intake always makes a person process better.
I almost hesitate to return to our earlier
discussion, but why are you worried
about losing Hayden? You obviously
care very much about her. Do you not
think she feels the same way about you?
She sits patiently while I consider
the straightforward question. “I do,
at least most of the time. But lately
we seem to argue a lot, and since I know
you’ll ask, over ludicrous stuff like jealousy.”
The Soft Chime
Of an alarm means our session
is technically over. Technically,
because Martha refuses to honor
alarms. She shuffles in her seat.
Our time’s up, I know, but
I can’t let you go without
saying that jealousy is far
from being ludicrous.
It’s the impetus for many
bad things, including breakups.
And now we slip into a short,
terse-because-we’re-already-
running-a-few-minutes-late Q & A.
Q: Who’s jealous? You or her?
A: “Both of us, actually.”
Q: Are the reasons real or imagined?
I almost say hers are invented,
mine one hundred percent spot-on,
but that even sounds warped to me. So,
A: “I really wish I knew.”
Beyond the Inner Sanctum Door
There is noise in the waiting room.
Martha’s next victim is also running
a little late, which gives Martha
the leeway to add, Well, since I can’t
talk to Hayden, you’ll have to do it. Open
up. Tell her what’s bothering you,
without accusation. Discourse is a two-way
street, though. Be sure to ask what’s on
her mind, and listen without comment
until she’s finished. Communication
is the key to success in any relationship,
but you have to be forthright. Love is a fragile
thing, easily destroyed by dishonesty.
Just remember to be honest with yourself
first. Otherwise, there’s really no point.
She smiles at my obvious eye roll, stands
to let me know I have been dismissed.
All right, then. Go forth. Cause no mayhem.
Decent Session
I leave, feeling marginally better
about myself, Hayden, even my lack
of friends. They were nothing
but deserters, and who needs
traitorous pals blurring the focus
of your life? Perspective. That’s exactly
what I needed today, and Martha is great
at allowing me a broader view without
accusing me of being a freak for not
having it in the first place. She’s okay.
I wish Mom would talk to her instead
of bending her pastor’s ear, expecting
the dude to be a human conduit to
the Great Therapist in the Sky. But
my parents seem to believe therapy
is only useful when you’re young
and not quite over your brother’s
suicide. What about the self-inflicted
death of your favorite son? At least,
your favorite until it turns out he’s gay.
I Almost Call Martha Myself
When I get home and find Mom well
on her way to an alcohol-fueled meltdown,
instead of busting her butt not selling real
estate due to the economy. She’s in the den,
knees tucked beneath her on the window
seat, and the gentle light through the glass
does nothing to soften the blotchiness
of her face. She’s been crying for a while.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, certain
I don’t want to hear her answer
or jump into this conversation.
Too late. He. Wants. To leave. Me,
Matthew. Tobacco spices her breath,
and gin punctuates the sentence.
“Dad?” Ridiculous question, like,
duh, she means Dad. “Did he say so?”
She coughs up a laugh. He never
says anything, does he? Not even
when Luke . . . Fresh tears splash
from her eyes. No, he hasn’t said
so yet. But he will. And I don’t know
what I’ll do when he finally finds
the guts to tell me that’s what he wants.
What Would Martha Say?
my best therapist face. “I have no idea
exactly what brought this on, but just
today I was informed by an expert that
communication is the key to every
relationship. Why don’t you just ask
him if that’s what he’s got on his mind?
I mean, there’s no use stressing over
something that may not happen at all.
And even if that is his plan, isn’t it
better to know for certain now, rather
than wait for him to spring it on you?”
She regards me with swollen eyes.
It isn’t real until he makes it real. Until
then, it’s better to worry in private.
I should just let it drop, but what
the hell, I’ve got a little time to kill,
and I shouldn’t be the only one forced
to regurgitate his secrets. “I’m going
to be real direct here, Mom. Seems to
me you and Dad haven’t had much
of a relationship for a long time.
Would it be the end of the world
if the two of you got a divorce?”
Her body visibly tenses. I need
a cigarette. She straightens her legs,
preparing to stand, but takes the time
to answer. No, Matthew, the world
wouldn’t end. But I can’t let that
happen, because then, he’d win.
