Mom joined me by the piano. “It’ll be eighteen years next month.” She sighed. “Thank God they have a vaccine for it now.”
“Yeah,” was all I could think to say. It’s amazing how fast life goes.
“You’re all I have now, Jerry.”
I’m not quite sure what the expression on my face was, but she quickly added, as if I looked worried, “But you’ve always made your father and me so proud.”
I continued to hold the frame in my hands. He was older by two years. When I think back, more than what we did together, I mainly remember how I felt about him. He seemed to be good at just about everything. And he was all that I wasn’t, I guess. A great athlete and very popular—especially with the girls. I remember how easygoing he was. Extremely comfortable in his own skin. I guess my two main emotions, when it came to Robert, were admiration and envy. And later, when he died, guilt.
As my mother and I made our way to the kitchen, she asked me about all the girls I was seeing out in Hollywood. Then she gave me a slice of cherry pie, my favorite.
“I timed it perfectly,” she said, referring to the pie. “You gave me plenty of notice. I just wish you would visit more often.”
I stood with mom in the kitchen as she chopped vegetables before we finally made our way over to the kitchen table. The whole thing felt very simple and familiar. I told her how much I was working; how busy I was keeping. Mom said she half-hoped, when I had called, I would be bringing a girl home with me. I smiled but squirmed inside.
She went on to tell me all about the people who had gotten married within the last year. Of course, she had already told me about them in her letters. And then there were the half-dozen couples who were engaged. This reminded me of how unlike in L.A., in Independence, we really did know everybody. It was beginning to seem as if this was going to be a long couple of days.
It hit me that I had been sitting there nodding my head with a dull grin plastered over my face, for quite a while. I wished the subject would be changed soon, but it appeared that mom was on quite a roll.
And then it did change. And my ears perked up. Mom had brought up the subject of George Dodd. Now George was someone I had known since I was in Kindergarten. He was a grade ahead of me. I guess you could call us friends but to be honest, I think we both really only played together if there was no one else around.
When I was in the third grade, I slept over his house. We were in his bedroom, both in sleeping bags, just talking, when he suggested to me that we should show each other our privates—just to compare, he said. I remember laughing, half of me thinking it was some strange joke and half of me feeling excited. Anyway, we did go ahead with it. I remember a lot of giggling. Then I remember him touching me. I looked at him. He wasn’t laughing anymore. He was looking at my penis. When he glanced up at my face again though, he started laughing again, saying in a deep voice and half-singing, “I’m a tin soldier, I’m a tin soldier, marching along, marching along” as he yanked my penis up and down. I had no idea what to do, so I did the same to him until we both started laughing our heads off. When we heard footsteps, we stopped and pulled our sleeping bags up. George’s mom opened the door and quickly surveyed the scene. George was “snoring” by this point, and his mom told me that she knew I was excited, but I really needed to settle down and get some sleep like George. Tomorrow she’d make pancakes. She smiled and said goodnight.
When she was gone, George and I laughed into our pillows, muffling the sound well. Neither one of us ever mentioned the incident to each other again after that night, and I never once reciprocated a sleepover invitation to him, despite my mother bringing it up several times over the next year. As I got older and began becoming more aware of my feelings, I wondered about that night, and about George.
“…anyway,” my mother continued. “It seems that George was kicked out of the Navy about a month ago. Just between you and me and the coffee pot, I think he might be homosexual.” She whispered the last word.
I felt that thump in my chest, and in moments the beat became hard and continuous. I thought about what Cliff had told me, about facing things head on.
“So am I, mom.”
I had said it. I wasn’t looking at her, but I had said it. Then I did look at her, forcing myself. My heart started beating even harder, but I felt different. I exhaled with a lot of force, I remember.
Mom was looking down. She wiped the table with a dish rag. Then she stood up and started rubbing harder. “The Keeleys are getting a new car,” she said.
“Mom.”
“I think it, it, it, it’s green. Isn’t that an awful color?” She scrubbed harder.
“Mom,” I said again, standing up.
“I better wet this,” she said, turning toward the sink. This time I heard her voice cracking, and a shiver went through me.
“Mom.” I said it gently and held her shoulders, turning them toward me.
“Mom, it’s okay.”
She looked up at me. Her face was pained, and I could see that her bottom lip was shaking. It hurt, but I knew I was going to do this. I had already taken that first step, I decided. Gravity would be with me the rest of the way. I nodded at her.
“Mom, I’m a homosexual.”
She shook her head side to side. “I know,” she said, nodding, inhaling through her nose. She was stiff as a board. And a moment later it was as if she had burst, her exhaling turning into sobbing like I had never heard from her before. “I know,” she said again. Her head barreled into my chest, followed by her arms clamping around me.
We held each other for a long time and cried.
I was almost frightened to let go of my mother because I was afraid to look her in the eyes. I felt dirty. I was disgusted with myself. And I knew I had let her down. Everything was now out there in the light of day. I had opened the door, and I knew there would be questions.
