Part 3: Walking The Lonesome Path
By Tarowen ([email protected])
Jack enjoyed his day off immensely. A group of younger counselors dumped their laundry and sleeping bags at a local girl's house (her parents being away), then took the Port Angeles ferry for an afternoon in Victoria, B.C. The sun shone incandescently through vast rumples of luminous cloud, painting a dramatic skyscape over the Straits of Juan de Fuca. The Olympic Mountains carved their sharp glory into a shifting blue sky. The dark swathes of evergreens exuded Northwest lucidity and the cool breath of pine.
Victoria had a distinctly foreign flavor, despite the touristy quaintness of the harbor area. As they sampled the local cuisine and popped in and out of shops, Jack heard several bagpipers, and saw more than one young man in kilt, Hawaiian shirt, and roller blades, pulling tourists in dog carts.
Returning to Port Angeles, they enjoyed a lengthy staff party at the same girl's house, complete with keg and loud, distinctly non-camp music. Stu, to Jack's surprise, was there with Sarah, as were Mike and nearly all of the older staff save for Kurt, Bruce, and Travis. Keeping well away from Ty--fully occupied with Teresa, anyway--Jack had a beer, relaxed, and watched a game of strip poker with interest. To his mind, the boys all played far too well, though the girls seemed to lose on purpose.
The next morning they dragged themselves late out of their sleeping bags, split up to various houses to do laundry, and returned to camp after lunch. Just in time for the real chaos of Secret Creek to commence.
If Jack had thought Staff Week busy, he was not prepared for the breakneck pace of camp with kids. From the moment they stepped off the bus, some loud, some crying, some fighting, some hiding, some swaggering, some grinning, the pace never let up. Jack found his hands full with his seven enthusiastic ten-year-olds (well, six enthusiastic and one perpetual whiner), standing over them to make sure they brushed, serving them the dreaded vegetables, assigning tent chores, sheparding them from sailing to wilderness activities to axemanship to riding to badminton to drama to arts and crafts, directing skits, trying to start fires with sopping tinder, placating arguments, comforting the homesick, and singing way too many renditions of 'Great Green Gobs of Greasy, Grimy, Gopher Guts.'
Even rest hour wasn't restful, as Jack stayed in the tent with his boys: talking about anything and everything, trying to offer advice, laughing at juvenile jokes, reading aloud (they'd all read 'Harry Potter' so he substituted 'Holes' by Louis Sachar), taking them to the canteen for candy, or enforcing letter-writing. At night he and the other staff blew off steam with long sessions in TR or the Art Palace, describing stupid camper tricks, playing games, or just falling into the ramshackle couches and talking. And Jack faithfully attended the penny poker sessions with Stu, finding the quiet evenings as pleasant as the noisy ones.
Of Ty, Jack thankfully saw little. Bible Boy was entirely absorbed with his thirteen-year-olds (arrogant, contrary, contentious little buggers that they were) and all the songleading, and at night frequently drove into Whiskey Falls or Cedar Mills with a few other counselors. So far Travis had not discovered that alcohol was usually involved, but Jack figured that sooner or later it was bound to come out. He could only sit and wait.
And so the real summer started.
Jack was always careful, on scheduling night, never to schedule activities with Ty's Cougars. However, a group shift one day landed both their groups at the corral at the same time, so Jack just gritted his teeth and helped his littler boys with their helmets and boots. Ty was bantering with his campers as they got ready, though he was sharp enough to break up an incipient fight.
"Mark, Jason, I've told you just to stay away from each other if you can't cooperate," he warned. "Or would you care for another rest hour cleaning the washhouse?" The boys, one sullen, skinny, and black-haired, the other taciturn, well-built, and tow-headed, grudgingly parted, throwing each other poisonous looks. "Somehow, I think the philosophy of Secret Creek is lost on those two," Ty commented to Sarah with a shake of his head.
She laughed, tossing her corn rows. "Nah--it's just being thirteen. No one should have to go through that!"
Ty rolled his eyes and headed for the tack shed. As he passed Jack, the boys crowded through and the two counselors bumped, and Jack felt something slipped into his pocket. His face flushed, and he angrily jerked the note out. It wasn't folded, so he couldn't avoid seeing the few words--"Lev. 20:13." He now knew that Bible verse by heart (in several versions), so it little mattered that the words were not actually printed on the sheet. "If a man also lies with mankind as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them."
