Free Freaks and Revelations by Davida Wills Hurwin Page A

Mom answers, looking at me. “We’re having a family meeting.”
    “About time,” Paul mutters. His voice is deeper than I remember. His eyes shift back and forth; he stays far away from Dad.
    Mom sits in the center. I stand by the shrine. My family settles. I’m conscious of Jesus to one side, Mother Mary to the other. I suddenly feel very young. What am I doing? Who do I think I am? I push the questions away. This is right. It needs to be done. A second later, I begin. I’m not even nervous.
    “I have something important I want to say.”
    My voice rings out clear and almost loud. Davy rolls his eyes. Mom sits straight up, motionless. I take my dramatic pause, exactly like I practiced. They lean into it, just slightly, into me, waiting. I hear the traffic, the clock ticking, Kaitlyn breathing raspily through her mouth.
    “For Christ’s sake,” blurts my dad, “get on with it!”
    Mom shoots him a look.
    “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he says again, but sits back. Paul sighs. I don’t let it ruin the moment; I start again.
    “I have something important I want to say. I couldn’t say it before, but now I can. I don’t have to keep it secret anymore.” I smile.
    Mom smiles back.
    “Shit, Jason, don’t—” Marianne says.
    “I’m gay.”
    When you flip on a lightbulb and then turn it off again, the image hangs there, in front of your eyes, like the smiles on the faces of my family do now. That’s okay. I know what’s coming. I grin even harder. Any second, they’ll be up and hugging me, jumping around and happy, like Davy getting Fritz. My mother will have one less thing to worry about. One less family secret.
    That image fades. All eyes turn blurry, like when Grandma’s old dog died; the light in them disappears, pulled back.
    I still smile. I can’t seem to stop.
    In the room, absolute stillness, except the pounding of my heart. Finally, my dad stands and my heart slows a bit—he’ll fix it. He can fix anything. He’s my dad. He has a chair set up in the garage, just for me.
    “Well, son,” his voice is low. He blows air out of pursed lips. He doesn’t look at me. “I guess it’s between you and your mother now.”
    “Dad?” My voice is tiny.
    He won’t turn. He doesn’t say good-bye. He won’t look at me, Mom, Paul, anyone. He lifts his coat from the rack, opens the front door, and disappears.
    “That was stupid,” Paul says to me, close up by my face so only I hear. “Really stupid.” Marianne takes his arm and they head for the front door too. Davy’s mouth hangs open. Kaitlyn looks at Jesus, crosses herself. My mother’s a statue. I become one too. The door closes behind Paul; Marianne looks back into the room. Finally, Mom speaks.
    “Go to your rooms. Pray for your brother.”
    “Look, Mom—” Marianne starts.
    “NOW.”
    They leave without another sound. Marianne catches my eyes and sends a kiss with her lips. It almost looks like she’s crying.
    “Close your doors,” Mom orders. Suddenly, it’s me and her and Jesus. She picks up her rosary and turns the beads over and over in her hands, staring at them a good long moment before speaking. My eye itches but I don’t dare scratch it.
    “Where did you hear that word?” Her voice is monotone, low, under normal.
    “In San Francisco.”
    “From who?” Each syllable is pronounced, sharp, a weapon. Like her eyes slicing up and through me.
    “Lots of people.”
    “What does that mean—‘lots of people’? Which people?”
    “Lots of people. Tons.”
    She pauses. I cannot look away as much as I would like to. I have to breathe faster to keep oxygen in my lungs.
    “All of those people are going to hell.” Ice.
    “No, there’s too many.” I’m not talking back; I want to explain.
    “They are going to hell, Jason. Do you understand?”
    “Yes.” But I don’t.
    “Do you want to go to hell?”
    “No.” Barely a whisper.
    “Good. Take it back.”
    “I can’t.” It does not occur to me to lie, to agree, to