Educating Simon (4 page)

I ignored the comment about Oxford; it didn't fit into my sulk. What I heard was that Tink would be put to death if she dared put one tiny little scratch mark in the pink flesh of his handicapped daughter.

I felt decidedly trapped. I'd played every card I had by now, or any card that might have influenced where I spent next year. In my mind was an image of poor Tink, cornered in a strange house by one little girl or another, hunched into a prickly ball of teeth and claws, ears back and eyes wide with fear and fury. I identify with this image; this is me. Maybe that's what made me lash out with my last card, which wasn't a card but a handful of information I hoped would sting.

As though it were a blade, I flung this at them: “I hope you realise that I'm gay.”

From my hunched position, teeth and claws still bared, I watched their faces. I couldn't quite identify anything specific. I expected shock, distaste, anger, confusion, something definite. Mostly, though, Mum just looked blank, and BM looked bland.

He spoke first. “So . . . ?” His tone was not challenging; it was his usual calm voice.

So?!?
How very Welsh of him, not to take that announcement seriously. But I had to believe he was bluffing, that he was really horrified or at least worried about his image or his friends or his family or something. He just didn't want me to know I'd landed a hit. I decided to ignore him and looked at Mum. I could almost smell the wood burning inside her head, asking:
How should I respond to this?

I watched as her expression moved slowly towards sadness. If she'd said something like, “You can't be serious,” or “What utter nonsense,” it would've led to a knock-down, drag-out battle that might have provided some chance of . . . I don't know, something to stop this train to hell moving forwards. But still she didn't say anything. So I sat up in the chair, strong and proud now, and dropped another bomb.

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh, Simon!” The sadness was obvious now. Of course, to me, this said that I'd dealt her a terrible blow. Her precious boy, her only child, is a deviant, a pariah. If she'd been embarrassed by Clive, what would this do to her? I couldn't recall that she'd ever said anything negative about gay people, but neither had she said anything in support. So it had to have been a blow. I wanted it to be a blow. She stood and moved to stare out the window.

“You seem pretty unhappy about it.” My tone was almost gloating.

She turned to face me. “Am I sorry to hear this? Of course I am. Your life will be much more difficult, I don't understand homosexuality at all, and instead of telling me at a time when we could have a genuine conversation, you have just thrown this news at me in the middle of the discussion about other things to muddy the waters and try and make me feel guilty—”

I rose out of my defensive ball in the chair to stand in front of her, wishing she weren't just a hair taller than I am. “Oh, Mum, I
really
don't need to do that. You should feel so bloody guilty already—”

“Enough!” BM's voice shocked us both into silence. I'd never heard him raise his voice, or seen him do anything to take control before today.

He stood near Mum and me, but sort of opposed to us. He looked at me. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are? How good you have it? No money worries, no health problems, a mind well into the genius category, and a future brighter than most people could reasonably expect. You have a mother who adores you and a stepfather who would like to get to know you—yes, gay or not, that makes no difference to me—and provide you with even more opportunities. I don't want to make light of your leaving your boyfriend, but you're smart enough to know you haven't yet met anyone you want to spend the rest of your life with. And despite all these advantages, what do you do? How do you react? If your charmed life means so little to you that you'd destroy it with hatred and verbal brutality, then let's find a way to turn it over to me so that I can give it to the little girl waiting at home for me.”

He took a few audible breaths and turned to Mum. “Em, I know you're sensitive to what Simon's going through. And yet you let him push your buttons, and you push his, and you end up in an argument with him every time you talk. He's a young man, not a child, and he deserves to know the full truth of what's happening and why. No more secrets. No more half-truths.”

Back to me again. “I will help you prepare for this move any way I can, and once you're in Boston I'll do everything I can to make sure you're as comfortable as possible. It will be up to you to make sure you're happy. No one expects you to make your mother happy, but you have it in your power to make her miserable. I hope you're better than that.”