"Secret message?"
Whirling, Jack saw Stu. Abruptly he balled up the paper and tossed it in the trash. "It's nothing." He turned to make sure his boys were properly kitted out.
"You know, you shouldn't let him bother you," Stu said, pitching his voice below the campers' excited babble. "He's totally fake."
Feeling slightly cold, Jack looked at the head riding counselor. "What are you talking about?"
"Bible Boy," Stu replied briefly. "He's fake. Don't believe anything he says."
Jack licked dry lips. "What do you know?"
Stu regarded him steadily, grey eyes calm. "I don't get involved in other people's business, Jack," he said, then diverted his attention to the riding session.
As Jack snapped on his helmet, watching Stu exercise his straightforward patience with the fumbling boys (he was amazingly good with children, and they worshipped him), Jack thought Stu hadn't told the whole truth. He might not involve himself, but nothing escaped those cool, grey eyes. If anything went on at Secret Creek, Stu knew it--probably knew more than Travis. He didn't involve himself because he rarely made any use of his knowledge, but knowing people's secrets did involve you, at least on some level.
Ducking under the corral rail to help his boys with their horses, Jack glanced at Ty. Stu was right, Ty was fake. Or at least, the real Ty--whomever that was--was almost never on display; he assumed whatever persona he thought would have the most effect at the moment. Jack didn't even know if he'd seen the real Ty, though he thought he'd come closest on the night Ty had thought... Jack bit his lip as he tightened a cinch. Ty's revulsion was real, anyway. Giving his camper a leg up, Jack pivoted to help someone else, and found Ty's eyes on him. And for once Jack didn't duck his head, but returned the stare, level and calm, and it was Ty who eventually broke away. For a moment Jack felt grimly victorious, but then self realization settled in. If Ty were fake, how much more fake was Jack? He could hardly throw stones, he reflected as he grasped a rein.
But...Stu hadn't scorned Jack. Trying to puzzle it out, Jack checked another cinch and smiled at the hesitant rider. How to explain Stu's reactions? The head riding counselor had never had any time for Ty. Stu always looked straight through Ty with those cool eyes, and Ty always avoided him. But Jack, Stu had befriended. Why? Because Jack was certain, now, that Stu held no illusions about him. Glancing towards the riding counselor, Jack watched Stu tug his boots free of the glutinous mud in the center of the corral. Watery sunlight glinted on the few remaining puddles, dusting the high spruces framing the ring, and throwing a hat-brim shadow over Stu's eyes. Nothing made any sense.
But then, Jack chided himself, how did that differ from every day of his life? Grinning wryly, he went to fetch himself a horse.
"Xena would totally whip Buffy's butt!"
"No way! The Buffster has all those special powers, plus the Scoobies."
Despite the steady drizzle, Jack paused at the door of the Art Palace, listening to the badinage. He thought it was Rick arguing with Yoshi, but couldn't be sure.
"And Xena has her little love muffin Gabrielle, with her little Amazon staff." That was a third voice--Deanna?
"What I'd like to see is Xena and Buffy going at it in another way, if you get my meaning." Definitely Rick.
Jack grinned to himself, entering just as Yoshi laughed, "You are so sick!", and threw a crumple of paper at Rick.
The Art Palace really had been a barn, with a small sliding door, big window opening with a heavy wooden shutter, and double sliding doors opposite. A concrete floor kept it chilly and rather dank, but it was a popular evening hangout nonetheless. For furniture, scarred laminate tables filled most of the floor, complete with rickety stools. Around the perimeter ran shelving, a battered sink, a much-sawn workbench, two pottery wheels, a blocked-off area for the kiln, a floor to ceiling cupboard, and a storage area. Steps by the big double doors led up to the drama den, its floor supported from below by peeled log pillars.
Everything was old and worn but reasonably clean, and clearly the place had been well loved. Nearly every inch of the walls and posts were covered with graffiti, mostly names and dates. Many names had upwards of seven or eight dates after them, indicating how many summers the painter had spent at Secret Creek. Jack had ceremonially written his own name in the supply closet, with this year's numbers following. He wondered if he would add any more.
