If I Told You So

by Timothy Woodward

  I roll my eyes. “Matt’s not a close friend. We’re in drama together, but that’s it. I think we had algebra together freshman year. He’s much cuter now that he cut his hair. I never really noticed him before. I hope he doesn’t go and tell everyone at school where I work.”

  “What are you so worried about? Even if he does, so what?”

  “People will think I’m gay!”

  “Newsflash—people already think that.” Becky folds her arms and gives me a knowing look. Her words are prickly and sting.

  “How would you know that?” I say. “Just because you assume every guy you meet is gay doesn’t mean everyone does. I happen to like my straight life.”

  “That’s only because you’re hiding your gay one.”

  “Shh! I don’t want anyone to—”

  “To what? Hear? C’mon, Sean, I thought you were over this.”

  “Well, I guess I’m not, okay?” I can feel tears forming, and I don’t know why. Becky has hurt my feelings, but even I think I’m being dumb. Maybe it’s just not that easy to come out after all. “I need a bathroom break.”

  Before Becky can see how she’s affected me, I’m out of there. I rush through the back room, where Jay is standing at the mixer, and directly to the bathroom. I don’t want Jay to see me, either.

  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror for several minutes, leaning hard on the porcelain sink attached to the wall. The day has been one bad thing after another. I take a deep breath and run water into the sink, letting it warm up a little. After a few seconds I feel the temperature change, and I cup my hands under the stream and splash my face. I do this a few times until the tears have been washed away. I no longer want to cry, which is good, but I still feel awful. There’s a knock on the door.

  “Sean?” It’s Jay. “Are you okay?”

  “I just need a minute.”

  “Okay. Just checking. You’ve been in there a while.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  I pull out several paper towels from the dispenser mounted on the wall above the sink, and dry my face and hands. I take a last look in the mirror and turn to leave. There’s still two more hours until my shift is over.

  I open the bathroom door, and I am surprised to find Jay waiting for me.

  “Jay?”

  “Hi, boy. Are you okay? Becky said you were pretty upset.”

  “I’m okay now. It’s just been a bad day so far.”

  “Some days are like that. Listen, I’m sorry I stranded you with all of those little kids earlier. I should have been there to help.”

  “It’s okay. I need to learn how to handle tough situations.”

  “Let me make it up to you. We’re off in a couple hours. Let’s take my boat over to Clearlake and catch a movie. You, me, a bucket of popcorn, and a dark room. What do you say?”

  I don’t say anything. I just let myself fall into Jay’s chest and feel his arms wrap around me. Finally, I whisper in his ear, “Can we get gummy bears?”

  Jay is my hero for the rest of the afternoon, and fortunately no more bad customers show up to ruin my salvaged mood. I can’t wait for our shift to end so that I can be alone with Jay. I even make Becky buy a newspaper on her break so that I can look at the movie listings.

  “I don’t see why it matters what’s playing,” she says to me when she returns with the paper. “It’s not like you’re going to watch the movie.”

  “Shut up. You’re just jealous.” I’m not angry with her anymore. I know she doesn’t mean to hurt me, even when she does.

  Finally, it’s nearly six, and our replacements arrive. I head to the back to change out of my pink shirt. I just get my shirt over my head when there’s a knock on the break room door.

  “Just a minute.”

  “Sean,” Becky says from the other side of the door, “your dad’s here.”

  “My dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  I throw my fresh shirt over my head and don’t bother with my hair. I race to the front of the store. Why would my dad come to visit me at work?

  He’s standing on the porch with a coffee ice cream cone, looking out at the lake.

  “Dad?”

  He turns when I say his name. “Sean. Your mother told me you got off at six. I’m glad I caught you.”

  “What are you doing here?” But all I have to do is look down the walk to where his rental is parked at the curb. I can see them sticking out of the rear window from here. Fishing poles.

  “I thought maybe we could go fishing. I just drove over from the tackle shop in Mason, and I can tell you the fish are rising all over the lake.”

  “I kind of had plans.” My father looks hurt. “Besides, what are you going to use for a boat?”

  “You don’t need a boat to go fishing, Sean, but since you asked, there’s a couple of boats down at the cottages for guests to use. The little outboard motor won’t take us too far, but I know some good spots near Bell Cove. Whaddya say?”

  I’m still trying to decide what I want to say when Jay walks out on the porch. “There you are. Are you ready to go? Oh, hi, Mr. Jackson.” Jay’s body goes rigid as he puts on his “best behavior” act for my father.

  “I’m impressed you remember who I am. You’re Sean’s manager, right?”

  “Jay.” Jay holds out his hand. My father takes it and gives it a vigorous shake. “Sean and I were about to go see a movie. Did you have other plans?”

  “I was going to take my son out fishing. Do you think you guys could do the movies later?”

  I give Jay a look that I hope says, No! Please save me from having to go fishing with my father! but I can see that Jay has no good reason for coming between a man and his son.

  “I’m sure there’s a late show. Maybe we can go tonight,” Jay says, giving me a hopeful look. This compromise is hardly acceptable, but I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how everything else has gone today.

