I was elated when I learned that not only was Christian going to be OK but that he had made peace with his parents. They were very nice people and I hated to see him and them so unhappy.
In the afternoon of the third day Christian was in the hospital, we asked our parents whether or not we could start being together again. They conferred in the solar and came back to say that they had decided we could, but we could not be alone in either house and we had to put the sex on hold for the time being. That was a dreadful blow. We both knew that what they asked would be exceedingly difficult, but we both agreed, and my parents and I left Christian a much happier boy.
The next day, November first, we had our first meeting with Dr. Cushing. We were all emotionally exhausted as we gathered in his hospital office. I noticed the bandages on Christian’s arms had been reduced considerably. Even before Dr. Cushing could start the meeting, my mother said she had a question. “Dr. Cushing, the first time we met you said that you were often called in by the hospital on cases ‘like this.’ What did you mean by ‘like this?’ Did you mean attempted suicides, teen attempts, or homosexual teen attempts?”
“That’s an interesting question. Actually, I meant teen attempts, but fully three quarters of those are homosexual teens who are immersed in self-hate and feel rejected by those they love.”
“Well Doctor, I think you should know that we have already lost one son and we’ll do whatever we can to keep from losing the other.”
My mom looked down in her lap and I thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. I was astounded. That was the first time I had heard her mention Tommy since he died.
“Mrs. Bradley,” Dr Cushing responded, “I’m very sorry to hear that. Could you tell me more about what happened?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it, Doctor. I’m trying very hard right now to hold myself together.”
My dad reached over and took her hand.
After a little silence, Dr. Cushing went on, “All right, then, perhaps we can get back to that at another meeting. The aim of these meetings and of my meetings with each of the boys is to be sure that nobody loses anybody in this room. I believe I’d like to start with Christian telling us again what happened and why he felt so angry and sad. I know we’ve all heard bits and pieces of it, but we need to hear the whole thing.”
So Christian began to talk, beginning with his guilty feelings last summer, Rodney’s death, the fight at school and going all the way to when he slashed his wrists. I know it was very difficult for him, but he got through it, and again I think we were all struck by the utter despair and loneliness he had felt.
“Thank you, Christian,” said the doctor. “How do you feel now?”
“Well, I suppose I feel better knowing that my parents really do love me, but I know I am something which they despise and even which I despise. I think I love everybody here except myself, and I hate myself for what I am.”
“Oh, Christian,” said Mrs. Walker.
“Peter,” asked the doctor, “how do you feel right now?”
“Oh, goodness,” I began with a sigh, “like Christian I love everybody here, but being what I am makes me feel like a freak, like I’m not normal, and I hate that about myself.”
We talked for the better part of an hour. Christian’s parents talked about their religion and how it opposed homosexuality, and my parents talked about how they simply wanted a normal son and they didn’t see how I could be one if I was homosexual.
“Does that mean you won’t love me if I’m truly homosexual?” I asked, fearful of the answer.
“No Peter,” Mom said. “We love you completely and whether you’re ‘normal’ or not has nothing to do with that love.”
“Whew!” I thought, hugging her.
Toward the end of the meeting, Dr. Cushing said, “Well, first, you all need to know that self-hate is very common among homosexuals. They do feel different and they do feel they can’t live up to their parents’ expectations or often even their own. I believe the questions about religion are going to take a lot of serious discussion among Christian, his parents, and perhaps their pastor. As for the feeling of not being normal, when you look at the Kinsey Report you may find that homosexuality is more normal than you think, but that question too will require a great deal of discussion. This is not something we’re going to solve in one meeting. I suggest that we plan to get together in four weeks. Meanwhile, I’d like to see both Christian and Peter alone twice a week for a few weeks. Your homework, all of you, is to do a lot of thinking, reading, and most of all, truly talking with each other. Remember, boys, that means listening as well as talking.”
We both replied, “Yes Sir.”
