Titanic Summer

by Russell J. Sanders

  I tried to run, but gaining momentum through a crowd like this was impossible. I was a caged animal. Men were pawing me. I could just stand there and let them take me. That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? To quit fighting myself and give in? Be like my father? I vomited, and that cleared the crowd a bit. People shouted obscenities and pushed me away from them. I plowed through until I found some clearer air to breathe. I wanted just to sprint all the way to the airport, to board a plane to anywhere. Where could I go? I didn’t want to go home. Mom was there. She certainly knew about Dad. I flashed back to all those phone calls right after he left. This was what they were talking about. I wanted to confront her. But Mom being Mom, she would just parrot, “It was for your father to tell you, in his own way, in his own time.” Damn her. Just one little word, just one little heads-up.

  I needed to talk to Mallory. I jostled my way through the outskirts of the remaining crowd, trying to get where I could hear Mal on the phone. I grabbed for my cell in my jeans. I managed to free it from my pocket.

  “Happy Pride Day,” a guy shouted as he bumped me. My phone slipped from my fingers. I crawled on all fours, trying to retrieve it.

  The guy who’d bumped me had his hands all over me. He could have been trying to help me up, or he could have been trying to cop a cheap feel. I frantically swatted at his hands, his legs, trying to do as much damage as possible.

  “Okay, guy,” he said. “I was just trying to help you up. That’s all.” And he walked away.

  Finally, I found my phone. I pushed my way upright.

  A guy was about six feet away. My fury erupted. I needed to hurt someone. I charged him with all my might. He fell backward, stumbling into some others who yelled, “Hey, watch it, buddy” and “What the f…?”

  I realized what I’d done, and I turned. I ran as far from the crowds as I could get. At last I was away from the madness of the partiers, still enveloped in my own madness. But at least I was where I felt I could breathe.

  I punched in Mal’s number. It rang… one, two, three…. Come on, Mal, pick up… four, five…. “You’ve reached Mal. I’m at swim camp right now, and Coach has banned communications. Sorry. Leave a message, and I’ll return it when I get back to civilization.”

  Damn, damn, damn, damn.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I was stuck in Canada, a zillion miles away from Houston. I needed Mallory right then, not in five days.

  But what would she tell me if she could pick up? Jake, calm down. It’s not the end of the world. Lots of guys have gay dads. Think about it. You two have even more in common now. Yeah? Well, fuck you, Mallory.

  I stuffed the phone back in my jeans.

  A new wave of gays surrounded me, suffocating me. I wanted out, out, out. I’d thought I was through with them, but I had just found a gay-free zone, a small empty pocket, from the insanity. Once again, I found myself swept away, part of a human roadblock, all inching toward a float that carried six almost-naked guys, gyrating their butts and waving their arms as if to say, “Come on, big guy.” I needed to puke again. I feared what they’d do if I spewed. I inched through the hoards prancing about like they were celebrating Christmas or something.

  Finally I extricated myself from this madness known as Gay Pride. Proud of what? Proud that they can act like fools? Proud that they can parade around half-naked? Proud that they can have children they can screw up?

  I steeled myself, walked to a grassy spot away from it all, as far as I could get before I heaved. I doubled over. Pain consumed me. I retched for what seemed like forever. My gut ached. Then it kept spasming, producing almost nothing. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, and then I came up for air, taking deep breaths.

  I was no longer nauseous, but the rest of me was in pain. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed pins. My body ached from exhaustion. My brain would not shut up. And still I ran.

  I ran until I was far away from that mess of messed-up men, fleeing them, fleeing my pain, fleeing my dad.

  I stopped to catch my breath. I looked around. I had no idea where I was.

  I just knew it was behind me. Now I just needed time to myself, time to feel alive again.

  I wandered, looking at street signs, searching for landmarks to recognize. But why, I didn’t know. I really didn’t have any place to go. I could have probably found the hotel, but he might be there.

