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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CASEY

The afternoon sun was already high as Casey Goldsmith turned his back on Westover High. Even in mid-June, the heat was already stifling, so the young coyote panted heavily, now that he was out of class, without Mrs Kraft scrunching her beady weasel eyes at him whenever he dared to let his tongue hang from his muzzle. But that was the price he paid for taking summer classes, and if it meant he could graduate early, then so be it.

Westover High's parking lot was mostly empty. Summer classes were not popular here, not in a tiny town in rural Mississippi where most of Casey's classmates would never attend college; where many wouldn't even finish high school. Westover was a purely blue-collar town, and here, education consisted of learning to be a mechanic or an electrician or a farmer. Not that Casey had anything against such occupations; after all, most of his friends would be taking some sort of similar career. Casey had once read something in the newspaper about his town having one of the lowest college turnabouts in the state; less than 25% of high school graduates went on to graduate college.

Not that I intend to be one, either, he thought, but then he heard a familiar voice calling.

"Casey, wait! I'm comin' with you."

Martha Freeman was Casey's best friend, despite being a girl and a hyena, and on this particular afternoon she happened to be wearing a pale pink sundress. Martha also happened to be one of the few students at Westover High who intended to attend college, even though in Westover, girls were generally expected to marry and have babies rather than pursue careers.

"I thought you had to go home right away?" Casey asked, walking along the edge of the highway, one of the few roads in Westover that was paved. "Your family reunion."

The hyena made a face. "Yeah, Mama wanted me back, but I know all she wants is for me to babysit my baby cousins from Biloxi and say "yes ma'am' an' 'no sir' when my uncles an' aunts ask questions 'bout school an' all." She fanned her muzzle with a paw as they aimed for a section of road ahead where the tall trees cast shade across the road. "Plus Cousin Arlene will be there, and you know she's the meanest hyena in Mississippi."

"You can say that again" said Casey, who had met Cousin Arlene before. He glanced enviously at a truck as it rumbled by, picturing next year when he'd get his license and maybe, just maybe, a car - if he could save that much. "Just come over to my place for the afternoon."

"No Brady today?"

Mentioning his secret lacrosse-player boyfriend made Casey's ears flick, ever watchful that someone might discover his secret. "No, he's at Disneyland." His voice lowered. "With Donna."

Martha shook her head, making the bow in her mane jiggle. "I still don't understand how you can date someone with a girlfriend, Casey. Sooner or later he has to tell Donna."

"He said he'd break up with her at the end of summer" Casey told her. Of course he wouldn't admit, even to Martha, that yes, it did bother him that his boyfriend was dating a girl publically and him only in secret - but, he reminded himself, that was how it worked in Westover. Anyway, Donna was a cheetah, and Brady a border collie, so it was obvious that by Westover standards, they were only a fling anyway.

"Whatever you say" Martha murmured softly, as they turned off onto Jackson road, bordered on one side with Mr Lawson's pecan grove and on the other with occasional houses. Her tone implied she wasn't convinced, but Casey knew she wouldn't argue with him. She knew as well as he did what it was like being gay in a place like Westover - not that she was, but she was the only person, excepting Brady, who knew the truth about him. Even Casey's parents didn't know, and considering the things his father had said about gay people in the past, especially around elections, Casey did not intend for them to find out anytime soon.

"It'll be better when I leave" he said suddenly. "I'll go off to Nashville and no one will care."

"They will care, with you becomin' a singer" the hyena pointed out. They stopped momentarily by the O'Donnell farm, by that particular elm tree which old Miz O'Donnell's horses liked to hang out under. "I've never heard tell of any gay fella becomin' a country music star before."

Casey flicked his tail, sticking his muzzle up obstinately as he reached over the fence to rub one of Miz O'Donnell's horses on the nose. "That's just fine, because I'll be the first. I want my music to stand out from the crowd."