Not sure which Mom I hate seeing
more—the broken-down blubbering
one, or the steel-hearted bitch.
I watch the latter go off in search
of a nicotene fix, and as I get to my
feet, notice a newspaper Mom left
folded back to the announcements
page. My eyes skim for offending
news, settle quickly on a divorce notice:
Plaintiff Lorelei Crabtree versus
Defendant Dale Crabtree . . . Lorelei.
Dad’s old girlfriend just became free again.
Which, to a Point
Explains Mom’s weeping jag.
But I still don’t know
if she was crying from fear
that Dad might leave her
or crying from anger because
now it might be a little easier
for him to make that choice.
But does he even know
about Lorelei? If she lived
in Cottage Grove, of course
he would. It’s a very small town.
Everyone is privy to the other’s
business. But Lorelei stayed
in Eugene. The city isn’t huge,
but it’s big enough that neighbors
don’t know their neighbors unless
they make it a point to say hi.
Big enough so you can live
there without the people next
door knowing your history,
which might include the fact
that the love of your life left you
for some other girl he got pregnant.
Big enough so the news you’re
di
vorcing the replacement love
of your life just might get buried
on the announcements page
where no one bothers to look.
Except Mom. Personally, I think
she’s crazy, and if Dad would even
consider divorce, with all
its repercussions, on the strength
of such a big MAYBE, he’d be
crazy too. And if Lorelei actually
encouraged such a thing, she’d
be the most insane person
of the bunch, because as Creswell
Grandma would happily counsel,
Once a womanizer, always
a womanizer. Or, why make
the same mistake twice?
Sage Advice
Why don’t more people adhere
to the practice? Personally, I’m
going to make it my motto: Mistakes
are easy to come by. Why make
the same one twice? Maybe I should
print it on T-shirts and sell them.
My customer base would be huge.
By the time I eat, change, and leave
for the game, Mom and her Marlboros
have vacated the front porch, though
the ghost scents of both linger. I’d like
I hate when she acts all pathetic even
more than when she plays badass.
It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who
will put her own happiness on hold,
especially when, by her own confession,
the only reason she chooses to do that
is to interfere with the possibility of Dad
“winning,” as if, other than on the basketball
court, he could ever be a real winner.
He’s already lost way too much.
We’ve all already lost way too much.
I Purposely Miss
The freshman basketball game,
not only because Luke should be
starring in it, but because watching
Cal Stanton play starting forward
instead would push me right up against
the edge. Watching Dad coach him
would shove me all the way over.
Cal was always jealous of Luke’s
innate ability. Like Dad, the work
ethic part of the equation escaped
him completely. In elementary school,
Luke always got picked first, a trend
that continued in middle school, where
the basketball coach immediately
recognized his talent. In seventh
grade, Luke was the team’s most
valuable player. Funny how something
like that buys instant popularity, with
teachers as well as classmates. That
included girls, and I think it was about
then that he started to realize his same-
sex attraction. Here these pretty
little girls were wanting to make
out, and what he told me was, It
doesn’t feel right. I mean, shouldn’t
it make me horny? Which made me
uncomfortable, but not because I
immediately went to “My brother’s gay.”
I just wasn’t prepared to hear him
vocalize the word “horny.”
Regardless, had he remained in
the closet, today he would probably
be a freshman superstar. Instead,
Cal found out, and revenge was his.
It’s hard to believe a fourteen-year-old
kid could have such a vicious agenda,
but he was determined that Luke would
never make his first high school team.
To top it all off, Dad had a heavy hand
in that, too. Because when those pics
went live, he told Luke not to bother
trying out, he wouldn’t let him play.
He Claimed
It was for Luke’s safety.
That something bad might
happen to him in the locker
room, or on the game bus.
He claimed whatever bullying
Luke was suffering then would
only get worse in high school.
He even suggested Luke might
want to consider private school.
A boarding school, maybe boys
only, if that’s what he wanted.