  So I just walked, sometimes walking in circles. My mind kept searching for clues. Had my father ever given me any hint? The great clothes? In his job, clothes are important. The Titanic obsession? Lots of straight men have hobbies. His marching in Philly? Now, that might have been a big, big flashing red light for me. But, after all, he said he was with Grayson guests. His job had always required him to kiss up. I could look back and see lots of things. But none of those things screamed out, “Look at me, son, I’m a homo.” Just like you. I shuddered, flinging that thought away from me.

  My wandering, on foot and in mind, drained me.

  Finally I sat on a bench on the green in front of the citadel, a fortress that had survived in Halifax for years and years. I thought of the irony. I was fighting to survive in Halifax only until I could figure out what to do with myself, for myself.

  The sun beat down. It wasn’t a warm day, and the sun was beginning to set. But the heat of that horrible day was relentless.

  My phone buzzed over and over. I guess when I’d crammed it in my pocket, I had accidentally switched it to vibrate.

  Well, I knew who was calling. I didn’t want to talk to him. In fact, I wasn’t sure I would ever again want to talk to him. I wiped sweat from my face and realized that some of it was tears. Why was I crying? I wanted desperately to hate him. But there I was shedding tears. I told myself I was not crying for him, I was crying for me. That I deserved to cry.

  How could he have kept such a thing from me? I’d been duped into thinking what he was hiding, that big secret I was supposed to discover, was this trip, or my Titanic namesake. But, all along, with all his talk about gay freedom, he was leading up to this revelation. Why didn’t he just come out with it?

  Ah, the irony! I was keeping my own secret that was just as monumental and couldn’t find a way to say it. And I asked myself why he didn’t just lay his secret at my feet?

  I let that thought rattle around in my brain. And oddly enough, it brought me no comfort. I was too caught up in me, me, me. All I could think was if not for his lies, his untold secret, I might not be in this mess. He could have been my rock. He would understand my being gay, but his ruse left me afraid to reveal myself to him. For a moment, I thought I should answer his calls, phone him myself, reach out to him, work all this out.

  Sweat poured down my face, dripping off my eyebrows. This wasn’t from the sun. I was sweating out the toxins of the day. Or at least I hoped that was it.

  I closed my eyes, hoping for relief. I wanted some sign to tell me what to do. Forgive Dad and come out of the closet or stay angry and alone. It was total misery. The warmth played a number on me. I thought maybe a nap would whisk me away from my angst.

  “Hey, pretty boy.”

  I opened one eye. Hovering in front of me was a young man, rainbow-colored beads around his neck, red-faced, probably from liquor and not from the sun. My suspicions were confirmed as he garbled, “Mind if I sit?” and stumbled as he sat down beside me.

  “Grea’ day fa p’rade,” he exclaimed.

  I nodded to be polite. I was too spent to fight anymore.

  “Fum round here?”

  He was drunk, but he had a smile that was inviting, and his skin looked so soft that I couldn’t imagine he was a threat to me or anyone else. He was quite attractive, in a slightly drunk way.

  “Houston, Texas.” I heard my voice. It was full of defeat, regret, self-pity. But what confounded me was that I heard hope as well. Maybe this guy could make it all better.

  “Long way to come fa p’rade. Fum Saint John, m’self.” He held out his hand. I started to ignore his offer, sta
nd, run some more. I couldn’t do it. My body would not move another inch. And besides, I didn’t want to run from him. I shook his hand. He held my hand a little too tight, a little too long.

  “Alone?”

  I nodded again, wondering if he wanted me, wondering if I wanted him.

  “Me too. Friends bailed on me. Las’ minute.”

  I looked at him, gave him a sympathetic smile. He really seemed like a nice enough guy. He was drunk, I was tired, and we both needed to sit here to recover a bit before moving on. Or whatever.

  Then he put his hand on my leg. “M’ hotel’s not far. Wanna hook up?” He leaned into me, his lips coming closer and closer.

  I leaped up. His face was so near mine that our heads knocked together, and he yelped. I must just scream gay. Dick-sucking pretty boy. Hungry for male-on-male action. Jonesing for an ass fuck. Queer son of a queer father.

