Titanic Summer

by Russell J. Sanders

  Yeah, I know I was being a shitpot. But I was coping.

  We boarded the CAT as soon as we arrived, and I immediately distanced myself from him. The ferry left at eight thirty, and for the next five and a half hours, I wandered, always looking out for Dad, determined to avoid him at all costs. I had pocket money for snacks, so I didn’t need him. I was dead set on not asking him for anything.

  I spent agonizing hours in total confusion. I loved my dad. That was a given. His keeping the truth from me pissed me off, though. Rationally I knew I was being stupid. I was stuck in this “I hate myself because I’m gay” mode, and he should have been the first person I could go to—even if he weren’t gay himself. But that was the deal breaker. He was gay, and he’d not trusted me enough to tell me until now. What else was he holding back? The thought of more secrets, more lies, just dug its talons into me, and I refused to forgive him—not then, not ever.

  At last the announcer told us to return to our vehicles.

  I got to the SUV before Dad, but when he got there, he just pushed the key fob to unlock the doors, and I settled in.

  As we drove off the CAT, he said, “What say we have lunch at Margaritas? Some enchiladas, some tacos?” He used a fake Mexican accent. His lame attempt at humor, at lightening me up, did not work. “Hey, vato, you ready to gorge on your favorites?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t care what we ate. I wasn’t much hungry, not even for Tex-Mex.

  He parked near the restaurant, we stepped up to the door, and the hostess seated us and handed us menus.

  Perusing the menu, Dad said, “What looks good, Jake-O?”

  Did he have to call me that? Did he have to push my little-kid buttons by using his pet name for me?

  “Jake-O? You hear me? You want some nachos to start with?”

  I still didn’t answer. The waiter was the same one we’d had when we’d eaten there four days ago. He recognized us. He wore that “I want a big tip” smile. “Hey, it’s Mr. Texas and his dad. What can I get you to drink, amigos?”

  Dad ordered a margarita on the rocks. I said I’d take a Coke. Dad added, “And, Marco, bring us an order of the Nachos Cowabunga to start, huh?”

  “Sure thing, amigo,” he bubbled. Then he left.

  “Marco’s still his happy self, I see.” Dad probably just wanted to have something to say because I’m sure he knew I didn’t care about Marco. Why did he even remember that guy’s name? Was that some Grayson training thing, or do all gays notice the waiters? Stop it, Jake! Mal’s voice blended with my own in my head.

  Marco the Magnificent returned with our drinks and some chips and salsa.

  I ignored the chips and hot sauce while Dad downed his margarita, then motioned for Marco to return. “Another, Marco, please.”

  The nachos came. I refused to eat. I would get through this ordeal without taking a single bite. Dad immediately grabbed a nacho, pulled it from the others, steam billowing, stringy cheese leaving a trail. He stuffed the whole thing in his mouth, and as he chewed, he beckoned me to join him. “Mighty good, Jake-O. Can’t beat hot, spicy nachos.” He took another from the plate. “Come on, buddy. We can deal with what’s between us later. For now, let’s just eat. Enjoy your favorite, huh?” He almost got to me with his quiet plea. At any rate, the aroma wafting off the nachos, made my stomach growl. No sense in starving.

  Our hands bumped together as we each reached for a nacho. I jerked my hand back, he motioned a “no, you go ahead” and smiled, I laughed at him, and it felt good.

  The allure of Mexican food captured me. It had been days since I’d had any, and a Texas boy needs his fix. So I ate ravenously. It was part wanting Mexican food to make me happy and part eating to quash my feelings, as my long-ago therapist explained. In one session, I told her how much I liked Chuy’s and that I could eat there every day if I was allowed. Being a shrink, she came up with the quashing feelings thing. I didn’t even know that word, and the more she explained, the more I thought that she was full of it. I just liked Chuy’s.

  When Dad’s boyfriend Marco returned for our order, I asked for the Enchilada Mexicana. It was a lot of food. The more food on the plate, the less talk required. I wasn’t ready for anything but small talk. Dad ordered fajitas. And another margarita.

  We ate. That was it. No words. Just chewing.

