"HONOR"
"It's too bad you never got to know your grandpa. He was one helluva guy."
"That's pretty funny, coming from you," Tommy responds, thinking, Why can't we just stick to what I'm here for?
"It's no joke," Norman says. "He was the kind of man a son—and grandson—could really look up to. He won a Silver star in W W 2, y‘know."
"Yeah, I know, and a medal of honor in the bedroom," Tommy says, meeting his father's eyes in a brief challenge before dropping his gaze to his hands drumming the table between them. Like any of it matters, anyway. … C’mon, c’mon, I want out of here.
"It was in Europe, driving the Nazis out of France," Norman continues, ignoring the Jibe. "His company never took prisoners—y'know that? He never talked about the details. He didn't try to impress you with gore. But don't get me wrong, he wasn't one of those guys who can't face up to that stuff, either. One of those guys who does what he has to do—what's right when the enemy's coming at you—but then he's crippled by nightmares, flashbacks, all that sort of stuff. Runs to the V.A. shrinks. Maybe eats his gun.
"No, dad did what was right and moved on. God, that must've been so great! Doing what you know—what everybody knows—is right, without question or hesitation. . . . Not like Nam, where nobody knew what was right, and everybody questioned everything.
“What were we doing? Who was the enemy? We were always second-guessing ourselves. Finally, we just ran ourselves into the ground trying to bite our tails while covering our ass. That's why we lost the war."
"Nobody holds that against you guys anymore. Now, like I”
“We did the same things he did, y'know,” Norman interrupts. “But did we get any medals? Didthe the country honor us for fighting evil? . . . Well, you know what we've had to live with.”
"Like I said, nobody cares about Vietnam anymore. It’s a different world now. We've got our own problems, our own lives to pull together. . . . We're not hung up on the past.”
Norman studies Tommy, not liking what he sees: the long, blonde hair, delicate features, smirky mouth, darting, pale blue eyes that never meet and hold his. "No," he finally sighs, "I guess you kids don't care, do you? Just sweep it under the rug, so you can get on with school and money, cars and girls. Having a good time now that times are good again. . . . But it isn't that simple, not as long as those of us who lived through Nam are still here. We can't forget."
"Fine,” Tommy snaps, thinking What’s the use? “Your generation thinks mine is self-absorbed. So what? I don’t care about that."
"You should. You should care what your elders think of you. We've already faced what you're gonna have to face. We can help you out."
"That's just why I'm here," Tommy says brightly, seizing the opening. "Like I was trying to tell you,"
"Right," Norman interrupts, "I got off track, didn't I? I was telling you about your grandpa."
"That's not what”
"I know," Norman interrupts again, enjoying the power Tommy's need gives him, "but it's still a shame you never got to know him. He taught me so much. Could've done the same for you.
"The greatest thing was hunting. It's hard work, y'know, stalking deer through the woods, but there's no high like standing over the animal, looking down on it as it looks up at you, breathing its last because of you, because of your tracking, your marksmanship, your skill. That's when you know you've met the test of the hunt, proved yourself worthy."
"Worthy of what?" Tommy interrupts. He knows he shouldn't. This can only move them farther from what he's here for, but this journey down memory lane annoys him. He will never have such memories to cherish and embellish—and that's all Norman fault. He just can’t let Norman get away with it, enjoying what he's made sure his son, his very own son, will never enjoy.
"'Worthy of what?"' Norman repeats, shaking his head, disappointed. "Boy, you sure should've been taught that by now. . . . Worthy of being human, that's what. Worthy of being given dominion over this earth, of being trusted with the power to subdue the land and all that walks on it, flies over it, or swims in its waters. That's what you prove when you win the hunt.”
"With a big enough gun you can kill anything and never have to worry about being killed yourself. That's all I see." Tommy again shoots his father a challenging glance, then looks away.
Norman gives Tommy a disgusted, dismissive look. "A real Bambi-lover, aren't you? . . . Good thing dad never lived to see the way you've turned out."
"What would he have done? Shot me to save his family's honor?"
"It's your family, too. Don't forget that. That's still my blood running through your veins. Your mother may have thinned it out, but it's still there. You're carrying on the Stuart name."
"Let's not get onto mom, okay?”
"Oh, no, let's not get onto your sainted mother! . . . She wasn't Little Miss Bleeding Heart, y'know, not when we first met. If I'd brought home some hippie chick, dad would've taken me out in the woods to save the family name. And he'd've been right, too. No, she ate meat then and saluted the flag. She was a good Christian, too: followed the Lord's Word and knew the natural order of things . . . back then.”
“Okay, okay, let's just forget it. Like Vietnam, all that's ancient history now. It's not why I'm here.”
“No, we're not gonna forget it. We're never gonna forget it. It's always gonna be there. You can't disown your past.”
"I don't have to drown in it, either." Tommy kicks back from the table, strides to the wall behind him, glares at Norman from there.
Norman stares back, pleased Tommy has some fight in him. "Lenno was Joking the other night about some guy who's suing his girlfriend for getting pregnant without his permission. He's charging her with fraud. That's the way I feel, and I bet there're plenty of other guys feel just the same. Your mother was a fraud."
"I didn't come down here to slog through this shit again," Tommy interrupts.
"You want what you came down here for, you're gonna have to take it, . . . like a man.”
‘Son of a bitch!”
"Yeah, well, that's what you are, I'm sorry to say, because that's what she is. . . . Your cross to bear."
Tommy wants to smash Norman's mouth, kick him in the balls. But he can't do that, and doesn't know what to say.
“Like I was saying," Norman resumes with a satisfied smile, stretching out in his chair, not even looking at Tommy now, "she came on like a God-fearing, decent, American woman. Someone who knew right from wrong.
"We first met at a V.F.W. dinner dance. She tell you?"
"She admits her mistakes."
Norman dismisses the jibe with a wave. "She was there, just like all the other girls, eating steak, drinking beer, looking to catch herself a soldier. Not some hippie with long hair and love beads, eating rabbit food. And she wasn't eyeing the other girls, either."
“So people change. So what?”
"No!" Norman sits up again, glares at Tommy. “When a woman marries, she takes a vow: 'Till death do us part.' She swears that before God, with her family and friends there, in front of her community—everybody who counts. Before she takes that vow, she can try different things, go looking to 'find herself,' if she was unlucky enough not to be taught that at home, or church, or school. But when a woman marries, she takes her place, by her husband, to be his wife, bear his children, make a home for them all."
"Barefoot and pregnant!"
"She tell you I wanted that? . . . Not true. A wife can have her own interests, a job even. But when a woman marries, she has to be honest. She can't pretend to be one kind of thing, just so she can catch herself a man, then once she's caught him, turn into something else. . . . That's the worst kind of fraud."
"Isn't that a two-way street?"
"Sure it is. She tell you I changed on her? She lie to you about that, too?”
"It's more like she didn't really understand who you were—I mean, before you married."
"I was always up front with her. That's just the kind of guy I am, the kind of man my dad raised me to be. I love my country. I go to church. I went to work every morning and brought my paycheck home—most of it, anyway. I know who I am; I know right from wrong; and I'm not about to turn queer. I took my vow with her, and I lived up to it."
“Fine, let's just say it was her mistake, then. Okay?"
"'Loss.’ It was her loss."
“Whatever. Paint the past any way you want. I'm not here to fightover who did what, said what, is responsible for what. I don't care about any of that stuff." Looking down, Tommy thinks, If I can just start over, pull free of all this crap and start over.
Norman studies him, then says, "Think you can just pacify me, huh Tommy? Just say what I want to hear, so you can get what you want. Is that what your mother and her lesbo friends have taught you? Is that what they've raised you to be? A spineless wimp who'll say or do whatever it takes to get what he wants."
“Better that than a Bible-thumping redneck who”
"No, it's not better, not better at all. Maybe we Stuarts aren't liberated, over-educated, oh-so-sophisticated career nonwomen like your mother's friends, but we know right from wrong. We respect God's Word and the natural order."
"Is that the order where a father rapes his daughter-in-law? Or is that one of your God's commandments?" Tommy slashes back, glaring at Norman.
"Well, there it is. . . . Is that what she says turned her queer? She blame dad for that, too? The dead make handy scapegoats."
