What Mrs. Gordon Learned - 1. Story

WHAT MRS. GORDON LEARNED

Mrs. Gordon was updating the First Lutheran Church roster when the phone rang. Agnes, Pastor Johnson’s wife, answered. It was the hospital, asking for the mother of Jason Gordon. By the end of it, Mrs. Gordon was so pale that Agnes, who was normally terrified of the other woman, was inclined to ask if there was anything she could do to help.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gordon, after a pause. “Please. I need to be at the hospital as soon as possible. If you could drive me there—”

“Oh! Of course,” Agnes exclaimed, flustered. This was the first time in Agnes’s jumbled memory that Mrs. Gordon had accepted help—certainly the first time she had asked for it, and particularly in transportation; Mrs. Gordon always took the bus.

Some minutes later, they were crawling down the January streets in Agnes’s twenty-year-old Buick. “Is everything all right?” Agnes asked, halfway to the hospital.

Mrs. Gordon’s lips were pressed very thin. “No. But thank you.”

Agnes nodded and smiled weakly. She wished she had somehow heard the other end of the phone conversation; all she had caught was Mrs. Gordon insisting that there was a mistake. But asking questions over such a delicate matter, and to Mrs. Gordon, was unthinkable.

They stopped in front of hospital. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Johnson,” said Mrs. Gordon, pulling herself out of the car.

Agnes nodded. “Is—is Jason all right?”

“He will be.”

Agnes watched her coworker disappear through the shiny automatic doors of the hospital. She hoped nothing serious had happened. Her impression of Jason Gordon was a bit hazy, but she remembered wispy blonde hair and eyes the color of baby toys. He had his mother’s nose, which was nearly the only resemblance between mother and son. The matter of Jason Gordon’s father was of great interest to Agnes. Nobody knew anything about him, besides that Mrs. Gordon had been divorced from him since time immemorial. Agnes, of course, never asked—not that it was any of her business, she had to tell herself. She did hope that Jason Gordon would be fine. She knew that little could stand in Mrs. Gordon’s way when she had that indomitable look on her face, but certain things had a way of getting around even the staunchest cases of human determination.

There were five chairs between the coffee stand counter and the two circular windows of the emergency room door. Mrs. Gordon sat in one of the chairs and waited.

Some time later, she got up and approached the sniffling woman sitting across from her.

“Excuse me.”

The woman started. “What?”

“I was wondering if you were done with that,” Mrs. Gordon said. “The magazine,” she added, when the woman continued to stare. “The one you are holding upside-down.”

“Oh, am I?” She gave a choked sort of laugh. “Yes, go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Gordon said, took the copy of Homes and Gardens, and resumed her seat. She had hardly opened the magazine when she was compelled to close it, because a thin man with a somewhat threadbare coat had hurried in.

“Marge,” he said, out of breath. “Where is he? What happened, did they say?”

“Hello Orson,” she replied tersely. “He’s in there, I’m not allowed to see him, and I’m sure they told you on the phone what condition he was in.”

Orson collapsed into a chair next to his ex-wife. “Yes, but I thought…” He trailed off. “Did they say what happened?”

“They made a mistake.”

“What?”

Mrs. Gordon waited until she could muster her well-worn and implacable smile before speaking. “They’re mistaken about what happened. They said something about alcohol and sleeping pills—which is impossible. Jason wouldn’t even touch white wine sauce, and there isn’t a single sleeping pill in my house.”

Orson nodded. “So. Drug overdose, is it?”

“I’m telling you,” said Mrs. Gordon, the voice underneath her smile now steely, “they must be mistaken—”

“Was it accidental, or—? God, I can’t believe you haven’t changed at all.”

“Really? I can’t say the same for you. You look a bit thin. And tired. And I bought you this jacket twenty years ago.”

Orson patted the sleeve. “It’s warm,” he muttered, and coughed. “Christ, Marge, you must’ve noticed something—boys don’t get drugs out of thin air, and they don’t overdose on them either, unless they’ve been reckless, or they want to—”

“If you are so concerned, where were you these last ten years? Sending paychecks from Brazil? No. You were hiding two towns away and sending Christmas cards with no return address. Not that Jason or I ever needed you.” Suddenly, she stopped. “There must have been a mistake. I don’t see how—” Mrs. Gordon recovered before her ex-husband could so much as reach over to take her hand. “How’s Marty? You haven’t mentioned him in your Christmas cards.”

