“Plus, lying to children sets a bad precedent. When those kids turn into adolescents and start telling their own lies, the parents are always surprised and defensive, asking ‘Where did they learn that from? We’ve always encouraged openness in our home.’
“Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that. Better yet, get a mirror, honey.”
That settled it. I liked Ms. Sally. A lot. I totally agreed with her whole honesty-is-the-best-policy spiel. But she was right about something else, too: If she talked to Tony like that, he’d shoot her.
“I should let you go,” I said, observing that the kids had begun to look a little glazed-over as Rafi tried to read them Where the Wild Things Are for the third time. “Again, thank you. I’ll talk to both of them. I’d never want to see Rafi get hurt.”
Ms. Sally leaned closer to me. Almost nose to nose, she whispered, “Were you really his first guy?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m a homophobe or anything,” she said. “It’s just… I do not get the ‘gay’ vibe off him at all.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I consoled her. “He doesn’t get it, either.”
Ms. Sally giggled like a teenage girl seeing a Playgirl centerfold. “And what about you? Was he your first, too?”
“He was the first I’d been with that evening,” I answered, winking.
Another naughty-girl giggle. “I’m glad we talked. I think you’re going to make a great second dad for Rafi.”
I was? I hadn’t thought of myself in that role.
I hadn’t dared.
26
“Can we go to the park?” Rafi asked, holding my hand as we walked home from his school.
It’s kind of a miracle how a kid’s hand settles into yours. As if it were made to fit there. When holding a boyfriend’s hand, you feel his strength and tenderness matching yours. A union of equals. But a child’s hand is so small. Precious. The moment it’s in yours, you feel a primal protectiveness that gives you a superhuman sense of power. You imagine there’s nothing you wouldn’t-couldn’t-do to save him from pain.
Yet, I couldn’t find any words to open the subject of what he’d heard his mother say. Tony had put boundaries between us. I could break them, but I’d risk losing him.
Is he worth waiting for? Mrs. Cherry had asked me.
Maybe for me, I answered in my head. But suffused with tenderness and caring for the charge by my side, I worried Is Tony’s guilt, confusion, and ambivalence hurting Rafi?
I could stand getting hurt. But I couldn’t be part of hurting a child.
“Sure,” I said, giving Rafi what little joy I could, “let’s go hit the slides.”
Rafi squeezed my fingers. “I love you, Kebbin.”
I squeezed back. “Me too, Rafsters.”
“That miserable bitch,” Tony said later that night.
My thoughts exactly.
Rafi had fallen asleep with Tony ten minutes ago on my bed. Tony’d snuck back out and lay with me on the sofa bed as I snuggled against his rocklike yet still comfortable chest. I’d just filled him in on what Ms. Sally had told me at Rafi’s school.
“To let Rafi hear that-what the fuck is wrong with her?”
“I know,” I said. “ Faggot is such an ugly word.”
“Still,” Tony said, ruffling my hair, “Rafi was right. You are my ‘bestest friend,’ you know.”
I crooked my neck and playfully bit one of his nipples.
“Ouch,” he said. “And, uh, yum.”
Like many men who’d primarily had sex with women, Tony had no idea his nipples were erogenous zones until I introduced him to their usefulness a few months ago. Now, he was a bit of suckle slut.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “You have to talk to Raf. And you have to figure out what you’re going to say.” I told him Ms. Sally’s thoughts on kids knowing the score even when their parents thought they didn’t.
“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to push me on this,” Tony growled.
“I’m not saying you have to take out a full page in the New York Times announcing your involvement with me,” I said. “But you have to think about your son. Eventually, someone is going to tell him about you-about us. Would you rather you be the one to do it, or leave it to his mother or his friends?”
“I don’t think I need to tell my five-year-old son about my sexuality,” he said icily.
I pulled myself away from him and sat up. “Is that all this is about to you? Sex?”
Tony looked tired. “You know that isn’t true. Don’t play word games, Kevvy.”
“It seems to me,” I said, getting up. “You’re the one who’s playing games. The worst kind, Tony. The kind where no one wins.”
“Kevvy, don’t be mad at me.” I wasn’t used to seeing Tony so vulnerable. “I don’t know what to do, all right? I don’t have a… map for this.”
“So, trust me. Talk to your son. Tell him how you feel about me. How we feel about each other. Let him know that what he knows to be true, is.”
“He’s a kid, Kevvy. He doesn’t need to know about… homosexuality.”
Tony had been raised a strict Catholic. I wasn’t sure what he’d known about homosexuality himself before I’d sucked his dick at the age of sixteen. Even afterward, I think he thought it was some kind of fluke or wrestling move.
“You don’t have to explain the intricacies of anal intercourse to him, Tone. He just needs to know he’s in a place with two adults who love each other and who love him, too. That we’re both there for him. He’s just been through your separation with your wife, Tony. He needs stability. He needs to feel secure.
“He also deserves to know that not everyone thinks it’s okay for two men to have that kind of special love. That people might say mean things. Even his mother. But he needs to hear from you that all love is good and to be celebrated.
“He’s young enough that you still have the chance to shape his moral center. If he senses shame and secretiveness from you, he’ll be anxious and think what you’re doing is wrong. But if you’re open and honest, he’ll feel safe and strong.”
In my head, Stephen Sondheim’s seminal “Children Will Listen” played. As sung by Barbra, natch.
“But that window won’t be open forever,” I continued. “Eventually, someone is going to define our relationship for him. Wouldn’t it be better coming from you?”
Tony rubbed his temples, wincing.
“Let me do that,” I said. I sat beside him and dug in, rotating my index fingers in small circles just behind his eyes.
“Mmmm, that’s good,” Tony moaned. He was quiet for a few minutes while I worked the tension out of his forehead.
“I want to do the right thing,” he said eventually.
“I know.”
“I do love you.”
“I know that, too.”
“Let me think about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
I massaged deeper, using my thumbs to press the top of the bridge of his nose, another acupressure point for relieving stress.
