Family Obligations

by Vivien Dean

  Family Obligations

  By Vivien Dean and Rick R. Reed

  Tate D’Angelo always thought he knew who his father was: beloved doctor, devoted husband and father…. Everyone at the funeral shared the same glowing stories of a kind soul. So when his father’s old college buddy, Randy, approaches him after the service, Tate expects to hear echoes of the same.

  Instead, he gets a lifetime’s worth of letters that tell a different tale and cause him to view his father—and his family—in a whole new light.

  The truth, about a secret romance kept buried for decades, astonishes him. Overwhelmed by grief and confusion, Tate is unsure if he can bear learning how the lives of two men entwined over the years, but he reads on anyway, discovering more to value, more to respect, and most importantly, more to love about the man who raised him.

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  TATE D’ANGELO cast a look back at the casket, thinking of all the things that go through a son’s mind when his father dies. A cavalcade of memories sprang forth—events that had seen him and his father through infancy, childhood, adolescence, and, finally, his adulthood. Those memories, like everyone’s, were filled with good times and bad, with holidays and special days, losses and celebrations, landmarks, and the shifting changes brought about by the passage of time.

  Tate supposed losing his father at age sixty-two from pancreatic cancer was yet another of those changes. Tate was half his father’s age, with a family of his own now, yet he felt suddenly alone in the world. He knew that in spite of the memories he carried in his heart, he would never see his dad again, never pick up the phone to call him or feel his warm embrace when they reunited. There was a hole where his father had been, and Tate didn’t know if he would ever be able to fill it.

  On this hot Miami night, at Estrella Funeral Home in Coral Gables, the viewing hours had been well-attended, crowded even. His dad would have been humbled by all of the people who had come out to pay their respects. Tate wished only that his father could have seen the throngs coming in the past couple of hours and heard the kind words they had said about him and his medical practice. Why did it always have to be at the passing of a life when people expressed their gratitude and affection so well? Why were they so hesitant when they were alive? Tate promised himself he’d hug his own family extra close tonight.

  His dad had been a caring guy, that much was for sure.

  Now almost everyone had left save for his mother, who sat, looking a bit shell-shocked, next to the open casket where his father lay. He really did look like he was asleep—still handsome with his Sicilian coloring and hair, black and wavy with just a touch of gray.

  Tate caught his mother’s eye. She looked so tired, and the slope of her shoulders and the shadows beneath her dull and listless eyes confirmed it. He knew her world had crumbled beneath her, and he was certain she, like him, was wondering how it would all come back together, if it ever could. Tate knew exactly how she felt—it had been hard enough grieving, but the added necessity of being “on” for all the visitors had sucked every bit of energy from Tate and, he was sure, his mom. He simply needed, as introverts tend to do, a moment alone to recharge. He raised one finger and mouthed the words, “Be right back,” to his mother, who nodded weakly and gave him a small wave.

  When he crept out through the whisper-quiet plate glass front doors, a wall of heat and humidity hit him like something palpable. The air was infused with moisture, and only the smallest of breezes stirred the palms on the funeral home’s front lawn. Miami had been Tate’s home most of his life, so, in spite of the cloying tropical heat, it felt good to be outside, away from the refrigerator-like blast of the funeral home’s air conditioning.

  The stars had just begun to come out, and the scent of hibiscus hung in the air. It was too early to pick out constellations, which was probably for the better. Finding Andromeda or Orion’s Belt would remind him too much of a childhood gone, when he’d stare up at the sky with his father at his back, listening to him point each one out. For a moment he wished he still smoked, so he had something to do with his hands, something to take his mind off the loss of his dad, who had meant so much.

  He made his way to a low wall that fronted the Spanish-style building and took a seat, just breathing in and out—slowly, letting his mind go blank.

  “Mr. D’Angelo? Tate?” A man’s voice, soft, reached him from behind.

  Tate stood and turned, surprised. He hadn’t heard anyone follow him out, but there he was, one of the people he had seen during the course of the viewing hours, but to whom he had not spoken. The man looked to be about his father’s age. There was solidity to him, an almost military bearing. His gray hair was shorn close to his head, making his pale blue eyes with their dark lashes stand out even more in contrast. He was closely shaven and wore a simple black suit, cut perfectly to accentuate his broad shoulders and narrow hips.

  Tate smiled. “That’s me.” He extended a hand, and the two men shook. “Did you know my dad?”

  The man’s eyes took on a faraway aspect, and he didn’t say anything for long moments. Tate wondered if the man was going to cry. Finally he sucked in a quivering breath and smiled. “Yeah. Your dad and me went way back—all the way to our undergraduate years.”

  “At UDub?” Tate employed the affectionate nickname his father used for his alma mater—the University of Washington, all the way on the other side of the country, in Seattle.

  “That’s the place.”

  “I’m sorry—did I miss your name?”

  “No, you didn’t, so my apologies. I’m Randall Frank. But your dad called me Randy.”

  Tate stared at him, waiting for more. When Randy didn’t offer anything else, Tate asked, “So are you in the area now?”

