“See?” I told the general. “Almost an hour, and no appointments on your calendar. I can attest to that. You’ve got time to change into something more comfortable.”
“You just want to get me out of my pants,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “Undress all you want.”
He shook his head. “Shameless. And then what?”
I shrugged. “I’ll think of something. Sir.” He hangered his blue shirt and put it in the closet. His undershirt came next. I didn’t even have to ask. We faced each other. With one finger, I traced the furry patch that disappeared into his trousers, and he shivered. Was he cold? Aroused? Scared?
“You’re going to get me in trouble one of these days, aren’t you?” he said, soft.
That stopped me cold. For a second, sadness overwhelmed me, and I backed away with alarm. He noticed my dismay and was immediately contrite.
“Ah,” he said. “Listen to me. Always saying stupid things. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
I wondered, not for the first time, if he blamed me somehow for our predicament. I may have fallen first, but he’d made the first move on that mid-July weekend. There was, however, plenty of blame to share if he were in the mood to accuse.
I looked at him.
He sighed. “You’re making me self-conscious. Again.”
“Why?”
He scowled. “Because I’m a skinny, hairy old man. There’s nothing pretty about that.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that I like skinny, hairy old men? It’s one of the reasons I fell for you in the first place.” Seeing him outside his shirt always charged me up, and he knew it. If I wanted to have a serious discussion and he didn’t, all he had to do was start unbuttoning.
“Come here,” he said, and when I hesitated, “Please?” I went and let him make up with me. We had a chance at last to drop guard and be ourselves. I was relieved to discover that he felt the same, fitted the same, and tasted the same as he had the last time we’d shared such closeness, and his warmth pressing against mine was all the testament either of us needed, proof that we merged very well indeed.
“I’m a goddamned old fool,” he murmured into my ear.
“You won’t get any argument from me, Traveler.”
“Shh,” he said, connecting his mouth to mine. He slid his hands from my shoulders down to my waist, and he insinuated his fingers inside my jeans. We separated only long enough to draw breath and then merged again. The rest of the world disappeared, at least until two voices interrupted us.
One, outraged, bellowed, “Harris!”
The other, shocked, contributed, “What is going on here?”
The general and I separated as if we had suddenly been poked with a cattle prod. I didn’t know what to say. My mother and father stood in the doorway, open-mouthed, staring at the general, shirtless, clearly aroused, his hand inside my unbuttoned jeans.
Chapter Sixteen
Minutes later, we were seated in the living room, the general and I on opposite ends of the couch, both of us fully dressed, my mother in her rocker and my dad in his easy chair, and both of them glaring at us. I didn’t know if I should feel penitent or triumphant. The general wouldn’t even look at me, and of course, I’ve always had limited success in trying to read his mind.
“You think you might want to explain yourselves?” my father said, relatively calm under the circumstances. He wasn’t in the mood for anything but facts, and I suspected he was not ready to like them.
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t, however, have any idea how to explain ourselves, and neither of them knew what to say either. I imagine it would take a while to sink in. Even after it sank, there would be some period of adjustment.
“It’s not that we disapprove in general,” my father said. He paused and thought about that for a moment and then blazed again. “But maybe we do in specific.”
The general still hadn’t said a word.
“And what do you have to say for yourself?” my mother asked him, accusing. “A grown man.” He sat, stone-faced.
“Mom, I’m a grown man, too.”
I half expected her to go into some sort of diatribe about dirty old men seducing the innocent young. Thankfully, she did not.
“Under our very roof!” my mother continued.
“Mom!”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound so melodramatic. But did you think we wouldn’t find out?”
“I was going to tell you.” I glanced at the general, who might have taken a vow of silence for all he’d contributed so far. If anything, his reticence could be read as defiance. We weren’t doing anything wrong, so why should we have to justify? “I mean, we were going to tell you.” And then I wondered if I really meant “we.” Would the general back me up or hang me out to dry?
Anger can be ice or fire. I felt both frigidity and heat from my parents. But our discussion didn’t get very far before the shrieking blare of the smoke alarm in the kitchen drew our attention to the lasagna, burning in the oven. That emergency ended our abortive attempt to reestablish the status quo. Grateful for the distraction, I let my parents manage, and I pulled the general aside.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I whispered, angry, but I felt like yelling. He shrugged, helpless. I’d never known him to be at a loss for words, but perhaps he’d never run into a situation where being a general would not get him out of jail free.
We sat down for a sullen meal, the lasagna blackened on top, tough and dry underneath. The sounds of the forks and knives against the plates seemed magnified by many decibels. Apart from an occasional “pass the bread,” dinner was otherwise bereft of noise. None of us had an appetite, and the burnt casserole made the meal an effort.
My father cleared his throat at the end of the meal. “Seamus,” he said. “We’re going fishing tomorrow.”
“Dad! That’s our fishing trip!”
He glared at me. “Not this time!” he barked. He shook his finger at the general as if he were reprimanding an unruly child. “I’ll call for you at five,” he said. “It’ll be chilly. I’ll loan you a coat. Don’t wear anything you don’t want to get wet.”