He then gave each of us his card and told us that any of us could call him any time, adding, “That’s especially true for you, Christian. If you get feeling down or sad or angry or suicidal, call me right away.” Thanking him for his help, we left the office, Our fathers went back to work, but our mothers stayed and Christian and I spent hours in the solar, talking and playing chess.
The next day, Christian was discharged from the hospital and I went back to school. A number of kids asked what had happened and how he was. Christian and I had discussed this, so I knew he didn’t want people at school to know, at least for now, what he had done, so I didn’t tell them what had happened, but I did tell them that he was home and would be back in a few days.
Having said that he didn’t want to go back to school until his bandages were off, Christian returned on Monday a week later. The bandages were indeed gone, and life went on quite normally.
Meanwhile, my parents and I began to talk. I wanted to begin with that word, ‘normal.’ I asked them what they meant by the word.
“Well,” my father began, ”I suppose we mean usual, or what’s expected, but let’s look it up so we’re sure of what we are talking about.” We got the dictionary and looked up ‘normal.’ It said, among other things, “According to, or not deviating from a norm, rule, or principle,” so then we had to look up ‘norm.’ One of the definitions, which my parents settled on was, ‘A principle of right action binding upon the members of a group and serving to guide, control or regulate the proper and acceptable behavior.’
“That’s what we’re talking about,” my mother said. It’s a principle of right action that’s binding on the group. Homosexuality is not a right action according to the group.”
“But who is the group and why do they get to make the rules?” I protested.
“I guess in this case, the group is the people of the United States, whose representatives say that homosexual activity is illegal.”
“But is the group always right? Were they right about slavery? Are they right about segregation? Were they right about not letting women vote?”
“Of course not. Slavery required a terrible war to end it. The right for women to vote required a lot of time and political action. Someday, I hope, the laws about segregation will be decided the same way, not by war but by moral suasion and political action.”
“I still don’t see why our society says that homosexuality is wrong. Those other things hurt other people; homosexuality in a loving, caring relationship doesn’t hurt anybody, so why is it anybody else’s business? Is being different bad?” I asked.
“No, not necessarily, but it can cause you problems. For example, at the beginning of last year, when Christian was the only Negro in your school, that caused him problems.”
“Yes it did, but certainly you’re not saying that it’s bad to be a Negro?”
“Of course not, but life is harder for Christian. His race introduces an entire bundle of issues which you don’t have.”
“Because I’m ‘normal’.”
“No, I’m not saying that Christian isn’t normal. He’s a normal, usually happy person who happens to be a Negro.”
“Then why can’t I be a normal, usually happy person who happens to be a homosexual?”
My mother put in, “Because sexual behavior, Peter, is totally different from race. The behavior you want to be free to do is just not accepted by society.”
“Why should anybody even know what we’re doing?”
“Because, whether you like it or not, eventually people would find out and then you would be outcasts. Peter, we desperately do not want that for you.”
They asked me just what we had been doing with each other. Reluctantly I told them how we began talking about jerking off, how we had done it, and how it had evolved into blow jobs.
My mother drew in her breath and my father said, “Peter, that’s not an acceptable expression.”
“That’s the only term I know for it. What should I call it?”
“If you had to say it, and I suppose you did since we asked, the term would be ‘oral sex.’”
The discussion went round and round, and I don’t think it got very far, but at least we were talking. It dawned on me that we were talking about sex, which is something that we never would have done a month ago, and it felt good to at least get my questions into the open.
Our parents had worked out with Dr. Cushing that Christian and I could have consecutive appointments, so that twice a week, one mother would take us to the hospital and wait while we both had our appointments. Since we would each also be waiting for awhile, we brought along school work so we wouldn’t get too far behind. The great thing about this arrangement was that it gave me and Christian a chance to be together. Even though we couldn’t really talk in the car about what was on our minds, we could at least sit in the back seat and hold hands.
