One Moonlit Night - 3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I felt during this time as though I was on the strangest roller coaster ride on which I could possibly be. I was wracked with guilt, remorse and any other synonym I could find in my Roget’s Thesaurus for being the cause of Scotty’s injuries. To complicate matters I was still grappling with not only my feelings for Scotty, but my sexuality. I wrote, or at least tried to write in my journal all that was going on in this confused mind. It read as though it had been written by a deranged psychotic—a redundant description I’m sure. It had become a hodge-podge of feelings and thoughts. I would re-read what I had written hoping, somehow, the pages would miraculously reveal or divulge some clear-cut answer. Any thoughts I had were written no matter how ridiculous. About all I could state matter of factly was; my feelings for Scotty—I could think of no one else, except perhaps my mom, for whom they were as strong. I could not imagine my life without Scotty being a part of it. My bond with him was as though we were almost one person. But did this mean I was gay? I looked back at the sex we had had together. It began as two boys exploring and eventually lead to mutual masturbation. Yeah, I liked it. I wanted to do it. Though I acted as if it was no big deal, I missed it when Scotty decided he no longer wanted to participate. I examined what I liked about it. The touch, sensation; I actually was envious, even fascinated by Scotty’s size I could admit. The more I wrote and thought—the more I could admit—it was a turn-on to mess around with him. As I began to write more, I also realized that I enjoyed the physical contact we shared—the nightly cuddling; the mindless stroking we had a habit of doing when engaging in conversations; just the reaching over and rubbing a shoulder or a brief embrace—it was a connection—it was nice.

As I was reading and re-reading for the umpteenth time my journal, I had an epiphany of sorts. Not once in all these scribblings was a girl mentioned. Not once did a particular attraction to the opposite sex enter into my thoughts. I could admit I liked girls. I dated. I even made out with quite a few. Was I ever turned on—heck, I was a teenager—hormones and lust were part and parcel of this stage in the growing process. Totally absent also were any remarks about the typical masculine references to big boobs or hot bodies. Further reviewing my experience with the opposite sex, I could not think of any of these girls as ones I held in the same regard, league or esteem I had for Scotty. None passed the criteria that Junior discussed with me in the park. Scotty always came first and foremost. Scotty passed the test, even to the point of the warm fuzzies. Though the warm fuzzies didn’t necessarily connote sex. It was just a feeling I had when I was with him. But, did this mean I was gay?

In my mind, I envisioned someday marrying and having children. Perhaps my reluctance to pursue a sexual relationship with a girl was the moral values my mother instilled in me. It was easier to participate sexually with Scotty as there was no fear of pregnancy—though I never recalled that going through my mind while we jacked-off. The entry seemed far-fetched or a real stretch, but I was grasping at all sorts of straws. Girls were not to be viewed as mere sexual objects—oh, sure. Spend ten seconds in a locker room and that value is lost—unless you’re talking about someone’s mother or sister.

If I was gay, wouldn’t I have an interest in other guys? Other than Junior, whose body I thought was hot, I don’t recall really giving other boys a lot of thought. And even with Junior, it was not so much a sexual thing as it was envy or a body I’d like to develope . Though, now that I thought about it there were a few other kids I thought were attractive. Again, can’t say I equated this with any sexual desires, but…

As I was writing my journal entries, I couldn’t stay on the topic on what I had set out to write about. I kept returning to my love—thoughts of Scotty. Many times when my thoughts returned to the moonlit night when I was drinking in Scotty’s physical beauty; I would get an erection.

God, I wish I could talk to someone. I thought about my mom, but wasn’t quite ready, at this time, to inform her that her son thought he was gay. I couldn’t go to Uncle Phil or Aunt Liz for God’s sake—we’re talking about their son. More or less the same conclusion I arrived at with Junior or Beth. I went to the library—not much help there with dealings of male to male love. Lots of treatises on homosexuality and some none to flattering, but none that I could find dealt with what I was going through: Was I gay? Was what I experiencing, thinking, and feeling indicating I was gay or just a phase as some of the books pointed out that teens go through?

I finally, after hours and days said to myself, “Fuck it!” Maybe there was no definitive answer. Perhaps I am not gay; I still love Scotty. Perhaps I am gay; I still love Scotty. Maybe I just needed to go with the feelings I was having at this time, whether or not I could make a lot of sense as to the why of them. I loved Scott Anthony Tucker and always wanted him to be part of my life. Couldn’t imagine it otherwise.