Did he plan to push the general overboard on pretext of some sort of fishing malfunction? I couldn’t tell. Dad excused himself and went to the basement to ready the tackle. I knew he would get lost in the preparation, and I hoped he’d focus his single-mindedness on tomorrow’s fishing and remain downstairs for the rest of the evening, preoccupied. Dealing with my parents one at a time might be easier.
Maybe.
I helped with the dishes. The general stood by, his arms crossed, watching.
“Good lasagna, Mom,” I offered, after an eternal silence.
“It was not,” she snapped. “It was ruined.” More silence followed. She washed, and I dried. One plate. Two plates. Three. Salad bowls. Forks. Knives. She tackled the casserole dish, crusted with blackened cheese and tomato sauce. The only real secret the general and I had brought home was us, and that was out now. And since I couldn’t imagine anything worse happening over the weekend, I decided to play the single ace I’d hidden up my sleeve for an emergency.
“You know, Mom, there’s one thing you and General O’Neill have in common.”
“Indeed?” She was still snapping. “And what might that be?”
“He likes opera, too.”
Quite possibly, no other single thing I could have said would have piqued her interest. No one she knew shared her passion.
“I don’t believe it,” she said. Then, “Really?” She turned to look at the general, leaning against the counter. He nodded. “Who’s your favorite?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Puccini,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Tosca, I reckon,” he said. “But if you ask me another night, I might say Manon Lescaut.”
My mother nodded slowly, full of wonder. Perhaps she truly sympathized with his dilemma. From my corner, I observed these were t
he most words the general had uttered all evening. Grateful for the success of this diversionary tactic, I handed the general the dish towel and went to find Clement and Sixtus and a tennis ball to throw while I thought about things. The dogs would cheer me up.
En route to bed a couple of hours later, I peeked unseen into the living room. My mother and the general were still deep into their discussion, sitting on the floor by the stereo speakers, surrounded by a pile of CDs. I stuck around long enough to hear the general say, “Jane, what about that aria at the beginning of Act II after Manon has left Don Grieux because his money ran out?”
I didn’t even say good night.
I’m sure they were arguing the merits of Madame Butterfly versus Turandot long after I had fallen asleep. I left them to it. Once they’d satisfied their suspicion that each of them was as well-informed and committed as the other, I believe they cemented a bond no one else would be able to crack. I’m sure my father looked in on them before he retired, too, just as I’m certain he was truly mystified that a grown man and a grown woman could talk about such squalling as if it meant something.
*
I was still asleep in the morning when my dad and the general hit the road, the skiff on a trailer behind the old pickup loaded with tackle boxes, my grandfather’s creel, two rods, and a cooler filled with lunch courtesy of my mom—ham sandwiches on buttered wheat bread with thick-sliced cheddar and mustard, plus dill pickles, rippled potato chips, homemade cookies, crisp apples, and a large thermos of coffee. The menu never changed; it was as much a part of the ritual as the long drive to the lake and the celebratory cookout in the evening.
I would wonder most of the day about my dad and the general, whom I’d never reckoned to be a fisherman. He hadn’t mentioned it, anyway. If he didn’t have much experience, I hoped he could fake it, or at least that he was a quick study. Knowing my dad, there wouldn’t be much talk. If the general proved unskilled, my dad would probably ignore him out of disgust and simply let him founder.
I had hoped to be fishing with Dad myself, leaving the general at home to drink coffee with my mom and spar some more about which Puccini aria was best. And while I suspect her estimation of the general had risen after last night’s opera discussion, such knowledge would only go so far when placed against the fact that he’d been caught with his hand in my pants.
But morning found me at home instead, alone with my mother. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. I knew my mom had been waiting for me, and she didn’t waste time starting her cross-examination.
“Harris, I’m kind of at a loss.”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“Well, you don’t need to be sorry, but we are a little surprised. We knew Seamus was your boss, but you never mentioned that you and he were otherwise involved.”
I didn’t blame her for feeling confused and even angry. If I had brought home Julia and my parents had caught us kissing, however, my mother and I would not be having this little talk.
“Did you think we wouldn’t find out?” my mother said.
“No. I was going to tell you. I just wasn’t sure how.”
“I can see why. Just how old is he, Harris?”
“He’s, um, fifty-one.”
“Fifty-one! Harris, he’s almost as old as I am!”
“This has nothing at all to do with age, Mom.” I grabbed the single small straw that presented itself. “Dad’s older than you are.” A fact, true enough, but as my mother was quick to point out, not particularly relevant.
“Four years! That’s all,” she said. “At least we’re part of the same generation. But you and this general… Good Lord! Harris, have you really given this whole thing very much thought?”
I sighed. “Mom, it’s all I do think about.”
She persisted. “How long have you two been—?”
I didn’t wait for her to choose a word to describe what we’d been up to. “Since July.” Immediately, I climbed on the defensive, declaring that the general had made the first move. I would never have done so, no matter how I felt about him. I explained that the Air Force didn’t look kindly on any kind of relationship between officers of different ranks, with the exception of professional mentoring, an acceptable form of fraternization as long as boundaries were respected. I explained that the twenty-one years separating me from Seamus O’Neill included six levels of rank: first lieutenant, captain, major, lieutenant colonel, colonel, brigadier general.
