We returned to the bank, showed a copy of the death certificate and the power of attorney which the lawyer arranged, and went into the vault, where the bank manager took Tyler’s key, inserted it in a lock, and pulled out a box. He handed it to Tyler and said to push the button on the wall when we were through.
We squeezed into a small room in the vault and Tyler opened the box. It didn’t have a lot in it, but there was a will signed by his father. There was also paperwork about Tyler’s house.
Christian collected the will and the other papers into a manilla envelope, and we left the vault.
From the bank we drove to the lawyer, who examined the death certificate and the will. He said, “Tyler, since your mom preceded your dad in death, the will is valid, and I’ll guide it through probate.”
Tyler thanked him and we left, returning to the funeral home and smarmy Mr. Hopewell. He too examined the death certificate and said he had received the bodies, so we could have the funeral any time.
“The sooner the better,” said Tyler. We arranged it for two days later. “We don’t need to be there for Dad’s cremation. In fact, I’d rather not be.”
Mr. Hopewell again looked shocked but agreed to have it done and to call when the ashes were ready.
Back at the house, Peter asked Tyler what he wanted for his mom’s funeral.
“Well, she wasn’t religious, so I don’t suppose we need a priest or anything. What do you suggest?”
Peter suggested just a graveside ceremony unless Tyler wanted something else.
“No. That’s fine. She wouldn’t want a fuss made anyway. Do we even have to be there?”
“I think it’s important for you to be there,” said Peter. “You need to say goodbye.”
“I don’t know that I can.”
“You can, and it’s important that you do. I understand you cutting your dad off, but your mother loved you and she should be properly attended.”
Christian called the funeral home, which made the arrangements for the grave.
My dark suit would no longer fit me, but we found it fitted Tyler well enough.
The day of the funeral was dark and drizzling, perhaps a good setting for such a sober occasion. When we arrived at the cemetery, we found the coffin under a small tent ready on a device to lower it into the grave. Standing next to it were Tyler’s brother Phillip and two armed policemen. Phillip had been released from jail to attend his mother’s funeral.
I heard Tyler say quietly, “Oh, no,” but he continued to the grave, standing on the side opposite his brother.
I shuddered when I saw the grave, remembering the past funerals in my life. For a moment I panicked and wanted desperately to leave, but I was there to support Tyler and I couldn’t desert him. At least I didn’t know the person in the coffin.
Peter and Christian said a few words while I held Tyler’s hand. He was crying quietly. Phillip looked over at him and mouthed, “Faggot.”
Peter had given Tyler a rose, so when Christian finished speaking, he and I stepped forward and he placed the rose on the coffin.
“G . . . G . . . Goodbye, Mom,” he finally stammered out, turning to me and falling in my arms. “She didn’t deserve this,” he sobbed.
“Few people do,” I said.
“But Dad did,” he said.
“Fuck you!” said Phillip loudly.
“Maybe your father did, but who knows what was going through his mind?”
To save Tyler the stress, Christian and Peter returned to the funeral home for his father’s ashes. Peter suggested that we spread them in the ocean, so we went to the beach and that’s what we did. As we finished, Tyler said, “Good riddance, you bastard.”
After a silent ride home, as Christian, Peter, and I were talking quietly in the kitchen, we heard a piano playing a Chopin prelude. It could only have been Tyler playing.
“The E minor,” said Peter as Christian nodded.
To me, it sounded sad, soulful.
Tyler moved on to the C minor and then the B minor with its full chords and its slow diminuendo.
We listened, stunned. None of us had any idea that Tyler could play.
When he finished playing, he ran upstairs where I found him lying on my bed.
“Why?” he sobbed.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know.” I left him to cry it out.
Over a quiet supper, Peter asked Tyler, “Where did you learn to play the piano like that?”
“I just sorta picked it up.”
“Do you read music?”
“No. I can only play by ear.”
“Do you realize how rare that is?”
“No. I guess I just assumed that everybody could do it.”
“They can’t. You have an excellent ear.”
Thereafter, we would occasionally hear Tyler playing.
That night, Tyler was once again in my bed.
A week or so later, I suggested to Tyler, not too subtly, I guess, that he should return to his own bed. He had become accustomed to sleeping with me, with frequent fringe benefits, and he was reluctant to return to his room. At first he looked hurt, but eventually he shrugged his shoulders and did as I asked.
The next time that Christian, Peter, and I went to a concert, Christian got an extra ticket so that Tyler could join us. He couldn’t get one with us, so he sat a few rows behind us, while Peter, Tyler, and I sat together.
The concert concluded with the Grieg Piano Concerto, a stunning performance.
Tyler was as spellbound as I was at my first concert, and on the way home he could talk of nothing else. From then on, we were a foursome at the concerts.
