Tilt (34 page)

the

promise of marriage?

After witnessing my parents’

freak show, that kind of

hell

is something I hope never

to suffer. Anyway, we’re just kids.

No diplomas. No jobs. No hope

of

winning the lottery. Even

if our love could survive,

how would we pay for

diapers?

Shane

Paying

For mistakes is a regular bitch,

defining the word “mistake” as:

error

blunder

slipup

oversight

gaffe.

Or things you didn’t necessarily

mean to do. But when there is

intent, a clear objective to

injure

wound

insult

abuse

harm

or sin against someone,

especially someone you’ve

sworn to honor, cherish and

protect, payback is likely to be

devastating

disturbing

distressing

damaging

disastrous.

My Parents

Don’t think I know what’s going

on. Don’t have a clue that it doesn’t

exactly take over-keen observation

to comprehend the less-than-abstract

idea that Dad’s been fucking off on

Mom for quite some time, and with

one person, some Skye woman, who

he works and travels with. In fact,

they’ve been seeing each other for

years. And that, as I overheard Gram

say,
Isn’t just sex. It’s a relationship.

And what she meant by that was
love
.

Dad is in love with someone else.

Which explains why he doesn’t

always come home at night. Why

he’s been so distant to Mom and,

maybe, me. Bastard! I figured it

was because he couldn’t deal with

Shelby. But apparently the affair

began before she was even conceived.

No, Dad’s “indiscretion,” which is

something of an understatement,

wasn’t about “running away from.”

It was all about “running to,” and

that is hard to forgive. Mom didn’t

want me to know, mostly because

Dad has shifted gears. Don’t ask me

why, but for some reason he decided

he wanted to stay with Mom instead

of riding off into the sunset with Skye

Sheridan. One very big element in

that is his so-called change of heart

toward me. And for what purpose?

Does he really plan to be around

more now? Why do I doubt that?

And why should I care if he is?

Should I Forgive and Forget?

Be the bigger man? Luscious irony

there, I suppose. I mean, being gay

calls your manhood, not to mention

your morality, into question, at least

in some people’s (including my father’s) eyes.

Right up until he got busted with his pants

down around his ankles, Dad insisted

I
was the sinner. But
I
wasn’t fucking

off on my partner, let alone my wife.

Is infidelity—conquest—the mark of a man?

What about promises? For better or worse,

for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health?

What about the idea that genuine love

is about conquering mutual demons?

Look Up “Hypocrite”

In the dictionary. Bet you’ll find

a picture of my father.

You know, I totally wish

that it wasn’t so. But how

can I believe in someone

who once meant everything

to me, only to have him turn

his back, not only on me,

but also on everyone who

makes me comfortable

with who I am? Bastard!

I was almost past wanting

his acceptance. I knew, deep

down, that it couldn’t happen

like switching on the air con

on a hot day. When it seemed

to, I was suspicious, prayed

for the best. Tried not to expect

the worst. And so, it stung

to discover his supposed turn-

around was all about a bid

to keep Mom hanging on.

She’s Hanging On

For now, I guess. Kind of by her

fingertips, and just barely. I hear

her talking—to Aunt Andrea,

to her old friend, Drew, and to Gram.

Mostly to Gram, who is staying

here for now while she and Gramps

look for a house. Gram says

she’s tired of traveling the country,

living like some Bedouin on

wheels. I’m glad she’ll be closer.

Mom needs her, even though

she’d never admit it. Dad’s taking

her to Monterey for the weekend.

It’s where they had their honeymoon,

but I’m not sure the Pacific Ocean

will be enough to rekindle the romance.

Mom is taut as a stretched-to-the-limit

rubber band. Hope she doesn’t break.

Monterey

Is supposed to be Mom’s birthday

present, so tonight we’re having an early

celebration. Aunt Andrea is already here,

helping Gram in the kitchen. When

the doorbell rings, I expect it to be Alex.

I fling it open, giving little air smooches.

Nope. Not Alex. It’s a woman, maybe

thirty-five, and built like a Rottweiler.

She smiles at my kissy pouts and her face

radiates humor.
Uh. Do I have the right

house? I’m looking for the Trasks.

I’m Pamela Anderson.
At my dubious

look, she adds,
Not
that
Pamela

Anderson, obviously. I’m from the health

center—a caregiver. For Shelby?

I step back to let her in. As she passes,