A Broken Cup

  A Broken Cup

  By Emery C. Walters

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Emery C. Walters

  ISBN 9781634866156

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  A Broken Cup

  By Emery C. Walters

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if Carmel, as he liked to call his bastard self, had died snorkeling, or picking up a cone shell, or falling off a fucking cliff. Yes, I would have felt stabbed in the heart, but I’d have been surrounded by sympathetic friends and enveloped in loving arms. If he’d died of AIDS, I’d have had understanding and condolences, but he had never had anything worse than crabs, and that was a long time before I’d met him. But no, all he’d done was spread rumors about me and make up some huge imaginary mountain out of an imagined slight. And he had taken off with a twenty-two-year-old lady-boy, a katoey, from Thailand.

  So now what I get are phone calls and texts saying, “Russell, did you really do that to Carmel? Because he seems like such a nice young man. I don’t know why he would just turn on you like that for no reason, so there must have been something you did!”

  So now Russell is the asshole, and it’s affecting my emotional life right when I’m mourning not only the loss of my love but also the loss of whom I thought my love was, and of my own identity in relation to him. I have these health issues going on, too, and I thought he’d be my mainstay through them. I don’t feel bad for a man of thirty-seven, but my doctor noticed a few things and wanted me to have a cardiologist appointment, a colonoscopy, and blah, blah, and blah. Here, everything is done on Maui Time and is often fucked up beyond belief by people who don’t speak English as a first language, nurses and PAs who may or may not have reached puberty yet, going by how fucking young they look, and so on.

  To top it off, the gully-washer rain storm and run-off cancelled my underwater photography session with the guy looking to make a multi-million-dollar movie here. I don’t have a Plan B for income this month, and Carmel ran off without paying his half of the bills. So I wasn’t in a good mood when the phone rang, once more.

  “Yeah,” I growled.

  “Russell? It’s Mike. Dad passed away. The funeral is Tuesday, so I hope you can hop a plane and get here. You know you’re the…”

  That’s all I heard. I hadn’t heard my brother Mike’s voice in sixteen years, not since he’d married Cecile and she’d told him his gay brother was not to be invited anywhere near her good Christian home and their future children.

  I mumbled, “Okay,” and hung up.

  Well, if I have to fly to the mainland right away, at least it gets me out of the damn colonoscopy. I’d better get on the phone and cancel things. At least I don’t have to worry about that bastard being upset because I have to go away. Go fuck yourself, Carmel. Oh, I forgot, you have a lady-boy to do that for you.

  But damn, Carmel had turquoise eyes you could sink into, a body a gym-bunny would die for, and a smile that bewitched men and women alike. Sometimes I don’t know what he saw in me, but then I look at my bank account. Shit. Must stop thinking and feeling sorry for myself and get some phone calls made.

  Daddy’s dead? He was so young. I thought he had years to go. I wonder how Mom is holding up, or if she even understands he’s gone. I wonder what the hell happened.

  * * * *

  That was Sunday. Carmel had taken his leave (and his things and some of mine) on Friday night after dinner, which I’d fixed, and after telling me how many boffos he’d had on the side during the two years we were together.

  I had loved him and thought he’d loved me. I can’t say we even had any fights, and maybe that should have warned me. I don’t know. I’d never been in love before, well, not since tenth grade when I crushed so hard on the gym teacher. I had thought that was love, and when he’d married Miss Ingles, the art teacher, I was devastated.

  Which reminded me! Now that I knew Carmel had been unfaithful, to say the least, I needed to make an appointment to get tested, right away. Goddamn it. I thought I was over all that kid stuff, but nope. And now I had to get airplane tickets for tomorrow? I might have inserted a few soft words about my feelings. No, I doubt they were soft.

  Oh, geez, I can’t be busy hating Carmel right now and have my brother’s face pop up in its place. I can’t hate Dad anymore if he’s dead. Shit, I can’t even make up with him, like I’ve been ready to for the past ten years. Asshole.

  And I need a haircut. Have one scheduled for Thursday; have to cancel it. And the kids I offered to teach surfing? Gotta bail on them. More phone calls. And where is my cell phone? Oh, shit, no, tell me that little prick did not take my…

  Searching the house did no good. The cell phone, as well as all my flash drives and old CDs and the orange marmalade I’d gotten in the gift exchange last Christmas, were gone. Gone with the wind, the bad evil wind that called itself Carmel. You know, like a bad fart from a sick elephant. The fact that I’d just been on the phone shortly before I thought this did not occur to me, but it turned out to be important.

  Oh, but he was a pretty young thing, all sparkling eyes and muscles and hung…ahem. The manners of a prince, as they say, taking ways and boy he took everything, didn’t he? Was it me? Was I just too old, no fun, getting fat? I used to think I was ugly…maybe I am. Maybe he was lying to my face all this time about that, too.

  Fuck. This isn’t getting anything done. I need to pack! I need to get a cat sitter! First, I need to…oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Not my LGBT book collection. All those books from JMS and Lear and even the old Oscar Wilde ones? Oh, no. Where’s my cat? Over there? Okay, then I will start angrily throwing things into the kitchen. Clunk! Thunk! All very satisfying!