When it was my turn with Dr. Cushing, he began by saying, “Peter, the other day your mother stated that you had had a brother who died. I think this might be a very important piece of information to get out in the open, because I’m sure it affects how both you and your parents think about many things. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I can’t really tell you much. It was a boating accident that happened when I was seven and Tommy, my brother, was 17. Somehow, I think there’s more memory of it in my head, but I don’t seem able to retrieve it. I do know that my parents never talk about Tommy. When my mother mentioned it the other day, it was the first time I had heard her say anything about the accident since it happened.”
“Goodness! So that was perhaps the beginning of a breakthrough for her and also a sign of how worried she is that she might lose you too.”
“She won’t if I can help it. I could never do that to her.”
“Is there any way you could find out more about what happened?”
“There may be. I have an aunt who might be able to tell me some things, if she’s willing. I’ll call her.”
After that we talked about how I was feeling, and what my parents and I had been able to discuss so far. He encouraged me to keep asking questions and listening to their concerns, but to be sure that I also told them my concerns.
When I got home from seeing Dr. Cushing, I went upstairs and phoned Aunt Phyllis, who was the closest to a family historian that I knew. When she answered, I asked her if I could talk with her.
“Certainly,” she said. “Do you want your parents to know that you asked to talk or not?”
“Not.”
“Fine. Why don’t your Aunt Sarah and I invite you to supper tomorrow? Aunt Sarah can make herself scarce while we talk.”
I agreed, thanked her, and hung up.
Five minutes later the phone rang and I heard Mom pick up downstairs.
“That would be fine. Shall I bring him over about 5:30?” she asked. She listened for a minute and then hung up.
“Oh, Lord! What have I gotten myself into?” I wondered.
Aunt Phyllis was my mother’s older sister. She ran a little private preschool and lived with Aunt Sarah, who wasn’t really my aunt. She was just Aunt Phyllis’s friend, but they had lived together so long that my father referred to them as ‘the girls.’ (It didn’t occur to me for years that they were lesbians living in what became known as a ‘Boston Marriage.’)
The next afternoon I arrived at the aunts’ house right on time. The three of us sat in the living room while the aunts had their preprandial libations (one of my father’s favorite expressions) and I had Coke. I really didn’t like Coke, but Aunt Phyllis had decided years ago that all boys liked Coke, so that’s what she always served. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she had been wrong for years, so I drank the Coke.
We chatted about school and home and music for half an hour or so before going into the dining room for supper. They served up huge helpings of spaghetti and meatballs, one of my favorite meals, and gave me a glass of milk while they each had another cocktail. During the meal they played for me a record which they had recently received from their Columbia Record Club. It was of Dvorak’s New World Symphony, with a young conductor named Leonard Bernstein. I listened, absolutely enthralled. I had never heard the symphony played with such intensity and feeling. Right away, Bernstein became my idol! I became so involved in the recording that I forgot about conversation. They watched me and, when it was over, asked if I would like to have the record. I think I drooled I wanted it so badly, so that was settled.
After supper, we cleared the dishes and Aunt Sarah went into their den while Aunt Phyllis and I sat at the table and talked.
“So, Peter. I understand that you’re homosexual and you and your friend are seeing a psychiatrist.” She certainly knew how to cut to the chase!
“Yes, we are, and Mom and Dad and Christian’s parents have been meeting with him also. But he’s not one of those doctors who believe we’re sick or who want us to change. He just wants me and Christian to be happy and to work things out with our parents, all of whom are against the idea of me and Christian together.”
“You mean having sex?”
“Well, yes, but Christian and I do a lot of things besides that. I truly believe we are soul mates.” I went on to tell her all about Christian and how we had gotten together, how our parents reacted when they found out we were queer, and how Christian had tried to kill himself.
“So,” I concluded, “we’re trying to figure out how we can all deal with this. But that’s not really why I asked to come over.”
