Wednesday 12:35 AM
Brian sat on the top step of the front porch. Jeff’s wheelchair ramp stretched to the right. The full moon rode high overhead. Brian sat in shadow. Paul was tired. He wanted to get in, grab a bite to eat, and go to bed.
He greeted his son.
Brian gave him barely a nod. Jeff might cause an uproar for attention, but Brian, since he was two or three years old, usually made barely a peep. Brian’s cheerfulness, like his brother’s, seemed endemic, and sometimes hid his deep emotions. Brian hadn’t cried that Paul knew of since the time he and his first girlfriend broke up. He was in fourth grade when Mavis Lukachevsky had stolen his lunch.
The slumped shoulders and the silence raised Paul’s level of concern. Brian wore jeans and a sweatshirt. The May evening had turned cool.
“It’s late,” Paul said. “It’s a school night.”
“I know.”
Brian didn’t really have much of a curfew as long as he was in at a reasonable hour, and that they had a notion of where he was, and who he was going there with.
“What’s up?” Paul asked.
His older son sighed. “I was waiting for you. I think I screwed up.”
Paul sat down next to his son. “It would be warmer inside.”
“I’m okay here.”
“What did you screw up?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure about what?”
Brian looked at him, looked down at the ground. It was a gesture both of his sons used.
Brian sighed deeply. He leaned back with his elbows on the top step and his butt on the bottom one. He gazed at the moon.
He said, “I’m not a mean person.”
“I agree.”
He looked at his dad and shook his head. “I was trying to do right.”
Parental fears rushed through Paul’s mind. Had the boy done something illegal? Got caught with drugs? Hurt his brother?”
“You know I went to Shane’s birthday party ten days ago?”
“Yeah.” He and Shane had been friends all through high school. Brian hesitated some more.
Paul prompted, “Something happened at the party.”
“Afterwards.”
Brian gulped, sat up, leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, put his head in his hands.
Paul gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze. “I can’t help until you tell me what’s happened.”
Big gulp, big pause, then a whisper. “It’s my fault Shane tried to commit suicide.”
Paul swallowed his parental fears, wild concerns based on lack of knowledge. What was most important to him was his son and what was bothering him. “Why would you think that? His note didn’t mention you. He thanked you at the hospital.”
A desperate whisper. “It was me.”
Paul said, “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Brian stared into the neighborhood darkness, looked at his dad, then down. He whispered, “I didn’t go there for a study session.” Brian shifted uneasily. “He wrote me a love poem.”
“I know what I think I mean by a love poem, but I’m not sure what you or he means by a love poem. You mean like a Shakespeare love poem?”
“No, like a boy/girl love poem. He said he loved me, but it was all poetic and stuff.”
“Okay, why would he write a love poem to you? Does he think you’re in love with him?”
“Well, no. I’m not. It’s just, well…”
Paul waited. Brian crossed his legs, uncrossed his legs, leaned back, leaned forward, stared at the night sky, stared at the ground. When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. “So at that party.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, afterwards. After everybody left.” He rubbed his face with his hands, did some more body shifting. Paul thought if he kept at it much longer, the boy might wind up with his body twisted into a pretzel position. Brian looked agonized. He muttered, “I can’t talk about this.”
Fears and anxieties flooded Paul’s mind. He wanted his boy safe. He was determined to help any way he could. He presumed whatever his son revealed, they would deal with. If the boy was this hesitant it must be pretty huge, or at least huge to his teenage mind. And he didn’t get up and leave, and he’d been waiting here, which Paul thought all led to the logical conclusion, the boy wanted to talk and unburden himself.
“Would you prefer to talk to Ben?”
“No, it’s not the person. It’s what happened.” Another big pause. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”
“Do the best you can, and we’ll sort it out together like we always do.”
“I guess.” More pauses and gulps. Brian said, “You know Shane’s gay?” Paul remembered the day of the Inauguration.
“Why is it important if he’s gay?” Paul knew a love poem from a boy to a boy could be upsetting if one was gay and the other was straight. Or any love poem from someone who was smitten to someone who did not share the smitten ones feelings even if both were gay or both were straight.
Brian fell silent. The night noises of Chicago surrounded them: a far off car honked, tires swished on the pavement on Taylor Street half a block away, a distant stereo boomed from a car’s speakers, an emergency vehicle, probably on Halsted Street, hurried by. All the sounds where muted here with the surrounding trees and houses.
Paul knew his son, he knew the ways of the world, and he was reasonably astute about teenagers. He guessed something physical had happened between the boys. A hug? Probably more. A kiss? Possibly. It was not unheard of in Paul’s experience for gay men to offer straight guys physical pleasure with little expectation of reciprocation. Had an offer been made? Accepted? Even reciprocated? He didn’t want to know. Certainly from the level of Brian’s emotional reaction, it had been more than a hug.
The boy’s emotional and maturity level had been or were being tested. His heroism in saving his friend had made the swirling feelings soar off the scale.
Finally Paul said, “And whatever it was that happened after the party and the love note are connected?”
“Right. Yeah.”
“And now you think those two events and the attempted suicide are connected?”
Brian breathed a sigh of relief. His dad was filling in the blanks, and he didn’t have to go into embarrassing details.
