What would his father think of him now? he wondered. But he knew the answer to that question; he wouldn’t think anything. Hudson had failed to matter to him from the moment Lincoln Jones had realized that his son was smarter than he was. Hudson’s homosexuality was merely further proof of his uselessness. Probably his father had even been expecting it, so sure was he that Hudson would betray his parentage in every way possible.

For a year following the discovery of his shame, Hudson had waited for the neighbor to return for him. He’d told Hudson that he loved him, whispered it in his ear while Hudson touched him in the way he liked, while he released himself into Hudson’s hand. Every day for a year he’d watched for that face, waited for a letter or phone call promising salvation. All through the long Maine winter he’d waited, dreaming of waking up in another bed far away from the cold eyes of his father.

For a long time after coming out he had found himself attracted to men who resembled the neighbor. Making love with them, he had manufactured the smell of the cheap cologne the man had favored. The sight of a grease-stained hand holding a Camel cigarette brought back every yearning of his thirteen years, and he found himself following men in red pickup trucks, although surely the man had long since given up his rusted Chevy for something else. Once he had by chance found a copy of the magazine that had been on the floor of that pink tiled bathroom, an issue of Playgirl which, he assumed, had belonged to the man’s wife. He’d purchased it and taken it back to his room, where every night for two weeks he stood over it and let his memories rain down on the face of the unlucky centerfold, until the pages no longer opened without tearing.

Then he’d met Paul, and it had all begun again. Although Paul had in no physical way resembled the neighbor, Hudson’s attraction to him was just as powerful. Their first time together, Paul had been surprised when Hudson had asked if they could do it in the bathroom of his tiny apartment, where the faded tile—this time a pale lavender instead of pink—provided the necessary backdrop. There, his face buried in Paul’s chest, Hudson had run his fingers over the thin gold band on Paul’s left hand and listened for the sound of children splashing outside.