Beneath the Weight of Sadness

by Gerald L. Dodge

  Finally Detective Parachuk’s brown eyes rested on mine. They had an intensity to them and I remembered thinking I wouldn’t want to be sitting across from him as a suspect. That suspicion gave me some hope that he would find whoever killed my Truman. But then I felt a wave of dread once again at the idea of my son dead forever.

  The detective must have discerned my thoughts. He got up from the couch and moved to the grand piano and peered more closely at the photographs. He looked at one in particular, a picture of Truman during his black period. It had been short lived: dyed black hair, black eyebrows, mascara, black clothes, black shoes, black fingernails. Amy and I had decided not to say anything about this makeover. It lasted three months and then he had his mother crop his hair so that only his blonde roots returned. His eyebrows gradually faded.

  “He’s a handsome boy,” Parachuk said. He referred to Truman in the present tense.

  “It was a stage he went through,” I said, my voice defensive.

  “My son went through the same thing when he was in high school. Some rebellious thing because his old man was a cop, I guess.”

  “Truman had no reason to be rebellious. We accepted him for who he was.”

  He looked at me closely, looked again at the photograph and then walked back to where he’d been sitting.

  “The trooper you were with yesterday told me your son was gay.”

  I laughed.

  “I imagine you only had to listen to the news to know that fact. Where do they find these things out, I wonder?”

  “Did your son get threats from anyone?”

  “Not that I know of. Not that he ever told me. He was a private boy, so I can’t be sure. He was a brave person.”

  “Why do you say he was brave?”

  “Because he stood up against the conservatism in this town. He didn’t care what these people thought.”

  Parachuk studied his hands. They were manicured. I noticed for the first time that his shirt had been starched. Something about his sartorial attitude made me like him.

  “What do they think, Mr. Engroff?”

  I hadn’t expected that question. Persia was so familiar to me that I thought everyone saw it like I did—saw everyone sharing identical world-views, the conservatives and the few liberals alike. The town is first-generation upper-middle class, acquisitive, clinging to the religious views their parents instilled in them before they sent them off to college and before they moved to Persia—the first in their family to get so far in the world.

  “They think Truman chose to be what he was. They think he was making a statement: ‘I am different.’ He has never been like other kids his age. He has never cared what other people…what other kids thought of him.”

  I stood up and walked to the piano and picked up the picture of Truman in his black period.

  “This is my son.” I felt my voice begin to quaver. “They murdered this lovely boy!”

  I brought the picture back to where I’d been sitting and held it in both my hands. Tears dropped on the glass.

  After a long silence, Parachuk asked, “Who in particular do you think hated the way your son was?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know how anyone could hate this boy.”

  “Was Truman bullied in school? Did he ever come home and tell you kids were picking on him?”

  I shook my head. I had asked Tru the same question often. He always assured me he wasn’t teased or bullied. It was a concern I had harbored since the earliest times of his life. He had always been bossy with kids his own age, always looking for their oddities and then using that as a tool to make them defensive. He didn’t do it out of meanness. But I also knew his bossiness was a weakness, a way of protecting himself from his differences, and kids can zero in on that, find the weakest in the pecking order. Amy and I had talked about it a lot over the years. Initially it was the genesis of arguments; I worried that he was picking on kids, and was doing it out of a nasty streak, but Amy was convinced it was just one more layer of Truman’s complex personality. She happened to be right. He did it to us, reminding one of us about some infraction he was sure would incense the other, and I realized after a time he was doing it only to see what the result would be. We were a united front, however, and he had a hard time weakening our resolve. For a time he used his homosexuality as a tool, mostly with us, but it radiated outward, to see what kind of emotional reaction he could foment—but it was brief. I think mostly because he was so sad that he wasn’t straight.

  “No,” I finally said, “that never happened that I know of. He was popular up until the last few years. And then it was his choice that he no longer had a lot of friends. Carly was the only one who remained his friend.”

  Parachuk pulled a notepad from his sport jacket and a pen from his shirt pocket. “Who’s Carly?”

  “Carly Rodenbaugh. They’ve been best friends since nearly the time they were born. She lives two houses down from here.”

  “How did you feel about Truman’s homosexuality?”

  “He told me even before he told Amy. I think he was afraid she wouldn’t accept him in the same way after she knew.”

  Parachuk looked out beyond the room into the hall that led to the study and the kitchen.

  “When we spoke on the phone, I was hoping that your wife would be able to join us.”

  “I haven’t seen much of her,” I said flatly. “I told her you wanted her here. I don’t think she can talk right now. My brother sent for a doctor yesterday and the doctor may have given her something to help her cope.”

  “How did your wife react when she learned your son…when she learned Truman was gay?”

  “She reacted just as I thought she would. If it’s possible, she loved him even more. She saw him as somehow more fragile, more like a wounded bird.”

  “What about you, Mr. Engroff? How did you view this news about Truman?”

  I eyed him for the first time suspiciously.

  “I told you, he was my son. I didn’t care what his sexual proclivities were as long as he was safe…I thought he was, mostly.”

