Chapter 4

ETHAN

There was nothing quite as satisfying as reading a good book. As a kid, I would tell my friends this and they laughed at me. Most of the friends I kept didn't read much beyond comments and posts on social media. For me, books were everything. I guessed that was why I had this big goofy smile on my face as I stared at one kid's storybook my mother used to read to me when I was younger.

My mother used to say I was very strong. She would say this with this big, bright smile on her face. I didn't believe her then— I mean, that's what parents do, right? But as the years went by, I came to learn that she was right after all. I was strong. My time in high school taught me that I was much stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. All these and more made schooling very difficult for me. Believe me when I tell you that my last year in high school wasn't anything to write home about. It was just one thing after the other.

Just before I started high school, my father, who was a black man, left my mother, who wasn't, to go start a family with another woman. I remember my mother saying, “Don’t ever trust a black man. Trust a serpent before trusting a black man”.

Oh, don't get it twisted. My mother wasn't racist. I was sure you would argue that if you ever met her, but I knew her. I knew that beneath all those garments of pain and grief was a good woman with a heart of gold— though it was smeared with the dirt of hurt and trauma.

Back then in school, I was the assistant captain of the lacrosse team. As far as high school popularity went, I had my share of it, particularly because of my looks. Being that I inherited my Dad's athletic genes, I got a lot of attention from girls at school. Many thought I was the most handsome guy at the school— yes, it kinda got to my head then. Well, let's say the girls stopped liking me when they got to find out that Ethan didn't play for the popular team.

“Shit,” I let out, looking down at the watch on my wrist. “I need to go there now.”

I promised Ms. Granger that I would come to help clean her house. Ms. Granger was a friend of mine who was well in her seventies. Last night she told me via e-mail telling me that her house help had to travel and I figured she would need help at home.

The funny thing was that Ms. Granger wasn't my only friend who was old enough to be my grandmother. I had quite a few of them. I mean, I lived alone and rarely got along with people my age.

I drove to Ms. Granger's and got there in less than fifteen minutes.

“You came!” She yelled out, pulling me into her embrace. “I didn't think you would leave the store.”

“Oh, it's fine,” I said, clearing the little table on the porch and walking into the kitchen which seemed to me to be cleaner than usual.

“You are such a fine young man. Any woman will be happy to have you.”

“For the eleven millionth time, I'm not into girls.”

She smiled widely, almost embarrassed. “Well, the message is barely changed. Your man should be happy that you're his.“

I just nodded, looking away. I didn't have a man and not because of a lack of trying to have one. I couldn't say whether it was an issue many gay men faced because in my experience I found out that most guys I met were either not interested in having a deep, meaningful relationship, or they were just not mentally mature to have one. Or both.

I found it embarrassing to even admit it, hence why I never told anyone about it. You see, I had never been in a relationship. I had never had a person I could call my boyfriend. Yeah, I know it wasn't something you would expect to hear from a twenty-seven-year-old man who had been praised for his looks right from a tender age. All relationships I have ever had with men have either been platonic or sexual. Never romantic.

Ms. Granger did that thing she does with her eyes which meant she had just remembered something.

“What is it?” I inquired, sitting next to her.

“It’s probably nothing. You know, I promised Tyler that I would give him something ahead of his birthday.” She reached for a little wrapped box and handed it to me. “I would appreciate it if you gave it to him. His birthday is in three days.”

I returned the smile that beamed at me. “Sure I will give it to him right away.”

“Please don't tell him it's a cardigan I made for him.”

I nodded even though I wouldn't have known if she hadn't mentioned it.

As I drove, it occurred to me that today was father's day. I hadn't even known until I opened the store in the morning. It was Sherry, the woman who owned the kid's toy store just opposite my store who told me.

“My father loves letters so I mailed him a handwritten note telling him how much he meant to me.” Sherry had said in the morning.

“Has he seen it? I'm sure he loved it,” I said, trying to match her energy which was always high.

