Titanic Summer

by Russell J. Sanders

  Then there was silence. Maybe he left. I didn’t care.

  I took the longest, hottest shower I’ve ever had. Then I dressed.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do. I wished I had a Rolex to hock so I could afford to get a plane ticket home right then.

  I finally decided I needed a walk. So I opened the bedroom door, headed for the elevator.

  But Dad was still there, sitting on the couch, looking defeated.

  He looked up when he heard me.

  “I got you on the eight o’clock flight tonight. I’ll leave the confirmation number here on the table. You can log on and check in. Just call the front desk and tell them when you want the van to take you to the airport.”

  Then he got up and left the apartment.

  Chapter 15

  I CALLED Mom from the Philadelphia airport and filled her in on my early departure—leaving out some salient points, like the “Dad is gay” thing, “Dad is getting married” thing, “Dad’s a liar” thing. I didn’t want to discuss it, and I was reasonably sure that she was in on the conspiracy, and if I mentioned any of that, I would just get an “it was for him to tell you.” I was already pissed at one parent. I didn’t need a confrontation with the other. All I told her was that we were back from our Halifax trip, and I was just ready to get home. She didn’t question me, which was a clear indication to me she’d already heard from Dad. I told her my arrival time so she could pick me up at IAH.

  A sixteen-hundred-mile flight can seem interminable, especially when your mind won’t stop reeling. I was squished against the window with a married couple next to me. They were all lovey-dovey—apparently the husband was deathly afraid of flying, and the wife was trying to keep him calm and collected. So I had no distraction, other than watching them, and that was no distraction. It was a bit annoying. I’d packed my iPad in my checked bag, and my in-flight entertainment was not working—nothing but snow—so I had absolutely nothing to do but brood.

  I started out feeling sorry for myself. Truth be told, I could have blamed myself for some of it. I had kept the truth about me from him as well. But I wasn’t about to blame myself. That would have been a suicidal move.

  So I let my mind dwell on Dad and his boy toy. At first my brain was on fire with hate for them both. Mostly, that hatred focused on Paulie because I desperately wanted to believe that he’d turned my dad against me.

  But something incredible happened. The negative thoughts turned positive. Replaying the conversation between the two I’d heard, I realized Paulie really cared about Dad. That he was not angry because Dad took his sweet time telling me he was gay. Paulie supported him in a way I was refusing to. Paulie countered every negative thing Dad said with understanding. That was what a partner was supposed to do. That’s what someone who loved you did. Ergo, Paulie and Dad were really in love.

  If I believed that, truly believed it, then I had no reason to want to stop their marriage. I had no reason to stay mad at my father. And I could tell him all about me because he would understand, and if he felt any confusion, Paulie would talk him off the ledge.

  Boring flights can lead the mind to wondrous thoughts. I was pretty sure I’d come to a major understanding about Dad, about Paulie.

  I decided I would call Dad as soon as I was on the ground. Walking through an airport wasn’t an ideal place and time to come out to someone, but I would tell him everything. And apologize for being so terrible to him. Maybe even wish him and Paulie well with their marriage.

  The plane landed, and Mr. and Mrs. Lovey-dovey next to me took forever to get up and about. I was determined in my resolve, and I wanted nothing to stop me. At last, I was in the aisle retrieving my carry-on. I edged up the aisle and out the Jetway into the airport. My gate was one of the last in terminal C, so it would be a long walk to baggage claim.

  I whipped out my phone, determined to make that call. The phone was dead. In all the turmoil, I hadn’t charged it.

  I came down the escalator, and there stood Mom. She parked in the garage and came in to meet me. She rushed up to me and gave me a big hug.

  As soon as we got in the car, I was ready to present her with the bowl I bought for her in Portland. I figured she wouldn’t ask questions about my trip if I could keep her distracted.

  “Oh, baby, this is just beautiful. You’re the sweetest thing.” And she kissed me on the cheek. The presentation yielded my desired effect, I thought, because on the drive home, she was bubbly.