"Oh, I've no doubt of that" Martha muttered. She probably though just that Casey would be unique purely because of being gay. Actually he'd meant that he would stand about because his music would be more like the golden age of country, a time when Nashville produced real music, not just an endless stream of songs that were all bound to be about beer, trucks, or trashy women. But Martha had listened to him singing long enough that she already knew that.

So he told her "I'll be so good, they'll forget I'm gay" and left it at that. The horses had all crowded up around the fence, all seven of them, but he had not brought carrots for them like he did on some occasions, so after patting each horse, he stepped back from the fence

"Well, I do I love your singin'" Martha sighed. "Much better than playin' lacrosse; not always bein' like to get your head bashed in."

Casey grinned, walking backwards. "It's fun too. Just not as much as singin'." His ears perked. "Hey, maybe next year once I turn sixteen and get my car, I'll just leave and drive straight to Nashville! Some music stars start at our age. Why not me?"

"I wish I could come with you" Martha murmured wistfully. "But Mama would never be able to manage the children without me."

He wondered whether he should remind her that her numerous siblings were her mother's children, not hers, but that wouldn't help any. Instead he said "I'll send you a postcard once in a while," quirking his muzzle to show his fangs.

Martha laughed. "You fool. I'd have to go with you just to keep you from gettin' yourself into trouble."

"I avoid trouble like the plague" Casey declared dramatically, noticing the fork in the road ahead, the left which led to his own house, and the right which led to Martha's.

"Even Nashville isn't entirely safe for people like you" the hyena argued.

But no place in the South is, Casey wanted to say. How could he explain the convoluted emotions inside - the part of him that loved his homeland; loved the friendly, old-fashioned people, the quiet towns and dusty roads, the characteristic scents and sounds of Dixie, southern hospitality and all - and yet at the same time, hated it; hated the narrow-mindedness, the overwhelming belief everywhere that being gay somehow made you the spawn of the devil. I love this country but it doesn't love me back, he had decided. But maybe if he became a music star, that would change things. People might be willing to overlook his "flaw," if he had shown that he was a real man, one who could sing, could sing real songs, not more of that pop star crap produced out in LA. Then, just maybe, his homeland might accept him back, gayness and all.

But not yet.

Until then, he made to insure that no one else learned his secret. Just Martha, Brady - ok, well there was that time that Zeb Lundy had caught him kissing Brady in the gym - one of the very few times they'd kissed anywhere near other people. He'd been scared for a minute, but it had not been difficult to put ideas into Zeb's head as to what Casey would do if Zeb breathed a word about the incident to anyone. And the rat had caved in easily. Casey was a well-built guy; one had to be if he intended to stay on Coach Nickel's lacrosse team. Just remembering made him flex his arms, inspired. Athletic, muscled; he was nothing like the gay guys on television. They were usually in comedy movies, and most of the time they were either skinny twinks without a scrap of muscle or nerdy gamers, never attractive guys, like the movie producers thought it wasn't cool to have a gay character appear attractive. But there had to be other nice-looking gay guys, Casey thought, after all, Brady was one hot dog.

Zeb, on the other hand, was a skinny rat with patchy fur and an abnormally-long nose, and it had only taken a few growls to send him squeaking into squeals of "I won't tell! I won't tell!" Casey had actually felt pretty good that day; what a reverse of stereotypes - he, the tough lacrosse player, was actually the gay guy, and Zeb, the nerdy rat, was the straight guy. Totally the opposite of what their movie counterparts would have looked like.

Perhaps he should have befriended Zeb instead. The rat would have fit into Casey's and Martha's clique - rats, like coyotes and hyenas, were considered lower-class species in many areas of the South, and could still get dirty looks if they ventured into certain establishments, even today, when the Species Equality Act was nearing its 50th birthday. But Zeb's father, Deacon Lundy, was an important man at the Westover Methodist Church, and Casey could never trust someone with such strong religious convictions.

They had reached the fork in the road, and Martha was looking at him expectantly. "Why don't you just come home with me?"

"Won't that be imposing on your reunion?"

