Free And Yesterday Is Gone by Dolores Durando

meaning? He had known he was different from others—he had turned in disgust from the ugly, rough talk, the casual references to sex, the unabashed nudity in the cold shower. He had closed his eyes to the blatant antics of Ollie and Lupe.
    His father’s accusation verbalized a feeling Juan had never consciously acknowledged, but he realized now that the feelings he had for Steve were feelings that he would not—could not—have for a woman.
    As a child, he had worshipped his father and his father had returned that love. But it seemed, as he grew older, his father had put a distance between them that he did not understand. He always felt as though his father was watching and waiting. Waiting for what?
    What is strange about me? Why am I different? I remember that as I grew older, I was not quite like the other boys.
    Juan did not notice when the tears came; he only knew a great sense of loss, a fear of the difference that made him a shame to his father.
    He had been so lonely, and then there had been Steve.
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    The big city seemed to fall on him like an avalanche—constant noise of cars, the thundering herd of humanity, an environment so totally different than anything he’d ever known. He felt his world disappear. Then came the paralyzing fear in the thudding of the heart against his ribs, and the cold sweat that caused his shirt to cling to his back.
    Where will I go? What will I do?
    Carlos pulled to the curb and Juan turned to look desperately at his father. Carlos, his face emotionless, nodded to the door. As Juan stepped out, Carlos threw a roll of bills to the sidewalk, put the truck in gear and watched in the rearview mirror to see Juan step over the money and walk out of his life.
    What Carlos didn’t see were the scalding tears that stood in his son’s eyes; he didn’t feel the wordless agony that Juan felt knowing he was not a man his father wanted to call “son.”
    The woman awakened and smiled. “Oh, we’re here already? Just drop me off at the nearest hotel; I’ll call a cab.”
    Carlos nodded as he stuffed some bills in her bag, then left her at the door of the first hotel he saw.

CHAPTER 7
    C arlos turned the pickup toward the Calaveras Mountains and drove steadily, his mind in turmoil, fighting emotions he could not identify. The memory of the defeated, helpless slope of his son’s shoulders as he walked into the park seemed to burn in his mind like an ember that would not die.
    He stopped only once, at a liquor store, carried out two bottles and unscrewed the cap of one before he started the motor. After a long gulping swallow, he recapped the bottle and let it rest in his lap.
    He noticed as he bumped over the potholes of the ranch that the bottle was half empty, but comforted himself with the knowledge that there was one more in the sack.
    Now it was late—the never-ending rain had finally ceased. The moon crept across the sky where angry, dark rain clouds had retreated slowly behind the mountain’s dark shadows.
    It had been a long day, and he lay down on the rumpled bed fully clothed and buried his face in a pillow. He slept uneasily, waking often, and in his dreams Juan’s face kept intruding. The stricken look on his son’s face when he had flung the word “maricón” like a rock denied Carlos the sleep he begged for.
    He looked for another bottle—he knew there was one still in the sack under the seat of the truck. He opened the kitchen door to the bright moonlight and stumbled to the pickup. He sprawled back against the seat and held the bottle to his lips, again and again. The crushing knowledge was finally accepted as it pounded through his brain as if by a giant hand—a battle that took no prisoners.
    He could hear the sheep so plainly he didn’t need to turn the headlights on to see their vague shadows that were scattered about the barnyard.
    The deep, menacing