  “Great,” my father says. “C’mon, Sean, we’ve still got a good two hours before it starts to get dark.”

  I watch him go down the porch steps. “I’ll be right there.” I turn back to Jay. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah. Call me when you get back. Catch a big one for me.” I give Jay a fake laugh, and reluctantly follow my dad to his car.

  Chapter 22

  With one foot in the bow of the boat, I push us off from the dock with the other foot. I swing my leg over the side and sit on the bow seat while my father starts the motor. It’s just a little eight horsepower, but it is surprisingly noisy. It’s too loud for conversation as my father guides the boat along the shoreline to one of his favorite local fishing spots.

  There are two poles and a small tackle box that he must have bought that afternoon because the price tag is still stuck on the side. I stare at the fluorescent orange “$9.99” and try to forget that I could be racing across the lake with my arms around Jay, lake breeze and spray on our faces.

  My father reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a gold cellophane pouch. I recognize his Captain Black pipe tobacco. I have been with my father many times when others have complimented him on the smell of his pipe, but I find it repulsive. The sickeningly sweet scent fills my nose almost as soon he opens the pouch. I wish the boat were going faster so that the breeze might help blow away the smell. He hooks the tiller under one arm while he fills his pipe with a wad of tobacco from the pouch. He holds the black strings between his thumb and index finger and then in a practiced movement tamps it down in the bowl of the pipe with his thumb. He pulls a lighter from his shirt pocket and lights it. He does this with one hand, cupping the bowl of the pipe and lighting the lighter all at the same time. I’m impressed with his dexterity even as I am nauseated by the smell.

  Once the pipe is lit, my father looks off across the lake, puffing silently. The sun has started to drop toward the horizon and an orange glint comes in
to my father’s eyes. I realize he is a handsome man. I’ve never thought of him as anything but my father, but looking at him now, when I haven’t seen him for almost a year since he moved to Georgia, I can see him differently. He’s a big man, over six feet, with salt-and-pepper hair that makes him look a little older than he really is. “Distinguished,” my mother would say. He has an impressive, but neatly trimmed, mustache that gives him a scholarly look. I notice that he has taken to wearing glasses all the time now. The last time I saw him, he was still insisting he only needed them for reading. He’s chosen a stylish pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and I wonder if his new girlfriend helped him pick them out.

  He continues to stare off to the distant shore, and I wonder what is on his mind. I haven’t been fishing with him in years; there must be something important to talk about.

  And then a scary thought enters my head. He knows. My mother must have told him. Becky thought I was weak because I was afraid someone at school might figure out that I’m gay, but I am terrified that my father will find out. Telling my mother was bad enough, and I pretty much knew she’d take it all right, but I am not ready for this discussion with my father. I look around. We are only a hundred feet from shore. I could swim it easily, but then what? We’ve reached a swampy arm of the lake where there are no houses or roads.

  I am stuck. Captive. Trapped. A prisoner. There is nothing I can do but sit. And fish.

  Finally, my father cuts in toward a bank of lily pads and cattails where a couple of ancient trees have long ago fallen over into the water. The weathered trunks are silvery gray in the evening light. My father hands me a fishing pole.

  “This is the spot,” he says. “This is where we catch the tenpounder.” He double-checks his lure, a green-and-orange tiny torpedo, meant to look like a frog. He flicks his wrist and the lure sails through the air and lands with a tiny splash just off the end of one of the trees. He lets the lure sit for a few seconds before retrieving it. Then, slowly, he begins to reel it in. Every few seconds he jerks his wrist and the lure does a little splashy “jump.” Then he lets it sit again a few seconds, and the whole cycle repeats. He does this until the lure is only a few feet from the boat.

  “Had one following it. A big one.” My father is always saying things like this while fishing. When I was little I would practically fall overboard craning to see the “monster fish” that was constantly threatening his tiny lure. I’m a more skeptical audience now.

  Fishing with my dad when I was little was one of the few times we’d have to ourselves. I used to complain when my dad would wake me up to go fishing when I was little. The sun wouldn’t have risen and you could still see your breath, and Dad would drag me out on the water in search of the “big one.” But in reality, most of my best memories of my dad are with a fishing pole in my hands. It was the one time all of his attention would be on me and I didn’t have to compete with a job or any other adults. Even now, it’s peaceful out on the lake. The dusk has brought a stillness to everything, and as angry as I’ve been with my father the past few days, I feel closer to him than I have in years. Close enough maybe to share the new me. Maybe.

  “See if you can hit that lily pad over there, with the flower.” He points to a white water lily about forty feet to my right.

  I flick the fishing rod in the direction of the flower. I’m pleased to see it go in the right direction. Even without practice, I get the lure to hit its target. My father doesn’t say anything. I turn to look at him, but he is concentrating on his own lure. I’m disappointed that he wasn’t watching. When I was little he would have given me an “All right,” or “Nice cast.”

  I go about the business of retrieving the lure, following the same rhythm my father used. No luck. I try again, aiming for a water lily about ten feet to the left of the first one. For several minutes the only sounds are the whine of the reels as line is let out and the soft splashing as the lures hit the water.

