Thursday's Child

“So. Have you straightened yourself out?” It was more a statement than a question, from my father, sitting at his desk across the office, a statement he made without turning around. It was as though he were talking to the papers on his desk, not to his son across the office. I had been preoccupied, feeding sale flyers through the Address-O-Graph machine. The two of us were alone in the big office all of us shared in my father’s furniture store. My brother and the secretary/bookkeeper were at lunch. The store itself was empty of customers at this hour. Dad and I were alone. My father’s question caught me off-guard. But I was instantly wary, instantly afraid I knew what he was talking about, and that fear, which had lain dormant for several months, like a seed fallen in a fallow place, a fear I hoped I would never have to face, but was now made fertile by my father’s question, sprang to ugly, febrile life, quickly taking root in my gut, sprouting hungry tendrils that would now envelope me, encase me, choke me. I tried to swallow. “What do you mean?” I asked, as calmly as possible, trying to sound normal. “You know what I mean, “ he said, still not turning around, still hunched over his papers. “I never understood how you could be out of the Army in two years instead of the three you enlisted for. I found the papers in your things. I know everything. So don’t try to be innocent with me.” I couldn’t believe that this moral man, my father, whose sense of honor and ethics had always been so rigidly defined, would admit to breaching them by going secretly through my things, my private things, things I wanted finished, things too painful to remember. Before I could respond, before I even had a chance to think about how to deal with this new situation, Doreen, my father’s English-war-bride secretary came back from lunch, her face flushed from riding her bicycle, slipping breezily into the office with her always cheerful, meaningless comments. “My, my, “she said. “It’s chilly out there. You can always tell when winter’s comin’.” My father rose from his desk without a word, put on his hat and coat and strode out of the office, one foot firmly in front of the other. We were on the same schedule and I was still living at home. We would have to walk a few blocks, then across the school yard, together. I followed, knowing now that whatever was to come would change both of us forever. We had crossed this school yard many times together, especially when I’d been much younger, my small hand in my father’s bigger one, me trying desperately to keep up with my father’s pace, my father suggesting that I try to be more grown up, take longer, larger steps. But I was grown up now, had, in fact, outgrown my father, who now lagged slightly behind as we both stumbled blindly home toward lunch, our paces differing, decidedly out of sync. Many thoughts went through my mind – mostly pictures – flashing on the screen of my consciousness, but unconnected, as though the film were foreign or had been badly edited. We walked in silence. Calling on some inner resolve, my father pulled ahead of me as we neared the house, reached the door first and called to my mother in the kitchen as we went inside. “Margaret. Come. We’re going upstairs.” The house was empty except for her. My younger sister was away at college. We could easily have sat in the kitchen over lunch, or in the living room, or the downstairs den. But important discussions had always been held, momentous decisions always made, in my parents’ bedroom. My father headed there now, never taking off his coat and hat until he flung them both on the bed. It was to be worse than I had thought. “Sit down,” my father said, “there on the cedar chest.” I did as I was told. Dad sat on the edge of the bed and took my mother’s hand. Still in her apron, she was pale, slightly frightened. My father was grim, tightened by resolve. “We know everything,” he started. “I found your discharge papers among your things. I knew something was wrong. I had to know what. Such a disgrace! ‘Undesirable.’ You were lucky. I read your affidavit too. All those…” he could hardly say the word “…homosexual…experiences. You should be ashamed. How could you? All these years? Right under our noses. Here. In my own home!” I couldn’t speak. Where to begin? How to make them understand? “There will be no discussion. None is necessary. Your mother and I have made a decision. You can stay here, live at home, work in the store and we’ll pay for psychotherapy to get you straightened out. Or…” and here he paused, “…or you can leave here and lead whatever disgraceful kind of life you choose. But in that case, we will have nothing more to do with you. We never want to see you or hear from you again. You can have no more contact with this family.” He stopped, seeming deflated by the explosion of his position. “We’re going downstairs now. We want your decision when you come down.” My parents rose and left the bedroom. My mother had said nothing. I felt if I didn’t release some scream that had been building somewhere deep inside for the last half hour, I would explode. But no scream came. I wanted to cry. But there were no tears. My heart was pounding. I lay down on the bed, on my side, curled into a fetal position, trying to get my breath. My decision had been made the instant my father outlined the alternatives. I couldn’t give up my family, not only for my sake but also for theirs. If I left, they would ultimately never forgive themselves, would forever be bitter. I couldn’t contribute to that. I loved them too much. So this time alone was not for making the decision. It was, instead, about summoning the courage to act on the inevitable, whatever that might be, whatever that might cost. I knew much, much more about who I was than they did, knew psychotherapy would never change my sexual preference, knew it would be a waste of time. Hadn’t I tried? Tried to kiss a girl? Wished I were like the other boys, prayed, even to be different from the way I was? But they didn’t know that. Staying would give them hope they badly needed now. In the time to come, I would have to educate them, somehow make them understand. I didn’t know how I would do that, didn’t know if I could. But I had to try, for all our sakes. I had no choice. And so, lying there on my parents’ bed, curled up to protect myself from the blows I had received and from those I knew were still to come, I spent the next few moments searching desperately, deep inside, for the strength I knew I needed before I rose to go downstairs to join them for lunch.