Tonight the Palace was jumping, as only four days remained until Goodwill Night on Friday (the last night of the first session). Goodwill Night was another Secret Creek tradition. At the beginning of camp everyone drew a Goodwill name from a ten-tin, and over the course of the session, made a gift for that person. They would exchange them on Friday in a long chain. Now procrastinating counselors worked furiously on tie-dyes, candles, pottery, woodwork, beads, dreamcatchers, friendship bracelets, origami mobiles, and one creative soul was crafting a papier-mache horse. A contraband stereo quietly played an old James Taylor CD.
"Well, I think Gabrielle would kick Buffy's butt if she ever laid a hand on Xena," Jack contributed with a smirk at Yoshi, tugging off his coat and tossing it on a stool.
"Now that would be worth watching, too," Rick opined, hands colorful with tie-dye. "Though if you think about it, the real winners in any fight involving Xena and Buffy would be the viewing public!" Everyone groaned, but good-naturedly. Rick was an uncomplicated, cheerful frat boy with a brown crew cut, and despite his friendship with Ty, Jack liked him.
"So Jack--you're a Xena fan?" Deanna questioned as Jack went in search of his project--a mobile made of pottery leaves. He had to glaze it now, tired as he was after the rowdy campfire and trying to convince his overexcited campers to sleep. Tonight had been the telling of the traditional Secret Creek ghost story, 'Curly Bob's Moccasin,' which had a surprise shriek at the end that always sent adrenalin pumping.
"I'm actually more of a Buffy fan," Jack admitted to Deanna, assembling his materials. But as he turned to grin at her, he suddenly felt the blood leave his face. Over in the corner, unnoticed until this moment, Ty was helping Teresa with her papier mache. Meeting Jack's stricken gaze, Ty's hazel eyes flicked over him, humorless. Deliberately, then, Jack collected his fired leaves, and faced Deanna. "What did you think of Buffy's Willow-Tara plot? Did you see it coming?"
Deanna, an elegant blonde as tall as Jack, tossed her long hair over her shoulder. "I'd kind of suspected something after the ep with the evil Willow, you know? When Angel hinted that vamps retain characteristics of their original souls?"
"I don't know how you guys can watch all that," complained Sarah from another table. She was with Stu, folding paper cranes. "I just can't get into that supernatural stuff."
"So what do you watch?" Jack questioned, setting his leaves down on their table and retrieving the glaze jars. He assumed an air of cheerful curiosity, but even when he couldn't see him, he was aware of Ty two tables away. He tried to ignore the sensation.
"Well," Sarah replied, "mostly PBS because I love anything British--I know, it doesn't make any sense," she grinned, the beads on her braids clicking. "But I've got English roots, too, and I guess they kind of took over, much to my mother's dismay."
Stu snorted. Jack already knew he didn't watch much TV, except an occasional nature special.
"Anything else?" Jack questioned, opening the green glaze.
"Well, I have to admit I *love* 'Will and Grace,'" she replied. "It always leaves me rolling on the floor."
Rick glanced up from his tie-dye. "Man, that's such a one-joke show."
"But the joke's funny," Sarah insisted. She glanced at Stu. "I know you're sitting there feeling superior, Mr. World Traveler." She nudged him with her shoulder. "But I think anything that makes you laugh is worthwhile. Laughter is rejuvenating."
Stu just snorted again and folded another crane.
"Yeah, I like 'Will and Grace,'" Yoshi concurred thoughtfully, glancing up from her wood carving. "It's nice to see a show that doesn't make such a big deal about homosexuality. I took this class on homosexuality in TV and movies last year, and man, the number of depressing, angsty films we had to watch! Just makes you want to jump off a bridge, you know?"
Unable to help himself, Jack snuck a look at Ty. His head was bent over Teresa's project, his lips compressed. Teresa was listening to the conversation with a cocked head.
"I think it sometimes goes too far, though," Deanna offered, tying off her completed bracelet. "It makes homosexuality kind of an overall joke--and a stereotype."
"I think they should get Grace together with Karen," Rick waggled his eyebrows, and Sarah threw a crane at him.
"Get your mind out of the gutter, slobber-boy," she advised.
"How can you accuse me of having a mind in the gutter when you're sitting there talking about gay guys getting it on?" Rick protested, not quite fairly. "Back me up here, Ty," he added. "Don't you think 'Will and Grace' should present both sides of the gay coin?"
Attention focussed on Ty, who colored. "I've...never seen the show," he mumbled, pasting another strip on the model.
