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“It’s my new home,” he says, with a mixture of irony and sarcasm. “Isn’t it fabulous?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Hold on,” he says. “I’ve got to pee. I’ll be right back.”
He goes into the house and comes out several minutes later with a mug of coffee. “I’d invite you in, but I promise, you won’t find it pleasant inside.”
“What’s going on?” I follow him into the tent. There’s a tarp on the ground, a sleeping bag, a rough army blanket, a pile of clothes, and a small plastic table on which stands an old lamp and an open box of Oreos. Walt paws through the pile of clothes, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and holds it up. “One of the advantages of not living in the house. No one can tell you not to smoke.”
“Ha,” I say, sitting cross-legged on the sleeping bag.
I light a cigarette as I try to make sense of this situation. “So you’re not living in your house?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says. “Moved out a few days ago.”
“Isn’t it kind of cold for camping?”
“Not today.” He rolls over and ashes his cigarette in the corner of the tent. “Anyway, I’m used to it. I love hardship.”
“You do?”
He sighs. “What do you think?”
“So why are you out here?”
He inhales deeply. “My father. Richard found out I was gay. Oh yes,” he continues, taking in my shocked expression. “My brother read my journal—”
“You keep a journal?”
“Of course, Carrie,” he says impatiently. “I always have. It’s mostly ideas for architecture—clippings of buildings I like and drawings. But there is some personal stuff in there—a few Polaroids of me and Randy—and my dumb brother somehow managed to put two-and-two together and told my parents.”
“Crap.”
“Yeah.” Walt stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another. “My mother couldn’t care less, of course—she has a brother who’s gay, although no one ever comes out and says it. They call him a ‘confirmed bachelor.’ But my father freaked out. He’s such an asshole you’d never believe he could be religious, but he is. He thinks being ‘homosexual’ is a mortal sin or something. Anyway, I’m no longer allowed to go to church, which is a relief, but my father decided he couldn’t trust me to sleep in the house. He’s afraid I might corrupt my brothers.”
“Walt, that’s ridiculous.”
He shrugs. “Could be worse. At least I’m allowed to use the kitchen and the bathroom.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“Like you aren’t all wrapped up in your own drama.”
“I am, but I always have time for other people’s dramas.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Oh, God. Have I been a shitty friend?”
“Not shitty,” Walt says. “Just caught up in your own problems.”
I hug my knees and stare bleakly at the rough canvas walls. “I’m sorry, Walt. I had no idea. You can come and live at my house until this blows over. Your father can’t stay mad at you forever.”
“Wanna bet?” Walt says. “According to him, I’m the devil’s spawn. He’s disowned me as his son.”
“Why don’t you leave? Run away?”
“And go where?” he scoffs. “Besides, what’s the point? Richard refuses to pay for college, as punishment for my being gay. He’s afraid that all I’ll do in college is dress up and go to discos or something—so I need to save every penny. I figure I’ll live in the tent until September, when I go to RISD.” He leans back against the damp pillow. “It’s not that bad. I kind of like it here.”