“We aren’t together anymore,” he said shortly. He coughed again. “Split up a few years ago. Not that you really care.”

“Mm.” She gave him a critical, impassive gaze. “You sound sick. Flu?” She paused. “AIDS?”

Orson’s face tightened. “No wonder Jason—”

“I’m getting myself a nice cup of tea,” Mrs. Gordon said, standing up abruptly and tucking Homes and Gardens under her arm. “Would you like anything?”

Orson glanced at the wire-tight smile on the face of the woman who had been his wife for six long years. “Thank you, Marge, but no.”

Mrs. Gordon found herself waiting pointedly at the coffee stand for the cashier to turn around. Finally, she cleared her throat, which she usually did not do, as she found it highly annoying in others; it did the trick, however, and the cashier slouched to the counter. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

Mrs. Gordon offered a smile. “Do you have any tea?”

“What kind?”

“Any kind with real tea leaves, please.”

The cashier paused. “Huh?”

She wanted to reach over the counter and grab the cashier by the shoulders and shake some sense into the slack-jawed face. Instead, Mrs. Gordon schooled her face into the sort that she took when certain Sunday churchgoers failed to understand the meaning of “quiet” and “please.” “Why don’t you tell me what brands you have?”

“We have… Sweet Dreams Chamomile, Total Relaxation Jasmine—”

The door of the emergency room opened.

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Gordon said. She stepped in front of a balding man who had stepped out. He looked up. “I believe you are looking for me,” she said. “I am the mother of Jason Gordon. And his legal guardian.”

The man nodded and gave a smile that could have been either comforting or deeply sympathetic. “Please, this way.”

Mrs. Gordon straightened her jacket and stepped through. If she was surprised to see none of dramatic tumult that occurred on television, she did not show it. The inside was almost the same as outside. The only immediate difference was that the chairs had green upholstery instead of black.

“I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but your son is in very serious condition.”

“So I was told thirty minutes ago,” Mrs. Gordon said, ignoring the pained look Orson sent her. “I believe it was Dr. Gray who took the trouble of informing me.”

The other man nodded. “Yes. We are doing all we can—”

“I’m sure you are,” Mrs. Gordon interrupted. “Now, since my son is in such serious condition, and considering the fact that I am his mother—would it be too much to ask to let me see him?”

“And me,” Orson put in quickly. “I’m his father.”

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Gordon, Mr. Hodge, but the procedure your son is going through—”

“Is best not interrupted.” Mrs. Gordon finished, nodding as though it were the most agreeable thing in the world.

“The reaction your son experienced to the combination of alcohol and barbiturates is very severe and needs—”

“About that, Doctor—” She peered at his name tag. “Clint. I apologize for being blunt, but your assessment is wrong.”

“Marge—” Orson had reached out his hand to put on his ex-wife’s shoulder, but with an infinitesimal movement from her, the movement met only air.

“Dr. Gray told me that he believed there was some sort of overdose with prescription drugs, I believe he said.” Mrs. Gordon paused and pulled the edges of her lips upwards to express the incredulity of it all. “That’s impossible. I know my son better than anyone else in the world, and he has never”— she caught herself before her voice rose—“dabbled in that—sort of thing.”

Dr. Clint blinked again, and the sympathetic look on his face deepened. “I know it seems impossible, but…”

“Please,” Orson interrupted. “You said he was in serious condition; is there a chance that he might—?” He stopped.

The doctor took a deep breath. “I think it would be best if we are prepared for all possible outcomes.” Mrs. Gordon did not move, not even when her ex-husband found her upper arm and gripped it tightly. “We are doing the best we can, Mrs. Gordon, but at this stage it is unlikely that your son make a complete recovery.” He paused before going on. “I’m very sorry, but there is a strong possibility that your son may not wake up.”

Mrs. Gordon nodded and turned her attention to the man standing somewhat to one side. “I believe Dr. Gray has something to say to us.” She watched the two doctors exchange a meaningful glance.

“Mrs. Gordon, Mr.—”

“Hodge,” he rasped.