  Marco came back to take our plates. “Any dessert?”

  “I’ll just have another margarita, Marco. Anything for you, son?”

  If he was going to sit there and drink, I needed more conversation preventative. “The Chocolate Lava Cake,” I said.

  “With milk?” I wanted to slap the smile off Marco’s face. He was only doing this to impress Dad and his wallet. Or maybe for other favors, like that shit waiter in Halifax, with his fawning and touching and laughing at jokes he couldn’t possibly understand.

  I rolled my eyes. “With milk.” And Marco left.

  All those drinks showed. Dad was drunk and getting more snockered by the minute. I’d kinda hoped Dad was going to go ahead and drive back to Boston, but that wasn’t happening, as drunk as he was. I think we still had a reservation at the hotel for our return visit. Go ahead, Dad, the drunker you are, the sooner the trying to have the talk will stop.

  Midway through my cake, Dad ordered yet another margarita.

  I barely tasted the cake, eyeing him and his margarita—his fifth.

  I was still nursing my milk when Dad motioned Marco over and ordered yet another drink. I didn’t raise an eyebrow. If he wanted to die of alcohol poisoning, then who was I to stop him?

  Downing his sixth in one gulp, Dad paid, and then he stood, almost falling back down as he tried to steady himself.

  Marco rushed over to help him. “Whoa, buddy. Looks like you’ve had a little too much.” He looked at me. “He’s not driving, is he?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I didn’t have a license. But Marco was right. There was no way I could let Dad drive. “No,” I answered.

  “Need help getting him to the car?”

  “We’ll be fine,” I said, wrapping one arm around Dad. He stumbled out of the place and to the car. It took all my strength to balance him against me and still walk myself.

  At that point, it was either drive or die in a fiery crash.

  “Give me the keys, Dad.”

  “No.” His speech was slurred, and he was wobbling. “You not on the rental cont’act.” He stopped. Then he added, “’Sides, you don’t even have a license.”

  “Then I’ll call a cab—or maybe they have Uber.” I whipped out my phone and clicked on the Uber app. Sure enough, they had it in Portland. And thank God, Mom, being her overprotective self, had set up the app for me, linking it to her credit card. “You never know when an emergency happens, Jakie,” she’d said.

  When the car arrived, I tried to get Dad into the back seat. He was so drunk it was like maneuvering a very heavy rag doll. He thought it was hilarious. That made me furious. My adrenaline kicked in, and I shoved him into the car. I told the driver where we were going and got in myself.

  “Buckle up,” I ordered.

  Dad sat there, doing nothing. “I told you to buckle up.” My tone was so stern it frightened even me a little. But he acted as if I hadn’t said a word.

  I reached over and jerked the seat belt across him, securing it in the buckle.

  He—shit, oh shit, oh shit—began to cry. Total blubbering. “I’m so sorry, Jake-O,” he slurred. “I’m s’posed to be takin’ care of you, not t’other way round.” He snuffled snot back into his nose. “I made a mess of this entire trip. I’m so, so sorry… so, so sorry… so, so sorry….” He kept repeating himself until he just fell asleep.

  The driver glanced over the seat and just shook his head. I couldn’t tell if he was disgusted at Dad or feeling sorry for me. When we got to the hotel, I jumped out and told the driver to wait—like he was going to drive off with Dad passed out in his back seat. I went in and registered. They didn’t give me any hassles because th
ey remembered us. In fact, the friendly clerk even helped me get Dad out of the car. The Uber driver must have been totally disgusted with it all because he sped off almost as soon as Dad was upright, propped up against the clerk. I lied and told the desk clerk Dad was feeling a little sick, and the meds he took made him sleepy. He just nodded and helped me get Dad to our room.

  With Dad calling it an early night—or rather the margaritas calling it for him—I grabbed my suit and went for a swim. Early night was a misnomer. It was still late afternoon, and I could catch some rays.

  It was a beautiful Maine summer afternoon and surprisingly, even with the hotel full, no one was in the pool but me.

  I floated, looking up at the billowy clouds. If only life was like this all the time. Total peace.

