Sick & Tragic Bastard Son

by Rowan Massey

  The door knob clicked and turned. Out in the hall, bunched against the wall, all of them stood in partial darkness. Were there more of them than before? Their eyes stayed on me. I saw disgust, anger, even fear.

  “You’re not fit,” Leona’s dad said firmly. “Your life is an abomination and I won’t have you near my family. This community—your community—won’t allow it. Understand me? After this, you get lost and stay lost!”

  His words reached me through a thick layer of shock that was cutting me off from the world. The entire situation had become unreal.

  “One hour,” Leona’s mother told me, holding up a finger and eyeing me. “Then you give him back and go, and you’re lucky you’re getting that.”

  I nodded because, in that moment, it felt like a huge win. She shooed me back into the room and onto the chair I’d spent so much time sitting on already. To my surprise, they brought Lysander to me in less than a minute. He’d already been in the building.

  Only Lottie’s birth could rival the bliss I was in when I held him. He was pudgy and quiet. His pale blue sweater seemed to turn him into an adorable ball of fluff. The curve of his tiny nose and the gaze of his big, round eyes turned the world into a place much sweeter than it had been before. I kissed his head. I made faces and played peekaboo over and over. I learned his facial expressions, and even took joy in seeing his fussy, crying expression for the first time—comforting him for the first time. He must have known some words by then, but he was quiet, and I was too nervous to ask them to prompt him on the words or phrases he knew. After a while, they let me feed him a snack of graham crackers, which he made a mess of.

  There was nothing exceptional about him at all, except that he was mine, and that meant he was the embodiment of heaven’s perfection.

  Instead of trying to take him away when an hour was over, Leona’s parents and the pastor crowded into the little room and talked to me. Their voices were soothing now. They assured me they had acquired a better place for Leona and Lysander than the apartment I’d seen days before. I was told the family had made changes so that she would have more help raising him. For hours more, I got to hold him while they talked, letting him nap on my lap, so I listened willingly for as long as they wanted. I held him until my tired arms ached as if they would give way any second. I didn’t complain because I needed to show them I knew what I was doing, that I was dedicated, and that I loved him.

  They said they had money and community for Lysander and his mom. Why make his life so inconsistent—a liberal, gay dad one week, a god-loving mother the next? He would be so confused. There would inevitably be a lot of fighting over how he was being raised. I wouldn’t do that to a child, would I? They reasoned that my daughter needed me more than Lysander did. He was a happy child, and I would only ruin his life. I was a screw-up, a college drop out, a dead-beat, on and on. Meanwhile, I was becoming unbearably exhausted, and thus complacent.

  Leona came in eventually, fists clinching and unclenching nervously, head tilted down. She’d put on weight and aged. Her clothes were stretched out and her hair was messy. She wore no makeup. Becoming a mother hadn’t been kind to her. A shame came over me thinking of how close and caring we’d been once upon a time. Despite that, I’d ditched her when she’d needed me most. She came near and leaned over Lysander, who had just woken up. He reached out for her and screwed up his face, getting ready to fuss. He wanted his mama.

  So I let him go. Just like that. The only thing I was thinking was that I wanted him to have what he wanted. Maybe if I hadn’t been so physically and emotionally spent, I would have been thinking faster.

  As soon as Leona had him, her eyes went wide, as if she couldn’t believe I’d let go so easily. She spun around and rushed out the door.

  I came to my senses too late and jumped to my feet. The four men among those who had tormented me stood in front of me, blocking the doorway, arms crossed. Something about their demeanor told me they felt they’d won. I’d never see my boy again.

  My fists flew out. I screamed obscenities and punched and tore at them. I know I hurt them. Someone bled. I went so far as to get on the floor and try to go between their legs. They were intractable until Leona and Lysander were long gone.

  Nothing could have been worse than what they were doing to me. I don’t know how long it took me to stop trying. But I knew I’d lost the battle, so I slowly quieted down. They left and closed the door on me.

  My face was wet with tears and snot that I hadn’t bothered to wipe away. My throat was raw from screaming. In another hour or so, I found myself sitting in front of the door, lifeless, not caring if they let me go, although I assumed they soon would.

  Two men entered and took me under my arms, getting me to my feet. I walked automatically in front of them to my car, got in, and drove all the way home with shaking hands. It had lasted more than two days.

  ◆◆◆

  When I got inside my apartment, I fell onto the couch and slept for around eleven hours. When I woke up, I was in another world; a bleak world with no safety in it, no kindness. At some point, I ate a few bites of food and had a long, distracted shower. I only thought to get out when the water ran cold.

  Catherine came over with Lottie, having only just started to worry in earnest about my absence, and became frightened as soon as she laid eyes on me.

  “We’re calling the police. You’re getting custody,” Catherine said after I told her a broken version of my story. It was unlike her to advise me in any way, much less decide for me. But I stopped her.

  “He’s better off without me,” I said dully, repeating their words. “I’m not going to make trouble for him. He has love and stability.”

