Sick & Tragic Bastard Son

by Rowan Massey

  Zander was so young it was almost like looking at one of Lottie’s friends, but I wanted to see if he had a good story. Hopefully, he wouldn’t end up disappointed when I didn’t want to meet up. His profile showed a handsome young man sitting in what was probably a backyard.

  Clay: What’s the story?

  Zander: It starts with you and ends with me.

  God. It was just a line. It made me chuckle a little though. I considered saying he should work on his flirting skills because not many people wanted to have a weird and tragic story to tell in the future.

  Clay: Lol So there’s no real story?

  He didn’t answer for a while, and my attention wandered to the TV, my free hand petting Remmy absentmindedly.

  Zander: There’s a real story. I’ll tell it if you meet up with me.

  He was confident, I had to give him that.

  Clay: I’m 38 yrs old :)

  Zander: I’m 20. Is that your dog?

  Okay, he didn’t care about my age, but I did, and now I felt mildly awkward about ending the conversation. Or maybe, I felt awkward about starting it in the first place.

  Clay: I’m sure you can find somebody who isn’t wondering when he’s going to go gray. Good luck out there.

  He answered quickly.

  Zander: Wait

  Zander: Don’t write me off so fast. What if I have a thing for older men and people my age don’t do it for me?

  Zander: Should I be alone forever?

  I tiredly pulled myself up into a sitting position. It was uncomfortable using the phone laying down.

  Clay: Is that the case?

  He was typing for a while but settled on a simple answer.

  Zander: Yes

  I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. He was kind of interesting. And I was lonely. I wanted to try to get a real story out of him, but wasn’t convinced I wanted to meet up.

  Clay: Have you always felt that way?

  Zander: Pretty much. I’ve always had a thing for the taboo.

  Clay: Taboo? Like bdsm?

  Zander: No. Not always. Anything taboo.

  Zander: You said you like the weird and original but you don’t seem very adventurous.

  Zander: I mean

  Zander: Sorry

  Zander: Maybe you should be more adventurous now and then

  Clay: That’s ok

  Clay: You’re probably right.

  Clay: Try to see it from my end though

  Clay: Would you be interested in a ten year old? It’s a big age difference.

  Zander: That’s not an accurate comparison. Once you’re an adult it’s different.

  I sighed. I could stop answering and watch my show, but I was achingly isolated. If I could chat with someone online, I’d take it. On the phone’s screen, there was another message that gave me a little jolt.

  Zander: What if I come over and meet you tonight? We can talk stories or do something more fun. ;)

  I was frozen. The thing that scared me was, I wanted to be able to say yes. He had to have some stories because of his preferences, and I wanted to hear them. If only I could just sit with him and talk into the night, maybe tell some stories of my own. The thought was incredibly tempting. But he was a young guy who was trying to get laid. I didn’t think I could deal with a one night stand.

  He was still typing.

  Zander: It’s not that late yet. We could just hang out somewhere.

  It was past midnight.

  Clay: I don’t know. Maybe you’re right and I’m not adventurous.

  Zander: I bet you are

  Zander: Deep down

  He was so wrong that it hurt. I was already acting like an old man, secluded and stuck in a rut the size of the Grand Canyon. My last adventure had been when I was a kid. I’d climbed a tall tree and made a serious mistake that day, changing my family forever. I rubbed at my eyes and wanted to cry again. More self-abusive thoughts bombarded me.

  I couldn’t bring myself to answer him, but I started to imagine what could happen if I were a little more adventurous, a little less burdened by guilt. How did people know how to act when they hooked up with some twink after saying a couple dozen words to each other? I’d participated briefly in hook-up culture, but it seemed like a hundred years ago. I was socially stunted.

  The wretched part of me wanted to hit the self-destruct button on my life. Zander could help me do that—a distraction from my problems to replace my dead obsession with books. Or it could just provide a way to shake myself up. I needed to stop thinking about my absence from my son’s life and how much I’d missed, stop thinking about Lottie’s annoyance with me and the fact she was my only family. I’d been full of dread, worried books would never be a viable purpose again, leaving my life empty as a hollow shell. I was daily becoming more overwhelmed by the regret and grief I’d buried for almost two decades.

  I need to let loose.

  Remmy sensed I was unhappy and nosed my arm. I hugged him around the neck and closed my eyes. When I was as young as Zander, I was busy making staggeringly stupid mistakes. I couldn’t stand thinking about that time in my life.

  “Maybe I’ll just do it,” I told Remmy. He licked his nose and twitched his ears.

  My thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment.

  Clay: I’m not a sugar daddy. Not a rich guy.

  Zander: I’m not interested in being paid for sex so we’re good.

