A SON'S STORY
by: Elspeth
The day was blustery and overcast as it always was at this time of year. The leaves were being ripped from the trees in vast numbers and the rose blooms, which had once looked so glorious, were taking a beating, their fragile petals being torn by the wind's wrath as it blew in from the sea.
His father wanted to live by the sea and look out at the changing water, not that he ever walked on the beach or even paddled in the salty brine. He never even sat out on his deck, yet he had lived there, across from the beach for years having moved south to follow the sun. The handsome blond man wondered how he even saw the waves through the windows. The once smooth glass was now scratched and murky from years of damage by sand and salt particles carried by the wind scratching away at the once smooth surface. The house was exposed to the elements. Various aluminum window frames throughout the house had parts eaten away by corrosion. The sea salt borne on the ocean spray having eaten into the metal over time. A few windows were permanently ajar, unable to be secured anymore due to their now rigid and inflexible hinges. He looked through the tainted glass as it flexed alarmingly, in and out with the assaulting force of the wind. The white crests on the choppy water swept across the ocean like feathers escaping a pillow in a storm. He could see the familiar sight of the bobbing heads of the hardy, wet-suited surfers, out waiting for the next big wave. The sand whirled and flurried along the sidewalk and road outside. You could always taste and feel it assaulting you if you ventured outside his house on a day such as this.
He began to take in the faces filling the small, open plan ground floor of his father's house. Not that there were scores of people, just that the venue was hardly vast. There was a dining room and living area all in one large room, a small kitchen and a staircase leading directly from the living area up to the bedrooms on the second floor. The house had been bought on a whim when his parents' lives were drawing to a close. A totally impractical and unsuitable house in his opinion. They were elderly and had bought this two-story, high maintenance house with not a scrap of garden to sit out in. No consultation had been made with their children, probably because they knew what the reaction would have been.
What did it matter now, anyway?
The irony of living by the sea as he desired was that his father never ventured outside, preferring to remain in his isolated overheated cocoon with just his own company. With the internal access from his living room to the garage he need never experience the force of the elements if he left the house. All very claustrophobic and boring, he thought. The heater would be set on high in wintertime and he would sit napping on his reclining leather armchair with his only companion, a tatty old cat fast asleep on the bulk that was his bulging stomach. He always said he was cutting down and eating better but the kitchen cupboards told a different story. Bottles of fizzy sodas and packets of cookies and fancy cakes, a packet of candy or two. He didn't care at his age what he ate; he wasn't answerable to anyone but himself. Why lie about it?
His only interest was painting pictures for pleasure, though his pieces were not to his son's taste and he never sold any despite exhibiting many times. Very old fashioned, the son thought, but was too polite to say.
His other pastime was watching television for hours on end including the cable channels. He would highlight the 'TV Guide' always present beside his chair for the must see programs of the week. He never read a book or a newspaper now. He never listened to music.
If anyone ever turned music on, he would ask, "What do you want that noise on for?"
The blond's attention turned back to the gathering in the room. There was the old man from next door to his father's house. A kindly chap with a disabled wife whom he had to ferry about in the wheelchair she was mostly confined to with her multiple sclerosis. Her speech was affected, too, making conversation difficult. The retired doctor, another neighbor, was there. A gentle and kind man whom his father always thought had 'queer boys' staying.
What if he did? Who cares? He was grateful he had not inherited his father's bigotry.
There was the deaf woman who communicated with gestures and the turban wearing Indian man who never missed his daily walk. What an odd bunch, he thought. That was the sum total of the neighbors. There were a few token members from the art club. All elderly women of the twin set and pearl type. They chatted away incessantly and munched on the catered club sandwiches and cream oozing sponge cakes. His father's house cleaner, allocated to him and paid for by the government due to his age and frail health, was there. A closeted and flappy homosexual in denial, with a kind heart and cranky moods, who lived in the poor part of town with his one true love, a cat.
He nodded acknowledgement to his few distant country cousins he spotted that had come out of the woodwork. Have a nose and a free feed, he thought rather unkindly. His father always scorned those he saw as the inferior relatives and would tell his own children off when they were young if they exhibited poor table manners. He said his children should not eat as their cousins, shoveling food in as they apparently did. Another irony as he thought of his father's own none so elegant table manners in later life. He had the most annoying habit of putting drink in his mouth while still having a mouthful of food and swilling it all around together. He would also mix all the food on his plate together and stir it all up like a builder's mix.
Then he spotted his 'Uncle' Bob; well at least that's what he had been brought up to call him. He had actually been a business partner of his father's. A lot younger but a knowledgeable man. He watched him from afar as he stood making small talk about his copious quantities of money and vast number of investment properties. Always had the gift of the gab, the big man, the womaniser, the know all, the wheeler-dealer. He had the fast sports car to match his image with the pop off roof and a collection of speeding tickets to go with it. He stood with his paunch hanging over his belt and his monobrow twitching up and down as he spoke animatedly, nurturing his ego. He felt an unconscious shiver go up his spine.
He thought back to his upbringing. As long as the family did what his father said, life went along smoothly. He never saw the need for conversation or chitchat, waste of time he said. His word was law and he was the king of his castle.
His mother had to have dinner on the table at five for her man or there was hell to pay. The meal had to include red meat and potatoes every day.
He wondered if that is why he now had an aversion to red meat and all the unhealthy stodgy food of his childhood. There was to be a cooked pudding served with every meal. Nothing manufactured or out of a tin would do. A chocolate steamed pudding or apple crumble would suffice. His mother had to prepare the meals and keep the house clean and the garden under control with the aid of the hired help. His father saw no need in his wife learning to drive and so mother and children would trudge up and down their long, steep street to and from school or the store every day. He would drive to and from work.