Even if we ignored regulations, we still had to navigate the mine field of our own emotions. At least I did, anyway. Keeping the boss separate from the beloved was a challenge, Monday through Friday. Every minute sometimes. Daily, I had to pretend that General O’Neill was nothing more or less than the commander of Sixth Air Force, and I had to be the best general’s aide I could be. If I made a stupid mistake and he yelled at me, I could not take it personally. He was angry at the lieutenant who screwed up, not at me.
I could feel myself beginning to perspire under my mother’s gaze as I tried to explain. I sounded as if I were trying to sell her a used car, and she wasn’t buying.
“I don’t see how you can possibly stand it, Harris. From what you’ve told me, you don’t have any good reason to pursue this relationship. What would happen if people found out?”
An easy question at last, and one I could answer with some certainty. “He’d take the blame and get the worst of it as the senior officer,” I said. “No military court would ever believe a second lieutenant could persuade a general to get mixed up in something like this.”
My mother took a sip of her coffee, by now gone cold. “Mixed up? I don’t like the sound of that. Are you absolutely sure about him? It’s only been a couple of months.”
I shook my head. “No. I’m stuck, if he’ll let me be stuck.”
She shook her head. “There’s still a part of me that hopes this is just a phase you’re going through.”
“Mom, wake up. I’m thirty years old. It’s not a phase. I’m genuinely gay. You and Dad have known since I was in high school. It isn’t going to change.”
She could arch an eyebrow as well as any general. “You should know by now that I don’t give a hoot about you being gay, Harris. I’m talking about this thing you seem to have for older men. Like that one professor of yours in college. Yes, we knew all about him. Just once, couldn’t you fall for someone a little nearer to your own age?” she said. “I’m glad we’ve always been close. You know you can be open with us about anything. We just want you to be happy with the choices you make, and I’m referring specifically to your choice of a fifty-one-year-old boyfriend.”
I changed her course. “Mom, how old were you when you got married?”
She thought about it for a second. “Twenty. Imagine.”
“How did you know Dad was the one for you?”
She giggled. “I didn’t, actually. I liked him a lot, and I enjoyed the time we spent together. We seemed to have a lot in common. He was so handsome. There were plenty of other girls who were interested in him, believe me.” She paused to think, to remember. Perhaps no one had ever asked her such questions.
“When he asked me to marry him, I wondered if I would ever meet another man I liked as much,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I decided I wasn’t willing to take that chance, so I said yes.”
“At twenty.”
“At twenty.” She smiled. “It’s amazing how smart we think we are at that age.”
I was tactful enough not to point out I was now a decade older than she had been at the time she’d made her big decision. I’d had plenty of time to think, and I was sure. So I pushed my small advantage. “Were you sure Dad was in love with you?” As she thought about that, I asked the other half of the question. “Were you sure you were in love with him?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t think I was, at first. Not really. Not deeply, I mean. But I tried not to think about it. I couldn’t. My girlfriends kept telling me how lucky
I was to catch him, and I wanted to believe them. I was sure I would come to love him in time.”
My grandmother, she said, insisted on a big wedding, and the planning started early. My mom may have felt she could back out at first, but she got caught up in the excitement, too. “I just pushed the doubts out of my mind and made myself not think about them,” she said.
“Were you sure on your wedding day?”
She shook her head again. “That morning, I was so scared I locked myself in the bathroom and threw up. I was convinced I was making the biggest mistake of my life, but then it was time for me to get dressed, and Mother and my bridesmaids were so excited…well, I went through with it, and then it didn’t seem so bad. Dad walked me down the aisle, and the ceremony was lovely. When we said ‘I do,’ I wasn’t thinking about thirty years into the future. I wasn’t even thinking about next week. Making the promise ‘until death do us part’ doesn’t seem very real when you’re so young.”
I listened eagerly. I had never heard either her or my dad talk about their wedding, though I’d seen the photos in the album often enough to memorize them. Why had I never thought to ask before? What else remained hidden in our history?
“You learn,” my mom continued. “We all do. And your dad and I learned as we went along. It wasn’t easy at first, but we kept working at it because we really did like each other. And what do you know? Instead of falling in love, we grew into it. And here we are. Still married.” She shook her head. “After all this time, I can tell you for certain I made the right choice. I’m happy. And satisfied. I know for certain we love each other now, deeply, and I believe we’re friends, too. We’ve grown in our individual ways, and we’ve grown together. And I think there’s still more for us to find out.”
I wonder if my dad ever thinks about such things. I’ve become accustomed to his silences and never find them uncomfortable. He simply isn’t in the habit of talking very much. My mother has adapted to his silence, too, although he communicates his feelings in dozens of nonverbal ways, opening doors for her, buying her flowers at unexpected times, never forgetting her birthday or their anniversary. He always kisses her good-bye when he leaves for work, and they still hold hands when they go walking together. Love, for my father, truly does go without saying.
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