By Larry Madden
I
I was jolted awake. Screams, name-calling, and curses downstairs. “You’ll never amount to anything.” The screen door slammed, my oldest sister running across the lawn, crying, again. Mom alone in the kitchen. Best left that way. The lawn mower is running, my older brother behind it because Dad’s at work. The vacuum cleaner is also running, my other sister behind it. The two “babies”? Who knows. The sheets were hot, sticky, the room stifling despite the fan on the chair at the foot of the twin beds. Time to enter the daily unknown. Home.
A Victorian; “1894” above the little attic window. The right half nestled in the shade of an ancient maple tree; the left, driveway and garage. A porch in the shade, a porch in the sun, a covered, wraparound porch in front. Three doors, three ways to get out.
I loved summers. They seemed to last forever and yet, not. We were fortunate to have lived in a small rural town on a dead-end street. Often, bikes would be strewn across the yard, across the driveway, dropped randomly by the six of us and our friends until suddenly they would be mounted and disappear to the swimming hole, the woods on the hill, the sand pit at the end of the road, or even the other side of town: the cemetery, the white clapboard library, the river below the falls to fish. The church.
It was my twelfth summer. Tremorous changes were happening. My legs and back ached. Growing pains my mother said, “and my damn grocery bill shows it.” I fit differently in my bed. Bike seat needed adjusting. For years, I would fake sleeping, keeping one eye open like a new moon hoping to catch a glimpse of my older brother as he changed, fascinated by his hair and his proportions. It was happening to me, and I reveled in it.
Sometimes, I would help a friend with his paper route. Get the job done quicker so we could get back to the swimming hole sooner. I felt shielded when he was there. The older boys would hurl names at him, “sissy,” “cupcake.” He never seemed to be afraid of them like I was. He found different names and threw them back in between the cannon balls off the rope swing that they landed around him. He was fifteen, like the others.
One hot afternoon, after delivering the last paper, we headed down a long hill without breaking, daredevils. Suddenly, my friend screeched to a stop.
“Hey, want to see something really beautiful?” he asked. “Come on, follow me.”
We left our bikes against a tree and walked into the woods. I had never seen this piece of the woods. Within minutes, we were at a flowing stream, five feet wide, rocky, and shaded by arching trees.
“This is one of my favorite places,” he told me as he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out matches and a joint.
“Ever smoke grass before?” he chuckled.
“No, but it’s okay with me. My older sister and her fiancé do.” I promised to keep it a secret.
“Secrets are good.” He lit the joint and handed it to me. “Just a little bit, inhale slowly, just a bit.”
Coughing and laughing immediately followed. We repeated the ritual.
“So, what do you think? You alright?”
I stood transfixed, staring at the speckled, wavering light through the trees, birdsong in the hot breeze.
“Yeah, yeah . . . I’m okay. I like this.”
“Good, now stop smiling so much,” he roared.
Without warning, he pulled off his shirt, kicked off his flip-flops, and dropped his pants.
“Come on take yours off too, let’s go in.”
Wading into the knee-deep water, he pounced, caught me in a half nelson and dunked me into the water. I managed to grab both his ankles in a hug as he tried getting away, tripping him. Splashing and laughing. He stared at me. We stood there, our masculinities on full display. My eyes followed him to his knees in front of me. I squeezed my eyes as tightly as I could, trying to stop the waving, spinning of the ground. Once steadied, we laid on our backs, allowing the water to wash over us.
Jumping back on our bikes, my friend asked, “Do you want to come back tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I said. “If you do. Want help with the papers again?”
“If you want to. See you tomorrow.”
He rode towards his house. I pedaled towards mine.
At dinner that evening I ate as fast as I could, barely looking up. I was ashamed, delighted, and curious. I wanted to be alone. A strange sensation in my belly squeezed so hard, pushed past the lump in my throat, and trailed wet down my cheeks. I swung in the hammock under the maple tree until my thoughts were interrupted by my mother.
