Free Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always by Elissa Janine Hoole

it comes to homosexuality. Pastor Fordham has even uttered that awful cliché about “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,” and this in an audio recording he distributed in one of the monthly mailings to the entire congregation. I mean, really? That’s the best you can do?
    Dad is harder to read—he’s a reserved man who gives monosyllabic answers to most inquiries. A lot of the time I get the feeling from him that he’s patiently waiting for his children to become useful in some way, and in the meantime he prefers to stay out of the way. He usually says all the right things; it’s just that he seems sometimes like he’s moving through life out of a sense of duty rather than following his dreams and passions.
    I’m not sure how a man so rational and aware of his obligations will react to his son’s revelation of love for another boy. I imagine him sort of frowning, like he does, drawing his eyebrows together and saying, “But Eric, what about having a family? What about a wife and children?” Deviation from expectations is simply not on his radar.
    I pull the plug and watch the dishwater swirl down the drain. I still think Eric should wait to tell them until he’s out of college, or at least out of high school. At the very least, he should wait until the end of next month when he turns eighteen. I can’t really see my mom and dad sending him to one of those reprogramming therapy places, but at least if he’s a legal adult, he could refuse to go. That kind of thing is terrifying to me, really. Even if Mom and Dad are okay with Eric being gay, the church people will be … more complicated. And what about the rest of the world, all those stupid people full of hatred—I know it’s hard for him to hide, but I’m scared for him, too.
    I slip into the quiet of my own room, the soft sounds of the pigs in the darkness. I kneel by their cage and watch, for a moment, their small comfortable lives.
    “I wish we could skip the drama and go to the part where we’re all fine.” I say the words softly into the downy top of Nutmeg’s head as she snuggles against my neck, and she makes her little purring happy sound. I sit with her a bit and then set her back down in her pen, where she crawls into her little tunnel to chill.
    The tarot cards call to me from their hiding place. I can almost feel their snappy shininess in my hands, and I long to spread them out on the floor and mix them up, to search those intriguing pictures and those lists of inscrutable words for some way to help my brother.
    I listen again, my ear pressed against my bedroom door, trying to figure out if my parents have gone to bed yet. Maybe if I sit with my back against the door, I’ll hear the footsteps approaching and have time to hide the cards before someone enters. It’s past ten o’clock, and Mom has already stopped in once to say good night, so it’s probably safe. Okay, so Mom’s a bit of an insomniac, and there’s still my nosy sister to contend with, but still. This was about risk-taking, right?
    I get the cards from the back of my closet and grab my little garbage can from under my desk. If I keep the can right beside me, I can hide the deck inside it if someone comes in. It will have to be enough.
    I slide the cards out, starry-side up, and read the directions in the guidebook. The querent—that’s the person asking the question—is supposed to think about the question while shuffling the cards. Still, maybe I can sort of channel Eric as I shuffle, thinking about what kind of question he would ask if he were willing to try.
    I close my eyes for the slightest of moments, holding the deck in both hands. Eric. The cards feel heavy in my hands, a weight of consequence. I smile to think of how I half expected a demon to emerge from the plastic when I opened them. Eric. I struggle to keep my mind on him, on the question I think he would ask at this time. Should he come out to Mom and Dad? I shuffle the deck, trying to concentrate, but my