Family Obligations Read online

  Including swallowing their pride to write to the one person in the world most likely never to want to hear from them.

  That doesn’t change the fact that I still wish you were here. Or that I will always be…

  Yours,

  Randy

  Tate read the letter, feeling the hurt in Randy’s words as if the man were there with him, plunging a dagger into his side. It was all so stupid! The two of them pining for one another, and yet they resisted—they pulled away from each other, when every impulse within them had to have been telling them to do the opposite. Why? Because society didn’t approve? Was society worthy of sacrificing one’s very being for?

  Tate leaned back in the desk chair, eyes shut. He thought of his own family downstairs, in the kitchen. They had come home while he was upstairs, reading and grieving. He heard a bowl clattering on the counter; Claire shouting “Lucky Charms!” What would prevent him from being with Kelly, whom he loved with all of his heart? It seemed to him like nothing could.

  But the old adage came to haunt Tate—never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes. Even though it hadn’t been all that long ago, times were different for his father. When these letters were written, gay marriage, for example, was unheard of. Tate was sure it was an idea that would’ve been deemed preposterous, one that could never happen. In his father’s youth, he knew it would have been acceptable to make fag jokes in the locker room; it would have made you one of the guys, not one of the insensitive or politically incorrect.

  Still, couldn’t his father and Randy have found a way to be together? Why did they let the world keep them apart when the depth of their emotions toward one another was so apparent from even these few exchanges? Why didn’t they just try harder? Tate shook his head. He supposed he should be grateful they hadn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t exist.

  Tate got answers in the very next letter, which his dad must have fired off almost immediately after reading Randy’s drunken rant.

  December 13, 1979

  Oh Randy,

  You don’t know how your letter has affected me. I had been foolish—and thought the passage of years would have dulled my feelings for you, relegated them to the warm fuzzies, or some other such Hallmark sentiment. I could almost make myself believe I was over you.

  Almost.

  But then you barge in with your drunken talk of your love for me, your disappointment in finding someone who might care for you the way I did, the way you did for me, the pain of loneliness and separation.

  I am so sorry to learn of your mother’s death. I remember how she could make me laugh; she never failed, when I came back home with you, to make me feel as though I was part of the family. In my heart of hearts, I always suspected she knew about us. Not only knew, but approved. Oh, if only the rest of the world had her heart, her willingness to understand that love is all that matters. Please know that I will pray for her and will always carry a part of her with me.

  I said that I had almost—not really forgotten you (I could never)—but almost managed to make peace with a life that doesn’t have you in it. If you hadn’t written, I don’t know what I would have done; gone on becoming more and more numb, I suppose, until an important part of me died inside.

  Sometimes death is preferable to the alternative.

  But you came back, and I received your note with equal parts joy and despair. You reminded me I still love you!

  But you also reminded me of what I have here and now. Sharon and I, I must confess, have become more like roommates than husband and wife. She has her room. I have mine. She has her life. I have mine. How could the sexual spark survive between us when we both, frankly, want the same thing? To the outside world, we appear happy, devoted—good parents to our little boy. But inside, when no one is around to see? We become more and more strangers to one another. It’s sad, and the irony is that I haven’t seen you in so many years, and yet my love and passion for you remains strong, even though it has had so little nourishment. She and I live under the same roof, exchanging pleasantries and being courteous, when the love we shared has withered and died because it lacked the spark it needed to keep it going.

  I will always admire and care deeply for the mother of my son. And yet my heart aches for Sharon. I wonder what kind of life I prevented her from having. If it weren’t for me, she might be…. Ah, who knows? We can’t change the past.

  If Sharon and I had never been, if we’d never tried to forge a life together, we wouldn’t have Tate. Sometimes I think that’s why the universe threw Sharon and me together—so Tate could be here.

  And my son is why I stay. He’s three now, and a more beautiful, smarter boy simply does not exist. He has my dark hair and green eyes, my olive complexion, but his mother’s patrician features. He will grow up to be a heartbreaker!

  Much as I love you, Randy (and I do), I don’t think I really knew what unconditional love was until I stood in the delivery room that morning in March and watched Tate come into the world. “We got a boy!” I gasped with utter abandon and joy. It was, simply, the happiest moment of my life. And the love that rushed in was complete, immutable, a force of nature that I know will always be with me, in this life and beyond.

  If I can be a good father to Tate, I will know my life has not been in vain. Nothing else matters.

  In a perfect world, I would love for you to meet my little man. But even writing to you now feels weird, like a betrayal of my son. I want him to grow up with two parents.

  But do I want him to grow up with two parents whose marriage is a sham?

  Sweetheart, I can’t go on. Write back—or not.

  Mark

  December 28, 1979

  Dear Mark,

  I tore into your letter as soon as I pulled it out of the mailbox. I needed to know then and there if I’d made a complete ass of myself and you were telling me to go away. When I saw that I hadn’t, I smiled, my first real smile in a long time. But then I got to the part about your son, and my grin turned into a cheer that was loud enough to wake up Mrs. Peterson in 1B. She works nights and sleeps a lot during the day. I had to apologize profusely, then escape to my apartment to read your letter again.