"Oh, you should," Teresa advised. "It's really funny, and... I think it helps. I just found out last year that one of my aunts is...well...that the roommate she found after my uncle left her is more than just a roommate," she explained, blushing. "It was really hard for my family to cope with--we're kind of conservative and my father forbid us to see her for a while..." She trailed off, losing her thread, but picked it up a moment later. "Anyway, watching 'Will and Grace'--seeing it so much accepted--made it easier for me to come to terms with my aunt and her...companion. I'm still sort of uncomfortable around them, but I'm working on it."
Ty was staring at her. When she looked back at him, she frowned. "Something wrong?"
"Uh...I just... Can we change the subject?" Ty fumbled, concentrating fiercely on the horse.
"You got a problem with gays, Ty?" Sarah questioned lightly, but her eyes were keen. Jack had stopped pretending to work.
"I'm just...not comfortable talking about it," Ty replied tightly. "My religion... I know I'm not politically correct, so I just usually avoid the subject." He glanced around the room. "Freedom of speech doesn't seem to apply to politically incorrect views these days."
Everyone glanced at each other with faint unease. A moment later Ty broke the quiet by asking Rick, "You really don't have a problem with...that sort of thing?"
Rick shrugged, shaking out his newly-dyed shirt. "I think it's kind of weird--two guys, I mean--and it wouldn't do anything for me, but hey. Whatever floats your boat, man. Two women, now--"
"Don't you start!" Yoshi pitched a big wood chip at him, laughing. "What is the deal with men and lesbians, anyway?"
"Well, you see--"
"Shut up, Rick!" Chorused several voices, and the laughter level rose once more.
"So--you guys all set for Cowpoke Day?" Jack inquired of Stu, turning the conversation. "I hear you get to be the villain of the skit--on horseback, no less."
Stu grinned. "Stinky Stu, that's me."
"'Wanted. Dead or--well yeah, dead!'" Sarah quoted the Cowpoke Day flyers. "What will you 'steal' this year, Stu?"
"Well, I've already done the halters, the saddles, the hay...I think it's got to be the Cowpoke Queen again. Unless..."
As the conversation continued, Jack finished his leaves, but his senses were still attuned to Ty; like the awareness of a rock in one's boot. And when Ty and Teresa rose, carefully stowing the wet model horse, Jack quickly cleaned up his brush and glazes as well. As he slipped out of the barn a few steps behind the couple, he felt Stu's cool eyes on him.
Ty and Teresa had not gone far. The drizzle had dwindled to a mist, and Jack could hear the couple by the sitting-logs, voices low and earnest. Not quite knowing what he was doing, Jack edged closer, concealing himself behind a convenient cedar.
"It doesn't have to be a problem, T," Ty was claiming. "We just won't talk about it." He made a small, disdainful noise. "I learned that with another of my girlfriends. I know that once someone has crossed over, they won't listen to anyone else's opinion."
"That's not fair, Ty," Teresa protested, voice unsteady. "It was really, really hard for me to accept my aunt and her friend, and you can't give me any argument I didn't hear from my father, my church...and dozens of others. I know tons of people believe it's wrong; I was one of them most of my life. I could recite chapter and verse from the Bible and anywhere else." She paused, and Jack wished he dared peek out to see her face. Probably too dark anyway, though.
"But I loved my aunt," Teresa continued in a fervent voice. "And I couldn't believe God would want me to stop loving her. She went through hell with my uncle and she never broke, and she was always there when I needed someone, even when she was at the end of her rope. She's a *good* *person,* Ty. And in the end, I just had to trust in her goodness. I could never believe she would commit such an enormous sin, so I had to stop believing it *was* a sin. And you'll never know what it cost me to come to that conclusion."
"But don't you still doubt it?" Ty urged. "Teresa, God tests us all the time. Good people sin every day, in small and big ways. Yes, sometimes life is simpler for some people--if their nature makes it easier for them to follow the straight path--but think how much greater the reward in heaven for those for whom it's a struggle to stay on the path. If they do stay." Another pause, and Jack felt water trickling down his collar. The mist was thickening.
Ty continued. "Not all sin looks bad, Teresa. We know that. But God has set the rules clear and plain, and it's no use claiming that something must be good because it looks good, or feels good, or good people accept it. We are not wise enough to make our own judgements; only God can judge. And He has spoken."
"So you would have me shun my aunt because you believe homosexuality is a sin?" Teresa's voice was taut, with an undercurrent of anger.
