A Question of Manhood (11 page)

In slow motion I see my son's body arch backward, his mouth in a huge gasp, eyes wide and unseeing. He falls beside me.

“Chris!”

Who said that?!?

My own eyes were wide, now. And unseeing. Or, what they saw wasn't our basement. It was my brother, brought down in the jungle as he tried to pull a comrade to safety.

I closed my eyes. And I just let the tears fall.

When I wrote this for my assignment, I left out Chris's name. I wrote it like I was remembering the day from my deathbed, as gangrene set in through a wound in my side I didn't even know I had.

That Sunday I went to church again. I wasn't going to. I mean, it occurred to me it would be a great way to “be a man,” to take my mom to church and—you know—respect her grief, whatever. But I wasn't that great at being a man just yet. I still had a lot of the little brat in me.

This conflict was going round in my head on Saturday night, or Sunday early morning, whatever the hell time it was as I lay there wide awake. And I tried to imagine what it would be like if I told her. I'd sit her down at the kitchen table one day after school, before Dad got home. I'd say, “Mom, I know how much pain you're in. And I don't want to do anything to make it worse. But since you loved Chris so much, I think I owe it to you to make sure you really know who he was.”

“Paul,” she'd say, “whatever are you talking about? Do you think I didn't know my own son?”

“In most ways, I'm sure you did. But there was one thing. One very important thing. Something he told me the night before he went back to 'Nam. And he asked me not to tell you. But now I think that was wrong.”

I'd wait until she asked for more. I'd laid two traps. One was the tantalizing nugget of information that was so important, that she didn't know, that he'd told me. Only me. I'd give up my sole proprietorship of this amazing confidence from him, but she'd have to beg. The other trap was that Saint Christopher had done something that was wrong.

So a number of heartbeats would go by, and then she'd say, “Wrong?” She'd start there because otherwise she'd have to face the fact that I knew something important about him she didn't. “What was wrong?”

“Not telling you himself.” Another dig. He'd told me, but not you, so there.

“Paul, do I have to yank it out of you? What did he say?”

I'd heave a soulful sigh, blink a few times while looking down, then raise my head. “He told me he was gay.”

There'd be this silence.

The thing was, my imagination had a hard time getting past the silence, because what seemed like the most likely reaction—though it might not be her immediate one—wasn't very satisfying. To me, anyway. I'm sure Chris would have loved it. It was that she'd accept it. She wouldn't like it, because she'd be sure it would mean he'd be unhappy trying to live like that, but his unhappiness would be the worst of it. He'd still be her sainted son.

So it would do only so much damage to tell her. On the other hand, though, I could never tell Dad. He'd punish me for just knowing it, though I'm not sure whether he'd want to hit me harder for telling him Chris was gay or telling him Chris was afraid.

The fact is, Chris shot himself in the foot, in a way, by insisting that Mom not know, because she would have loved him anyway. On the other hand, telling Mom would be like telling Dad. Chris would have known this, of course, so maybe he didn't shoot his foot after all but tried to keep me from the repercussions he knew would come from Dad. So why'd he tell me at all?

Under it all was the fact that I'd promised Chris. Practically on his deathbed. So I couldn't tell anyone, and there was no point in all this mental exercise.

Wait. I'd promised him I wouldn't tell our folks. Now, it's true that if I tell much of anybody else my folks are likely to find out. And in truth, I don't really want anyone to know. It's too shameful. But what about Jesus? What could it hurt? And isn't he supposed to know everything already? It would give me someone to talk to, and maybe it would even do Chris some good if I prayed for him. The church service I'd been to with Mom hadn't left a lot of space for that; maybe we were supposed to do it on our own. So I tried.

I felt like a retard, lying there in bed and talking to some guy who died like a couple thousand years ago. I'd done it as a kid, kneeling beside my bed. Should I try that? I got up and knelt on the floor, elbows on the mattress, head bent over folded hands. I felt like some kind of idiot. I whispered.

“Jesus, son of Mary and God…”

Now what? Do I have his attention? How would I know?