“I think so. I’m not sure. I’m afraid so, yeah.”
“What did you do about the note?”
“That’s the thing. I didn’t do anything.” Brian took several deep breaths. “All week he asked to talk to me. I didn’t know what to do or say. It was a guy saying he loved me.” He paused, gulped. “I ignored him and the note. I almost didn’t go Sunday. We were supposed to talk. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I don’t think of him that way. I don’t want that kind of relationship with him. I didn’t know what to say. That’s why I was late that night. If I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have saved him.” He wrung his hands. “I was almost too late.”
Paul let the information sink in. He didn’t want a clearer picture of what happened after the party, but he had a clear enough picture of the agony his son was in. He asked, “Do you love him?”
“No. I’m not gay. And I know it would be okay if I was, and I know it’s okay that you guys are. I’m not prejudiced.”
“I know.”
“What should I have done?”
“What would you have done if it was a girl?”
“I guess talked to her.”
“You know that’s what we do in our family, talk to each other.”
“That’s partly why I feel so rotten. I know we talk. I was just too embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say.” He sighed. “I know, I should have. I was going to that night. I shouldn’t have been late. I was delaying. If I’d got there on time.” He held his arms out as if pleading. “Maybe if I would have talked to him before, like the day he sent me the note, right away, he wouldn’t have…you know…tried to off himself.”
“But you did get there in time.”
“Barely.”
“You are not responsible for his choices.”
“But if I’d have done something, maybe he would have made different choices.”
“You can’t know that. No one can.”
Paul wasn’t sure what to say at such a primal and difficult moment. He wasn’t sure how he felt about what he was being told. He knew for certain that he needed to concentrate on making sure he understood what his son was saying and feeling. He knew he had to take care of his son’s needs and not concentrate on any reaction or discomfort he felt. Helping his son was the key. He just didn’t know what to say or do.
Paul was not about to ask how his son knew how a girl felt doing whatever Shane or he and Shane had done. He wanted no details about his son’s intimate attachments. First, he had to be clear about what his son was saying.
“You don’t want a relationship with him?”
“He thought what happened meant I wanted a relationship. He’d been pestering me and pestering me, all week. He sent me flowers. And then he slipped that love note in my locker.” He sighed and sat back again. “I ignored him. It’s my fault.”
“You’re going to be on opposite sides of the country in a few months, right? He’s going to USC?”
“Yeah, but he had all these ideas about us, having a long-distance relationship. He put it all in the note. About getting together. He wants to do…uhh…more intimate stuff. He’s a nice guy. I thought he was, but I’m just not into him. Not that way. I just totally screwed up.”
Paul said, “Let’s take this a bit at a time.”
“Okay.”
“You guys did something you’re uncomfortable with now?”
Brian nodded.
“Was it consensual? Nobody forced anybody, right?”
“No. I’m not that way. He’s not.”
“You were both consenting. You’re both over eighteen. You didn’t stop him. He didn’t stop.”
“No.”
“Before it happened, did he ask you for a relationship?”
“Well, no.”
“Beforehand, did he talk about a commitment?”
“No.”
“So as far as you and he were concerned, as far as you know, it was just something happening for that moment?”
“Yeah.”
“The problem then seems to be the different meanings you and he attached to it afterwards.”
“Yeah.”
Paul asked, “Did the suicide note he left say it was your fault?”
“No.”
“And his parents read the note and they still called you a hero at the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“So as far as you know, the note said nothing about you. In the love note he sent you, did he threaten suicide if you didn’t respond?”
“No, but I should have recognized something was wrong.”
“Why? How? You got a note that made you uncomfortable. You weren’t sure how to deal with a situation. You had a casual, fun moment and one of you took it for more of a commitment than it was. That happens to men and women, gay and straight. Your signals got crossed.”
“I should have talked to him.”
“There are a million things we should or could do in this world. If we lived by what we should have done, we’d probably be paralyzed. If we learn from what we wish we’d done, then maybe we’re closer to being better adults. Did you tell any of your buddies about any of this?”
“No, it was embarrassing.”
“So nobody could have teased him about being gay? About…aah…what happened after the party?”
“As far as I know, I’m the only one he offered to…do…what he did.” He paused. “You know, he never actually said he was gay. I just kind of assumed it.” He gave the briefest of smiles. “The notes and flowers afterwards were kind of a giveaway.”
“More than a big hint.”
The conversation paused as they both looked out at the night.
Brian asked, “Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
“What did I do wrong?”
“I don’t think this falls into easy right and wrong categories. You both made choices and assumptions. You both have feelings and personalities. It’s something to think about and then decide if you want to make different choices in the future.”
“I should have talked to him.”
“Because of your actions, you still can.”
“Should I go over there tomorrow?”
“I’d call ahead, but why not?”
“I guess so.” Brian sighed. “I just didn’t know what to do. It was so kind of flattering and sweet and kind. I just freaked and I should know better. He was paying me a compliment. If I wasn’t into girls, I’d think about it, but that’s how I feel today. I wish I’d have figured this out earlier.”
“Because you’re a good, brave, and honest man you can still talk to him.”
They stood up.
Brian said, “Thanks, dad.”
“I love you, son.”
“Love you, too.”