Thad never liked it when I worked alone in my Study. I don’t know if he thought I was arranging liaisons through Facebook or was carrying on a clandestine e-mail relationship with some faraway Cypriot pen-pal, but he would never leave me alone for long with he heard the click click click of my keyboard. And as much as I complained about his recent moving out, one of the perks was that I had gotten a hell of a lot more writing done lately with him gone.
But on this fine summer morning, as I sat in my Study and secretly tried to compose a letter to my father, I faltered every time my dear Thaddeus swung through.
“You doing okay?” Thad said, sticking his head in the curtained doorway of my Study.
“Yup, thanks,” I said curtly, not to offend, but to be left alone.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll be watching Ellen,” and he tripped off to the Den.
I looked back to my laptop, stymied.
Part of the problem was that I had yet to even tell Thad about finding the letter from my father two months ago in Mom’s safety deposit box , and certainly had not told him that I was contemplating actually writing back to Dad. I thought Thad would just laugh or call me stupid, just out of jealousy. And this was my thing; my personal decision to make. Thad didn’t need to know about it, specifically if I did write Dad and he never wrote back, that way Thad would never know that I failed. Plus, ever since the whole Spandex Hair Mane thing came up, I had trusted Thad even less than normal, so why even tell him now?
“So, what are you doing?”Thad said, swinging back into the Study, holding a glass. “I thought you looked like you need a drink.”
“Thanks,” I said, quickly minimizing the screen. So far all I had written was:
Hello Father. This is your son Michael. Hope this finds you well.
Thad handed me the glass of Diet Coke and came up behind me to massage my shoulders, which was also the best angle for him to see my monitor. “What you working on?”
“My book.” I lied.
“Oh,” he sighed. “The one about musicals?”
“Yeah, Whores in Musicals.” I did not like to lie, but in a relationship it was necessary to lie some times. “I found some new sources I was just reading…”
Thad sat down behind me in a lounge chair. “So you really think Becky is going to give up the little brown boy for The Looser Ray?”
I pivoted to face him. “I don’t know.” I had filled Thad in on the Duck Pond story. “I can’t imagine-she loves that little kid so much-but she really wants Ray back.”
“Poor thing,” Thad sighed. “I don’t even like kids and I would pick Pablo over The Looser Ray any day of the week. But she’s so crazy even I can hear the voices in her head.”
“Yeah. I don’t know.” I realized Thad just wanting to make conversation so I would pay attention to him and not my computer, but I wanted to get back on tack. “So, hey, I was working…”
“I mean, do you think it just completely controls her?” he continued.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“The Big V? Her V-Jayjay?” He said, pointing to his crotch. “Do you think this is all because her fertility clock is ticking so loud it keeps her up at night?”
“Stop it,” I said with an eye roll.
“No, think about it. If it’s, like, ‘You need to get busy because we need a man!’” he said in a loud monster voice.
“Okay, stop it,” I said trying not to laugh, as that would just encourage him. One of Thad’s favorite impressions was of Becky’s Angry Talking Vagina, as he called it.
“I think you should take me to dinner with Ray,” Thad continued in the monster voice, moving his pelvis as if it were talking, “And just chuck that little nut brown kid to the curb! We got some babymaking of our own to do!”
“Stop it!” I laughed. “Look I am writing.”
In the monster voice he said, “’But can’t I stay and watch? Please?” pointing his pelvis at me.
I forced myself to quit smiling and said, “Look, I really need to finish this part up…..”
“Fine, fine, spoilt sport!” he huffed in his normal voice, rising with a dismissive shake of his hand. “I’ll go start lunch.”
As he sulked out I called, “Thanks…”
He just grunted.
I had no idea what I wanted to say to my father. I had not seen him in 27 years. He had never made an effort to contact me, besides the letter I now had, and I had certainly not made any motion to contact him. After decades of hating and resenting him, and years of therapy, now I was just rather numb on the whole thing. The peaceful realization I had come to was that I felt sorry for him, sorry that he had such a crappy life that he couldn’t even keep his family around, and felt sorry for whatever looser he had become. And I was okay with that.
Was this now the time to reopen that wound? But with Becky edging closer and closer to Ray, and the detrimental effects of that, maybe it was time for me to make the big brother move and try to bring Dad back into the fold. Would it help? Would it hurt?
From under my keyboard I pulled out the lilac letter with the slanted cursive writing and read it for about the thousandth time.
