Titanic Summer Page 2

  Thank Mom’s God that I got over the divorce thing. A new friendship was key to that development. More about that later. But feeling better about my life and accepting that I had two very loving parents did wonders when it came to accepting what came later.

  But I’ll get to it all. More about my recovery from the ravages of divorce now.

  Dad came back to Houston for important school things. He was always tethered to his cell phone—the hotel couldn’t operate without his constant input—so I never got his undivided attention. But he made my middle school awards program (Math Award!) and he made the playoff tournament where I scored the winning points that brought us the state private-school basketball championship. We had an awesome team last year. For those two things, the biggest of my life so far, he turned his cell off! I felt like the king of his world.

  By court order, I had to go to Philly for two weeks every summer. Dad never stopped working, so he had to fit me in. I spent a lot of my two weeks at the pool or watching TV. But when he could free up some time, being with him was a lot of fun.

  Philadelphia was a welcome vacation each year. The Grayson in Philly really was more luxe than the Galleria Grayson, and Dad carted me around town to see the sights, cell phone firmly fastened to his belt. There was always the inevitable Le-ho. The minute the DVD went into the player, I started praying for a Grayson crisis to pull him away. He didn’t know when to quit with the Titanic stuff. He was a grown man, too old to play with his toys. But he loved his pop-up book of the ship, his scale model. I figured I could indulge him.

  So in the last four years, I grew up a lot. I discarded the romantic notion of 99 percent of children of divorce. Mom and Dad were meant to be and would get back together. Mine weren’t and wouldn’t. I made the best of it, loving them separately, rather than clinging to the “one big happy family again” notion that so many kids have, getting more and more bitter as they age, some into adulthood, and choosing sides, like there is ever one parent to blame more than the other. I guess if one is a serial cheater or something like that, there is a side to take. But that wasn’t the case with mine, so I loved them equally, despite their quirks—churchy Mom, Titanicky Dad.

  Life, however, takes strange turns. I began to notice my father becoming more distant, and I don’t mean the 1600-miles-away thing. It was like I didn’t hear from him as much, and when he did call, he didn’t talk much. I got the feeling that something was bothering him, but he couldn’t figure out a way to tell me. And that bugged me a lot. I found myself, I don’t know, worrying about him. That kinda scared me. I had never actually worried about either my mom or my dad. This was a new thing.

  I tried to talk to my best friend Mallory. She’s the person I mentioned who helped me get over the divorce. Mal, who has an opinion about everything and shares it liberally whether invited to or not, was at a loss on the Dad-being-distant thing. She’d say, “Your dad is the greatest on the planet. Nothing’s wrong. Now, if it was my daddy….” And then she’d start ranting about her parents, both of whom I’ve spent a lot of time with, and neither of them is as nonstandard as the pair I’ve got.

  My mom… things just got weirder and weirder. I thought Dad was an unsolvable problem, but she, totally in line with her church and Pastor Stillmore, jumped on the anti-HERO bandwagon. As previously noted, she went into it with a vengeance. Suddenly my mother was fighting for her right to have a man-free public-toilet existence. I thought it was total crap, but I learned long ago, especially with church matters, you can’t reason with Mom. I kept my mouth shut. I refused to join her cause or even take a stance, but I guess, deep down, if I was forced to think about it, it did seem weird that anybody could be born one gender and have all the equipment between the legs and suddenly decide they weren’t that person at all.

  So, as I prepared for my annual trek to the City of Brotherly Love, I hoped that I would have two weeks of freedom. Away from Mom and her obsession. I looked forward to the trip. If I played my cards right, I could find out what had been bugging Dad while spending two blissful weeks away from the church’s fight against HERO, which would be an all-summer-long thing. It was good I was getting a break.

  And that was my life in a nutshell prior to being on a plane, the middle of July and three weeks after my sixteenth birthday, whizzing my way to PHL, Philadelphia International Airport, my home away from home.

  Oh. One other thing. I’m gay.

  Chapter 2

  I WHIPPED my cell out of my jeans and smiled as I texted Mal.

  Here now. Waiting. Later.