"You denying it?"
"Which?"
"That he raped her. That's why you're in jail, isn't it?"
"That doesn't change its being a lie. . . . She came on to him."'
"You think I'm going to believe that?"
"Probably not. She's had too many years to turn you against me. Hell, job she's done onyou, I should tell you he did rape her, then you'd believe he didn't. But I'll leave the mind games to your mother. Me, I'll dust stick to the truth: she seduced my father. You want to hear the truth?”
“Your truth, you mean."
"One and the same."
“What choice do I have?"
"Right. You want me to do what you want, you have to listen to my story first." Norman pats the table across from him., flashes Tommy a big, shit-eating grin
"'Story’ is right." Tommy sighs, sits back down, won’t meet Norman’s eyes.
"There're true stories, and there're lesbo stories. About time you heard the true story."
Tommy looks at his father for a moment, thinking, I jus
have to sit here, keep my mouth shut. and take it one last time. That’s all I have to do. I’ll never have to see him again. Gesturing for Norman to continue, he says, “Go ahead, play top dog while you can. Prison has to be hard on your ego.”
Norman just smiles at the jibe, pleased with himself. "What’s she told you?"
"You know."
"Humor me."
Tommy sighs. "She told me your father sneaked into your bedroom and raped your wife. She didn't say if he was wearing his Silver Star.”
"Back then, when we married, I used to think she respected that Star. I thought she recognized what it stood for and was proud to have married into a family headed by the man who earned that Star. Then, after it happened, I thought the Star was part of what turned her on. Not the Star itself, though it is a pretty thing, and Lord knows, women are dazzled by pretty, shiny things. But no, what I thought was that she was turned on by knowing dad was a hero.
"The soldiers from WW2 have a kind of swagger that comes from having done what everyone knows is right. Women find that attractive. They want a man who's sure of himself, and nothing makes a man surer of himself than marching down the avenue while everyone cheers for what he did. The guys from W W 2 got that. Dad got that. And he had that medal, sitting up there on the mantle, showing he deserved it."
"Not like you."
"You want to rub my nose in it, Tommy?" Norman says through tight lips, glaring at his son. "No, I didn't get any medal. No parade. We were just dumped back into town, where we conspired with those who'd never gone to forget we ever had.
"Anyway," Norman exhales, relaxing again, "I’d listen to dad tell his war stories, and I could see how bright your mother's eyes got, looking at the man recounting his heroic deeds. And I'd think, 'Hey, I did those things, too. I've got the same stories to tell.' But I never did—tell my stories, I mean—because when we did it, in Nam, it wasn't heroic. It wasn't something to pass on to the next generation."
"So you just sat there, envy and self-pity oozing out of every pore.”
Norman stares at his son. "Too bad I haven't been around to smash in that smart-ass mouth of yours. Would've done you a world of good."
"Just like missing out on hunting, huh? All those other great father-son things we never shared."
"She's really done a number on you, hasn't she? I'm both a wimp and a redneck—right?"
Tommy looks at his father, the anger easing out of his eyes. "No," he finally says, looking down at the table, "you're just screwed up in your own way, just like the rest of us. . . . So, can we just get this over with?" he asks, resigned but still impatient. "I'm listening."
"Where was I?”
"You thought mom was turned on by your dad's . . . swagger."
"Swagger, that's right. Anyway, she was turned on, and she started showing dad she was turned on. Easy enough to do, us all living in the same house. She'd oooh and aaah at his stories. I bet she doesn’t tell her bleeding-heart, lesbo friends how she hung on dad's war stories, does she? Doesn't want them to know she got wet listening to stories of men sweating and fighting and killing, does she? That'd make her a real woman."
Tommy doesn't rise to the bait.
"Anyway, she started fixing herself up pretty for him, too."
"How do you know she wasn't doing that for you? You and grandpa were both there, weren't you? You went to work together, came home together. What makes you think she wasn't fixing herself up to please you?"
"Haven't you had a girlfriend yet?”
"Me?"
"You're old enough to get turned on by some budding beauty, some girl you want to feel she can't live without you."
"I know what you mean, but"
"So, when you have someone who you want to feel that way about you, you know whether she does or doesn't. You notice things. Your mother doesn't think I could do that, does she? Says I'm ‘insensitive'—right? Isn't that what women say all men are: insensitive? Well, it didn't take a degree in psychology to see how she looked at dad. Or the way she always catered to him: getting his beer first, serving his food first, putting the newspaper by his chair, remembering what TV shows he liked. Anybody could see what was happening."
"It was his house, wasn't it? Wasn't he head of the family?"
"Hey, this wasn't some herd of deer, where the head buck gets everything, and the other bucks are shit out of luck. Dad had his wife. Your mother was my wife. She was supposed to look after my needs, respect me, oooh and aaah at my stories, make me feel I was the one made her life worth living. She was supposed to put me first—not him.
“And there was more. . . . She was always showing herself to
him.”
"C’mon.”
"You just listen. You don't know. All you've ever heard is the story she feeds her friends, like she never was a real woman, just a victim. Well, she was no victim. She'd leave the door open just enough so dad could see her dressing, putting on her make-up, coming out of the shower."
"Maybe she was doing that for you."
"No, with me she was already going lesbo. Once our bedroom door was closed, she was the ice queen. She'd wrap herself up in a thick bathrobe, sleep in the damn thing, with her underwear on, even wear socks to bed, for Christ's Bake. Me, she did everything to turn off. You should be thankful I don't take ‘No’ for an answer."
“Thanks for nothing. . . . That fits, though. She says you raped her, too. A Stuart tradition, I guess."
"I bet she does. That’s what those non-women all want to believe, isn't it? I mean, any time they have sex with a man, it has to be rape, or they'd have to admit they're women.
"Anyway, if all she means is that I had to force the issue, she's right. She was eager enough early on. We did it up right on our honeymoon, that's for sure. 'Honeymooned at the beach but never saw the sand.' But once we were back home, she started shutting down the candy shop—for me, that is. But I was her husband. I was entitled, and when I was in the mood, I insisted on my rights.
“Oh, she tried to keep me from getting in the mood, with those bulky bathrobes and her frigid ways. But I'm no queer, and she couldn't turn me into one. And I wasn't going to look for it on the street, either. I didn't have to, I had a wife.”
“That excuses rape?”
“That makes it not rape. That makes it consensual: she consented at the altar.”
"Jeesus!"
"Anyway, like I said, you'd better be glad I stood up for my rights."
“I'd be your brother, huh?—not your son."
"Hmph," Norman snorts. "I've got to give you that one."
"How do you know I'm not—your brother, I mean? If mom was coming on to grandpa, I could be the result."
"Could've been. She hasn't been telling you they never did it, has she? She wouldn't dare deny that."
"Just that one time."
"Hah! One time, my ass."
"Then it is possible."
"What's possible is she could've polluted this world by breeding bastards with her own father-in-law. That's what's possible. She seduced him, and not just once."
"She calls it ‘rape'."
"Lesbos say all men are rapists. . . . He didn't rape her; she sucked that fine man—that hero—into the mud of her perversion. She froze out her husband, the one man God's sanctified her having sex with, so she could turn to forbidden fruit, sex with her own father-in-law, and with women, maybe even pimps and horses."
"You're sick."
Norman studies Tommy again. "A boy should stick up for his mother. I'll give you that. But she doesn't deserve it. I hope you see that someday. Then maybe you'll stand up for your father."
"Whoever he is."
"No, boy, I'm your father."
"How can you be sure? You said it happened more than once."
"That's for sure."
“So?”
"I popped you in the oven before she started seducing your grandpa."
Tommy stares at Norman, then shrugs. "We done now? Can we get on"
“We're not done," Norman interrupts.
"What now?" Tommy sighs.
"What's she told you about—y'know—that night?"
"The night grandpa raped her?"
"The night she says he raped her. What else has she told you?"
“You mean how you went crazy? How you shot him? How you shot grandma when she went to help him? All the stuff that's on the record?”
"That's it? That's what you think you know? She's never told you different?"
"That’s what we all know: the cops, the prosecutor, the judge. That's why you're here.”
"That's what you all think you know. I'm not here because of what happened that night. I'm here because of what people think happened, because of what she told them happened."
