Memorizing You (22 page)

“You didn’t put us through anything we weren’t happy to do for you. Through no fault of your own, it turned out differently. That’s all.”

“That man really hates me,” I said it aloud. Now my mind would have to deal with it.

“Of course, he does,” her voice said it mildly. “You’ve made him aware that he has no control over something he thought he possessed. Trust me, he’s worrying more about you, than you’re worrying over him. All it takes for him to lose is for his son to make a choice. Which choice do you think is easier? One that comes with a threat? Or one that comes from love?”

I felt the embers inside me begin to cool. Somehow she always knew the right things to say.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It’ll work out. You’ll see.”

I wanted to go to bed and not think anymore. I didn’t want to dwell on the derogatory way I’d been spoken to. “Lawn boy,” spat out like a criminal sentence. “Insignificant thing”. My hands balled into fists. I had visions of pummeling the man into a coma.

I knew Ryan wouldn’t call. He wouldn’t be permitted to. I sat in the darkness, opened my window. Just in case. And I roller-coastered through every emotion possessed by mankind.

Through my closed door, I could hear the phone ring in the hallway below. Probably Rosemary checking on me. I heard my mom walk up the stairs, rap lightly on my door.

“David, are you awake?’“ she whispered before she opened the door. anyone who thought they, y fy

“Tell her I’m okay,” I whispered back.

“It’s Ryan’s mother. She wants to talk to you.”

I was confused. That was nothing I would have suspected in my wildest dreams. “What does she want?”

“To talk to you,” she reiterated.

I looked at the green-glowing hands on my alarm clock. It was after eleven.

Her message was short. “Meet me in front of your house in five minutes.” No explanation accompanied it.

She drove up in the black Buick Riviera I’d always admired in their driveway next to his Ryan’s dad’s Caddie. I looked inside through the passenger window. She pointed toward the seat. I slid inside, feeling uncomfortable.

She lit a cigarette; offered me one. I took it. Lucky Strike. Non-filtered.

A normally quiet, deferring woman, I could tell she was debating where to begin. Her cigarette was half-gone before she spoke.

“I’m very sorry for what happened tonight,” her voice was thin. “You probably planned a celebration. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” I didn’t know what to say to something I hadn’t anticipated.

She tossed the butt out the window. “My husband…Bill…never wanted Ryan. When I got pregnant, he pestered me for a month to ‘get rid of it.’ But I was raised a Catholic, “ she laughed, nervously. “I’m not a very good Catholic. I don’t think I ever heard a word that was said from the pulpit, but, nevertheless, I’m a Catholic. And I couldn’t do what he wanted. His parents wanted to pay for me to go to a good doctor to get it taken care of. I don’t know which he wanted less. Ryan or to the panties.

As I tossed my cigarette out the window, I could see my mom’s shadow cross the living room curtains.

“Ryan was a big baby,” she ventured on. “Nine pounds, two ounces. And right after he started to walk, we could tell he was going to be a big boy. Bill’s buddy’s began referring to him as the ‘little linebacker.’ I think that’s when Bill got the notion in his head that Ryan could do something for him that he couldn’t do for himself. Football. He’s drummed that into that boy’s head from the minute he could understand words. Everything else pretty much came in second after that. Ryan would be his redemption. It didn’t matter what Ryan wanted. It didn’t matter what I thought. The price of Bill’s tolerating a life he abhorred was resting on the shoulders of his son being something he could display like a trophy to his friends.” There was a deep exhalation that sounded wrought with hurt. “He loves his garden. He loves his garden.”

I found myself feeling sympathetic for the woman. She didn’t have to be there. She didn’t have to be telling me this. And I didn’t know why she’d chosen to do just that.

“I’m not exactly approving of what’s going on between you and my son…” The words trailed away like an arrow in the breeze.

They jabbed at me, letting blood from a vein.

“Yes, I knew. He’s my son. I can tell when he’s in love.” There was no reprisal in her voice. “And my feeling about it has nothing to do with believing it’s right or wrong. Or, even with me being a Catholic. It has to do with me being his mother. A mother who wants her son to be happy and safe. You make Ryan happy.” Her hands drifted over the steering wheel. It was an anxious gesture. “But I worry because the world has too many things against it. I don’t want my son’s life to be complicated, or dangerous.”

