Luke Reaches For Hope, Marissa Runs For It
Running Toward Hope, Chapter 6
“Can I tell you a story, Luke?”
That’s what Grampa asked me before he died. I was in the hospital room with him. Just a few weeks after he heard me praying in the bathroom at church. I got worried for a while when I figured he heard me asking God to save me from being gay.
But then I decided he must not have because he never said nuthin’.
I was wrong.
“Listen, kid,” he growled. “I gotta tell you about this friend I used to have. In the Army. Long time ago. Before we had your mom.”
He sounded terrible, Grampa did. He kept pushing this button that gave him more medicine for his pain. So, I didn’t really want him to talk, you know? But he kept going, even though he had to bite down really hard sometimes.
“Luke, I had a best buddy back then, kind of like you and Brad. We did everything together. We were close like brothers. Spent every minute we could with each other. Sort of like you two do now.”
He had to push the button and stop for a while after that. He got this dreamy look on his face. When I think about it now, I think the morphine was helping him dream about his friend. Or maybe his ghost came to visit. Who knows?
But he started back up again pretty soon. His voice was real soft at first, but it kept getting stronger.
“We weren’t supposed to be friends, you know. I was a corporal. He was a lieutenant, an officer. We didn’t care. One bit. Every time we had liberty or a pass, we left post and met up somewhere and had fun together.
When were with each other, everything was better. Everything was OK.
“We did all kinds of things we weren’t supposed to do, boy. I wish you were older. I wish you were old enough to hear it all.
He reached out and grabbed my hand, even though it hurt him. I could tell.
“I just want you to know that you have to be who you are. You can’t let made-up rules stop you from being who you are, son. I’m proud of you for being Luke. Luke’s a good kid. A good young man. And God? He’s proud of you too, or I’ll eat my cigar. You hear me?”
I didn’t really understand him then, or maybe I only did sorta half way. But I remember that I felt warm and good when he said that. He wasn’t finished, though.
“I don’t regret marrying your Gran. I even loved her in my way. And of course I got your mom and you and your sister outta the bargain, and that’s pearls beyond price, boy.
“I never forgot LT, though, That’s what I called him. LT for lieutenant. We saw each other a few times after the army. We tried, but being together made us more sad than anything. So, we stopped.
“What happened? Eh, he died a long time ago. He got that sickness, that AIDS. Wrote me a letter. Said goodbye. Your gran, she found it and threw it away a long time ago. Long story.”
Grampa sighed really big after that and I could see his eyes get sad. I never understood why till later on — after Pastor Tim and the blow job in the basement.
“So, listen here, Luke Thomas Sanders, and you listen good. Don’t you believe that you’re any worse off than any of God’s creatures. Like I tell you and tell you, God’s a lot bigger than any of us can imagine. Don’t you go listening to people who wanna put limits on him.
“And listen to one more thing. Your initials are LT, right? Well, that ain’t exactly a coincidence. Your mom, she wanted to call you Luke Mark. I convinced her she had the wrong apostle. Talked her into Thomas. So LT is my gift to you, boy. Anybody ever gives you trouble, you just tell em your name’s LT, and you remember your grampa, and you remember he says you’re just fine the way you are.
“You hear me, boy?”
I squeezed his hand real soft and held it for a while. He had to push the button again. A lot. He fell asleep then, and that was last thing Grampa ever said to me.
“Luke, please, put those bloody clothes back on the floor, buddy. Bobby’s not in any shape to go anywhere yet, anyway. It’s OK. Nothing bad is going to happen. I swear.”
Dan remembers growing up in a tiny village north of Albany. Raising horses. The two boys in the ER cubicle remind him of yearlings just brought in from the north meadow to be broke.
They’re suspicious as hell and scared of their own shadows.
That’s why he hasn’t asked the cops to come in yet. When he recognized Luke, he knew he needed to try hard to maintain whatever small level of trust he’d built up with him a few weeks earlier.
It’s not working.
“Fuck that, man. Fuck you! We’re out. Bobby, hurry up!”