  “Oh, no. I stayed in Seattle. I have a little family practice in Woodinville, just outside the city. It’s pretty there. Quiet.”

  “And you came all this way for my father’s funeral?” Tate thought it was strange, flying something like more than three thousand miles to pay final respects to a college classmate from thirty years ago. Who did that?

  “Ah, your father and I had a really close friendship when we were undergrads, and we stayed in touch—sporadically—through the years. You may not have known about me, Tate, but I knew all about you. Congrats a little late on your child, by the way. A little girl?”

  Tate grinned. “Claire.” He pictured the little red-haired girl in his mind and couldn’t wait to get home to her.

  Randy said, “Listen, I didn’t mean to intrude. I just saw you heading out here, and I’ve been hoping to get you alone.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I have something for you.”

  Tate cocked his head, brows furrowed in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Randy groped in the breast pocket of his suit coat and brought out a thumb drive. He held it out. Tate took it from him, turning the little rectangle of black plastic over as if it was an object he’d never laid eyes on.

  “I’m sorry,” Randy said. “I don’t mean to be mysterious. That drive has the sum total of mine and your father’s correspondence over the years.” He smiled and shrugged. “When your dad got sick, he sent me all the letters he had saved from me.” Even in the dark, Tate could see Randy blush. “I thought I was the only one who hung on to them, but it made me happy that they meant enough for your dad to keep. Anyway, I guess when he knew he might not beat the cancer, he wanted me to have my letters, rath
er than just having your mom find them in his office.” He took a breath, staring off into the violet night. “I scanned it all into my computer and put everything on this thumb drive for you. I hope they’ll mean something to you, give you a little piece of your father you might not have otherwise had.”

  Randy’s eyes at last welled with tears, leaving Tate just as befuddled. The man squeezed his eyes shut tight, obviously trying to keep a wellspring of emotions at bay. “I just thought Mark’s son might like to know his dad fully,” Randy managed to get out. He sniffed and pressed his hands to his eyes for a moment, then let go. “Listen, I need to be on my way. Early plane to catch in the morning.”

  Although Tate wanted to know more, he didn’t want to detain this man, this friend, who was so obviously and so suddenly in pain. “Okay,” he said softly. He held up the thumb drive. “Thank you for this.”

  Randy nodded and hurried off into the night. Tate watched him go, wondering if he would ever see him again.

  IT WASN’T until three days after the funeral that Tate thought again of the strange encounter with his father’s old friend outside the funeral home.

  The past few days, what with the funeral and keeping his mom company and taking care of his own family obligations, had left Tate drained. He had fallen into bed each night exhausted—and quick, heavy, and dreamless sleep followed.

  But today was Friday, and Kelly had taken Claire out to a park in Coconut Grove for a play date. Tate had the house to himself and wouldn’t have to return to his veterinary practice until Monday.

  He sat down at the iMac they had set up in the study and plugged in the thumb drive Randy had given him at the close of his dad’s viewing hours the other night.

  A PDF came up, and the computer asked if he wanted to open it. “I want to open it, of course. Come on!” he whispered to the computer. He chuckled. He’d inherited his great well of patience from his dad.

  There was no explanation, no preface.

  There was simply the first letter. The handwriting was his dad’s. Even if the penmanship had gotten sloppier over the years, his backward-slanting script was still recognizable.

  Tate wasn’t sure what to expect—or why this man Randy had chosen to share such personal items with him. He figured there was only one way to find out.

  He began reading.

  June 5, 1973

  Dear Randy,

  Well, kid, it’s been three days, fifteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes since we graduated and I last saw you. But who’s counting?

  I don’t know how often I’ll be able to write, what with starting medical school and planning for my wedding. But I wanted you to know that I was thinking of you and, oh hell, how very much I miss you.

  I know this is hard. I know you wanted something else. But it just can’t be. The world doesn’t look kindly on two men as a couple, especially if one of them plans on being a pediatrician. And besides, as I’ve told you, I love Sharon in my way. She’s a great girl, and I know she’s crazy about me. We have a good relationship, and I can foresee a great future with her.

  Oh shit, who am I trying to kid? She’s a wonderful woman and I do love her, with all my heart. But I love you, Randy, more. And… she can never know this. It would break her heart. It would break mine.

  But I still ache when I think of leaving you just as dawn was breaking the other morning, looking up at you standing in the window of your apartment, watching me, your hand pressed against the glass.

  I wanted so much to turn around, to just say “fuck it all” to a world that disapproves of something as pure and honest and passionate as what we shared. I wanted to run back up the stairs and into your arms, to cover you with kisses, and take you back to bed—one more time.

  Could you see that on my face? Could you see the longing and the pain?

  I don’t know what will happen with us, I only know I hope to hear from you sometimes. I can’t, much as my head tells me to, just sever all ties with you. It’s a dangerous game, but a world without you in it, in at least some small way, is a world I can’t bear living in.

  My heart won’t let me say good-bye, not completely.

  I know that’s not fair to you, but I also know a handsome guy like you, with such talented hands, will not be alone for long. You too will find a nice girl and settle down, have kids, just like I plan to do.