  The I’m-gay thing. That’s the development—postdivorce—that I had to accept. It’s true. I am, indeed, gay. But Mal’s the only one who knows. She also knows that our friendship is terminated if she tells anyone. Unlike me, she has no problem with it. My mom, on the other hand, is fighting to get rid of an ordinance that would give equal rights to gay people. I doubt she would want to know her own son is one of those gay people.

  Besides, I’m not totally comfortable with it myself. That’s an understatement. In theory, I know there’s nothing wrong with being gay. I support the rights of gay people throughout the world. And some of the things being done to them in the name of God are truly horrible. Nobody should be unhappy, and being made to be unhappy—read that being beaten and killed—is what is truly abominable, not being gay. Gay is who you are, that’s all. So why do I refuse to be my gay self? I don’t know. Pure and simple. I don’t know. I have my reasons, but Mal debunks each one.

  Here’s a list, though. I guess I’m afraid my mom will find out and not love me anymore. I’m afraid my dad will find out and think there’s something wrong with me. I’m afraid my coach and teammates will find out and totally freak. That’s probably the biggie. After all, I go to a Christian high school, and right there in the handbook, it says, “Following the teachings of our Lord, no student shall profess to be leading, or publicly supporting, the gay lifestyle.” My school is not really so bad with all the Bible-thumping stuff, but believe me, I don’t want to go through what I would go through if they found out I was gay. At the least, I would be shut out; at the most—and this is highly likely—I would be cut from the team, tossed out of school, banished, ostracized, thrust into hell, literally. It’s easier to just live life under the radar and never, ever acknowledge these feelings that hound me. So I just keep it on the back burner.

  Back to reality.

  I’d just pushed Send when I saw the Grayson limo pull up to the curb. Dad, all smiles, jumped out of the car and came bounding through the doors into the baggage claim area. My dad is an impressive-looking man. You’d think he just stepped out of the pages of GQ, or one of those other men’s magazines—Armani pinstriped suit, Zegna tie, gold Patek Phillippe watch, impeccably styled dark brown hair flecked with gray (which wasn’t there the last time I saw him. Come to think of it, I didn’t notice it on Skype either.) For his job he has to look good, but consummate hotel professional Brian Hardy takes it a little too far, I think.

  Contrast that with his son, the lowly, distinctly Texan, Jake Hardy—there I was in my ripped Wranglers, my scuffed no-name boots, my worn basketball jersey, my buzz cut that shows I’m an athlete who doesn’t want to be bothered with hair styling and that sort of thing.

  Dragging my beat-up duffel, I walked to him.

  “You had to bring the limo,” I said as he hugged me. He knew I hated that limousine. Our seventh-grade science teacher had done a whole unit on “being green,” and since that time, I’ve tried to do my best to save the planet. That limousine must have guzzled gas. And I didn’t like the impression it gave of me, people seeing me being fetched in a stretch limo with a uniformed driver. La-di-da, look at the rich kid.

  The Grayson driver, who was trailing Dad, took my duffel bag and headed toward the car.

  “What?” Dad said. “My only son doesn’t deserve to be picked up in style?” I’ve come here four times in three years, and we have the same opening argument. I complain, and he counters
with the in-style thing. You’d think he’d be tired of it, find a new argument, or at the very least change his tone when he said it. The minute I said it, I regretted it because I figured he would be mad at me for always bringing the issue up. He likes traveling in style, and no matter how much I grouse, he’ll never change that attitude or understand mine. And come to think of it, Grayson Hotels are green hotels. I guess the limo isn’t covered in the handbook.

  “For your information, Mr. Save the Planet, Grayson limos, now, are all powered by LNG, liquefied natural gas. So suck on that, Jake-O.” He laughed triumphantly.

  Mal thinks it’s cute, but I cringe when he tries to sound “with-it.”

  That last comment aside, I detected a certain unusual cheerfulness in his voice, more so than ever. What’s with him? It was like he was trying really hard—harder than usual—with me. We had pretty much only said hello, but I could hear it. He was hiding something with his Grayson Hotel–trained charm. That worked, I’m sure, with the la-di-das he catered to at the hotel, but I was his son. I was having none of it. I heard the stress in his voice, no matter how much he tried to mask it.