  The corner of my mouth went up in half a sad smile.

  Zander: Hey Clay

  Zander: You want to learn what kind of story we could make? I do.

  If I was going to have a mid-life crisis, why not go all the way? I took a breath, filling my lungs and letting the air out slowly. I typed my answer.

  Clay: Yes

  Chapter Eleven

  Clay Age 19-21

  ON THE DAY my son was born, I went on a bender. My best friend, Catherine, was kind enough to come along for the ride. She was bisexual and had helped me through my coming out story. She was worldly and laid back. She didn’t judge, even when it was warranted, and never pushed me to take care of the pregnant Leona.

  Catherine was gone when I came out the other end of a week of drinking and she wouldn’t answer my calls. Something had happened, but I had no idea what. She came back when she missed her period. She was pregnant.

  I remember the absolute devastation of that news. It was unbelievable what a fucked up reject I’d turned out to be, right at the start of my adult life. Despite knowing I’d neglected the first family I’d created, Catherine told me she was keeping it.

  The next nine months were hell. I felt like a criminal who was somehow still walking free. Because of all my childhood failings, I had an acute sense of right and wrong. I was truly tortured by it, but I was also paralyzed by my guilt.

  I’d met Leona in Sunday school, and we hadn’t touched each other for the first year of our relationship. As we’d matured together, we’d started to have doubts that abstaining was actually important. Having sex didn’t seem to keep any of our friends from being decent people. It seemed childish to insist otherwise, and our peers treated us like we were nuts for waiting as long as we already had. I, of course, hadn’t wanted to because I was gay, but to this day, I don’t know if Leona was being a good girl or had her own issues around sex.

  On our one year anniversary of being a couple, we rented a smelly motel room and saw each other naked for the first time. I was nineteen and she was twenty-three.

  Leona was confused about the way condoms worked. She didn’t seem to comprehend how anything sex-related functioned. Worried condoms were sinful, she told me to just pull out, and I did. It didn’t keep her from getting pregnant.

  Then came the greatest regret of my life. I bailed. I ran scared with my tail tucked, a coward to the bone. There’s never been an adequate excuse, so I’ve never tried to give any. The few people I’ve told about Lysander always ask me more than once, saying, “But why?”. There was no reason except the absolute terror of b
eing a father.

  When Lottie was a month from being born, I finally called Leona in an attempt to get my life straightened out before it was too late.

  “I want to be a good father,” I remember saying into the phone.

  Leona said she wanted nothing to do with me and that the last thing Lysander needed was a deadbeat, queer loser popping in and out of his life. She said he would never need a man like me. When I persisted, she changed her phone number.

  I had no idea where my son and his mother were living. When I showed up at Leona’s parents’ door, they told me to get lost.

  Lottie was born, and I was caught up in the day to day wonders and trials of being the father of an infant—a real dad. But every day of raising her reminded me of the days I wasn’t spending with Lysander. I thought about him every single time I saw Lottie’s smile.

  By Lysander’s second birthday, I’d somehow saved enough money to hire a PI to track Leona down. I’d put a lot of thought into it and it seemed more reasonable than surprising them with legal action. I didn’t want to have to sue for custody because I had no desire to disrupt their lives unnecessarily. Talking about it before taking any sort of legal action seemed reasonable and necessary.

  Through the PI, I discovered they were living in an apartment complex only an hour away. I went the same day I got the information. When I arrived, I found a run-down clump of buildings badly in need of a paint job. It was a wooded area and the trees weren’t maintained. The leaves probably never got picked up. As I walked down the row of doors and windows, I started to brace myself for what the inside of one of the units would look like.

  Their door had a little wooden cross on it. So, Leona was still religious as ever. I knocked and stood there nervously waiting, knees weak, stomach rolling.

  When she opened the door, I immediately saw beyond her to where Lysander was sitting in a high chair. My heart broke and soared at the same time. He was a beautiful little boy.

  But Leona was startled. She gave a little ah! and slammed the door in my face. She didn’t open it when I knocked again and begged to be heard. After ten minutes, I went home, afraid she might be calling the police.

  Two days later, when I returned bearing gifts, ready for a second try, nobody lived there.

  Since Leona wouldn’t communicate with me, I visited her parents’ house again. A dozen times, I’d sat at their dinner table and exchanged pleasantries, laughed, and bonded, but I didn’t know them anymore. They didn’t invite me in and would only tell me to leave and forget about Lysander. When I refused to vacate the property, they resorted to aggressive and homophobic language. I stood firmly on their front lawn and told them with a shaking voice that I was going to fight for custody rights. They went scarily calm. I’ll never forget the look of resolve they gave each other.