“Absolutely! He called me this morning and he was crying. He was in the army and all that, but still a little softie inside.”

All that was on my mind then as she spoke was “Well, good for you”.

I couldn't waste one moment of my life writing anything to the miserable bastard who happened to be my father. That was if the dense motherfucker would even read it. To think that I actually doted on that man when I was a kid. I used to adore him even though he barely had any time for me and would often hit me when he was tipsy— and then tell Mum he was just being a Dad and that she shouldn't get in his way.

My father was a very weird man. When I say this, I mean every word. He was an unstable human being. He would often talk about God and how much he loved the Bible, but then, we all knew he had fucked every prostitute in a thirty-mile radius of our home. He missed every of my birthday; he missed every one of my games in high school; he missed everything. And, no, he wasn't a busy man. Mum owned the house and provided food. He did have a job, but Lord knows that we would have been eating out of garbage cans if he was the breadwinner.

“Whoa,” I let out, as I nearly knocked down a garbage can just outside the Conan's.

I was supposed to get in there and get out, but my mind kept pondering about my Dad. I mean, it was father's day after all.

“Don’t do it, Ethan. The devil doesn't change. It isn't even worth trying.” Mum said to me after I told her I wanted to communicate with Dad a few years after he abandoned us.

“Mum, I just want to try. He's my father after all. Sadly, that's never going to change.”

Those words made my Mum lay off me and she stopped advising me against ever speaking to my father. At that time, I was about to start my sophomore year at college. It had been years since I spoke to him even though where he lived with his new family was barely an hour's drive from our house.

The devil doesn't bargain. The devil doesn't change. Mum said those words so many times that they should have been etched on my brain. But, of course, after meeting my father, they were.

When I called him, I felt really sad that I had to explain to him who was calling. It was one thing to not have my current phone number, it was another thing to not know who was calling even after I clearly said “Dad, it's Ethan.”

We agreed to meet up, and truth be told, I recalled being quite excited to see him. There wasn't any reason to be, but I remember having a goofy smile as I knocked on the door of the house he lived in.

He invited me for dinner and I was supposed to stay the night. His wife was nice and I remember wondering whether she was scared of Dad embarrassing her, or she was just scared of him. Something told me it had to be one of the two. He had three little kids, the oldest was about eight and the youngest was still crawling.

As we had what I hoped would be a silent dinner, Dad asked me about my school and I said it was all fine. If he didn't have anything, he had guts because what else would make him ask me that knowing that he never supported in training me?

“Are you Christian?” His wife asked, hoping to make the atmosphere friendlier.

I wasn't Christian but I didn't want to offend Dad. “Yes, I am.”

Dad nodded. “That’s good, son. You're doing good for yourself. In this time of internet and the youths being ‘woke’, you should cling to God.” He drank some water before continuing. “The devil is making many young minds do stupid things such as identifying as gay, hence selling their soul to him and also buying themselves one-way tickets to hell.”

I remember not being able to take my stare off him. I didn't know whether to get mad that he didn't know his own son was queer, or that he was just being hateful.

I smiled at him, and said, “Do you remember Brent? The carpenter's son that lives behind our house?”

Dad nodded. “Yes, I do. Why are you asking me?”

I shrugged. “No reason, really. I just wanted you to know that just before coming here, Brent had me pinned to his bed and he did your son real well with that monster of a cock he has down there.” I stopped to savour the soothing display of sheer fury in his eyes and I watched it as it grew. “Now I see why Mary liked Joseph in the scriptures. There's something about them carpenters, right? They really be packing down there.”

He kept quiet for a while and I kept talking about how I enjoyed sex with men. His wife didn’t say anything but I could see she was very uncomfortable. He suddenly burst out in anger and asked me to leave his house. He kept saying he would never accept a faggot as a son. I didn't know where he got the idea that I ever wanted a miserable broke bigot as a father.

“Hey there,” a manly figure said, tapping on my window.

Well, let's just say it didn't take me more than a second to realise that this wasn't a regular person.