“Oh, you
are
there. You need to speak up a little more when you answer. My hearing isn’t that good anymore and it’s difficult for me on the phone. The other day, I was speaking to a man for a good ten minutes before I realized he was trying to sell me a newspaper subscription. ‘Why do I want to read the newspaper?’ I asked him. ‘Life is depressing enough.’ ”
Her words bounce along like tiny balls. This must be her attempt at cheerfulness.
“Don’t call here ever again,” I say.
“Please, Joyce! Don’t hang up!”
Her voice is so desperate that I don’t. Instead, I lie back on the pillow, one hand pressed against my forehead. I wait. I hear a sob, followed by muffled words. I make out the word
lying
. Or is it
dying?
Either way, the word is one and the same if it’s coming from her mouth.
“I never meant it.” Her voice is damp. “Freddy left me all alone. He said he’d come back for me. That was his promise. And he never did. Five long years I waited. Nothing. I went to New York to check up on him and the situation was much worse than I thought. Freddy had made
friends
, Joyce. All of them, running around my son’s apartment on their tippy-toes. Fussing over one another like schoolgirls. I told Freddy to come back home immediately. He said I was crazy, there was nothing left in Balsden for him. ‘What about me?’ I asked, but he didn’t answer. It was the coldest silence I’ve ever felt.”
“So you came back here and told everyone he committed suicide?”
“Not everyone. Just Evelyn Rogers. She was always asking about Freddy. I was so sick of covering for him that I made up a lie of my own. The next thing I knew, everyone was at my door with baked goods. What could I do?”
“You could’ve told people the truth!”
“He wasn’t coming back. And I didn’t want him back. Not after what I’d seen in New York. I was sick to my stomach thinking about it. I always knew Freddy had those tendencies. When he lived with me, I could keep his behaviour under lock and key. But I let him escape. In the end, everyone was better off believing the lie.”
“How can you
say
that?”
“I had to protect him.”
“You’re a fraud.”
“I’ve got a heart that won’t stop beating. I’m at the mercy of people who see me as nothing more than a piece of furniture. I’m tired, Joyce. I’m so tired of everything. I want to die, but even death won’t have me.”
“At least your son had a
life
!” My words hit the walls like rocks. As soon as I say this, I want to pull it back.
A sound comes through the receiver. It’s a low, broken moan. I’ve heard the same sound come from my own lips. A mother’s cry for all the things she can’t fix.
“I never told Freddy I was sorry. He died and I never told him. I can’t live—”
I hang up the phone. Then I get up from my bed and pace the floor, trying to shake off her words. But they stick to me like flies to flypaper.
Freddy was alive all these years and my son was dead. I can’t bear this weight. The phone rings again.
Two years ago, in early July, there was a parade in downtown Balsden. It wasn’t the usual sort of parade with marching bands and clowns and floats on flatbed trucks. It was a gay parade. There had never been one before in Balsden. A young man named Philip Cooper was organizing it. He had moved to town the previous year from Toronto and saw no reason why a city this size couldn’t have some sort of celebration.
“We need to recognize the gay and lesbian people within our community,” the
Examiner
quoted him as saying. “Balsden needs to get in step with the times.”
There were letters to the editor, of course. People quoting Scriptures about Sodom or using the parade as their opportunity to discuss everything they saw wrong with the world.
“Once we cross this line,” one man wrote, “we’ll never be safe again.”
Other people wrote in defence of the parade. One woman had a lesbian daughter. There was no reason, she said, that her daughter should be denied the same basic rights as everyone else. In regards to those Christians, she said they’d make excellent tailors the way they customize everything to their own liking.
The Letters to the Editor section grew and grew. People shouted back and forth via newsprint. In a show of support, homosexuals from Andover and neighbouring cities planned to march as well. Buoyed by the support, Mr. Cooper decided to extend things beyond the parade. The Balsden Pride Committee would also host a fundraising dinner and a picnic the following afternoon.
“We won’t be stopped,” he said in an article. “Our opposition only makes us stronger.”