“Fine, but before we get to that, I want you to know that I fully support you, not against your parents, I hope, but with your parents in trying to figure out how to resolve the question so everybody can be happy.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, and went around the table to give her a hug.
When I got back to my seat, I began, “What I really want to know about is Tommy. I know he was ten years older than I was and I worshipped him. I know he died in a boating accident but that’s all I remember. I can’t talk about him with Mom because she won’t talk. I don’t think she’s mentioned his name since he died, and that really saddens me.”
“I think you’re right, Peter, I don’t think she ever talks about him, even with your father. I personally don’t believe that’s a healthy way to deal with grief, but I suppose we all have to find our own way. Now, let me think what I can tell you.”
She thought quietly for a few moments. “First,” she began, “your brother, who was Thomas Junior, of course, was probably one of the most loved people in town, and he fully deserved it. He was loving and gentle himself. He was very polite and always concerned about somebody who was unhappy. Rather like you in fact. He was an outstanding student. He wanted to be a lawyer, you know, and he would have made a good one. The accident happened on July 17th that year.”
“My birthday,” I said softly. “I didn’t remember that.”
“Yes, and that’s undoubtedly why your mother has very mixed feelings on your birthdays. Anyway, Tommy and his friend, Clark, had decided to go to Clark’s family’s cottage on a lake in New Hampshire. They were going to stay over the weekend and drive back on Monday.
“You had a birthday party that day, with a magician. I was there and I remember how much you and your friends enjoyed it. After your friends left, your mother and father and I were sitting in your living room. I think you may have already gone to bed.
“The phone rang. Your mother picked it up, said ‘Hello,’ and listened for a minute. Then she turned so pale I thought she was going to pass out. She looked at us and said, in a pain-filled, barely audible voice, ‘Thomas is dead!’ That’s the last time I heard her say Thomas’s name.”
“Taking the phone from her, your father asked, ‘What’s happened?’ He listened for a few minutes, said, at one time, ‘Oh, My God!’ then finally said, ‘We’ll be up there tonight.’ He put down the phone and sat beside your mother on the couch, holding her hand. I thought it was strange at the time that she wasn’t crying. She just stared off into space. I told them I would stay with you. In time, your father took your mother upstairs to pack a few things. When they came down again, your father said, ‘Thank you, Phyllis,’ and they walked to the car.
“I heard nothing more until the next day. When you got up, you asked where they were, and I told you that they had gone up to New Hampshire for awhile. You seemed fine with that. You ate your breakfast, went out, got on your bike, and rode around the neighborhood.
“Around noon, I got a call from your father. He said they were bringing Tommy back in the afternoon and they should be home before dinner. I asked if he wanted me to tell you about your brother. He asked, ‘Can you do that? I think a seven-year-old won’t understand a lot about it except that it was an accident and that his brother won’t be coming home.’ I wasn’t so certain of that but said I would do my best.
“After you had your lunch, I talked with you while you sat finishing the last of your milk. I told you that Tommy was not coming back because he had died in an accident.
“You asked what kind of an accident and I said I wasn’t sure but we probably would know more later. You asked when your parents were coming home, and I told you they would be here in the late afternoon, to which you replied, ‘OK.’ You put your dishes in the sink and went out to throw a tennis ball against the garage, which was one of your favorite pastimes, especially when you were thinking about things, which you often did.”
“I remember some of that,” I said. “I remember you telling me that he was dead and I remember going out and throwing the ball while I was wondering what that really meant.”
“Your parents got home in the late afternoon, and your mother went straight upstairs. Your father came into the living room, where I was reading a book to you. He sat down beside you and gave you a big hug.
“‘Peter,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
“You looked up at him and said, ‘That’s OK, Dad, I’ll help you,’ and then he burst into tears. I wasn’t at all sure he should have said that to you. After all, he needed to be strong for your sake, but in an odd way, right then you were being the strong one for him, and maybe he was just worn out trying to be strong for your mother.
