The Decent Thing

Lucy Wallace believed in decency. She believed in a well-set table, pressed slacks, polite conversation, and the sort of quiet evenings where the television murmured something harmless in the background while her husband read the paper.

That was the kind of night it was—until the door opened.

Gary's voice called from the hall. "Hey, Mom, Dad! Wyatt's here!"

Lucy looked up from her book, smiling automatically, the way she always did when Gary brought Wyatt over. The boys were inseparable. Harmless. Earnest. She knew that her son wasn't the most popular boy at that school, that he struggled with having a broad social circle. It was good that Gary had at least one good friend.

Then they stepped into the living room.

Her smile froze.

Wyatt Donnelly was the first through the doorway, heading to the stairs. The figure walking ahead of Gary was wearing a metallic pink dress that caught the lamplight in long, liquid ribbons, each fold glimmering like molten candy. Her legs looked impossibly long. Her hair—brown, loose, teasing at her shoulders—shimmered with that careless perfection Lucy had never once managed even on her best day.

Wyatt was, quite clearly, the kind of young man that Lucy was glad to have in her son's life.

It was obvious. So obvious she couldn't imagine why anyone might see it otherwise. A good, strapping boy, she thought. A little overdressed, perhaps, but there was something robust about him—so confident, so manly.

Her gaze drifted to Gary.

Oh dear Lord.

He looked the same as always. Jeans. T-shirt. Hair sticking up a bit. But something about him struck her as… off. The way he carried himself—so delicate. The way his plain cotton shirt hung there, unadorned, neckline high and square, sleeves not even rolled. There was something almost obscene about it.

Lucy's throat went dry. "Gary," she said, voice small. "What in the world are you wearing?"

He paused and seemed to wince. "Uh… clothes?"

Al glanced over his newspaper. He frowned the way a man might frown at a burnt roast. "Son, you going through a phase or something?"

Gary looked from his father to his mother. "What? Phase? I'm just wearing my clothes!"

Wyatt laughed, a soft, throaty sound that rolled through the room like perfume. "He's just being himself, Mr. Wallace."

Lucy tried not to look directly at Wyatt's shimmering dress—it was blinding somehow, an almost holy expression of manhood. "Wyatt, dear," she said, forcing calm into her tone, "maybe you can talk some sense into him. You boys are close. He listens to you."

Wyatt tilted her head, confused but polite. "Sure, Mrs. Wallace."

Lucy pressed a hand to her heart. Her chest felt tight. "Gary. Sweetheart," she whispered, "were you dressed like that out in public? People will see you! What will they think? Those jeans—are they even form-fitting? And that shirt—" she swallowed— "no cut at all. No colour. No… shape. It's indecent."

"Indecent?" Gary echoed, incredulous. "Mom, it's just a T-shirt!"

"Exactly," Lucy said, her voice breaking. "Just a T-shirt! Oh Gary, what's happening to you?"

Wyatt shifted her weight, a movement so fluid and confident it was almost hypnotic. "He looks fine to me," she said, smiling with that bright, teasing grin through her painted lips.

Lucy flinched. "Fine? He looks bare. What will people think of our family if they see you dressed like that?"

"Lucy," Al said, putting a steadying hand on her knee. "Let's not make a scene in front of company."

But he was looking at Gary the same way one might look at a daughter caught sneaking out after curfew. His eyes darted up and down, struggling to land anywhere appropriate. "Son," he said finally, "maybe you should go upstairs and change. Something more proper. I don't want you giving your mother a heart attack."

Gary groaned. "You've both lost it."

"I'll help him pick something out," Wyatt offered, her voice syrupy and calm.

Lucy's relief was instant. "Thank God for you, Wyatt. You're such a sensible young man."

Wyatt smiled sweetly, posing with her hands clasped in front, her breasts squeezing between her arms. "I try."

Lucy turned to Al as the boys made their way upstairs, trembling slightly. "Do you think it's our fault? Maybe we didn't give him enough boundaries. Or maybe he's… experimenting?"

Al sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's got to be the culture, Lucy. You can't turn on the TV without seeing some fellow dressed like—" He gestured vaguely toward Gary. "—that."

Lucy nodded solemnly, though she couldn't quite tell what that was supposed to mean. She only knew that something was very wrong with her son.

From her comfortable seat on the sofa, she could hear Wyatt's heels clicking up the steps—confident, masculine, reassuring. Gary's obscene sneakers squeaked beside them, small and uncertain, somehow indecorous.

Lucy leaned into her husband. "We'll get through this, won't we?"

Al patted her hand. "Of course. He just needs guidance. And maybe a good mirror."

Lucy closed her eyes. Somewhere above them, a door creaked open, and she prayed that by the time it closed again, her son would have the good sense to put on something decent.