  “Dad, I’ve told you before, I’m perfectly able to ride the hotel van by myself. Save the funeral car for Oprah.”

  “Oprah’s not in town this week.” He tossed that like it was the funniest joke of the day. “Besides, the vans are all busy picking up the paying customers. The boss’s son rates the very best.”

  I couldn’t win this argument with him. And I was impressed Graysons switched to LNG. That was a good thing. But I just didn’t like being chauffeured in that “look at me, I’m rich” mile-long monstrosity.

  In the early days, the limo ride was cool, but then it got to be a pain. So maybe a thirteen-year-old needs an escort. But I was grown. At sixteen you can get a driver’s license—something this trip was delaying—and while I certainly couldn’t rent a car and drive myself to the hotel, I could hop on the Grayson shuttle. No, he brought the limo because he thinks he has to greet me at the airport like my coming is some big hoopla or something. Like he wants to impress me. And what argument could I give? He certainly wouldn’t buy the “I’m embarrassed to be seen in this boat” reasoning. And now, they’d taken away my “save the planet” argument. So I guess I was doomed to sit back and enjoy the ride. Dad certainly did. He’s from another world, the world of luxury ships that sink on their maiden voyages. And, of course, there was that trying-harder thing.

  As we piled into the big car and the driver shut the door, I told myself to chill. If Dad wanted to see and be seen, let him. I was just glad I was here.

  It was about a twenty-minute drive to the hotel. The Philly Grayson is on Market Street, not far from city hall and the Liberty Bell. In the summer especially, the Grayson gets a mix of business people, the very rich, and tourists who have decided to splurge because of its location in the middle of everything.

  Dad usually used our twenty minutes to catch up on everything about me since his last phone call or Skype session. Today, however, he wasn’t as talkative. His happy demeanor just made me more suspicious. There were the usual questions: “How’s your mom?” “How’s Mal? You two official yet?” He thinks Mal’s my girlfriend, and I haven’t done anything to change his mind. “Looking forward to junior year next year?” I gave my routine one-word answers. The game is that he then gets to grill me like a rookie cop working over a perp. But not this time. He just accepted my answers and got silent. Something was up.

  The driver pulled us into the VIP entrance. A bellman met us and whisked away my duffel. We went into the lobby and headed to the private elevator that leads to the VIP suites and Dad’s apartment.

  I glanced toward the middle of the lobby, expecting to see the usual mix of people. But that day, thrown into the mix was a decidedly different clientele. There were several—I’m talking thirty or forty or more—men who were carrying little rainbow flags. Uh-oh… the Gays are here.

  I was caught off guard, kinda uneasy, to see so many of them right there in that lobby. I knew that a classy hotel like the Grayson had a huge gay clientele.

  But I’d never seen so many in one group before at the Philadelphia Grayson.

  And that’s when I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. There, in front of God and the Grayson ultrarich, one of those gay guys planted a kiss on the guy next to him. Now I’m not talking about a peck on the cheek. This was a full-blown, “give me some tonguin’” lip-lock. Surely Mr. Grayson would not want that sort of thing going on in his lobby. I’d never seen that happen—except once in a movie.

  I was just about to point it out to Dad when two things happened. The elevator bell chimed, signaling the doors opening, and a desk clerk came up to him with a problem. He thrust the key card into my hand and said, “You go on up, son. I’ll only be a minute.”

  I inserted the key card. It read the number of Dad’s floor, which wasn’t on the public listing of floor buttons. No one gained access to his apartment without a key card.

  On the ride up, I thought about that kiss. I couldn’t believe that two men could be so open in public. It bothered me. But it played on my mind, and as I kept thinking, my mind wasn’t the only thing that dwelled on the kiss. I looked down at my crotch and wanted to pound the life out of it.

  The elevator opened directly into the luxury apartment on the twenty-third floor. I was grateful for that, for no one could see me and my shameless self. No matter how much I tell myself that I’m not going to be gay, something like this happens to remind me of what I am. And I get this weird mixed feeling of hating the sinner, loving the sin. Other guys are out and proud, but I don’t know if I ever will be. Certainly not as long as I’m at my homophobic Christian high school.