"Of course not," Ty soothed. "We must love all our fellow men, however greatly they sin. But we cannot condone their sins, and we must do our best to turn them from evil, to convince them to seek God's forgiveness. The path is never easy, Teresa, but if we can stay the course, we will be rewarded in heaven. The straight path is the only path, however we have to struggle."
Jack heard the sound of someone rising abruptly. Teresa's voice sounded cold and distant. "My aunt followed the straight path, as you put it. Husband, children, church--she never set a foot wrong. But that didn't stop my uncle breaking her arm--not once, but twice--and sending her to the hospital after one of his beatings. You never saw her with two black eyes and a broken arm, trying to convince us not to call the police because if *she* had forgiven him, *we* should forgive him.
"And you never saw her with her friend, Liza, who stayed up for two nights straight when my aunt had pneumonia, and who refused to leave her when my uncle came back and gave her a concussion. If you want me to believe in a God who would prefer my aunt stay with a murdering brute than with someone who loves and cares for her, I'm sorry, Ty. I can't. And since I *do* believe in God, I can't believe my aunt's love is a sin." And she ran off into the increasing drizzle.
After many moments of silence, Jack dared a glance around the cedar. Ty sat motionless, head in his hands. Surreptitiously Jack snuck back to the Art Palace, shaking drizzle from his hair and not meeting Stu's eyes.
For the next hour Jack helped Stu and Sarah with the cranes; Sarah wanted 1,000 of them for her mobile, so the recipient would get a wish. When most counselors exited the barn an hour later, separating for their bunks, Jack saw Ty still sitting in the rain, in the same position. Although Jack told himself seven times to walk on by, he found himself hesitantly approaching. "Umm...Ty? You ok?"
Dumbly Ty looked up, hair and shoulders soaked. The only light came from the barn windows, so Jack couldn't see his expression clearly. Ty didn't speak.
"Are you ok?" Jack repeated, knowing he sounded defensive.
"I'm fine, McPhee," Ty drawled. Then he added, facetiously, "But thank you for your concern."
"...Well, screw you, too," Jack muttered, and turned on his heel.
Swiftly Ty rose. "Jack..."
Jack paused.
Ty blew out a breath. "Sorry. I just... Teresa just dumped me. I think."
Jack didn't say anything for a moment, just peered out from under dark, angled brows. Then he said, gruffly, "I'm sorry."
Ty's expression hardened again. "Are you?" He challenged. "I'd think it would give you great satisfaction, knowing why she dumped me."
Jack felt himself tensing in response. "Yes, it does," he retorted. "Can you blame me?"
Ty eyed him a long moment, arms folded. Rain streaked his cheeks, pattering on the beaten earth beneath the trees. Then he said, with calm, precise deliberation, "Go to hell, McPhee."
"According to you, I already have a one-way ticket," Jack snarled. And this time he really did leave.
But it was a long time before he slept.
The dream was outdoors. Or in a cafeteria; Jack couldn't be sure. People seemed to be hiking in ice skates (one walking on his hands), and peas were spilling down a hill from a tureen shaped like a football helmet. It made sense, in a way he would not later comprehend.
Then the focus shifted, and he was definitely outside. Sitting on a hill, in the vibrant fall, trees in the valley a rippling sea of multicolored brilliance. The sky overhead vaulted a piercing blue, scattered with clouds. A brisk, snapping wind tossed the boughs, ruffling the colored sea, and swirling up the hill to skim cool fingers over Jack's skin.
But Jack wasn't cold. His back was pressed to an ancient tree, his front pressed to...something warm and solid, denim and fleece, breathing lightly, nestling into him. Jack's legs encircled his, Jack's arms wrapped him round, and his head lay on Jack's shoulder, heavy, content, intimate. Breathing him in, Jack smelled clean skin, burning leaves, and fresh air. The brown hair slipped silky under his lips, the nape of the neck below it warm and pulsing, tender and vulnerable. Jack kissed the pale throat, gently, lightly, trailing his lips up, and the other boy sighed and snuggled deeper into his embrace.
And Jack knew that this was what it was all about. To hold someone you loved on a fall afternoon, to feel the rise of his breath and the beat of his heart, to hold him so close he became a part of you and you of he, a perfect, harmonious chord in a wind-rippled song.
Even if you didn't know who he was.
This time the dream held, glowing, contented, gentle as a caress, until Jack woke with the wisp of a smile still on his lips, and a remembered heaviness in his arms. And it was enough.