"You're going to tell me mom shot them? Is that your story now?"
“No, that’s not it. She's responsible, all right. That’s why she's turned queer. She knows her seducing him killed your grandpa, and that's why she can't face men anymore. With lesbos, she can hide from her guilt, because they're sure women are never wrong. But she knows. She's responsible, even though she didn't pull the trigger."
“You pulled the trigger, but she's responsible. Is that it? Who’s in denial now?"
"I didn't pull the trigger."
"C'mon.”
"I didn't."
"Then why didn't you ever tell anybody you didn't? Why did you accept the deal to plead guilty? Why have you held onto this story for sixteen years?—to dump on me now."
"I'm telling you now, because you'll be coming of age soon. A boy needs his mother, so I've waited. But a man needs the truth. I gave you what you needed then, and I'm giving you what you need now."
“You're saying you protected mom back then? Protected her for my sake?”
"Exactly."
Tommy studies his father, still combative but not quite sure what to make of him. "I thought you weren't into mind games."
"I'm not, but hearing the truth for the first time—after you've lived your whole life with lies--that can mess with your head."
"Yeah, well, you said mom didn't pull the trigger—right?"
“Right.”
"So, she wouldn't be the one in jail, no matter what you said."
“True. But they would've taken you away from her. They would've said she wasn't a fit mother. You would've been raised by strangers, grown up without any family to be part of, proud of."
"Oh yeah, like I can really be proud of having a grandfather who raped my mother and a father who killed his parents. I've really been holding my head high having you two in my family tree."
"At least you’ve had your mother."
"Damn straight!"
"No, not that way. Not that she was innocent. Just that you believed she was innocent, a victim, and everybody else did, too. That's all it took for you to have your mother and accept her—love her—so she could raise you, care for you, so you wouldn’t grow up with nothing and no one."
"I'm surprised you don't think that would've been better for me."
"Nothing's worse than having no one, especially when you're a kid. I took the lesser evil for you. That's the best life offered, so I took it. Don't forget, I didn't know she was a pervert, back then. It wasn't your grandma she seduced. But now it's time for you to put away your childhood. You’ll be a man soon; it's time you knew the truth."
"As you believe it."
"As I know it. As it is."
"Sure, whatever," Tommy says, waving his hand dismissively.
Norman again stares at the boy, anger ebbing into regret. He sighs, resumes. "Like I said, your mother seduced grandpa. Can you imagine how that chewed at grandma?"
"What?"
“Don't you ever think of her? Imagine what it must've been like for her, watching her own daughter-in-law, the mother of her beloved baby grandson, coming on to her husband, in her own home."
Tommy looks down at his hands again, feeling guilty because he's never thought of looking at that night through his grandma's eyes. "Yeah. well, . . . I never knew her, never had a chance to. For me, she's always been just—y'know—‘the unlucky bystander,’ like in a drive-by shooting."
"She was a lot more than that."
"Yeah," Tommy sighs, conceding, "I'm sure she was."
"So, your dad isn't a hulking, mindless, insensitive cave man, after all. Surprised?”
"Nobody's a complete asshole."
"Well, that's something, I guess. I'd better tell you the truth before your ears close up again.”
“That's me, all ears."
Norman snorts and shakes his head before continuing. “No complete assholes, huh? I sure hope so. Anyway, I'd gone out that evening, over to Ralph Cooper's to help him work on his car. We had a few beers after, and I didn't get back home till late, around eleven.
"The house was dark. I tried to be quiet, but I slipped on a toy you'd left out. You remember that red fire engine?"
"Uhhh, no.”
"Well, you had one. She probably threw it away, afterwards. Anyway, I stepped on the damn thing. My feet went out from under me, and I went down hard. Knocked the lamp off a table. Made a helluva lot of noise,
"I heard doors opening upstairs. Knew I was in for it. Mom really liked that lamp, and she was gonna smell beer on my breath. So, even though it wasn't my fault, I was gonna catch it.
“Then I heard, 'You son of a bitch, you old son of a bitch.' It was mom, but she wasn't yelling at me. She wasn't yelling at all, like she would've if she'd been calling to me, downstairs. She was hissing. Then there were shots, one, two, three of them, one right after the other. Your mother screamed.
"I scrambled to my feet, ran for the stairs, flipping on the lights as I headed up. There, I found mom standing, looking down at dad. She had his revolver in her hand. He was laying in the doorway to our bedroom, your mother's and mine.
“’You know what he's been doing, the old goat. You must have known. Why didn't you stop it?’ mom spat out, turning to glare at me. Then she turned to look at dad again, laying there, and it was like all the anger whooshed out of her. She sagged; I thought she was gonna collapse. But she didn't. She just said, quietly, sorrowfully, 'It had to stop. It just had to. How could we raise the boy here, with him doing that?’
"Then she cried, 'Oh, God! Oh, God! I can't face it. I just can't.' She raised the pistol, and before I could stop her, she shot herself in the heart."
“Jeesus,” Tommy breathes.
"She never said anything to your mother. She never even looked at her, even though it was all her fault. I've never understood that. She blamed dad, and me—not your mother. I don’t know; maybe she felt it was up to the men to take charge. That's the way she was brought up—that men are in charge. So, whatever happened, it was our responsibility, no matter what the temptation, no matter how evil the temptress. I just don't know; I can't explain how she got it that mixed up.
"Anyway, she fell backwards, on top of dad, suddenly, like somebody had yanked her backwards, her blood spurting out of her chest, again and again and again, but not for long. She never said anything more, no final words, nothing to guide me, nothing but a blank stare and the, throbbing, ebbing geyser from her chest. She never thrashed about, never struggled against it. She just lay there, accepting it, glad, I think, that it was coming to an end.
“I picked up the gun, looked at your mother. She wasn't wearing any bulky bathrobe now. Wasn't wearing anything at all. She was standing behind the bed, motionless, not even trying to cover herself. Her beaver was still wet, glistening. She hadn't let me see that in a long, lonb time.
"She was staring at me. Just stood there, staring at me. Didn't even try to cover herself. Just stood there. Now that you know, you ask her what she was thinking. She's never told me. It was like she was stuck there, a deer caught in the headlights. Except she was no innocent deer on the road. She was a naked bitch, caught in the light, standing behind our bed.
"Did she think I was gonna shoot her? I thought I would, thought I should. That's not why I picked up the gun, though. I have no idea why I picked it up. But once I had it in my hand, and I looked at her, standing there naked, not even trying to cover herself, shameful but shameless, that was my first thought: Kill the bitch!”
"Why didn't you? If it really happened that way.”
“I heard you crying," Norman says softly.
"C'mon."
"You'd probably been crying for a while. Maybe my fall woke you. If not, the shots would've. Anyway, you were crying . . . for your mother. So, I couldn't shoot her.
"'Get your fucking bathrobe on!’ I yelled at the bitch. 'Take care of Tommy. I'll call the cops.'
"After I made the call and she had you quiet, I told her to tell the police dad raped her and that when she told me, I lost it, shot him, and accidentally shot mom, too. The cops believed it. Everybody believed it. I guess a Silver Star doesn't count for much, after all."
"What?"
"Nobody doubted dad raped her. He was a hero—had that medal to prove it—still, everybody accepted he was a rapist. Go figure."
"He was banging his own daughter-in-law, according to you—and not just once. Is that what heroes do?"
"Being a hero doesn’t make a man a saint, or mean he can't be a victim. We'll see how you do when Eve comes knocking at your door. Then we'll know if you have the right to judge your grandpa.
"He was a hero, a man's man, but still just a man. She took advantage of that, to cut him down. You see, she hated his being a hero. It turned her on, but she hated it, too, hated it because it turned her on. It took me a long time to see that. But that's what really makes her a lesbo: they can't stand men being heroes. So, she had to cut him down, make him sin. That showed she had the power."
"You really expect me to believe this crap?"
"It's the truth."
"Oh yeah? The truth makes sense; this doesn't. You said the rape story was your idea—right?"
“Yes.”
"Why would you do that?"
"I told you: so you'd have your mother to raise you."
"And I'm supposed to be grateful?"
"That would be appropriate."
"Award you your very own Silver Star. That's what this is all about, isn't it?" Tommy says with satisfaction.
