Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been accepted more than 550 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated four times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

The Clearing

Leo pushed through the tangled vines, creepers, and sawgrass toward the tiny clearing deep inside the willow grove. The pungent smell of things rotting filled the air. A little creek that spread out through the trees kept the ground sodden. Breathing hard, Leo followed Weiner, his friend’s face split in a jester’s grin.

“Come on, hurry up, I gotta pee,” Weiner said.

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses, I’m coming.”

Leo and Weiner had spent all Saturday afternoon at The Plunge, Santa Barbara’s municipal pool, sharing the summer heat and tepid water with a packed crowd of kids. Weiner’s real name was Oscar, but everybody called him Weiner after the maker of hot dogs. Exhausted and bleary-eyed from messing around in the highly chlorinated pool, they had crossed Cabrillo Boulevard and headed home.

“Hey, you wanna go looking for tennis balls?” Weiner had asked.

“Where?”

“In that grove next to the courts.” Weiner pointed. “People knock ’em there and are too lazy to find ’em.”

“What’re we gonna do with a bunch of tennis balls?”

“Clean ’em off and sell ’em, stupid.”

“Yeah, right. I knew that.”

“Then why’d ya ask?”

“Shut up!”

They now stood apart in the clearing, bathed in sunlight, in the heart of the dark jungle. In the background the grumble of traffic on Cabrillo sounded like the surf off Leadbetter Point.

Weiner unzipped his jeans and watered the ankle-high crabgrass. Leo felt the back of his neck go numb with an excitement that a seventh-grade boy shouldn’t feel, surely a mortal sin that he would need to confess to Fr. Beckett before Sunday mass. How the heck am I gonna do that? Leo thought. What’ll I say to that old Jesuit, that I thought about . . . about touching Weiner . . . and more? I don’t even like him that much.

“What are you staring at?” Weiner asked.

Leo grinned. “Nothing much.”

“Screw you. Come on, let’s look for balls.”

The boys combed the clearing but found nothing. After slogging through the muddy undergrowth, scratching bare arms and destroying shoes and jeans, they came away with only three dirty tennis balls. Scraping slime from their Keds at the curb, they headed home to San Andres Street and its Magnolia trees with virgin-white flowers. They didn’t talk much, Leo pondering what he had seen in the clearing, about the sun shining off Weiner, his hair ablaze, blue eyes gleaming. He shivered and forced himself to think about something else.

The following day, Leo and his father, mother and older sister drove to church in their year-old ’58 Studebaker. They always attended 9:15 mass at Our Lady of Sorrows, sat in the same pew, mumbled the same prayers, and listened to their stomachs growl from fasting before taking communion.

“I gotta go to confession,” he muttered to his sister, Elsa.

“What nasty little sins have you committed this week?” she whispered.

“None of your business.”

“I hear you thrashing around and moaning in bed at night.”

“Shut up!”

He left the pew and walked to the rear of the church where confessional booths occupied one wall. A line of kids and adults waited outside the curtained-off compartments, one on either side of the center one where Fr. Beckett most likely sat. Leo joined them, shifting from foot to foot. Jerry Vasquez from his class stood at the head of the line. He looked back and grinned. Leo closed his eyes, memorizing what he would say to the priest.

When it came his turn he pushed through the curtain and knelt, facing the closed partition window. He could barely hear mutterings from the person confessing their sins on the other side of the priest and the good father giving absolution. Yes, it was crotchety old Beckett. Finally, the partition slid open.

“Go ahead,” Fr. Beckett said.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.” Leo always wondered why they wanted to know that. Was there some time limit for confessing sins?

“Father, I talked back to my parents, I lied to my fifth period teacher, and . . . and I had impure thoughts about a boy in my class.”

There, he had gotten it all out without stumbling too much. Leo held his breath, hoping Fr. Beckett wouldn’t have any questions. But alas . . .

“What was the nature of these impure thoughts, my son?”

Holy hell, does this guy want me to draw him a picture? “I . . . I wanted to touch him.”

“I see. Did you act on these impure thoughts?”

“You mean, did I touch him?”

“Yes, my son.”

“No, that would be too weird.”

“Good, good. You must be mindful of any such transgressions, either in thought or deed, and avoid the occasions of sin.”

“Yes, Father.” Leo tried to remember what an “occasion of sin” was from his catechism class.

“For your penance say three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and make a good act of contrition.”

“Yes, Father.  Oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and …”

Leo rattled off the prayer as he had done since he was seven. He rose and pushed through the curtain, feeling light, a great weight having been lifted, his sins washed away and God’s grace flowing into his soul once again. But as he made his way back to the pew and his family, a cold fear tightened his chest. Would he feel that way again about a boy? Was it a one-time thing, something natural that boys go through? Should he stay away from Weiner? Was his friend, in fact, an occasion of sin?