“Keep an eye on the boys while I do dishes with your sister. Oh, tonight you’re sleeping downstairs on the couch with your brothers. It’s too hot upstairs.”
“Why me? Why not someone else?” Her voice irritated me. “Leave me alone.”
“Don’t back-talk me, I’ll slap your face.”
I put the boys against the wall, and I took the edge. I couldn’t fall asleep for what seemed like hours. In synchrony, all of my father’s clocks rang midnight. Why was the room so cold? Where was the wind coming from? I pulled the sheet over the boys and turned into the room. My heart froze, my breath vanished. In the corner, by the windows, a limpid, gray woman, scraggly hair, ancient, in a bathrobe identical to my mother’s, floating, summoning me with one long bony finger. I slammed my eyes shut and waited to breathe. I cracked one eye open. She was there, laughing at me. My primal scream filled the house. When I opened my eyes, she was gone. The boys were sleeping peacefully next to me.
Later, at breakfast, Mom snipped, “You’re awfully quiet. What did you do wrong?”
“Just tired. Didn’t sleep well,” I said, dropping my dishes in the sink, disappearing out the door.
Wake as one person, go to bed another. Hiding in plain view.
II
When I was led in, they were all sitting behind a large table, a single chair facing them: company commander, first sergeant, JAG lawyer, wife, and son. My son screamed, “Daddy” and ran to me. I was too weak to pick him up and afraid that if I started to cry, I may not be able to stop. I had to stay strong, but I ached all over. My chest constricted to keep the feelings locked away. My abdomen squeezed tight to prevent me from soiling myself. My head spun, I wanted to scream.
“Please, this isn’t me. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
I hugged my son briefly, tightly. Sadness, confusion, fear ran down his cheeks. My wife came and took him by the hand.
“Sergeant,” my commander said, “I don’t think we need to explain why all of us are here. Please stand. You are in violation of Article 86, Uniform Code of Military Justice. I have not yet made a decision as to how I will proceed. This morning, everyone here will have a chance to speak, if they wish. I will come to a decision after that.”
I knew that there would be consequences, a steep price to pay. I had, after all, walked away from the army. AWOL, they call it. Mediterranean vacation and fuck you, I called it. It was short-lived, some days really, before the body odor, hunger, and empty wallet caught up with me. I had to return to base and face the music.
The MPs at the gate asked for my ID, examining me curiously.
“Please wait here for a moment, Sergeant,” one spit-shined and sharply pressed MP said. Moments later the flashing lights arrived, the cuffs were placed on my wrists, and I was driven off to the station.
“Sergeant, we have specific orders to detain you until your commander can be notified. Before we search you, do you have anything to declare?”
I had already rid myself of any incriminating evidence: syringes, spoons, little white bags. I was thoroughly searched, put into a drab green jumpsuit, and placed in a cell. Metal bed, sink, and toilet for all to see. I wanted nothing more than to disappear, to never again hurt or fail anyone. I wanted to scream, swing, hit. Instead, I sat shaking on the edge of the bed, a stray dog in a kennel.
“Your commander said you’re ours for the weekend. And a holiday weekend to boot,” they laughed. “We’re all nice guys, don’t worry. Is there anything we can do for you?”
“Can you call my wife, my son, and let them know I am here?”
“She’s been advised not to have any contact with you, at this time. It’s a small base, she’ll hear, trust me.”
“Your first sergeant has contacted JAG, a lawyer has been assigned to you,” the MP lieutenant informed me.
I knew it was a matter of time. Several hours had passed since last using. Lying on the hard bed, blanket over my head, the cramps came first like hands inside kneading my guts. Then the sweats and chills, runny nose. Vomiting. “Hey, what’s the matter with you? You alright?” one MP asked.
“I’m okay, think I ate something bad, maybe. OH FUCK.” The diarrhea, down my legs, in front of them all.
“Oh damn, you’re cleaning that up yourself, soldier.”
“Lieutenant, I think we need medical backup here,” one MP yelled.