“If you know everything, then you know about Chris. So I'm not breaking my promise. I guess what I want to know is, can you help him? Is there really a heaven, and a hell, and what happened to Chris? Is he in, like, limbo, or purgatory, and should I even believe in those places, or are they just imaginary? Does it matter what we believe? It doesn't, does it. Because whatever we believe, we'll end up wherever you—or God, I never was too sure about the division of labor up there—think we're supposed to be. So it doesn't matter if I don't believe in hell. What matters is where Chris is now. And whether I can talk you into taking him into heaven with you.

“He was a really great brother, most of the time. But you know that already, don't you? So can't you weigh that against what he did with guys and get him off the wagon to hell?”

I waited, eyes clenched shut, my arms and belly shivering with cold.

Nothing.

I let my arms fall onto the bed and looked up at the ceiling. “Hello?”

Silence.

At first I thought,
Well, this is bullshit
, but then I remembered how long it had been since I even acknowledged that anyone was up there. So maybe it wasn't reasonable to expect an immediate response. But this wasn't about me. It was about Chris. In the end I decided to hope that not letting me know anything was punishing me for being such a delinquent when it came to praying and going to church. And maybe a little for being mean to my mom. I decided to believe that Jesus might be willing to help Chris.

 

When I heard Mom get up in the morning, I got up, too. I sat in the cold kitchen eating toast and jam, sipping sweet creamy coffee, and then I drove Mom to church.

The thing about church is that there are lots of boring parts. I think Mom and lot of others sort of get off on the sacrifice, giving up their time to the benefit of their immortal souls, or maybe of someone else's. Like I was doing for Chris, in a way; but if I was doing it, I wasn't getting off on it. I decided to use the time productively. I suppose some people would call it praying. I think mine was more like—well, somewhere between reasoning and begging.

Jesus, if you really sacrificed yourself for us, then please make sure it counts for Chris. I mean, it would be one thing if he'd only thought he was gay and didn't do anything about it, but I know about Jim Waters, and then there was that guy Mason, so he probably did some things he really, really shouldn't have. The Bible does say that, right? That it's some kind of horrible sin? And I gotta tell ya, brother, it sure feels like it oughta be. Just the thought of it makes me want to retch. Kissing a guy? Man, no way! How could you want to do that? How could that ever seem like a good idea to another guy? What were you thinking, even to try it?

I realized that I'd started talking to Chris instead of Jesus, so I sat back, closed my eyes a sec, and took a deep breath. And began again.

Jesus, you can make it okay, right? I mean, if Chris repented? He knew he was gonna die. He told me so. And Mason was already dead when Chris got back there, so there wasn't any more—you know. Did he confess, or whatever he needed to do, and ask you for forgiveness? And could ya give me some kind of sign already?

I waited. I tried to focus on what it might sound like if God or somebody like that spoke to me, but the minister's sermon started creeping in. At least, his words. The meaning of these little speeches always seemed pretty obscure to me. But he was making so much noise that if Jesus spoke, I missed it. Of course, if God or whoever wanted me to hear something, I'd hear it. If he can make a virgin pregnant, he can speak to me inside my head, or in a way so the only people who could hear it are the ones who should. Right? So was this still punishment for me?
And would somebody up there please help Chris?

It didn't take me too long to realize I was starting to go around in circles again, just like last night. Maybe it had to do with sleep deprivation. I tried thinking of something totally unrelated. My mind went to Martha, from last summer at the store.

Lovely Martha. Sweet smile. And that wasn't necessarily her best feature, pretty as it was, if you get my drift. I started imagining her in different places in the store, in different positions, bending over to stack things on the shelf where Dad kept aquarium water pumps, or reaching up with one arm to stock dried crickets while one of her boobs pressed against the reptile mite spray below—which would have had a hard time avoiding that boob.
And a hard time is what I'm gonna have if I didn't stop this line of reminiscing
.

So I started picturing Dad in the store. The goal was to stop going around in circles, right? But you know what I saw, in my head? That little dog. The one I'd seen December ninth, the day I'd gone to the store to tell Dad about Chris. A Yorkshire terrier, I think. It was running around its owner, round and round, its leash effectively hog-tying the guy. The dog had seemed desperate to be heard. To be noticed. To control something. Anything.

