They never really talked about it explicitly but I heard my Mom and Dad talked about him one night. They were whispering amidst the lowered boisterous noise of the obnoxious actor from the television commercial. They didn’t really mention his name but I knew it was him that they were discussing.
“He’s such a disgrace,” Dad said. His tone was more infuriated than my Mom’s when she said “I wonder how Lillian is holding up.” But then I realized that the softness of her voice was meant for his poor anguished mother and not really for him. “Lillian has been talking with the pastor more often lately. I guess she was really shaken up.”
“I’ve talked to Jamie,” my father continued. “He was distressed and unfocused. And most unfortunately, he’s frequently angry.” He sighed loudly and added, “I cannot have a gay son.”
I heard rumors; it became the talk of the town. But their house had been quiet with their door often shut. Some people said he eloped with the girl who was usually at their home, while the others said that he ran away to be part of a notorious gang in the city. While there were those people who insisted that his parents disowned him because he was gay.
“What if Anthony was –,” I heard Mom said but Dad cut her off. “But, Julian, what if? He’s a little different, isn’t he? He’s—” The sound of a hard slam against wood resonated and my mother let out a surprised, short cry. It was followed by my father’s harsh and enraged whisper: “Our son is not gay.” The deeply accented voice of the late night news show host flooded the silence that ensued.
“Alright,” Mom said finally. I heard her walked away, followed by the soft, but sure sound of the closing of the door. The remote reporter was halted by a screaming crowd and excited announcers which were then also intercepted by the noise of metal grinding. As Dad surfed through channels, I swam through different pictures and thoughts in my head.
I walked back to my bed and lay down, facing the blank wall. My mind then drifted to him – how he smiled at me when he saw me looking, how he told his Mom “Wow, Anthony’s really grown up.” and how he would just look at me like he was analyzing me. He was just that secluded teenager in torn shirt and boxers, browsing his cell phone – until the morning he ran away. His mother – I remembered that she was still in her night gown covered by a bathing towel – knocked at our door asking if we’d seen him. He then became the lost kid.
It had been five days since he had been gone but people still talked in huddles. I wonder where he was now.
I then dared ponder over that thought that had been at the back of my head the whole time: Dad wouldn’t be so proud of me.
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