24. Maxwell
Maxwell
Two weeks later
“Having you home is so nice,” Mom says at the dinner table.
Randall is running late and it’s the first moment that I’ve had alone with my mom.
I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about Clayton since graduation.
My father seems to be at every turn and when he is, I’m not around.
“I wish I could see more of you,” she adds.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just can’t really stand being around him, you know,” I explain.
“I know, honey,” she whispers. I can see the pain on her face, knowing that her son and husband won’t speak, but she understands it. That’s just who she is. Understanding of everyone and everything.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” I say.
“About what?” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table and her chin on her fists.
“Clayton is more than a friend.”
“I know that, Maxy.”
“I know you know, but it’s serious. I’m going to tell him.” That is the only way I refer to my father. I don’t call him dad or father or Randall. I call him him. Another thing that she understands.
“I think that’ll be good for you. To talk to him.”
“I’m only talking to him to tell him, that’s it,” I declare.
Right on time, as if the universe wants to play a prank, my father walks in. “Good evening,” he drawls.
His plate is already set at the seat next to my mother. He sits down, loosening his tie and throwing it to the side.
“I’m surprised to see you, Maxwell,” he notices.
“I’m only here to tell you something.”
“What is that?” His tone is serious. As it always is when we talk.
I hesitate, looking at my mom for courage. She smiles, reaching across the table and patting my hand. “I’m right here, sweetie.”
I nod at her before sucking in a sharp breath. “Remember Clayton?”
“Yes,” Randall says.
“He’s my… boyfriend,” I blurt out.
“A friend that is a boy.”
“No. Like… we are with each other.”
“You’re not gay,” is all he says.
“No. I’m not. I’m bisexual.” It took me a long time to grasp that.
That it was okay to be that way. I fought that battle silently, not letting anyone know the embarrassment I felt, but Clayton made me see that it wasn’t something to be embarrassed about.
It was me. Who I am. Nothing wrong with that.
“You’re not bisexual. You’re confused.”
“I’m not confused. I love Clayton.”
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, slamming his fist against the table.
“Honey,” my mom says, reaching for him instead. He pulls his hand away from her.
“No! You’re not.” He says again, trying to convince himself and me that I’m no such thing.
“I love Clayton.” I say again, proud of it despite what he might think.
“I don’t condone such behavior.”
“Randall!” My mom calls out.
“Mom, it’s okay. Randall, you don’t have to condone shit. I’m not changing just because you don’t like it. I told you out of respect and because I thought you should know, but it’s a good thing our relationship was already over.”
Respect. Ha. To think I could have any respect left for that man. Good fucking riddance, once and for all.
“You better be fucking joking, boy, or I’ll beat it out of you.”
“No!” My mom yells, trying to diffuse this situation, but it’s not working.
“Mom, it’s okay. Why don’t you finish your puzzle? Or read your book?”
She doesn’t have a chance to leave before my father rises to his feet. He stands so hard the chair falls back behind him, clattering off the ground.
“What?” I snap, standing up to him. “Are you going to hit me again? You going to hit me because I’m not going to bring home who you want? Well, come fucking do it then, pussy!” I yell, holding my arms wide open.
He stands there, seething and grinding his teeth. Fingers clenching and unclenching. The vein at the side of his neck beating and protruding. He doesn’t move though.
It’s a shame that I’m an instigator, though. Especially with my father. It’s all I’ve ever known. Maxwell Levine, instigator of Randall Levine.
“What? Too much of a pussy?” I provoke.
“Max!” Mom yells. “Don’t!”
I step around the table going toe to toe with my father. His breath is hot against my face. He is the same height as me, the only difference is he is bulkier. He looks so tired this close.
I shove him. It’s not even because he doesn’t like what sexuality I am. It’s all the pent up rage I have because of him.
My childhood. Being invisible. Him not loving me when he was supposed to. Everything he has ever done wrong pushed to the front of my brain. I knew I shouldn’t have come here, but I did it anyway.
He turns away. “I can’t even look at you,” he growls.
“Why not? Because I’m a disappointment? I’m every kid you hated all rolled into one big piece of shit!” I shove at his shoulders and his fingers twitch, his eye twitches.
My mom stands beside us, watching, chewing on the side of her finger.
“Don’t do this, guys, please!” She begs, but I can’t seem to understand her through the rage coursing through my veins.
“Fuck you, Randall.” I shove his shoulders again and again and again like a girl pissed off at her boyfriend. “Fucking come on! Do something!”
There he fucking is. Randall’s fist flies at me, but I was ready and expecting.
Ducking out of the way, he growls, and I send a fist to his side.
Groaning at the hit, he grabs me by my neck and shoves me backward.
I stumbled, tripping and landing in the wall.
A photo hanging falls and there is now a Max sized dent from my body slamming into it.
Looking down at the photo, it’s one of the three of us.
Pointing at it, I laugh. “Remember when we could pretend to be a happy family? Too bad you’re such a miserable prick,” I goaded.
Not ready this time, his fist meets my face. “You fucking asked for this, kid. Don’t be pissed when you lose,” he mocks like a schoolboy.
Shaking out of the hit, his fist comes at me again. And again. And again. Never dulling for a moment, never letting me have a moment of breath.
No one to blame but myself.
It stops. My eyes flutter open to see my mom standing right in front of him.
“Randall, that’s enough! He is your son!”
“Like fuck he is. You know I never wanted him!” Randall roars.
I use my hand to wipe the blood off my face before dragging my palm across my jeans.
My father goes to step around her, but she steps with him. “You will not hit him again,” she snaps. Tone sharper than I think I’ve ever heard it. Mom turns around to look at me, pointing a finger. “And you. Stop being a fucking instigator!”
I blink at her, shocked that she swore. It’s not that she hasn’t ever before, but it’s almost never that she does.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, stunned into obedience.
“Go,” she says to my father. He lets out a huff and walks away, grabbing a napkin from the table and wiping my blood off his hands.
Mom wipes around to me. “What is the matter with you, Maxwell? Do you have a death wish?”
“I have a wish for his death.”
“Don’t say that,” she chides.
“I’m leaving, Mom. Alright? I can’t be in this fucking house.”
“I know, Max. I know.”
“It’s not you. It was never your fault, okay?”
“I know that, too.”
“I love you,” I whisper, pulling up my shirt to mop more blood off my face.
“I love you too, Maxwell.”