Mary, behind the counter, served up the cups, and we both grabbed them and then walked, still without saying anything, down the block to the small park that had a big jungle gym, some swing sets, and a few tables with benches. He picked the table the farthest from the two moms supervising their kids on the playset and slid onto one of the benches. I sat opposite and took a mouthful of coffee.
Staring into his cup, he said, “Sorry I was so hard on you when you came last time. I was pretty worried about my friend, and you know I’m shit at handling stress.”
“Okay.” Stress? Holy crap. Why the hell would he ask me to come home so he could apologize for that unless it was damned serious? Was he sick? Was it cancer?
My dad glanced around and sighed. Without looking at me, he said, “You’re never coming back to Hartsboro, are you?”
What? My dad never beat around the bush, so I didn’t either. “No. I’d like to visit on some holidays and stuff, Dad, but I’ve got another year of undergraduate work, and then—” Oh my God, this was so real. “—and then I’m going into a special course for three years.”
He reared back like I’d hit him. “What the hell? Are you kidding? Is this some kind of like summer school to make up for what you didn’t learn in these four years?”
I looked at him, but he wasn’t kidding or making fun of me. He actually believed it. “Okay.” I took a big breath. “Pay attention because I’m never going to say this again.”
He frowned.
“I’m serious, Dad. If you don’t get it this time, I’m done trying. And we’re done.”
A little flash of something like fear crossed his face.
I said as calmly as I could, “I’m not dumb, and I’m not bad at school. In fact, I get pretty decent grades even though I play football, which takes a lot of time.” His lips parted and I held up my hand. “Stop. I don’t ever want to hear another fucking word about football. I don’t want to play football. I never did. Only you wanted me to play football. I appreciate the benefits I get from it, like food and clothing I don’t have to pay for, but that’s it.” I leaned closer. “Listen. I’m about to enter a program that is really, really hard, but if I make it through, I’ll come out of it a doctor.”
His eyes widened. “You’re fucking kidding.”
“Not even a little. Not like an MD. That takes too many years. But I’ll be a doctor of physical therapy, and I’ll be able to help patients recover from injuries and stuff. My advisor says my grades are good enough to get into that program, and I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.”
“Wow. Dr. Merkofsky.” He said it like the words tasted good.
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s really something. You seriously get good enough grades to do that?” He sounded hopeful instead of mocking.
“Yes, Dad, I do.” This deep breath was bigger than the last one. “And before you tell me what you want to talk about, I need to tell you one more thing. I have someone I love—and it’s a guy.” His eyes widened and lips parted, but I rushed on. “I never knew it before, but a few months ago, I found out I was bisexual, and this really, really smart guy became one of my private training clients. I fell for him. So, I know how you feel about gay people, and—”
“No, you don’t.”
“What?” I blew out a razzberry. “Come on. You only told me how you hate fags four out of every seven days of my life.”
“Yeah.” He chewed his lip and stared at his folded hands. Then he did the strangest thing I could think of. He laughed. Just for a minute, and then he got serious again. “Do you study psychology in that school of yours?”
“Not much. But I will next year.”
He let out a breath. “Well, when you do, you can ask about something called internalized homophobia.”
I cocked my head. “What’s that?” What the hell did he think was wrong with me now?
“Apparently, according to my fucking shrink, something I’ve had my whole life.”
Wait. Shrink? What? “But internalized means—”
“Right. It means I decided to be a fucking fag hater—because I’m a fag and didn’t wanna admit it.” He looked up at me. “Sorry. That was for old times’ sake. Because I’m gay.”
I just stared. If he’d said he was Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I would have brushed it off. This?
He looked up and met my eyes. “Remember the guy I took to the hospital for surgery?”
I nodded.
He crumpled a dead leaf lying on the table and scattered the pieces. “That’s the guy. My guy. His name’s Andy.”
Nothing in my life had ever prepared me for this moment.
I stammered, “How—uh, what? I mean, how long have you known?”
He shrugged. “I’ve had sex with men my whole life, but I told myself it was just a kink. Like guys who wear women’s underwear or something. I always convinced myself that was different than, you know, being a real homo.” He looked uneasy. “That’s why your ma took off. Caught me red-handed. I remember when she left, she said I should get some help. She didn’t say what kind, and I wouldn’t have listened anyway.”
That’s why my mom had left? Holy hell. It was like my whole world just tilted on its side. Of course, that didn’t excuse her leaving me, but right now, my dad’s part in all of this was the real shocker. Not an excuse but a shocker. “You did get help, right? You said something about a shrink.”
“Yeah. About half a year ago.” I must have frowned because he said, “I learn slow.” He wiped a hand along the back of his neck. “I met Andy, and he didn’t want any part of my whole stand-up-and-fuck thing. He said either we had more, you know, like a relationship, or he was gone.” With a small smile, Dad shook his head. “I never met a guy I couldn’t let go before but didn’t wanna with him. Then he got sick. Heart disease. He was going to have stents put in when you came to watch the shop. I was so fucking scared. I wanted to take care of him, so I moved him into the house even though he kind of didn’t want me to.” He glanced up, then back at his hands. “It just felt right, for the first time in my whole life.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I know about feeling right.”
“I’d started going to the shrink when I started getting how I felt about Andy—awhile before he got sick—cause I didn’t want to fuck up my chances. That’s where I heard about the internalized homophobia crap.”
For seconds, we were quiet.
Finally, I said, “So you called me because you wanted to tell me about Andy?”
“Yeah, and also that I plan to leave the shop to both of you, so when I die, you guys can figure out what to do with it.”
I pulled back in surprise. “Are you sick, Dad?”
“No. Healthy as a horse. Wanted to have it settled is all.”
“Is Andy a mechanic too?” My mind was so blown, I couldn’t do anything except just ask normal questions.
“Oh hell no. He’s an artist. Really good. He sells his shit to galleries all over the country. The world, actually.” He gave that chuckle again. “No idea what he ever saw in a mean fucking bastard like me.”