War Dances (8 page)

I sat there for a few hours, bewildered. Yes, I was bewildered. When was the last time a white American male was truly bewildered or would admit to such a thing? We had taken the world from covered wagons to space shuttles in seventy-five years. After such accomplishment, how could we ever get lost in the wilderness again? How could we not invent a device to guide our souls through the darkness?

I prayed to Our Father and I called my father. And one father remained silent and the other quickly came to get me.

In that North Bend parking lot, in his staid sedan, my father trembled with anger. “What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked. He’d left a meeting with the lame-duck mayor to rescue me.

“Jeremy drove me up.”

“And where is Jeremy?”

“We got in a fight. He left.”

“You got into a fight?” my father asked. “What are you, a couple of girls?”

“Jeremy is a fag,” I said.

“What?”

“Jeremy told me he’s a fag.”

“Are you homosexual?” my father asked.

I laughed.

“This is not funny,” he said.

“No, it’s just that word,
homosexual;
it’s a goofy word.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“What question?”

“Are you homosexual?”

I knew that my father still loved me, that he was still my defender. But I wondered how strong he would defend me if I were indeed gay.

“Dad, I’m not a fag. I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We sat there in silence. A masculine silence. Thick and strong. Oh, I’m full of shit. We were terrified and clueless.

“Okay, Dad, what happens next?”

“I was hoping to tell you this at a better time, but I’m going to run for the State House.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“I’m happy you’re happy. I hated to make the decision without your input, but it had to be that way.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, I knew you would. And I hope you understand a few other things.”

And so my father, who’d never been comfortable with my private school privilege, transferred me from Madison Park to Garfield High, a racially mixed public school in a racially mixed neighborhood.

Let my father tell you why: “The Republican Party has, for decades, silently ignored the pernicious effects of racial segregation, while simultaneously resisting any public or private efforts at integration. That time has come to an end. I am a Republican, and I love my fellow Americans, regardless of race, color, or creed. But, of course, you’ve heard that before. Many Republicans have issued that same kind of lofty statement while living lives entirely separate from people of other races, other classes, and other religions. Many Republicans have lied to you. And many Democrats have told you those same lies. But I will not lie, in word or deed. I have just purchased a house in the historically black Central District neighborhood of Seattle, and my son will attend Garfield High School. I am moving because I believe in action. And I am issuing a challenge to my fellow Republicans and to all Democrats, as well: Put your money, and your house, where your mouth is.”

And so my father, who won the state seat with 62 percent of the vote, moved me away from Jeremy, who also left Madison Park and was homeschooled by his mother. Over the next year or so, I must have called his house twenty times. But I always hung up when he or his parents answered. And he called my private line more than twenty times, but would stay on the line and silently wait for me to speak. And then it stopped. We became rumors to each other.

Five hours after I punched Jeremy in the face, I sat alone in the living room of my childhood home in Seattle. Bernard, Spence, and Eddie were gone. I felt terrible. I prayed that I would be forgiven. No, I didn’t deserve forgiveness. I prayed that I would be fairly judged. So I called the fairest man I know—my father—and told him what I had done.

The sun was rising when my father strode alone into the room and slapped me: once, twice, three times.

“Shit,” he said, and stepped away.

I wiped the blood from my mouth.

“Shit,” my father said once more, stepped up close to me, and slapped me again.

I was five inches taller, thirty years younger, and forty pounds heavier than my father and could have easily stopped him from hitting me. I could have hurt him. But I knew that I deserved his anger. A good son, I might have let him kill me. And, of course, I know that you doubt me. But I believe in justice. And I was a criminal who deserved punishment.

“What did you do?” my father asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I was drunk and stupid and—I don’t know what happened.”

“This is going to ruin everything. You’ve ruined me with this, this
thing,
do you understand that?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll confess to it. It’s all my fault. Nobody will blame you.”

“Of course they’ll blame me. And they
should
blame me. I’m your father.”

“You’re a great father.”

“No, I’m not. I can’t be. What kind of father could raise a son who is capable of such a thing?”

I wanted to rise up and tell my father the truth, that his son was a bloody, bawdy villain. A remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain. But such sad and selfish talk is reserved for one’s own ears. So I insulted myself with a silence that insulted my father as well.

“Don’t just sit there,” he said. “You can’t just sit there. You have to account for yourself.”

My father had always believed in truth, and in the real and vast differences between good and evil. But he’d also taught me, as he had learned, that each man is as fragile and finite as any other.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, my father prayed aloud for the victims. All day, the media worried that the body count might reach twenty or thirty thousand, so my father’s prayers were the most desperate of his life. But, surprisingly, my father also prayed for the nineteen men who’d attacked us. He didn’t pray for their forgiveness or redemption. No, he believed they were going to burn in a real hell. After all, what’s the point of a metaphorical hell? But my father was compassionate and Christian enough to know that those nineteen men, no matter how evil their actions and corrupt their souls, could have been saved.

This is what my father taught me on that terrible day: “We are tested, all of us. We are constantly and consistently given the choice. Good or evil. Light or darkness. Love or hate. Some of those decisions are huge and tragic. Think of those nineteen men and you must curse them. But you must also curse their mothers and fathers. Curse their brothers and sisters. Curse their teachers and priests. Curse everybody who failed them. I pray for those nineteen men because I believe that some part of them, the original sliver of God that still resided in them, was calling out for guidance, for goodness and beauty. I pray for them because they chose evil and thus became evil, and I pray for them because nobody taught them how to choose goodness and become good.”

Of course, my father, being a politician, could never have uttered those words in public. His supporters would not have understood the difference between empathy for a lost soul and sympathy with a terrorist’s politics. Make no mistake: My father was no moral relativist. He wanted each criminal to be judged by his crimes, not by his motivations or biography.