  “Why did you think that? Why did you think he was safe?”

  I thought it was a stupid question and I wasn’t sure why he asked it. I think he was attempting to get some read on my temperament.

  “As I said, detective, I was vigilant about Tru’s treatment by other kids. He wasn’t ostentatious, not physically anyway. He didn’t act effeminate. He just seemed like a normal kid. I think that’s why it was a shock to me at first. I mean when he first told me.”

  “I want to get his computer and cell phone, Mr. Engroff. I want to see what kind of text messages he had, what kind of phone calls he made in the last few days. I want to look through his room.”

  “Tru had a laptop and I imagine his cell phone was with him. He didn’t go much of anywhere without it.”

  “It wasn’t with him. Is there any chance he left it in his room?”

  “I doubt it, but you can check.”

  “How old was Truman, Mr. Engroff?”

  “He was seventeen last September.”

  “Did he drive?”

  “No, he didn’t. Amy and I were always surprised about that. He never showed any interest. He wanted to go to a school in the city when he graduated. He said there was no reason to get a license.”

  “Did he go into the city often? Did you and your wife take him in?”

  “We did when he was younger, but the last few years he went in on his own. I think he had a few friends who were going to Columbia.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “Amy would know. I think they’re freshmen there. That’s all I remember.”

  “I’m going to have to speak to your wife, Mr. Engroff.” His look told me there was no negotiation on that issue.

  “I don’t think she’ll be able to talk to you today, detective.”

  “Look, Mr. Engroff, I know you and your wife feel like you didn’t do enough to protect your son. That’s a
normal reaction. But now you can do something for Truman. You can help us find whoever did this to him…but I need your help.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to see her today,” I said again.

  He was right. In the past twenty-four hours I had not been able to still the thoughts that I could have done more. I should not have let him go out without knowing exactly where he was going and when he’d be home. But Amy and I had been convinced that Tru always did the prudent thing. We never worried about him when he stepped out the door. Amy and I had been sitting in the kitchen drinking wine, and Tru’s last words to us, the both of us together, were, “I’m going out. See you guys later.” He’d walked over to his mother and kissed her on the top of her head, then he’d kissed my cheek. I can still feel that kiss. I don’t know if that touch will ever disappear. I hope that it doesn’t. But I know also that Amy and I were relieved he was leaving us for the evening. All the actions of the day had kept stabbing at a desire by both of us to make love and it was always a more intimate time when Tru was out of the house. We always felt as if he knew what we were doing even though he was such a private kid and honored our privacy as well.

  “Do I have permission to search Truman’s room…to take his electronic equipment?”

  I knew it was impossible to deny him access to Truman’s private world. It was a secretive world; the older he got, the more he protected it. I knew they would see and listen to things that I would never want anyone to hear or see. He loved us both tremendously, and even we were only allowed to tread into a narrow part of his life. Now I felt as if I was about to allow someone to maraud his privacy. Had Amy and I been foolish all those years we’d allowed him to draw up his own rules, rules that often excluded us from any negotiating power save our unquenchable love for him? We had been mildly ridiculed by our close friends—or at least Amy had been; she was much more social than I—but we had deferred to our son because we trusted him. We had known early on that to some degree we were going to be spectators…and from afar, even with his upbringing.

  Parachuk opened his notepad again, took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. He handed it to me.

  “It’s a form saying you’ll allow me to remove those items from Truman’s room. I already listed the items I need to look at, Mr. Engroff.”

  He pointed to a list: computer, laptop, BlackBerry, cell phone, diary, notebooks.

  I did a cursory read of it and then signed it and handed it back to him. I already knew that Amy would be angry with me, but even though I didn’t know this man I trusted him. I wanted him to find the people who had killed my Truman.

  Parachuk got up from the couch and put out his hand.

  “I expect you to find whoever…” I couldn’t complete the words. My vision became glazed and I had to turn my face from him. For the second time in as many days a police officer put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I will do my best, Mr. Engroff.”

  I knew he couldn’t make promises, but I also knew police in small, affluent towns usually found murderers. As I walked him to my son’s room I made a vow that if they didn’t find who did it, I would. I figured it was the only way I could ever get Amy to forgive me for what I hadn’t done as a father.

  Amy

  Four days after Truman’s death

  I wanted to swat them away like those nasty gnats that hover around the face. Everyone was, of course, dressed in black, with expressions of sadness fixed on their faces. I did the obligatory thing: I let them hug me, let them rub my back as if I were ailing, or hold my face in their two hands or kiss me on the cheek, all the time with Truman or non-Truman just to the right of me and behind Ethan. Closed casket! If only I hadn’t had to leave the house, but Ethan had started to cry and of course I couldn’t have him do that.

  They had me on Klonopin and the doctor had told me sternly, “Under no conditions are you to drink, Amy.”