The paper ran a picture of him this time. He looked back at me from the page—a young man with bushy eyebrows and a downturned mouth. Harmless. Sad, almost. Where was his mother? I wondered.
The morning of the parade threatened rain but the clouds departed shortly before noon. I got into my car and drove downtown, making sure to take my sunglasses and hat. I parked three blocks from Parker Street where the parade would be ending and found an inconspicuous spot in the shadows of the library. If I were spotted, I’d say I was running errands and had just stopped to see what the fuss was about. I fidgeted with my purse straps while I waited for the parade to make its way down the street. Before long, a clamour grew. The dozens of onlookers along the sides of the road clapped and craned their necks. And then I saw the tops of heads as people walked down the street and banners with the names of community groups from across the province. A truck went by with two shirtless skinny boys waving from the cab. I heard whistles. Some people had giant water guns that they sprayed across the crowd. Then the whistles gave way to cheers, and I stepped a few feet closer, wondering if it was the mayor. He’d been noncommittal about his participation. But it wasn’t him. I saw a man and a woman walk by, holding hands. They wore rainbow-coloured scarves around their necks. Other couples were walking with them, wearing buttons and waving flags. One of them carried a sign: “We Love Our Gay Kids.”
I thought my heart had shattered to pieces years before, but an intact fragment cracked in that moment. I stood there, in the shadows, on the other side of that wall of people.
There were no parades for John and me.
My son and I became strangers. He led a life in a different city—a life I couldn’t see, nor could ever know. I couldn’t grasp what he was doing at any given time or the people he was associating with. He said he enjoyed living in Toronto and working at the club, although it was stressful at times. By the time he was twenty-seven, he was promoted to second chef.
“They say I’m a breath of fresh air,” he told me. “The younger members love what I’m doing. The older ones don’t. They’ll keep slurping their lobster bisque until they croak.”
Charlie and I were happy for him. I called Helen right after I hung up with John, eager to brag to her about John’s success. I’d heard enough about the lacklustre accomplishments of Marianne and Mark over the years.
“He’s certainly moving in elite circles,” Helen said. “All he needs to do now is marry one of the society ladies he serves. Then he’ll be set for life.”
I laughed, even though I suspected her comment was meant as a dig. I longed for the telephone call when John would tell me that he’d met a special girl.
“We really hit it off,” he’d say, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. “I think this might lead to something.”
I’d insist that he bring her for dinner the next weekend. I’d make a pot roast and steal a few minutes alone with her in the kitchen to talk about my boy.
“He keeps to himself,” I’d say. “But he’s got a heart of gold. You won’t find a better man. Hang on to him tightly.”
But there were no pot roasts or mentions of future daughters-in-law during our weekly phone calls. I once asked him if he was seeing anyone.
“No,” he replied stiffly. “I don’t have time for that. I’m too busy at the club.”
“Do you have friends?”
“Of course I have friends. Why would you ask something like that?”
There it was. That sharpness in his tone, a blade making tiny cuts in my ear. I assumed it was fatigue from work, from a life lived in a bigger, more complicated city. But I see now that it was anger at the questions I asked and the answers he couldn’t give.
As time went on, his words became fewer and our phone conversations became nothing more than me listing off my week’s activities. I’d bought some turkey pot pies at the church bazaar yesterday. I was thinking of redoing the kitchen. Charlie’s back was giving him trouble. We needed a new roof. So many words and not one of them amounted to anything. Endless loops of the same conversation. Nothing had changed since his days at college. Occasionally, I’d ask him to come home for a visit.
“You haven’t been back to Balsden in months,” I’d remind him. “I almost forget what you look like.”
“I work on weekends.”
“Then come during the week.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“Take the train. I’ll pay for your ticket.”
“There’s nothing for me to do there.” Had our home become such a terrible place?
“You don’t have to
do
anything, John. We can relax and talk.”
“I’ll look at my calendar and get back to you,” he’d say.
Eventually, I stopped asking. “The more you nag, the more he’ll resist,” Charlie said. “Stop asking and he’ll change his mind.”
