by J. M. Snyder
Then came Laura. She attended college in Philadelphia, where they met while my father was working on a construction crew putting in new dorms. It was love at first sight, or so my mom would have you believe, though to hear my dad tell it, he got shitfaced at a frat party one night and a week later when she called, she had missed her period. The “sort of dating” relationship suddenly accelerated to “engaged to be married,” no questions asked, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. One of the only times I remember visiting Ma Knapp was shortly after my fifteen birthday, when we stopped through to say hi before heading out west to Sugar Creek. Her husband Earl had given up the ghost years before, and his wife was an elderly woman, so damn bitter that my mom found any excuse to leave the house while we were there, leaving me and my brother with my dad and his dying mother. With a claw-like hand, Ma gripped my wrist and held me tight, squeezed until I felt my bones grind together. “She trapped him, Mikey,” she hissed at me, her face a mask of wrinkles and lines etched so deep into her skin, they looked like folds in cloth. “She trapped him into marrying her, oldest trick in the book, stole my son away from me and look where he’s at. Saddled with you kids, that’s where. Trapped him.”
She stared at me with bird’s eyes, beady and hard. The whites were yellow with age, and there was a smell that rose from her whenever she shifted, a dry, dusty scent of lilac that made me want to sneeze. There was so much hate staring at me, saddled with you kids. Her fingers strangled my wrist, this was the old hag in the fairy tales I had read about as a little kid, this was the wicked witch, the evil stepmother, this…trying to twist free from her hold, I grimaced and fought the urge to kick out, knock her down, get her away from me. I didn’t like her, not one bit, that bitter, hateful woman. Look where he’s at—the words echoed in my head. Saddled with you kids. “Well, it’s better than with you,” I muttered. And I wonder where Caitlin gets it from. “Dried up old crone. Let me go, I’ll tell my mom. Let me go.”
Oh yes, she hated my mother, up until the day she died, she hated my mother. I was in high school when she passed, and my dad drove up alone—I remember sitting in the living room, all of us, shocked into silence because he just told us Ma was gone. Well, quiet except for my sister, who asked, “Gone where?” And when no one answered, she leaned against my mother and whispered loudly, “Mom? Gone where? Where did she go?” Six years old, the concept of death was beyond her. Hell, I’m having trouble coping with it myself, here, now. We stayed home for that funeral—Dad went up alone, and though Mom cried when we heard the news, I’ve always suspected they had been tears of relief that the woman who loathed her so much, loathed her own son for daring to live on his own, that woman was finally gone.
“Tell me, Michael,” my dad says, snapping me back to the present, “what you want from me. What you want me to feel about all this.”
“I don’t know,” I admit softly. I try for a smile but it feels weak on my lips. “I thought you might be upset. Yell and scream, you know, the whole bit. Banish me from the house, maybe, or disown me.” Anything but this silence, I add to myself. I can handle anything but that.
He laughs, a short, quick bark that seems to surprise him. “Your momma’s the one for drama in this family,” he says, making me laugh, too. “I leave that up to her.”
“So…” You’re okay with it? I’m almost afraid to ask, that would pin the question down, force him to answer yes or no, commit him to one side or the other. I can’t seem to get the words out, I don’t want to lose this bizarre intimacy we’ve finally managed to find. With an almost helpless shrug, I mumble, “I don’t know. Maybe if I knew where you stood exactly, what you were thinking…”
He lets me trail off, expecting more. There isn’t more, nothing else I’m comfortable enough to say. “Mike,” he starts, but when I look at him, he loses that thought and frowns at me, I can almost hear the gears shift in his mind. “I’m not proud of…” Here comes the hand gesture again, rolling this time, indicating whatever it is we’re talking about, my being gay, he can’t come out and actually say the words. That’s okay. It’s enough that we’re on the same page, in my book. I never dreamed we’d come this far. His voice is gruff with uneasiness, and he can’t meet my gaze as he says, “Whatever it is you do in your bedroom, in your house, is your own business, you know that. I don’t advertise the fact that your mother and I still sometimes…” Is that a thin blush rising to his cheeks? A reddening of the flesh that hints at embarrassment? It makes him human, it makes him real.