“I’m afraid I have some very bad news.” They waited. “Your son has passed away. I’m sorry.” He added a moment later, when none of them had said anything, “We tried everything—”

“Yes,” Mrs. Gordon interrupted. “I know.” The white of the floor and ceiling seemed to expand; the faces before her were becoming vague, fog-bound. There was a loud rushing in her ears that drowned out even her own voice. “Now… may I see him?”

The advantages of working at a church were the connections with funeral homes, burial services, and other necessities that Mrs. Gordon found herself arranging. It was a good thing, too; Orson offered to help, but his idea of helping alternated between inviting himself to her scones and complaining about his rent. Once, he asked to see Jason’s room.

“No,” Mrs. Gordon said. Orson began to protest, but she cut him off. “I’ll throw you out if you ask again. You’ve no right.”

He sighed. “Marge, would you believe me if I said I was afraid?”

They were standing on either ends of the kitchen table where, ten years ago, Orson had confessed to having an affair with a young Brazilian painter named Marty, and where, in the years after that, Mrs. Gordon had cut the birthday cake she baked for her son with a smile and a polished cake knife—alone.

“I would. When did you ever stand up to anything? You’re a coward.”

“Do you remember what you said to me right after the divorce? You said you would teach our son—”

“My son—”

“Just what a low-life sinner his father is.” His face twisted as he pronounced the words. “That you would make sure he knew his father was going to burn in hell for all eternity.”

“And you said that if you had him, you would make sure he knew his mother was a frigid bitch, that—” There were a couple of other things he had said, but Mrs. Gordon could not afford to speak and risk losing the thin edge of control she still had.

Orson lay his hands desperately on the countertop. “Marge. Please. You’re right, I was a coward, and I cheated on you, but—” He smoothed his hands through his hair. “Don’t you want to understand?”

“There is nothing to understand. I was negligent. He met people who misled him. It was an accident.”

“Accident,” Orson spat. “Jason was sixteen. You make choices at that age. You realize things. And if you have no one to go to, if someone keeps telling you you’re a mistake or an abomination—”

He stopped. The line of Mrs. Gordon’s mouth was a steel wire. “If you are suggesting—”

“Marge, there must’ve been something going on. Jason isn’t the sort of boy who would hide something this big unless he really had to—”

“What do you know about my son?”

“Jesus Christ! Why can’t you face the facts, woman?”

“This is my house—”

“He died—alone in his room—from an overdose of sleeping pills and booze, Marge!” His voice had choked. “If you don’t see the suicidal side of that—”

He stopped when Mrs. Gordon walked to the front door and opened it. “Get out.”

“Marge—”

“I will call the police. You know I will.”

When Mrs. Gordon finally shut the door after him, she felt a cold thrust of satisfaction that lasted the journey from the door to the kitchen counter. She stopped and took in the silence, the plate with crumbs, the chairs that screamed emptiness, and could not help herself from feeling that company, even Orson’s, was better than the screaming loneliness surrounding her right now.

She saw Orson three days later at the funeral. They were very polite to each other. He did not make any requests, and she did not threaten to throw him out. Both were relieved.

A few minutes after everyone who was supposed to arrive had arrived, Mrs. Gordon noticed a cluster of four people she was quite sure had not been invited. “Have you talked to them?” Mrs. Gordon asked Orson. Three were boys, probably sixteen or seventeen, whom she was sure she had never met; a bit apart was an older man who seemed more familiar.

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know who they are.”

“Maybe they were Jason’s friends?”

“They’re not. I know all of his friends.”

He grabbed her arm before she could go. “Not now,” he muttered. “Later.”

Pastor Johnson had volunteered to conduct the service. Mrs. Gordon was relieved that he did not mention any specifics about how it had happened. Afterwards, Agnes Johnson made only a few attempts at condolences, for which Mrs. Gordon was grateful. On most days she could stand Agnes’s bumbling, but not today. Nor could she stand Agnes’s vapidly inquisitive glances at Orson’s direction, but she would not think of that now. She would deal with it later.

She knew they would say she carried the whole thing with dignity. She also knew some would say she was cold, unfeeling, not to be broken to bits at her son’s funeral. They knew nothing. At times like this she was glad that Orson was there; he knew her as well as she knew him. Neither really understood the other, but understanding was not necessary in the face of death. Orson was wearing a suit that actually fitted him, Mrs. Gordon noticed. She wondered how much writhing he had done to pay for its rent.

