Goodnight Beautiful(50)

I hesitate. “It’s a long story.”

“I have some time.” His tone is gentle. “Would you like to sit down?”

I turn toward him. “Why?”

“I imagine it’ll be more comfortable.”

I scan the room, hesitant. “On the bed, or should I get a chair?”

“Whichever you’d prefer,” he says.

“The bed is fine, I suppose.” I sit squarely in the middle and press down on the mattress with both hands. “Nice and firm.”

Sam nods. “It’s comfortable.” He stays silent and tents his fingers in front of his mouth.

“I haven’t spoken to my father in more than thirty years,” I say.

“Why’s that?”

“He’s ashamed of me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It was obvious,” I say. “We were different.”

“In what ways?”

“He’s a real man, and I’m a sissy.”

“Wow,” Sam says. “Is that what he called you?”

I swipe dust from my pant leg. “He wasn’t wrong to do so,” I say. “I wasn’t like other boys. Always hated sports and couldn’t fight to save my life.”

“I see.”

“I’m not his,” I say before I can stop myself.

“What do you mean by that?” Sam asks.

“I mean Albert Sr. is not, in fact, my biological father.” I’ve never said this out loud before, and the words tumble out. “I had a hard time at school. I could usually hold it together, but sometimes, when I got home, it felt like too much and I had to let it out. My mother would sit with me on the couch until I stopped crying. My father came home early one day. There was a fire where he worked, and they closed the plant.” I can see him standing in the doorway. That look on his face. What’s sissy boy crying about this time?

“And?” Sam asks.

“He was furious,” I say, my chest tight. “Looked me right in the eye and said ‘I thank god every day that kid’s not mine.’”

“How old were you?” Sam asks.

“Eight.” My heart is beating so loud I’m afraid Sam can hear it from his chair.

“Did you know what that meant?”

“Not right away, but sooner or later I put together that my mom had an affair.” I force a laugh. “I felt relieved for him, to be honest. At least he didn’t have to blame himself for having such a weak son.” I take a deep breath to compose myself. “My mother died when I was fourteen, and then it was the two of us.”

“Oh, Albert.” Sam looks genuinely pained. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Breast cancer,” I say. I can picture her, biting the ridges off a Pop-Tart one by one, asking if I wanted to stay home from school and be with her. I said yes, every time, not because I didn’t like school but because she needed me so much I was sure she’d die if I went. We’d hide upstairs, listening to the bus pass by the house, and then she’d make us scrambled eggs and turn on the soaps.

“How did your father deal with her death?” Sam asks me.

“He was angry,” I say. “One thing Albert Bitterman Sr. never saw for himself was life as a single parent. I did what I could to please him, but nothing did. Over time, we figured out how to just stay out of each other’s way, and I left home as soon as I could. We haven’t spoken since.”

Sam allows a few moments of silence. “Fourteen is a hard age to lose one’s mother,” he says eventually. “How did you cope at the time?”

“I pretended I was part of the family across the street.” I laugh. “Crazy, right? The Parkers.”

Mrs. Parker started dinner at four thirty while Jenny watched television in the living room, a bowl of ice cream on her lap, nobody worried she’d spoil her dinner. On the weekends Jenny had sleepovers, all the popular girls crowded on the living room floor, staying up late with popcorn and grape sodas. She knew who I was. I lived across the street, and not once did she consider me worthy of a hello. The only time she ever spoke to me was when Mrs. Parker dragged her over to deliver a pan of lasagna and say how sorry they were to hear my mom had died.

“After my mom died, I decided Mr. Parker was going to admit that he and my mom had an affair and come claim me,” I tell Sam. “I went into their house a few times.”

“So you got to know them?” Sam asks.

“No. I went when they weren’t home. I knew from watching that Mrs. Parker hid a key under a flowerpot on the side porch. I’d go Sunday mornings, when they were at church.” I look down at my feet, unsure why I’m telling him all this, prepared for him to echo the words I grew used to hearing back then: You’re a freak. But his tone is gentler than ever when he speaks.

“What was it like being inside their house?”

Cinnamon air freshener and clean laundry. Grape soda in the fridge. “It was thrilling,” I say. “I wouldn’t stay long. I just wanted to see what it was like. But then one of the girls got sick at church, and they came home early.” I was in Jenny Parker’s bedroom when I heard the front door open. “Mrs. Parker found me hiding in her daughter’s closet. It was terrible.” I bite down on my lower lip, willing myself not to cry.