Unraveling

by Rick R. Reed

  His gaze engages mine and his eyes are soulful and sad. The lids flutter. “I’m not being fair to you.”

  He’s not. I hadn’t realized it until he spoke the words. But, God, I’ve lost at love so many times now I sometimes think I’ll take anyone who shows potential, and Randy definitely does.

  And yet.

  And yet.

  Maybe I deserve someone who’s free of the kind of baggage he’s lugging around? Someone out and proud and happy? Someone who loves who he is, so he can love me, too, when he looks at me. Someone free of complications.

  And yet.

  And yet.

  I want Randy.

  It’s like what he said about his “old heart” knowing only love. Despite all the red flags warning me to run like hell from this man because a liaison with him is only asking for trouble, I move toward him and wrap my arms around him.

  Because love.

  Chapter Thirteen

  VIOLET

  My mom’s my best friend. There, I said it. And no, I don’t think it’s pathetic or sad that I find the woman who spawned me a good friend. It wasn’t always this way, but I grew up, you know? We kind of became contemporaries in an odd sort of way.

  It’s great I have this love, this companionship.

  My father’s another story and one that’s not relevant right now.

  We sit in the kitchen of the old house in Evanston I grew up in. It’s a massive, three-story affair only two blocks from Lake Michigan on Judson Avenue. It’s constantly in need of painting, repairs, yard work, but my parents love this Victorian house like it’s another member of the family. And maybe it is.

  We all grew up here, my sister and four brothers, the classic Catholic family with kids coming one right after the other. My mom’s a saint. Or maybe not, maybe more of a sinner, because perhaps if she was a little more saintly in the bedroom, she wouldn’t have this enormous brood.

  I’m the youngest, the baby. I’d like to say the one everyone dotes on, but that would be a lie. If you grow up in a large family, you know the baby of the family gets the least amount of real estate in the family photo albums. My older sister, Mary Pat? She’s the firstborn. Go through those photo albums and you’ll find pages and pages of her—first steps, first grade, first Holy Communion—all the milestones captured. By the time my parents got to me, they were obviously tuckered out from taking photographs. I take up only a couple pages in the albums, and in almost every shot, I’m in a group of brothers and sisters.

  But my mom, Fran, always had a special place for me in her heart. She protected me from bullying brothers and a sister who, for the most part, ignored me. I got to do some things none of my siblings did—shopping trips downtown, lunch at the Walnut Room at Marshall Field’s during the holidays, helping her make Christmas cookies.

  And yet, I have never been able to bring myself to tell her about the state of my marriage. It hurts too much. I’ve imagined the disappointment on her face a million times, and I think, How can I wound her like this? She loves Randy, always has. There were times when I thought she preferred him to me!

  When my father didn’t want me to marry the son of a blue-collar man (welder), whom he didn’t see as good enough, she fought for Randy, telling her husband that he was “a good man” and that, unlike some of the boys from Loyola Academy or our country club, whom Dad would have preferred I date, he was more trustworthy.

  I knew it would break her heart to hear of our troubles and especially the truth about Randy.

  But I needed her. I needed my mother, my best friend. I needed to lean on her, to embrace her maternal compassion and wisdom. I needed someone to help me sort out a situation I never thought I’d face.

  We sit in the kitchen of the house. It’s a big room where everyone usually ends up when there are parties or family gatherings. It’s still stuck in the 1970s, with harvest-gold appliances and lots of maple. Even the refrigerator and dishwasher are covered in maple veneer.

  A big pedestal table is the centerpiece of the room, and this is where we sit on a weekday afternoon in May. I’ve taken the day off from my job as a sales assistant at a stock brokerage house on LaSalle. Mental health day I call it, but I tell my male boss that I’m not coming in because of female troubles, and that nips any questions in the bud.

  We talk a lot about little things while Mom busies herself making a fresh pot of coffee and getting a few Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies on a plate for us. Mary Pat is due to deliver her third this coming summer, and Mom’s not approving of the name they have picked out for the little girl, Amber. She says it’s too trendy, and she’s probably right. She also doesn’t approve of the fact that they know the sex of the kid already.

  I remind Mom that these are Mary Pat’s choices.

  I hear about Denny’s new job teaching English at Senn High School in Chicago, how Bobby is making great strides in his training to be a trader at the Mercantile Exchange. With a sigh, she tells me about Brad’s new girlfriend and how little time this one will last…

  Finally, we’re seated across from each other at the table, steaming mugs of coffee in front of us. I notice Mom looks old, tired, her once vibrant red hair faded to a dull shade. The lines on her face are more noticeable, but somehow, they make her blue eyes sparkle.

  Even though we’ve been talking about neutral stuff, family gossip, my mother has never been one to beat around the bush. She lost that capacity probably by the time she was giving birth to her second kid, if not before. She’s always been unflinchingly honest.

  And today is no exception. “So, what’s wrong?”

  I take a sip of coffee, and it burns my tongue. I pull up what I know is a shaky smile. “Does something have to be wrong for me to visit my mother?”