The service by now had dwindled, and Mrs. Gordon found her gaze resting on the knot of people she had noticed earlier.

She was halfway across the room when they noticed her approach. The boys all stiffened, blanched, or glared. One of them, Mrs. Gordon noted with disapproval, had multiple ear piercings. Another had hair that was longer by several inches than she would ever have permitted Jason to have.

“Hello,” Mrs. Gordon said. She paused and turned to address the older man, whom she realized she did know. “Mr. Bradley.” He was one of the teachers at Jason’s school; English. They had met briefly some months ago, and Mrs. Gordon’s only impression had been that the man was much too young to be teaching effectively.

“Mrs. Gordon,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

She nodded. “Jason mentioned your class a few times. And these are?”

“We’re his friends,” mumbled the one with the ear piercings.

“His friends!” said Mrs. Gordon. “How interesting. I don’t seem to recall him ever having mentioned any of you.” She let a pause linger uncomfortably. “Well, I certainly would like to make the acquaintance of you fine boys. Your name is…?”

“Jim McGuffin.”

“McGuffin. An Irish name. I would certainly have remembered if Jason had ever brought it up. And you?”

The boy with too-long hair was pale and trembling. He said something unintelligible, and she leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

“Dustin,” he muttered, and added something that she did not bother to make out. She smiled thinly and turned to the last boy, who had an oddly blank expression on his face.

“And you are?”

To her surprise, he lifted his hand and made a sign.

“His name is Phillip LaGrange,” said Mr. Bradley.

“Good to meet you, boys, but please, do be so kind as not to say you had been friends with Jason when, clearly, you had not been.”

“We—”

“Boys,” Mr. Bradley muttered. He met her hard gaze with a tightly courteous face, and Mrs. Gordon felt an abrupt surge of dislike for the man. “Again, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, “we are very sorry for your loss.”

She smiled tightly and turned her attention to the three boys. “I do wonder why Jason never once mentioned any of you,” she said. “I imagine he must have forgotten, and not because you boys were doing anything you should not have been doing, such as using—certain dangerous substances.” She watched their faces pale. Mr. Bradley’s face, though, had colored with something other than fear.

“I’m sure they were very well behaved,” he said in a short voice. “Boys, it’s time to go—”

“Please, Mr. Bradley. I’m sure Jason would have wanted me to know his friends.”

“I promised their parents I would take them back on time, Mrs. Gordon, perhaps another time—”

The boy with ear piercings interrupted with something Mrs. Gordon did not quite hear, but what she thought she had heard was enough for her to ask him to repeat. “What did you say?”

“He didn’t want you to know us,” he said, face pale and eyes inscrutable. “He said you wouldn’t understand.”

The smile stretched more tightly on her face. “Wouldn’t understand what?”

“McGuffin, we need to go—”

“Let him speak,” Mrs. Gordon snapped. Something cold was burning up the back of her neck, throbbing behind her eyes, hurting her throat.

The boy hesitated. “We got him the booze, but not the pills. I don’t know where he got them.”

“Go on,” Mrs. Gordon said.

The boy hesitated some more. “He said he…” His voice trailed off in a mumble. “He didn’t want to live in shadows anymore.”

Mrs. Gordon replied to the remark the way it should be: with a disbelieving smile. “Did he?”

They left a few interminable minutes later. The room was almost empty. Orson was sitting in a chair and staring blankly into space. Pastor Johnson, having volunteered to clean things up, was still there, as was his wife, who Mrs. Gordon noted was craning her neck inquisitively in Orson’s direction.

“That was a lovely service, Pastor Johnson,” Mrs. Gordon said.

The pastor took her hand and patted it. “If there’s anything we can do, anything at all…”

Mrs. Gordon declined. Living in shadows, she thought. She wondered what that meant. Probably nothing, she told herself. Probably something the boy had made up.

“So who were they?” Orson asked.

They were outside now, and he was trying to light a cigarette. Mrs. Gordon turned her gaze away from the sky, which she did not realize had gone dark already.

“Nobody,” she said. “I thought you’d given up smoking, Orson.”

“Well, I picked it up again.” He took a deep drag, and then coughed, the smoke mixing with his breath in the frosted air.