  I ran. Aimlessly. I couldn’t stop myself. If I stopped, I was afraid I would start thinking again. Thinking about my dad, thinking about that guy who targeted me, who instinctively knew I was just like him. He saw it in me. He knew. The thought made me crazy, and I sped up, hoping total and utter exhaustion would push the thoughts away.

  At my limit, I stumbled to a stop. I bent over, gasping for air. It took several tries, but finally I was breathing normally again. I looked around. I had absolutely no idea where I was.

  I crept to the street corner, looked both ways. Nothing looked familiar. I kept meandering, the aimlessness a comfort. I thought surely something would spark my memory when I was ready to resume reality.

  I came to the place where we’d had dinner the day before. I could find my way back to the hotel from there.

  It seemed like I traipsed around for hours, but eventually the Grayson loomed before me.

  I stared at the familiar Grayson logo, so drained my eyes were bleary. I had lived with that symbol from birth. Toys with the Grayson G, which Dad cadged from the closet in his office, had filled my crib. Grayson had been as much of my identity as my parents. And at that moment, I wanted to spit on that big maroon G. My dad had left me for a Grayson. He moved to Philadelphia for a Grayson and to get away from me. Now, he was moving here to distance himself further from me, so he could turn another Grayson around. So he could live as a proud, gay man. I sneered at him and at his beloved Grayson hotels. Go as far away from me as you want. I needed you, and all you could think of were your precious Grayson hotels and the lost Titanic. You never even noticed your son was lost too.

  I couldn’t go up to that suite. I wanted nothing to do with that man and his lies. I turned, renouncing Dad.

  I wandered. When I got tired, I would find a bench to sit for a while. When the thoughts flooded back in, I stood and walked some more. The step after step after step seemed to help me keep my mind on other things.

  In the west, the sun faded below the horizon entirely. The air cooled. As the sun’s glow receded and it got darker and darker, I felt a real chill. I had no jacket, but the cold seemed to protect me from the heat in my brain.

  When I came to Halifax Common, I found a bench. I sat, bone weary. Soon I slept, a deep, dreamless sleep that gave me the first relief I’d felt since lunchtime.

  I was roused by a hand on my shoulder, jiggling me awake. A voice said, “Wake up, kid.”

  I opened my eyes to a cop holding a flashlight. I straightened up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “What are you doing out here? It’s three in the morning,” the cop said.

  “I was just sleeping.”

  “Well, kids your age don’t normally sleep in the Common unless they’re runaways. You running from something?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let me see some ID,” he demanded.

  I took out my wallet and showed him my school ID.

  He held the flashlight on it. Then he said, “Houston, huh? You got a passport?”

  “It’s back at the hotel, sir.”

  He smirked. “Hotel, huh? Which hotel?”

  “The Grayson.”

  He smirked again, grabbed my upper arm, and pulled me upright. “Yeah, sure, kid. Well, let’s just head over to the Grayson and check this out.” Still holding on to my arm, he escorted me toward the curb. When we got to his squad car, he opened the back door and pushed me in. As he slid into the driver’s side, he mumbled, “Grayson. Yeah, like a runaway is staying at a posh place like that.”

  He drove to the hotel, where he parked under the portico. There were no door handles on the inside of the back door, so I had to wait. He used the mic in his car to check in. “Dispatch, this is 223. I’m at the Grayson. Got a runaway who claims he’s staying here. I’ll check it out.” He signed off, got out, and opened the door for me. He grabbed my arm once again, jerked me into the hotel, and marched me to the front desk.

  “This kid,” he said to the clerk, “says he’s registered here. Face look familiar?”

  The clerk nodded. “He’s our new manager’s son. Mr. Hardy’s been looking all over for him.”

  “Well, I’ll be…,” the cop said.

  “Mr. Hardy just went up to his suite. Should I ring him for you?”

  The cop looked at me, narrowing his eyes. “No. I’ll take the kid up. What number?”

  The clerk told him, and we walked to the elevator.

  The cop knocked on our door, and Dad opened it.

  “Jake-O, are you okay? I’ve been worried sick.”

  I walked past him.

  “Found him sleeping on a bench in the Common, sir,” the cop informed.