I won’t go into all the turmoil I had to the question—yeah, but what if he doesn’t feel the same? That was another twenty pages of ramblings.

***[ ]*** 

A week and a half went by and there was no noticeable change in Scotty’s condition. They did say however, after taking subsequent X-rays and scans that Scotty didn’t appear to have suffered any damage to his vertebrae. That was met with a great feeling of relief. Life resumed with as much normalcy as possible under the circumstances. I went to the hospital every day after school to sit with Scotty. Aunt Liz cleared it with the hospital staff for me to do this, as I was a minor. I was told to just talk with him. Tell him how my day went; how glad I was that school would be out soon, etc. I also started telling him those things I wrote in my personal diary regarding my feelings for him while holding his hand and gently massaging it.

“Please, Scotty, don’t leave. I need you. Please, come back.”

It was the end of the school year, and my mother had, some time back, planned on a two-week visit to my Grandmother on my father’s side of the family and felt it best to keep those plans. I was not looking forward to leaving Scotty, but my mother said she thought it best that I go with her and not burden the Tuckers. Besides, Nanna hadn’t seen us for almost six months and would be very disappointed if she didn’t get to see me. I loved my Nanna very much and did really want to see her. The Tucker’s also encouraged me to go and assured me if there were any significant changes they would call my Nanna’s.

I decided before we left to write Scotty a letter. I was hoping and praying he would regain consciousness while we were gone. With all the passion of my fifteen-year-old mind, I wrote my letter and a poem I composed for him and gave it to Aunt Liz. She said she’d be sure and put it on his hospital table so it would be there when he awoke.

Dear Scotty,

I am so absolutely miserable without my best friend—you. I am so very sorry for causing you to be hurt. I just hope you can forgive me.

Scotty, I’m scared. I have something I need to tell you and I don’t know how. I don’t know how you will take it. Scotty, I love you. I mean, I’m in love with you. I have known for sometime now, but have not had the opportunity to tell you or express this to you. I was meaning to tell you but…your ending up here—in the hospital—was not in the plan. What it did was made me realize how precious you are to me and maybe I wouldn’t get the opportunity to tell you. I hope the following poem expresses it.

Is Tomorrow Too Late?

Is tomorrow too late to say I love you?
Will that same smile be there as today?
Will that touch of yours still be as gentle?
Will those eyes still laugh as we play?

Is tomorrow too late to say I love you?
Will I wake up beside you to say?
You are always who I wanted beside me
I’m so glad I have you for another day

Is tomorrow too late to say I love you?
Will I get to hold you in that special way?
If I kiss your lips as I leave for school
Will you be here for another at the end of the day?

Is tomorrow too late to say I love you?
Will you be anymore special than today?
You are in my heart; every waking thought
I need to tell you, “I love you”—today

Scotty, I anxiously await your thoughts and feelings. Whatever you decide, I remain ever and forever your friend.

All my love,
--Bash

After writing the letter and poem, I felt a little better about going.

***[ ]*** 

Nanna Cocchetti was the very epitome of an Italian-born grandmother. She was short and round and still spoke with a heavy Italian accent. Food and hugs were her panacea for all manner of maladies and ailments, which she freely bestowed on her favorite grandson and daughter-in-law. After minutes of hugging and bragging about how handsome I was becoming she ushered us unceremoniously into the kitchen with a command—“sit!” One did not argue. One sat. She placed an antipasto dish and freshly made bread sticks along with a cruet of olive oil before us, voicing her second command—“eat!” She bustled about the kitchen in her familiar long-bibbed apron over a flower print dress, preparing the main course while jabbering away and catching up on all the latest in her and our lives. When she heard about Scotty, who had come with me on several previous visits, she saw how sad I had become at the mentioning of the incident, came over, and wrapped me in her arms. Tears flowed and she pulled a kerchief from her sleeve, wiped my eyes, and gave me a loving and caring smile.

An hour after being stuffed by Nanna’s great meal, along with being tired from the journey, I told my grandmother and mom that I thought I’d lay down for a while and take a nap. I must have been exhausted, as I didn’t wake up until the following morning.

The two-week visit with Nanna Cocchetti was in many ways a welcome relief from the recent events. Nanna was in her element doting on me and stuffing me with food. Sometimes I felt guilty because I was happy being there with her. Other times, with thoughts of Scotty lying in a hospital bed, the tears would well up and Nanna would come to me, wrap her pudgy arms around me, hug me to her breast, and rock me gently. She didn’t need to ask what was the matter; she didn’t need to give me false assurances. She just needed to be my loving Nanna.