He remembered the childhood chores of setting and clearing the table with his sister. Then they would quarrel over doing the dishes and whose turn it was to wash or dry. Father would retire to watch the news and smoke cigarette after cigarette. The walls and ceiling were so smoke stained they had to be painted every year with a fresh coat of gleaming white. Maybe that is why he didn't smoke any longer, recalling the stench of tobacco all around him as a child. After watching the news his father would go to the study and work all evening, the noise level of the rest of the family having to be constantly monitored. Sometimes he would explode and lash out with shouting and on occasion, hitting. He was a like a dormant volcano, threatening to erupt at any moment. Many times he had felt his father's belt across his backside. Other times, a stinging slap to his face if he dared question his father's authority. He recalled his father throwing a side table across the room at him once, in a sheer rage. For what he could not remember, and why didn't matter.
His father could never understand why he was so poor certain subjects at school. He was good at the written word, though that was never acknowledged. He still loved to read large quantities of books he obtained from friends or the library. He always devoured them quickly and satisfyingly. A joy he inherited from his mother, he suspected. He enjoyed writing for pleasure but had never had any work published. His father never appreciated the written word or knew of his son's passion to write rather than paint like he wanted him to.
He told him he was disappointed his only son had not chosen a 'proper' job. What a waste he had said. He had never been given the opportunity himself to do tertiary education, having grown up in wartime in a working class family. He guessed he had wanted his own children to be something special, someone famous or rich maybe? Someone he could show off? He pondered whether he would have been loved any more.
He had often been a top of the class student as was required but his father was always too busy to attend the prize-giving ceremonies. His first year at high school had been quite disastrous with poor grades. A direct result of the bullying he had endured but was too afraid to mention, and no one ever asked. He had taken a bad hiding after getting that school report.
As a young man attending medical school as was expected and with a pretty new wife maybe his father's attitude toward him would change?
No. Vanessa was never good enough, and why wasn't she producing future Hutchinson's within the first year of marriage?
He was glad there had been no children from the mismatched union that petered out. Any children he had would undoubtedly never have been well enough behaved or would have talked too much or too loudly.
He felt sad for his mother who had endured more than forty years married to his father. Many times he begged his mother to leave him but she refused and instead took comfort in bad mouthing him behind his back.
He could not understand his mother's willingness to sacrifice her own friends, interests and pleasures for her man. He missed her now she had passed away but was pleased his mother was now at peace and hopefully in a better place. He was bitter that his mother had not been stronger and truer to herself. He resented his mother's martyr-like behavior that he bore witness to throughout most of his childhood. He was angry that his mother's real personality had been trodden on and disrespected. They slept in separate bedrooms for the last ten years of her life. He wondered had his mother ever been happy? It was his mother's choice though, wasn't it?
Yes, his upbringing had made him a stronger man; able to hold his own and learn what not to do. He was bitter for the upbringing he had and the abuse he had suffered at the hands of not only his father but also his 'Uncle' Bob. Looking across the room at him now as he talked of his exploits he wondered if Bob ever gave a moment's thought to the child he had sexually abused. Maybe he had locked the memory away forever? He had been a young impressionable and innocent child. Why didn't his parents protect him? Isn't that what parents do? When his sister had long fled the home his parents would go out for the evening and he was dropped over at Bob's house.
Bob would have been in his twenties then, old enough to know better when he started his so-called games. The games started innocently enough with touching, feeling, poking. He felt uncomfortable and awkward but was trusting. Over time the game became sinister and eventuated in Bob getting him to masturbate him in his room or the bathroom. He would show the boy his collection of magazines of men having sex with men. To he who knows no different, is it so wrong? You trust family and friends don't you? It wasn't actual sex, so that's okay isn't it?
In recent years his father lamented over the lack of contact his son had with his old pal Bob, laying the guilt on thick. If only he knew he thought, but no, better to remain silent. He didn't want confrontation and denial of what happened and how he really felt. He found it hard not to harbor thoughts of bitterness and resentment.
His thoughts were broken now when he felt Starsky pull gently at his sleeve and motion for them to leave.
Why did he have to have the family he did?
Were all families dysfunctional or just his?
There's always someone worse off than he is, isn't there?
What right has he to complain?
After thoughts of suicide and years of pain and soul searching he knew he must move on and leave his own mark on this world. Maybe one day he would have his own children. He couldn't afford to make the mistakes his parents did but must instead learn from them.
What if he did make errors of judgment, though?
Would his own children forgive him for all his faults?
Would his own children understand their father, love or hate him?
Would he hit his own children?
He surveyed the people gathered before him one last time before making his way in silence with his best friend to the door. This house held no meaning to him. None of the people here meant anything to him. They were just a motley collection, here to be seen doing the right thing as one does. A bunch of hypocrites. Life is too short. Does anybody really care?
His father never told him he loved him or showed him any affection that he recalled. Why was it so hard for him? It was too late now but he had no regrets. He brought him up in this world and put a roof over his head and food on the table. But he didn't care about that as a child. He just wanted someone to love him and hold him, read to him, play with him, go on picnics and walks. Someone to respect and protect him. As an adult he craved acknowledgement for what he had done with his life. He did have a respectable career. He had a wonderful partner not only in work but there for him in life. He trusted this man more than anyone else in his life. Indeed he had trusted him with his life many times. This man beside him now was the brother he never had and God forbid any thing should ever take him away from him. This was a man worthy of getting to know but his father had never tried.
This morning was his father's funeral. It was too late now.
The End