Page 106 of Just Business
They both hesitated for a moment, but then his father nodded and opened the door and stepped to the side.
Neither looked pleased. Hell, he wasn’t happy, either. But enough was enough. Sixteen years since he’d left. Eighteen since the accident. Eli opened the screen door and entered the house that had once been his home. His refuge. He even brushed his fingers over the mezuzah.
It smelled the same, that hint of spice under the lemon cleaner his mother used. A gentle smell of wax. The years melted for a second, reforming to when he had been happy here. When he’d watched his mother light the Shabbat candles. When he’d thought nothing could ever harm him. The constriction in his throat slid into his chest. “I think it’s time we finally talked about the accident. About Noah. And about me.”
It was his mother who nodded. “Why don’t you come and sit down? I’ll take your coat.”
He shoved his gloves and scarf into his pocket before handing it over.
His father eyed his cane, then gestured to the living room. He made it three steps into the room before what was on the coffee table stopped him in his tracks.
Photographs. Of him. His exhale was a little loud, with perhaps too much sorrow in it. But he was here for a reason—and the boy depicted in those photos, the boy he had been—was part of that. He forced himself to finish the walk to the couch, to sit down. He propped his cane up against the armrest.
The photographs spanned years, from his birth to his bar mitzvah and beyond. Even to high school graduation, when he’d cut his hair close and shaved his face completely. Eli touched a photo of a dark-haired, smiling boy holding a stuffed dreidel. He couldn’t have been more than three.
“Your second Chanukah.”
“I don’t remember being this young.” Everything before the accident seemed like a dream. Improbable. Someone else’s life.
Another photo had him riding a bike, his legs already too long for the frame. Again, the smile. This time, the curls were covered by a kippah. A pang in his chest, followed by a deep ache in his head and his bones. “I can’t ride anymore.”
His mother joined them, carrying a tray of cups. Tea.
“It’s herbal. The one with the calming weed... oh, what is it? There’s a bear on the box.”
Eli set the photo down. How long had they been talking in Ladino? Had he been? He couldn’t tell.
He answered in English. “Chamomile.”
She nodded and set the tray down next to the photos and retreated to her chair.
Silence. Eli took one of the mugs and sipped, the warmth of the brew easing the pain in both his throat and chest. He studied his parents, their long, worried faces. He shared his father’s eye and hair color—though his father now sported more white than black. His features, though, he found mirrored in his mother. Hers were softer, but the same length and angles looked back. He was a product of these two, but also of himself and of time.
“I am not the man you wanted me to be. I will never be that man.” Eli paused. “And I’m not sorry for it.”
They both shifted, looked at each other, and back at him. Fingers gripped mugs tighter.
“None of it was the fault of the accident. If that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be who I am now, but I don’t think I’d be all that different. Not in the ways you hate me for.”
His mother exhaled. “We don’t hate you, Eli.”
Hearing his name from her felt like being stabbed with many, many needles. He tried not to flinch. “No,” he said, the words like pebbles in his mouth. “You hate what I’ve become. You want this boy.” He touched the photo of the two-year-old. “Or who you hoped he’d become, back when he was young and innocent.” He touched another picture, him at his bar mitzvah. “Or maybe this one, set to become a pillar of the community.”
“Can you blame us?” His mother looked into her mug.
“I can. I have.” Completely. Utterly. “Because you hate me for every unreasonable expectation you ever had.”
Both of them started. His father made to rise.
“Don’t,” Eli said. “Hear me out this one time. You’ll never know if you’re justified in believing I’m the wretched and ungrateful son who does not honor his parents if you throw me out now.”
An odd look from his father, but he settled into his chair. His mother’s hands shook.
“I’m gay. I’ve always been gay. I’m going to be gay for the rest of my life.” They surely knew this, but it still felt good to say it out loud.
His father worked his jaw, but remained silent. His mother set down her mug and folded her hands into her lap. “That boy Noah—”
“Noah had nothing to do with it!” He nearly slammed the mug onto the table. The sudden welling of anger shook him. He set the cup down gently and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Noah didn’t turn me gay.” Hell, Noah might have been bisexual. He’d mentioned girls a few of the times they’d fooled around in some of the more secluded parts of Frick Park. No way to know now.