The majority of our time was spent visiting and catching up with old friends and the various aunts, uncles and cousins. As Scotty had come with us on a few of our previous visits, naturally people asked about him. My mother tried to intercede as much as possible when the subject of Scotty came up to let them know about what happened. However, even with this information some would still be curious and want more details. Who better to ask than the perpetrator of the incident? I did pretty well with staving off the tears, though it did put a damper on some of the visits.

The day before we had to return home, we paid a visit to my father’s youngest brother, Uncle Vincent and his ‘friend’ Uncle Chris. They were two of my favorite Uncles. Most in the family never really talked about them and if they did, their comments were usually brief. They were not ostracized or anything of that nature, but most seemed uncomfortable discussing much about them. I wouldn’t say they were the black sheep of the family either—more like a shade of grey. I never really thought of them as different. Perhaps it was because while growing up they had always been together. It never crossed my mind to question their living arrangement. To me they were just plain old Uncle Vincent and Uncle Chris. As I grew older and recognized their relationship for what it was, my feelings toward them didn’t change. On this particular visit, I felt a comfort being in their presence. Maybe it was because I was accepting myself; maybe because I saw possibilities; maybe because I wanted Scotty and I to have such a relationship—to be as happy and content as Uncle Vince and Chris were. Maybe...? Always more questions than answers seemed to invade my mind.

As we were sitting around chatting, Uncle Vince, interrupted the conversation stating, “Where are my manners? Would anyone care for something to eat? I didn’t realize it was lunch time.”

As my stomach let out a perceptible growl, he chuckled and headed toward the kitchen. Suddenly I had a brilliant thought, and proceeded to follow him under the guise of offering to help him carry the lunches back.

Once behind the closed door of the kitchen I quietly asked, “Uncle Vince, could I talk to you in private for a little while?”

“Uh, why sure Sebastian, let’s take these sandwiches and snacks in for everyone and then I’ll take you out to show you the additions to our Koi pond.

Okay?” “Yeah,”

I responded. After returning to the living room the banter started back up again. I sat there nervously and fidgeted—hey, I was 15 and on a mission. At a convenient loll in the conversation, Uncle Vince noticing my agitation, interjected, “Hey, while you two sit here and talk about the latest fashion, I’m going to grab my favorite nephew and show him the finished garden and recent additions to the Koi pond. So, if you’ll excuse us. Come on kiddo,” he beckoned.

Uncle Vince put his arm around my shoulder and gently hugged me toward him as we went out doors. Uncle Vince and Uncle Chris had the most awesome backyard. It was a beautifully designed oriental meditation garden with stone covered walkways meandering throughout. There were tropical azaleas, birds of paradise, broad fronded drooping ferns and all manner of other assorted plants. It was like walking into an entirely different dimension. Toward the back, there was an arched trellis replete with a white-flowered climbing rose bush that once passed through, lead to a quietly trickling fountain that fed into a beautifully adorned large Koi pond surrounded by benches and a glider swing. Once seated on the swing and as we slowly rocked back and forth, I finally broke the silence, turned toward my Uncle and asked, “When did you know?”

“When did I know what, Sebastian?”

“Uh, when did you know you were ah, gay?”

“Ah, so you finally figured that out,” he said with a teasing grin. “Well, I guess I was about your age when I realized I wasn’t like the other boys. I liked girls and all, but never felt the connection with them as your daddy did or other boys my age. Then I met your Uncle Chris and felt something, at the time I couldn’t explain. Over a few months time we developed a strong friendship, and I knew I never wanted to be with anyone else. He spun my top, so to speak. That’s it in a nutshell.”

There were a few moments of silence between us as I ruminated and just listened to the gentle flow of the fountain.

“Were you scared? I don’t just mean scared about what others would think necessarily, but what Uncle Chris’ reaction would be. I mean, do you think he knew he was gay? Do you think he felt the same about you? And, what do you think would have happened with your friendship if he hadn’t felt the same as you did toward him, or he wasn’t gay? I mean, do you think you would have remained friends?”

“Scared; petrified was more like it. Along with my fear of what Chris’ reactions might be, well, those were also scary times—even in today’s society it can still be scary. And yes, I think Chris knew he was gay. I think part of our attraction to one another was we were kindred spirits, unspoken as it was. That alone however doesn’t mean you’re meant for one another. Nevertheless, I knew how I felt and the only way I was going to get any sort of resolution was to take my fear in my hand and walk with it. Yeah, I did a lot of thinking and all sorts of scenarios ran amok in my mind. But I’ll tell you, Sebastian, one way or another I needed an answer. So, one quiet night while we were walking back home after going to a movie, it was do or die; so, I nervously told Chris how I felt. Well, you see the result of that discussion today.” After a moment he continued.

