Chapter Eighteen

From Helene Bright’s Journal

October 28, 1987

 

I wish I could go back. There was a time once when I was innocent. When the world held more than ugliness. I long to hop into H. G. Wells’s time machine and just set the timer back a few years, thirty maybe. I do not long to live in another time, do not want to travel back to the Roman empire or England at the turn of the century. No, my wants are so much more simple. I long for childhood, when the scariest thing the world held was what was lurking in the dark under the bed or Bela Lugosi as Dracula. It’s difficult to write this. It sounds corny and cliché, but tears are blurring my vision as I struggle to put pen to paper. Part of me does not want to commit the last twenty-four hours to vellum and black ink, but I’ve been keeping this journal for so long, I can’t withhold what’s happened.

Where have all the years gone? Who could have predicted the twists and turns life would take? Who would have known all the crap with my brother would come about? After all, what happened to him and Lanta was quite premature. Most of the country wasn’t involved in such things until a decade later. But what happened to them was not born of innocence, but of evil, of a desire for too much. Greed…when they already had so much. Hedonism, I suppose, is the word. And look what it netted them.

I’m rambling, I know. There is within me a desire to hold back, to put off what must be written here.

When did the world come crashing down around me? All my life I’ve followed the rules, done the right thing, the charitable thing. I’ve never been selfish, and I’ve never deliberately harmed anyone in my whole life. Of course, I haven’t been a saint, but the few indiscretions that have colored this admittedly sheltered life have never harmed another human being. And taking the responsibilities I’ve taken, well, I’ve written at length about that already.

Daniel and Lanta. My brother and his “woman.” Well, what would you call her? Common-law wife? Live-in lover? No matter. What they’re both called these days is dead. But it seems I have been pulled into the whirlwind of their wickedness. I know it’s a melodramatic term, but it’s apt. I stood too close to the magnet, not of my own choice, mind you, but this closeness was predetermined by blood.

And look what’s become of their union. Depravity, illness, and the sickest behavior imaginable.

It’s Timothy. Oh God. I guess a part of me has known for some time that he’s homosexual. It was most assuredly never a conscious thought, but it’s always been there, in the background, waiting to emerge. I never thought it would rear its head under such hideous, tawdry circumstances. They say a mother always knows when a son is homosexual, and I have been a mother to him. The best mother I knew how to be, thrust upon me as motherhood was. And I did the best by… well, that’s another story.

I suppose the signs were always there. An objective person would say “Just look at him.” But I never believed that appearances could give one away, not in that manner, at least. And I’ve found out the hard way that appearances can be oh so deceptive. But Timothy, with his fine features, his wispy blond hair, his soft, breathy voice, and his delicate bone structure, was always the kind of male my grandmother called a “sissy man.” And he never did join in with any of the boys at Loyola Academy, never played any sports, preferring instead to spend his time at home with us. I suppose, in my loneliness, I encouraged it. That, and his delicacy. Well, I just thought he needed the protective shell our home afforded.

It’s no longer a home. These walls hold an empty shell. I must leave.

Enough dawdling. Let me report the truth, then, and damn the pain. Writing this and the tears I’ve shed will most assuredly help ease the pain. At least that’s the way it works in the movies.

Timothy was with David. There, is that bald enough? Already the images come unbidden, the memories from hours ago, to torment and taunt me. They won’t go away, no matter what I do.

David was fucking Timothy in my bed. I came home early from lunch with Claire O’Donnell and Jane Shondell. Early I suppose isn’t the right word. When I got to the club, word awaited me that Jane wasn’t feeling well and she would call to reschedule. Fair enough. I was tired and going home. Spending the afternoon with people I once loved seemed like a happy alternative.

What do I see when I close my eyes? I see the two of them on my bed. Timothy is on his back, his legs thrown up on David’s broad shoulders. David is between my nephew’s legs, the muscles in his backside bunching and contracting as he thrusts into this boy. They didn’t stop for a few seconds, so involved were they in what they were doing. And I stood frozen in the doorway, unable to scream or even speak. For a moment or two, I would even venture as far as to say I felt calm. But that calm, I know, was the result of shock. David, with his medical degree, could have told me that.

And then Timothy’s blue eyes met mine, and he, he…smiled. I turned wordlessly and left the room, heading down the stairs, not sure where I was going. Anywhere away from what I had just been witness to.

I heard David struggling into his clothes while trying to maneuver the stairs.

“Helene! Wait. Please let me explain.”

The very idea of his trying to come up with some sort of explanation made me nauseous. Nauseous enough to wonder if I could make it into the downstairs powder room before losing my breakfast. I slammed the door behind me, and everything came up. Oh, I know, it’s not a pleasant image, but it’s nothing compared to the image that inspired it.

David was banging on the door, and I could tell he was crying. I suppose losing his future wife in this way was the ultimate in degradation and humiliation.

I am a fool. How could I have not realized this was going on? There had been, over the past few years, so many camping trips, so many evenings alone together, and I encouraged them, relieved that Timothy at last had a suitable role model in his life. I laugh to think of it, how I encouraged their liaisons.

There was no way I would open that door, and after a while, the pounding and pleading stopped. I wonder if I shall ever see David again. If he’s wise, he’ll keep away. If I’m wise, I’ll press charges.

But that isn’t the way things are handled here on the North Shore. No, we keep our shame quiet, hidden away in closets paneled in cedar.

I can no longer bear the sight of my nephew, and I must send him away. He’s eighteen now and can well fend for himself. Daniel left him a trust fund, money enough to last a lifetime, so I don’t have to feel I’m abandoning him to the wolves. He’ll survive. And I never want to think of the life that survival will mean.

And about the other…well, I think that’s Timothy’s responsibility too.

And I will go on. The images burned in my brain will fade, and I will go on.

I must.