Reaching the pew he climbed over his sister, knelt, and focused on saying his penance, the prayers forcing out other thoughts. But fear firmly implanted itself within him, and that night before sleep, visions of the sun-drenched clearing returned and he struggled to rid them from his mind.

Leo’s fear of being homosexual faded to an occasional outburst, replaced by good old-fashioned lust for women. In the years to come, he made many trips to the confessional, mumbling to some supposedly celibate priest his sins of licentious thoughts, self-abuse, and later actual sex. But it got harder and harder for Leo to feel “heartily sorry” about any of it.

When he thought about the clearing and Weiner, he inwardly cringed and felt disgusted. This revulsion morphed into a distrust and resentment of gay people. After all, if he could see the error of his ways, why couldn’t they? They must be weak, or worse, Godless with no moral compass.

***

In his early forties, Leo became a partner in an environmental consulting firm. Life had been good: he’d avoided the Vietnam War and married Louisa, a woman he’d met at UCLA and loved dearly. They had the requisite three children and with two professional incomes could afford to live and raise a family in Santa Barbara.

Leo never told Louisa about the clearing or Weiner. His childhood friend had faded into the past, barely remembered as a face in a crowd of school kids banging lockers shut and hurrying down hallways. But he did remember something from his Catholic education, a fragment from an epistle written by St. Paul to the Corinthians, “When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things.” Leo told himself that the clearing and Weiner were childish things that should be forgotten or at least repressed. Over time, his efforts failed.

A week or so before Easter, Leo volunteered to help interview people for an engineering position with the firm. As senior member of a five-person panel, he sat in an airless room, behind a table in a three-piece suit, and helped question each candidate. The hours dragged. All the applicants seemed to have studied proper interview etiquette from the same playbook, with no standouts, until the very end.

As the young man seated himself, Leo opened his folder and stared at his resume. His name was Oscar and he had grown up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

“So tell us why you applied for this job?” the first interviewer asked.

Oscar answered. His voice had a musical lilt, not rushed but thoughtful, and yet firm. Leo studied the man: dove gray three-piece suit, light rose colored shirt, burgundy print necktie, gold cufflinks, manicured fingernails, perfectly coiffed blond hair.

“Tell us something about your work history and what abilities you could bring to this firm?” the second interviewer asked.

Leo didn’t listen to the answer. His mind drifted back to the clearing, to the other Oscar. He shuddered, trying to shake the image. This man looked nothing like Weiner. Yet he knew this Oscar was gay. How did he know that? How could he know that? And why would it matter?

It was Leo’s turn to ask a question. “Do you have family here in Santa Barbara?”

“No. My partner and I just moved here.”

“Your partner?”

The other interviewers glared at Leo, knowing that these questions were unscripted and might get the firm in trouble.

“Yes. My partner was just hired by the City.”

“Really. What department?”

More stern looks from the other panel members.

“Public Works.”

“Well, having some connection to the City could be an asset to our firm,” Leo said. “How do you like Santa Barbara?”

Oscar relaxed in his chair. “I love this community, the mountains and the sea, the Spanish architecture, no snow.” He chuckled. “And the people seem friendly and . . . and more accepting.”

“Different than the last place you lived?”

“Oh God, yes. The AIDs scare really shook that community and anyone that was . . . was gay was looked on as some kind of leper, like in Biblical times.”

“But even Jesus befriended the lepers,” Leo said.

“Yes, he did. But I’m not certain mainstream America is ready yet. Maybe someday.”

“Yes, maybe.”

Before Leo could ask anything else, the other members jumped in with the normal and safe questions. Afterward, they discussed the eight candidates and argued about who should get the job. Leo pushed hard to hire Oscar and after an hour, he’d won over the two holdouts. Oscar became the panel’s unanimous choice.

Leo kept staring at the new-hire’s resume, wondering how a morally questionable person could be so successful, so poised and adroit, so accomplished in his profession. But then, did Oscar’s gayness matter? Why did it matter to Leo? Was he threatened by it? Did his religious beliefs allow him to judge? And what about “Judge not, least ye be judged”? Judging others seemed so natural to Leo. But maybe it shouldn’t.

As a partner, Leo seldom made contact with Oscar. But two months after the young man was hired, they found themselves in the break room drinking excremental coffee.

Leo cleared his throat.  “I . . . I wanted to tell you that you were very brave during your interview – telling us you were gay.”

“I know it was a risky thing to do. But I didn’t want to hide anything. I figured if the interview panel couldn’t accept me, then maybe I didn’t want to work here.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re here.”

“So am I. But I have to ask, did you hire me because I’m the best person for the job or to convince yourselves that you accept gays in the workplace?”

Leo grinned. “For me it was both.”

“Thanks for telling me. And by the way, you asked the best questions.”

