“The last word my father spoke to me was “faggot”. He was in a rage when forcibly I had to come out of the closet after he heard me in a conversation I was having over the phone. He started screaming, asking me questions without giving me a chance to answer. That he couldn’t believe that his own son would be doing this to him; that he couldn’t believe it he own son was a faggot. Then, he dropped on his knees on the floor, red from screaming but now unable to pronounce a word. He raised his right hand and held his left shoulder and he would have smashed his face on the kitchen floor if I didn’t hurry up to his aid.”
That is what I heard my son repeat over and over since the incident three months ago. I just lost count of how many times he told the same story to family members, friends . . . That’s the only thing I heard. But despite the fact that I never moved out of his house, I haven’t had the chance to talk to him since. It’s very hard for me. I always wait for the right time but, when I feel I’m ready, it always seems he wants to avoid me. I really tried on numerous occasions, especially every time after he tells the same story again to anyone who comes to visit and hadn’t heard it already. He cries inconsolably in front of me and when I finally find the strength to talk, he prefers to avoid the issue.
Once, he picked up this picture frame we gave him when we sent him to college. The both of us and him on Christmas in the picture. His eyes became shiny, but when I opened my mouth to pronounce the first word, he just touched my face in the picture and said:
- Why dad? Why did it have to be like this? - His voice was breaking and so I thought was my heart - I know I should have told you earlier, but you where dealing with mom, it was really unfair for any of us to talk about it back then. And after that, it seemed that we really never had enough time to talk about anything.
- I know, my son. I know - I responded.
But I couldn’t talk anymore, neither could he. The memories of the times of illness aren't pleasurable, right? But then, he did something that filled my heart with warm memories and we both got very emotional. He went up to the attic and bought down a box. I think it was from the time when he moved out of our house, judging from the condition of the box and all the dust. But inside, a one single item caught our eyes. It was my only basketball trophy which I give him when he was a kid, hoping one day he could do better than me. Unfortunately, he was never good at sports, so he never did. But for some strange reason, he kept that trophy; so I couldn’t help to ask him why he had kept it after all this years.
At that moment, a strange man came into the house. A man I have never seen before, bringing a manila envelope and shaking it on the air.
- Here they are.
- Finally! - My son’s answer was to that.
What? Finally what? Who’s this guy? But my son then said:
- I kept this trophy all these years waiting for a day to prove I could win one too. Not in basketball of course, or in any other sport for that matter, but in something I’m very passionate about.
- Well - the guy said - that day has arrived.
- What? - I asked - What is he talking about? Did you win anything? Doing what? A passion? I didn’t even know you had a passion for anything. I don’t know, you were always so reserved, so quiet about your life . . .
- Lets go to the house so I can show you - My son replied.
The house? My house? I realized I have a house I haven’t been in since the incident. I hadn’t been anywhere but here since the incident, trying to talk to my son. Inside my son’s house all this time trying to have a conversation with him for more than three months . . . But, it was really three months? Time felt so strange and fast since the incident I couldn’t tell. And i really don’t remember anything during this time except trying to talk to my son unsuccessfully.
So I went along. My son driving, the strange man in the passenger side and me, his father, for the very first time since I taught him to drive, in the back seat. Now his father was sitting in the back seat, the old fart just relegated to be cargo, no more the company for my own son; that place was taken by this strange man, and i was in the back.
But since time was imperceptible to me, we got home as soon as we got into the car. And how we got into that small car I couldn’t tell. How did I manage to get in and out of that capricious model with only two doors my son loved so much I don’t know.
My poor house looked abandoned. The grass was dead. Piles of mail dropping from the mailbox.
- Oh son, how did we let this happen? - I couldn’t contain myself to say.
- Sorry this looks so bad now; but after what happened, I didn’t want to come back here.
My son responded. And before I could say anything else, the strange man took over again.
- No problem, man. I can put this place back in shape in no time.
Oh, I see. My son is bringing some help to fix the mess, that’s what it is. But why without consulting me. That is one of the things that always upsets me about him. I have to learn about everything after the fact. But I preferred not to say anything about it this time, I guess he was just trying to help.
He dropped most of the mail on the floor trying to open the front door.
- Remember, it always sticks on the top - I said. But it was too late. The bounce forced him to back up and loose his grip of the correspondence in the move.
- Don’t worry man, I’ll help you - The strange guy interrupted again.
It seemed to me they were so much faster to react and respond to everything, they are so young.
Then, I realized I didn’t even have the key to my own house with me. Oh, that’s odd, what’s happening with my memory since the incident? I have been so forgetful lately. And these clothes I’m wearing: When was the last time that, in my right mind, I would have chosen these clothes on a hot December afternoon?
We got in and everyone but me complained about the smell in the house. I couldn’t smell a thing.
- What’s wrong with the smell of my house?
But without an answer, they went to the kitchen and I followed them, not without noticing the dust that had accumulated all over the furniture, the books, the records -- even the pictures seem blurry behind so much dust.
- How did we let things get this bad? - I asked. But the guys were already at the kitchen entrance, staring inside.
- It was here - My son said.
Oh no, there we go again with the story I thought. Of course I never saw this stranger before so I guess he doesn’t know it yet. But not again, please.
Maybe my son read my thoughts? Because he just stayed quiet and stood there, at the entrance of the kitchen without moving. When they finally did, I saw the place were the incident occurred again for the first time since that day.
- Do you really think you are going to be OK here? - my son asked.