"Not at all!" she insisted. "Please, Casey; don't make me face them all on my own."

He hesitated, then relaxed. "It's not often I get the chance to spend my evening with a pack of hyenas."

Martha looked relieved, smiling. "Oh thank you. Maybe we can sneak out while all the grown-ups are drinking and play baseball or something."

"Or just steal a six-pack" Casey suggested devilishly.

"Casey!" Martha gasped, but she giggled too. "Not with my sisters around."

That reminded Casey that whatever they ended up doing, Martha's four younger sisters and probably at least a dozen cousins would be following them, which would probably put a limit on what they could talk about or do. But, oh well. It was a pretty day out, even if hot, and his new idea of running away to music land had him feeling pretty good. Here they were, strolling along a dirt road with big trees towering over them, complete nobodies, and yet in a year or two, people all over America might be hearing his, Casey Goldsmith's, voice on their radios. The thought made his tail wag.

A truck rumbled behind them.

At first, Casey did not think much of it when he saw that the truck was an ancient brown Chevy, with lots of scratches on the hood and a dent in the passenger side door. The truck belonged to Ike Gibson, the local drunk. Ike spent most of his time at Henderson's Bar, or in jail, but occasionally he did climb into his truck and drive around for a bit, usually very slowly. Today, however, the driver was not a greying lion with a matted mane and a constant stench of beer; rather it was Ike's son Hunter. The younger Gibson was a husky teen who'd shaved off his mane, presumably became he thought it made him look tough, although in reality it had the opposite effect, so that from a distance he could easily be mistaken for a cougar. He had a reputation of being a bully, but Casey did not fear him; the lion was a coward at heart, and would not likely make trouble with a tough lacrosse player, even if that player happened to be a coyote.

Hunter, like Casey, was only 15, so technically he should not have been driving - but this was a dirt road, and the sheriff tended to be lax on teens that drove slowly on dirt roads.

Casey only gave the truck a sideways glance as it pulled up alongside them, but Martha, who despised bullies, frowned. "Casey, why is Andy hangin' out with Hunter? I didn't know they was friends."

The coyote flicked his ears towards the truck cab, just as the window rolled down. Sure enough, the passenger seat was occupied by Andy Biggs, the son of Principle Biggs. That was odd. The Dalmatian was one of the most popular guys in school, the sort all the female students fawned over. Andy usually hung out with members of the lacrosse team or other such jocks, not lowly bullies like Hunter Gibson....somehow that didn't seem right.

"Hey, Andy" Casey allowed a smile to creep across his muzzle as the Chevy idled alongside them.

"Casey" the spotted dog acknowledged, without really smiling. Between him and Hunter, someone else moved, and Casey realised there was a third passenger there.

He was about to offer some other greeting when suddenly, the truck swerved and cut in front of him, pulling to a stop in a cloud of dust.

Coughing, Casey glanced at Martha, who looked confused. They weren't very far from her house now, only a mile, maybe. Strangely, Hunter had parked right under the shade of the big sycamore that locals referred to as the lynching tree, because legend had that during Reconstruction, a few former slaves had been hung from this very tree. The sort of story old grandmothers tell their grandchildren while they rock in their porch swings on warm summer evenings, a cup of sweet tea in their paws.

The car door opened.

Andy was looking towards Martha as he got out, his eyes narrowing. "Hey, hyena. It's Martha, right?"

The hyena visibly didn't appreciate being addressed as "hyena," but she nodded, eyes darting back and forth suspiciously. "Yes...?"

"We'd like a word with...your friend" the Dalmatian said. Hunter had now walked around the front of the truck, grinning.

A shiver ran down Casey's spine. Something wasn't right. "No, I think we'll be going." He reached for Martha's paw.

"I thought you'd say that" Hunter growled. The tufted tip of his tail was twitching back and forth, like he was anticipating something.

Something crashed into Casey's skull.

The next thing he knew, he was spitting dirt, seeing stars. Someone was crying. Martha.