When we got home, Tyler went into the piano room, and soon we heard the opening chord and descending flurry of Grieg’s notes. I wondered how he did that. He’d only heard it once, yet he remembered the entire first movement.
Life continued, as it does whether we like it or not, and before I knew it, May arrived, the trees leafed out, the days became warmer, and my lawn care job began again.
That year, Tyler was going to work with me. On our first day, we worked on Peter and Christian’s grounds, cleaning up the yard of leaves and twigs before mowing. Tyler proved to be a good worker who took direction well.
In the afternoon, Joey joined us.
I had Joey mow the grass while I began to set out some annuals in the gardens and Tyler did the trimming around the swimming pool and along the rail fence between the properties. When I finished and before planting the flowers, I called the other two over and explained how and why I was laying out the plants the way I was. Then we all set to work planting them.
That evening when Tyler and I were alone, he said, “So what’s with Joey?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean is he going to do me out of a job?”
I assured him that his job was secure, but when I reminded him that Joey was my brother, Tyler asked, “Why is he a Russell?”
I sighed and began to explain the history of our family and Joey’s history with Mark.
“Joey took swimming lessons from Mark, who was a competitive swimmer. I think there was some hero worship involved in Joey’s eyes, and he became determined to also swim competitively. Now he does, and he’s really good for his age.”
“So that also explains Mark’s swimming medal in your bedroom?”
I nodded, telling him that Mark had given it to me just before he died.
“Look,” I said, “talking about this makes me really sad and I just don’t want to do it anymore for now.”
“Okay,” said Tyler, and that was the end of the discussion.
Tyler and I worked together that summer, Joey often joining us when he wasn’t swimming.
One afternoon, Mrs. Russell walked out to where we were working and asked why we weren’t using the pool.
“We just didn’t want to be a bother,” Tyler said.
“It’s no bother, and the pool really should be used by you two as well as Joey,” she said.
After that, we got into the routine of returning to our house after work, changing into bathing suits, showering, and then going to the pool. Tyler hadn’t had much opportunity to swim in the past, so he could barely do more than a dog paddle, but he watched me and Joey and figured out how to improve.
Although he was still young, Joey had developed a swimmer’s body — broad shoulders and a narrow waist with no fat on him anywhere. He had written once in a poem for Mark that he was a fish, and it seemed that he was rapidly developing into one. While not yet as muscular as he would become in another few years, he had a beautiful body, and when he swam in meets he was admired for more than his swimming.
Christian had hired a carpenter to put a basketball basket and backboard on the garage. Tyler and I often took turns shooting baskets after dinner. Neither of us was very good. One day, Joey stopped by and joined us. He was unbelievable. It seemed like every shot he took went through the hoop. After that he often joined us in the driveway shooting hoops.
Occasionally, Tim would drop by and we’d have two-on-two games. No matter who Joey partnered with, his team inevitably won, even though the three of us were considerably taller. Joey just had pure instincts for the game.
Tim suggested that Joey should join his school’s basketball team, but Joey said that would conflict with swim practice and he wouldn’t do it.
One day, as we saw Joey climb out of the pool, Tyler remarked, “Too bad he’s so young.”
“What does that mean?” I asked with a little edge in my voice.
“Well, he’s really cute and, if he were older, I could certainly be attracted to him.”
I was shocked. First, I hadn’t thought that Tyler was truly gay, although he had said he might be. I had assumed that what we had done was merely us getting our needs met but not that he was interested in boys.
“Well, he is too young,” I said with a little anger in my voice, “and you keep your hands off him!”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Tyler assured me, “I would never do anything that would upset either you or him.”
I watched him closely whenever Joey was in the pool with us, but I never saw him touch my brother in an inappropriate way.
In the weeks that followed, however, I wondered if Tyler was indeed gay. One evening when we were alone, I asked him point blank if he was.
“Yeah,” he said, “I am. I’ve always thought that was why my dad hated me. I never came out to him, but I think somehow he knew.”
As we worked that summer, we often stripped down to our shorts, and I noticed that Tyler was filling out very nicely. His body now had some impressive definition, and he didn’t seem at all like the weak little wimp I had considered him when we first met.
As I thought about it, I came to realize that I had grown to like Tyler a lot. While he had lost his family, he had recovered well. He worked hard and, when we played basketball, he played hard but with a good sense of humor.
Did I love him? My love with Mark had been white-hot, intense. My feelings for Tyler certainly weren’t that. But what were my feelings?
One night when Peter and I happened to be alone I asked him if he thought that there was more than one kind of love.
“Do you mean like love for your grandma was different than your love for Joey and different than what you experienced with Mark?”
“Well, Mark told me to move on, and I wondered if my love for another boy or man would be as intense.”
“My guess is that it wouldn’t be. Christian and I loved each other intensely at the beginning, but now our love is more warm than scorching. I guess it’s just matured as we have.”
That gave me something to think about, but what should I do about it?