"What?"
"Making yourself out a hero. Getting me to feel I owe you."
"You do owe me. I'm your father; you wouldn't be here without me. And like a father should, I've made sacrifices for you, for your upbringing. I did the best I could."
"Did you? You weren't there for me. All these years, when the other kids' dads were taking them to ball games or helping them with their homework, you weren't there. That trip down memory lane you took a while back, I'll never be able to do that. Not that I'd want memories of hunting or any of that macho bullshit. But there could've been other things we did together, things that would've made good memories. But I've got nothing there, a big zero—that's what I have to thank you for."
"I'm sorry about that, too. . . . I am," Norman says, knowing it’s lame. He quickly regroups, though, reasserts his story. “I was locked up here. Wasn't anything I could do about that. But I didn't abandon you. I was here for you. You just couldn't know that. Sometimes life gives us nothing but shitty options to choose from."
"But it was a choice."
“Yes.”
"You could've chosen something else."
"What?"
"You could've told this story years ago. When mom came out of the closet, why didn't you tell it then? You weren't happy having your son raised by lesbians—right? Why not tell your story then, save me from that 'unnatural' home?”
“It wouldn’t have worked. Just telling the truth won't do now. I'd need new evidence to get a trial, but there isn't any. No smoking gun. She could confirm it, but she'd never do that. So, there wasn't anything I could do to get you out. I made my choice that night, and we've both had to live with it, till now."
“That's what really doesn't make sense. I mean, your coming up with that story that night, that's just bullshit. All you had to do was tell the cops the truth, and you'd have been there to raise me yourself. You wouldn't have gone to jail, and I would've had a father. That's the truth."
"I would've been nothing, less than nothing. Once people knew she was fucking dad—had frozen me out—I'd have been a laughing stock. I couldn't have stayed home, couldn't have been a father to you, not with people thinking I couldn't even satisfy my own wife."
"You'd rather they think you're a murderer?"
"Yeah, absolutely."
“You've got one fucked-up code of honor.”
"A man has to have respect. Without it, nothing matters."
"Hey," Tommy says, a light dawning, "that's why you're so hung up on mom coming out, isn't it?"'
“What?"
"It shows you're not a man—right? You think that's what people think of you, because your wife became a lesbian."
"I was here, in jail, when she turned queer," Norman responds, defensive. "You can't blame me for that. Nothing I could do about that."
“I’m not blaming you. I don't have any problem with mom's life. You’re the one has the problem. You’re the one thinks her life reflects on you."
"That'd suit her just fine, wouldn't it? That why she turned queer” To dis me?"
"You're so sick. Like everything mom does has to center on you. Stupid. Anyway, now we both know that whatever you did that night, you did for yourself, for your macho-stupid idea of yourself. It wasn't for me, and I don't owe you one damn thing for it. No medal, no nothing."
"It was for you." Norman pauses, takes a deep breath, exhales. "Okay, for me, too. I'll give you that. But there wasn't any either/or there. It was just one choice for the both of us."
"So you say. I still think this is all fiction. It's just a story you've made up to put down mom, make her seem guilty."
Norman again studies Tommy, feeling frustrated, trying to figure out how to break through to the boy. "Think I'm trying to turn you against her, huh?"
"Exactly."
"Just like she's turned you against me."
Tommy stares at his father, angry at having been suckered. “That's just a cheap trick. I think for myself.”
"You do, huh?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then why do you hate me so? If she's a victim, I'm the one who avenged her—remember? I'm the one who shot the man who raped her, even though he was my own father. Why hasn't she brought you up to honor me for that?"
"You raped her, too--remember.,"
"C'mon, you said you think for yourself. I was her husband; I was entitled. No, the reason she hasn't brought you up to honor me for avenging her honor is that she knows it didn't happen. And knows she had no honor to avenge. But she can't face that, and she hates me because I know what she is, was, did. Turning you against me, that's her way of getting even with me for what I know."
"Well, like you said, there's no smoking gun. There's her story, and there’s yours. That's all. And neither one of them is what I came here to listen to or debate."
"But now you know both stories. Now, you're gonna have to think about them. I can't undo in one day what she's been doing to you for sixteen years, but it's time to start. So, I planted the seed. You'll be a man soon, carrying on the Stuart name. It's time for you to face the truth and make your choice. Time to decide what kind of man you're gonna be."
Tommy looks his father in the eyes, then gives him an ironic smile. "At last!" he exclaims. "You see, I've already made that choice. That's why I came here today." He pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket, unfolds it, pushes it across the table. "All I need is your signature on this, and I can start on that choice without waiting till I'm eighteen.”
“You joining up?” Norman asks hopefully, surprised but happy at the thought.
"No," Tommy laughs, "I'm sure not doing that." Just shows how little you know me, though, he adds to himself.
Norman looks at the paper. It's a form. The heading reads: PERMISSION FOR MINOR TO ENTER SEXUAL IDENTITY COUNSELING. "What's this?" he asks, looking up at Tommy, unwilling to comprehend.
"Just what it says."
"You telling me you’re . . . queer?" Norman whispers.
“I want a sex-change operation, but I have to go through this psychiatric analysis first.?
"No!" Norman bellows as he launches himself across the table. He grabs Tommy by the throat, his momentum carrying them both onto the floor.
Two guards rush in, pull Norman off, slam him against the wall.
“Never!” Norman yells, "Never!," shaking his head back and forth, struggling to get loose.
Tommy picks himself up, stands rubbing his neck, looking at his father. "If you want me to respect your truth, you have to respect mine.”
Norman continues to struggle, desperate to get his hands on the boy.
"I guess you won’t sign the form, huh?"
"I'll shove it up her ass.”
"I told the counselor you wouldn’t sign. But I’m still going to do it. You may hold me up for a year, but that’s all. I'm going to get a fresh start, be the persan I’m supposed to be. And you know what?"
Norman just glares at Tommy.
"When all the surgery's done, I'm going to send you a great big poster picture of me in a thong bikini, with big boobs, high heels, fantastic make-up, and that Silver Star stuck between my legs. You can show all your friends here what a gorgeous daughter you sacrificed your life for. You can tell them how you made sure she was brought up to be . . . all that she can be."
Tommy starts to leave.
"You son of a bitch!" Norman yells at Tommy’s back. "You won’t make me a laughing stock, not after all I've sacrificed for YOU. Somehow, some way, I’ll get to you, and her. You perverts can't hide from me. You'll see. You little bastard!"
Tommy turns and studies Norman straining against the guards. “Too bad you can't see yourself . . . for what you are."
"You!”
"Yeah, me! Me! Me! Me! Not what you've wanted me to be, what you’ve fantasized I would be so I could fulfill your fantasy of yourself, what you've always wanted to be. No, it’s just gonna be me." Tommy sticks his arms out, makes a full turn.
"You tell your mother"
"I'll tell her nothing."
The two men glare at each other, but Norman is just tense now, no longer straining to get loose.
Tommy blows out some air. "Too bad, dad. I can get out of my prison; it’s just a body, something easily changed. You're stuck in yours, because it’s who you are.”
“You gonna behave?” one of the guards asks Norman.
"Yeah," Norman exhales. "I'm cool."
"Then sit down and stay down." The guards plant Norman back in his chair, push the table back in front of him, right Tommy's chair. "You too, son. You sit too."
"No,” Tommy says, “I'm leaving."
"Tell me one thing first," Norman says.
"What’s that?”
"After this operation, you won't—y’know—be able to have kids, will you?”
“No.”
"Either way?"
"No." Tommy laughs.
"Good." Norman leans back, content.
-You don’t want grandkids?" Tommy asks with a grin.
-No. This way, when you're dead, the shame will be over."
Tommy's face hardens. "Think you're going to outlive me, old man?”
"Easy," Norman smiles. "You perverts overdose, get AIDS, commit suicide, kill each other off—nature's way of cleaning up the gene pool.”
Tommy stares at his father, then shrugs, starts to leave. With the door open, he looks back at his father. "Thanks for that much, anyway.”
“For what?”
"Confirming that a Stuart man is what I don’t want to be." Tommy passes through the door, closes it behind him.
Norman stares at the door, his face set but his eyes lost. "Get me out of here," he tells the guards.