  They spoke again only after a strained length of silence and glaring. I was to meet them at church the next day. I seemed to have gotten through to them. They wanted to talk it out and find a compromise.

  Maybe other people would look at my story and wonder why I went. They had told me to come at night on a Tuesday, so I knew there were probably no meetings being held that would cause any strangers to be there. I didn’t question why her grandparents didn’t want to talk at their or Leona’s place. My parents were already estranged and had long since become disappointed in me. I had no guidance—no one to tell me there was something fishy about meeting at the church.

  The building seemed smaller than the last time I’d been there. Although, when I’d last visited, I’d been as tall as I was going to get.

  Already tense, I was irritated about the bugs that swarmed everywhere in the night, not just under the lights. All my frustration and fear was redirected at the bugs that tickled my skin and sucked my blood. Those small details stick in my memory perfectly. I couldn’t have worried about a stupider thing.

  A maroon car showed up and parked a few spaces down from mine. I was standing out near the entrance to the main church building. They didn’t get out, and the interior of the car was pitch-black. Minutes ticked by and I was growing increasingly frightened. I thought about going over and finding out who it was, or just getting back in my car. I’d been so eager to have the meeting that it hadn’t occurred to me to wait in the car, despite the mosquitoes that plagued me.

  Another vehicle arrived, this one black. The third one was a bulky, white minivan. It parked directly beside my car and Leona’s parents stepped out. They all silently got out of their vehicles to escort me inside the building. Greetings were given in murmurs, frowns on all of their faces.

  These were men and women I recognized and had shaken hands with many times in church. I’d eaten their potluck stew, talked politics, but right then, I didn’t feel like I’d ever met them. They seemed capable of hurting me. The only reason I didn’t leave was the voice in my head telling me I had to see my boy again. I couldn’t continue to be a coward.

  The room they brought me to was small and had no windows. It wasn’t quite a storage room since it was used now and then for nursery overflow. The old crib and baby things gave me hope.

  I sat down in a metal folding chair against the far wall. Taking turns, they sat in chairs in front of me, close enough to touch knees and breath each other’s exhalations. My personal space seemed to have disappeared.

  Only a few people, including Catherine, know what they did to me.

  They talked.

  They talked to me and at me for hours on end, until I was sleep-deprived and unbearably hungry. They gave me water, but not enough, so that I was mildly thirsty as well, my mouth dry when I got a word in edgewise. If I complained about it, they politely promised food that never came.

  People don’t understand how they kept me there just by talking, much less how they forced me to give up my son. They only needed to be cruel and inexhaustible. I was a weak young man. They asked me the same prying questions a hundred times each, never accepting my answers. It was so bizarre that I almost questioned my sanity. One man in particular was never tired of casually dropping the words faggot, and pervert. Everything I said was either ignored or denied. If I got angry, they kept talking exactly as if I hadn’t used anything but an unimpassioned tone. It was getting frenzied. Everything I said or did got the opposite reaction to what I expected. If I explained calmly and respectfully, I was met with hardheadedness and rage. If I gave them some rage of my own, I was regarded with absolute calm and talked to like a child throwing a temper tantrum. I stopped trusting my own ideas of reality. Maybe I was a bad guy like they said. Perhaps they were right to protect Lysander from my “lifestyle”.

  Several times, I tried to leave, but ultimately, I stayed in that cold, hard chair because I didn’t want to physically fight them. I didn’t know how to fight. What was I supposed to do when women I barely knew stood in my way? Knock them over? I wasn’t prepared to behave that way, and they gave me no spare moment to seriously consider my more extreme options.

  I had been awake for over twenty-four hours when I let myself crumple to the floor and go to sleep, right at some elderly man’s feet. Even then, they kept coming in and trying to wake me, nudging me with their shoes, saying terrible things.

  After napping a few awful hours, I awoke to find myself alone for the moment. I stood and went for the door. I was leaving at last. I’d get the authorities involved and gain the right to raise my son. But it was locked. I was incredulous. Assuming it was just a broken doorknob, I kept trying to twist it, then started knocking loudly. They’d been coming in shifts every fifteen minutes or so for hours. Where were they now?

  I’d never heard of anything so bizarre in my life. They’d kidnapped me.

  There was a harsh whisper outside the door. Stupidly loud and sounding hectic, several people were arguing, obviously not wanting me to hear. Desperate and panicked at what they might be discussing, I started shouting, “Just let me see him! Just let me see him! Just once! Let me see him!” My voice was high-pitched and didn’t so
und like mine anymore. I no longer had the usual filters for my emotion. I was embarrassed at the way I was begging, but they had to understand my desperation.