Page 8 of Single-Minded
“It’s not so much the public humiliation as the private one. I’m still getting my head around the fact that Michael is gay.”
“I assumed you knew,” she says.
“What do you mean, you assumed I knew? Did you know?” I ask, aghast. What the hell? Am I the only person whodidn’tknow?
“Well, your father and I had our suspicions. Remember when he was in that college production ofWicked?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, there you are.”
I smack myself on the forehead.
“That’s it, Mom? A lot of people do theater in college.”
“Yes, but most men don’t try out for Elphaba. Also, he was always very neat. Straight men are pigs.”
“Holy stereotypes, Mother. That’s not even… I can’t even begin…”
I sigh deeply; it’s not even worth getting into with her. “Is Dad there?”
“He’s playing tennis. He sends his best. Alex, I’m just trying to protect your interests,” she says coldly. “That’s what mothers do.” That’s certainly what my mother does. Other people’s mothers probably send cookies and stay on the phone with you for hours consoling you about your rotten luck and your gay husband. Mine offers up stupid stereotypes and legally binding contracts. Sometimes, I wish I had someone else’s mother.
“Thanks,” I say. “Bye.”
“Goodbye, Alexandra.” The line goes dead.
I look at Michael and he shrugs his shoulders knowingly. He’s known my mother almost as long as I have: about twenty-five years too long.
My phone is constantly buzzing with texts, and at least a half dozen calls, most of which I ignore or send to voice mail.
Carter left a message while I was on the other line with my mother, and I call him back immediately. He’s one of our best friends, we’ve known him forever. Carter is the first openly gay person we ever met. He’s out, way out, whip-smart and hilarious, and kills at karaoke. If anybody saw this one coming, it had to be Carter.
“Did you know?” I ask. “Did you suspect, have an inkling?
“Sure, sweetie, everybody knew,” says Carter. Oh Jesus, was I blind or something?
“Oh my gawd, did you see my husband naked?” I ask, horrified. Michael, Carter, and I met our freshman year in college. If there was ever a time for sexual exploration… Not that I would know.
“I may be a slut, but I have my standards,” Carter says, “I don’t screw around with married men. Or men who happen to be in love with my best friends.”
“Aww, thanks. I believe the term you’re looking for is notslut,it’ssexually confident,” I say.
“I’m sexually confident that I don’t screw married guys,” says Carter.
I sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Honestly, it never occurred to me that you didn’t know. But I didn’t think he’d actually screw around on you. He’s always been deeply committed.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just… most closeted gay men I know find some other way to fulfill their needs, they just do it anonymously—with a rent boy, or at a bathhouse or a park, or a glory hole in the airport bathroom in Minneapolis, or cruising gay bars when they’re in a different city. A guy may pretend he doesn’t want or need sex with another man, but his body and mind will betray the lie every time.”
My intestines lurch, my hands start shaking, I will myself not to vomit, or stroke out. Michael travels constantly for work, and now all I can picture is him, wearing a studded leather vest and matching chaps, cruising for dudes. Jesus, I need to get myself checked for STDs.
I shake with sobs, completely distraught. “I’m his best friend, how did I not know this about him?” Michael reaches over and grasps my hand; his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, but I can see they’re welling up with tears.
“Don’t beat yourself up, sweetie,” Carter says. “He just jammed your gaydar. We all see what we want to see when it comes to the people we love.”