  Trying to push the kiss from my mind—and my body—I looked around. I always marveled at the splendor of my dad’s hotels. The Grayson Hotel chain really knew how to treat their managers like royalty. But then, Dad worked his butt off for them and was on call 24-7. He was a great hotel manager and earned every perk he could get.

  I navigated to the bathroom because I realized I hadn’t peed since leaving Houston. It took a while because I was still a bit hard, and nothing flowed until that eased itself. At last I did my thing and washed up; then, passing through my bedroom, I noticed my duffel, already waiting for me. Cinderella’s—or rather the Grayson’s—good fairy mice had scurried up the back stairs or elevator, since this place was twenty floors up. I considered unpacking, then decided it could wait. I was starving. I made a beeline for the kitchen.

  We had total access to room service, but Dad always stocked his apartment kitchen with foods he knew I liked. He was efficient in everything he did.

  So I made a ginormous ham, swiss, and hot mustard sandwich on rye, popped the cap on a cold root beer, and headed to the “terrace” as Dad pretentiously calls his balcony. Sometimes I have to just grin and bear it. After all, I do love him, no matter how pretentious he gets.

  The apartment, with its wall of windows, had a great view of Philadelphia. And the balcony overlooked the street below. You could lean over and see all the tiny worker ants as they milled about, hurrying to their anthill offices, serving their respective queens, or hotel manager, as the case might be.

  I sat in one of the chairs out there and gobbled down my lunch. I didn’t worry about not waiting for Dad to have lunch with me. That was not going to happen. When he was called away for that “minute” at the elevator, I knew he wouldn’t be up any time soon. I was oh so familiar with the drill.

  I had no sooner guzzled the last drop of the root beer than my phone rang.

  “Jake here,” I said in my best phone voice even though I knew it was Mal calling. I didn’t even have to peek at the caller ID.

  “Hey, sweetness.” There were Texas bluebonnets in her voice. Mallory was born and raised in Dallas before her father opened his own business in Houston. I don’t know why, but somehow folks from the Metroplex—that’s what they call the Dallas/Ft. W
orth area—just seem to sound more Texan than Houstonians.

  “Mal—a reassuring voice of normalcy.”

  “Don’t tell me: limo at the airport, alone in the elevator, a balcony ham and swiss on rye. Am I right, sugar?” She was laying it on thicker than usual. She loves to pretend we’re an item. And, if we’re out and about and run into any of my fellow team members, her act comes in useful.

  I laughed. “Perfect. Did you stow away in my duffel bag?”

  “Jake, babe, your dad is nothin’ if he ain’t predictable.”

  Now, Mallory knew the Queen’s English backward and forward, but sometimes that North Texas upbringing just oozed out.

  “Ain’t? If your momma could hear you….”

  She stopped me. “Momma ain’t here right now.” She punched the offending word. “I’m just all alone here, a poor little lonely Texas gal, wishin’ her man wudn’t halfway across the country in Yankee land.”

  She can really pile it on when she wants to.

  “Really, ma’am?” I played along. “Ah ya pinin’ away foah that man a’ yoahs?”

  “Ah’m jist a pinin’.”

  “Well, ma’am, ah do believe that he ain’t as distraught ovuh being away from yew. Bein’ a gay boy and all.” Like I said, Mal’s the only one who knew. And sometimes it helped to joke about it. Lord knows, I gave myself grief about it constantly. A laugh or two every once in a while couldn’t hurt.

  Tinkles of laughter. I knew I could shut her act down if I tried hard enough. I do love it when she laughs. It’s like gentle raindrops falling on a tin roof on a moonlit Texas Hill Country night.

  “Aw, Mal, I miss ya already, sweetcakes. The thought of two weeks away from my bestest friend is killing me. I’m just gonna lay by the hotel pool, thinkin’ of you, darlin’.” I dropped the twang. “I’m definitely gonna need someone to talk to, and you fit the bill. After all, you know me better than anybody.”