  Congratulations! I am so thrilled to hear about your son. I know how badly you always wanted kids of your own, and to hear that he’s strong and healthy and handsome is even better. You deserve that more than anyone I know. You were always great with kids, just like I know you’re probably a fantastic pediatrician now, so it’s only right that you are blessed with your own.

  I hope you don’t continue to feel that writing me is a betrayal, though. It’s not. Anyone with eyes, and probably anyone without them, can see what Tate means to you. Nothing you could ever feel for me will ever change that. He’s the luckiest boy in the world because he has you as a father, and he’s going to grow up so loved and so supported. But I also know that Sharon loves him just as much as you do. Maybe your marriage isn’t anything more than a respectful friendship anymore, but the truth is, Sharon is a wonderful person, generous and kind as well as so many other things. Sure, I’m jealous she’s the one who gets to share your life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize you chose to marry a woman with a lot of admirable qualities. You wouldn’t have settled for anything less. You deserve only the best.

  Is it asking too much for you to send a picture of you and Tate together? I would love to have one.

  Now that we’re back in contact, I want it to stay that way. Just getting to hear from you and to talk to you like this has brightened my week in ways you can’t imagine. I feel stronger. You make me stronger, even when there are so many miles separating us. But whether you meant it to or not, your letter erased the distance between our hearts, and that is worth the world. I can put up with just about anything if I can hear from you. I know the broad strokes of your life, but call me greedy, I want the details too. Let me be your outlet. Someone you can tell all those fears and secrets you’re keeping bottled up, the ones you fear will leak over
into your marriage and spoil your relationship with your son. I can be a much better therapist than that idiot all those years ago who tried telling you who you were. Plus, at the price of a postage stamp, I am officially a bargain in comparison. How can you say no that?

  Yours,

  Randy

  The series of missives that followed painted pictures of both men’s lives. Randy talked about his work at a large office of family practitioners and some old car he was restoring, while Tate’s father told stories that echoed familiar, like the night he spent in the ER when Tate fell off a kitchen chair and split open his chin. Tate rubbed at the faded scar, smiling as he blinked away his tears. How many times had he heard that one? The way his mother told it, it was hours of worry and panic, but in his father’s version, all that mattered was how brave Tate had been, how he never made a sound as he got his stitches. The tale Randy heard was a combination of the two.

  Tate doubted anybody else had ever been witness to his father’s true feelings. Until now, anyway.

  The letters continued on like that for several months. To a casual reader, they might have seemed platonic, just old friends getting caught up. But Tate felt the loss beneath the words, the silent longing.

  Then it wasn’t so silent anymore.

  October 2, 1980

  Dear Mark,

  It’s two minutes after midnight, which means only one thing.

  Happy birthday.

  You won’t get my well-wishes until your birthday is done and gone, though. I should’ve been smarter and planned ahead. Anyone else and I’d call instead, but we both know that can’t happen. I hope you don’t go through the day wondering why I didn’t say anything. I could never forget a date as important as that.

  But it kills me this is all I can do. I can’t send you a card or a present. I can’t see you blow out your candles. I can’t give you a kiss for each year. I hate it. So. Fucking. Much.

  So I’m doing this instead. I’m asking you to let me buy you a ticket to the destination of your choice for a long weekend with me. Pick a date that works best for you. Make it Seattle, or Tampa, or the moon. I don’t care. All that matters is that I see you.

  Hasn’t it been too long?

  Yours,

  Randy

  There must have been a substantial passage of time between this letter and the next, Tate thought as he read over his father’s response. There was that sense of retrospection, of talking about something that had become firmly entrenched in memory. One thing Tate could see, though, was that his father had experienced a bittersweet mix of emotions.

  Randy,

  It’s been a while since we’ve been together. I know I thanked you already for the plane ticket to Seattle and the long weekend in Mount Baker National Forest. The time I spent with you, in that cabin in the woods, with the snow-capped Cascades towering over us, was probably one of the most special of my life.

  Because we were so isolated, I was able to let go of the angst and conflict I feel over the reality of my life and who I really am—over the thwarted desires and the mask I wear every day, every hour. That mask sometimes makes me wonder—does anyone really love me for me? I mean, no one really knows the real man behind the mask (save for you), so what torments me on a regular basis is, what would people think if they knew?

  It’s kind of a hellish little thing to live with, but it’s my cross to bear.

  To be with you for those four days, though, was a way to escape, to throw off the mask, to cast down the shield and the sword with which I fight myself and be myself for a few days. The real me. The true me. The one who loves you.

  I won’t even go into the joy of letting go and letting out that beast in me that was starved for connection with a man. Oh boy!

  The main thing was the relief of just being myself. Never mind that in order to do that, I had to be in an isolated place, away from everything and everyone I now call my “life.” Never mind that I told Sharon I was going to a symposium in Seattle on pediatric asthma. Never mind that the real me has to cringe in the shadows.

