AS HERB GOT OUT of his car, he saw Cecilia’s silhouette pass across an upstairs window. He noticed her car wasn’t in the driveway or on the street. He went inside and paused in the front hall. The only noise was the whoosh of sheets dropping down the laundry chute to the basement.
“Where’s Martin?” he called out.
“Piano lesson. He took my car.”
No one has to pick him up, thought Herb.
“Cecilia, if we got a car for Martin, neither of us would have to be a chauffeur again.”
They hadn’t discussed this since Martin got his driver’s license. Cecilia had been opposed in principle then to any teenager having his own car. But now, when one of their cars was available, Martin always drove himself places and reliably returned it. Perhaps she was ready to revisit the idea.
“Cecilia?” he shouted.
Hearing no reply, Herb went upstairs. Their bedroom and bathroom were empty. In Martin’s room, he found Cecilia kneeling on the floor, motionless except for her twitching hands which held a dog-eared, glossy magazine. The color had drained from her face.
“Oh, my God! Herb!” she wailed, showing him the crumpled magazine.
It had no titles or text, just photos. Nude men flexing their muscles and coupling in various positions. Close-ups of penises thrust into mouths and anuses.
Disoriented, Herb knelt next to her. It had never occurred to him that Martin might be gay. He wanted to reassure Cecilia but couldn’t think of anything to say—anything that didn’t include a terrifying acronym.
She looked at him, imploring wordlessly.
“I’ll…I’ll talk to him,” he stammered.
Cecilia and Martin ate a late dinner in silence. Herb sat with them, reading the newspaper. The lack of conversation didn’t seem to bother Martin. Cecilia pushed food around her plate, then said she had to call her sister and left the table.
“Martin,” Herb said, “we need to talk.”
“Why?”
“I’m not angry. We just need to talk. OK?”
Martin grudgingly followed his father into the living room. Herb sat on a love seat. Martin remained standing.
“Please, Martin, sit down. This will take more than a minute.”
Martin sat on the edge of a stuffed chair.
“We need to have a matter-of-fact discussion about sex.”
Martin rolled his eyes and whined, “Again? Dad, we’ve been through that before.”
Herb was at a loss for how to begin.
“And I’ve had it in school up to here,” said Martin, sticking a finger into his throat.
As Herb pondered over what to say next, Martin rose and backed away. Reluctantly, Herb pulled the magazine out of his jacket pocket.
“We need to talk about this.”
Martin flushed. He stared at the carpet.
“You searched my room?”
“No! Mom found it by accident while she was changing your bed.”
Martin refused to make eye contact. Herb saw shame and defiance battling across his son’s face.
“Martin,” Herb said, his voice cracking. “Mom and I love you. We want to protect you. It’s totally fine with us if you’re gay or bisexual. You know we have friends who are gay, who we respect a lot. We’re scared because if you’re not careful, if you got infected with the AIDS virus…so many young men have died already. Magazines are not the issue. We want to be sure you know how to be safe, that you’ll be careful.”
Martin looked up and saw Herb shaking.
“Jesus, Dad! Get a grip!”
“I will if you’ll talk to me.”
“This is humiliating. We do not need to have this conversation. I know about AIDS and the blood test. I’m not an idiot!”
Full of regret, Herb put a hand to his forehead.
“Look, Dad, I am being careful. All right? We’re not going into details. End of discussion.”
Martin stomped out of the room.
Herb didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. At seven, he was in the kitchen, half-heartedly trying to make a double cappuccino with the espresso machine Cecilia had bought him for his birthday. He couldn’t stay focused long enough to follow the instructions and kept having to start over. Martin padded in barefoot. Ignoring Herb, he went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice. He stood at the sink, facing away from his father, pouring juice into a glass. Herb set down the metal pieces he hadn’t been able to fit together.
“Martin, can we finish talking?”
“Dad, let it go. You need to trust me.”
Herb was in check. A stalemate might be the best he could salvage.
“I want to trust you. And I meant what I said yesterday. This doesn’t change how I feel about you, not by an iota.”
“If that’s really true, promise not to bring this up again. OK?”
Herb couldn’t think of a counterargument and conceded. He shut the steam valve, abandoned his cappuccino, and went upstairs. Cecilia was dressing for work. He slumped onto the bed and told her what Martin had said.
He began to apologize. Cecilia held a finger to his lips.
“My turn,” she said.
Herb followed her downstairs and stopped outside in the dining room to listen.
“Martin,” she said calmly, “I’m going to trust you to be safe.”
“Good, Mom.”
“Will you trust me enough to give me honest answers when I have questions? That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“No, Mom, that’s not fair. I don’t ask questions about your sex life, do I? What’s fair is that you respect my privacy like I respect yours.”
Herb waited, but Cecilia had no reply. He trudged back upstairs. The mother’s gambit, he thought, played perfectly and still a stalemate.