Trudy-
Was forwarded your letter. Glad you are well, as am I. Happy that Rebecca is engaged. It is fine if she wants to write me. Use this address:
1775 East Tropicana Avenue
Las Vegas, Nevada 89119
Give to Michael too, if he wants to write. Hope he is happy too.
-Charles
I guess it couldn’t hurt to just write him, could it? What if he never wrote back? Was a dick? Was in prison? Was a drug addict? Wanted money? Had a full family that he loved dearly? Had another son he liked better…
Hearing footsteps, I shoved the letter away.
Thad stuck his head back in the door. “Charlotte just told me a joke.”
“She did?” I smiled, against my will.
“She did?” I smiled, against my will.
“Yup!” he said. ‘What kind of sex do S&M dogs like to have?”
“I don’t know…” I grinned.
“Rough!” he barked.
I laughed. God love Thad for breaking my mania, for being there for me when Dad was not, possible Spandex Hair Mane affair or not. “That’s funny…”
“That’s what I told her,” he said. “So do you want meatloaf or pasta for lunch?”
“Meatloaf, duh.”
“Then meatloaf it is,” he said, “And sorry to bother you, Dr. Professor.”
“No problem, Mr. Plebian.” I smiled.
“What’s a plebian?”
“Someone who does not know the definition of plebian,” I grinned.
“Whatever, dork.” And he walked off.
After a few minute of staring at the blank screen, I just began to write.
Hello Father.
This is your son Michael. Hope this finds you well. We have not spoken in quite a long time. I found this address rather on accident a few months ago, from the letter you sent Mother in 2004. I decided to write to possibly open up the lines of communication, after so many years. I am well, healthy, happy, have a…
And then I stopped. He didn’t know I was gay. Damn!. Do I just say it? Flop it out there? Or sugar coat it? Would it make him even more disappointed in me, if he’s a lumberjack or a NASCAR driver or something else über-masculine? But, really, what more did I have to lose? So I just went with the truth.
…partner named Thaddeus. We have been together on and off for twenty-three years now. I am 42, a professor of English Literature at the University, and own a house in Norman, near there. We have a cat. Life is very good. Becky just turned 40 and is also still in town, working at a travel agency. She was married and now has an foster care child she is raising. She is well, and has been speaking of you
lately. She misses you.
And I stopped. Do I just go ahead and write what I’m feeling, or hold back? I again just went with the truth. What the Hell.
I miss you. We would like for you to be in our lives again. You should write to me some time, if you want. If not, I understand, and I hope your life is good and full.
I added my address and read and reread what I had just written. It was honest and true, and that was good. And I just made a decision that this was it, and I was going to send it to him. I printed it up, signed it “Take Care, Michael”, folded it, and put it in a think white envelope of the best paper I owned. In my best cursive, I address the outside: Charles Stiles.
Looking it back over, I almost tore it in half, thinking how crazy it was what I was doing. But then I stopped: why not? What could it hurt? And maybe it would help Becky. Or would it just cause us both even more pain? Was this panacea or Pandora?
Hearing footsteps, I pushed the letters away and minimized the screen.
“Hey, I came up with a new drag name?” Thad said, coming into the room with a big smile. This was another of his favorite games.
“What?” I said with a grin.
“Marsha Dimes.”
“Fabulous,” I laughed. “What was the one last week?”
“Rita Tard.”
“Yup!” I laughed, “And if you’re a male stripper?”
“Chicken Coconuts,” he said doing a conspicuously lewd dance. “And if I was a female stripper it’s Tanya Fajitas.” Then doing a strip club announcer voice he said, “And here she is ladies and gentleman, dancing just one night here at the Big Panties Club, put your hands together for Miss Tanya Fajitas.’”
“Because she’s classy like that…” I laughed.
“Yes, because she’s classy like that…” he snorted, clapping his hands.
We both laughed until we had to catch our breath.
‘You know you can’t stay out of here when I’m writing.” I said, “You totally have ADD...”
“Attention deficit disorder?”
“Yes, when you have a deficit of attention you cause disorder.” I laughed.
“Ha ha!” he said. “Fine, I’ll let you be. But the meatloaf will be done in about thirty minutes.”
“Great! I look forward to it.”
As he walked off, I reached into my desk drawer and got a stamp and went and put the letter out in the mailbox.
Later as we sat to eat Thad’s magnificent meatloaf, I heard the mailman snap the mailbox lid open and shut: the letter was gone.
Now it was up to Dad.
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