“Oh God,” I say, stifling giggles that threaten to ruin this moment. I hold up one hand—“Dad, I so don’t need to hear this.” I don’t even want to think about what he’s suggesting. Sure, they had to have done it before, they have three kids, but the image of my parents…I just can’t picture it. I don’t want to. “I get your drift, honest. Say no more.” Almost pleading, I add, “Please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, it’s a subject he’d rather not touch. “All I’m saying is as long as you keep it quiet, there’s nothing much I can do about it even if I wanted to. Like I said, it’s your life, son.”
My life…something loosens in my chest, a weight that breaks free from my soul, buoys my heart, I hear his words again, all I’m saying. And it’s not what he’s said, it’s what remains unspoken between us, it’s what he’s hinted at that pulls my lips into a foolishly happy grin—he’s okay with this, with me. “So you’re cool with it?” I ask, just to see if maybe he could be pushed into something a little more definite. But already this is the closest he’s ever come to telling me that I’m not a disappointment to him, and because it’s my father, because I know he’d never in a million years out and say the words, I can be satisfied with this.
That color is back, twin spots like a fever burning just below the outer corners of his eyes, and he turns away so I won’t see it. He straightens the power tools on the bench just to busy himself, and I fight the urge to ask again. I wait. I have all day, if need be—I want to hear his answer.
But when he starts to pick through the shelving brackets, it becomes obvious that he’s avoiding me. “Dad—”
“I’m not saying I condone it,” he scowls, like I’ve come here to ask for money and he wants to make me work for anything I get. “I’m not saying you have my blessing, Mike, if that’s what you’re asking.” To punctuate this, he presses the trigger on his drill, and an electric buzz fills the shed.
I can feel that whine in my teeth, but I don’t say anything, just wait until he tires of the noise. He releases the trigger and the buzz winds down to a few choppy clicks, and then only the dull memory remains. “I’m not asking that,” I say, keeping my voice low. He has to keep the drill off to hear me—I see his finger hover over the trigger again, I’m sure he’ll press it in again and drown me out, he’s been known to do shit like that, and when he doesn’t, I think it surprises him. He wants to hear me out. “What I guess I want to know is if this is going to be a problem. Dan coming down—”
“Might want to take that up with your mother,” he tells me. “She’s the one you have to watch out for and you know it.”
“But you’re okay with Dan?” I insist. “With us visiting?” Not that his staying behind while I come down is an option.
Dad’s finger flecks over the trigger and the drill flares to life briefly before winding down like an outboard motor. “He’s a nice boy,” he says, almost grudgingly. He’s not looking at me again but stares at the tip of the drill, the bit still turning in a lazy circle. “You could do worse, you know. In the Army, good job, serving the country, specially at time like this. Now if you came home with some flaming homo, things might be a little different, but he’s okay.”
The corner of his mouth flickers in a stifled smile—is that his attempt at a joke? Does he think he’s being funny? I honestly don’t know, I’ve never heard him take a stab at humor before. Failed miserably, I think. I wonder if I should point out that the term homo is a slur, but maybe he’
s trying to tell me something, not just about Dan, but about me. Maybe he’s trying to say if I were flamboyant or effeminate, he might take my mom’s stand on this whole issue. As long as I look normal enough…I wonder if I should even bother being offended. What’s the use if he doesn’t realize the insult?
“He’s okay,” I echo. Dad shrugs, he might have said that, maybe. All these half-truths with him, all these shades of grey. He can’t just commit to his feelings, he can’t be open with me, I have to take what I can get. He thinks Dan’s okay, fine. He says he’s cool with us being together, great. “So you don’t mind if we come down sometimes?” I press. Some things I want to make sure I have absolutely clear. He shrugs again, we could come or not, it’s all the same to him. “I just want to make sure, Dad, because if Mom’s going to get strident and want us to sleep apart, I’m not having it. He’s my boyfriend, my lover, definitely my longest relationship to date and sure as hell my most serious, and I’d like to think he might be the one I want to stay with for the rest of my life, so if it means that every single time we troop down to visit, we have to stay in separate rooms—”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, slamming the drill down. His face is clouded with anger again, the father I’ve always known, the man I fear. “Sleep with him or not, I don’t care. Just don’t be loud about it, don’t make a damn scene, and your mother will never know. You don’t have to make an announcement whenever you want to…do whatever it is you do.” Now it’s his turn to hold up a hand, in eerie imitation of my previous gesture. “I don’t want to know.”
