The Right Thing -- Sam Morgan

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He never doubted himself before. Never doubted who he was or what he became. Everything he did was colored by a brilliant, unwavering self-assurance that sometimes spilled over into egotism. But those who knew him knew better.

But they never knew what lurked just beyond the overpowering wall of cool confidence. They never understood the dreams that haunted his nights, nor the televised nightmares plaguing his days. He could scarcely bring himself to acknowledge the fact, let alone tell anyone he loved. There was a thick wall around it, protecting his mind and heart from the shameful thing he unconsciously lived with and lied about. Yet the raging forces behind it threatened to burst at the most opportune time, spilling the secret doubt like a flood.

The dam broke while at work one day. The clients came in, relayed the story, and he took the case. It was a simple lawsuit, really. The clients, a nice couple really, had applied to and been turned down by several adoption agencies in the city. They were suing for discrimination.

He went over it, piece by piece, questioning, reading, searching for any small loophole that would either bless or curse the clients. There was nothing damning. The clients had steady jobs, flexible hours, decent income, weekends off. One was even willing to quit theirs to spend days at home with a baby. They lived in an apartment in the “good” section of town. A handful of good schools were merely blocks away, as if the couple rented the apartment based on that fact.

Nothing was wrong, and if there was, he couldn’t see it. In frustration, he passed the folder across to a partner to look over, in case there was some minor detail he’d missed. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, waiting for conformation of what he expected. To his surprise, the partner nodded, slid the folder back to him, and shrugged, as if the problem were blatantly obvious.

“It’s simple. They’re gay. No way you’re winning this one, Morgan.”

Something in him jerked, as if stung. Ice formed and melted around his heart, sending pieces down to chill his bones. An imperceptible crack formed in the wall around his nightmares. His voice was stained, echoing off the hollowness inside.

“Why should that make any difference?”

The partner shrugged. Something in the casual dismissal angered him.

“Because it’s two men. Disgusting and wrong. No sane agency is going to give them a kid, and no sane judge is going to award them anything. I can’t believe you even let them in here.”

He got up and walked out, muttering something under his breath. The partner called after him, following to a degree, only to be chastised with harsher words than he expected.

“You’re fired. I want your desk cleaned out and sanitized of your homophobia by the time I get back.”

The cold air rushed across his cheeks, forcing too-old eyes to close against the tears that were not merely creations of the sharp breeze.

Weeks later, he tried the case. He presented himself, his clients well. Hair pulled up out of consideration, clothes fresh from the dry cleaners, reading glasses dangling intelligently from one jacket pocket. He fought, he battled, he argued more fiercely than he’d ever done before. The defense was stunned by his crosses, their witnesses, their prized child psychologist left sputtering on the stand. He walked out of the courtroom, hands shoved in his pockets, spine resolutely straight, pride inflamed.

He lost the case.

There was no consolation. The night was spent folded protectively in a chair, hunched around a teacup, dead eyes locked on a single lamp outside the window. A harpist’s hands were on his shoulders, confused, but comforting all the same. The room around him was in disarray, books pulled from shelves, forms for a mistrial crumpled and scattered across the desk, broken bits of pen and pillows strewn haphazardly on the floor.

The flood spilled over into his eyes, falling heavily into the cup with plinks of mourning. The harpist’s arms encircled him, their owner sliding into the chair next to him. Lips pressed against his forehead as he leaned it against the other’s chest in utter shame.

Is this right? Is what I do right? Is anything that I know or anything that I claim is right… right?

For the first time, he doubted.