As our embrace began to end, I choked out, “That was the hardest thing I ever had to do.”
I felt myself shaking and wondered if some of it was her. I noticed her arm lifting, but it was quickly replaced as her hand landed on my back, making small circles. I felt like a kid again; like I had just fallen down and scraped my knee, and she was there. There to comfort me and make things better.
“My boy. My little boy. I’m so sorry.” Her voice was muffled but wailing.
As we pulled apart, I was afraid to look at her face, at her eyes. But I decided to do it anyway. They were wet as I expected. But more important, they had love in them. It absolutely meant the world to me, and without warning, I felt myself hunch over and begin to cry again—sob really. She pulled me in for another hug and once more made small circles on my back.
“Shh, shh, you must stop crying now, Jerry,” she said after a few moments. Hearing her say my name made me feel like crying even harder, but then she quickly added, “I just washed this floor.” I laughed. And then she laughed, too. I took a deep breath, exhaled hard, and stopped myself from crying.
I still felt like a lousy disappointment, but I also had a sense of relief. Only God himself knew how my confession could have gone. My mother could have kicked me out of the house. Out of her life. Forever.
And then we talked. Like I said, the door was open now, and I figured we should get things out. Partly because I just wanted to bite the bullet and avoid this kind of conversation in the future. Once was enough, and even before we began, I felt the exhaustion begin to creep up on me.
Through tears she told me that she was afraid that she had done something wrong during my childhood. She wondered if she had coddled me too much or made other serious errors that may have turned me. I assured her she hadn’t. But maybe she had. I really didn’t know. And unless I was blocking it out, I didn’t recall any traumatic events in my life such as being bothered by any camp counselors or any other deviant adults. This topic made me think of George Dodd and my sleepove
r at his house, but of course, I chose to remain quiet about the subject.
I also wanted to make it clear to her that I no interest in children, only adults. Just saying the words out loud to my own mother killed me. I know what people think of homosexuals, of course, and it was just so odd to have to assure my own mother that I was only interested in men—as if this was a good thing—not children.
She also wondered who I associated with. This was understandable, considering my situation. But again, I had to reassure her that I knew of hardly any men who dressed like women and vice versa. This concerned her, but I told her I really only knew of them, and very few at that. I did not know any perverts, men who preyed on children or sold dirty pictures or who killed people. You can imagine how odd this all felt to discuss with my mother, but I understood why she would need to be reassured about such things.
But still the conversation was like a rollercoaster, with its highs and lows, and I knew she was deeply concerned. I think a part of her wanted me to see a psychiatrist, but I think she was torn, never having put much stock in them. Besides, what if he confirmed that I have an illness that just couldn’t be cured?
And it wasn’t said out loud, but at one point I could tell by the context that the realization of the fact that she would never have grandchildren, unless things changed, hit her hard. I saw her look over at the picture of my brother, and it broke my heart. How could I deprive her of the joy that that would bring her? I looked at her face, and again I began to cry.
When my dad finally walked in, I’m sure my mother and I looked like complete messes. He shook my hand firmly. He looked concerned.
“Oh Harold, stop looking at us that way. We were just talking over old times,” my mother said.
That was the hardest thing I ever had to do, I had said to my mother just moments ago.
Looking at my dad, I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.
As I lay in bed that night, I replayed my conversation with my mother over and over in my head. I felt both relieved and anxious at the same time. I couldn’t help myself from wishing that I was just like everyone else. The pain was almost physical—a visceral yearning. The last thing I remember before finally dozing off was Mother telling my dad that we had just been talking ‘over old times’ to explain our messy appearance. I remember when she had said it, she gave my hand a little squeeze as if to say, Your secret’s safe with me. This gave me a warm feeling toward my mother. But it also gave me a real feeling of unfinished business with my father.
The next morning I felt like a kid again, waking up in my old room. “I’m late for my paper route,” I said out loud, laughing to myself as I leaped out of bed.
I spent the next half-hour looking at the clutter on my walls. A pennant from Independence High School. Photos of movie stars and starlets. A picture of Stan Musial. And a few newspaper clippings.
Part of that time was also spent looking through my old high school yearbook. And I found my bowling ball in the closet right where I had left it; the fingerholes no longer the right size. The closet also revealed such treasures as my old Boy Scout uniform and my first baseman’s mitt. Finally, I stared out my bedroom window for a while, thinking of how different this familiar view looked depending on the season.
The rest of the day was uneventful but in a relaxing, enjoyable way, overall. Breakfast with the folks, a few games of gin rummy, and a stroll down Main Street. Mom even put me to work burning trash out back. I guess you’re never too old to do chores around the house. Oh, I didn’t mind it. Actually, I kind of liked it after all these years.
I wondered if Dad might ask me to go hunting but was grateful that he didn’t. Before Robert became a cripple, he, Dad, and I would go quite a bit. I never really did enjoy it much, other than spending time with my dad. Besides, I was really unsure about spending too much time alone with him, the tension of telling him about my being a homosexual weighing on me like a ton of bricks. Maybe it was just enough that I had come clean with mom. One hurdle at a time, I told myself.