“I do hope you take care of yourself,” Mrs. Gordon said. “After this, I don’t fancy covering the cost of your funeral. It’s the sort of thing I don’t really see your relatives doing.”

Orson dropped the cigarette on the ground and stamped on it. “What did they say about Jason?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a fool, Marge. Want a ride home?”

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Suit yourself.”

The route Mrs. Gordon took home was not one she was used to. The bus seemed to clatter interminably from the Boylston stop to Mather, past Market Street, and then the squat undecorated stores presaging the end. She pulled her coat tighter about herself and tramped home.

Something about the darkness of the flat made her not want to turn on the lights. The lighting was horrible anyway: pale, fluorescent, painful after a while. She had to close her eyes every so often just to ease away the thin ache at her temples. But the desk lamp in Jason’s room was one of those natural light things. His eyes were not very good. Had not been very good.

She put on the kettle and walked the ten or so steps that led her to her son’s bedroom. It was clean, but only superficially. The desktop and floor were clear, but papers were sticking out from the desk drawers, and she was sure a sock or two would tumble out if she opened the closet. The bookcase was crammed. She crossed the room and slowly pulled open the desk drawer. A pencil rolled across the bottom. Papers. Most were old homework assignments by the looks of it. The edge of a battered, spiral-bound notebook caught her eye. She pulled it out and turned on the desk lamp to better make out had been written there, and felt as though thunder had split her brain when she read the only word on the page, written in the center in Jason’s small, neat hand.

“Sorry.”

The number of churchgoers increased every year in the spring. Agnes Johnson liked to complain about how they needed a better way of keeping track of the families, their birthdays, anniversaries, schedules, and so forth. Mrs. Gordon suggested investing in technology, a thought that filled poor Agnes with terror. The most complicated thing she came in contact with was her toaster, she said, and she was happy to keep it that way. Mrs. Gordon reminded Agnes that she owned a car.

For her part, Mrs. Gordon had added a new routine in the last few weeks. On Mondays and Fridays, she went to the cemetery after work to visit the newly packed earth of her son’s grave. She visited on Sundays too, but not as often; Sundays were busy, and she wanted to visit Jason with a mind clear enough that she could watch every step and stray thought. It was easier when the days were empty.

Two weeks later, Mrs. Gordon found it necessary to visit the cemetery on Tuesdays as well, even though it meant juggling her shopping. It was another week before her efforts were vindicated.

“Mr. Bradley,” Mrs. Gordon greeted. “How are you?”

“Not too bad,” he said with a polite smile and a properly sympathetic voice. “And you, Mrs. Gordon?”

“How kind of you to ask. I’m doing well. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” said Mr. Bradley.

They said nothing for another moment, and Mr. Bradley stepped forward to lay the flowers he brought onto the grave. One was a white carnation, and the other looked like a larkspur. Mrs. Gordon knew the carnation; she wondered what the larkspur meant.

“Do you come every Tuesday, Mr. Bradley?”

“Yes.” There was another pause. “After school,” he added.

Mrs. Gordon nodded. “You must have been quite close to Jason.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“And his friends, the ones I met the other day. They must have been close. What were their names? I remember a Jim, Phillip…”

“Dustin.”

“Yes, Dustin.”

They stood on either side of the gravestone, studiously not looking at each other’s polite faces. He looked quite out of place, with a pastel-colored shirt and trousers that she found entirely inappropriate for a teacher. There was also a certain wariness about him. She did not find it surprising; it almost pleased her. She resented him, though she did not know why.

“Well Mr. Bradley,” she said, “I am wondering if you would like to have a cup of tea or coffee with me today.”

The man was clearly taken aback. “Certainly.”

“Would now be a good time?”

“As good a time as any,” he said.

“Good. I would think it only fitting that I have a good long talk with a man who’s put more flowers on my son’s grave than his own father.”

Neither of them knew any coffee shops around the cemetery. Mr. Bradley, however, did know one a few stations away. After the most amicable of exchanges, they found that they both took the bus instead of driving, and that they lived only four or so stops apart. Mrs. Gordon lent her opinion on the respective real estates. Mr. Bradley received it with polite interest.

“What a lovely coffee shop,” Mrs. Gordon remarked.

“Well, I know the person who opened it,” Mr. Bradley said, almost apologetically.

He suggested a table in the back, which was as far as possible from the girls who had a dozen or so piercings on their faces.

