Page 40 of Everything We Thought Was True
“Yeah, it was an upgrade.” He paused. “But I didn’t get to live there very long. Kind of a shame.”
And whose fault is that?I thought.
But I held back. I had an ambivalent relationship with our Johnston house, which we’d moved to when I was nine years old. I loved the house itself, which had felt like such a step up from what we’d moved away from. My father was doing well enough in his job that we could rent a house. He was so excited to show us, like a little kid with a new toy. In retrospect, it almost seemed like he was trying to convince himself that a change of scenery would somehow fix us. I’d hoped we’d be happy there. But it would prove to be the scene of one of the worst moments of my life.
Idrove home from Terranea with the roof down on my Fiat. The breeze felt refreshing. I caught glimpses of the ocean from the highway. Snippets of the evening with my dad played over in my mind, one phrase getting caught in a loop—“You know our favorite place in the world is on the water,” he’d said, referring to him and Henry. And like a gravitational pull, my thoughts wandered back to a particular Saturday afternoon that was etched in my memory.
Anthony and I had been out on the boat with Dad and Henry along with Henry’s two kids—the moms having stayed at home “to give the ladies a break,” I recall my dad saying. We’d anchored in Manhasset Bay, and Anthony was frolicking in the water with Henry’s kids, diving off the deck on the back of the boat over and over. I’d had enough swimming for the time being and went down below into the cabin to read a Judy Blume book. After a while, I came back out to the deck area to head into the water again because it was so hot out. I saw my dad and Henry laughing, their heads together, with Henry’s hand on my dad’s arm. My father was beaming at Henry—the kind of smile when you had a secret—lookinglike someone I didn’t even recognize. I felt shell-shocked, my head buzzing. I stood frozen in place, not daring to walk any farther onto the deck. They must have heard me because I saw my dad flinch and jerk his arm away from under Henry’s hand. My dad cleared his throat and looked out at the kids swimming in the water. Henry looked momentarily startled and then also looked out at the water, avoiding making any eye contact with my father, acting nonchalant.
The moment had passed. But I knew what I’d seen. It had never occurred to me before to think of my father as a man with desires. Like all kids, I preferred—despite my very existence—not to think of my parents as sexual beings. But I started thinking of all the times I’d seen my dad and Henry together. There was something about the way my dad’s body relaxed around Henry. A familiarity to his movements. An excitement in his voice when he’d speak about Henry. An easy banter between them. They seemed to orbit each other.
I felt like I was piecing something together. The late evenings home from work... my dad always wanting to go out on the boat with Henry. Fury rose like bile in my throat.What exactly is he hiding? And how can he be so deceitful?
After that day, I kept my distance from my dad at home. I ignored him and responded to his questions with simply yes or no. I felt like everything was unbalanced—like the world I knew had somehow tilted on its axis.
And the worst part was that I didn’t know what to do with this information. I didn’t want to tell my mom. My kind, loving mom.
When we got home from the boat that night, she greeted us, grabbing our wet towels to put in the laundry. “Did you have a good time?”
When I looked at her, my heart skipped a beat. I wanted to ask her about what I’d seen on the boat that afternoon and what it meant. But I didn’t know how to phrase it.
“Yeah, it was nice out,” I eked out, safely referring to the weather.
I turned away from my mom’s gaze before she could read my face, wanting to go back and erase what I’d seen. I had the strange sense that I shouldn’t share information about my father’s behavior on the boat with my mother, and I hated keeping something from her. I felt a heaviness as I trudged off toward my room. The situation was too big for my nine-year-old self to navigate.
I saw Anthony walking ahead of me, heading into his bedroom.
“Anthony, wait up.” I followed him in and shut the door behind me.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I studied his face. He’d been playing in the water earlier that day, oblivious to the scene I’d witnessed between our dad and Henry.
“Do you think there’s something... different about Dad?” I asked.
“Different in what way? What do you mean?” Anthony sounded annoyed, like he wanted to get on with settling in.
I didn’t know how to explain it to Anthony—this hunch that started as a terrible seed and had grown into an invasive vine, threatening to take over. I opened my mouth but said nothing.
“Lena, what do you mean by ‘different’?” he asked impatiently.
I hesitated, my dread rising. I wasn’t sure I wanted to bring Anthony into this. Dad was Anthony’s hero. I didn’t want to say anything to tarnish that when I wasn’t even exactly sure what was going on.
“Nothing really,” I said, trying to backtrack. “I just think he’s been acting a little strange for a while now, don’t you?”
“Not really.” He shrugged. “Seems kind of the same to me.”
I nodded nervously. “Okay, I’m sure it’s nothing. Don’t worry,” I lied. Little did I know it would be the first of many lies and my future modus operandi. I would become my parents’ daughter—amaster of deceit.
It wasn’t until four years later, at thirteen years old, during a human sexuality class at school, that I finally had a context for what I saw and could connect the dots. We covered homosexuality, which was taught as a cautionary taboo subject. And it was like a lightbulb exploded in my brain. That was what my father and Henry were. Now I had a name for it and a framework to comprehend more fully what I’d witnessed. And it confirmed all my fears—that this was bad, something to be ashamed of, to be kept secret.
Chapter Twenty-Two
FRANK - JOHNSTON, NY
1983
Frank walked into his favorite bakery to buy a pastry and a cup of tea—a ritual he enjoyed about once a week. While waiting for his turn to order, he noticed a man in a white chef’s hat putting cannoli into the front case from a big metal tray. The man wore a white coat with the wordsRicky - Pastry Chefembroidered on the chest. He looked up and locked his chocolate-colored eyes with Frank’s, and Frank felt a bolt of electricity course through his veins. He was mesmerized.