“Luke? Buddy? Remember me? I’m the guy who helped you get the meds you needed to get over that pneumonia. And hooked you up with the clinic for those other meds. I’m not one of the bad guys, OK? It’s my job to help people.”
Dan says that all calmly, then sighs as the younger boy starts pulling the blood-caked jeans up past his knees.
Luke’s obviously not buying anything. He spits out his next sentence in a cracking tone that has to be driven by visceral fear. “Oh, yeah? Helpin’ people like us means keepin’ the cops away from us. I ain’t going back to jail, man. And Bobby sure as fuck ain’t startin’!”
“Relax, buddy. Chill. For real. These guys aren’t here from Vice, I swear. They aren’t interested in some piddly solicitation bust. They wanna help Bobby. That’s it. I promise.”
“I know what kinda help that is! Fuck that shit, dude!”
“Luke, look at your friend. Slow down. Breathe. Deep. Let it out. Now look at Bobby. Really look at him… Please?”
LT starts to grab his young friend by the arm to hurry him up, but something about Dan’s tone slows him down just long enough to process what he’s seeing.
He takes a good long look.
Something shocks him so hard his teeth tingle, like what happens when you climb a fence in the pasture and it punches you hard with electricity.
He’s disoriented for a long moment. He isn’t sure who he is, like maybe how a ghost would feel. Everything in the curtained cubicle is exactly the same, but nothing looks familiar anymore.
He doesn’t feel familiar to himself anymore.
He doesn’t recognize his own thoughts. They swirl around as he fights to pull his sense of being out of the whirlwind. He can’t connect the cyclone inside his head with the idea of who he is.
A solid memory surfaces and holds itself still, quivering. He clutches it and clings. He’s LT. His grampa is proud of him exactly for who he is. God is bigger than Pastor Tim. He holds onto those thoughts as tight as he can and starts to climb up out of the dark pit he’s fallen into.
He sees a boy in front of him. A young teenager. Just a kid. He’s filthy and bloody, pulling filthy and bloody clothes up underneath a hospital gown.
Bobby.
“No, Bobby. You’re sick. Give me those pants. You gotta lay down.”
He turns to Dan. “OK. Can you help him, please?”
He sinks into a corner and buries his face in his hands so nobody will see his tears.
Marissa can hear the shower running. Tomas is singing. He’s always cheerful after he rapes her.
She pulls on jeans, a tee shirt, and a jacket — hands shaking. She’s made up her mind. She grabs her shoulder bag and runs for the door. It’s locked from the inside. Fuck! He usually forgets.
She walks on her toes as fast as possible past the shower curtain, pushes aside the long curtain that defines the bedroom, and scans as fast as she can for his pants.
His voice echoes out of the shower. “Baby girl? Whatchoo doing? You better be makin’ yourself sexy, bitch. We gotta get money tonight, chica.”
She shudders and dives for his jeans at the foot of the bed.
Fumbles in the pockets.
Keys! Yes!
She grabs them and dashes for the door again. She turns the lock as quietly as she can, but the bolt sounds crazy loud to her. She opens the door and gasps as a strong draft blows into the loft and sends curtains flying around.
She remembers her phone just as she starts for the street. She can’t leave without some way to contact the guys.
She eyes the long distance to the bedroom. Deliberates.
“Mi puta! Papi needs his back washed, bitch!”
That decides her. Fuck her phone. She makes a dash for the counter to grab Lukie’s off the charger instead.
Tomas’s head pokes out of the shower just at that moment.
“What the fuck, bitch? Goin’ someplace?”
This is chapter six of a serialized short story dealing with homelessness among LGBTQ youth. Over forty percent of homeless youth in the United States identify as LGBTQ. That’s extraordinary given that queer youth don’t make up more than 3 to 7 percent of the general youth population.
While the details of this story are fictional, I’m writing from my heart and from my experiences. I’ve known these kids. I’ve been there in many ways. The issues are very real and very serious. I’m fictionalizing the stories of real people.
I’m telling their stories because they need somebody to speak for them.