“How long have you been teaching, Mr. Bradley?” Mrs. Gordon asked.

“Four years.”

“And how do you like the teaching profession?”

“It has its rewards,” Mr. Bradley said. He added, after a pause, “Actually, I’ll be going to law school next semester.”

“Ah. The rewards mustn’t be particularly compelling, then.”

Mr. Bradley nodded. “Some students do appreciate what they’re learning,” he added, hesitating. “They make it worthwhile.”

“And—Jason was one of them?” Mrs. Gordon looked down at her steaming cup. This was much harder than she had imagined. She stared hard at the cloudy surface, the empty packet of sugar, the few grains that had scattered, glittering, on the table.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mr. Bradley. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Gordon interrupted. “We are here to talk about my son, after all.” There was a pause. “Jason liked your class a lot. Much more than he told me.”

“He was an excellent student.”

“Jason has always been an excellent student,” Mrs. Gordon said. “Even in kindergarten, his teacher said that there were ‘very few’ students like him.” She looked down again. “I understand that he wrote a lot of poetry.”

Mr. Bradley nodded. “He enjoyed the poetry portion of the class.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Gordon. She took a sip of tea and decided not to say that the only time she had seen a poem in his hand was the Mother’s Day card he had produced in third grade. There was the other time, though, when he had just started junior high or thereabouts. The memory was hazy; he had shown her something, and she could not remember what she had said about it. No, she did not remember, and she wished the cold regretful feeling in her stomach would leave.

“The three young men whom I met,” said Mrs. Gordon. “Are they also in your class?”

“Yes,” Mr. Bradley said carefully.

There was another long pause.

“Jason showed me some of his poetry, mainly for a few creative writing assignments,” Mr. Bradley said. His voice had become once more very cautious. “He was a very talented young man.”

“Yes, Jason was always very creative. In first grade—” Mrs. Gordon stopped.

When she spoke again, she had reverted to the voice she used to churchgoers who made inappropriate requests, such as holding a birthday party in the chapel. “Mr. Bradley, I’m not sure if you were aware of the nature of some of Jason’s work?”

He looked to have been expecting this. “Jason did show me one or two pieces that he did not feel comfortable sharing with the rest of the class,” he said slowly.

“Oh, then I can have your opinion. You see, I was a bit alarmed by some of the writings I found in Jason’s possession. They seemed to suggest something—unwholesome.”

Mr. Bradley looked out the window, turned his attention to the counter, glanced at his watch. “Did they?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Gordon said. “Let me first say, Mr. Bradley, that I know nothing of poetry. I see no great difference between Hallmark cards and Shakespeare, except that Hallmark cards are better. However, it did seem to me that there was—a homosexual nature in some of my son’s writing.”

The other man’s eyes remained on his coffee cup. “I would not be surprised, Mrs. Gordon.”

The silence that followed had the sharpness of gunpowder. “I don’t understand you.”

The other man drew in a breath. “I don’t know how much your son communicated to you on the subject, but a few months ago, Jason informed me that he was gay.”

“You must have been mistaken,” said Mrs. Gordon. “My son would never have chosen to be sinful.”

Mr. Bradley’s voice was even, paced, though she could see angry splotches of color on his face. “Homosexuality is not necessarily a choice, and I disagree about your assessment as a sin.”

“I still do not see why my son would have chosen to write about—that.”

Mr. Bradley said nothing and did nothing for a moment, but when the moment ended, he wiped his mouth with brisk movements and got to his feet. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mrs. Gordon,” he said. “Again, please accept my sincere condolences.”

Mrs. Gordon stood as well. “My son was not gay!”

A few heads in the coffee shop turned with looks of disapproval. The other man left without another word.

The flat had the same quiet that it had on some Fridays, when Jason went to watch a movie with friends, and Mrs. Gordon opened the front door to an unoccupied room. Of course, Jason always left notes—legibly written with clear ideas of when he expected to be back, with whom he was going, and so forth. And he was always correct in his estimates. Listening to Agnes Johnson talk about her nephew, Mrs. Gordon had always felt secretly proud; she had never had to question Jason about where had been at night, whom he had gone with. There had never been the need.

She went through the motions of her routine, putting the kettle on and watering the plants in the flat. Her tasks done, Mrs. Gordon at last sat alone at the kitchen counter and stared at the telephone.