"That's pretty funny, coming from you," Tommy responds, thinking, Why can't we just stick to what I'm here for?
"It's no joke," Norman says. "He was the kind of man a son—and grandson—could really look up to. He won a Silver star in W W 2, y‘know."
"Yeah, I know, and a medal of honor in the bedroom," Tommy says, meeting his father's eyes in a brief challenge before dropping his gaze to his hands drumming the table between them. Like any of it matters, anyway. … C’mon, c’mon, I want out of here.
"It was in Europe, driving the Nazis out of France," Norman continues, ignoring the Jibe. "His company never took prisoners—y'know that? He never talked about the details. He didn't try to impress you with gore. But don't get me wrong, he wasn't one of those guys who can't face up to that stuff, either. One of those guys who does what he has to do—what's right when the enemy's coming at you—but then he's crippled by nightmares, flashbacks, all that sort of stuff. Runs to the V.A. shrinks. Maybe eats his gun.
"No, dad did what was right and moved on. God, that must've been so great! Doing what you know—what everybody knows—is right, without question or hesitation. . . . Not like Nam, where nobody knew what was right, and everybody questioned everything.
“What were we doing? Who was the enemy? We were always second-guessing ourselves. Finally, we just ran ourselves into the ground trying to bite our tails while covering our ass. That's why we lost the war."
"Nobody holds that against you guys anymore. Now, like I”
“We did the same things he did, y'know,” Norman interrupts. “But did we get any medals? Didthe the country honor us for fighting evil? . . . Well, you know what we've had to live with.”
"Like I said, nobody cares about Vietnam anymore. It’s a different world now. We've got our own problems, our own lives to pull together. . . . We're not hung up on the past.”
Norman studies Tommy, not liking what he sees: the long, blonde hair, delicate features, smirky mouth, darting, pale blue eyes that never meet and hold his. "No," he finally sighs, "I guess you kids don't care, do you? Just sweep it under the rug, so you can get on with school and money, cars and girls. Having a good time now that times are good again. . . . But it isn't that simple, not as long as those of us who lived through Nam are still here. We can't forget."
"Fine,” Tommy snaps, thinking What’s the use? “Your generation thinks mine is self-absorbed. So what? I don’t care about that."
"You should. You should care what your elders think of you. We've already faced what you're gonna have to face. We can help you out."
"That's just why I'm here," Tommy says brightly, seizing the opening. "Like I was trying to tell you,"
"Right," Norman interrupts, "I got off track, didn't I? I was telling you about your grandpa."
"That's not what”
"I know," Norman interrupts again, enjoying the power Tommy's need gives him, "but it's still a shame you never got to know him. He taught me so much. Could've done the same for you.
"The greatest thing was hunting. It's hard work, y'know, stalking deer through the woods, but there's no high like standing over the animal, looking down on it as it looks up at you, breathing its last because of you, because of your tracking, your marksmanship, your skill. That's when you know you've met the test of the hunt, proved yourself worthy."
"Worthy of what?" Tommy interrupts. He knows he shouldn't. This can only move them farther from what he's here for, but this journey down memory lane annoys him. He will never have such memories to cherish and embellish—and that's all Norman fault. He just can’t let Norman get away with it, enjoying what he's made sure his son, his very own son, will never enjoy.
"'Worthy of what?"' Norman repeats, shaking his head, disappointed. "Boy, you sure should've been taught that by now. . . . Worthy of being human, that's what. Worthy of being given dominion over this earth, of being trusted with the power to subdue the land and all that walks on it, flies over it, or swims in its waters. That's what you prove when you win the hunt.”
"With a big enough gun you can kill anything and never have to worry about being killed yourself. That's all I see." Tommy again shoots his father a challenging glance, then looks away.
Norman gives Tommy a disgusted, dismissive look. "A real Bambi-lover, aren't you? . . . Good thing dad never lived to see the way you've turned out."
"What would he have done? Shot me to save his family's honor?"
"It's your family, too. Don't forget that. That's still my blood running through your veins. Your mother may have thinned it out, but it's still there. You're carrying on the Stuart name."
"Let's not get onto mom, okay?”
"Oh, no, let's not get onto your sainted mother! . . . She wasn't Little Miss Bleeding Heart, y'know, not when we first met. If I'd brought home some hippie chick, dad would've taken me out in the woods to save the family name. And he'd've been right, too. No, she ate meat then and saluted the flag. She was a good Christian, too: followed the Lord's Word and knew the natural order of things . . . back then.”
“Okay, okay, let's just forget it. Like Vietnam, all that's ancient history now. It's not why I'm here.”
“No, we're not gonna forget it. We're never gonna forget it. It's always gonna be there. You can't disown your past.”
"I don't have to drown in it, either." Tommy kicks back from the table, strides to the wall behind him, glares at Norman from there.
Norman stares back, pleased Tommy has some fight in him. "Lenno was Joking the other night about some guy who's suing his girlfriend for getting pregnant without his permission. He's charging her with fraud. That's the way I feel, and I bet there're plenty of other guys feel just the same. Your mother was a fraud."
"I didn't come down here to slog through this shit again," Tommy interrupts.
"You want what you came down here for, you're gonna have to take it, . . . like a man.”
‘Son of a bitch!”
"Yeah, well, that's what you are, I'm sorry to say, because that's what she is. . . . Your cross to bear."
Tommy wants to smash Norman's mouth, kick him in the balls. But he can't do that, and doesn't know what to say.
“Like I was saying," Norman resumes with a satisfied smile, stretching out in his chair, not even looking at Tommy now, "she came on like a God-fearing, decent, American woman. Someone who knew right from wrong.
"We first met at a V.F.W. dinner dance. She tell you?"
"She admits her mistakes."
Norman dismisses the jibe with a wave. "She was there, just like all the other girls, eating steak, drinking beer, looking to catch herself a soldier. Not some hippie with long hair and love beads, eating rabbit food. And she wasn't eyeing the other girls, either."
“So people change. So what?”
"No!" Norman sits up again, glares at Tommy. “When a woman marries, she takes a vow: 'Till death do us part.' She swears that before God, with her family and friends there, in front of her community—everybody who counts. Before she takes that vow, she can try different things, go looking to 'find herself,' if she was unlucky enough not to be taught that at home, or church, or school. But when a woman marries, she takes her place, by her husband, to be his wife, bear his children, make a home for them all."
"Barefoot and pregnant!"
"She tell you I wanted that? . . . Not true. A wife can have her own interests, a job even. But when a woman marries, she has to be honest. She can't pretend to be one kind of thing, just so she can catch herself a man, then once she's caught him, turn into something else. . . . That's the worst kind of fraud."
"Isn't that a two-way street?"
"Sure it is. She tell you I changed on her? She lie to you about that, too?”
"It's more like she didn't really understand who you were—I mean, before you married."
"I was always up front with her. That's just the kind of guy I am, the kind of man my dad raised me to be. I love my country. I go to church. I went to work every morning and brought my paycheck home—most of it, anyway. I know who I am; I know right from wrong; and I'm not about to turn queer. I took my vow with her, and I lived up to it."
“Fine, let's just say it was her mistake, then. Okay?"
"'Loss.’ It was her loss."
“Whatever. Paint the past any way you want. I'm not here to fightover who did what, said what, is responsible for what. I don't care about any of that stuff." Looking down, Tommy thinks, If I can just start over, pull free of all this crap and start over.
Norman studies him, then says, "Think you can just pacify me, huh Tommy? Just say what I want to hear, so you can get what you want. Is that what your mother and her lesbo friends have taught you? Is that what they've raised you to be? A spineless wimp who'll say or do whatever it takes to get what he wants."
“Better that than a Bible-thumping redneck who”
"No, it's not better, not better at all. Maybe we Stuarts aren't liberated, over-educated, oh-so-sophisticated career nonwomen like your mother's friends, but we know right from wrong. We respect God's Word and the natural order."
"Is that the order where a father rapes his daughter-in-law? Or is that one of your God's commandments?" Tommy slashes back, glaring at Norman.
"Well, there it is. . . . Is that what she says turned her queer? She blame dad for that, too? The dead make handy scapegoats."
"You denying it?"
"Which?"