Circles again. That was me, all over. And here's how I got out of it this time. That guy with the Yorkie? To have a dog like that, he'd have to be some kind of fag. Which put me right back into debate with myself about Chris.

I leaned forward and clutched my hair with both hands. Mom must have thought I'd found the sermon moving or something, because she reached over and stroked the back of my head. It felt so good I just stayed there as long as she went on doing it. And I started another prayer.

God, I don't know why you made Chris die. Why you took him. Was it so he wouldn't get any farther into perdition than he already was? Was it that if he went when he was being a hero, saving other people, he would make it to heaven anyway? Whatever, I really need to know. So here's an idea. Maybe you don't want to talk to me directly, or even let Jesus do it, but what if you let Jesus give me some of what Chris had? I'm not talking about LPs, here. I'm talking about how good he was to Mom, how he convinced Dad to calm down. I'm talking about how everyone liked him, how he always knew what to say to make people happy. How he always knew what to say to me to make me feel better about myself. How about if somebody up there gives me just a little of that? It wouldn't have to be a lot, but it would sure help us down here. It would sure help get us through this time of missing Chris. It would mean that you've got him with you, and he isn't in hell after all. And it's only fair, since you took him. What d'you say?

I knew better than to expect an answer right then. If I was gonna get any of Chris's qualities, it would show over time. And suddenly I had an amendment.

Um, I don't want the part of him that made him want guys. I wanna be clear about that.

Mom's hand stopped stroking. She patted my back lightly, and I turned and smiled at her. It felt good.

Was that my first sign?

 

School vacation is something I used to look forward to in a huge way. This year, though, it looked like this major downer, something to be got through alive if possible. It would be two weeks of trying to pretend that we can still have Christmas, that there's really some cheer in the world, some hope that someday things will approach a new kind of normal. It can't be the old normal, and I guessed the struggle we were going through was partly to figure out what the new one's gonna be. All I knew was we sure as hell weren't there yet, and those two weeks looked like no-man's-land.

There was a kind of slush falling from the sky on Monday. I'd told Mr. Treadwell that I'd meet him at two, and despite the crap on the streets I still intended to bicycle to the Burger King. So I put on a couple of layers—T-shirt, corduroy shirt, sweater—and then a windbreaker. My legs would get wet; not much I could do about it. Notebook and test papers in a backpack, I'd almost made it to my bike in the garage when I heard Mom call.

“Paul? I hope you're not going out in this weather!”

Think fast…
“Got to, Ma. Library. Doing some research for a school paper on medieval French warfare.” Ha! I sent a silent thank-you to Mr. Treadwell for the idea.

Mom appeared from the kitchen, hands wringing a dish-towel. “Why can't it wait until the weather isn't so dreadful? You've got the holiday.”

“Well…I have to do the research first, then do the writing.” I kept moving, maneuvering the bike out from where it was pinned behind Mom's car.

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“No! I mean, no thanks. Not sure how long I'll be. See you!” The sound of the garage door rattling up and overhead blocked whatever she said next, so I could pretend I didn't hear. I flipped the windbreaker hood over my head, shut the garage door, and cycled off.

It was nasty going, but the only other cars were people out shopping for gifts. I'd picked two o'clock to meet 'cause it's after lunch and before the time when mothers bring kiddies in to bribe them into good behavior with soft drinks and milk shakes and fries. I was already seated, chocolate milk shake in front of me, by the time Mr. Treadwell set a cup of steaming coffee on his side of the table.
Coffee. Maybe I should have got that. It's what men drink.

As he shrugged out of his coat he said, “How are you, Paul?”

I was gonna just give him the pat answer,
Fine, and you?
But when I looked at him something about his expression said he really wanted to know.

“Okay, I guess.” I let my tone of voice speak for me.

“Just okay?”

“Yeah.” I didn't really know what else to say.

He nodded. “I can imagine things would be pretty dreadful for your family this season, under the circumstances. Please remember that if you want to talk about it, all you have to do is let me know. I'll meet you here, or wherever. My wife loves to meet my students, so we could even talk at my house. Just call, if you need to. Now,” and he rubbed his hands together like they were cold, “what have you got for me? Did you finish everything?”