  You love the real me, and that’s enough. It really is, Randy.

  That was the sweet. Now comes the bitter.

  I missed my son—so, so desperately. Being away from Tate for even those few days was akin to a limb being ripped from me. Sharon is a good mom, no question, but I have always been more the nurturing parent, the one who puts Tate to bed each night after making sure he’s brushed his teeth and I’ve read him a story (Curious George is popular right now). So even though our time together was a little (make that big) slice of heaven, there was always a part of me yearning for my little boy and wondering what he was doing, if he missed his dad.

  Bitter: there’s no way to mesh these two worlds. Ever.

  Also bittersweet is the fact of your joy and relief at seeing me, at spending those stolen hours with me. It was four days, four wonderful days, yet I can’t help but wonder what crumbs I am casting to you—a grown man, a healthy, drop-dead sexy, vital man.

  It hurts me more than I can describe to say this, and I can only say it because I love you, but I will put the words down, even as my gut churns with nausea.

  You need to find someone.

  I know it won’t be me. It can’t.

  But a handsome, smart, and caring man like yourself should not be alone. I fill up with jealousy when I think of you with someone else, but I am selfless enough to want happiness for you.

  I only want to say, find a way to make it work with someone whom you’re attracted to. I would have once said to find a good woman, settle down, raise a family. It’s advice I followed, and I would never regret that advice, because all I have to do to counter it is to look into the wonder of my son’s eyes, to see him smile, to laugh. I may never have the complete and fulfilling love with you that I want, but I will always have my boy. So, no regrets.

  But, Randy, you shouldn’t be alone. The 1980s are here, and maybe things for people like us are beginning to loosen up. Find yourself a good man, one you deserve, and forget about me.

  Maybe someday I can casually let it drop to Sharon that I got a note from my old buddy, Randy, and guess what, hon? He’s gay. He wants to visit us with his, what do you call it, lover? Would that be okay? I can imagine saying it.

  I’d like to think the passage of years that would make such a visit conceivable would also make it painless. I’d like to think it would be a joy to me, a balm on my heart to see you happy and contented with someone you loved—an equal.

  No, it won’t be me. But don’t stay alone—longing for something I can never give you.

  Go on. Find somebody. Tell me what I missed—both for me and for you.

  And never tell him about me.

  I will love you always, but I will love you more if I know I am not holding you back from a complete life. Make it happen. For me just as much as for you, even though it’s killing me to say it.

  Thank God for letters—I’d never have the courage or the strength to say this to your face, not with those eyes looking at me.

  Find love. Good-bye.

  Wow. Tate couldn’t believe what his father had written. He felt almost a burden of guilt press on his chest like a physical weight. He cast his gaze up at the ceiling and said aloud, “You did all of this for me? For me? Even a dad has a right to a life! Families are all different—we could have made it work. We didn’t even try.” A sputtering sob escaped him because he knew he had what his father never could—a real, true family.

  He wondered, too, what had become of Randy. Had he followed his dad’s advice, found himself a man? The early ’80s pressed on him, and the significance of the period—AIDS was waiting in the wings. Had it affected either of them?

  “Hon? You okay up there?” Kelly called from downstairs. Tate also heard Claire chasing their pug, Truman. The dog barked. He closed his eyes, savoring these mundane, yet oh-so-special sounds.

  He pressed a hand against his eyes and drew in a quivering breath. Putting some force behi
nd the words to hide his upset, he called down, “I’m okay. Just talking to myself, as usual. What do you want to do for lunch?”

  “I bought some Cuban sandwiches on my way home from Claire’s play date.”

  “Bless your little heart. I’ll be right down.”

  Tate was starving. And it was time for a break.

  Eating helped. Getting to sit and laugh with his little family helped even more. By the time Kelly scooped Claire up to tuck her in for her nap, Tate felt more capable of facing the letters without breaking down again, though not necessarily eager to learn what other truths had been hidden from him all these years. How was learning any of this supposed to make him feel better? What did Randy hope to prove?

  January 8, 1981

  Dear Mark,

  I’m going to assume that your last good-bye was a metaphorical send-off and not a literal one. Because if you think for a second that I’m turning my back on our friendship—forget everything else—you’re an idiot.

  I’m not blind, and I’m not stupid. I saw you in those moments when you would disappear on me, and I knew you were thinking about Tate. I left that cabin knowing it would probably be the last time I ever got to kiss you or hold you or feel you inside me, and as much as I wish it could be otherwise, I believe your life is there in Florida. As the father you always wanted to be. Without me in it.

  So give me a little credit, okay? I realize how needy I was in practically begging you to fly out and see me, but that’s because my well was literally dry. Losing Mom left this huge fucking hole in my life, and then there was being late for your birthday, which left me feeling even more alone, and I was a mess. Those four days we had were about more than getting to be ourselves. It was about more than the sex. It was about remembering life goes on, that it’s not all bad. More than anything, Mom wanted me to be happy, so I owe it to her to find that. I owe it to you too.