"You know how it is. I'm here for my mom's funeral."
Judy frowned. "Yes, so sad. Everyone loved your mother."
It was true, they had. Katherine Houston had been a kind and giving woman. Gentle as magnolia but strong as steel underneath. She never said a wicked word or raised her voice, but she could make you cringe with a single glance or shut you down with a tender flick of her wrist. These were qualities I admired, but the community loved her for other reasons. She volunteered for several charities. She organized every church bake sale. She had even been treasurer of the lady's league. She was always the first to welcome new additions to the community with a fruit basket and a friendly smile. Nobody was perfect, and my mother was no exception, but her flaws were so minute. People rarely noticed when she laughed too loudly at her own jokes. Or, that it sometimes took a week for her to return your phone call.
"Thank you," I said with sincerity. Judy nodded, then hurried away to place my order while I stirred my coffee. My mind wandered to my mother and my youth and then my father. Even though it had been twenty years, I could still close my eyes and see the house where I grew up, the house where he still lived. It was grand in size; white and grey brick capped with blue shingles. Beautiful stone pillars lined the front entryway, serving as anchors for the second-floor balcony. As a child, those pillars reminded me of Rome or Ancient Greece. My father was Zeus and our home, his Mount Olympus.
My earliest memories of him were of fear. I was afraid to look at him, especially in the eye. He was too big and his voice too deep. If I did speak to him, I addressed his shoes. Or if I were feeling brave, I would bring my gaze up to his chest. Even before his hands turned hard and cruel, before he ever belted or bruised me, I knew to be afraid. I sensed the danger. If he came near me, I shrank away from him. The few times he thought to hug me, I endured it. There were times when his size and gruffness was reassuring. When it came to robbers or monsters, I was confident neither could stand a chance against him. In those few moments, I felt safe.
In the beginning, there was a small part of me that loved and admired him for his masculinity and dominance. That admiration faded once I found myself the frequent target of his ferocity. It began when I was ten years old. It was as though a switch had flicked. In an instant, I had transitioned from a little boy to a growing male. Against whom my father felt compelled to prove his superiority.
Trying to understand him had always been a lot like trying to understand religion. The Bible was full of passages describing the Lord's infinite love and compassion. Only to be followed by pages filled with the violence and rage of a spiteful God. He, like the Bible, was a collection of contradictions. Capable of great love but also responsible for great turmoil and suffering. At least religion had a ministry — people who would stand up and attempt to bring clarity to the questions presented. My father had no clergy to speak for him. There was no one trained to interpret the words and actions of Robert Houston. My mother tried to present him to me as a simple man -- with quirks, habits, goals and desires. But that was never enough to help me understand him. His quirks were never-ending, and his desires were forever changing. Several times I thought I had mastered his expectations. But then, he would take a sharp turn in a different direction. Leaving me lost and confused as I attempted to navigate blind. The only person who could stomach the twists and turns had been my mother. She had understood him in a way that could not be taught and loved him in a way I could not understand.
My breakfast arrived with no further discussion from Judy, and I picked at it with the appetite of a small bird. I had consumed very little the previous day, so I should have been famished. But the plethora of memories weaving in and out of my mind had left my stomach twisted into knots. I absently tore off a piece of my toast and nibbled.
"Parker?" A masculine voice drawled. I turned my head to look at the source, my movement slow but startled. It was Bryce. "Are you alright?" he asked. "You look like that toast gave you bad news."
I would have said if I dared, that the few hours I had been back had opened the floodgates to pains long forgotten. Scars once sealed shut, torn open to bleed. Or how at that very moment, I was tempted to scurry back to my Toronto loft without paying respects to my mother. I loved her very deeply, but leaving was far more appealing than facing my father, which I was supposed to do that afternoon. I could have also admitted that in twelve hours, I had regressed into an insecure teenager. A version of myself I had worked to shed. No, I would not share these thoughts with Bryce. These were secrets I reserved for my therapist, whom I paid handsomely. I made a mental note to call him once I returned to my room.
"I didn't sleep very well. It turns out my room has a leakage issue." I shifted in my chair and gestured for him to take the vacant seat across from me.
I could see a quizzical look cross his face as he glanced at the chair and then back towards me. His face was new to me but friendly and interesting. It had an exotic yet familiar quality that I enjoyed. While pulling out the extra chair, he nudged the small table, which caused my coffee mug to spill. I jumped from my chair as we both reached for napkins to sop up the spillage. "The universe seems determined to get me wet this morning."
"You suppose it's trying to send you a message?" Our hands touched briefly during the cleaning frenzy, and I quickly drew mine away. "Did you piss anybody off lately? Karma's known to work in mysterious ways."
I gave out a distracted, "Not that I know of," and tossed the sopping napkins onto my half-eaten plate of toast.
Bryce called Judy to refill my coffee before he took his seat. While she was at it, she poured him a cup as well. "I came in to grab a coffee to go," he admitted. "But I saw you sitting here, looking so sad, I felt compelled to say hello."
"I wasn't sad. I mean, I was --but not about anything specific. I was thinking."
"That can be dangerous terrain."
"Yes, it can," I agreed and took a sip of my coffee. Eager to change the subject, I asked, "What brings you into town this early on a Sunday?"
"Well, like every good, country boy, I came for church," Bryce's voice was punctuated with sarcasm. His tone wasn't surprising to me because he hadn't struck me as particularly religious. The way he carried himself suggested he wasn't all that concerned with the future of his soul. Neither was I.
Both of my parents had been part of large Catholic families. Very religious and very conservative. So, as you could imagine, they chose to raise my sister and me in the same fashion. When I was much younger, I had loved it, and there were things I still remembered fondly. Like putting on a fresh, new outfit for Easter morning. Or the excitement of Christmas midnight mass. The lavish decorations, solemn rituals, and stirring hymns. There were pancake breakfasts and coffee socials after Mass. During which my sister and I would make faces at each other and giggle. We'd get progressively louder until our mother would scold us in agitated whispers.
As I approached my teens and began to develop my thoughts and opinions, faith faded and gave way to doubt. To some teens, Jesus was their drug of choice. Religion had many elements that suited romantic temperaments. Prayers, chants, candles and incense. A preoccupation with death, suffering, and self-sacrifice, and a deep reverence for martyrdom. These things resonated with their teenage angst, but my angst was different. The closer I got to understanding and accepting my sexuality, the further I felt from the Church. What used to bring me comfort, now only brought me confusion, so I opened myself up to discovery. I studied science, literature, philosophy, history, art, culture and religion itself. I considered all sides and came to a single conclusion. There were facts, and there were theories, and God was a theory I no longer believed.