I'd been waiting for him to take a breath, and I pounced. “If I'm not a child, then I should be able to—”

“If you're not a child, you're old enough to understand that making others miserable will make you miserable as well. This is an extremely difficult move for you; I know that. And it's not your choice. Your success in life will depend on how good you are at finding opportunity when life changes unexpectedly. If you're smart enough and brave enough, you'll take advantage of these openings. Because if there's one thing we can be sure of in life, it's change.”

No one said anything for about five seconds. BM broke the silence, his voice calm again but still assertive. “So. I think we might go out for dinner. It's rather late, and I doubt anyone feels like cooking. Any objection?”

Perhaps as a conciliatory gesture, Mum suggested one of my favourite places where she knew they'd give her a table despite the late notice. But it had been a long time since I enjoyed doing anything like going out to dinner, and I knew I wouldn't enjoy this little outing. Especially after having just been told off by BM, who seemed to have found a backbone suddenly. Inconveniently. I said something along the lines of “I'm not hungry.” But BM, in his newfound voice, said, “Everyone's going for dinner. No discussion.”

He took control during the dinner conversation, too. I, of course, was trying to say as little as possible, but BM seemed determined to get to know me, as he'd said during his castigation earlier.

“So, Simon, this synaesthesia condition. I understand that letters have colours, and that it's consistent for any given letter.” He and Mum both looked at me, but I was not feeling conversational. So he asked, “Does it have a genetic component? Is it inheritable?”

I spoke quickly before Mum could say anything. “My father had it.” I glued my eyes to his in a warning:
Do not go there
. I saw a flash of understanding.

“Do you find that it helps you in any way?”

We waited in silence whilst the waiter placed our main course dishes in front of us. Then I said, “It helps with spelling.”

“Wouldn't there be too many different colours, though? I mean, for it to be really useful?”

“Not at all. Oxford, for example, is terra cotta overall. There's also dove grey, pale green, bright red, and dark brown, and if you took out the grey, the shade of terra cotta would be darker. If you don't have it, I'm not likely to be able to explain it to you.”

“I see.” He took a mouthful of food, and I was hoping he'd turn to Mum next, but he didn't. “So, on a lighter topic that I've been meaning to ask you about, do you have an interest in oceanic subjects? Boston has a historic relationship with the sea just as England does.”

It was everything I could do not to say,
My, but we're trying very hard, aren't we?
Certain that he was expecting me to say something about sea battles or whales, I decided to see how much stomach he has for my doom-oriented interests. “I'm partial to the blue-ringed octopus.”

“I don't think I've heard of that one. What's special about it?”

“It's a beautiful creature. Very small for an octopus. You wouldn't know how beautiful it is unless you annoy it. Then it turns the most gorgeous shades of neon blues and yellows. Its bite carries the most powerful neurotoxin in nature. It kills a human within minutes. There is no known antivenom. The female carries her fertilised eggs in her arms until they hatch, and then she dies.”

As though I'd said nothing out of the ordinary, I bent over my dinner and took a forkful of roast chicken in veal reduction decorated with bits of lardon.

 

After BM's outburst, calling me on the carpet and Mum at least to some piece of accusatory furniture, the pace of packing and other preparation increased. And now I'm limited to the music stored on my phone, and most of my personal stuff is wrapped and padded and boxed.

One thing I made sure found its way into my personal baggage was a small, black leather case, with two packets of single-edge razor blades. You never know.

After BM left for the States that time, saying he'd return briefly to help with the move itself, two things happened. One was that he sent both Mum and me, via e-mail, links to resources where American English and British English terminology is translated. “Please do your best to use American terminology around Persie,” he wrote, “to help keep the peace. She can be rigid about things.”

I nearly wrote back, “Here's one term I think translates well: Fuck off!”

The other thing was that Mum called me into the sitting room to have “the conversation.” That is, the one about my being gay.