"That he raped her. That's why you're in jail, isn't it?"
"That doesn't change its being a lie. . . . She came on to him."'
"You think I'm going to believe that?"
"Probably not. She's had too many years to turn you against me. Hell, job she's done onyou, I should tell you he did rape her, then you'd believe he didn't. But I'll leave the mind games to your mother. Me, I'll dust stick to the truth: she seduced my father. You want to hear the truth?”
“Your truth, you mean."
"One and the same."
“What choice do I have?"
"Right. You want me to do what you want, you have to listen to my story first." Norman pats the table across from him., flashes Tommy a big, shit-eating grin
"'Story’ is right." Tommy sighs, sits back down, won’t meet Norman’s eyes.
"There're true stories, and there're lesbo stories. About time you heard the true story."
Tommy looks at his father for a moment, thinking, I jus
have to sit here, keep my mouth shut. and take it one last time. That’s all I have to do. I’ll never have to see him again. Gesturing for Norman to continue, he says, “Go ahead, play top dog while you can. Prison has to be hard on your ego.”
Norman just smiles at the jibe, pleased with himself. "What’s she told you?"
"You know."
"Humor me."
Tommy sighs. "She told me your father sneaked into your bedroom and raped your wife. She didn't say if he was wearing his Silver Star.”
"Back then, when we married, I used to think she respected that Star. I thought she recognized what it stood for and was proud to have married into a family headed by the man who earned that Star. Then, after it happened, I thought the Star was part of what turned her on. Not the Star itself, though it is a pretty thing, and Lord knows, women are dazzled by pretty, shiny things. But no, what I thought was that she was turned on by knowing dad was a hero.
"The soldiers from WW2 have a kind of swagger that comes from having done what everyone knows is right. Women find that attractive. They want a man who's sure of himself, and nothing makes a man surer of himself than marching down the avenue while everyone cheers for what he did. The guys from W W 2 got that. Dad got that. And he had that medal, sitting up there on the mantle, showing he deserved it."
"Not like you."
"You want to rub my nose in it, Tommy?" Norman says through tight lips, glaring at his son. "No, I didn't get any medal. No parade. We were just dumped back into town, where we conspired with those who'd never gone to forget we ever had.
"Anyway," Norman exhales, relaxing again, "I’d listen to dad tell his war stories, and I could see how bright your mother's eyes got, looking at the man recounting his heroic deeds. And I'd think, 'Hey, I did those things, too. I've got the same stories to tell.' But I never did—tell my stories, I mean—because when we did it, in Nam, it wasn't heroic. It wasn't something to pass on to the next generation."
"So you just sat there, envy and self-pity oozing out of every pore.”
Norman stares at his son. "Too bad I haven't been around to smash in that smart-ass mouth of yours. Would've done you a world of good."
"Just like missing out on hunting, huh? All those other great father-son things we never shared."
"She's really done a number on you, hasn't she? I'm both a wimp and a redneck—right?"
Tommy looks at his father, the anger easing out of his eyes. "No," he finally says, looking down at the table, "you're just screwed up in your own way, just like the rest of us. . . . So, can we just get this over with?" he asks, resigned but still impatient. "I'm listening."
"Where was I?”
"You thought mom was turned on by your dad's . . . swagger."
"Swagger, that's right. Anyway, she was turned on, and she started showing dad she was turned on. Easy enough to do, us all living in the same house. She'd oooh and aaah at his stories. I bet she doesn’t tell her bleeding-heart, lesbo friends how she hung on dad's war stories, does she? Doesn't want them to know she got wet listening to stories of men sweating and fighting and killing, does she? That'd make her a real woman."
Tommy doesn't rise to the bait.
"Anyway, she started fixing herself up pretty for him, too."
"How do you know she wasn't doing that for you? You and grandpa were both there, weren't you? You went to work together, came home together. What makes you think she wasn't fixing herself up to please you?"
"Haven't you had a girlfriend yet?”
"Me?"
"You're old enough to get turned on by some budding beauty, some girl you want to feel she can't live without you."
"I know what you mean, but"
"So, when you have someone who you want to feel that way about you, you know whether she does or doesn't. You notice things. Your mother doesn't think I could do that, does she? Says I'm ‘insensitive'—right? Isn't that what women say all men are: insensitive? Well, it didn't take a degree in psychology to see how she looked at dad. Or the way she always catered to him: getting his beer first, serving his food first, putting the newspaper by his chair, remembering what TV shows he liked. Anybody could see what was happening."
"It was his house, wasn't it? Wasn't he head of the family?"
"Hey, this wasn't some herd of deer, where the head buck gets everything, and the other bucks are shit out of luck. Dad had his wife. Your mother was my wife. She was supposed to look after my needs, respect me, oooh and aaah at my stories, make me feel I was the one made her life worth living. She was supposed to put me first—not him.
“And there was more. . . . She was always showing herself to
him.”
"C’mon.”
"You just listen. You don't know. All you've ever heard is the story she feeds her friends, like she never was a real woman, just a victim. Well, she was no victim. She'd leave the door open just enough so dad could see her dressing, putting on her make-up, coming out of the shower."
"Maybe she was doing that for you."
"No, with me she was already going lesbo. Once our bedroom door was closed, she was the ice queen. She'd wrap herself up in a thick bathrobe, sleep in the damn thing, with her underwear on, even wear socks to bed, for Christ's Bake. Me, she did everything to turn off. You should be thankful I don't take ‘No’ for an answer."
“Thanks for nothing. . . . That fits, though. She says you raped her, too. A Stuart tradition, I guess."
"I bet she does. That’s what those non-women all want to believe, isn't it? I mean, any time they have sex with a man, it has to be rape, or they'd have to admit they're women.
"Anyway, if all she means is that I had to force the issue, she's right. She was eager enough early on. We did it up right on our honeymoon, that's for sure. 'Honeymooned at the beach but never saw the sand.' But once we were back home, she started shutting down the candy shop—for me, that is. But I was her husband. I was entitled, and when I was in the mood, I insisted on my rights.
“Oh, she tried to keep me from getting in the mood, with those bulky bathrobes and her frigid ways. But I'm no queer, and she couldn't turn me into one. And I wasn't going to look for it on the street, either. I didn't have to, I had a wife.”
“That excuses rape?”
“That makes it not rape. That makes it consensual: she consented at the altar.”
"Jeesus!"
"Anyway, like I said, you'd better be glad I stood up for my rights."
“I'd be your brother, huh?—not your son."
"Hmph," Norman snorts. "I've got to give you that one."
"How do you know I'm not—your brother, I mean? If mom was coming on to grandpa, I could be the result."
"Could've been. She hasn't been telling you they never did it, has she? She wouldn't dare deny that."
"Just that one time."
"Hah! One time, my ass."
"Then it is possible."
"What's possible is she could've polluted this world by breeding bastards with her own father-in-law. That's what's possible. She seduced him, and not just once."
"She calls it ‘rape'."
"Lesbos say all men are rapists. . . . He didn't rape her; she sucked that fine man—that hero—into the mud of her perversion. She froze out her husband, the one man God's sanctified her having sex with, so she could turn to forbidden fruit, sex with her own father-in-law, and with women, maybe even pimps and horses."
"You're sick."
Norman studies Tommy again. "A boy should stick up for his mother. I'll give you that. But she doesn't deserve it. I hope you see that someday. Then maybe you'll stand up for your father."
"Whoever he is."
"No, boy, I'm your father."
"How can you be sure? You said it happened more than once."
"That's for sure."
“So?”
"I popped you in the oven before she started seducing your grandpa."
Tommy stares at Norman, then shrugs. "We done now? Can we get on"
“We're not done," Norman interrupts.
"What now?" Tommy sighs.
"What's she told you about—y'know—that night?"
"The night grandpa raped her?"
"The night she says he raped her. What else has she told you?"
“You mean how you went crazy? How you shot him? How you shot grandma when she went to help him? All the stuff that's on the record?”
"That's it? That's what you think you know? She's never told you different?"
"That’s what we all know: the cops, the prosecutor, the judge. That's why you're here.”
"That's what you all think you know. I'm not here because of what happened that night. I'm here because of what people think happened, because of what she told them happened."
"You're going to tell me mom shot them? Is that your story now?"
