Leaving gay-friendly San Francisco behind, Rick and John move into their first home together in Madison, Wisconsin. As they begin their new life, everything seems perfect, their love never stronger.
Then they discover the “welcome wagon” isn't quite as welcoming as they’d hoped. The Houstons seem like a friendly couple at first, but the crust of the pie they bring over hides a sour aftertaste, and just below the veneer of good will lies a festering intolerance that ticks like a time bomb.
Soon Rick and John realize their idyllic, Norman Rockwell vision of the all American dream includes a darker side they didn’t expect.
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.
There was awkward silence. Rick began to feel uncomfortable, as though Vic was looking at him with an air of condescension.
“I’ve got a son, you know,” he said, his expression even more grim now. He opened his hand and squeezed the hoe with a vice-like grip.
“I know,” Rick said, nodding. “How is he?”
“Fine, but make sure that if he crosses the hedge you tell him his daddy will whip him. He is to stay in his own yard.”
Rick flinched at the word “whip.” It sounded like parenting from some bygone era, like discipline that bordered on abuse.
Rick said nothing at first, his eyebrows raised as he looked at Vic. “Okay,” he replied, his voice devoid of conviction. “I’ll remind him. He’s a good kid. I only saw him in our yard once. He was playing with our cat one afternoon. Aunt Mabel’s kind of old, but he still likes to play.”
Rick had expected at least a weak smile from Vic after he said this, but he was as poker-faced as ever.
Vic lifted the blade as if to inspect it, turning it different angles.
“This is a man’s friend in the fields,” he said. “This baby can cut deep.”
Rick nodded, weary of Vic’s overwrought enthusiasm.
“It’s the symbol of harvest,” Vic continued,” and Lord knows this world needs its weeds removed to reap a good harvest.”
Now Rick was lost; the man had progressed from sounding like a boy admiring his first baseball bat to some ancient prophet who’d stepped out of the pages of the Old Testament.
“Can I ask you a favor?” Vic continued, looking at Rick with eyes of such dark intensity he nearly winced.
“Zeke is seven. Try to ... you know ... respect that. And cover if you can ...”
Rick blinked back at him, confounded. “Cover what?”
Vic grimaced and motioned toward Rick’s skimpy trunks. “This is a nice neighborhood. We’re not like the condo owners or the downtown folks. Nothing personal, but you know the saying: ‘children are watching.’ And, uh ... so are their parents.”
“Oh?” Rick replied. “We don’t mind that. We have nothing to hide. Do you?”
Vic glared at Rick with an expression of undisguised loathing.
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