  But eventually, the inquisition started. When I was nonresponsive, she got suspicious.

  “Okay—spill, Jacob,” she demanded.

  “What? There’s nothing to spill. It was an okay trip.”

  “Jacob Elias, you can’t fool your mom. Things didn’t go well with your dad, did they?”

  I shrugged, pretending I didn’t know what she was talking about. Hell, if I’d had them both pegged right, she knew the story anyway.

  “As you well know, I believe it’s for your dad to tell you what he wants you to know when it comes to him. And I don’t know what he told you this trip. I haven’t spoken to him. But this kind of secrecy can’t go on. What did your father tell you, Jacob?”

  “Nothing.” Like you don’t know. She was going to burn in hell.

  “You’re telling me in all this time, he never told you he was gay?”

  Bingo!

  “Well, yeah, he told me.” I was trapped. She was begging me to “get it all out,” like that was going to help anything. I’d had that resolve to call Dad, the phone wouldn’t work, and now she was bringing back all the negatives of this hellish trip.

  “And did he tell you about Paul?”

  I smirked at her. “So you do know.”

  “Your dad and I have no secrets.”

  Had I been played? He doesn’t keep secrets from Mom, but he keeps plenty of them from me. And to think I was ready to forgive him. That phone call was never going to happen. I could keep my own secrets. I might have been okay with his getting married, but he’d never know it. And he damn sure would never know I was as queer as he was.

  “He told me everything. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  That shut her up.

  We didn’t get back to the apartment until well after midnight, so I crashed.

  I slept until about ten the next morning. While brushing my teeth, I wandered into the living room. A note lay on the counter: bagels in the fridge. I took one out, split it, and put it in the toaster.

  After I retrieved the bagel and slathered both halves with butter, I took it to my room, where I settled in to answer emails. I hadn’t kept up while I was gone, and it showed. I had 199 emails. I quickly deleted the spam. But soon my eye caught on one that at first I thought was junk. I got stuff from Grayson International all the time. It was always sales propaganda, which I wasn’t interested in. But deleting them from my approved email list seemed like a betrayal of my father or something. So I almost pushed Delete when I saw the latest Grayson communiqué.

  But I looked closer. It was from my dad, writing on his business email address. The subject line was “From your cowardly father.”

  I was not in the mood to read anything from him, so I ignored the message and went through all the others. It took me about an hour and a half to absorb all my friends’ messages and answer them—I do have friends, mostly guys on the team, and their emails are almost always about the team, basketball, or Coach. There was even, surprise of surprises, one from D’Andre, just shooting the breeze about the new coach. My first reaction was “he’s still trying to get in my pants,” but I took his message at face value and answered him, telling him I thought the new coach would be great.

  I almost signed off Gmail. But all that was left in my inbox was that lone message from my “cowardly” father.

  I relented. And double-clicked.

  To: jake016@gmail.com

  From: BHardy@grayson.com

  Subject: From your cowardly father

  Jake-O: I cannot beli
eve that I let you leave without trying to explain everything. It tears me apart that you had to find out about the wedding the way you did. I’m so, so sorry. I am the worst father in the world for the way I handled everything. I never should have sprung the trip on you like I did. I hoped you would like the idea. And I hoped that if we got away, just the two of us, I could ease into all my revelations. But things went wrong from the get-go, didn’t they? I thought you’d see what a nice place Halifax is, then I could tell you I was moving there and you’d be happy.

  And God, the gay thing. I guess I’m just naïve. I was convinced that I could just give you the news; you would accept it. I thought you kids these days were with it when it comes to gay issues. But “kids these days” is not my kid. I should have thought about it. Maybe realized you might not think like your peers. That was stupid, but blurting it out like I did was even stupider. No wonder you ran.

  But—call me a hopeless romantic—I was still convinced that I would be able to introduce you to Paulie and you two would hit it off and everything would be okay. But then you came back from the pool and overheard everything and got so angry and I just lost it and I called and switched your ticket and let you go without trying to explain anything.