  Later, I would understand that I was traumatized. I should have seen a therapist at least, if not a doctor. For weeks, I simply wondered if I would ever be myself again. Every little task I tried to perform was a mess, and I reamed myself out mercilessly for every little thing I bungled.

  Thinking about Lysander was frightening. I simply didn’t let my mind dwell on him. I read voraciously—a book a day on average for years to come. Over time, avoidance would become acceptance, and acceptance would become habit.

  A few times, months after the events, I called Catherine in the middle of the night, telling her I was going to go find him. I left the house in the wee hours and drove around town, weaving through neighborhoods like a snake in the dark. What I expected to find at that time of day I don’t know. It was a way to cope.

  Many months went by, and I recovered, but excruciatingly slowly. I let myself think about Lysander and made tentative attempts to find Leona. When I tried to stake out the church, I was spotted. Leona’s father stalked over to my car to talk to me and I rolled down the window. Seeing him again pushed me close to a panic attack.

  He told me she had moved out of state with Lysander to live with a part of the family that could take care of them. To appease me, I was given a phone number where I could reach Leona’s father, but I was told not to use it except once a year or else they would cut me off completely.

  It made me crazy not knowing how far away Lysander was. I kept trying to find him, off and on, but I didn’t try as hard as I should have because I was scared, plain and simple. Sometimes, I told myself I had to focus on the child I had in front of me, or that they were right—being raised by a gay man and a churchy woman was too much for a kid.

  Lottie and Catherine suffered because of my trauma. Working was difficult, and I lost wages. I forgot milk runs, and pickup times, and was vacant when I should have been interacting with my daughter. All these things and more are part of the festering guilt I live with every single day.

  Chapter Twelve

  Zander Age 18

  MY HANDS WERE shaking. I sat there in the dark so long, I was sure I’d be late showing up at Clay’s house. I was so weak and dizzy that I wasn’t sure if I could stand, much less get ready and go. My heart was throbbing at an insane speed. Checking to see if I was hallucinating, I kept
looking at his last messages.

  Clay: Yes

  Clay: Here’s my address

  Clay: Thirty minutes?

  Clay: You there?

  I had to say something. I had to do my plan. All of it. I answered him and told him I’d be there. But I calculated halfway to the bathroom that I couldn’t get to his place and get ready in just half an hour, so I texted him back and told him one hour.

  Rushing to the toilet, I hung my face over the bowl, thinking I was going to throw up every bit of food I’d ever eaten until I was sucking air through my asshole and out my mouth. Why had I ever even considered the idea of fucking my dad? When had I reached the kind of tipping point a person needs in order to become so monumentally sickening? I was the most disgusting person in history. He wasn’t worth it, and I shouldn’t do it.

  Taking a lot of deep breaths, I calmed down and didn’t vomit. I remembered to visualize Mr. Intimate instead of Clay.

  Relax. Detach. Visualize. I reminded myself and repeated it over and over. Just go to the next step. You only have to do the next step.

  The enema bulb was under the sink. I filled and used it twice, not thinking about what it was all for. I just kept repeating my notes to myself, not letting my mind wander to what I was actually up to.

  I remembered to check my hair, but was completely unable to look myself in the mirror. After running my fingers over my scalp several times, I left the bright lights of the bathroom in a trance. I groped my way back to my dark bedroom. The lamp was on the floor like everything else, and I kicked it when I felt around for it, startling myself half to death. I’d never been so jumpy.

  My perfect, meticulously thought-out clothes were wrinkle-free and hanging in my closet. It was the only thing I’d ever hung in there. Dark jeans and a checked button-up with the stolen loafers. It was only then that I recognized what a ridiculous amount of time I’d spent on such a simple ensemble. Hopefully, it would pay off somehow.

  Greg had helped me track down something that would make me stop caring. The pills were in my backpack so I dug them out and took one. Only one. I didn’t want to be too drowsy to lie accurately. I would take another if I thought I needed it. Greg had said to chew it, and I did. It had a mild taste and tingled my tongue the way mint does.

  Keys. Phone. Wallet. Condoms. Lube. I was ready.

  No, no, I wasn’t ready. At all. I was fucked.

  Was trick someone into incest a crime? I had no idea. How could I have forgotten that detail? What if he sent the law after me once it all went south? I’d make sure I flushed the condom. It was DNA evidence. But I wasn’t going to tell him until days later so why would he think to keep it? I wasn’t thinking logically.

  In my agitation over having forgotten a detail, therefore possibly having other loose ends, I made my way to the car on autopilot. When I was settled inside and cranking the car, I had another wave of nausea. I absolutely could not fuck it all up by arriving with puke breath. The air was stale in the car, which didn’t help. I cracked a window and didn’t throw up.

