Holding the Man Read online

‘Uh … the murder of the king?’

  ‘Correct. Would someone like to read the scene between the Macbeths?’

  As two boys read I took revenge and put my hand in John’s pocket. He smiled impishly and shook his head. ‘The other side, suck.’

  I thought I’d make him sweat it out so I kept making false advances, until finally my hand found its warm home in John’s pocket. There it sat in contentment, holding his hard-on.

  The boy behind us knocked his pencil-case onto the floor. He ducked under the desk to retrieve it. John and I jumped. I banged my knee under the desk.

  ‘What’s up with you two?’ Shit, he must’ve seen something.

  ‘You’d think I was going to feel your bum, the way you jumped.’

  Towards the end of the year, Neil asked me to go to New Zealand with him over Christmas. We would travel on the cheap, hitching and staying in youth hostels, or perhaps with my cousins.

  Now the year was almost over and the New Zealand trip was looming. Exams had come and gone and nominations for the next year’s prefects had been posted. John and I were on the list. We were staying at each other’s houses at every opportunity. We’d fix the room so it looked like we were sleeping in separate beds, but we’d both be on the mattress on the floor doing the wild thing.

  We were lying there one evening in each other’s arms in a post-orgasmic haze when John asked what I was thinking about. I had been wondering about being a prefect. ‘You think you’ll get it?’ he asked.

  ‘I hope so. Then I can turn it down. To make a stand. I think it’s revolting to set one group of boys apart, give them power and ask them to dob in their mates. It’s just a form of policing. And they always choose the guys who excel at sport. I find the whole thing elitist.’

  ‘Not everything has to be political.’

  ‘Maybe that’s where we differ.’ I unlocked myself from him and moved away. We lay there in our separate bad moods.

  Biscuit threw Neil and me a farewell party at his house, a large Victorian mansion with a pool and tennis court. Neil and I were showered with Australiana: badges of the flag, koala pins, and jars and jars of Vegemite. John wanted to talk in private, so we found an unoccupied bedroom upstairs.

  John was shaking. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ He can’t be serious. ‘What if something happens to you, some weirdo picks you up and I never see you again? I couldn’t handle it.’

  He was crying. I took him in my arms and hugged him. ‘Neil will be with me and I promise we won’t get into cars with any weirdos. I’ll write a postcard every couple of days.’

  ‘Better not. I reckon Mum’s already suspicious.’

  ‘I’ll sign them Michelle.’

  Dear John,

  Am on the Cook Strait ferry between North and South Islands on way to Nelson. So beautiful. like what I imagine Europe to be like. Neil has worked out a way to attract lifts. We kneel and pray to the passing cars. Works like a bomb.

  Missing you heaps,

  Michelle

  Dear John,

  Have just been through the west coast of the South Island. Like a fantasy. Misty mountains, cabbage palms and weird rock formations that look like pancakes. Full of communes. Met a nice gypsy girl on the bus. I’m writing this to you from the Franz Josef Glacier – a huge wall of ice with an enormous river pouring out from its face. It’s hard to comprehend. Only ten days till I see you again.

  Love,

  Michelle

  Dear John,

  It is Christmas Day and I’m missing you really badly, so I thought I’d write you a letter this time. I’m sitting on the verandah of my uncle and aunt’s house in Clyde, a small country town. The reason I’m missing you (besides the reasons you’d expect) is because yesterday I had an accident – don’t panic, I’m all right – I came off my uncle’s new racehorse. My back and elbows are fairly cut up from the gravel. I’ll show you my war wounds in five days. Can’t wait. No weirdos sighted yet. Miss you, miss you, miss you.

  Sending love across the Tasman,

  Tim

  As soon as I returned to Australia, I went straight to the Caleos’ holiday house. John was waiting for me by the bus-stop and my heart jumped as his face lit up. He rubbed my elbow, but real affection would have to wait until we were in private. I was like a puppy barking at his heels. There was so much to catch up on.

