I Should Be Laughing: Harry Explodes

“You really believe Jimmy asked Renny to go because she’s the oldest?” Harry asked, having a hard time with Wyatt’s theories. “Well, Wyatt, she’s also been away the longest. Jimmy was about six or so when she ran off.”

“But Harry, I think what Jimmy needs right now is a mother. Even considering all the horrible things Barbara may have put him through, she was always here…. I think he needs Renny to fill that void until he gets used to being on his own.” Still sitting atop the counter, Wyatt shrugged and kicked his heels against the cupboard doors. “I don’t want to get into a lot of psychobabble bullshit—.”

“Too late Sigmund.” Harry grinned. In fact, Wyatt’s ability to see all sides of every story, to spot the darkness in the light, the brilliance of gloom, was one of the first things that attracted Harry to him; he was as abstract in thought as he was with paint brush and oils. “As a painter, you’re quite the therapist.”

“Thanks for the compliment…I think.” Wyatt smiled, too, at the good-natured name-calling before turning serious again. “All I meant was that Jimmy needs a big sister today.”

“All right then, smart guy, so why don’t you tell me what I should do.” Harry leapt off the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen and went to stand between Wyatt’s legs. With his hands on Wyatt’s thighs, Harry asked, “Any suggestions?”

“Talk to him, Harry. How hard is that? He doesn’t know a thing about you; he’s never met a gay person. You’re like this…new species…to him. Let him play Darwin, and you be the gay Galapagos.” Wyatt chuckled, but the laughter soon faded. He turned solemn and held Harry’s face in his hands. “Just talk to him.”

Shrugging, Wyatt’s hands fell from his face, and Harry moved in front of the sink. Clasping his hands behind his neck, still shrugging, Harry wondered what to say to Jimmy. What did they have in common, other than an absentee father and dead mother? Nope, the past was out; it was far too painful for him, and for Jimmy as well. Still, there had to be a way for them to get to know one another again, a bridge from the times they wanted to forget to the present. Wyatt offered a suggestion.  “He has a son, Harry. You’re an uncle.”

Stunned by the news, Harry shook his head and lowered his eyes, although Wyatt detected a slight smile creep onto his face. Letting the news of his nephew sink in, Harry imagined what kind of boy Jimmy was raising and the woman he had married. He thought silently about his brother, and then asked out loud about Renny. Did she have children? What was her life like now? Last night, in the fields, she’d muttered something about screwing up her life; he wondered what happened to her.

The more Harry thought about his family, however, about how their lives had moved on and changed since childhood, since he and Renny had run away, the angrier he became, realizing the role their mother played in shaping their futures and keeping them apart. She mistreated them so horribly, in too many ways to even remember, that they not only tried to get away from her, they turned their backs on one another. Of all the things Harry endured in this house, the things his mother made him do, this was by far the worst.

“Damn her!” Roaring, he suddenly turned and slammed his hands onto the coarse butcher block. The outburst startled Wyatt from his countertop perch, and he ran to Harry’s side, but when he saw the fury on Harry’s face, when he noticed the lack of tears, when he saw such utter disgust on his lover’s face, he stayed back. “That…bitch!

“Look what she did to us, Wyatt. Look what she turned us into. We were so afraid of what happened that we couldn’t bear to stay in touch…and can’t stand being in the same room for more than a minute.” He scooped up his coffee cup and hurled it at the wall. The thick earthenware mug slammed against the plaster, denting it, and breaking into ragged chunks that dropped to the floor and completely shattered. Coffee, black and cold, bled down the wall and pooled on the linoleum. “I hate her, Wyatt.

“And I…love her—.” Harry said, massaging his temples. When Wyatt came close, Harry bellowed again. “Don’t you talk to me about mothers. Yours was nothing like mine, so you have no right to defend her—.”

“I can’t.”

“Damn right.” Harry walked to the wall and stood over the ruins of the mug swirling in a caffeine puddle; he smashed the pieces with the heel of his boot. “I hate her for what she did to us, turning us away from one another and then…” Harry laughed, “killing herself before I could tell her what I thought.

“And now we’re home, the good children, Barbara’s babies, ready to forgive and forget because she’s dead. Well, I won’t do it, Wyatt. I can’t forget! I lost my family…I lost my past…because of her. She made me so ashamed of who I was, before I even knew who I was. She made me afraid to love anyone unless they hurt me.”

Agreeing, in silence, Wyatt stooped to pick up the splintered mug.

“Let’s stop pretending this is all so sad, shall we? Stop moaning about the poor old woman who lived alone at the end of the road and couldn’t take it any longer. She wasn’t some…sainted mother figure who happened to die. Look around!” Like a madman, Harry raced around the kitchen, opening cupboards and pulling out drawers. “This isn’t my house! When I lived here, it was dark…lonely…and hurt! It reeked of booze and cigarettes and… things I don’t even want to remember. It was filthy and quiet and—.”

Standing in the butler’s pantry, Harry tensed at the orderliness of the tiny room. “She paints a convincing picture, Wyatt, almost as good as you. Perfect house, perfect family, but it’s all too precise. She was a fucking drunk; she started to commit a slow suicide over thirty years ago and when she realized it was taking too long, she upped the ante with a handful of pills.” Turning, he knocked the broken mug from Wyatt’s hands. “Leave it…It would have stayed on the floor until I cleaned it up anyway.”

Kicking the pieces of pottery back to the baseboard, Harry followed, and punched the wall so fiercely that a row of iron trivets, hung neatly in a line, jiggled and fell to the ground. Wyatt grabbed him, holding him tight while he cried. “I hate her Wyatt…my mother! I hate….”