- Of course - I said - It’s my own house; isn’t it?
- It’s a very nice place - The strange man said.
- Thank you - I responded. Gee! Finally he spoke to me. What’s wrong with people these days? Such poor communication skills.
Then, my son opened the refrigerator and discover my secret.
- Oh dad, come on!
- Ops!
- I can’t believe I'd find all this beer hiding inside the fridge! The Dr. clearly said no alcohol! What the heck!
- Well, that was before the incident. One beer once in a while won’t do any harm.
- Won’t do any good neither. Stop lying to yourself - And I knew that voice. I heard my
wife saying that every time I was trying to cheat on my diet.
Then my son was suddenly sitting by the small kitchen table, crisscrossing his fingers over each red and with square of the table cloth as he used to do when he was a kid, looking all over the place, getting pale, he seemed lost.
- Son, are you OK? - I asked.
- Have you really seen this kitchen? I looks like a 1950’s movie set. Everything in such a
good shape.
Then I saw her. My high school sweetheart, radiant, beautiful as always next to him. She was always a wonderful wife, even when she was sick, not complaining about the pain with anyone. She always cooked amazing dishes while I was drinking my beer, enjoying watching her move like a gazelle between dishes, pots and pans. I don’t remember if I ever had food as delicious as hers after she died. I don’t even remember eating at all during these last months, let alone having a beer.
- What am I going to do with all my mom’s kitchen stuff?
- What do you mean? Your mother would want to keep her stuff - I said.
- I guess I will keep it in a storage for now.
- Come again? Since when do you decide what to do with my stuff?
- It’s not our stuff anymore honey - My wife again. She had this way of intervening when my son and I had a discussion or an argument and always in his favor, not mine.
- But that is “your” stuff - I said loudly.
I don’t know if they thought I was talking to my son or not, but everybody stayed quiet.
- And where is that thing that you want to show so proudly champ? - The strange guy
said.
- Oh, right. It’s in the garage. I didn’t even want to go inside the house but it was delivered to my father so, I had to receive it here. It was too late to change the address. Actually, that was the opportunity I was waiting for to talk to him.
- OK, its enough - I screamed - Until when you think you can ignore me and act like I’m
not here. I’m you father.
- Its OK honey. Let it go. - My wife again, was getting more persistent than ever trying to
avoid another fight with my son. But what is she doing here anyway? how come I can see her and clearly hear all that she tells me?
But then, once again in one of those weird transitions without time, we were inside the garage and I saw it.
It was so beautiful I had no words. I stared at my son’s work of art in front of me with disbelief, transported by the bright giant bronze. How they fit it inside the garage I have no idea, but it was not the moment for frivolous questions. There it was. A magnificent bronze statue of a basketball player. His hand on high trying to make a score. His veins inflated with excitement. His sweat revealing each inch of his muscles under his wet shirt.
- Aren’t his shorts a little too below the waist line? - I didn’t need an answer to that. His huge legs were keeping him high and ready. Even his tennis shoes; are those real tennis shoes? No, they are not. Oh my God, that is my boy’s artistry?
- When in the world did you learn to make something so beautiful? - I asked.
- Never told you - Said my son - Never told anybody until the award was announced. That day I received a phone call from my boyfriend here, at my parent's house. He wanted to know if I had spoken with him already. We wanted to get married. We couldn’t do it without the old man even knowing his son was gay. But it was before i could say anything that my father heard the conversation and he got furious. He wouldn’t let me talk.
- It was not your fault, you know - The strange man said.
- Of course it was not your fault son. I just . . . - And I was interrupted again, this time by my son.
- When my father died that day the last opportunity I had to show him that I’m somebody, to show him who I really am.
- Nothing died then; I’m still here. I think this piece is beautiful, I think . . .
- Honey - Once again, my wife - please let it go.
- Can you shut up woman? Why do you keep interrupting me when I’m trying to have a conversation with my son here?
- Honey; he can’t hear you - I think she said. But then, inside the kitchen again; things
were moving so much faster. And I heard what was really going on between that strange man and my son, and I didn’t like it.
- Here is the power of attorney and the lease agreement you asked me to pick up from your lawyers office then. I don’t know why I carried it all the way here. I guess it was the excitement to move into my future home - And that man finally gave my son that envelope.
- OK. Just give me until the end of the month to clear the place and it is all yours. Here is your key.
- Don’t worry about the cleaning. We will do it with my wife after painting.
- Great.
And then they shook hands and the man left. my wife looked at me with her Mona Lisa smile, the one she always used when she’s right and I’m not, and I finally got it.
We are all upstairs now, in my boy’s old bedroom, looking at old pictures, smiling together, in silence.
Now I know why I can’t figure out time, moments move between each other ruffly and without transitions, just sequences.
Now we are in our bedroom. My boy opens the closet, gets a travel suitcase and starts packing it with my clothes.
- It’s time to go honey - My wife insists, as she always does - Now is the time to go.
For a moment, I think, I saw the statue again. Then my son is in front of me and picks up my only portrait from when I used to be a player, one that my wife insisted on keeping. With tears in his eyes, my son said:
- I only wanted you to be proud of me.
I don’t know how I managed to dissolve the apparent nut in my throat, but after looking at my wife’s Mona Lisa’s smile, I said as loud as I could:
- I’m very proud of you my son and I love you.
And after kissing him softly on his forehead, I reached for my wife’s hand and we left the room forever.
