“Adam, what are you doing? Why aren’t you out there?”

It was Randy Grossman. He had a frantic, accusing look on his face. Adam knew the more pertinent question was why wasn’t Randy out there, why he had disappeared—but Adam was too overwhelmed by guilt to even mount the argument. The truth was, he did want to get away from the demonstration. Randy and the Gay and Lesbian Fist were 100 percent right in their cause. Gays and lesbians deserved not merely to have equal rights, they deserved also to be welcomed, embraced, hugged to the bosom, as sisters and brothers, the moral and social equals—in many cases, the moral superiors—of straight people. Absolutely no question about it! But to be labeled as one of them? Yuchhhh. The thought made his flesh crawl. He couldn’t imagine anything more ruinous or disgusting. That made him feel even guiltier as he stood here in the soaring sanctum of the Dupont Memorial Library looking at Randy’s appalled expression. Randy had done a brave and noble thing. He had come out. He had put his reputation on the line. He had overcome many fears and limitations and girded his loins…even unto the task of ascending to a podium in the Great Yard to lead the people on Stand Up Straight for Gay Day. And he made Adam’s flesh crawl, which made Adam feel guiltier.

He began sputtering and making imaginary snowballs and trying to explain to his moral superior, Randy, that he wasn’t leaving—by no means!—it was just that he…uh…he’d had a…muscle spasm, yeah, a muscle spasm, from holding the placard in place for so long, and he’d had to put it down for a moment and he was heading right back into the fray and so forth and so on.

Thus morally cowed—by Randy Grossman!—he sheepishly left the library and picked up the placard—Randy Grossman, his superior here at the Masada of our times, watched him suspiciously every step of the way—and headed back to the ruckus, the rhetorical mayhem of the sound system, which made twerps think they were leaders of the people, to the battle-ground—for that was what it might become! Suppose Hoyt Thorpe had retreated merely to regroup and—attack!—assault! He could see the cool smirk on his face! Yet shame proved to be more powerful than fear. Adam found himself back in the line of Praetorian guards in front of the dais, with a big sign over his head saying QUEER.

“—not even by pushing the envelope of their at once bulked-up and refined hypocrisy can they find a basis in case law or morality or simple human decency for their opposition to same-sex marriage. Not only that—”

This time it was the voice of a man, not a student, thundering out of the speakers and the Great Yard and echoing off the stone façades of Dupont’s most venerable buildings. Adam put the placard over his face so he could look back up over his shoulder at the podium and see who it was. It was a fat man in his fifties, probably, wearing a V-necked gray sweater that was too tight and brought out many unfortunate folds in his flesh. Adam didn’t recognize him, but considering his elocution, it was a good bet that he was on the faculty.

“—so that the religious right chooses to stress the premise that marriage is all about children. But if we look at their own holy text, how often does their own holy prophet, Jesus, dwell upon children? He doesn’t dwell upon children…at all. In fact, he only mentions them once, and that’s in response to a question. It’s in what the religious right refers to as the New Testament, the Book—their name for a chapter—the Book of Mark, verse forty-two, in which Jesus says, ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.’ That’s their own prophet on the subject of children. That’s it! Let’m come shake hands with me here in public! That’s it! It’s a photo op! On the basis of that they’re telling us their religion is opposed to same-sex marriage? They don’t know their own religion! We’ve got a knowledge gap here, and we’d have to build a bridge for them to ever get across it!”

Whoops, howls of laughter, as the wise man outed the philistines.

“Now, my wife and I have two children, and we love them, we’re extremely close to them, and we’d do anything in the world we could for them. But do we think our marriage is ‘all about’ them? We both have careers, and we happen to think our marriage is also ‘about’ our work. I’ll go further. We happen to think our work is meaningful. My wife is an attorney, and she is always on call, by her own choice, for the court to appoint her to represent indigent defendants in criminal actions. I teach here at the university, and I happen to think—of course, I can’t guarantee that my students don’t think otherwise”—big smile, hearty chuckle—“I happen to regard teaching as—to use words I hope the religious right will be comfortable with—a ‘holy calling,’ and our marriage is ‘about’ those things, too. Is there any reason why partners in a same-sex marriage could not rear children, could not adopt and raise children from among the literally millions of children in this country who are without parents, with the same love and dedication my wife and I try to give our children? Of course not. The two things, the gender composition of the marriage and the rearing of children couldn’t have less to do with each other! Couldn’t have less! To have to deal with such a nonsensical argument at all…stuns the normal mind!”

That brought a burst of approval from the crowd of blue-jeaners and spurred the speaker on to greater heights.

“The sheer ignorance of it actively victimizes those who are the most vulnerable and defenseless, the children of this country! Victimizes them and subjects them to unspeakable abuse!”

A roar of approval, but Adam put the placard in front of his face again. He wasn’t joining in. Whoever this old guy was, he was a foxy old bastard. He had just happened to have to divulge that he was married and had two children. Oh, of course, to be gay was 100 percent terrific, maybe it was far, far better to be gay, but he just happened to let it out of the bag that he was a straight cat, he was, he was. Adam resented that. This faculty member, whoever he was, could score big points by appearing at the Stand Up Straight for Gay Day rally—but with a microphone to let the world know he himself was no fucking faggot…while Adam Gellin had to stand here stock-still and silent, holding a sign up over his head that said QUEER in big letters. Why couldn’t he have a microphone, too, or at least add a line to his sign? Now it said,

FREE SPEECH

IS QUEER,

TOO!

Why couldn’t he add,

AND NOT JUST

STRAIGHT

LIKE ME!

Damn, that was longer than what was already there…The damned placard by itself would have to be six feet high. With the stick…the thing would end up eight or nine feet tall…

The old guy was really soaring now, barrel rolls, outside loops, power dives, inverted spins…There was no holding him back…

Who was he, though? Overcome by curiosity, Adam sidled over to Camille, who was once more a Praetorian guard. He was careful to keep his sign facing front and his face behind it.

“Who is that?” he said.

“Jerome Quat,” said Camille out the side of her mouth. “He’s one of the few faculty members with guts. The rest just sign petitions.”

“Jerome Quat?” Adam was startled. “Teaches history?”

Camille nodded yes. A tremor went through Adam’s solar plexus. His heart started banging as if it had an appointment somewhere else. Jojo’s history professor!—the very one who had him and Jojo trapped inside a box like a couple of insects! This was him!

Adam’s every instinct told him to vanish—now. But he couldn’t very well bolt in the middle of the guy’s talk…Randy and the guilt factor…So he just stood there with the QUEER placard over his face, thinking…Gradually his mind caught up with his amygdala…

Mr. Jerome Quat came down, at length, from the heights of oratory and stood at the podium accepting the applause and cheers—real cheers—and one of the current undergraduate chants of approval, which went, Wooo wooo wooo wooo! Camille had joined in and was going wooo wooo wooo wooo as she put her placard down and hurried from her post to go back behind the dais and congratulate him. Adam followed her. Quat had descended from the dais at last and was currently thronged by Fist leaders and fans…and seemed to feel no urge to hurry away from their flattery and gratitude and more flattery.