  But I’d struck only a short truce with the world. Soon, no matter how calm and serene the day was, the thoughts came pounding back. I had to get through the drive back to Philly. I had to make it until my plane ticket said it was time to go home. I had to deal with my dad.

  Accept him.

  Or cut him out of my life forever.

  Chapter 14

  DAD SLEPT through the night, and next morning, he took a handful of aspirin, made a pot of coffee and gulped it down, then showered. When he came out, dripping, he said, “I’m sorry about last night. I value you too much to put you in the position I put you in. I should not have let myself get drunk. And you shouldn’t have had to see me get drunk, much less have to deal with it. Forgive me, Jake. I tell you—this trip hasn’t exactly been what I had hoped.” He sighed. “So I’m thinking we should skip the stop in Boston tonight and drive straight through to Philly.”

  He uber-ed to where I left the car as I packed my gear. I was just coming off the elevator when he pulled up out front of the hotel, ready to check out, load the car, and start the drive back.

  And that was the longest day of my life. With gas stops, lunch, and potty breaks, we were on the road for about twelve hours… all in silence. Total icy silence. Black-hole silence.

  We got back to the Philly Grayson about nine that night. Dad, of course, stopped to catch up with his staff, but I headed straight to the apartment.

  I was bushed, so I fell into bed. Sleep didn’t come easily, thinking of what lay next.

  Four more days. How I would get through them, I had no idea.

  I awoke to a beautiful, sunny summer Pennsylvania day. After grabbing some orange juice, I decided that if the weather held out, I could spend those interminable days at the pool.

  I slipped into my suit and left a note. I was still pissed at him, but old habits die hard.

  At first everything was great. The sun was beating down on me, baking all negative thoughts out of my brain as I lay on a poolside lounger.

  Then two guys showed up and plunged into the water. They were both about Dad’s age, and they had pretty good bodies for being so old. They swam a few laps—evidently racing each other.

  “I beat you, I beat you,” one of them yelled as his friend came up for air.

  “Yeah, well, you cheated,” the other shouted back, dogpaddling closer to his taunter.

  Then he reached out and tickled the other guy. “You cheated, you cheated, you cheated, you cheated….” He chanted over and over while his friend giggled and yelled, “Stop, stop,” like some five-year-old.

  So much for serenity. These two might have been grown men, but you’d think they were back in kindergarten.

  Then it happened. The chanting stopped. They drew closer together, slipping their arms around each other. And they kissed. A long, slow, passionate kiss. And then another and another.

  I spread my towel across my lap, hoping that when they came up for air, they wouldn’t see.

  But their making out continued and so did my hard-on. If I was going to get out of there anytime soon, without being burned to a crisp, I had to get rid of them. Otherwise they would see my enormous woody, sticking out under my towel, as I walked past them.

  From my chair, legs firmly clamped to hide my reaction to them, I called, “Hey, guys. Get a room.” I smiled so they would know I didn’t care what they were doing. But I did want them to leave.

  They leaped out of the pool, and one chased the other to the elevator well. I waited a good five minutes, and then I, too, took the elevator up.

  When the doors opened into the apartment, I saw Dad there with a man. The guy was a tall drink of water. If he hadn’t been in his conservative pinstripe, I would have sworn he might have been a draft pick for the 76-ers. But this guy was definitely a lawyer or an accountant or a banker or something like that. His suit was almost as rich as the ones in Dad’s closet. His skin was taut and shiny, a warm chocolatey brown. He had coal-black hair, shining golden brown eyes, and teeth that had been in the whitener just a little too long.

  “Jake-O. I thought you’d be at the pool all day.” Dad had that “deer in the headlights” look again.

  “Too much distraction.” I kept my sentence short. I still didn’t want to talk to him.

  You’d think, as hotel manager, he would have asked what I meant. But he had other things on his mind.

  “Jake, I want you to meet Paul Scarsdale.”

  I walked over to the guy, out of habit, to shake his hand. I didn’t care who he was or why he was there.

  “Paulie, this is my son Jacob.”

  I shook the man’s outstretched hand. His grip was firm and friendly. But still, I didn’t care. I just wanted to retreat to my room. I said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get dressed.”