I laugh, relieved. “Don’t worry, I won’t share,” I promise.
For long minutes we stand there, not quite looking at each other, neither willing to believe it was that easy or it’s over now. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, and when my fingers brush against my dick through the thin material, I think of Dan. Back in our room, waiting for me. How long have I been gone? The familiar swirl of anticipation fizzles through me. “I should go,” I say simply.
Dad nods. He runs a hand over the shelves stacked against the wall, feeling the smooth wood like he’s looking for cracks. “You’re sure you guys can’t help me out?” he wants to know.
I shake my head. “We’ve got a few things to take care of,” I tell him, though what I’m thinking of now has nothing to do with cleaning up that back room or any other part of the house. “You can probably get Ray—”
That earns me a laugh. “If I ever needed a surrogate son,” he starts, but then he shakes his head as if to clear the thought. When he speaks again, his voice is so quiet that I have to strain to hear it. “I didn’t…I just didn’t know what you wanted from me, kid. I didn’t know how you expected me to treat him. I guess I went a little overboard.” Another laugh, this one distracted, almost a sigh. “I just thought you didn’t need more shit thrown at you, is all. That’s your momma’s department, not mine.”
One side of my mouth tries to pull up but the other doesn’t follow suit and I don’t quite manage to smile. “It’s okay,” I murmur, and oddly enough, it is. “Just—I guess just don’t leave me out. Be good to him, please, but invite me next time, too.”
“I never said you couldn’t come along,” is his reply.
Chapter 40: Sibling Rivalry
I don’t remember the walk back to the house—I’m fairly certain I floated the whole way, my feet never touching the ground. I have no memory of swishing through the damp grass or clomping up the porch steps, or even opening the screen door to duck inside. It’s just not there. I was in the shed with my dad, my heart swollen with a fierce love I had begun to think I would never feel for the man, my mind bound out in a whirl of emotions, his words echoing in me, his quiet acceptance of me for who I am and his nonjudgmental stance such a refreshing contrast to the bigotry I’ve found in my mom, and then I walked through the kitchen door. There was no in-between.
Aunt Bobbie is still at the sink, rinsing her hands, but the pumpkin is now in the middle of the table on a bed of newspaper. Caitlin leans over it dangerously, knife in hand like a surgeon about to operate. “They let you have sharp objects?” I joke, closing the door behind me. I have to hold onto the knob to keep from drifting up to the ceiling, I’m still flying that high because my dad’s okay with me. I can’t get over that, he’s cool with this whole thing, he likes Dan, thank God.
“Only on days that end in Y,” my sister replies blithely. The blade of her knife hovers over the black lines of a jack-o-lantern smile that’s been drawn on the face of the pumpkin with a thick magic marker. Just dig in, I think, but it’s obvious she’s hesitating because she doesn’t want to mess it up. Our cousin Trevor sits on his knees in the chair beside her, leaning onto the table and watching her with large eyes behind his owl-like glasses.
At the end of the table, Ray is still eating, but he’s watching her, too, and when he tries to shovel another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, he misses, spilling milk and Frosted Flakes into his lap. “Shit,” he mutters.
As he pushes back his chair, his elbow bumps the bowl and it follows the spoon into his lap, splashing milk onto his crotch, his legs, the floor. “Aunt Bobbie,” Trevor calls out, dead serious. “Ray said shit.” Like Caitlin hasn’t said worse.
Wiping at his boxers, Ray shakes his head childishly. “I did not.”