She did not know why it was on her mind to call Orson. She had no obligation to tell him. And she had no idea what to say. If he sounded depressed, which would be very likely, she would have to cheer him up a bit by asking him about—well, she knew nothing of what he was doing, but they could at least talk about the weather. Then—what? She could say that he won. She could say that her son was gay, and she had never known. But no, she would never say that; she would never give him that satisfaction.

She almost laughed at herself. Satisfaction? There was no possible satisfaction. How meaningless, how stupid it was to think in such a manner. She would tell Orson—later—after she had—after she could bear it more. It occurred to her that it was perhaps selfish to keep this information from Orson. It would probably be a comfort to him.

She could not do it.

But she picked up the phone anyway and dialed the number, and waited.

The next week, Mrs. Gordon made sure to put in an extra hour on Monday so as to give her more time on Tuesday. The day happened to be warm and sunny; she could read a magazine while waiting in the cemetery. Of course, it was possible that Mr. Bradley would not be there. She could find a way to contact him, she was sure, but she would have liked to meet him again in the open, give herself plenty of time to wait beforehand. Time to think.

Mr. Bradley came somewhat earlier than last week, and they spotted each other long before he finished the walk to the gravestone.

“It’s lovely weather, isn’t it, Mr. Bradley,” Mrs. Gordon said.

“Yes, it is,” he said politely. He waited a moment, and when Mrs. Gordon did not continue, he laid the two flowers on gravestone.

“Larkspur is for a beautiful spirit, I believe?”

Mr. Bradley nodded. His glance at her seemed to hold some hesitation. “It is.”

Mrs. Gordon put the magazine into her bag and mustered a smile on her face, the sort she used when hesitant families first wandered into the church. “I would like to apologize, Mr. Bradley, for my behavior at our last meeting.”

“No, don’t apologize—”

“It was very rude of me.” She smiled at her interruption, and was relieved when he returned it. “It is not to say that I condone—such a lifestyle, but I do realize… Well.” She shifted the bag on her shoulder. “I was wondering if you would like a nice cup of tea or coffee, if you don’t have other plans for the day.”

“I would love to.”

They went to a different coffee shop this time. The only person with piercings there was a very married woman with her five-year-old daughter, whose caterwauls were met with indulgent smiles from the cluster of grandmothers near the entrance.

“Jason and I were very close,” Mrs. Gordon began. “We told each other almost everything. So, you see, it was a shock to me that I knew nothing of that facet of my son’s life.”

Mr. Bradley nodded. Mrs. Gordon only glanced briefly at his face; she knew it would be arranged in politely sympathetic lines. The sky outside was an unremitting blue.

“Well. As I mentioned last week, I had found some samples of my son’s writing.” She had to take a deep breath. “Writing was obviously very important to him.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Bradley.

She took the spiral-bound notebook out of her bag, carefully wiped away the sugar granules, and put it on the table.

“This is—?”

“His work,” Mrs. Gordon finished. She flipped through the notebook, past the scribbles of handwriting her son had not bothered to keep so neat, the private doodles of immodest nature that ran down the margins. She got to the right page and pushed the notebook to Mr. Bradley.

He looked at her questioningly.

Mrs. Gordon smiled. “Would you be so kind as to read it aloud to me?”

“This? Here?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Bradley hesitated a moment, pulled the notebook closer, and cleared his throat.

“It is not enough to live in shadows—
Shadows of a spire that lap against a white wall,
Shadows of a wish that cut the catfall rope—
And if shadows are enough,
A light must clear them:
Shadows of the present, as brief as love,
Shadows of butter on warmed bread,
Shadows of the father unnamed and mother unforgiving,
Shadows of the path made of beautiful hair
Clipped from heads of the murmuring dead,
And shadows of cowardice—
Immutable, deeper than the womb, the glass horse.
keimetha tois keinōn rhēmasi peithomenoi.”

Mrs. Gordon looked up from her tea. Mr. Bradley nodded and pushed the notebook gently across the table. “He… Jason actually showed me an earlier draft of this poem at some point.”