The doctor arrived several hours later. A quick exam, “Soldier, I’ll prescribe something to help, but honestly, you’ve got a long weekend.”
At the hearing, my lawyer leaned on the table and said, “Sergeant, if your commander decides to, do you understand that you may face up to one month in confinement, reduction in rank, and forfeiture of pay? You could also be given a dishonorable discharge.” “Yes,” I replied. The commander then opened it to the others.
“Well, I’ll go first,” First Sergeant drawled. “I want to see you do the right thing; get the help you need, Sergeant. The army is ready to offer you that help; twelve weeks inpatient detox, the last four of which you’ll be joined by your wife for family therapy. If you refuse help, I have recommended a dishonorable discharge.”
My wife spoke next. “John, I want you to get help, please. I will join you in Germany for the last month,” she cried, “but I can’t promise anything other than that, except I’ll want a divorce if you don’t go.”
Drug and alcohol treatment or discharge. Drug and alcohol treatment or divorce. Failed drug and alcohol treatment and discharge and divorce. The price I had to pay was clear.
“I’m ready for help, Sir. I can’t do this anymore.”
I was brought to the airport by ambulance. Once there, a medical triage team sorted us; white patient identification bracelets for everyone, except me. Bright red, psych patient. The voices all around me drifted to a distant murmur. My feet wouldn’t move.
“Sergeant, SERGEANT,” a nurse hollered. “Please board by the front door.”
Once seated, I stared out the window, pulling my left sleeve down over my bracelet, holding it tightly in place. Once in the air, a nurse approached me, “You okay over here?” I nodded without taking my eyes from the window. Twelve weeks inpatient, three months. I made a solemn promise to myself; talk about everything, everything except my sexuality. Take it to the grave.
Once in Germany, I checked into the hospital compound’s guest house. Room 310.
“Guten Morgen,” my temporary roommate said, barely looking up. Six foot two, blond, marine, stretched out on one of the two twin beds, in his underwear. “I’m sorry, let me throw some clothes on, it’s just that it’s a bit warm in here.” He extended his hand, “Alan.”
“John,” I muttered, staring at my shoes. I wanted desperately to run back to the desk and ask for a different room. Tug-of-war voices in my head. STOP, please STOP, I am a married man, a father. Every ounce of me wanted a drink, a fix . . . wanted to be grabbed by his hands and thrown on the bed. I unpacked in silence, being watched by big, blue eyes.
“So, what brings you here? I’m here for surgery but it’s not scheduled until Friday,” Alan said, trying to initiate some conversation. “Hey, I was going to grab some grub soon. Want to join me? The hospital has a great mess hall.”
My words were stuck in my throat, the air I needed barely getting around them.
“Sure, I am hungry.”
“So, what brings you here?” he asked again.
“I really don’t want to talk right now, if that’s okay?”
“Let me know when you’re ready to chow down.”
His chattiness saved an awkward dinner. I heard everything, absorbed nothing, and devoured my food. Back in the room, I stretched out, exhausted. He lay on his bed, reading.
“I was thinking of going for a nice walk later, if you care to join me. If not, I understand. You must be tired,” he said. “You’re a man of few words. There’s a nice park just down the road, thought you may enjoy it.”
We walked in silence interrupted only by Alan’s small talk. I struggled to hold back tears. Unsuccessfully.
“Hey, let’s sit here. Take a break. You okay?” he inquired, sincerely.
“I’m sorry, this has never happened to me before,” I assured him.
Violently, something broke inside of me, like a dam bursting. I sat shaking and sobbing, passersby staring. Through tears and snot I told Alan everything, apologizing continuously. I told him about my family, drug use, my stint in the seminary, homelessness at eighteen, army enlistment, pregnancy after first drunk night together, marriage two months after meeting, a petrified child trying to play Daddy and raise a baby. I continued, eventual heroin use, AWOL, regretting ever having been born. Everything streamed out, unstoppable. “I think I’m a fucking queer.” Without warning, I heaved my supper across the grass between us.