  Later that night John and I walked to the beach to watch the sunset. I hummed songs from an album I’d bought in New Zealand, Second Childhood by Phoebe Snow, singing to John as a kind of serenade. There was privacy in the darkness so I put my arm around him. We started to kiss. John unbuttoned my boardies and started to take off my T-shirt.

  This was not what we thought it would be. There were crashing waves and a gentle breeze, but the sand got into everything, our mouths, noses, the crack of our bums, and, worse, all over our hands. Pulling each other was like wearing gloves of sandpaper. We started to laugh. I spat sand out of my mouth. It was nice to be home.

  Sursum Corda: Lift up Your Hearts

  ‘The staff congratulate the following boys for their selection as prefects for 1977 and welcome them into the Xavier family.’ I scoured the list but could not see my name. They’ve spelt it with a K. No. My name’s not there. John’s is. But mine’s not.

  I stood there, crushed that I had been deemed unfit to be a prefect. John walked up beside me. ‘Congratulations,’ I squeezed it out, trying to disguise my disappointment. My attempt at a smile was a flop. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t get one.’

  ‘You were only going to turn it down.’

  I rolled my eyes in self-mockery. ‘I failed in the popularity contest.’ I was starting to feel a little better. ‘So, my little prefect, the coffee scrolls are on me at lunch.’

  A week later the school newspaper carried humorous profiles of the chosen twelve. The one about John walked a very thin line.

  NAME:

  John Caleo

  BEST FRIEND:

  Tim

  HIGHEST ACCOLADE:

  1976 Best and Fairest

  FOOTY TEAM:

  Essendon

  HOBBIES:

  Anything that involves Tim

  FAVOURITE COLOUR:

  Essendon black and red or whatever Tim is wearing

  I had to reread it. In a funny way it felt good to have our relationship acknowledged. It seemed accepting, it wasn’t malicious. But I couldn’t tell how it would be taken by the other guys. Would it feed the ridiculous rumours that were sprouting, like the one that I had sucked John off in the aisle at Rocky Horror?

  Brenton called me into his office. ‘The piece about John in Sursum Corda …’

  ‘I guess you know now, it’s John I’m going with.’

  ‘I’m sorry to say it’s been the stuff of discussion in the staff-room for a while. Their own lives are so boring they have to spice them up with gossip.’

  ‘Why hasn’t someone tried to stop us?’

  ‘Some of the lay staff would love to.’

  ‘I would have thought it’d be the Jesuits.’

  ‘They argue for you two to be left alone. They see it all the time, it’s part of growing up. I wonder if some wish it were them.’

  ‘I can’t understand why everyone is talking about me.’

  ‘As my friend Pamela says, only magical people get talked about.’ I wished I could believe him.

  Coming Out

  Anna, Nicholas and I were watching Countdown. Mark Holden threw carnations to the throng of weenyboppers while we wolfed down popcorn drenched in honey and butter.

  ‘Your friend John is really sweet,’ ventured Anna. I nearly choked on my popcorn. I had often wanted to tell Anna that I was gay. Since John, the desire was so much stronger. Now I had an incredible urge to blurt it out. ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’ she asked.

  ‘Sort of.’ There was fear in Nicholas’s eyes. I steeled myself. ‘Me.’ It was on the table, like a big dog turd. There was silence. Anna adjusted the angle of her head, as though
that would help her comprehend.

  ‘You’re gay?’ Anna leant across and kissed me on the cheek. Nick hurried out of the room and Anna went after him. I sat in silence. Molly Meldrum was running through the latest albums.

  Anna brought Nick back into the room. His eyes were red. ‘I’ve been defending you at school ever since I started. They all talk about you as the school poofter. Then to find out it’s true … I wonder why I bothered.’

  I felt well and truly ticked off. I put my arm around him and all three of us hugged. ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been hurt by this, but understand that it’s nothing I’ve done. I’m really grateful that you stick up for me.’

  ‘How am I going to do that now?’ Nick left the room.

  The rest of the night Anna grilled me about John. How did we meet? Did his family know? It was wonderful to share my feelings about him.