My father refused to believe that all cultures were equal. He believed that representative democracy was a God-given gift to humans.

“I think that our perfect God will protect us in a perfect afterlife,” he was fond of saying in public. “But in this highly imperfect world, we highly imperfect humans need to be protected from one another, and only a progressive republican government can guarantee any sort of protection.”

In private, my father said this: “Fuck the fucking leftists and their fucking love of secularism and communism. Those bastards haven’t yet figured out that the secular Hitler and the communist Stalin slaughtered millions and millions of people.”

Don’t get me wrong. My father knew that the world was complicated and unpredictable—and that only God knew the ultimate truth—but he also knew that each citizen of that world was ultimately responsible for his actions. My father staked his political career, his entire life, on one basic principle: An unpredictable world demands a predictable moral code.

“Son,” my father said to me many a time in the years after September 11, “a thief should be judged by the theft. A rapist should be judged by the rape. A murderer should be judged by the murder. A terrorist should be judged by the terror.”

And so I sat, a man capable of inexplicable violence against an innocent, eager to be judged by my God and by my father. I wanted to account and be held accountable.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have attacked those men. I shouldn’t have walked away from the scene. At least, I should have gone back to the scene. I should go back now and turn myself into the police.”

“But you’re not telling me why you did it,” my father said. “Can you tell me that? Why did you do it?”

I searched my soul for an answer and could not find one. I could not make sense of it. But if I’d known that it was Jeremy I’d assaulted, I could have spoken about Cain and Abel and let my father determine the moral of the story.

“Spence and Eddie—”

“No,” my father interrupted. “This is not about them. This is about you.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m really confused here, Dad. I’m trying to do the right thing. And I need you to help me. Tell me what the right thing is. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

And so my father told me what he had learned from confidential sources. The gay men had reported the assault but, obviously shocked and confused, had provided conflicting descriptions of Spence, Eddie, and Bernard and no description of me other than “white male, twenties to thirties, five-eight to six feet, one-eighty to two hundred pounds.” In other words, I could have been almost any Caucasian guy in Seattle. The victims didn’t catch the license plate of the suspects’ car and could only describe it as a “dark four-door.” There were no other witnesses to the assault as of yet. Most curious, the victims disagreed on whether or not the perpetrators brandished guns.

“What do the police think?” I asked.

“They think the victims are hiding something,” my father said.

“They’re just scared and freaked out.”

“No. I agree with the police. I think they’re hiding something.”

“No, they’re not hiding anything, Dad. They’re just confused. I’d be confused if somebody attacked me like that.”

“No, they’re hiding the fact that they started the fight and they don’t want the police to know it.”

I was shocked. Was this really my father or his lying twin? Was I talking to my father or his murderous brother?

“Listen,” he said. “I don’t think the police really have anything to go on. And I don’t think they’re going to pursue this much further. But we’re going to monitor the investigation very closely. And we’re going to be preemptive if we sense any real danger.”

“What are you talking about? Are you going to hurt them?”

More enraged than ever before, my father grabbed me by the shirt. “Don’t you say such things. Don’t you dare! This is the United States of America, not some third world shit heap! I am not in the business of intimidation or violence. I am not in the business of murder.”

It was true. My father believed in life, the sacred spark of humans, more strongly than any other man I’d ever known. As a Republican, he was predictably antiabortion, but he was also against capital punishment. His famous speech: “It is the business of man to judge and punish on this mortal Earth; but it is the business of God to give and take away life. I believe that abortion is a great evil, but it is just as evil to abandon any child to the vagaries of economics. I believe it is evil to murder another human being, but it is just as evil for a government to kill its citizens based on the vagaries of justice.”

Yes, this was the man I had accused of conspiracy. I had insulted my father. I’d questioned his honor. I’d deemed him capable of murder. He was right to shake me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just confused. Help me. Please, Daddy, help me. I love you. Please, please help me.”

And so he held me while I wept.

“I love you, son,” he said. “But you have to listen to me. You have to understand. I know that you were wrong to do what you did. It was a mortal sin. You sinned against God, against those men, and against me. And you should pay for those sins.”

My good father wanted me to be a good man.

“But it’s not that easy,” my father said. “If you turn yourself in to the police, I will also pay for your sins. And I know I should pay for your sins because I am your father, and I have obviously failed to raise you well. But I will also pay for your sins as a U.S. senator, so our state and country will also pay for them. A scandal like this will ruin my career. It will ruin our party. And it will ruin our country. And though I know I will be judged harshly by God, I can’t let you tell the truth.”

My father wanted me to lie. No, he was forcing me to lie.

“William, Willy,” he said. “If we begin to suspect that you might be implicated in this, we’re going to go on the offensive. We’re going to kill their reputations.”

If it is true that children pay for the sins of their fathers, is it also true that fathers pay for the sins of their children?

Three days later, I returned to my condominium in downtown Seattle and found a message waiting on my voice mail.

“Hey, William, it’s—um, me, Jeremy. You really need to call me.”

And so I called Jeremy and agreed to meet him at his house in Magnolia, an upper-class neighborhood of Seattle. It was a small but lovely house, painted blue and chocolate.

I rang the doorbell. Jeremy answered. His face and nose were swollen purple, yellow, and black; his eyes were bloodshot and tear-filled.

“It was you,” I said, suddenly caught in an inferno of shame.

“Of course it was me. Get your ass in here.”

Inside, we sat in his study, a modernist room decorated with beautiful and useless furniture. What good is a filing cabinet that can only hold an inch of paperwork?