  “Sean.” My father breaks the silence. “I brought you out here because there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  I knew it.

  “I talked with your mother the other night after we had dinner, and she said that I needed to talk to you.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Becky’s a really nice girl, Sean.”

  He seems to be waiting for me to respond, so I say, “Yeah.”

  “I hope she wasn’t offended when I called her quite a catch.”

  “I doubt it.” I cast out my lure again. Waiting for my father to get to the point is like waiting for a fish to bite.

  “Finding someone to share your life with is tricky. It takes time. I know you’ve only met Jill a few times.”

  Jill is his girlfriend in Georgia. She seems nice enough. She moved with him to Georgia, and before they moved she would sometimes be around when I would visit on weekends. She always treated me well; she never tried to monopolize my time with my dad or anything like that. And since he met her, Dad’s been much less of a workaholic, so there’s that.

  “She and I took some time before things got”—he pauses to check something on the fishing reel—“romantic.”

  This is killing me. I decide to force the issue. “Becky’s not my girlfriend. ”

  He seems surprised, like I’ve broken his train of thought. “What about Lisa?”

  “Lisa’s a counselor at Camp Aweelah.”

  “So, you two are on a break for the summer then?”

  “We’re on a break.” I’ve reeled my lure right up to the boat. I let it trail in the water. The little propeller on the end makes a mini wake as I move my rod back and forth.

  “Your mother said you weren’t seeing anybody.”

  “She did?”

  “Was she wrong?”

  I pause before answering. “No.”

  The pause gives me away. When I was five years old, my mother left me with my father for the day while she went to visit my aunt Maureen who had just had a baby. Normally, when my father was left to take care of me, he threw a life jacket over my head, plopped me in the boat, and we went fishing. But this day it was raining; fishing was out. So instead my father produced a deck of cards and proceeded to teach me how to play poker. He started with the basics: seven-card stud and five-card draw. He introduced wild cards. He taught me “Fours, Whores, and Mustache Growers,” and his personal favorite, “Aces and Jacks and the Man with the Axe, and a Pair of Natural Sevens Wins.” Eventually, I had emptied my piggy bank onto the living room floor, and we played penny ante all afternoon.

  That first day he let me win. I took all of his pocket change, which seemed like a fortune to a five-year-old. But it was a long time before I won any money from my father again. Not until he taught me about “reads” and bluffing did I understand how he always seemed to know what I had in my hand. My father is a good poker player. He never misses a “tell,” the little facial expressions or gestures or verbal tics that give a person away. And my pause was an obvious tell.

  “Sean, what doesn’t your mother know?”

  I stay silent, watching the lure in the water.

  “You can trust me, Sean. You can talk to me about anything. Your mother doesn’t need to know.”

  “I’m not seeing anybody, Dad.” I don’t look up, but I can feel his eyes on me. He knows I’m lying. He’s silent for a long time, and then I hear the whine of his fishing reel as he casts his lure again.

  “If you decide you want to tell me, I’m here.”

  The funny thing is, a part of me does want to tell him. A part of me wants to stop lying, lying to my own father, and to stand up in the bow of the boat and scream, “I’m gay! I’m in love with Jay! You met my boyfriend at the Pink Cone today and I’m in love with him!” I’m starting to realize how much energy it takes to hide all the time, to always be looking over my shoulder and wonder who might be watching, listening, suspecting. And hiding from my own father is especially tiring. I’m finally starting to understand why Becky has been pushing me so hard.<
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  With a sigh, I cast out my lure again. Start to reel it in.

  After about forty-five minutes, the sun has started to drop below the trees, and we need to head back before we get caught on the lake in the dark. My father pulls the starter on the motor, and we are heading home.

  The entire ride back I try to play out the conversation in my head. “Dad, I’m gay.” But I can’t get any farther. The truth of the matter is I have no idea how my father will react. Will he be hurt? Maybe. Disappointed? Almost surely. Angry? I hope not. But I don’t know.

  It is full-on dusk when we finally spot the lights of Lakeside Cottages. My father steers us toward the dock in the failing light, and I prepare to jump out and tie us up.

  “Sorry we didn’t catch anything,” my father says while I hook the bowline to the cleat on the dock. “I thought for sure they’d be biting.”

  “That’s okay.”

  I start to walk toward the cottages, but my father catches me by the shoulder. He holds his fishing poles in one hand, but with the other he pulls me to him and gives me a one-armed hug.

  “When you want to talk, I’ll be here.”

  I nod. He smells of Old Spice and Captain Black, but I wrap my arm around him and hug him back. Then with a squeeze on my shoulder he lets me go.

  As soon as my father drops me off at home, I run inside to call Jay. It’s not too late to go to the movie, I think. I dial the numbers and the phone rings. And rings. And rings.

  No answer. Where is he? He knew I’d be calling, and now he’s not answering. Great. A great finish to a great day.

  Chapter 23

  “So your dad took you fishing?” my mother asks me when I wake up the next morning.

  “Yeah.” I’ve been awake for about ten minutes, and this is not how I want to start my day.

  “That must have given you some time to talk.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Wow, Mom.”