Hemingway Tradition (4 page)

“What?” I scowled, swinging open the door.

She laid a heavy leather-bound book in my hands.

“Your father's journal,” she said quietly. She kissed my cheek. “Goodnight.”

“I'm telling you, man — she likes you!”

Even though Jai was right in my face, he wasn't exactly whispering. I was pretty sure everyone on the bus heard him. The old lady across the aisle looked like she was waiting for me to answer.

“I like her too.” I kept my voice low, hoping Jai would get the message. “We're friends.”

Jai let out an exasperated sigh. “Not
that
kind of like, man. The girl/guy kind. You know.”

“Is this just a feeling you have, or did she actually say something?”

“Well … not in so many words.”

I shook my head. “There you — ”

“She didn't have to!” Jai cut me off. “It's obvious.”

“To someone with a runaway imagination maybe. Trust me,” I said. “Tess does not have a crush on me — unless you count all the times she's clobbered me with her books.”

“A clear demonstration of affection,” Jai said smugly.

“Get out. You're crazy,” I told him.

“No, I'm serious!”

“So am I.” I jerked my thumb toward the window. “This is your stop. Get out.”

As I watched Jai get off the bus, I thought about what he'd said.
Tess and me?
Not likely. I'd walked on her feet and yelled in her face the very first day we'd met. Not the best technique for getting a girlfriend. It was
only because we had English every day that she bothered to speak to me again at all. I mean, it's pretty hard to stay permanently mad at someone who sits right behind you. So little by little the iceberg between us had melted, and we'd become friends.
Friends!
That was all.

I dumped my books onto a chair and flopped full out across my bed. It had been a tough day, and I needed a breather before tackling my homework. I reached blindly for the new issue of
Sports Illustrated
on the headboard. But instead of the cool, slippery cover, my hand fell on the soft leather of my father's journal.

As if it had burned me, I pulled away and jumped off the bed. I stood there feeling stupid.
Just grab the magazine
, my brain said. But all I could do was stare at that journal.

For two days it had been sitting on my headboard, and for two days I had been avoiding it. I knew my mom had given it to me for a reason. I just wasn't sure I wanted to know.
what that reason was — especially if it meant uncovering more truths about my dad.

It's crazy the way a person's mind works. If my father had been killed in a plane crash, or if he'd died of a heart attack, he'd still be gone and I'd still have a gaping hole in my life. And that would be horrible. But he hadn't just died. He'd killed himself, and that made the situation a million times worse. His death wasn't just stealing from my future; it was stealing from my past too. He'd said his life was a lie. Did that mean his life with me was also a lie? And all the stuff we'd done together — was that phony too? Had it only been important to me? I had so many questions. And no way to get the answers.

I continued to stare at the journal. Unless the answers were in there.

Tentatively, I picked up the book by the worn leather spine and sat back down on the bed. But several more minutes passed before I could actually bring myself to open it.

The journal spanned several years. From the lengthy gaps between entries, it was clear
that my father had written in it only when he had something important to say. After just a few pages, I understood why my mother had given it to me. Raw with emotion, Dad's words leapt off the paper, attacking me with a fierceness that caught me off-guard. My dad was talking to me, and I had no choice but to listen.

With the turn of each page, I felt myself being pulled deeper and deeper into the journal. An hour went by before I was able to find my way back to the surface. It was only then that I realized I'd been reading the same passage over and over.

I awoke with every intention of getting straight to work — in fact, I was anxious to start. For days I'd been struggling with a difficult scene, and though I had written it at least five different ways, I couldn't get it right. But during the night — while I thought I was sleeping — it finally sorted itself out. As I waited for the coffee to finish brewing, my fingers twitched to get at the keyboard
.

But I didn't move fast enough, and by the time I finally poured my coffee, morning had started to scale the North Shore mountains. Fascinated, I watched it inch its way up the far slope, pushing the night back to let streaks of pink and gold wash the sky. My gaze became fixed on the rocky ridge. I didn't want to blink for fear of missing the precise instant the sun broke over the summit. As if teasing me, it stopped and waited for me to look away so it might rush the sky undetected. But I was the patient one, and giving in at last, morning took the mountain — and me
.

I knew my writing would have to wait. Morning had made such an effort to arrive, I had to go out and welcome it
.

Watching Shaw sleep, I was both awed and envious. To be twelve again and know the serenity of an uncluttered mind! He looked so peaceful that I had second thoughts about waking him. Perhaps I should go alone. But then I decided — no. He could sleep any time. This particular morning was only going to happen once
.

There's wondrous magic in communing
with nature while the rest of the world sleeps. It's an experience that can't be explained. If you're lucky enough to share it with someone special, it's even better
.

Shaw and I silently slid the boat into the water and inhaled the morning before climbing aboard. In the distance, clumsy cormorants hung in the air above a school of fish, and we aimed the boat in their direction. For a while the gulls followed us, circling and squawking overhead. But they soon realized we had nothing to give them and tired of our company
.

We let our lines out and then proceeded to ignore them. The truth is we didn't really care about fishing; it just provided a respectable excuse to be on the water when all sane people were still asleep. It meant we didn't have to explain the perfection of the moment. It was ours alone
.

I read the last sentence again.
It was ours alone
. Then I closed the journal and allowed crushing waves of joy and grief to wash over me.

Even though I'd only begun to read the journal, it had already shaken awake a part of me that had been asleep since my dad's death. For four months I'd been numb, and I hadn't even known it. Whenever I'd thought of my dad, his lifeless body was the only image I could conjure.

And now I knew why. As awful as that vision was, as angry as it made me, I could
handle it. It was the memory of my dad alive that started an ache I couldn't shut down.