“No, that’s not it. She's responsible, all right. That’s why she's turned queer. She knows her seducing him killed your grandpa, and that's why she can't face men anymore. With lesbos, she can hide from her guilt, because they're sure women are never wrong. But she knows. She's responsible, even though she didn't pull the trigger."
“You pulled the trigger, but she's responsible. Is that it? Who’s in denial now?"
"I didn't pull the trigger."
"C'mon.”
"I didn't."
"Then why didn't you ever tell anybody you didn't? Why did you accept the deal to plead guilty? Why have you held onto this story for sixteen years?—to dump on me now."
"I'm telling you now, because you'll be coming of age soon. A boy needs his mother, so I've waited. But a man needs the truth. I gave you what you needed then, and I'm giving you what you need now."
“You're saying you protected mom back then? Protected her for my sake?”
"Exactly."
Tommy studies his father, still combative but not quite sure what to make of him. "I thought you weren't into mind games."
"I'm not, but hearing the truth for the first time—after you've lived your whole life with lies--that can mess with your head."
"Yeah, well, you said mom didn't pull the trigger—right?"
“Right.”
"So, she wouldn't be the one in jail, no matter what you said."
“True. But they would've taken you away from her. They would've said she wasn't a fit mother. You would've been raised by strangers, grown up without any family to be part of, proud of."
"Oh yeah, like I can really be proud of having a grandfather who raped my mother and a father who killed his parents. I've really been holding my head high having you two in my family tree."
"At least you’ve had your mother."
"Damn straight!"
"No, not that way. Not that she was innocent. Just that you believed she was innocent, a victim, and everybody else did, too. That's all it took for you to have your mother and accept her—love her—so she could raise you, care for you, so you wouldn’t grow up with nothing and no one."
"I'm surprised you don't think that would've been better for me."
"Nothing's worse than having no one, especially when you're a kid. I took the lesser evil for you. That's the best life offered, so I took it. Don't forget, I didn't know she was a pervert, back then. It wasn't your grandma she seduced. But now it's time for you to put away your childhood. You’ll be a man soon; it's time you knew the truth."
"As you believe it."
"As I know it. As it is."
"Sure, whatever," Tommy says, waving his hand dismissively.
Norman again stares at the boy, anger ebbing into regret. He sighs, resumes. "Like I said, your mother seduced grandpa. Can you imagine how that chewed at grandma?"
"What?"
“Don't you ever think of her? Imagine what it must've been like for her, watching her own daughter-in-law, the mother of her beloved baby grandson, coming on to her husband, in her own home."
Tommy looks down at his hands again, feeling guilty because he's never thought of looking at that night through his grandma's eyes. "Yeah. well, . . . I never knew her, never had a chance to. For me, she's always been just—y'know—‘the unlucky bystander,’ like in a drive-by shooting."
"She was a lot more than that."
"Yeah," Tommy sighs, conceding, "I'm sure she was."
"So, your dad isn't a hulking, mindless, insensitive cave man, after all. Surprised?”
"Nobody's a complete asshole."
"Well, that's something, I guess. I'd better tell you the truth before your ears close up again.”
“That's me, all ears."
Norman snorts and shakes his head before continuing. “No complete assholes, huh? I sure hope so. Anyway, I'd gone out that evening, over to Ralph Cooper's to help him work on his car. We had a few beers after, and I didn't get back home till late, around eleven.
"The house was dark. I tried to be quiet, but I slipped on a toy you'd left out. You remember that red fire engine?"
"Uhhh, no.”
"Well, you had one. She probably threw it away, afterwards. Anyway, I stepped on the damn thing. My feet went out from under me, and I went down hard. Knocked the lamp off a table. Made a helluva lot of noise,
"I heard doors opening upstairs. Knew I was in for it. Mom really liked that lamp, and she was gonna smell beer on my breath. So, even though it wasn't my fault, I was gonna catch it.
“Then I heard, 'You son of a bitch, you old son of a bitch.' It was mom, but she wasn't yelling at me. She wasn't yelling at all, like she would've if she'd been calling to me, downstairs. She was hissing. Then there were shots, one, two, three of them, one right after the other. Your mother screamed.
"I scrambled to my feet, ran for the stairs, flipping on the lights as I headed up. There, I found mom standing, looking down at dad. She had his revolver in her hand. He was laying in the doorway to our bedroom, your mother's and mine.
“’You know what he's been doing, the old goat. You must have known. Why didn't you stop it?’ mom spat out, turning to glare at me. Then she turned to look at dad again, laying there, and it was like all the anger whooshed out of her. She sagged; I thought she was gonna collapse. But she didn't. She just said, quietly, sorrowfully, 'It had to stop. It just had to. How could we raise the boy here, with him doing that?’
"Then she cried, 'Oh, God! Oh, God! I can't face it. I just can't.' She raised the pistol, and before I could stop her, she shot herself in the heart."
“Jeesus,” Tommy breathes.
"She never said anything to your mother. She never even looked at her, even though it was all her fault. I've never understood that. She blamed dad, and me—not your mother. I don’t know; maybe she felt it was up to the men to take charge. That's the way she was brought up—that men are in charge. So, whatever happened, it was our responsibility, no matter what the temptation, no matter how evil the temptress. I just don't know; I can't explain how she got it that mixed up.
"Anyway, she fell backwards, on top of dad, suddenly, like somebody had yanked her backwards, her blood spurting out of her chest, again and again and again, but not for long. She never said anything more, no final words, nothing to guide me, nothing but a blank stare and the, throbbing, ebbing geyser from her chest. She never thrashed about, never struggled against it. She just lay there, accepting it, glad, I think, that it was coming to an end.
“I picked up the gun, looked at your mother. She wasn't wearing any bulky bathrobe now. Wasn't wearing anything at all. She was standing behind the bed, motionless, not even trying to cover herself. Her beaver was still wet, glistening. She hadn't let me see that in a long, lonb time.
"She was staring at me. Just stood there, staring at me. Didn't even try to cover herself. Just stood there. Now that you know, you ask her what she was thinking. She's never told me. It was like she was stuck there, a deer caught in the headlights. Except she was no innocent deer on the road. She was a naked bitch, caught in the light, standing behind our bed.
"Did she think I was gonna shoot her? I thought I would, thought I should. That's not why I picked up the gun, though. I have no idea why I picked it up. But once I had it in my hand, and I looked at her, standing there naked, not even trying to cover herself, shameful but shameless, that was my first thought: Kill the bitch!”
"Why didn't you? If it really happened that way.”
“I heard you crying," Norman says softly.
"C'mon."
"You'd probably been crying for a while. Maybe my fall woke you. If not, the shots would've. Anyway, you were crying . . . for your mother. So, I couldn't shoot her.
"'Get your fucking bathrobe on!’ I yelled at the bitch. 'Take care of Tommy. I'll call the cops.'
"After I made the call and she had you quiet, I told her to tell the police dad raped her and that when she told me, I lost it, shot him, and accidentally shot mom, too. The cops believed it. Everybody believed it. I guess a Silver Star doesn't count for much, after all."
"What?"
"Nobody doubted dad raped her. He was a hero—had that medal to prove it—still, everybody accepted he was a rapist. Go figure."
"He was banging his own daughter-in-law, according to you—and not just once. Is that what heroes do?"
"Being a hero doesn’t make a man a saint, or mean he can't be a victim. We'll see how you do when Eve comes knocking at your door. Then we'll know if you have the right to judge your grandpa.
"He was a hero, a man's man, but still just a man. She took advantage of that, to cut him down. You see, she hated his being a hero. It turned her on, but she hated it, too, hated it because it turned her on. It took me a long time to see that. But that's what really makes her a lesbo: they can't stand men being heroes. So, she had to cut him down, make him sin. That showed she had the power."
"You really expect me to believe this crap?"
"It's the truth."
"Oh yeah? The truth makes sense; this doesn't. You said the rape story was your idea—right?"
“Yes.”
"Why would you do that?"
"I told you: so you'd have your mother to raise you."
"And I'm supposed to be grateful?"
"That would be appropriate."
"Award you your very own Silver Star. That's what this is all about, isn't it?" Tommy says with satisfaction.
"What?"
