Freddy's Confession

“He’s a fag.”

Digger’s clear declaration was meant to set his father’s head spinning.  Instead Reggie just shrugged and started attacking Digger.  No, hell no!  This was not supposed to be how it went down. 

Reggie did not appreciate the interruption, as he sat in his rocking chair, trying to relax on the porch of his home, overlooking his pond and the most beautiful part of Dixon County, Spitchaw Ridge, all of it Crowley land as far as the eye could see.  Now, on top of all the other problems he was trying to get a few minutes of peace and quiet from, he had to be disrupted by the dumbest of his two sons and his blind jealous ravings.

“Why you talking such stupid stuff,  Digger?  Is it cuz’ you ain’t done a split pea’s worth of stuff I askt you to?  You think you can distract me with such nonsense?  I want you go to your buddies on the police force and find out what you can about why that pussy sheriff we got let that killer Yankee go free.  We need all this frivola-ta-rol wrapped up toot sweet!  I can smell those big machines starting to dig-a-digging, Digger!  And you trying to waste my time with this brother rivalry crap is pissing me off.”

“But…but he is, Daddy! I know he is.  It’s the truth, I swear it!”

“You are one warped stupid redneck, you know that?  Is this cuz’ he treats people and women with more respect than you do?  That’s what makes him a smart businessman compared to your bull china ways!  And if anybody’s a homo, hell, you’re the one who’s practically butt-clipped to Sandy Harley.  You two set a date yet?”

Digger was getting upset.  His magic moment was slipping away.  But he had planned better than that.  Sooner or later, he would make his Daddy respect and understand that he was the one to depend on.  And he had one more ace in the hole to play.

“Look, here, Daddy.”  Digger brought his phone up to Reggie, inches from his face.  “Do you see what’s going on in that picture?”

“Phone pictures,” Reggie disgustedly said.  “What the hell are things coming to?  Any jackass taking a picture of everything a person does, no privacy anymore! Now, what the hell am I looking at?”

“Put your glasses on, Daddy, and take a closer look.’

Reggie slipped his glasses on and squinted at the picture.  “Is it that…Freddy?  That’s his Silverado pickup, but what’s he doing with that weenie lookin’ fella?”  He squinted some more.  “Oh, for the love of God, is he kissing that guy?”

“Yes, Daddy, I told you.  He’s a fag.  Now will you believe me?” Digger asked, triumphantly. 

Reggie still could not believe it, even with Digger’s proof staring at him.  “How do I know this ain’t one of them photos that have been shopped?  One of your smart friends help you set this up?  Well, presuming you got smart friends, which might be a pretty far-fetched assumption, I admit.”

“It ain’t fake, Daddy.  It’s for real.”

“Well, how sure that’s a fella?  Maybe it’s just a really ugly woman wearing man’s clothes.”

“You reaching, Daddy, and you know it.  That’s Stephen Fairley.  He’s a theatre actor in one of them plays in Waycross.  That’s where they met – in back of the theatre.”

Reggie was silent for several minutes.  Digger had no idea what was going on.  He was scared to interrupt his Daddy’s processing of what Digger had shown him.

Finally, Reggie spoke.  “You get him here.  I want to hear him answer this.”

Digger lit up, and then lit out to find Freddy.  Maybe, at long last, Digger would finally be first in line to inherit the keys to the kingdom.  And for what he had done for his Daddy, for the good of the Crowley family, who deserved it more?

          **********

“Are you a fag?”

Freddy was completely taken aback.  He knew something peculiar was up when Digger came and got him, rousting him from his office at the Mill, brought all the way out to Spitchaw Ridge, and then to be confronted with his father, alone, even Digger being sent away.  “A-a what?  W-what are you talking about?”

Reggie had kept Digger’s phone and held it up for Freddy.  “I’m talking about this.”  Freddy turned pale as he got a close look as to what the picture was, he and his boyfriend, Stephen, kissing.  Digger must have taken it before he confronted him and beat the crap out of him.  Stephen ran away during that brutal madness, and would no longer answer his calls.  He had loved Stephen deeply, but was disappointed that he failed to stand by him.  Nevertheless, he felt if they could just talk.  Love must be like that sometimes.

But this was not the time for reverie.  His father’s repeated question snapped him out of it.  “Are you a homo?”

“What?” Freddy asked, still not quite believing that he had been outed.

“You want me to be more dainty?  You want me to be more politically correct?”  Reggie then pronounced his next question slowly, five second gaps between each word, his face steaming with barely contained anger.  “Is…. you…. GAY, ... boy?”

Freddy wanted to lie.  Freddy wanted to run.  But Freddy was also tired.  Tired of living a lie.  Tired of denying something that was as much as part of him as hair or nose, the way he walked, and the way he breathed.  No one was going to understand, no one was going to put up with it, no one would reach out to him, except Gariton, who might be a killer, or that Episcopal priest lady, whom he met briefly but could not bring himself to go to her church or even meet with her second time.  With all this swirling through his head, he answered, “Yes.”

There it was.  He was out.  Let the chips fall where they….

“Get out,” Reggie snarled.  “Get out of my house and never show yourself to me again.”

“But, Daddy, I promise you.  Being gay is just a part of who I am.  It don’t mean nothing evil.  I’m still the same devoted son you always have been able to depend on.  I love you and Mama.  I can’t help who I am,” Freddy pleaded.

“You think I’m going to debate with you where faggots come from?  Nature?  Nurture?  You think I give a shit?  Some weak kneed pansy fairy son of a pussy bitch ain’t no son of mine.  Go see some therapist. Have some Jesus freaks knock some religious sense into you.  But do it on your own time and dime.  You’re dead to me.  You’re gone.  My businesses, the Crowley legacy, is reserved for real men, even ones as stupid as Digger, because even in my book, stupid beats fag.  Now get the hell out of my house.”

Weeping, crying and lamenting, Freddy left the house.  Everything he worked for was gone.  He felt alone, hurt and abandoned.  And Digger, his idiot brother, would be left in charge of the Crowley fortune.  God help Daddy.  God help all of Crowley.

But one thing he was sure of, though all the tears, torment, and separation.  He was gay, and he would always be gay.  And he would never deny it again, whatever it cost him.