“Maybe we should head back,” Alan said and got up and walked away. I had fucked up again.
Back in the room, a palpable silence surrounded us. I knew that in the morning, Alan would be gone. That he would escape room 310 in the middle of the night. Couldn’t blame him.
The sound of running water woke me and I rolled over to see Alan standing naked at the sink shaving. “Good morning,” he said in the mirror.
“Good morning,” I mumbled. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Thought for sure you’d have run from me.”
“Why would I do that, John?” He rinsed his chiseled face, dried off, walked to his dresser, and pulled on his underwear. “Actually, just the opposite. I couldn’t wait for you to wake up,” he said, sitting on the edge of my bed.
“You scared me, and I really didn’t know what to do or say when you shared your stuff with me. I’ve never seen someone cry like that before, John.” A single tear fell from his eyes. “It’s my turn. This is all so scary. We have the same birthday, I also am the fourth out of six in a Catholic family. John, I was in the seminary in the same damn city as you, at the same fucking time. I left and joined the marines the same time you chose army. Now, here we are in this goddamn room together. He wiped his face on his arm. “John, you are not alone. I have never told anyone, but . . . I have always questioned who I am too. I’m gay. There I said it. If you’re man enough to say it, I’ll say it too.”
The days that followed were glorious. Long walks and talks. A run every morning. Cake and coffee every afternoon, while Randy Travis sang “Digging Up Bones.” Then, treatment started, and Alan had his surgery. I frantically needed to know if he was okay, but leaving the treatment facility was prohibited. I used my sheets to climb out the window and scurried to the main building. I found him lying in bed, his left hand wrapped and elevated on pillows, a Walkman in his ears while he wrote.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re batshit crazy.”
I climbed in bed beside him, “What are you writing?”
“The lyrics from ‘Like a Virgin.’ I was going to send them to you but, you’re here now.”
“Let me see.”
I made it through the wilderness
Somehow, I made it through
Didn’t know how lost I was until I found you
I was beat, incomplete
I’d been had, I was sad and blue, but you made me feel
Yeah, you made me feel shiny and new.
We agreed to continue meeting every afternoon for our ritual of cake and coffee. The last day before his return to the embassy, I arrived at our usual time, same table. Randy Travis was still singing but Alan wasn’t there. The waitress, with her beehive bouffant hairdo, came over to the table and handed me a note. “He said to give this to you, honey. He was here about half an hour ago.” I opened the note, “ROOM 310.”
My feet couldn’t move fast enough, up two and three steps at a time. I knocked on the door. No answer. It was unlocked. He was in the shower, and in no time at all, so was I. Dripping wet, we fell onto the bed. Alan reached over and turned the volume up on the radio. Later, lying in each other’s arms, Alan said, “I have an idea. Let’s write each other a letter this evening. I will say everything about how I am feeling, the best I can. Can you do the same?” I said of course I could and would. “Then tomorrow, when I leave, we’ll exchange them.” I agreed.
We met the next day and, as agreed, exchanged our letters, forced again to be just the uniforms we wore. He craned his head backward as the olive-green bus pulled away. Although we had promised to wait one day before opening our letters, I ripped mine open as the bus turned the corner and dropped out of sight. I felt complete and calm for the first time in years. “I will see you in Frankfurt, November 24th. I booked a room at the airport Hilton.” When I got back to my room, I tucked the letter in my notebook for safekeeping.
Saturday, the twenty-fourth, our first overnight pass from the program. That morning, in our group therapy, we were all asked to explain where and with whom we were spending our pass, as well as which AA meeting we would attend. Our therapist questioned me extensively as to why Frankfurt if my wife was in Stuttgart. Strange, he said. I was lying through my teeth.