“As to the other question—honestly, I don’t know. It’s difficult to predict what other people’s reactions will be if they don’t feel the same. I would like to believe that Chris and I would have remained friends or at least friendly. My experience in general was that some of my friends felt uncomfortable; some totally abandoned any sort of relationship; still others after some time of adjustment to their thinking realized I was still the same person they had always known. They just knew me in a different way, another aspect of me. True friends, I believe will come around eventually.”

“Uh, Sebastian, I’m going to step out on a limb here for a moment. Do you think Scotty is gay? Is that the reason for this discussion?”

Jarred out of my thought process for a moment as I was cogitating what Uncle Vince was telling me, I surprisingly said, “Oh, no, Uncle Vince, it’s me—I think, well, I’m pretty sure I know now, I’m gay.”

After a few seconds of silence, Uncle Vince cleared his throat and gave a slight chuckle, “Oops! Well, as you can see, my stereotyping was showing; you butch athletic boy; Scotty cute little non-athletic classical piano player. Sorry, about that. So, do you care to tell me about what’s going on?”

I proceeded to tell Uncle Vince all about Scotty and our relationship; our life-long friendship; how I truly felt about Scotty; our somewhat—if one could call it that—sex life; the incident of Scotty masturbating me and his and my reaction; the night I was mesmerized by his body; my talk with Junior about love; the tragedy at the movie theatre and the results of it; and the letter I wrote.

After attentively listening to my saga, Uncle Vincent hugged me into his body and said, “Well, Sebastian, I would say you seem quite smitten by this young man. I believe with your letter you have at least opened the door and the ball is somewhat in Scotty’s court now.”

“Sebastian, I say the next with some hesitancy, as I don’t want to mitigate anything you’ve shared with me, but Sebastian, you cannot enter into a relationship with Scotty out of pity or guilt. It truly has to be for all those other qualities you presented and the feelings of love and caring you have. Just some words of wisdom from your old Uncle for you to think about.”

“I do understand Uncle Vince, but I swear if I have to think about one more thing I just might explode,” I said with a slight chortle. “This is just so—so; I don’t know really how to express it—new, scary, bewildering.”

“I imagine it is all those and more, however, unrequited love is a bear. I can only wish and hope that it all works out best for the both of you. Sebastian, I will always be here for you if you need to talk more. Uncle Chris and I love you very much,” he reassuringly said as he hugged me tighter.

“Thanks, Uncle Vince and can I ask you not to talk about this with anyone just yet? Well, you can with Uncle Chris as I don’t want you to have to keep secrets from him.”

“I feel proud that you took me into your confidence. Rest assured, I will tell no one except, with your permission, your Uncle Chris. It is okay, however, to have secrets/confidences in a relationship as long as they do nothing to interfere with the relationship. Those secrets can make a relationship sick.”

“Well,” I said, feeling much relieved, “We’d better get back before Mom and Uncle Chris think we drowned in the Koi pond. Thanks for listening to me.”

“Anytime, and I mean that.”

We headed back inside, Uncle Vince with his arm on my shoulder and my arm around his waist; I truly did feel a sense of relief and even encouragement and hope.

The next morning after saying our goodbyes to Nanna and armed with enough food to feed a small army we headed back home. On the return trip I was on pins and needles. I wanted to see Scotty so badly. Since we hadn’t heard anything from Aunt Liz, I asked my mother, “Mom, do you think we could swing by the hospital so we can stop in and see Scotty, before we get home?”

“I think we can manage that,” she said with a slight smile. “While you go up to see him, I’ll stop by the personnel office to see if there have been any changes to my schedule.”

The last half hour of the return trip seemed to just drag as my anticipation grew. When we pulled into the Medical Center parking area, I was out of the car in a shot. My mother yelled at me and said that she would meet me there when she was through checking her schedule. I dashed off to Scotty’s room. I raced past the nurse’s station, burst through the door, and stood in shock. Scotty’s bed was neatly made. It was also empty. I got this terrible gnawing pain in my stomach as I sped back to the nurse’s station and fearfully enquired, “Where is Scotty Tucker? He’s not in his room.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t anyone tell you?” She said with sadness, “Scotty, well he is no longer with us.”

My last recollection was a blood-curdling scream, “Nooo!”

Everything went black.