F. Paul Wilson - Hosts

"See this guy? Same one as talked to this fucking Savior in today's paper. What I'm thinking is I go hang around The Light offices and see what this microturd's up to."

"You mean follow him?" Sounded like a major waste of time.

"Yeah. Why not? Not like I got much else goin' on in the toilet I call my life these days."

Wasn't that the truth. For both of them.

And now that Stan thought about it, maybe this would be good for Joe. Even if he came up empty handed—as he most likely would—at least he'd be out and about instead of sitting in his chair in that litterbox apartment staring at the TV all day.

"Maybe I'll tag along," Stan said. "Just to keep you out of trouble."

He said it lightly, but he was dead serious. Joe was like a carelessly wired block of C-4 these days. No telling what might set him off.

3

"You look awful," Kate said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Pale, dark circles under her eyes… at least her eyes showed no signs of conjunctivitis. She'd been worried about adenoviruses lately, and that was a common symptom.

She checked her palm. The tiny puncture had healed. For a while, with the aches and malaise Kate had experienced two days after the wound, she'd feared she'd been infected with something. But today the aches were gone.

Not so the fatigue. The dreams had something to do with that, she was sure. Last night's had been the strangest by far. She'd spent the night flying over a landscape of coins—pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, all the size of sports arenas, and all face down. And droning in her head a babble of voices, mostly unrecognizable except for Jeanette's and one that sounded like Holdstock's, drifting in and out, calling her name.

And then the dream had stopped.

Not too long afterward she'd heard Jeanette come in and go directly to her room.

And now here she was facing another morning feeling exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally.

Part of her wanted to run. The emotional abuse from Jeanette—she'd found a way to make silence and indifference abusive—was almost more than Kate could stand. But she kept telling herself this was not Jeanette. Somehow her brain had been affected and her true self was crying to get out. The need to rescue the real Jeanette was the only thing keeping Kate here.

A buzzing sound… she opened the bathroom door. The vestibule bell. Someone down front wanted to get in. Jeanette had stopped answering bells of any sort—phones, doors—so Kate knew it was up to her.

Who on earth? she thought as she pressed the button and said, "Hello?"

"Kate, it's Jack. We need to talk."

Do we? she thought.

"Okay. Come up for coffee."

"Can you come down? We'll find an Andrews or something."

He sounded so serious. What was on his mind?

"Let me throw on some clothes."

Minutes later, dressed in jeans and a sweater, she stepped out of the stairwell into the building's lobby. Kate had left a note to Jeanette saying where she'd be. Not that Jeanette would care.

She found Jack, also in jeans but wearing a flannel shirt, waiting outside on the sidewalk. He didn't look too well rested himself. He stepped up to her and enfolded her in his arms.

"I know about you and Jeanette," he said in a low voice, "and it doesn't change a damn thing. You're my sister and I love you."

And suddenly Kate found her face pressed against his chest and she was crying—quaking with deep-rooted sobs. She tried to stop them but they kept coming.

"It's okay, Kate," he said. "Don't be afraid. I won't tell a soul."

She pushed free and wiped her eyes. "That's not why I'm crying. I'm glad you know. You can't imagine what a relief it is to stop hiding it from you, to come out to someone.'1''

"Oh… good. I spent half the night trying to figure the best way to word it. I didn't know how you'd react. I—"

She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "You did just fine."

She clung to him a moment longer, almost dizzy with relief and lighter in heart than she'd felt in years.

"Let's walk," he said. "I'm not yet properly caffeinated."

"But just let me hear it again, Jack," she said as they ambled arm in arm toward Seventh. "Does my being a dyke really not change a thing for you or were you just trying to make me feel better?"

He made a face. "You're not a dyke."

"Sure I am."

"No. When I hear 'dyke' I see a fat broad in work clothes and boots with a bad haircut and a load of 'tude."

She laughed. "It doesn't mean superbutch anymore. It's what we call ourselves. As Jeanette says, 'We're taking back the word.' " Or what Jeanette used to say, Kate thought as a wave of sadness brought her down. "But you're not answering the question."

"Okay, the question seems to be since I lie about myself to just about everyone every day, how can you be sure I'm telling you the truth."

"Not at all—"

"Or is it about whether I'm one of those politically correct liberal types who knee-jerks to this sort of thing?"

Had she offended him?

"Jack—"

"So let's get a few things straight, Kate. I'm not PC and I'm not liberal—I'm not conservative or Democrat or Republican either. I operate on one principle: you own your own life, and that means you're free to do anything you want with that life so long as you don't interfere with other people's freedom to live their lives. It means you own your own body and you can do anything you want to it—pierce it, fill it with drugs, set it on fire—your call. Same with sex. As long as there's no force involved it's none of my business how you get off. I don't have to approve of it because it's not my life, it's yours. I don't have to understand, either. Which, by the way, I don't."

As he paused for breath Kate jumped in. "But that doesn't tell me how you feel."

"Feel? How does surprised and baffled sound? If you'd been a tomboy all your life and had never dated I could see it. But you had one boyfriend after another."

"Right. But no steady."

"Is that significant?"

"I didn't think so then, but 1 do now."

They found a little place on Seventh called The Greek Corner. She saw no one looking even vaguely Greek behind the counter, but the coffee smelled good. They took a table in a largely deserted glassed-in bump-out that would have been a solar oven if the sun had been out.

Jack sighed. "To tell the truth, Kate, I don't understand same-sex attraction. I know it exists and I accept that, but it's alien to me. I'm not wired for it. And then, of all people, you."

"You can't be more surprised than I was, Jack. But it's here. It's me. And there doesn't seem to be a darn thing I can do about it."

"But how? When? Where? Why? Help me here, Kate. I'm completely at sea."

"I'm still trying to figure it out for myself, Jack. You want to know when? When I knew? I'm not sure. Gay guys seem to know much earlier. With women it's not so easy. We're much more fluid in our sexuality—not my term, something I read. But it's true. We're much more intimate with each other. Sure I liked boys when I was a teenager. I liked dating, being courted, pursued. I even liked the sex. But you know what I liked more? Pajama parties."

Jack covered his eyes. "Don't tell me there were teenage lesbian orgies going on just a few feet down the hall from my bedroom and I didn't know."

Kate gave him a gentle kick under the table. "For crying out loud, Jack. Cool it, okay? Nothing ever happened. But there was a lot of contact—the pillow fights, the tickling, the laughing, the sleeping three to a mattress, two to a bedroll. Back then that was all considered normal teenage behavior for girls, but not for guys."

"I'll say."

"And it was normal for me. I loved the closeness to the other girls, the intimacy, and maybe I loved it more than the others, but I never connected it with sex."