“Simon, I want you to know that I love you, and I will always love you. You are my son, my only child, and I wouldn't want you to be anything other than what you are. Being gay is just one of those things.” She gave me a chance to say something, but I didn't take it.

“But there's no denying that gay people have a harder time of it, so forgive me if my initial reaction wasn't enthusiastic. And I do need you to know that this changes some things about the way I see you. That is, until I get used to it. I've always pictured your future with a wife and maybe children in it.” She smiled. “To be truthful, I've imagined you becoming a venerable Oxford don, with a brilliant, beautiful wife who's distinguished in her field in some vague way I haven't clarified.” She waited again, and again I didn't speak.

“You could still be that Oxford don. That might suit you very well. Maybe even with children. I just need to see a man at your side. I have a lot of images of your future that I've stored up over the years. Parents can't help doing this. And in all of them you have a wife. It will take me a while to sift through them and make this change.”

“How very difficult for you.” My voice dripped sarcasm, and on her face I saw it strike home.

She let out an irritated sigh. “What I'm trying to tell you is that this new knowledge—and remember, it is new to me, even if you've known it for a while—doesn't change how I feel about you. I'm merely asking for your patience as I learn how to integrate it. And yes, Simon, it will be difficult, and I will make mistakes and probably say stupid things without knowing they're stupid. This is fair warning that I don't want them to be stupid, that I accept you the way you present yourself to me. But I'll need some time.”

I just stared at her.

“I daresay it took you some time, as you began to realise this about yourself, to get used to the idea. To be sure it was real, and that it's right for you. I'm not arguing about whether it's right for you, even if it's not what I would wish for you. But now it's my turn. I need some time.” Another pause. “Do I know your boyfriend?”

“If you did I wouldn't tell you who it was.”

“Why not?”

“I'd never out anyone. May I go now?”

She let out a breath that sent exasperation into the room. “Simon, I'm trying to stay on an even keel with you. I'm trying very hard not to get upset. But you make it very difficult.”

I managed to keep my tone low, but it was still acidic. I have some toxin at my command. “So you're finding this difficult. Welcome to my world. You're forcing me to leave my entire life behind me, Mother.
My entire life.
The only part of my former life that's still going to be there is you, and it's you making me go through this horror. Maybe you can force me to do it, but you can't force me to pretend I accept it. And you'll never force me to forgive you.” I watched as she struggled to keep her temper, to avoid pushing back, as though BM were watching to make sure she didn't let me drag her into yet another argument. “Now, do I have permission to leave?”

She closed her eyes for about two seconds. “As long as you understand what I've said.”

I got up and went to my room, shut the door, and leaned against it. I wanted to ring Graeme and tear apart everything she'd just said. The problem was, I was having some trouble finding fault with it, as far as the gay question is concerned. What was awful was that she didn't seem to understand that I don't even care whether she accepts me as gay or not. As far as I'm concerned, tearing my life apart the way she's doing proves that she doesn't understand any part of me, and that she doesn't care about me despite her insistence that she does.

 

Most of the final preparations were a blur to me. One thing that got left to the end was procuring a wardrobe to comply with the dress code for St. Boniface, which is pretty much what you'd expect—not quite a uniform, but close to it: blues from navy to pale sky, red and maroon, white, and khaki, with the odd yellow and pink thrown in. At least, the girls are allowed pink. I'm not. I'm contemplating instigating a protest about this, but it wouldn't look good with my red hair, anyway.

I'm making an effort not to sulk. Really, I am. But a couple of realisations are making it harder than ever to accept what's happening. For one thing, I really do believe that it's Mum's guilt about Clive that's pushing her to go and take care of Persie, and for Mum, meeting her own needs obviously means more than what I need. It means so much more that she won't even let it wait one more year before she starts her penance.

The second thing makes the first one fall into place: She didn't want children. This might go a long way towards explaining that invisible shield I'd always sensed between us.

The day she'd told me about Clive, she'd said she hadn't planned to have children. And she never had any other than me. So I was an accident. And she didn't want me.