  “Thank you, officer. I can take care of it from here. Sorry to bother you. And thank you for bringing him back.”

  “No problem, sir. Halifax Police are always willing to help.” The lilt in his voice was certainly different from the tone he’d used with me.

  I heard the door close and Dad coming toward me. He swung me around by my elbow. His face showed hurt more than anger.

  “I came after you, but I couldn’t find you in the crowd. So I went back to get the car. I almost drove to the nearest police station. But then, I thought, ‘No, just calm down. Jacob is grown. He can find his way back to the hotel.’”

  I rolled my eyes at him, expecting him to lash out.

  His face still had that look of despair.

  “But that didn’t keep me from wandering all over, searching for you. I was finally about to phone the police. I was so terrified. Why did you leave like that?”

  I gave him a “like you don’t know” look.

  “Please, sit. Let’s talk about this.” That face. That pleading face.

  I turned, headed for my bedroom.

  Chapter 11

  “JACOB ELIAS Hardy. Come back here and sit down. We are going to talk whether you like it or not.”

  And finally the anger.

  Dad rarely uses the full-name thing. That’s a mom standard. I didn’t want to listen to him, but I knew I had to. After all, I was stuck with this man in a foreign country.

  So I broke my vow of silence.

  “Okay, Daddy… let’s talk. But try not to lisp.”

  Before I saw his anger turn to hurt, I regretted what I said. That stupid outburst didn’t make me feel as good as I thought it would. Maybe I should once again let him off the hook flashed into my mind. I could just man up and grow some balls, like Mal said. Accept him and move on. Maybe even tell him about me. The last thought threw me into a mental frenzy, wiping away any good thoughts I’d just had. I twisted the knife. “Did you want to slip into something more comfortable first? Maybe your Cher wig?”

  There was a look of fury on his face. He pointed at me and shouted, “Sit down, right here, right now before I slap you down.”

  I sat. Sixteen years, and he’d never threatened to get physical with me, not even when I was little and most kids get swatted on the behind.

  “Now, before you burst out with any more crap, I remind you that I’m your father and you’re my teenage son. So watch your mouth. Fir
st let’s get one thing clear—I’m not a drag queen; I don’t wear lipstick, mascara, and stilettos to get off, okay?” he shouted at me, then paused. He took a breath. He was trying to get himself under control. Then he started in again, a bit calmer. “There’s nothing wrong with that, but that’s not me. I also don’t lisp, nor does my wrist lack rigidity, although I’ve known some very fine, intelligent, sensitive, successful men who do have those qualities.” He stopped once again. A gentler face. “But you know me, Jake. You know that I’m not that.”

  I sneered at him. I was determined to feed his anger. But I couldn’t take it further. I was defeated.

  He sighed. “Okay, okay. Sneer if you want. I know this is a shock. The truth is, I’ve been trying to find a way to break this to you this whole trip.” He paused. “Hell, I’ve been trying to find a way to break this to you for just about the last four or five years.”

  I raised my eyebrows. It was involuntary. I didn’t want to show any interest in what he was saying, but he’d just confessed he knew he was this way for at least five years. That shook me further. That was a big secret.

  “That surprise you?”

  I sat stone-faced. I wasn’t going to give him any further satisfaction that he was getting through to me. He could cry; he could beg; he could bribe me with a million dollars—nothing was going to change the fact that he lied to me with his omission. I’m pretty sure Pastor Stillmore could quote a Bible verse that says omission is the same as lying and both are sinful. That fleeting thought came and went, mostly because I didn’t want to dwell on it. Dad could have helped me deal last year. When I knew. About me.

  “Do you think, Jake, that your mom and I just grew apart? That she pushed me away? I loved—love—your mom. She’s kooky, she’s exasperating, but that’s what makes her who she is. She embraces a cause and squeezes the life out of it. This religion thing? I’m to blame for that. If I hadn’t pulled away from her, I don’t think she would have gone in search of something else to believe in. After all, when you can no longer have faith in your marriage, you have to find somewhere else to put your faith, don’t you?”