  When I looked in the rear view mirror to pull out onto the street, I saw those lights—the ones from Mr. Ski Mask’s house. Mesmerized, I sat and stared, unblinking. Were the drugs working on me already? No. I still had the horrendous anxiety, and the anxiety was exactly what the pill was supposed to get rid of. Twisting around in my seat, I backed out without using the mirror.

  Only tell lies that you have to tell, I said to myself as I drove. Don’t fiddle. Smile. Relax. Detach. Visualize Mr. Intimate. Breathe.

  On and on, I recited all my notes in jumbled order. Who knows how many times I recited it all like a prayer.

  I drove slowly when I got to the right street, reading all the numbers on the mailboxes. Finding his place was easy. It was a nice neighborhood with two-story houses, not so far off the main road that it was confusing to navigate to. It was a stucco house like all the others in the area. Two cars were parked in his driveway so I parked in the street a little ways down from his house. I blinked at the lit windows with bleary eyes.

  It could have been any house because I couldn’t see the details. What I could see were the colored lights. They played over every surface in an distorted show. I thought I saw sickening images in the patterns, but only for split seconds.

  With careful motions, I took the key out of the ignition, stuck it in my pocket, placed my hands on the wheel, and screamed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clay Age 38

  ZANDER ONLY NEEDED to be two minutes late to make me start thinking he wouldn’t come. Why had I thought he was serious about it in the first place? I was nowhere near attractive or rich enough to have young guys asking for my company. It was a joke. I was a fool.

  The hour of waiting had dampened the excitement that had allowed me to make such an out-of-character decision in the first place. As soon as I’d agreed to it, I’d gone and washed up, changed clothes, and tidied the house. With each task, the whole situation seemed more impossible.

  My sofa was situated so that it faced away from the bay window in the front of the house, but that didn’t stop me from twisting around every few minutes to peer through the blinds at the lighted space on the other side of the door. The TV flickered, but I couldn’t have said what was on.

  Sixteen minutes past the hour, soft footsteps sounded outside and I jumped up to open the door. I reached for the doorknob and stopped myself just in time. God, it would have been embarrassing if I’d opened it before he’d even rung the bell. It didn’t ring for a long moment, and the anxiety pulling at my chest tugged harder. He was reconsidering. Well, maybe I was too.

  The doorbell rang. I stood with my hand poised in the air to turn the doorknob as soon as the moment was right. For some reason, it was on the count of nine, not ten, that I grasped, and turned, and pulled.

  He looked just like his picture, only more dishevelled. Hair had fallen over his forehead in a way that didn’t necessarily look like the fashionable type of mess. His eyes were dark and hot with fervid thoughts that I couldn’t imagine. My own eyes widened involuntarily to mirror his anticipation. God, he was young. And attractive. If I overlooked the problem of his age, he was very much my type.

  I reminded myself to be friendly, not just stand there enjoying the warmth he was sending through my body.

  “Zander? Come in,” I said with a smile and stepped aside. He ducked his head almost shyly and crossed the threshold.

  I turned my back to him to close the door and lock it. When I faced him again, he was examining me. His eyes ran over my hair, ears, neck, and all my facial features with slow observance. I felt like I was being inventoried and cataloged. It was unnerving and intoxicating at the same time. I could only stare back at him. There was a rosy flush under his tan skin. A slight sheen of sweat showed at his hairline despite the cool weather. Was he nervous?

  “Do you want a drink?” I asked.

  It was me who needed a drink. As soon as he nodded, I walked past him and exited the room.

  He hadn’t said a word. He’d seemed eager enough to chat while texting, so why was he silent?

  When I returned with a beer in each hand, he was gazing around at the tall bookshelves that lined three walls. Everything was organized somewhat like a library. But, unlike a library, each shelf was packed two deep and sometimes books were stacked one on top of the other.

  “Almost all of it gets sent to me for my job,” I told him, as I told everyone who came into the house and saw my collection. There was more on every floor, even some in the attic. I always had the impulse to make excuses for it.

  He took the can of beer from me, murmuring a thank you, and wandered across the room towards the fireplace. Something caught his attention and his steps halted. He swayed slightly, and I went closer so that I could see his face. I was about to ask if he was alright when I noticed what he’d fixated on—and he was certainly fixated. It was the picture of Lysander I’d just put there that day. Guilt weighed on me. How had my mind so
quickly moved on to other things? It reminded me of how I’d buried myself in books in order to forget about Lysander back in the day.

  “Is this your kid?” he asked. I vaguely detected something odd to the way he said it, the way he looked at me from under dark lashes. Was he accusing me of something?

  “Yes,” I said, “that’s my son.”

  He looked back to the photo and took a long swig of his drink.

  “Don’t worry, there’s no kids in the house. We’re the only ones,” I said. “I rent out the upstairs but they can’t come down here except through the front door.”

  “Where is he?” He turned his piercing gaze back to me.

  “He’s…” I hadn’t talked to anyone about Lysander for years. I certainly didn’t want to talk about it with a stranger right then. “That’s an old photo. He’s an adult now.”