  Ever so slightly, she rolls her eyes. “On a workday? In the middle of the week?” She pats my hand before taking a cookie off the plate. She takes a little bite and smiles. “Yes, dear, something has to be wrong. I’ve been a mother long enough to just know these things. Now, out with it.”

  I stare down at the scarred surface of the table, remembering all the meals I’ve eaten here, all the fighting I’ve done with my siblings, all the spilled milk, and the arguments. I trace a big scratch in the wood with my finger, unable to look up. I can feel the tears gathering in my eyes and the lump in my throat hardening and growing. But I don’t want to cry. Not yet, anyway. I need to tell her what’s happening, get out the truth before I can allow myself to be consoled.

  She notices my discomfort. Even though I’m not at the moment meeting her gaze, she knows I’m on the verge of tears.

  She scoots her chair a little closer and covers my hand again with her own, squeezes. “You know you can tell me anything.”

  “Randy and I—” I start but then have to stop because my breath is shaky, barely there. Mom squeezes again. “Randy and I are splitting up.”

  She snatches her hand away. It wasn’t the move I’d expected.

  “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Tell me you are, Mom. I’m coming to you with something serious.”

  She stands and heads over to the kitchen sink. I suspect she’s surprised there’s nothing there for her to do, no dishes to rinse before putting in the dishwasher, no food to be destroyed in the garbage disposal. She grips the sink hard enough to whiten her knuckles and stares out the kitchen window at the circular driveway. In the center, daffodils are springing up.

  She continues to peer outside, her head turned away. Her words are measured, slow, as though she wants to make sure I understand and that perhaps I’m a little slow myself. “We don’t ‘split up’ in this family. For one, it’s against the Church. For another, just name anyone else in our family who’s divorced.”

  I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. I came here today because I thought Mom would be the one person in the world who might truly offer me meaningful support and compassion. Maybe I should have thought harder?

  “Things just aren’t working out,” I mumb
le.

  “And third,” she continues, “What about poor Henry? He needs both his parents!”

  I don’t want to argue. I debate just getting up and heading home. But I can’t help saying, “Henry will always have two parents who love him, no matter what.”

  She comes back to the table. Her face is flushed and her hands tremble. I know she’s furious. “You need to patch things up.” She sighs and I can see her features softening. “Sweetheart, believe me, there’s nothing in a marriage that can’t be fixed. All you need is some good communication and the will to make things better. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it works. Trust me.” At last, she locks her gaze with my own, hinting at secrets from her own marriage, secrets I don’t want to know about.

  The words rush out of me, words I never intended to say, knowing my family’s strong Catholic and right-wing convictions. I can’t help it, though. I need to make her see how hopeless this situation is.

  “Mom, Randy’s a homosexual.”

  She pauses for a moment, and her eyes widen, as though I just stood up and backhanded her across the face. And then she laughs—for a long time, until her head drops into her hands and she’s shaking. I can’t tell if the laughter has turned to sobbing or not.

  Finally, she looks up at me and her eyes are red-rimmed, and she’s a little breathless. “That’s a good one, Vi. You want to try again?”

  She wants the truth to be something other than it is, I know. And I can tell she already, deep down, believes me. “Mom, I wish it wasn’t so. I wish I were joking.”

  “But you have a child.”

  “Yes, we do. That doesn’t change who Randy is.”

  “Who he is? Honey, he isn’t gay. If he’s saying he is, it’s a choice, a fantasy, some confusion on his part. He can see someone, work this out, get back to being the man you married.”

  She’s running through, in a highly compressed time frame, some of my own thoughts once I knew Randy was gay—thoughts I’m now ashamed of.

  I tell her being gay isn’t a choice.

  She waves that notion away with her hand. “Of course, it is. God made man and woman to create more of his children on this earth. You know what sin is? It’s turning away from God. Randy has turned away from God.” She swallows and I can see the anguish this is causing her. “He can turn back,” she says quietly.

  I stare down at the floor, unsure of what to say. This isn’t going how I expected it to at all. I expected open arms. Sympathy. A desire to help in any way she could…

  But this woman in front of me is someone I don’t know. Her face is like a closed fist, and I want to recoil from it.

  “He’s been seeing a therapist since last winter,” I tell her.

  “And? Is he helping him change?”

  I have to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. “No. He’s helping him to accept himself. To see his worth as a person.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, but I can practically hear the wheels turning. At last, she says, “He needs to talk to a priest, then. A priest will help him sort it out.”

  This time I restrain myself from snorting. A priest? He’s more likely to molest my husband, but I can’t tell Mom that. Ours is a family steeped in Catholicism, for better or worse.

  “Mom, Randy is who he is, who he’s always been. A good man. He’s a great father, and I still love him.”

  “If those things are true, what are you doing here spitting out this filth?”

  I’ve seldom heard my mother talk this way. I guess the topic of homosexuality has never reared its head in this family, other than my brothers and Dad making snickering jokes about the “fags.”

  Her close-mindedness and anger feel like a wall she’s thrown up against me. I’ve heard it said that sometimes the only way to get out of somewhere or something is to go through it. But a brick wall? I think I’d have better luck trying to hurdle it.