  None of this went down the way I’d hoped. I love you and want you to be happy. But, you know, the only way you can be happy is if you have two happy parents. And Paulie makes me so happy.

  I meant it when I said I wanted you to be my best man. But if that is too much for you to swallow, then please, please consider coming to the wedding at least. It will be at the Halifax Grayson on August 16th at 2 p.m.

  Say the word, and I can arrange the plane ticket for you. You can even bring Mallory if you want.

  You’re my light, Jake-O.

  Dad

  I almost deleted it. But something stopped me. I had no intention of attending his little shacking-up ceremony, but I kept the email anyway.

  After that, I needed some sun. Mal was still at swim camp, so I slipped on my trunks and headed to the apartment pool.

  I still loved my dad. Did I approve of his getting married? I thought I did. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I so wanted to take that email at face value and forgive him for everything. Go to the wedding, stand up for him. But I was too angry and too deep in my own closet. I visualized the ribbing I’d get from the guys if it got out I had a gay father. I know them. It would turn to jokes about how I must be gay too. And things would get out of hand. Before you know it, I’d be out, from my closet and my school. In order to keep my own secret—and believe that was okay for me to do—I had to believe that his secrets were toxic. I never, ever wanted to cut him completely out of my life, but my stubborn streak was telling me to do so. I needed sun. Heat to either melt my heart or bake my resolve into a nice hard brick.

  I arrived at the pool to find a guy I’d never seen before sprawled on one of the lounge chairs. He was a big guy, tanned and trim, sporting ultracool black wraparound sunshades. I had never seen such beauty. Usually, if anyone was there, it was some wrinkled old lady.

  Ironic, I thought. My first thought about this guy was beauty. Here I was, trying to rid myself of all gay thoughts, about my dad, about me, and my first reaction to a stranger is that he is some good eye candy. What was wrong with me?

  I spread my towel on the lounge next to him. Someday, our apartment complex needs to buy a few more lounge chairs. There are those two, plus a table and chairs. He must have been snoozing ’cause he didn’t say a word to me. Good. I didn’t want to talk.

  Jumping into the deep end, I did several laps. The sun felt good. The baking process began. I didn’t know where it was taking me, but just the feeling of the intense South Texas rays was helping. The water felt cleansing. Negative thoughts washed away, released down the pool drain. At that moment, I was glad to not think. It was good to be home.

  I pulled myself from the pool and stretched out on the chair.

  “Pretty good moves, there, Podnuh.” A slow, deep drawl emanated from the inanimate god next to me. Obviously, someone had been watching too many old movies.

  I’d seen it before, usually in older people who’d just come to Texas. Thanks to John Wayne and Hollywood, they thought we all rode horses and chased cattle.

  Funny, though, most guys my age had never even seen a John Wayne horse opera. This guy must stay tuned to Turner Classic Movies 24-7. Weird. But, oh, he was a marvelous distraction.

  I turned toward him. “I do okay,” I said. “Been swimming since I was four.”

  He turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow, his upper arm muscles flexing. “Well, you’re a regular fish in that water.” He sat up and flicked his shades up onto his forehead. A drop of water from his luscious brown curls pooled on one lens. “Finn Sawyer.” He extended his hand.

  “Jake Hardy,” I countered and we shook. His skin was warm, his handshake firm and somehow inviting, which was a strange thought. “Finn, huh?”

  He laughed. “Typical reaction. Mom’s a Twain scholar. She latched on to Dad about ten seconds after she learned his last name was Sawyer. And me—well, you guessed it—I’m named after Tom’s best friend, Huck.”

  “Well, no one could accuse your mom of not being original.”

  He laughed again, an easy, comfortable laugh. A winning, gorgeous smile. And shooting the breeze with this guy beat all the turmoil of the last several days. I was glad for the distraction, at last. Is that what being gay feels like? To meet a new guy and feel an instant connection, an instant attraction?

  “So,” I said, “what brings you to these here parts, Podnuh?” Two could play that game. “Ya noticed that there ain’t a lot of gun-totin’ cowpokes in Houston, din’t you?”

