie on top

  of it, so I don’t have to touch the sheet.

  Will I carry that habit with me if and when

  I leave this place? Will Jerome really take

  me out of here? What then? I have no

  answers, but I do know I can’t end up

  in Salt Lake City. Wherever I go—Los

  Angeles, maybe, or Reno or Las Vegas—

  my only goal is to reconnect with Andrew.

  And pray this nightmare ends with a red sunrise.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  Vegas

  This city is a neon-

  scaled hydra,

  bellying across hot

  Mojave

  sand. Cobra

  heads, venomous, in

  disguise pretend

  beauty,

  lure you with hypnotic

  eyes, copper

  promises, and the

  bare

  skin of gods intent

  on mortal souls. Walk

  cautiously, beware the

  brazen

  slither of concrete

  beneath your feet.

  Do not listen to the

  arid

  hiss of progress.

  Seth

  Before We Came

  To Las Vegas, I had an inkling

  that Carl had money.

  But I had no idea exactly

  how much until he invited

  me to relocate here with him.

  Truth is, I didn’t really

  expect him to agree

  to bring me along. In fact,

  I wasn’t totally convinced

  that I wanted to come.

  The night my dad kicked

  me out, I was in turmoil.

  Where to go? What to do

  next? I had no clue. Carl

  was my only solid ground,

  and when he said he was

  moving, the earth quaked.

  The blood rushed away

  from my face. Carl reached

  for me, as a father would.

  Someone’s Gay Father

  I propped myself against

  him. “I don’t know what

  to do. I can’t go home. Have

  no home. No money. No job.

  Sorry. Not your problem.”

  He thought silently for what

  seemed a long while. Finally,

  he led me to the sofa, sat

  next to me. I’ve never told

  you about Simon, he said.

  He lived with me until a few

  weeks before you and I met.

  He was what some call

  “kept.” And I kept him.

  It was a mutually beneficial

  relationship. He enjoyed


  my hospitality. I enjoyed

  his company, and he looked

  good on my arm, at least

  until he grew bored with it.

  A trophy—that’s what the guy

  I first saw with Carl at

  Fringe was. Carl let the idea

  filter through my confusion.

  I wasn’t looking for another.

  But if you would consider it,

  I’d think about taking you

  along. He kissed me, led

  me to bed. Come on. Show

  me how much you want to go.

  He asked me to do dark,

  obscene things. Things

  I’d never done before.

  And he wanted me to do

  them without protection.

  Feels better this way.

  And it’s okay. I’m safe.

  I promise. You have to

  trust me. He was right.

  I had no one else to trust.

  A Few Days Later

  I climbed on board a jet

  for the very first time. Sat

  in first class, where drinks

  are served before the plane’s

  wheels ever leave the tarmac.

  Less than four hours later,

  we touched down sixteen

  hundred miles to the west,

  and a billion light-years

  from everything I’ve ever

  known. We disembarked

  the silver bird in Sin City,

  where trophy boyfriends

  are almost as common as

  trophy wives. Carl likes me

  on his arm. I’m not sure

  how I feel about being

  someone’s prize, but it’s

  better than being homeless,

  that much I know. Neither

  am I exactly sure how I feel

  about the world—at least

  my newest little corner of it—

  knowing I’m gay. I don’t feel

  judged. But I do feel exposed.

  Culture Shock

  Barely describes what

  it’s like, coming from

  the wild land of Indiana to

  the wild life of Las Vegas.

  This city defines insanity.

  Not that I’ve traveled much,

  or at all really, but I can’t

  imagine many other places

  so built on extravagance.

  Or so reliant on human greed.

  Casinos line the glitzy strip,

  masquerading as Venetian

  canals, Egyptian pyramids,

  Manhattan skyscrapers.

  Their exteriors boast fountains,

  pirate ships, giant lions with