  But I started to worry that John’s brothers would hear the gossip and, disaster of disasters, mention it to his parents. I was terrified that I would be confronted by John’s father, Bob.

  One day, after I had stayed the night in John’s room with its racing-car wallpaper, I was sitting at the table with the remains of lunch. His mother Lois was in the kitchen clearing up. Everyone else had left the table except for me, Bob, and John’s little brother, who was pulling apart a Lego truck.

  Bob fidgeted with a box of toothpicks. This could be it, the moment I’ve been dreading. Then he spoke. ‘Lois and I are very grateful for what you’ve done for John.’ I was taken aback. ‘Since you boys have been hanging round, John has really come out of himself. We’d like to thank you.’ He turned the box in his fingers, almost too embarrassed to look me in the eye.

  ‘He’s a great guy,’ I said. We sat in silence unsure what to say next. If he knew the half of it …

  On a grey winter afternoon some months later the school bussed us to Wesley to support the Xavier Firsts. This had special meaning for me because it was the first time I would see John play football. As ruck rover he was able to play the whole ground, so he would sometimes be only a couple of feet away, his sinewy muscular body in slow torsion.

  A few minutes into the final quarter, it looked like the game had stopped dead at the other end of the ground. Both teams started moving to stay warm, hands on hips. Someone was hurt. Straining my eyes I could see a couple of people running onto the field, someone else running off. There was a body lying on the ground.

  ‘It’s a Xavier boy.’ We surged towards the other end of the ground. An ambulance with its sirens going appeared at the gate. Jesus, must be serious. ‘It’s Caleo,’ I heard someone say.

  My heart skipped a beat and I could hear the rush of blood in my head. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He collided with one of the Wesley guys.’

  I could see the ambulance men lifting John onto a stretcher. His hand was on his forehead as though he were in great pain. He’s hurt his head! I felt so alone. I was scared but I couldn’t share it with anyone. I didn’t want to draw any more attention to our relationship. I stood watching the ambulance disappear, hoping to God that he was all right, feeling as bare as the large elm trees that surrounded the ground.

  When Mum asked me how my day was, I wanted to break down and yell, ‘My boyfriend’s been injured and no one will tell me what’s wrong. It could be brain damage.’ But I said calmly, ‘John was injured today in a football match. They even called an ambulance.’ Held that together pretty well.

  I was nervous about ringing John’s house. I imagined Lois crying as she told me that he’d had a brain haemorrhage and was on a respirator. The phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. They’re at the hospital deciding whether or not to take him off the life support. Fuck.

  I tried again half an hour later. Still no answer. Where could they be? Then suddenly the phone rang. It was John. He was okay. ‘Bit of a broken leg but I’m fine.’ He’d broken his fibula and had plaster almost up to his hip.

  ‘A broken leg?’ I laughed. ‘You gave me such a fright. I saw you holding your head as you were carried away …’ I was choking back the tears.

  ‘You’re going to have to think of something funny to write on my plaster.’ We sat cuddling over the phone.

  When I was formally introduced to the plaster I wrote, ‘When I said break a leg, I was only wishing you luck, Tim.’ And, ‘There’s hope for the living and hope for the dead, but no hope for John ’cos he’s broken his leg, Michelle.’

  The lump had to be incorporated into our lives like a pet dog. We learned to sleep with it, make love despite it, and take it for regular walks with the aid of a walking-stick.

  One afternoon, we were lying on the bed and I started to think how it would have been if John had had brain damage, or had his leg amputated. I knew I would still love him. And so I told him.

  Nick and Anna were doing their homework. Dad and I were sitting on the lounges and Mum was stacking the dishwasher. She stuck her head through the servery and told me to go and pack for tomorrow’s trip to Sydney.

  I said I didn’t think I would go with them. They asked why. There was a chill in the air, as though I’d said I wanted to be a woman. ‘I’ve got things I want to do here.’

  ‘This is meant to be the whole family going away together,’ Dad said. ‘You spend your weekends with friends and when you are at home you’re on the phone most of the time. You never tell us anything …’

  ‘You only open your mouth to fight,’ threw in Mum.