He was smart; he’d do well at
a college prep academy. Some
of them even had basketball
teams. To Luke, the implications
were clear: Play ball anywhere
but here. And: No matter how
good you are at academics or
sports, I will never accept you,
let alone be proud of you.
Dad Refused
To defend Luke and I have refused
to support Dad by going to any
of his games this year. Not that he cares
any more about my being there
than he did about Luke playing for him,
champion material or not. I’m only
going tonight to placate Hayden.
I’ve never seen Dad shoulder any
blame for what Luke did, other than
that one weak moment the other
morning, and I’m not really certain
he admitted anything except passing
on pussy genes. I’m relatively sure
he’d believe that DNA leapfrogs
generations. But even without accepting
responsibility, what about love,
Dad? Didn’t you ever love Luke?
Or me? We were never really sure.
I Get to the Game
Halfway through the JV rout,
Cottage Grove ahead by eighteen
points. Go Lions! The gym is packed,
and I scan the crowd, looking for Hayden.
There she is, near the top of the bleachers,
flanked by her do-gooder girlfriends.
Whoopee. This is going to be great fun.
Paused by the door, I happen to overhear
a couple of people talking about the earlier
game. Sounds like the freshmen lost.
Too bad, so sad. You can’t win ’em all,
Dad. Considering both the JV and varsity
teams are perched on the topmost rung
of the leaderboards, he’s probably not too upset.
Championships there are all but assured.
Wonder if steamrolling games ever
gets tiresome, or if in some small recess
of his brain he might actually prefer
a close score once in a while—something
that would require exceptional coaching
skills to achieve the desired result.
Is it all about winning, or does he still
love the game for the game’s sake?
Okay, probably a stupid question.
The Varsity Game
Is also a blowout. The most
exciting thing about it is Hayden,
a hint of summer in that wants-
to-be-touched green sweater.
It’s all I can do to keep my hands
to myself, although I do rest one
on her knee, relatively politely.
Unfortunately, Jocelyn and
the Biblette crew are sticking
to Hayd’s opposite side like hot
taffy, so she gabs through most
of the game, and not to me.
Later, I will most definitely
communicate my displeasure,
and without accusation, if such
a thing is possible. Martha,
my dear, why didn’t you explain
exactly how to accomplish that?
For the Moment
I smile and give a jock cheer
every time
one of our guys dunks a basket. Dad
glances my way once in a while.
Is he happy I’m here? Or pissed that
I’m drawing attention to myself? Causing
a scene and all. Which takes me back . . .
To my aunt Sophie’s wedding. Mom’s sister
defines Oregon hippie, so the whole affair
took place in the woods, trilling birds and
acoustic guitars providing the music as
the bride and groom skipped down the aisle
to pronounce their simple Let’s do forever
togethers in front of a mail-order minister.
After that came one helluva party. Sophie’s
husband, Uncle Shawn, grew bud for profit;
green haze wreathed the trees. My grandparents
didn’t last much past the carrot cake, but
the rest of the wedding goers stayed well
beyond that. Dad didn’t indulge in the weed,
but hit the champagne bottles hard, followed
that up with harder stuff. Mom watched,
uncomfortable, while the younger crowd
wandered into the trees to do what buzzed
kids do—get more buzzed, and hopefully,
get lucky. What is it about weddings that
exacerbates the horny in people? Anyway,
Luke was in the eighth grade, and though
he’d come out to me by then, the rest of
the family was still in the dark. But everyone
knew about Shawn’s nephew, Jeremy, who
at fifteen was open about which way he leaned.
That evening, he was leaning hard toward
Luke. It was the first time, as far as I knew
then or now, that any guy had ever come on
to Luke, who was obviously attracted.
I watched, half fascinated, half freaked
out, as Jeremy and Luke connected.
Not overtly. I mean, no tongue play or
inappropriate touching. But you could tell
they liked each other from the start. It was
in the way everyone else seemed to disappear,
poof! Nobody there but the two of them.
In retrospect, I think I was a little jealous
of the idea that Luke might come to care
about someone else more than he looked up
to me. Back then I would have said no, I was all
for anything that made him happy. Denial
is a powerful thing. It makes you believe lies.
Booze
Is also a powerful thing,