  I headed to my room. I pushed the door to with my foot and started to undress.

  But the door hadn’t closed entirely. I could hear the conversation from the other room.

  “See, Paulie? He’s still pissed. I really screwed it all up.”

  “Don’t you figure he’ll come around, Bri?” Bri? Nobody called my Dad Bri. “It will just take some time for him to process it all.”

  “I hope so. He’ll relax once he’s back on his home turf. I know that much about my son.”

  “Do you want to postpone the wedding, Bri?” Wedding? “I’m okay with that.”

  “No, Paulie,” Dad protested. “I asked you to marry me, and I have no intention of putting the wedding off.”

  “Look, Bri, I could start my new job later than I planned. I know my boss would understand a few weeks delay. It’s a start-up. He’ll still be dealing with permits and such. No reason for me to be there as soon as we planned. I’ve got savings to live off awhile. Let’s just postpone until your son….”

  “Not going to happen. The room’s all booked, the hotel caterer has everything planned, and the trip to Santorini is sewed up.”

  “We could go on the trip anyway.”

  “No, Paulie. It wouldn’t be a honeymoon unless we were properly hitched.”

  Oh my freakin’ God. They’re talking about marrying each other. Shit, shit, shit.

  That lying son of a bitch. I wanted to run screaming from that bedroom. Punch their lights out. Kick ’em in the nuts. Push ’em over the balcony rail.

  “You’re a sweetie pie, Bri.” The bastard giggled. Give me a fucking break. “But seriously, it’s important that you square things with your son. If it means postponing things, then so be it.”

  “Look, Paulie, I love my son more than anything. And I will never give up on him. I would step in front of a moving bus for him. But I know he’s going to have to get used to all this stuff I’ve thrown at him. Meanwhile, we both have new jobs to start in Halifax. We’re committed to our jobs and to our marriage. I promise you, we’re all going to live happily ever after.”

  “When are you going to tell him about us? About the wedding?”

  Dad sighed.

  “I have to tell him soon. After all, I want him standing next to me at the ceremony. He’s the best man. In fact, my son is a better man than I am.”

  If you mean I’m not a liar, then you’re right.

  I had taken all I
could. I burst from the room, clutching the towel around my naked body.

  “Best man?”

  Dad and his boy toy, Paulie, both startled, darted their eyes over at me.

  “There is not a chance in hell I’m going to be your best man. In fact, I feel dirty just thinking about this thing you’re planning. Wedding? Don’t make me laugh.”

  I turned and fled because I didn’t want either of them to see the tears that were welling up in my eyes. He’d said nothing had changed, that he was the same dad he’d always been, and I’d wanted to believe it. But now another omission piled upon all the others.

  I slammed the door to my room. Anger, hurt, confusion. Another secret revealed. Would this go on forever? He was just incapable of telling the truth. And that marriage thing. I didn’t know what I thought about two men getting married. I knew SCOTUS had just made it legal in all fifty states. That dominated Houston news for about a week, then died down. I was okay with it in an abstract way. But this revelation was concrete. Very concrete. My own father was planning to marry this man. I was like any kid of divorce. I spent a long time after the thirteen words hoping my parents would get back together. I’d come to accept Mom and Dad, as much as they still seemed to love each other, were never getting back together. I made my peace with that. She could find a new man. He could get remarried. But to this clown? This “five-hundred-dollar suits, perfect fade, overpayment to the dentist, gay clown”? My torment would never end.

  In a split second, Dad was pounding on the door. “Son, please come out. Let’s talk about this.” I was so mad I heard no emotion in his voice. I didn’t want any of his feelings to penetrate my anger.

  I ignored him. I hated him. And I hated myself even more for crying over what I’d heard. Why would I shed tears for a man who had done nothing but lie to me since I was twelve years old? Love me? He says he loves me? He’d jump in front of a bus for me? Well, go ahead.

  “Jake,” he said through the door, “I’m sorry you found out this way. I was going to tell you. I was trying to find the right time.” He must have moved away from the door because I couldn’t hear him so distinctly anymore, but I did make out, “Oh God, why oh why am I such a fuckup?”