The next day, Sunday, my wife arrived at the treatment facility shortly after I had returned from Frankfurt. Awkward, uncomfortable day. I struggled to have a conversation with her. Monday morning, we gathered back in our group therapy. We all knew that if the psychiatrist joined us, and he did, someone was going on the hot seat. I leaned over to my roommate, Skip, and asked if he had any idea who it was. “We’ll soon find out,” he replied.
The therapist started on his left, going around the circle, asking each soldier how their pass went. When he got to me, he said nothing and skipped over to Skip. My head felt like it was imploding. All eyes were on me. When he finished the circle, he reached into his coat pocket. NO, it isn’t, it can’t be. It was. I had no idea that the letter from Alan had fallen out of my notebook and the therapists had it the whole time. They knew where I was going on my pass. They knew who I was meeting, and they knew why. They knew who I was. He read the letter to the whole group.
When I came to, I was on the floor between chairs, covered in vomit. The psychiatrist was fanning me while someone took my blood pressure. They helped me to the exam room. I assured them, repeatedly, that I was okay, that I had no thoughts of hurting myself. I just wanted to sleep.
The next four weeks were difficult. Coming out to my wife was painful for us both. We left dinner one evening and went for a cold, snowy walk. I noticed a newfound strength inside, an unfamiliar calmness, and I simply told her. We cried and held each other. Our future, the future of our family, instantly became a question mark. All that we knew, all that we could promise, was to be there for each other and, more than anything, to be there for our son.
The graduation ceremony was on the twenty-fourth of December, Christmas Eve. My wife and I packed our bags in the car, said our goodbyes, gave our hugs, and hit the highway to drive overnight to Italy. We wanted desperately to arrive before our son woke, get his gifts under the tree, and surprise him. The weather cooperated, the car behaved, and we pulled into our driveway at 0500.
That Christmas was “the best of times . . . the worst of times.” It was my first Christmas complete, whole, and honest. Yet it was poignant realizing it was the last Christmas as a family together. A profound sadness swept over me, again and again, every time I looked at our son, beaming with joy because we were all together, too young to understand what was around the corner.
I sat sipping my hot chocolate, the fire crackled beside us, warming my little man as he played. Mom-wife-soldier was in the kitchen: roast beef, Yorkshire Pudding, and roasted potatoes like every year. I walked up behind my wife, wrapped my arms around her, and kissed her. “I am so sorry,” I whispered through tears. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned and took my hands.
“We will be okay, all of us. It may suck at times, but we will get through this. John, don’t feel sorry, please. You are giving us the greatest gift you can, yourself, true, real John. He may not understand now but he will,” she said tilting her head towards where our son played contently.
III
We were having our first dinner party at our new place in Montebuono. An anniversary party for my husband and me combined with a sort of housewarming. The menu: antipasto of cured meats, cheeses, and bruschetta, Rigatoni all’amatriciana, assorted grilled meats, and a salad. Dessert of course. The table was set with wine, water, and bread: like every altar at every mass.
Everyone arrived as I was outside checking on the steaks, sausages, and fresh pancetta sizzling over the coals. My husband popped open a cold first bottle of Prosecco wine, opened before the kisses were finished, a toast given, and every male jockeyed for dominance over the grill. Opinions whirling as fast as the laughs.
A refreshing breeze blew in from the mountains, the sunset, a swath of orange, pink, and purple, visible from the kitchen windows. In usual fashion, the conversations were many and loud, arms tangled across the table as food was passed. When people reached for seconds, I knew all was well. “John, you suck. You cook better than Lucia.” We all laughed at the slap Antonio received for that comment. Two hours later, homemade tiramisu, brought as a gift.
The conversations, the icing on the cake. We explained where we met, what brought us to Italy in the first place, why the return in retirement. And family, the never-ending questions about family. “Tomorrow, in fact, we are planting seven trees: one for each of our grandkids,” my husband added. Then, like the shock of an earthquake in the middle of the night, Valerio asked, “John, why no pictures of your son or grandson on Facebook ever? We don’t know anything about your family.”