On Sunday, the three of us went to church. The verse of the week was from First Peter. Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you, unless you are gay. I added that last part, in my head, so don’t bother to look it up. I’m not sure why I put that in and felt very guilty afterwards.
Being back home was a mixed bag. There were moments, as impractical as it would have been, when I felt like never going back to L.A. Just stay and live in my old bedroom. Simple. Just let my folks take care of me. But then I’d get to thinking about L.A., my job, my friends, and of course, Cliff. I realized that in these types of situations, your thoughts, and which way you lean, have an awful lot to do with whatever arguments you emphasize at any particular moment.
And at this particular moment, I wasn’t leaning either way because the two biggest things I was concerned with at that point were what I could do to patch things up with Cliff, and whether or not I had the guts to tell my father about his only surviving son.
Both thoughts consumed me. Obviously, despite my juvenile feelings, living in my old room like an overgrown partial-adult was out. Of course, I’d be going back to L.A. But could I leave without telling my father about who I was?
“Where’s Dad?” I asked my mother as I came downstairs.
“Work. Why?”
“Oh, nothing important,” I said. I was disappointed—and relieved.
It was about 7:30, and we had long since eaten dinner and desert.
“Do you want to play some cards, dear?” my mother asked.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll take a walk.”
I had no idea where I was headed, but I had the urge to stretch my legs and be alone for a while. I cut over to Maple and took that east until I almost hit the end. House after house. They all looked the same. It was a good chance to think. Although, I’m not sure I came to any conclusions. Next, I turned left at Burns, toward Main Street. I had intended to come back the same way I had come from, only down Main this time, making a big loop, and back home again.
But when I got to Main, I decided instead to cut across the street and head toward the river. I wanted to get off the man-made road. At that moment I needed to escape any remnants of civilization. I made a right at the old abandoned railroad bridge that went over the river and decided to sit by the water. I found a nice big rock and threw pebbles into the river for a while. It’s amazing the joy you can get from such a simple and mindless activity. After every glug I’d hear from my rocks hitting the water, I’d stop and just listen before throwing another one. Occasionally I’d hear a car go by on the distant highway, but mostly my ears were filled with the sounds of nature. I imagined myself being the last man on earth.
Ten minutes later, my backside was beginning to feel a little sore, so I stood up. I pitched a few more rocks, enjoying watching the ripples from my standing position. The moon was out, and I could see pretty well. I decided to forge ahead. I picked up a thick branch, used it as a walking stick, and followed the river east. After a few minutes of walking, I was in my own little world. Until I saw a light. It seemed strange. I didn’t know of any houses around there. I kept walking, and a few moments later, I heard a very faint sound which turned out to be music.
Continuing on, I wondered what it could be. And that’s when I heard the rustling of bushes and the snapping of twigs just ahead of me. I remember being calm. Curious but calm. And deliberate. It was probably an animal. Maybe a whitetail deer. I stopped a moment and hit my stick against a tree and some bushes. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to catch him by surprise. Whoosh! It was a deer. His profile blurred about ten feet in front of me, crossing my path—and gone. I smiled, and it occurred to me how brave I was when it came to some things, and how scared I was when it came to others. Here I was in the forest alone, in the dark, and I wasn’t half as jumpy as I
had been in L.A. at times on streets filled with thousands of people. And I probably should have been afraid. Deer aren’t exactly harmless. They’re big, strong, fast and carry an arsenal of sharp swords on their heads.
As I made my way again toward the music, I thought to myself, Wouldn’t things be great if you could live your life like you weren’t afraid to die? Like with that deer. He could be dangerous, and I certainly don’t want to be reckless or get hurt on purpose, but if I can make dying the worst thing that will ever happen to me, anything less is not so bad. Something I can handle. I was sure there were holes in my logic, but it still might not be a bad way to live anyway.
When I got around a thick grouping of trees, I noticed the music was not nearly as faint as it had been, though still not too loud. A naked bulb under a flat, dented, metal shade was the only visible light other than the moon. Culley’s Machine Shop was what it said on the side of the building, written right on the shiplap. The words were faded, as was much of the paint, and the structure—not much bigger than an average house—looked close to a century old.
The whole thing was curious. Why the music? And why the light? I decided to approach the situation the same way I did that unknown animal a few minutes earlier, not wanting to surprise anyone.
I walked around the building to the other side and noticed a door, which was ajar. I pushed it and took a single step inside.
Barbara Penczecho
Dot’s exit left a huge hole in my heart. A part of me was missing, and I just did not know how to fill it. All I knew is this was not how things were supposed to go. We had things all planned out.
That night I drank a double shot of brandy after hitting the mattress late, and then tossing and turning in bed for several hours. The shot knocked me out but also made it hard to get up the next morning. I was a mess but never considered not going to work the next day. Not that I felt like going. It is just that the thought of sitting around and thinking about Dot all day in that empty house would have driven me nuts.
The Duplex Page 18