As for the homosexuality thing, I didn't want to think about that at all. What guy does? Fags, queers, homos — those are perverts, not a guy's dad. Not
my
dad! He was a jock, women liked him — he was married, for Pete's sake! And he'd fathered a kid — me! He couldn't be gay. Could he?

The more I rolled the idea around in my head, the less sense it made. Why would my dad have married my mom if he'd been gay? Was he trying to fool people into thinking he was straight? I thought about my parents. They couldn't have faked being happy for twenty years. Their marriage had to have been real.

Which brought me back to my original question. How could my dad have been gay?

Then I had an unnerving thought. What if he hadn't known he was gay until
after
he got married? Was that possible? And if it was, then was it also possible that I might be
that way
too? Could it be genetic? I was pretty
sure I wasn't attracted to guys. Maybe that could change.

I didn't like this at all. And it wasn't the sort of thing I could talk over with my friends.

Suddenly, I thought of Tess.
She likes you
, Jai had said. Of course, that had made me wonder if I liked her back. Tess was pretty and fun and smart. What was there not to like? But we were just friends. That's what I'd told Jai. Under the circumstances, I decided that was probably a good way to keep it.

The newspaper club had a table set up outside the gym. I grabbed a paper on the way by and stuffed it inside my books. Somewhere between chemistry and English, I'd have to find a couple of minutes to read it — the articles Tess had written, at any rate. She was bound to ask me about them.

I finished my chemistry assignment before the period was over and managed to read the entire paper. I have to say that Tess's writing was pretty good. That unmistakable
energy of hers came through loud and clear, and she took an original approach to her subjects. The rest of the paper was junk.

One article in particular really bugged me. Some guy named Roy Ranier raged on for three-quarters of a page about the unfair amount of recognition sports got compared with other programs such as art, drama and music. The article was just one long, pathetic whine, and it really ticked me off. I was still fuming about it when I got to English.

So when Tess asked me how I liked the paper, my answer probably wasn't as tactful as it could have been.

“Except for the stuff you wrote, it sucked,” I said.

You would have thought I'd uncorked a bottle and spit on the genie who'd been locked up inside for a thousand years. Tess was in my face so fast I could count the freckles on her nose.

“What! How can you say that? It does not! Did you even bother to read it?” She stormed.

“Yes, I read it,” I replied calmly, “and most of it was pretty lame. Sorry.” I shrugged. “But you asked.”

She planted her fists on her hips and glared at me harder than ever. “Like what, for instance?”

“Tess,” I tried to defuse the situation before it got out of hand, “it doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just my opinion anyway.”

But Tess was already too mad to back down. “You can't just go flinging insults around, you know!” she huffed. “Put your money where your mouth is. If you're going to criticize, you better have something to back it up!”

I slammed my books onto my desk and dug out the paper. “Fine.” I glared back at her. “You want proof? Try this.” Then I shoved Roy Ranier's article under her nose.

“What's the matter with this?” she demanded.

“What's
not
the matter with it?”

“Get real, Shaw! This is a very important issue. I can't believe you don't see that. Just
because you're a jock, it doesn't mean everyone is. Those other programs are worthwhile too, and they deserve a lot more support than they get! And I don't just mean money. I'm talking morale, promotion, positive reinforcement. It isn't just athletes who deserve recognition, you know. Everybody who — ”

“I agree,” I said, cutting her off.

Tess looked surprised. “You do?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Then what's your problem?” She smacked her hand on the paper. “That's exactly what this article is all about.”

I shook my head. “No, it isn't.
That's
the problem. Instead of setting out arguments and solutions, Ranier has sniveled his way through the subject. He hasn't helped the cause; he's hurt it. He should have presented music, art and drama on a par with athletics. He should have suggested ways of serving everybody. Then people would pay attention. But instead, he used all this ink to whine. Nobody's gonna listen to that.”

I knew Tess was going to fly back with another argument in old Roy's defense, but there was a split second where she seemed off-balance. I was pretty sure I'd made my point. But then Miss Boswell arrived and called the class to order.

“Well, if you have all the answers, maybe
you
should have written the article,” Tess muttered as she threw herself into her seat.

Miss Boswell perched on the edge of her desk and waited for the class to settle down. She had a bunch of papers in her hand.

“Your last writing assignment,” she said, waving them at us. Then she smiled. “For the most part, they're pretty good. You're all making progress. The descriptions are becoming more vivid, and the narrative is generally crisper. I've made specific comments and suggestions on each of your papers. Before I hand them back, I'd like to read one aloud as an example of how, as writers, we can really get inside a topic. Listen up.”

It was June 4, the sky was blue, and classes
had let out early. What more could a sixteen-year-old guy ask for? I shed the school like an unwanted jacket and started to jog home. I felt my pocket for my essay. It was still there. I smiled, thinking of the ‘A' on the top of the paper, and my teacher's “Your best work yet!” scrawled beside it. I couldn't wait for my dad to see it
.

The thing is — he never did
.

As Miss Boswell read, I stared at my desktop. I knew the other kids were looking around the classroom trying to figure out whose paper she was reading, but amazingly, I didn't care. That struck me as strange. A few weeks ago I'd panicked at the mere thought of anyone finding out about my dad. It was as if putting my feelings into words had set me free, and it was a relief not to have to hide anymore.

When Miss Boswell started handing back our essays, Tess turned around. I steeled myself for her to start ranting again. All she said was, “Like I said — maybe
you
should have written the article.”

As we dropped back to the baseline and waited for the referee's signal to change sides, Jai and I blinked at each other in disbelief.