“I hear you,” I say.
I hear that he has dumped a landfill worth of guilt on me. I hear myself shrinking to the size of my boots when I was just eighty feet tall a moment ago.
The cell buzzes again.
Dad examines my intentions. I have no idea what is there for his viewing pleasure.
He tries to soften his blows. “Honey, this is not about whether you love her. Your mother and I have always known you might choose . . .” There’s a pregnant pause. “. . . differently from us. But this isn’t about your sexuality, this is about stability and sensibility in the moment.” He wipes his nose with his index finger. At the door to the house, he grips the doorframe and says, “I love you, but Billie, for the love of God, cool your jets.”
My mind is a filing cabinet full of things I should not say.
“Okay,” I agree.
“Okay,” he says.
We’ve struck a deal without a handshake.
THE SHORT PART
before
PART THREE
I know what I have given you. I do not know what you have received.
—ANTONIO PORCHIA
TEN YEARS EARLIER
Whenever David’s teacher asked him to draw a picture of his home, he drew Big T’s instead.
His grandfather’s house was a maze of interesting things, and nearly none of them was breakable. There were wooden bunk beds in the guest room, fields and barns to play in, and a library with so many books David needed a ladder to reach them all. But better than bunk beds and coffee table books about fighter planes was Big T himself.
David wasn’t the only one who thought so, because Big T had his very own festival. And everyone in town came out to celebrate. According to Big T, there was cotton candy and roasted corn and dunking booths. There were games and square dancing and ceremonies. There was fun and fun and more fun.
This sounded like a grand fairy tale or something David had read in a book. Can you imagine having so many friends they wouldn’t all fit in the house at once? thought David.
He had a birthday coming up, and he was not above begging to attend.
“Please, Mom, please. Please, Dad, please.”
Twenty or thirty pleases later, his parents agreed. Everything in Otters Holt was better than David remembered. The Christmas lights had all been replaced with purple and orange blinking strings that lit Main Street. Pumpkins and hay wagon displays were on every green space leading to Vilmer’s Barn. Barbecue vendors lined the streets, tickling his tummy.
His mother was happier than he’d seen her in a long time. She hummed along to the fiddle music, smiling, even while his dad complained about parking.
David had his nose pressed to his half-lowered window; he had to elbow off the smudges every block. When the car finally stopped at the elementary school lot, Big T and David’s cousin, Mash, were on a small dirt field, playing Wiffle ball with other kids his age. His grandfather towered over a little boy in a Batman costume, showing him how to hold a bat.
“Mom, can I?” David asked.
In the front seat, Hattie exchanged a look with John. John lowered his chin and said, “You stay with Tyson. Do you hear me?”
David was out the door at a sprint.
Big T stopped helping Batman to throw David, whom he called Buckaroo, into the air, and then he added him to the game. Buckaroo didn’t need his grandfather to show him how to hold the bat. He smashed the ball to the edge of the dirt, making all the boys whoop and hoot. One little girl on the bleachers clapped for him as he crossed home plate.
Later, when the game was tied, it was Batman’s turn to hit.
Big T called out, “Take off that mask and you’ll be better.”
Exasperated, Batman removed the mask and laid it carefully next to the little girl on the bleachers.
David’s jaw dropped. “You’re a girl,” he said to Batman.
“Yeah, so?” she said. She strutted back to home plate and sent a pitch sailing into the grass—the farthest hit of the day.
He slapped her a high five as she crossed home plate. “I didn’t know Batman could be a girl.”
She huffed. “Well, Buckaroo, a girl can be anything.”
David stored that memory in his secret heart. His mother had told him he’d been born with a second heart, and he could keep any secret he wanted in there.
The secrets that day sounded like this: I wish I lived at Big T’s house. I wish my mom were happier. I wish I could be like Batman.
Third-grade math trouble became fourth-grade football trophies became fifth-grade growth spurts became sixth-grade acne became seventh-grade first kisses. By the time David was a teenager, he’d forgotten about his secret heart, but he hadn’t forgotten that wearing a costume meant you could be anyone you wanted.
PART THREE
THE RAGING SUCCESS OF FAILURE
Basically we’re all looking for someone who knows who we are and will break it to us gently.
—ROBERT BRAULT
27
Eight. That’s how many moves we made before I entered first grade. That may not sound too traumatic for a six-year-old. Six-year-olds aren’t even responsible for packing their own toys. But I was a million years old at six, and I noticed. I remember the fear Mom lived with. How she stopped unpacking her paints so she didn’t have to pack them back up again. She seemed uncertain that this was the life for her. Uncertain that they’d brought me into the middle of something so tumultuous. Meanwhile, Dad bumped us from town to town, proselytizing his way to larger congregations, soulfully preaching his way home to Community Church. The church where his own faith journey began. He was baptized at that altar. I was dedicated and confirmed at that altar. Fair or not, I understand why he’s asking my emotions to take a backseat.
I zombie over to the worktable. My cell is ablaze with messages from Janie Lee and one from Woods. Hers are still coming in.
Woods: You okay, McCaffrey?
Janie Lee: Shit. Shit. Shit.
Janie Lee: Does he hate us?
Janie Lee: Will he tell?
Janie Lee: Will Tawny?
Janie Lee: When you get this, will you please text me back?
Janie Lee: I’m really sorry.
I send her a heart text, the old fashioned <3, not the big red annoying emoji heart. At the moment, that’s all I manage. It stops the flow of her questions.
I text Woods instead.
Billie: I need you.
Woods: On my way.
Billie: Cut your headlights. Park on the road.
Woods: Which door?
Billie: Garage.
Between texting him and Woods’s arrival, I arrange all the materials I’ve collected for Beauty and the Beast costumes. Turns out, the service projects for senior citizens were a real gold mine for LaserCon. Starburst wrappers, yellowed book pages, blue buttons, fur from Mr. Nix’s coat, fifteen pairs of fur-lined slippers (not unlike the ones worn by my dad) that can be cut, sewn, and inverted, the hundreds of newspapers I’ve collected for the Daily Sit. It’s not everything, but it’s a very good start.
My hands need this task to drop my heartrate. My heart needs Woods.