"Making yourself out a hero. Getting me to feel I owe you."
"You do owe me. I'm your father; you wouldn't be here without me. And like a father should, I've made sacrifices for you, for your upbringing. I did the best I could."
"Did you? You weren't there for me. All these years, when the other kids' dads were taking them to ball games or helping them with their homework, you weren't there. That trip down memory lane you took a while back, I'll never be able to do that. Not that I'd want memories of hunting or any of that macho bullshit. But there could've been other things we did together, things that would've made good memories. But I've got nothing there, a big zero—that's what I have to thank you for."
"I'm sorry about that, too. . . . I am," Norman says, knowing it’s lame. He quickly regroups, though, reasserts his story. “I was locked up here. Wasn't anything I could do about that. But I didn't abandon you. I was here for you. You just couldn't know that. Sometimes life gives us nothing but shitty options to choose from."
"But it was a choice."
“Yes.”
"You could've chosen something else."
"What?"
"You could've told this story years ago. When mom came out of the closet, why didn't you tell it then? You weren't happy having your son raised by lesbians—right? Why not tell your story then, save me from that 'unnatural' home?”
“It wouldn’t have worked. Just telling the truth won't do now. I'd need new evidence to get a trial, but there isn't any. No smoking gun. She could confirm it, but she'd never do that. So, there wasn't anything I could do to get you out. I made my choice that night, and we've both had to live with it, till now."
“That's what really doesn't make sense. I mean, your coming up with that story that night, that's just bullshit. All you had to do was tell the cops the truth, and you'd have been there to raise me yourself. You wouldn't have gone to jail, and I would've had a father. That's the truth."
"I would've been nothing, less than nothing. Once people knew she was fucking dad—had frozen me out—I'd have been a laughing stock. I couldn't have stayed home, couldn't have been a father to you, not with people thinking I couldn't even satisfy my own wife."
"You'd rather they think you're a murderer?"
"Yeah, absolutely."
“You've got one fucked-up code of honor.”
"A man has to have respect. Without it, nothing matters."
"Hey," Tommy says, a light dawning, "that's why you're so hung up on mom coming out, isn't it?"'
“What?"
"It shows you're not a man—right? You think that's what people think of you, because your wife became a lesbian."
"I was here, in jail, when she turned queer," Norman responds, defensive. "You can't blame me for that. Nothing I could do about that."
“I’m not blaming you. I don't have any problem with mom's life. You’re the one has the problem. You’re the one thinks her life reflects on you."
"That'd suit her just fine, wouldn't it? That why she turned queer” To dis me?"
"You're so sick. Like everything mom does has to center on you. Stupid. Anyway, now we both know that whatever you did that night, you did for yourself, for your macho-stupid idea of yourself. It wasn't for me, and I don't owe you one damn thing for it. No medal, no nothing."
"It was for you." Norman pauses, takes a deep breath, exhales. "Okay, for me, too. I'll give you that. But there wasn't any either/or there. It was just one choice for the both of us."
"So you say. I still think this is all fiction. It's just a story you've made up to put down mom, make her seem guilty."
Norman again studies Tommy, feeling frustrated, trying to figure out how to break through to the boy. "Think I'm trying to turn you against her, huh?"
"Exactly."
"Just like she's turned you against me."
Tommy stares at his father, angry at having been suckered. “That's just a cheap trick. I think for myself.”
"You do, huh?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then why do you hate me so? If she's a victim, I'm the one who avenged her—remember? I'm the one who shot the man who raped her, even though he was my own father. Why hasn't she brought you up to honor me for that?"
"You raped her, too--remember.,"
"C'mon, you said you think for yourself. I was her husband; I was entitled. No, the reason she hasn't brought you up to honor me for avenging her honor is that she knows it didn't happen. And knows she had no honor to avenge. But she can't face that, and she hates me because I know what she is, was, did. Turning you against me, that's her way of getting even with me for what I know."
"Well, like you said, there's no smoking gun. There's her story, and there’s yours. That's all. And neither one of them is what I came here to listen to or debate."
"But now you know both stories. Now, you're gonna have to think about them. I can't undo in one day what she's been doing to you for sixteen years, but it's time to start. So, I planted the seed. You'll be a man soon, carrying on the Stuart name. It's time for you to face the truth and make your choice. Time to decide what kind of man you're gonna be."
Tommy looks his father in the eyes, then gives him an ironic smile. "At last!" he exclaims. "You see, I've already made that choice. That's why I came here today." He pulls a piece of paper out of his jacket, unfolds it, pushes it across the table. "All I need is your signature on this, and I can start on that choice without waiting till I'm eighteen.”
“You joining up?” Norman asks hopefully, surprised but happy at the thought.
"No," Tommy laughs, "I'm sure not doing that." Just shows how little you know me, though, he adds to himself.
Norman looks at the paper. It's a form. The heading reads: PERMISSION FOR MINOR TO ENTER SEXUAL IDENTITY COUNSELING. "What's this?" he asks, looking up at Tommy, unwilling to comprehend.
"Just what it says."
"You telling me you’re . . . queer?" Norman whispers.
“I want a sex-change operation, but I have to go through this psychiatric analysis first.?
"No!" Norman bellows as he launches himself across the table. He grabs Tommy by the throat, his momentum carrying them both onto the floor.
Two guards rush in, pull Norman off, slam him against the wall.
“Never!” Norman yells, "Never!," shaking his head back and forth, struggling to get loose.
Tommy picks himself up, stands rubbing his neck, looking at his father. "If you want me to respect your truth, you have to respect mine.”
Norman continues to struggle, desperate to get his hands on the boy.
"I guess you won’t sign the form, huh?"
"I'll shove it up her ass.”
"I told the counselor you wouldn’t sign. But I’m still going to do it. You may hold me up for a year, but that’s all. I'm going to get a fresh start, be the persan I’m supposed to be. And you know what?"
Norman just glares at Tommy.
"When all the surgery's done, I'm going to send you a great big poster picture of me in a thong bikini, with big boobs, high heels, fantastic make-up, and that Silver Star stuck between my legs. You can show all your friends here what a gorgeous daughter you sacrificed your life for. You can tell them how you made sure she was brought up to be . . . all that she can be."
Tommy starts to leave.
"You son of a bitch!" Norman yells at Tommy’s back. "You won’t make me a laughing stock, not after all I've sacrificed for YOU. Somehow, some way, I’ll get to you, and her. You perverts can't hide from me. You'll see. You little bastard!"
Tommy turns and studies Norman straining against the guards. “Too bad you can't see yourself . . . for what you are."
"You!”
"Yeah, me! Me! Me! Me! Not what you've wanted me to be, what you’ve fantasized I would be so I could fulfill your fantasy of yourself, what you've always wanted to be. No, it’s just gonna be me." Tommy sticks his arms out, makes a full turn.
"You tell your mother"
"I'll tell her nothing."
The two men glare at each other, but Norman is just tense now, no longer straining to get loose.
Tommy blows out some air. "Too bad, dad. I can get out of my prison; it’s just a body, something easily changed. You're stuck in yours, because it’s who you are.”
“You gonna behave?” one of the guards asks Norman.
"Yeah," Norman exhales. "I'm cool."
"Then sit down and stay down." The guards plant Norman back in his chair, push the table back in front of him, right Tommy's chair. "You too, son. You sit too."
"No,” Tommy says, “I'm leaving."
"Tell me one thing first," Norman says.
"What’s that?”
"After this operation, you won't—y’know—be able to have kids, will you?”
“No.”
"Either way?"
"No." Tommy laughs.
"Good." Norman leans back, content.
-You don’t want grandkids?" Tommy asks with a grin.
-No. This way, when you're dead, the shame will be over."
Tommy's face hardens. "Think you're going to outlive me, old man?”
"Easy," Norman smiles. "You perverts overdose, get AIDS, commit suicide, kill each other off—nature's way of cleaning up the gene pool.”
Tommy stares at his father, then shrugs, starts to leave. With the door open, he looks back at his father. "Thanks for that much, anyway.”
“For what?”
"Confirming that a Stuart man is what I don’t want to be." Tommy passes through the door, closes it behind him.
Norman stares at the door, his face set but his eyes lost. "Get me out of here," he tells the guards.