“I think we can take care of ourselves,” I offered. I believed it. I don’t think she believed it.

She was silent a long time. I could see the door to my house open out of the corner of my eye. My mom was standing there.

“If this is important to him, then it’s important to me. And it’s not up to his $adImyfather to make a choice for him on something which he, himself, had no choice.”

I could see my mom on the porch. A thousand awful thoughts must have been rolling through her head about what was happening.

Ryan’s mom went on. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that no one can hold up a standard of what’s normal. Or right. That’s coming from a lukewarm Catholic girl who never listened to one word of any sermon in church, but still goes every Sunday to do her up and downs. That comes from a woman whose marriage is one half lie, the other half deception. So, even if it is legal, it doesn’t make it real, or more valid.” Her eyes searched mine. “What’s real is real. I want you two to remember that…because it’s not going to be easy swimming upstream from what’s thought to be a ‘normal’ current.”

I could see my mom start down the sidewalk toward the car. Her arms were folded in front of her. It was her way of pretending to be strong.

“I was taught a Catholic girl didn’t get abortions. A Catholic girl didn’t get divorces. But I didn’t do that because I was a Catholic. I did it because my mother cared for me, wanted me to be happy. To have the things I deserved. The priests didn’t make me believe those things. And no priest is going to tell me how my boy can love. I’m a better mom than I am a Catholic.”

She looked to the window, seeing my mom approach it. She pushed a button on her door. The window rolled down. My mom bent down and looked inside.

“I’m David’s mom,” she introduced herself. “Is everything okay here?”

Ryan’s mom dipped her head. Then she looked back at me. “Open the glove box. In there is an envelope.”

I did as she said. Took it out.

“In it is a key. A spare I had made last week for you when my husband gave me instructions that we were to take no more calls from you, or let you enter our house again.”

I slid the key in my hand, looked at her, then my mom. Then back.

“Lately my husband has taken to…’working’ overnight at his office. He doesn’t come home until around noon the next d$;y fy ay. He likes to be able to keep an eye on Ryan, and thinks that’s the most effective method.” Her fingers knitted around the steering wheel again. “If he does come home early, it’s easy to tell. He stinks of cheap perfume, and he’ll take a shower before he checks on Ryan. It usually takes him fifteen minutes.”

I was stunned by the implication of what she was suggesting, and the permission that was behind it. I could see my mom’s reaction was the same.

“Ryan knows nothing of this. I thought someone else could explain it better. Maybe tonight since he’s alone in the house. Plus, I’m on the way to spend the night at my sister’s to help her with her scrapbooking. She’s got a great bottle of scotch and some Dean Martin records.”

I know my mouth was open. My mom’s was. “Thank you,” I said, sounding windless.

She shared one last glance with my mom. It was sad. “It was nice to meet you,” she said.

My mom bowed her head. “Likewise.”

We watched the lights of the Riviera fade down the street. We marveled at the courageous woman behind the wheel.

I squeezed the key in the palm of my hand, realizing something extraordinary had just occurred.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I felt like a thief in the night, creeping along the streets after midnight. Unlocking the door to a house that wasn’t my own. Stepping into the hushed quiet. Smelling the scents of people who lived there. It felt different in the nightlights and non-movement. I peered into each room just to make certain that no one was there. Then up the stairs where the strip of light under Ryan’s door indicated that he was still awake. I quietly knocked. There was no answer. I opened it.

The surprise on his face told me that, in fact, his mother had given him no clue what she was doing. I explained it to him. He found it hard to believe. Then he found it incredible to believe. I let him know he wasn’t alone in that opinion. I tucked the key in my wallet for safe-keeping.

I finally got to deliver my congratulations in a kiss. I sidled in next to him on the bed. He draped his arm around my shoulders. I could tell he was in a reflective mood. Having to spend the evening celebrating in the company of his father would tend to do that.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t be there,” he told me.

