CHAPTER FOURTEEN #3
“But I did miss him after he died,” he said, surprising Carver further.
“Really?”
Doug shrugged. “I’ve hated seeing him in you, I’ll admit.
But after he died, I almost feel — it felt…
Hmm.” He knit his brow. “This is like trying to describe a dream. After he died, things got harder with you, for both of us. I’m not sure why.
I’d hoped for the opposite — abatement ab initio.
And seeing him in you felt even more complicated after that.
But sometimes, I suppose, it was nice to be able to see him again. ”
Carver’s throat grew tight again. It felt like he’d had a lump in his throat for most of the last few hours.
“They made a mistake,” Doug said. “But I made the same mistake. You know?”
“Yeah,” Carver said. “Mom didn’t tell me you had an affair too.”
“Well, she’s very loyal to me now,” Doug said. “I earned it, I guess.”
So Nora felt indebted to him. Of course. This explained a lot.
“I know how it sounds, but all this ended up bringing us closer,” Doug added. “Marriages are complicated, so don’t be so quick to give up on yours.”
“It’s different, Dad.” Carver went apprehensively quiet for a moment, then threw caution to the wind and said, “I’m pretty sure I’m gay.”
Doug squinted at him in a manner so fuddy-duddy that it instantly aged him twenty years. “You keep saying that tonight,” he said, “completely out of nowhere. It’s baffling to me.”
“Sorry to baffle.”
“I don’t think it’s correct, more to the point.”
“Well, that’s your prerogative, I guess.”
Doug leaned over, placing his elbows on the desk. “I just don’t want you to throw away your marriage in an emotional moment.”
“I thought you thought Lillian was dragging me around by the nose.”
“I wanted you to fix that. A marriage is like a team of horses, both of you have to pull in the same direction. If one horse opts out, the other one picks the direction. It’s not like being single — if you collapse you’ll get dragged.”
“Okay,” Carver said, picking at the Band-Aid on his left palm. “What if one horse is gay?”
Doug sighed.
“I just think my, uh… interactions with men have been genuine, and my interactions with women have been more performative.”
“But how can you tell?” Doug said. “Maybe it feels performative because we put too much pressure on you, because you had some effeminate tendencies and we were worried. Maybe we went too far and convinced you you’re gay. Maybe you just have OCD.”
“Dad, I don’t — just because one choice you made as parents backfired doesn’t mean my entire life is one big backfire. You were worried about me being gay because I was gay. You’re trying to convince me I’m not gay now because you’re still worried about me being gay.”
“I’m not a homophobe,” Doug insisted.
“I know,” Carver said, though he knew both of his parents were at least somewhat homophobic, despite all their protests.
His dad was always anxious about being seen as bigoted because he thought it was gauche and low-class — evidence of his upbringing in eastern Ohio.
Of course, he was kind of bigoted, due largely to his upbringing in eastern Ohio.
He had taken many cues from Nora’s parents, moderately wealthy Connecticut WASPs who liked to put on airs.
“I just don’t want you to rush into and out of things,” Doug said.
“I gave it a shot, Dad. I really tried. I gave a lot of my life to that woman, okay? We cared for each other and stood by each other, but the jig is up, I just don’t think I can do it anymore.
I put eleven years into it.” He felt like he was justifying himself to his manager during an exit interview.
“Right, eleven years, and your lives are intertwined. I worry about you being impulsive and impractical.”
“I think you know that’s never really been an issue of mine. I’m a staunch pragmatist. By the way, did you tell your friend Pete that I’m a basket case?”
Doug looked completely thrown by this question. “What — why — when did you talk to him?”
“So you did?”
“No. When did you talk to him?”
“We ran into each other before the wedding,” Carver said, thinking on his feet. “At, uh, a gay bar.”
Doug let out a gusty sigh. “That two-faced son of a bitch. No, I didn’t say you were inherently a basket case. We were talking about finance, and how long the hours can be, and I said your work was making you a basket case.”
“Okay,” Carver said, mollified. “I guess that’s better. One more question.”
“Fine.”
“If I am gay, would you blame it on Isaac?”
Carver glanced down at the desk as he said this, afraid to look his dad in the eye as he said Isaac’s name, but Doug surprised him by starting to laugh. He looked up and saw real amusement on his face.
“No,” Doug said, “I’d blame it on your mother. The gay gene comes from the mother.”
Carver started laughing, too. “Okay. Thanks. Would you like me to leave you alone now?”
“I think I would.” Doug ran his hand over his hair, smoothing it down. “I think I drank too much and I need to go lie down.”
“Alright.” Carver got up. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
Knowing Doug didn’t like to hug, he offered a handshake across the desk. Doug got up too and walked around it, coming over to him and pulling him in. Carver pressed his face into his father’s solid chest, swallowing hard. Doug reached up and ruffled his hair.
After a moment more brief than Carver would have preferred, Doug let him go and patted him on the shoulder.
They parted ways in the hallway; Doug headed for the master bedroom at the end of the hall and Carver went to his own.
Inside he was surprised to find his mother standing by his old bookshelf, out of her wedding clothes and into a sweatsuit, leafing through a Goosebumps volume.
When he entered, she looked up and said, “I have something for you.”
“Yeah?”
Nora beckoned him, and he went to her. From her pocket she produced a glossy 5x7 film photo of two people. Carver had to study it for a moment before he realized what it was: his much-younger mother, smiling and posing with a man who must be Isaac.
Isaac was a head taller than her and lean, with loosely curly black hair.
He was handsome in a rugged way, and Carver had a hard time telling what features they shared.
Not the eyes — Isaac’s were dark with hooded eyelids — nor the nose — Isaac’s was more masculine, with a higher bridge.
Eyebrows, yes, they both had thick eyebrows with a well-defined arch and thick eyelashes to match them.
Their smiles seemed similar, and their cheekbones, though Isaac’s face was longer and more oval.
He wasn’t sure if it was just because Nora had described Isaac’s personality, but he thought he could see it in his face: confidence bordering on arrogance, with a countervailing sweetness underneath.
The photo was vertical, and cut them off right below the knee. Isaac was wearing blue running shorts with a 5-inch inseam; as Carver’s eyes moved down the image he pointed and said, “Those are my thighs.”
“Those are your thighs,” Nora confirmed. “You really have the same legs, in fact.”
“Mine aren’t as hairy.”
“Alright, Carver.”
Carver took the photo in as a whole. It looked like they were on a waterfront or a pier; a breeze was whipping their hair and they were both wearing windbreakers.
They looked as if they’d been mid-laugh and stopped to smile for the camera.
They weren’t touching, but they were leaning in close enough to look like a couple.
They looked good together. They were complementary.
Carver felt the tender melancholy of grief, but it was a strange grief that swept in no particular direction, toward no particular object. He didn’t know this man and he never would.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“I’ve kept this for a long time,” she said. “I thought you might want a photo of us, if you ever found out.”
“Yeah. I want it.”
“Okay.” Nora looked at him like she wanted to stroke his hair, but she didn’t.
Carver stared at the photo until his vision blurred. “How do you think your mom would have reacted,” he said, “if she knew you had a secret love child with a Jewish guy?”
Nora snorted. “She would have been horrified. She would have tanned my hide.”
“Well, you got away with it.”
Nora acted like she hadn’t heard this and patted him on the back. “I’m going to make some tea, do you want some?”
“No, I think I’m gonna lie down for a bit.”
“Okay. I’ll let you be.”
Nora crept out of his room and pulled the door shut behind her. Carver went and lay down on his bed, holding the photo to his chest, watching shadows move across the vaulted ceiling.