His head ached, but he tried to push himself up. Instead, someone kicked him hard in the chest, and Martha screamed. She was bending over him, he realised, and she had a rip on the arm of her sundress.

"Hey, hey, Casey" Hunter's face appeared in his vision, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "Or should I call you fag?"

What?

As his vision cleared, he realised who the third passenger of the truck was, now standing next to Andy. Zeb Lundy.

Shit.

"I told them your secret!" Zeb squeaked. "You're an abomination!"

"Shut your fuckin' mouth" Casey growled, trying to roll away from them.

Another kick, this time accompanied by a blow to his legs that made him want to scream. "Not so high and mighty now, fag?" Hunter growled.

Casey bared his fangs. "Fuck off" he snarled. He realised all three of them were holding baseball bats.

Martha was trembling, trying to pull him up, and gasping "Please leave us be. Please" over and over.

Andy shook his head, like a judge delivering a verdict. "The Prophet has spoken" he said seriously. "All who follow the path of sodomy will burn in the fires. God has called upon us to drive out the unrighteous." Oh God, Casey thought. Andy actually believed that stuff? Even here, one sometimes forgot that you could find crazy religious folks anywhere.

Zeb was almost hysterical. "It's true! The fury of God is already upon San Fernando, in California! Many sodomites have already fallen under the wrath of an angry God."

"Soon to be one more" Andy murmured.

"If we allow a sodomite to remain in our community, God will punish us!" the rat almost screamed. "We must obey!"

Casey turned towards Martha. "Martha, run."

"I can't leave you-" she begin, but Casey snarled.

"Martha, run! Now!"

She jumped up, but Hunter seized her easily. "Now, fag. We have your little hag too."

"Let her go" Casey snarled. His eyes were everywhere, looking for a weapon, for a way to take them all down at once.

"Oh, don't worry, we won't hurt her" the lion sneered. "Much."

Martha was sobbing, held fast in Hunter's big arms.

"Let's get this over with" Andy muttered.

Casey made his move. Instead of rolling away from the three attackers or trying to get up, he rolled towards them, shooting a fist up to connect with Zeb's knee as he did so. The rat went tumbling down and Andy also seemed to lose his balance. Then Casey was up, springing to his feet, barrelling into Hunter. He could run faster than any of these creeps, but they had Martha.

The hyena fell from Hunter's grasp as Casey rammed his head into the lion's chest, making Hunter give a heavy grunt and dropped his baseball bat.

Casey grabbed for Martha's hand, pulling her away.

Something crashed into his knee, and he screamed.

He was on the ground, thrashing. His kneecap was shattered; only that would bring the amount of pain that was shooting up from his leg, crippling him. Strange, even in the danger, all he could think was I'll never play lacrosse again. But he couldn't give up. Straining, he tried pulling himself away, tasting blood as his lip bled - he'd bitten it.

Another blow, this one in the centre of his back, followed by one to his head.

He hit the road hard.

He glanced upwards; saw Hunter and Andy and Zeb, all up; all holding baseball bats. No sign of Martha.

"Any last words, fag?" that was from Hunter.

He glanced to the side. Martha was in the ditch by the side of the rode; he could just make out the pink of her sundress. She wasn't moving.

"Fuck you" he spat, and in one movement, he spun, and sank his fangs into Andy's pretty black-spotted ankle.

The Dalmatian cursed.

Zeb Lundy screamed "I say a final prayer for your soul!"

And the blows begin.

At some point later Casey vaguely thought he heard Martha screaming, but maybe he imagined it. His ribs were broken, his teeth were gone, his legs shattered, or so he thought. Maybe he imagined everything, all the shifting pictures; Brady kissing him under the spinning fan in his bedroom; his father praising him after their last lacrosse win; the joy he felt when he played his guitar and sang - but mostly it was just pain. Eventually though, even that begin to fade, along with everything else, and then he was aware of nothing at all, nothing but the blows that rained on and on, sending him farther and farther away, into the darkness.