“I did find out a few days later from Clark’s parents that Clark was bruised but otherwise OK. The boys had been out in a boat fishing. It began to get dark and they didn’t have any lights on the boat. Suddenly, a very powerful motorboat seemed to come from nowhere and slammed into your brother’s end of their boat. He disappeared into the water, and when he didn’t come up again, Clark ran to the cottage for help. It was a couple of hours before they found Tommy floating in some weeds farther down the lake. The man driving the motorboat was very drunk and was arrested, but I don’t know what happened to him. I hope that he feels guilty until the day he dies.
“The funeral was three days later. Your parents wanted an open casket, which I didn’t think was a good idea for you. Before the service, you went up and looked at Tommy. Then you reached in and felt his cheek. You said something and then came back to your seat. It wasn’t until we were at the cemetery and the men started to shovel in dirt on the coffin that you began to cry. You were very quiet about it, and it didn’t last a long time. Then we all rode home and nobody said a word. As I said, your mother never mentioned Tommy again. She bottled everything up inside, and I’m sure it’s still there. After that, she just went on with life, as though nothing had happened.”
“I remember the funeral now,” I said. “I remember going up, looking at Tommy, and wondering what he would feel like. So I reached into the casket and felt his cheek. I think I expected that he might wake up, but he was cold and sort of waxy. I even remember what I said. When I finished touching him I said, ‘Good-bye Tommy. I’ll miss you. I hope you like heaven.’”
By that time we were both crying. Not sobbing; just sitting there with tears washing down our cheeks. She came over to me and held me for a long time.
Finally, I said, “Thank you, Aunt Phyllis. That wasn’t easy, but thank you. It helps a lot to finally know what happened. How can I help Mother? She must be in awful pain.”
“I think she is, and if I knew how to help her, I would, but she just won’t let anybody in. She’s made a new life with you at its center and I think she would do anything to keep you safe and happy.”
“That explains what she meant when she said to Dr. Cushing, ‘I’ve already lost one son and I will not lose another.’ He asked her what she meant but she wouldn’t say another word. A few days ago, when I saw the doctor, he asked me if I knew what she meant. I told him what little I knew about the accident, and then he said he suspected all our family was repressing some things that perhaps we needed to talk about. He asked if there was anybody who could tell me more about it? I knew Dad wouldn’t. Then I thought of you and that’s why I called.”
Aunt Phyllis replied, “I’m so glad you did.” Just as she said that, the doorbell rang. Mom had arrived to pick me up. In the car, she asked me first about the record and I told her enthusiastically. Then she asked what we had discussed. I said that I wasn’t yet ready to talk to anybody else.
She looked at me for a moment and then asked, “Are you and Aunt Phyllis keeping secrets from me?” She said it as though it was meant to be a joke, but I’m sure it wasn’t.
“No,” I said. “I just have some thinking to do before I talk to anyone else.”
She seemed OK with that. When we got home, I went up to bed, not sleeping for a long time. Mostly, I was worrying about Mom.
The next week, Mom drove us to our appointment. I went first. Sitting down, I began by saying, “I learned quite a lot about Tommy and the accident,” and then I told Dr. Cushing everything I had learned.
When I finished, he was quiet for a few moments before asking, “Are you glad or sorry that you found all that out?”
“I think I’m glad. I needed to know, and the whole question of what happened seemed to just fill our house with silence.”
“Sometimes we call that, ‘The elephant in the room.’ Everybody knows it’s there, but nobody will talk about it. I’m glad you did, and I’m glad you told me.”
“I’m still really worried about Mom, though. It can’t be good for her, never talking about Tommy. I know she thinks about him because sometimes I catch her looking at his picture when she doesn’t know I’m watching. Is there any way I can help her talk about it?”
“Maybe you already have, Peter. I’ll think on it. Now, we need to talk about you and how things are going.”
At the end of my session, as I was going out the door and Christian was entering, he stopped and gave me a very gentle kiss, and then he went into the office.