“Since when do you know him so well?” I snapped.
I was still smarting from Charlie’s visit with John a few weeks before. I’d gone on a bus trip to Stratford one Saturday with Helen and Fern. Charlie had the day off and was planning to clear out the shed in the backyard. When I got home that evening, he was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a note on the kitchen table.
Decided to visit John. Should be back by night
.
Visit John? By himself? Initially, I considered it a thoughtful gesture. I think I even said “How nice” out loud. But why hadn’t Charlie told me? He could’ve at least waited for a day when both of us were available. Why all this secrecy? And what would the two of them have done together? They barely spoke.
I immediately called John. He told me that Charlie had left an hour ago.
“He should be home soon,” he said. “Provided he didn’t get caught in traffic.”
“He didn’t tell me he was going to visit you,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I would’ve come otherwise.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. He called me this morning and I didn’t have anything on, so we figured why not?”
“Why not?” I repeated. “And what did the two of you do all day?”
They grocery shopped. Charlie fixed the screen door that led to the balcony. They watched an afternoon movie on TV. John cooked his father lunch.
“What on earth did you make?” I said with a laugh. “Your father is such a fussy eater.”
“Minestrone,” he said. “Dad really liked it. He’s bringing the recipe back with him. Said he’s tired of casseroles.”
“I see.” My husband had never complained about his dinners. “And did the two of you talk?” I asked, wincing as soon as I said the words.
“What do you think?” That sharp tone again. “Of course we did.”
“Well, I’m happy.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I only wish I could’ve been there.”
I wanted to see my son again. I needed to see his face. I missed the boy I used to take to matinees, the one who’d help me in the kitchen, the boy who gave me a necklace fit for a movie star. I had trouble convincing myself that we’d ever had that relationship. Now, here he was, spending the day with his father.
Most of my anger had faded to cool jealousy by the time Charlie pulled into the driveway.
“You could’ve said something,” I said to him.
“You already had plans.”
“I would’ve cancelled them. He’s my son.”
“He’s my son, too. Or have you forgotten that?”
One Friday evening as I was clearing the dinner dishes, the phone rang. It was John. He said he was coming home for a visit. “Tonight.”
“Tonight?” I practically screamed back. “Why? What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to see me?” His voice was playful and warm again. The John I used to know. Hope surged inside me.
“Of course I want to see you. This is so sudden. I haven’t prepared anything.”
“I’m bringing someone with me.”
My heart skipped. “Oh?”
“A friend. We’re driving.”
“At this time of night?”
“Mom, it’s eight o’clock. We’ll be there by ten. See you soon.”
I hung up. Who was this friend? A girl? Could it be possible? I called Charlie at work.
“I’ll set up the cot in the living room for this friend, so don’t make too much noise when you come home in the morning.”
“How long is John staying?” Charlie asked.
“He didn’t say.” I didn’t like surprises, but hoped that at least this was going to be a pleasant one. I hurried from room to room, tidying up as best I could, and threw two sheet sets into the washing machine. Then I searched through my cupboard drawers and pulled together enough ingredients to make a batch of chocolate haystacks. The front door opened shortly before ten.
“Hello?” John called out. “Anyone home?”
He stood in the hallway with a duffle bag over his shoulder. He looked heavier. His face was fuller, rounder. He’d grown a moustache that hid his mouth. His jeans were stretched tight across his thighs. I couldn’t help but notice a shape like a fist at his groin. Behind him stood a man with reddish hair and a pug nose. He looked away when our eyes met. I couldn’t believe John would be this bold.
“Come in,” I said quickly, hurrying behind them to shut the front door.
His name was Kyle. The two of them sat at the kitchen table while I arranged the haystacks on a plate. I offered them milk, but John asked if we had any wine.
“I think I have a box,” I said, bending over to peer into the fridge. “Your father bought it a few weeks ago.”
“Told you,” John said under his breath. I saw him nudge Kyle with his elbow.
“Told you what?” I asked as I took the wineglasses from the china cabinet.