  Who was he to say what I was to do or not to do? I never liked Dr. Bowstock. He had a white, very trimmed mustache and I never, ever trusted men with mustaches. Why would they grow hair in that tiny spot above the lip and below their nose unless they wanted you to concentrate on that rather than what they were saying, or what they were doing or thinking? And naturally I didn’t tell him I had to drink or else I would float away like those men on the moon but for their secure lines. I would be gone for good, never to see my darling Truman again. I didn’t tell the doctor because he would have put me in the hospital. I’ve lived long enough in this town to know exactly how they think.

  “Can I trust you to tell me you’re okay? Do you need to be watched?” he’d asked.

  I nodded my head resolutely.

  “Only take these three times a day. Don’t take more than what I’ve prescribed.”

  The long line of people kept coming past and touching my hands, kissing me on the cheek, pulling me into them until I could smell their deceit, their concerned faces like masks they would take off as soon as they walked from Truman’s casket. But then I saw Carly far down the line. I could see her crying, her face pale, her eyes lowered, looking at her trembling hands, twisting a handkerchief, and it was as if she and I were the only ones in the room, as if the other people had been erased. She would look at me, then put her face down into her handkerchief and cry into it. Someone’s hand occasionally appeared on her shoulder. I assumed it was her father’s, but she ignored it the way I ignored the faces looming in front of me, their voices all faint, hollow echoes in an empty room.

  She had loved Truman from the very beginning: For as long as I can remember it was always the two of them. They would experiment with sex above the garage as they became older. She loved him, and it was only in the past year or so that she didn’t come over as often, mostly because of that Beck boy. What was his name? Terry or Tommy or something. They were awful people. Ethan and I had seen the father, Rich, at a party, with a too-loud voice and the ersatz confidence that probably made him successful as a businessman and popular at the Persia Country Club. Ethan and I laughed later about how Beck’s sycophantic wife kept running to get him drinks and laughing as his voice boomed through the house. As we walked out to our car we saw his black Porsche SUV, the sticker on the back bumper reading SOCIALIST in the colors and font of Obama’s own stickers. I suspected his son was the same kind of person, and heard he’d made some headlines as an athlete. I asked Truman once or twice what the boy was like.

  “He’s an asshole,” he’d said.

  “Is this because Carly is spending time with him and not with you?”

  Truman had been heading for the stairs, and he stopped and turned to me.

  “No,” he said, and smiled his Truman smile. “It’s because he’s a moron. I can’t imagine what Carly sees in the guy.” He shook his head. “Must be the sex.”

  And then he bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time as he always did.

  Carly was dressed in black, as all of the people were. I would’ve worn something with flowers, something bright, but Ethan begged me not to. I know he is suffering in his own way and so I try to bend to his wishes as much as I can. She has blond hair, the color of golden wheat, I’ve heard Truman say, with green eyes that intensify when she is with him. I wanted to make all the people in front of her go away so that I could hold her, and know that Truman was still there in her heart. I knew that was the only way I would get through this torture.

  “I don’t know what to say, Ethan,” I overheard Laura Stafford whisper to Ethan as she put her arms around him and patted his back.

  Ethan’s face was red from crying and he bowed his head to her shoulder as if they were praying together. They all said that: “I don’t know what to say.” Why do they think that means something to me? Why do they even say it, when they then go on to say how sorry they are; how sad they are for us; how much they wish they could do something to ease our pain while, in fact, they are all glad it isn’t one of theirs lying there in that coffin, that contravention of anything humane or comforting. Truman in a b
ox! Truman not in his room, but locked in a chest with no air for him to breathe himself back to life.

  Some man I couldn’t quite remember was rubbing my arm and whispering something that had to do with tragedy and how he had always admired Truman for his truthfulness and what a brilliant boy he had been. He may have been the terrible man who for six months gave Truman piano lessons until the day Truman finally refused to come out of his room until the man left the house. Truman said he had dirty fingernails and halitosis, but I didn’t have time to substantiate the veracity of that before he’d moved on to Ethan and then to the box where my Truman temporarily lay. And it seemed as if Carly was not getting any closer to me, and I urgently wanted it to be her turn so she could reassure me of Truman being in her heart and in her mind, and therefore so far removed from what seemed to confine him now. I wanted to leave my post next to Ethan and go to where Carly was, the whites of her stunning green eyes red and her beautiful face glistening with salty wetness I wanted to drink.

  But finally she came to me. As soon as I enfolded her in my arms she began to shake furiously.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered into my ear. “Truman, Truman.”

  The wetness of her voice made it seem viscous.

  “What will I do? I have to still come over and stay with you so that it’s like he’s still here.”

  “Yes,” I said, but I think she thought I was conceding when I was actually confirming his return.

  “Drink wine,” I said.

  She pulled back from me and giggled, only for a moment, and then she covered her mouth and I pulled her into me once again, tightly, and, just as I thought, I could feel Truman coming into me through her. So many times they sat, their heads together, laughing in the living room, Carly looking adoringly at Truman as he explained some thought he’d suddenly had that only Carly, my Carly, Truman’s Carly, would understand. They would sit there on the carpet and Carly would touch Truman’s hand lightly, and even though Truman often didn’t like to be touched he always let her hand rest there.