Page 70 of Big Britches
“Puberty?” Pedro ventured.
“I think it was earlier than that. Elementary school. When he started socializing with other children, he withdrew, started focusing his energy in other areas–sports, in particular.”
“Isn’t that what a lot of boys do?”
“Yes,” Titus answered. “But I was doing it for different reasons. I wanted to prove myself worthy. Daddy’s right about imprints, and kids are mean. The first time I heard the word faggot was in second grade. It didn’t take long for me to realize what it meant and that I totally identified with the concept. Not sexually speaking, but I definitely knew something different was going on inside me. It began a decade and a half of self-imposed denial and masquerade.”
“If you ever felt that way because of us, son, I am truly sorry.”
“I can’t recall you ever giving me reason to think so, Daddy, but I guess I was impressionable. Like a turtle, my shell just kept getting thicker from then on. Being in a small town, I really had no role models, just stereotypes on stupid shows like Three’s Company–which I was drawn to, by the way, because I had nothing else to go on.”
“Good, Lord,” Patricia said.
“I thought I was a freak–an aberration. That’s what the Bible-thumpers call it. But, you know what? Aberration is no less harsh a word than the one I heard in second grade. Worse probably. So, I buried any and everything connecting me to it. Plunged myself into sports and found the path I thought the world expected of me.”
Pedro’s eyes welled. So much was making sense now.
“I guess in some ways I was a success.”
“You certainly were on the football field,” Truman said, attempting some levity. “You were a force to be reckoned with. Those emotions your mother mentioned–they weren’t all joy and love. When you were mad or disappointed, it was also tenfold. And what is more suitable for exorcising demons and pent-up frustration than a gridiron? You were a star, son. Five years later and people are still talking.”
Titus pushed his mother’s empty bowl away and began on his father’s pudding. “Alden deserves credit. I may have made touchdowns, but he was calling all the shots.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. You two were a partnership. Still are.” Truman glanced at Pedro. “And I think I see the beginnings of another right now.”
“You can thank Violet for that.”
“Poor thing.” Patricia said. “Your father told me about the letter.”
“It’s funny.” Titus said. “We were always so much alike in wanting to maintain the status quo. I wonder if she knew how much her letter would alter things.”
“Of course she did,” Truman said. “She was dying. Death, as you both know, has a way of redirecting focus. Violet knew exactly what she was doing. By absolving you, son, she paved a path not only for your happiness but Tucker’s, too.”
“Why do we have to wait, Daddy?” Titus asked. “Why can’t people just be who they were meant to be before tragedy comes along and changes things?”
“Human nature? Who knows? Some people can, I suspect. Just be glad that you’re still young and have the opportunity.”
“It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not. It never is,” Truman said, glancing at Patricia.
“We just want you to know that you have our blessing,” she said. “We love you, and we want nothing more than your happiness. I can see right now the effect Pedro has had on you. Feels like I’m getting my little boy back and it pleases me to no end.”
“But that’s not the only reason for this dinner,” Truman said. “There’s something else we have to tell you.”
“ALS–Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis is the technical term. We know it better as Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
Pedro observed Titus hearing Truman’s words. His heart sank. Had they not been sitting across the large table from each other, he would have taken his hand.
“I don’t understand,” Titus said. “How long have you known?”
“Helton addressed some concerns a few months back. He referred me to a neurologist, Dr. Sid Perry, in Macon who I’ve been seeing ever since. Perry confirmed the diagnosis last week.”
“So what’s next, then?” Titus asked. It broke Pedro’s heart hearing the childlike optimism in his tone. Pedro knew the answer. He was all too familiar, having played part in a similar scenario less than a decade prior. Truman was telling his son that he was dying of a terminal illness.
“We caught it kind of late. I was attributing things–pain, weakness–to my arthritis, which is one reason we didn’t catch it sooner. I’m on Riluzole now, which is the best medicine there is for ALS. So, that’s good.”
“So you’ll get better,” Titus said.