  And that frustrates me beyond words. I despair. And, without even thinking about it, as natural as laughter at a joke, I simply drop my face into my hands and begin to sob. I don’t know where to turn for help if I can’t get it from my own mother. Is there a support group for someone like me?

  I could tell her I’m having an affair. That would really give her a coronary. But Steven Goode is just what his last name promises—a warm, funny man who’s good in and out of the bedroom. He’s nursing his own wounds from a failed marriage, but he treats me like I’m a super model or something, like he can’t believe how lucky he is to be with me. He doesn’t know the real reason Randy and I are splitting up. I don’t know why I haven’t told him. Maybe because I don’t want to give the AIDS scare if he finds I’m married to a gay man. God knows I could understand how he might want to pull back from us. So, I’ve lied to him and told him we’re already separated.

  When he comes over, I hide Randy’s clothes.

  Mom gets up from her chair and rubs my back. “Oh, honey, is it really that bad? Is it really beyond repair?”

  I sniffle and look up at her. “Yes. And yes.”

  She scoots her chair next to mine. Very gently, she removes my hands from her face and holds them tightly. Her touch is warm, secure, and, in spite of everything, it makes me feel safe and at home.

  My lip still quivering a bit, I ask her, “What am I gonna do?”

  She sighs and, finally, I can see this is hurting her too. “There’s really no chance of fixing this?”

  “Mom, he’s gay. I know you don’t believe it, but it’s a fact. A bold, black-and-white fact. Despite what you think, he didn’t choose it. Nobody chooses it. Did you ‘choose’ to be straight? Was there a day in, say, your adolescence, when you woke up and said to yourself, “Self, it’s time to choose. Lesbian or straight? Maybe bisexual?” When I say it aloud, it sounds as absurd as it is.

  But Mom just looks mystified.

  “Whatever.” I let a quivering breath escape. “Whatever you think is still not going to change the fact that my marriage is over.”

  She asks me again. “Are you sure?”

  “Mom, I know. Randy has lived a lie for almost his whole life. I’m not going to be part of that lie anymore.”

  She leans forward so she can wrap her arms around me. She holds me close even though the position, on kitchen chairs, is awkward. “We’re always here for you, honey. And for Henry.”

  At the mention of Henry’s name, she pulls back a little, her face paling. “You don’t leave Henry alone with Randy, do you?”

  “Mom! Randy’s gay. He’s not a pedophile. He loves Henry. He would never, ever do anything to hurt our boy.” I shake my head, eyeing her.

  She doesn’t quite look like she believes me, but she nods anyway, her lips drawn into a thin line. Leaning back, she’s quiet for a long time, and I know my mother—she’s working out solutions. And no other thought will do until she’s found one.

  After what seems like an hour but is really more likely a few minutes, she sits back, disengaging from me, and begins to speak. “You want our help?”

  I nod, but am unsure what their help will entail. But I’ll hear her out.

  “You need to go home right now and pack a couple bags. One for you, one for Henry. You need to leave, my sweet girl. You were deceived into this marriage, and you need to get away from it. The Church will look kindly on you when they know the circumstances.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “You should. We can get this sham annulled.”

  I feel a chill. I’m suddenly on a galloping horse, and the reins have slipped loose from my fingers. And yet, there’s a part of me that’s once again a little girl.

  I want Mommy to make things all better. I listen.

  “Your father has a friend who’s a divorce attorney. He’s very good.” She nods. “He’ll make sure everything will go in your favor, especially after what’s happened here.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to drag Randy’s private life into this.”

  She stares at me and then says quietly, “You already h
ave, my girl. You already have.”

  I’m full of questions, yet too overwhelmed to ask any of them. I think of my girlhood bedroom upstairs, empty these days. There are twin canopy beds. One for me and one for Henry.

  Oh God, what am I about to do?

  I get up. “I’ll go home, get some things together.”

  “Good.”

  I move toward the kitchen door that will take me outside. I stop with my hand on the doorknob. “I’m only doing this to give myself time to think.”

  “Of course. We’ll see you back here in time for dinner?”

  I can only nod. Nausea dogs me all the way to the car.

  Chapter Fourteen

  RANDY

  I creep around John’s bedroom in the wan, grayish light that comes just before the dawn. Monday morning and I need to get to work. I dress quietly in the dim light, glad I folded my clothes carefully the night before.

  Once dressed, I take a couple steps to stand near John’s bed. He sleeps, undisturbed by the little noise I’ve made, one arm thrown over his eyes. His dark curls make a contrast against the white pillow case. The bedclothes are down around his navel, and I suck in my breath for a moment at the beauty of his broad and furry chest.

  He snores lightly and it makes me smile, makes me want to get back into bed with him.

  The night before was a revelation, a confirmation that I have now managed to fall into the bed I belong in—with another man. For so long, I’ve fantasized about doing all the things we did the night before, worried that I’d do them wrong or disappointingly.

  I got no indication from John I was doing anything wrong.

  Last night was perfect—the escape I needed from the mounting fears I’m having about Violet. In fact, for just a few blessed moments, I became free of all the baggage I’m sure I’ll be hauling around for a while until the dust settles and Violet and I have made a kind of peace. As parents. As friends.