***

Children moved away and begat grandchildren, fulfilling careers became repetitive work, bodies deteriorated, life goals simplified, lives slowed and some stopped.

On Sunday, Leo left his car in the parking garage and hobbled to his favorite restaurant on State Street. Tourists crowded Santa Barbara’s main boulevard, searching for eateries to enjoy brunch and hide from the hot Santa Ana winds. Leo ducked into a dark and cool café. It had been Louisa’s favorite and ever since his wife’s death he made it a point to eat there on Sundays. He’d stake out the corner stool at the bar, have a glass of wine then a couple Bloody Marys, watch the big screen TV and shoot the bull with the other old men and women who showed up on Sundays.

But today was different. With wobbly legs, he leaned on his cane and stared around the room. A crowd of young people occupied every barstool, with all the tables and booths filled. 

Francisco, the bartender, grinned. “Sorry, Leo. Something should open up soon. You want a glass of wine while you wait? On the house.”

“Thanks, some Chardonnay would be nice.”

Leo tasted the cold golden elixir and scanned the room, looking for familiar faces and finding none. Two middle-aged men sat at a table against one wall, leaning back in their chairs and sipping something dark from martini glasses. The taller one caught Leo staring. He smiled and waved Leo over, pointing at an empty chair.

Leo felt wary about joining them. He was positive that he didn’t know them, and no stranger had ever offered to share a table before. But his legs were giving out. He shuffled to their spot. The tall one spoke first.

“You look tired, old man. Would you like to join us?”

“I . . . I would. My pipes are killing me.” Leo gulped his wine, slumped onto the chair and adjusted his jeans and ratty denim jacket, feeling self-conscious about his scruffy clothes compared to his tablemates. The two looked like they’d just come from church, wearing their Sunday best. Leo hadn’t been to church in years.

“My name is Sheldon,” the taller one said.

“And I’m Cooper,” the other chimed in.

“Glad to meet you gentlemen. I’m Leo. Say . . . Sheldon Cooper. Isn’t that the name of a character on that TV sitcom?”

“Yes, yes, we get that all the time,” Cooper said. “But the guy playing that part is so flaming. It hurts just to listen to him sometimes.”

“Flaming?” Leo raised an eyebrow.

“You know, super gay. We’re gay but that guy just gets on my nerves. The writers should have butched him up before he married that woman in the series.”

“Yes, I always thought that was strange,” Leo said.

“You don’t think we’re strange?” Sheldon asked. He had reached across the table and taken Cooper’s hand.

“No, no. I don’t know you fellas.” He stared at his empty wine glass and sighed. “But . . . but when I was a boy I was scared that I might be gay.”

“Why?“ Cooper asked.

“There was an incident and it has stuck in my head.”

“Let me guess,” Sheldon said. “You lusted after some boy?”

“Well . . . ”

“Relax, we’ve all been there. But few have done something about it. You didn’t do anything did you?”

“The priest I was confessing my sins to asked me the same question, seventy years ago.”

Sheldon laughed. “Don’t get me started about priests.”

The silence grew. The duo sipped their drinks, with Leo thinking back to that afternoon in the clearing with Weiner. Was it just a flash of hormones? But why would it stick in my head for all these years?

“Will . . . will my questions ever go away?” he murmured.

“Probably not,” Cooper said. “But don’t worry about it. The questions shouldn’t stop you from drinking life to the lees.”

Leo nodded. The silence grew again. He tilted his wine glass back and frowned when he found it empty. Sheldon raised an arm and signaled Francisco to bring another round.

Finally, Leo asked, “So . . . so what do you guys do?”

Cooper answered. “We’re fashion designers up from LA. Taking a break.  And you?”

“A retired engineer . . . living the good life, you know.”

Cooper smiled. “I would have pegged you as some old rancher, in town to enjoy the big city lights.”

“Yes, I kinda dress the part. I wore Armani suits to work for years. Thought I’d try a different tack.”

“So I take it you don’t have many gay friends,” Cooper said.

“None that I know of. And in the old days it seemed that few wanted to come out. My family lived next door to a guy for thirty years and we never knew.”

Sheldon grinned. “Yeah, coming out to my parents was the worst. Mother probably knew all along but Dad just freaked out. We used to do all the manly things together: sports, camping, playing poker, shooting guns, all that stuff. But over the years he’s learned that we’re not Satan out to corrupt anyone’s soul.”

“I think the old priest that I confessed to would disagree with you.”

“They should talk. Let he who has not sinned . . . ” Cooper said and the pair of them laughed.

From across the room Francisco motioned to Leo that a space had opened up at the bar. Leo grinned and shook his head. He thought about the clearing, without the coldness that usually accompanied such reflections. The clearing was clearing up, and for the first time he felt he might be able to live with those nagging unanswered questions.