whom Daniel had met a year ago and did not care to see again.
f 2
“It’s over. You’ll be happy to hear. We did it with a minimum of fuss. We
couldn’t say much. We couldn’t do much either. He had the kids with him
today. Elena has a cold, he says. I think he was just hiding behind them. He’s
afraid of what I’d say if we were alone.”
Zack sat at the kitchen table with a paperback in his hand, another Victo-
rian novel—he was still doing Elizabeth Gaskell. He looked more surprised
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
2 1 5
than pleased, and strangely worried. “What makes you think Elena isn’t
sick?”
“I don’t know. I just felt he was lying. It was his choice to have the kids
there. They made me feel guilty. They’re sweet kids. I like them. But I didn’t
appreciate him using them as a secret weapon.”
Zack looked more worried. “You really think he brought them to make a
point?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Now that it’s over.” He
laughed. “Gimme a break. I don’t need the how-does-it-make-you-feel patter
tonight, because I feel fine. I’m glad it’s over. I said it was ending, didn’t I?
And I was right. Better sooner than later. Don’t look at me like that.”
“How am I looking?”
“Like you’re sorry. You should be glad. You gave me plenty of space and I
had my fun and now it’s over. The end.” He opened the refrigerator. “What
do you want for dinner? I’ll cook.”
“That’s okay. It’s my turn.”
Daniel snapped his head around. “I said I’d cook, dammit! Just let me
cook dinner, all right!”
Zack froze. “All right,” he replied after a moment.
Daniel took a deep breath. “All right,” he said more quietly and turned
back to the refrigerator. “We got chicken, we got beef liver. There’s plenty of
tomato sauce if you want to do pasta. And yes, I do feel a little blue right now.
Not angry, just blue.” Daniel addressed the freezer furred with frost. “Give
me a few days and I’ll feel fine. I don’t want to talk about it yet. All right?”
“All right,” repeated Zack. There was the usual sad uncertainty in his
voice that sounded like guilt, but Daniel knew it was probably love. Daniel
wasn’t entirely sure he deserved to be loved right now. Maybe he was only
projecting both his guilt and his love onto Zack.
29
My name is Zachary Knowles. I’m a doctor here in town—a psy-
chiatrist to be exact. But that’s not why I’m here tonight. I’m here as
a gay man. Bill has asked me to tell you a little about my life as a gay man. And
to answer any questions you might have.”
Once a year, toward the end of the first semester, Zack spoke to the gay
student group that met at St. Bede’s Church just off campus. This was a
Homo 101 gathering—there were hipper, more political organizations for
later—and it attracted the just-out or not-quite-out kids, all freshmen and
sophomores. It had been started five years ago by Bill Kelly of the Italian De-
partment, a good gay Catholic—an ex-monk, in fact—who somehow con-
vinced his priest to let a queer support group meet in the church basement.
Roman Catholics were a minority in town and could be surprisingly progres-
sive. It didn’t hurt that Bill was a jovial force of nature, so wholesome that not
even Mother Church could refuse him. He was fifty and single and probably
celibate. Daniel called him Sponge Bill behind his back, in allusion to the
fiercely optimistic cartoon character.
“I’ll start the ball rolling,” said Bill, with a big gap-toothed grin. “The rest
of you can jump in with your questions whenever you like. Zack, you grew up
here in Virginia, right?”
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
2 1 7
Zack began with a few tales about Norfolk, the Boy Scouts, and high
school, while he took in his audience. The kids looked younger than ever.
Daniel saw college students all the time, but Zack got them only in doses. If
he didn’t know better, he’d say this batch was still in junior high. The girls
outnumbered the boys, but Zack found both genders equally sexless, like
puppies. They dressed like ads for the Gap or Old Navy, which this year
meant their jeans were improbably low, their torsos so long they resembled ot-
ters.
“How old were you when you first told yourself: I’m gay?” asked Bill.
“Not until my senior year in college. Until then I was falling in love with
guys but going to bed with women.”