“Did he?” The words came out more acerbically than she intended. “In that case, I hope you won’t mind explaining what…” She yanked the notebook around. “This spire is about? And a ‘catfall rope?’ Excuse me.” She glared out the window for a moment, pressing her clenched fist to her chin. After a moment had passed, she turned to speak, but quickly looked out the window again. She was not ready, as she had thought she was.

“Well,” she said at last. She took a quick sip of the tea to clear the rasp in her voice. “This poem is certainly very…”

“Mrs. Gordon—”

“Could you tell me what the last line means?”

He hesitated. “It’s from the epitaph commemorating the fallen Spartans in the Battle of Thermopylae. I suppose you’re not familiar with it?”

Mrs. Gordon frowned and shook her head. The names sounded very foreign. “No. I’ve never heard of it.”

“This is the second line of the epitaph. It can be translated roughly as, ‘Here, obedient to her laws, we lie.’”

She nodded. Her. “I see.”

“It is a very good poem,” he said, somewhat hesitantly. “I talked to Jason about submitting it to the school’s literary magazine, but he declined. I believe he thought it was too personal.”

“Well, I see no problem with having it published.”

Mr. Bradley looked up in surprise. “You mean—”

“I would like to see them published, Mr. Bradley.”

“Them?”

Mrs. Gordon closed the notebook and slid it across the table. “My son’s poems. Goodness knows they’d be better appreciated in a literary magazine than in here.” She took a deep breath. “I think… he would have wanted to, eventually.”

Mr. Bradley nodded. He took the notebook with care. “I’ll consult with you before I actually publish, of course.”

Mrs. Gordon shook her head. “There’s no need.” She stood and smiled. “Well, it was very illuminating to talk to you, Mr. Bradley, but I must be going.”

Mr. Bradley jumped up. “Thank you,” he said, putting emphasis on the last word. “And I’m very sorry for your loss—”

“Yes,” she cut him off. “I know.” She had to leave while she could with dignity. “Please excuse me.”

The day was long and clear and beautiful. She could almost imagine what the air felt like on the other side of the bus window. She thought about Mr. Bradley. He wore pink shirts, but he did care about his students and what he taught.

Yes, Jason would have liked him. Unlike her, Jason was very sensitive, very (Pastor Johnson had supplied this term) empathetic. He changed anxiously to fit people rather than stand his ground and let them fit him. He was like his father. He daydreamed when alone. He liked to wake up late. He was fond of dim, easy days with just enough clouds to muffle the sun, but enough sun to brighten the linoleum floor. He loved books, although he hardly asked to buy them.

If she understood him, how could she not have known? The bus jolted around a corner. Why did she not see, suspect?—and she did suspect, she did consider he might turn out to be a homosexual, though she had always dismissed the possibility. Of course, she had made it clear how sinful that sort of lifestyle was, but they could have tried to cure him. No matter what, he could not have thought that she—mother unforgiving. He had. He had.

The flat was silent again when she entered. She was too tired to stop the feeling that this was the same silence when Jason was out watching a movie with his friends. The feeling went rotten in an instant anyway. This was not a Friday; Jason was never gone except Fridays. The kitchen counter was where he would have been.

Hi, Mom.

How was school today?

Okay.

Any tests? Projects?

Mrs. Gordon clanged the kettle on the stove and, after a pause, went to the telephone.

“Orson?”

“Marge!” He sounded strangely relieved. “I was out the other day when you called.”

“Yes, your answering machine said as much.” She paused. “Can we meet somewhere to talk? Right now?”

Any trace of strength was gone from his voice when he answered. “Sure. I’ll drive over?”

“That would be good,” she said briskly, and hung up.

Looking at the window, the bare branch and its shadow on the screen, she knew that she did understand after all. He must have kept the sleeping pills and the alcohol hidden for a good while before deciding to use them. And he must have chosen a weekday because he wanted to hide, to drop out of life like a name someone decided one day to erase from the roster. He must have been terrified; his hands must have shaken badly when he unscrewed the orange bottle. Small hands, unlike hers.

Mrs. Gordon got up and opened the cupboard for a packet of Earl Gray. She never cried like other women, or lost her head and got things mixed up. It was her strength, and that was the only thing she had left. She could not let go of her strength. Today was—was it really a Tuesday? It felt like a Friday. The Tuesday felt like a Friday. That never happened. She always knew what day it was and what she needed to do and how to do it. But now she no longer knew. She no longer knew.

©2008 corvus