  And who knows? Maybe there will come a time when we can all get together with our families. Maybe, after a while, these desires we have for each other will be replaced by friendship and respect, edged out by the love we have for our wives.

  I hope so. But today I am missing you and wishing, so hard, you were here in Miami with me.

  I start my summer job waiting tables at a little seafood place on the beach tomorrow—and med school awaits at the University of Miami in the fall.

  Take care of yourself, Randy, and please, no matter what, don’t forget what we shared. I know I won’t.

  Much love,

  Mark

  Tate sat back in the desk chair, feeling as though his breath had been knocked out of him. His heart hammered in his chest, and his hand, poised over the mouse, was shaking.

  His father was gay? Where did that come from? He loved another man? This Randy? Was this some kind of joke? He peered again at the scanned handwriting on the screen and knew it was his father’s own. And he recalled Randy’s face outside the funeral home. Even in the shadows, Tate could see the naked pain on his face.

  Tate laid his head on the desk, and the tears, hot and stinging, came from nowhere. Had his father’s whole life been a lie? Had he loved them at all? Or were they just a convenient cover-up, the “proper” thing to do?

  “Kelly, Kelly, why aren’t you home?” he whimpered.

  After a while he read on.

  June 28, 1973

  Dear Mark,

  I guess it’s a good thing neither one of us is named John.

  Bad joke, I know. But I’ve been sitting here staring at this blank piece of paper for three days now, trying to figure out how to start, and that’s all I’ve got. Better a bad joke than nothing at all, though, because otherwise, this letter will never happen. And I wonder, should it? Wouldn’t it be easier for both of us if I didn’t write back? You have a whole new life out there, with med school and Sharon and the future you’ve always wanted. Getting this letter will just remind you of what used to be, and what real good can come from that?

  If I was an unselfish man, I’d stop writing now, throw this in the trash, and wait for my wedding invitation to arrive. And when it arrived, I would throw that in the trash too and keep moving on… and away.

  But I’m not that man. None of this is easy, and if you’ve got the guts to tell me how much you miss me, then you deserve the same from me.

  I miss you.

  Every day. Every night. The longing inside is like a presence that’s always with me, piercing. Painful. And I’d rather have these little pieces of you, these words that are just for me and nobody else, than lose you entirely to memories. Memories fade, or they get replaced by new truths, and I’m not sure if I could live with either of those options.

  As long as we’re confessing, I cracked about ten minutes after you left. I made it two blocks. That’s when I ran into Bob and Linda on their way to breakfast. They asked where I was going in such a hurry, and I froze, because what was I going to say? “Oh, I’m just chasing after Mark, because I don’t know how I’m going to wake up tomorrow and not have him right there for me to hold and kiss and talk to and all those things you two get to do out here in the street but we’ve had to hide for the past three years.”

  I realized if I can’t even say something like that to people we think of as friends, all your hopes and dreams about pediatrics don’t stand a chance. You’ve said that all along, and I know I said I understood, but it didn’t really sink in until right then. People won’t get it. Hell, I didn’t get it at first, and I was right in the middle of it.

  The truth is, I love you to
o much to take your future away from you, not after you’ve worked so hard. You’re going to be an amazing doctor, and if you and Sharon are blessed with kids of your own, an even more amazing father. Who am I to deprive the world of you?

  So I came up with some dumb excuse, turned around, and came home. It was a very long day. The night was even longer. I couldn’t sleep because I couldn’t stop staring at your side of the bed. There was still an indentation from where you’d been sleeping, but rolling over didn’t help because I kept expecting you to press to my back. I finally quit trying to make it work there and curled up on the couch instead. That’s where I’ve been sleeping ever since you left.

  I hope that doesn’t sound like I’m trying to guilt you into coming back. I know that won’t happen. This isn’t your life anymore, but it’s not really mine either, so I’m stuck in this limbo until I figure out what my life can be again.

  I was thinking of subletting the apartment until the lease runs out in August, but nobody’s around. Mom’s started in again on her campaign for me to move home, and would you believe it, I actually considered it for a little while. I thought being out of the apartment might help me to stop thinking about you all summer. But moving home means dealing with Dad, and I don’t think I’m up to ignoring his criticisms. He might’ve stopped calling me unpatriotic, but he’s never really forgiven me for taking part in the strike freshman year. We’re both better people if we’re not in the same house. Hopefully Mom will come to realize that too, sooner rather than later.

  In the meantime I’m working full-time at the garage since I don’t have classes anymore to get in the way. Voight finally quit, so I’ve been picking up his hours as overtime too. Staying busy helps. I’m usually exhausted by the time I get home so I don’t think too much before falling asleep.

  Dreams are another matter. They’re always about you. I wish I had the same way with words you do so I could describe them, but you’re the one with the silver tongue. Just know, they’re never boring. They run the gamut from reliving some of my favorite times together, to hours of us fucking and kissing and touching, to watching you walk away that last morning. Needless to say, I prefer the first two kinds.