  ‘This is not a hotel, son. It’s a family home and there are certain things expected of you.’

  I knew what I was going to have to say. I’d been through it in my head many times. After this moment there would be no going back. ‘There’s something I think you should know.’ My mouth was dry. ‘I’m gay.’

  In the scenarios I had created they put their arms around me and said, ‘You poor bastard, that makes so much sense of your moods. Being gay is not easy but we’ll help you through the difficult times.’

  In reality Mum stared with hatred in her eyes, her arms folded. ‘Why are you saying this?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  ‘You’re just saying that to hurt us.’

  ‘Gert, let the boy speak,’ Dad interjected. ‘Son, what makes you think you’re gay?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just know I am.’

  ‘When I was your age, guys used to muck around in the shower at the yacht club while the parents were sitting in the bar. Everyone did it. You’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ Mum said. ‘Otherwise you’re going to have a sad life, a very lonely life.’

  ‘Right now, I couldn’t be happier.’

  Mum fixed me with her stare. ‘It’s John, isn’t it?’ I nodded.

  ‘I kept telling myself that I was being stupid. I suppose Anna and Nicholas know?’ I said they did.

  Mum went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. ‘I brought you up the only way I knew how and I’m sorry if I failed.’

  Dad and I sat for a moment. ‘You’ve really upset your mother. I think you’d better come to Sydney for her sake.’ I said I would. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘I’m off to bed. Sleep well.’

  I was shell-shocked. I should have felt the lifting of a burden from my shoulders but instead I felt shame. And I could see storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

  We stayed at the Rushcutters Bay Travelodge, where we could look down through Moreton Bay figs to moored yachts.

  After dinner on the first night I was in Mum and Dad’s part of the suite when a call came for Mum: her brother David in New Zealand had just died of a heart attack. Their mother had died when Mum was only eleven and she had been brought up by her brothers and sisters. David had been her favourite, but neither she nor Dad would be able to go over for the funeral.

  Dad gave me a signal to go into the other room. ‘I’m sorry about David,’ I said. I told Anna and Nick what had happened and stepped out onto the balcony to have a cigarette.

 
It was a warm evening. Halyards rattled against the masts of yachts. There seemed to be people walking around the canal, among the fig trees. I realised they were all men. This must be one of those gay pick-up places I’ve heard about. A man stopped near another man. They looked at each other, said a few words and walked off together. I wonder where they do it? I leaned on the rail watching, wondering what it must be like to pick someone up like that, excited by the knowledge that these were gay men.

  The glass door to the balcony opened. Dad stepped out and asked for a cigarette. I asked if Mum was okay.

  ‘Never can really tell.’ At that moment we heard Mum laugh uproariously on the phone. Dad looked out over the trees. Then he glanced down on the action below. He shook his head. ‘Sad. Thank God you’ll never be like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You’re not homosexual.’

  I was stunned. Hadn’t they understood me the other night?

  Dad’s eyes darted all over the place. His mouth was moving but no words came out. ‘I don’t think we should talk about this now. It’s going to be hard enough looking after your mother.’ He threw his cigarette down onto the homosexuals.

  Those were Dad’s last words to me that weekend. He barely looked at me. He clenched his jaw so hard that his temples pulsated. The best response I could get to anything was a grunt.

  Back in Melbourne, I was at my desk in the sunroom doing some physics homework. There was a knock on the door. ‘Can I come in, son?’ He’s talking to me again! Dad walked in looking like a four-year-old who’d lost his blanky. He put his arms around my neck and tried to hug me. His body was shaking. He was crying. ‘Please don’t do this to us.’

  There was no point in challenging this. Whatever I said would be like picking a scab. I sat there rubbing Dad’s arm as his tears fell onto my homework.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He wiped the tears from his eyes and hurried from the room. That was the first time I’d seen my father cry.

  Brenton offered to speak to my parents. ‘But first you’d better find out if they want to speak to me.’