I have to laugh as I lean against the counter. “We all heard you, dipwad.”
“I said shoot,” Ray mutters. Now Caitlin laughs, and Trevor starts in—Ray’s cheeks flush the color of ripened apples. “I said shoot,” he cries, half-turning to our aunt as if in appeal. Her hands are full of pumpkin innards, picked clean of seeds and ready to be worked into a pie, and though she’s turned from him, there’s no mistaking her indulgent grin. “Aunt Bobbie, I did not say shit.”
“You just said it again,” I point out.
My brother purples, whether in anger or embarrassment, I don’t know. We’re beginning to gather an audience now—a few younger cousins stand in the doorway to the hall, huddled together and giggling into their hands. More push against them from behind, trying to see. They laugh when Ray stands, milk staining the front of his shorts like the drying remnants of a wet dream, and I’m surprised that I feel an unexpected sympathy for him. He wipes at his damp crotch ineffectually and growls at the kids behind him, “Get out.”
More giggles, more children—this is fun for them. Someone calls out, “Hey, come on! You gotta see this,” and someone else squeals in delight. Amid the snickers, Ray’s cheeks darken, his brow pulls down almost completely over his eyes in a Neanderthal scowl. This isn’t embarrassed, this is downright humiliated, and I can almost see his anger building with each laugh, each catcall, each playful whistle. Like storm clouds lowering on the horizon, coming in fast and ready to break. Milk seeps into his boxers, his shirt, I know that has to be uncomfortable, clammy and cold and with everyone watching, too. Where the material is glued to his skin, it’s almost transparent—plastered to his dick, outlining it obscenely, painting the crack in his ass, hugging his balls which have shrunk to the size of walnuts from the cold milk As he picks it away, I don’t even think humiliation does this justice—I believe the phrase I want here is utter mortification.
“Get out!” he cries again, and this time he whirls around, arms waving, hands slapping at those who have ventured closest to him. Children scatter away like flies. “You think this is funny? Get the hell out of here, get out!”
Footsteps race down the hall, thunder up the stairs, laughter lingering in their wake. “Jeez, calm down,” I say. Caitlin gives me an arched look but I shake my head, we’ve pushed him too far. With some difficulty, the smile slips from her face. Crossing the room, I start, “Ray, really—”
But when I reach out to touch his arm, he jerks away. “Fuck you,” he snaps, and whatever compassion I feel for him dissipates like smoke torn apart by the wind. White droplets runnel down his thigh like cum or that android blood in the Alien movies and he goes for a napkin only to k
nock it and the spoon onto the floor. “Dammit the hell,” he mutters as he bends to retrieve them. Halfway down he changes his mind and shouts out, “Shit! There, you guys happy? I said it, okay? Shit shit shit.”
At the sink, Aunt Bobbie turns on the faucet to clean her hands, and the sound of running water is loud in the silence that follows Ray’s outburst. Somewhere far away I hear laughter, and above us the floorboards creak under tiny feet. “Raymond, honey,” Bobbie starts, but there’s a smile aching to curl at her lips, I just know it. He looks stupid, bending over with his ass up in the air and boxers like a pair of eyeglasses, you can see right through them, and it takes every last ounce of strength I have to keep from smacking him right across his fleshy buttocks. I can almost hear the satisfying crack, my palm tingles with the anticipated sting. And it would be worth it, God, so worth whatever retaliation he might plan, just to kick at him now that he’s about as low as he can get. Finally, I’m not the one having a bad day, it’s someone else’s turn, and damn but I’m savoring it.
Fortunately, Bobbie saves me—she eases between us and the moment when I could’ve played it off and gotten a laugh from the others is gone. It would just be downright mean if I slapped him now. When she touches his arm, Ray tries to shrug her off but it doesn’t work. Our aunts are nothing if not tenacious. “Raymond,” she murmurs. He stands and she kneels to pick up the napkin and spoon. “It’s okay, honey. Let me help you.”
“This is all your fault,” he pouts. I’m watching Bobbie and don’t realize at first that he’s talking to me. “Everyone laugh at Ray.”