I didn’t know where to put myself. My husband took my hand under the table. I had no idea where to begin: my son’s difficult childhood and early adolescent years? The disaster of him moving in with us at sixteen? The estranged end of high school years? The discovery that my son was in Iraq? His return from war, dishonorable discharge, and PTSD? His marriage, birth of our first grandson, and jailing of the little man’s mother shortly after birth? I found some words when I looked around the table, saw the love in the eyes of true friends.
“We don’t have a relationship. We’ve been estranged for many years. Amputated himself from us, completely. It’s the most painful thing in my life, trying to talk about my son, trying to understand how . . . how . . . I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back,” I said. “I just want to get some air,” I said as I left the table and went outside.
“Merda (shit),” Valerio said, “I shouldn’t have asked anything. I’m sorry.”
My husband responded, “Don’t worry, John has a difficult time talking about his relationship with his son. Doesn’t even talk to me. Except in his sleep.”
“What happened?”
“How long has it been?”
“It’s difficult to say exactly what happened, it seemed like one minute they were in our life and then they weren’t,” my husband explained. “His son blames John for all of his pain, all of his suffering. He told his father he wanted nothing to do with him, with us really, that it was useless writing letters, he wouldn’t read them. He changed all of his phone numbers, uses a different name on social media so his dad can’t find him. I watch John sit every year wiping tears as he addresses birthday cards and Christmas cards. We have no idea if they are opened and read, if our grandson even knows we write. If you ask me, part of John agrees with his son, blames himself for everything.”
“No wonder he needed some air,” Valerio added. “I’ll go check on him.”
“Good, you do that while I clear the table a bit and get the digestivi out.”
The men continued in their positions, chatting, while the women jumped up to help in the kitchen.
Leaning against a tree in the darkness, I soon saw the outline of Valerio approaching.
“John, I’m sorry I brought that up. I had no idea why you never talk about it. So sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t know how painful this was for you.”
“Valerio, you don’t have to apologize for asking the truth,” I said. “Let’s let it rest for tonight, enjoy the rest of our anniversary. C’mon. I hate talking about it because it is too emotional, as you saw. In time, Vale, in time. I just needed some air. I’m not one to show emotions in front of people.”
We hugged and walked back to the party.
Even in the face of love what little I said was enough to keep me in bed awake all night. Again.
I should have listened to my husband. He told me to wear gloves and go slowly when I went into the garden early the next morning. I measured out where to plant, placed small stakes to create a new row on the edge of the gray/green olive grove.
“Chi va piano, va lontano, e arriva sano,” my husband reminded from the kitchen window. (He who goes slowly, goes far and arrives healthy.) “You can finish this after lunch. Come in.”
Hours later, getting too dark to see, I chuckled as I looked first at my blistered and filthy hands and smiled as I gazed at seven new fruit trees. Trees that will bear fruit long after we are gone. Seven grandchildren growing tall.
Leaning against the old well, I examined the chunk of terra cotta that my day’s work had unearthed. One thousand years old? Two thousand? Maybe new? I tossed it aside. My mind wandered in the steel blue twilight. The chorus of time, of changes, that these hills, trees, and rocks could sing. Our time here, nothing in comparison. “Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero” (translation: pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the next one), the Roman poet Horace once wrote.
Yet, decades together, for better, for worse, for our sons, participants in our life, for my son, who took a different road and left us no directions, I have learned one thing: “To thine own self be true.” Authenticity is my home. It seems like yesterday that I was escaping from a Victorian home with three doors, enlisting in the army to get off the streets, watching my son play beside the Christmas tree, my wife assuring me that one day he would understand. It seems I was always leaving, but never arriving, until now.
Wrapped in a violet silence between day and night, in the hills surrounding Rome, the inspiration for many poets, an owl screeches, swoops into the vineyard and disappears. A light is turned on and my husband appears in the kitchen window. “How about calling it a day!” he suggests. I lean my tools against the well, examine the trees one more time, the fruit of our labor, and walk towards our home. Yes, I will “pluck” the day.
