“I didn’t realize you were bringing a friend,” Dad says. “Chris, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Chris and my dad shake hands. Then it’s my turn. Chris and I sit back down on the couch, and my dad collapses into his recliner, just short of putting his feet up and turning on the TV.
“You kids want something to drink?” Dad asks and glances toward the kitchen as though about to call for Susan.
“No, Dad, we’re fine.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Like I said on the phone, there’s something I want to tell you. Something I probably should have told you before now.”
“That good, huh?” Dad says gruffly. He sits up straighter. His eyes widen as if hurrying me to get to the point.
“Well, this may or may not come as a surprise but….” I swallow and the words get lodged in my throat like a chicken bone.
Just say it.
“I’m…grrray. And Chris—”
“You’rewhat?” His words are sharp and loud, edged with disbelief. He leans forward and braces himself against the arms of his chair.
“I’m… gay.” The word shouldn’t be that hard to get out. It’s one syllable, for chrissakes. I go still—fugue state—and wait for his reaction. He huffs a little, blowing his breath out through his nose.
“Is this his influence?” Dad points to my shoulder where Chris sits rigidly, his hands folded in his lap, fingers slowly closing into fists.
“No.” I shake my head. I’m not sure which is the better answer, so I go with honesty. “This is all me.”
“Really?” he says skeptically, like he could argue me out of my own sexuality. “This is all you? Were you gay the last time I saw you?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly so that I won’t say something snotty or sarcastic. “Yeah.”
“And the time before that?”
I nod. “Yep, then too.”
“And just when did you decide you were gay?” My dad narrows his eyes. It feels like he’s trying to catch me in a lie. His question is loaded. To answer would be to agree that my being gay was a choice.
Instead of giving him some arbitrary age, I tell him, “Being gay wasn’t a decision, but coming out to you was.”
“And what does your mother have to say about it?” His mouth twitches like Tabs’s does before she’s about to launch a barb.
“She’s okay with it.” Even as I say it, I know it’s the wrong answer. My dad has always tried to pit us against my mom, to make it seem like she was the one who left him, even while he was the one shacking up with another woman.
“Of course she is.” He shakes his head, disgusted. He stands and crosses the room to the entertainment system. “I bet shelovesit, one more thing to blame on me.” Dad opens a cabinet and reaches behind some old VHS tapes, selects one of the cases, cracks it open, and pulls out a metal flask. It’sWinnie the Pooh, one of my old favorites. I’m pretty sure Piglet was gay for Pooh, but that’s neither here nor there. Dad twists the cap of the flask and takes a drink. Looks like I’m driving him to drink.
“No one blames you for anything.” I try to keep the emotion out of my voice, because why would youblameanyone for this? I remind myself of my goals in telling my dad. Goal #1 has been met. Maybe we should just get up and leave.
No, I tell myself,I’m going to see this thing through, and then leave knowing I couldn’t do any more.
“Is this because I didn’t spend enough time with you when you were a kid?” Dad asks, still theorizing. “That turns kids queer, you know.”
Next to me, Chris repositions himself, and I lay my hand on his knee because I know how hard it is for him to stay silent.
“I don’t think that’s it,” I tell him. I’m tempted to ask him if he heard that on Fox News, but I don’t.
“You think if your mother and I were together, you’d still be a queer?”
That’s an interestingwhat ifstatement and one I’d never consider in a million years, because it’s somewhat irrelevant.
“Probably, Dad. I don’t know the exact statistics, but I’m pretty sure queers come from two-parent households too.”
He shakes his head and runs his tongue over his teeth. “I knew she coddled you too much growing up. I told her over and over you needed a strong male influence in your life.”