  He laughed. “I was wonderin’ ’bout that. ’Spected the smell of horseshit to make me cough round here.”

  “Well.” I eyed him, staring into gleaming turquoise eyes. “I don’t smell it, but it does seem to be piling up pretty high, if you know what I mean.” I was surprised at myself. This guy was easy to talk to. That was the first time in my life I’d made an instant connection like that. If only he were gay. I surprised myself with that thought, but after all, I was flirting with him, I supposed.

  He laughed again… this time, a big, belly laugh. “Got me.” He pointed at me. “Now, what was that you asked me?”

  “What brought you to H-town?”

  “Mom came home. She’s from here. My parents both got jobs at U of H. Yessirree bob, two professors for the price of—well, two professors.” Again, the laugh. Easy. Landed on me like a butterfly. Give it up, Jake. Your imagination’s running away. You just met the guy, and he doesn’t act gay at all. And here you are thinking of the gayest metaphor you could ever come up with. “And, with a move imminent,” he continued, “it seemed that Son was destined to spend his senior year here amongst the bright lights, big city. I’ll be finishing up my public matriculation at Lamar High.”

  “Lamar, huh? Good school. Don’t know personally. I go to private school. Dad’s a rich man wannabe and Mom’s a religious fanatic. But I thank Mom’s good Lord that my school is tolerable. It’s a giant Christian academy with two buildings, one for K-8 and another for 9-12, and the rules are strict, but it’s easy to keep a low profile and stay off their radar if you’re not super-Christian, and I’m definitely not that.” I didn’t mention that if they knew I was gay, I would be kicked out in a heartbeat. “But I’ve been there since I was a kid and know everybody there and what to expect. Know what I mean? And thank their Lord, they have an award-winning b-ball team.”

  “You a baller?”

  “I can whip up a mean game. Maybe we could shoot some hoops some time.”

  “You got it.” He sat up. I noticed his abs ripple and told myself to quit staring. “Well, Jake Hardy, it is good to finally meet another specimen of my own species. Except for me and my parents, I was beginning to think that this complex had no one under the age of fifty.”

  This guy was easy to talk t
o. He might not be boyfriend material, if indeed, I was ready to take that plunge, but he could be a good friend.

  “It is a bit heavy on the older crowd,” I said.

  “You’re telling me. I’ve been here a week, and that’s all I’ve seen. I almost bought myself a walker just so I could fit in. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

  I laughed at his joke and said, “They’re not that old.” Then I added, “To answer your question, vacation.” That was a huge prevarication. “My dad and I went up to Canada.”

  “Canada? Whereabouts?”

  “Nova Scotia. Dad manages hotels, and he’s taking a job in Halifax soon.” That was all this guy needed to know about my father. The less I said the better. I was finally enjoying myself. I didn’t need to rehash my sorry life to a stranger.

  “All the way from Houston to Halifax? You’re not going with him?”

  “No—he and mom are divorced. He lives in Philadelphia now.”

  “Ah, Philadelphia—the city of brotherly love.”

  The way he said that brotherly love shit really got to me. Did he see something in me? Or was he just quoting a tourism pamphlet? And why was I one minute thinking of jumping his bones and the next minute fearing he thought I was gay?

  “Yeah. But Dad moves in a couple of weeks.”

  “Well, lucky you. Think about it—summers in Nova Scotia. Beats the hellhole summers in Houston.”

  Halifax summers, Dad, the move. Off-limits. Change the subject.

  “So where are you from, Finn?”

  “Originally or along the way?” He applied suntan lotion to his arms as he talked. “Professors move around a lot. Or at least the two I know do.”

  “Well, give me a rundown.”

  “Let’s see… born in Berkeley, lived there two years, four years in Massachusetts—loved the winter snow—five years in Georgia”—he drew it out like he was sucking on a Georgia peach—“and the last five in Salt Lake City, Utah, home of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints. That’s a mouthful. Mormons, for short. I usually tell people Daddy has six wives, and I’m the oldest of twenty-two kids.”