“Peter, I don’t think I’m happy about the kissing,” my mother said.
“But Mom, it’s all we can do. At least it tells me that we’re still close. After all, if Christian was a girl, you probably wouldn’t think anything of it. What harm does it do?”
“None, I suppose, as long as you’re very careful about where and how you do it. He isn’t a girl, after all, and people would make life very difficult for you both if they saw it.”
After promising her we would be careful, I got my books out and began to work, while my mother read her book. When Christian came out of the office, Dr. Cushing asked if he could see Mom for a few minutes, so she went in.
“Oh, no!” I said.
“What’s that about?” Christian asked.
“I’ll tell you later.”
We heard nothing for a few minutes. Then we heard my mother, shouting. I cringed. Finally, she seemed to calm down. When she came out of the office, though, she looked extremely angry.
“Peter,” Dr. Cushing said, and motioned me into the office. “You have my phone numbers. If you have any problems about this, or if you are at all concerned, please call me at once.”
“Yes Sir,” I said, and he opened the door to let me out.
As we walked to the car, my mother’s entire body language told me how angry she was. When we got in, she turned towards us in the back seat and said, “Peter, I’m not at all happy about this.”
“I know.”
“Why did you tell him?”
“Because I’m tired of secrets. I’m tired of silence, I’m tired of not knowing, and I’m really worried about you and Dad.”
“It is none of Dr. Cushing’s business. He didn’t need to know anything about this.”
“It is his business, because it all affects me, and I’m his patient. Besides, Mom, how can you honor somebody’s memory if you never talk about him? Tommy deserves to be remembered.”
She stared at me for a minute, and then said, “We’ll talk about this later.” She turned around, started the car, and peeled out of the parking lot.
As we were entering school, Christian asked, “OK, can you tell me now? Who’s Tommy?”
“It’s too long a story to go into now. If we can go to your house after school we can talk about it then.”
He nodded and we went to class.
At Christian’s house, we got something to drink and a few cookies and then went up to his room. His mom was OK with that so long as we left the door open. I told Christian all about Tommy and my mother.
He listened silently until I finished, and then asked, “And you just learned about all this?”
“Well, of course I knew he was dead. I really worshipped him, Christian, and I think I blocked a lot of stuff out, so, yes, I did just learn about most of it.”
“I don’t envy you going home,” he said. “Can I tell my parents about what happened?”
“No! Please don’t. I’m in enough trouble as it is. I’ll tell you when you can. Let’s go down and see if we can play the piano and forget about it.”
We went downstairs and played the piano for awhile, but I really couldn’t get Tommy out of my mind so I made a lot of mistakes. When it was time for me to go, Christian said, “Good luck.”
“Thanks, I’ll need it.”
At home, Mom was nowhere around. I panicked for a few minutes and thought about calling Dr. Cushing. Then I went upstairs and saw that her bedroom door was closed.
I knocked on it and said, “Mom, I’m home. Can I talk to you?”
“Just go downstairs, Peter. I don’t want to talk to anybody right now.”
When Dad got home, I told him what had happened, and he went upstairs. Neither of them came down, so eventually I scrambled some eggs, cooked some bacon, and had my supper. When they still didn’t come down, I tried to play the piano for awhile, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I went up to my bedroom, got a book, and read in bed until I was ready to go to sleep.
In the morning, Dad came into my bedroom. “Peter, I’m not sure I’m happy about what you did, but it did seem to break the dam at last. We spent most of the night talking about Tommy. We cried and we laughed and we shared memories. I don’t think your mother is angry with you anymore, and she has promised she’ll call Dr. Cushing to ask him to recommend somebody she could see.”
“That’s wonderful!” I answered. “Will you two talk with me about Tommy now?”
“Not yet. Let’s see how your mother gets along first.”
At school that day, I told Christian what had happened. He put his arm around me and said, “I’m very happy for you Peter.”