  Calm yourself. You’re okay. It’s going to be okay. It’ll all be over in a week. I hope. Shit. He was way too young to die. I’m crying. No, I’m not crying; he’s not worth crying over. Shit. Who am I crying over, that prick, or the other prick? Yeah, my father was an asshole, too.

  For some reason, I wandered outside. The sun was getting ready to set, and it’s usually a beautiful, restful scene, even just from my porch. Next door, I saw someone on their porch, a young woman with bright red hair (L’Oreal Cardinal Red, I thought bitchily). She saw me, smiled, and then looked away when I wiped my eyes and nose on my shirt sleeve. Then she came over. She stopped on the first of my three steps.

  “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t intrude, but you seem upset. Can I do anything? What’s wrong?”

  I was partly angry—not at her—and partly heartbroken. I couldn’t manage a smile. This woman was beautiful i
n a tough way, if that made sense, like she might be butch but so strong in herself that she didn’t have to put on swagger or plaid flannel shirts to be herself. And if she was straight, then once again, she was just herself. I don’t know any other way to put it.

  “Sit down,” I offered. “Would you like some wine with my whine? I’ll be right back.”

  Moments later, glasses of wine in our hands, we sat side by side on my old wooden porch swing. My cat, Poseidon, was on her lap, purring happily. Usually, he hated everybody.

  “I’m Merry,” my guest said. “I just moved in next door, well, in the bottom half of the house anyway. I’m a travelling nurse, so I’ll be here for a while. I love it already, though.”

  “My name’s Russ, and you’ve caught me at a bad time.”

  “I’m a very good listener. Try me.”

  What I was trying to do was not stare at her cleavage. She was very pretty, with that bright curly hair, big brown eyes, and laugh lines. I thought she was probably around thirty or thirty-five. She was in great shape.

  “Do you work out? Snorkel? Bike?” I blurted without thinking, raising my eyes to her face, almost sorry I didn’t enjoy the view of the top half of her great, soft boobs.

  “I do Zumba and Yoga and hike. I want to learn to scuba dive, too. I love the water.”

  I couldn’t even look her in the face right then. “I have three things to tell you. I’m leaving for a funeral, though I’ll be back, I hope. My lover just left me, and I’m gay.” There. Now, she’d probably run away.

  “Oh, good! The gay part, I mean. I’d love to meet some more LGBT folk while I’m here. My boyfriend and I just broke up, too, but it was mutual. I’m sorry yours was so painful. Some people are just assholes. I wouldn’t mind meeting trans or lesbians or whatever. I’m sort of bi, obviously!” She laughed at herself. “Is there any particular place people hang out? And do you need a cat sitter? I love animals.”

  Then I did meet her eyes, and her smile told me we were going to be friends. Not lovers, not on my part, thanks very much, but probably very good friends.

  “I think my ex took my phone.”

  “You’ll borrow mine then. I bet you have a ton of phone calls to make. And while you do, I’ll go home and put together some supper. Come over in an hour?” She dug into her pocket and handed me her phone.

  Damn. Why couldn’t she be a guy?

  “Your phone looks just like mine. I really appreciate this.”

  I went back in the house to where I had an old-fashioned paper spreadsheet of my important phone numbers, got busy, and spent almost that whole hour making calls. When I went over to her place, she had cooked steaks and sweet potatoes and let me whine and grumble and sniffle. Plus, she offered to take me to the airport tomorrow and to take care of my cat. I couldn’t have been more blessed (other than the whole she’s a girl thing.)

  Merry and gay. It was kind of cute.

  * * * *

  I woke up around two A.M., crying. I’d had a nightmare about the end of the world. I’d been saving cats, they’d bolted, and now there would never be any more cats, ever. It did seem to be more about losing my lover and my father than cats, but who knows? I was devastated. Even putting these words down cannot convey how deep the darkness was in my soul at that moment. Maybe it was about cats because that fat bastard Poseidon had stayed over at Merry’s for the night. I mean, that cat really liked that girl. Maybe he was bi, too, only, actually, he was nothing, or should I say neither, anymore. And, oh, hell I’d have to cancel his appointment for his shot I had scheduled for this week, too.

  I couldn’t get back to sleep. Now, I was engulfed by scenes from my childhood. For a while, it seemed like my father’s whole life passed before my eyes. I had glimpses of him as a young boy in Wales, of him losing his own father at a young age, of him being sent to the United States to live with an elderly uncle, one, I found out years later, who had a live-in companion. It only occurred to me now that he had probably been gay. My father had hated him.

  Then I saw my father as a soldier, and although I couldn’t picture him fighting, I could picture him snarling at raw recruits when he was a training officer. Then there was my mother and him, then my older brother Mike, then the new baby: me.

  Jumbles of words after that: “Hit the damn ball! Kick the ball. You missed it again? Why isn’t this an A like Mike got in this class? Why are you wearing those ridiculous boots? Why did you pick out a purple shirt? Are ya queer or something?” And the ever-popular “apologize to your brother right now. I saw you hit him first.” Even though he’d just missed seeing Mike hit/pinch/trip me.