“Wouldn’t have wanted to be there,” I said. I told him what Rosemary and I had planned. That we would have to pick it up for another time.

He shook his head. “I didn’t realize until tonight how much I really can’t stand the bastard. You should have seen him. Sitting there at that party like it was his party. Soaking up the glory. He talked to my teammates like he’d scored the touchdown. Like he looked in the mirror and my face looked back. It was one of the creepiest things I’d ever experienced. I felt ashamed. I know the guys felt weird.”

“I’m not going to pretend that I like him,” I said. But I also wasn’t going to tell him what his dad had said to me. Or how I’d reacted to it. There was no reason to add insult to injury. We were already at an understanding on the man.

“I sat there listening to him like I was sitting on another planet with a bunch of aliens.” He reached down and squeezed my hand. “All I kept thinking was that you weren’t there. And I knew why you weren’t there. And when I looked at him, it made me detest him even more. It made me think if we could ever live lives of our own? I mean, I never thought that loving someone could be this hard. I’ve had to run past fewer things that wanted to break my neck on the field.”

“But sometimes things go right too.” I reminded him of his mom.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But for the most part we have to live lives feeling abnormal. I see how my teammates look at me. They think I don’t notice. Like they’re subtle and clever enough that I don’t catch their winks, or nods when they think I don’t see them. How they step away from me in the shower like they don’t want to be in a certain radius for fear something might rub off on them, even if it’s a reputation. They look away when I undress. No one says anything because I’m the quarterback. But they don’t have to. It’s there in all the things they don’t s$my y fy ay to me.”

He stood, walked to the dresser mirror, and studied his reflection.

“This isn’t right. We’re not abnormal. We can’t live like this in the darkness. They can’t turn us into living like trolls under a bridge, a monster in a bell-tower.” His face had a determined line that was new to me. “This is no different than our eyes being blue, our skin being white. Being tall or short. None of these things are choices. They have no right making us feel like our love is out of sync with what’s normal. It’s no different than all of us breathing the same air and still being completely different creatures made of the same stuff. They want to tell us that love has one direction, one capacity, and one purpose. What horseshit. Love is about caring for another human being. What’s wrong with that? We can’t control this any more than we can control what day the sun shines and what day it rains. What makes them think we can just wake up one day and make a choice like this?”

“I’ve always thought it’s because they’re uneducated people,” I said.

“But it’s not. There’s plenty of intelligent people who think it. It’s been handed down to them. Taught to them in an arena that has nothing to do with higher learning. In their living rooms from mom and pop. They got it from their mom and pop. It goes on and on like a sick cycle of propaganda that’s as institutionalized as grandma teaching you her secret spaghetti sauce recipe so you can teach it to the next in line after you.” His face was hard. “Faggot, queer, fairy. Those words aren’t taught in a history course. You don’t learn them with the alphabet. Discrimination comes from the circles you’re supposed to trust. The home, the family, the church. They try to convince you God made you in his image, and then would destroy you because you weren’t good enough. That’s a good God? Who comes up with this crap?”

I’d never seen him so agitated. I didn’t even realize that it had caused him that much concern. We’d never discussed it in depth. We were always so engaged in creative ways to be together. But he was right.

“You do realize the biggest culprit of teaching the world to hate us is the one that’s supposed to be teaching us how to be good?” He pulled his World History book from his satchel and threw it on the bed. “I listened to Rosemary when she was teaching me about history. I listened real close. The very same people who are calling us evil, trying to put us in the category with people who kill and torture and maim, are the same one’s responsible for the most instances of hate crimes in history. The Crusades. The Inquisition. Witch hunts.” His head shook. “What a wonderful tradition to pass along to little Bobby!”$.” Iy fy

He finally sat next to me on the bed again.

“Why are you thinking about all of this?” I asked.

A hand weaved itself through my hair. The tenderness returned to his eyes. Face softened.

“You’ll laugh,” he replied. “It was a Beatles song. They were playing a Beatles song at the pizzeria, and it made me think.
When I’m Sixty-Four
.”