  Enough of that. I got up and got dressed. I looked out at the sea and saw the moon glowing in the sun’s place. It was eerily beautiful, a black and white snapshot of the Technicolor sunset from last night. It felt like a bad omen. I hated to leave here, especially to go home—this was home—but it had to be done.

  And then, sitting down on the couch just for a few minutes, I fell sound asleep. Luckily, I had packed my carry-on the night before, although somewhat smashed on wine. Hopefully, everything I needed was in there because when Merry pounding on the door finally woke me up, we had to tear across the island in a big rush to get to the airport in time for me to wait around for two hours like they tell you. She was not new to the idea of driving like a race-car driver or a local. Plus, hey, if we got in a wreck, she was a nurse, right?

  By the time I got out of her rental jeep, I was awake, all right. So awake, I just saluted her and forgot to say thank you or even goodbye. I figured I’d call her when we landed on the mainland. Or send flowers. Did lesbians, excuse me, bisexual women, like flowers? Oh, God, I’m gay, and I know nothing! Except I bet I could certainly pick out a beautiful bouquet, probably one that would match her hair color perfectly, so there’s that.

  As I took off my shoes, I discovered I had on mismatched socks. I had a pat down by a sexy TSA agent, though, so that almost made up for it, or might have if I hadn’t started giggling when he got down to my butt. Once past that, I stopped and got goodies at the Starbucks, and then wandered through the gift shops. I had nothing to read; I’d forgotten to pack a book. So I looked at those, then at the souvenirs, wondering if there was anything there my mom might like. Should I get anything for Mike’s kids? How old were they now? All the gifts I ever sent them were checks. Shit. All I could come up with was pictures in my head of me and Mike as children, and my dad, our dad, involved with us, or with Mike, maybe tossing a ball, while I fumbled catches and threw like a girl.

  Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad if I could get out of my own head for a while. Since I was in a middle seat, I had two possible distractions, one on each side of me. Anyone cute? Uh…no. The one on the left made me aware I had stereotypical ideas of what a terrorist looked like. I won’t describe the person other than he was a man with a beard and dark eyes. Maybe even that would mark me as racist. I can’t help it; I’m human, and I read the news, okay? But I smiled, he sort of smiled, and I looked to the other side. A woman. She was dabbing at her eyes. I offered her a tissue.

  Thinking of Merry, I said, “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s my granddaughter. I went to stay with my daughter for the birth. Thank you for the tissue; I went through all mine. My mother always said to carry a real handkerchief, but I would have sogged that up before the plane left the ground. Well, my daughter has it bad enough, already. Her husband left her, her older daughter just announced she needs to be a boy, and here she is with this brand-new baby, on her own, and the baby has health issues.”

  Oh, I had not signed on for this! But the bit of training I’d had at one time taught me that just listening can be therapeutic. What else did I have but time to listen? Maybe it would help. I didn’t know. Wait. I did actually know a lot. I didn’t really want to remember it because I’d been a bit of a bastard about it. I’d only been sixteen and dealing with my own issues, that is, having just realized I was gay, having just tried suicide and failed so badly
that nobody even noticed, and my brother and his wife, Cecile, had just had their first child.

  Let me add they had four more since then. At the time, I had no idea how…well, I wasn’t welcome, anyhow, once everyone found out about me.

  Jacob was their first child, and he had a heart defect. He’s fine now, but they didn’t even know if he’d live long enough to have it fixed, if it even could be.

  As I listened to this woman tell me all the details I didn’t want to know, my heart was way back twenty years ago when my brother’s issues were all centered around me, as I thought then. Oh, God, this was so painful, both this woman’s pain and the resurrection of my own.

  I reached over and took her hands in mine and made myself make eye contact with her when she was able. She ended up crying on my shoulder. I wondered if the older daughter thought all the drama centered on her, too, and how she/he’d feel in twenty years’ time. I sent a thought to warn her/him to be on her/his best behavior. I hoped she/he’d not say anything shallow or stupid. Even when said out of innocent ignorance, words cast very long shadows. After a while, I was crying, too, and the terrorist next to me offered me his embroidered handkerchief. So much for stereotypes.

  If there’s a God, I thought, could he please stop with the spiritual lessons for a while now? Okay? Thanks, that’d be great.

  Finally, the woman looked more embarrassed than stricken and pretended to take a nap. I would have pulled out a book and read, but I hadn’t brought one. I glanced at my handkerchief-carrying-terrorist.

  He smiled, grabbed my leg, and said, “You keep it, honey-boy. I have more.”

  After that, I pretended to fall asleep, too.

  The things that go through your head. The man was about twenty years older than me. Was that why I turned away from him? Was that how Carmel had felt about me? More about ages? The grand-daughter who announced she was trans was about the same age I had been when I announced I was gay. And how old were Mike’s kids now? Should I have brought presents? Was I old enough to just slip them a quarter (can you roll your eyes when they’re closed?), or would it have to be a twenty now? I knew there were five of them, at any rate. Grandkids; no wonder my parents had liked him best.