The Book of Joe

“If I found out one of my sons was a homosexual, I don’t know if I’d handle it any better.”
    “Well then, take it from me,” I said bitterly. “You wouldn’t.”
    I saw the anger flare up briefly behind his eyes, but he was too tired to fight with me. “Wayne left of his own accord. If he really wanted to hear from you, he’d let you know how to reach him.”
    “You’re glad he’s gone,” I accused him.
    My father nodded. “Wayne needed to leave. It was best for everyone, including him. He understood that. And when you get a little older, maybe you will too.” He turned to leave.
    “That’s bullshit,” I said.
    He stopped in his tracks for a second but didn’t turn back around. “Just leave her alone,” he said. “I don’t want to have this conversation again.”
    When he was gone, I punched my wall repeatedly until my knuckles were scraped and swollen, and then did it some more, the small streaks of my blood smearing like chocolate onto the flat finish of the ivory paint. He no doubt heard the racket but apparently didn’t feel compelled to investigate.
    A few days later, my father left for an overnight business trip and Carly came over to have sex in my bed. The luxury of making love in an actual bed without the constant fear of discovery inhibiting our every move was rare, and we never missed an opportunity to take advantage. We’d been going at it for something like two hours when the doorbell rang.
    “Who’s that?” Carly said. I was lying on my back and she was lying on top of me on her back, her arms and legs spread precisely over mine. She liked to lie like that sometimes when we’d just finished, her goal being to have our bodies touching at as many points as was physically possible.
    “No one,” I said. “Just ignore it.”
    But the doorbell continued to ring insistently, so I slid out from under her and threw on some shorts. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said.
    “I’ll keep your spot warm.” She stretched out on the bed, affording me a full view of her naked body still glistening in the sweaty afterglow of our lovemaking. “Joe.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I love you.”
    “I love you too.”
    My smile faded when I opened the door to find Sammy sitting on my front stairs, fiddling with his car keys. “Hey, Joe,” he said, standing up. “I didn’t think you were home.”
    Then why did you stay? “How’s it going?” I said.
    “It’s okay.”
    “That’s good. What’s up?”
    “What’s up?” he repeated, pondering the question. He was dressed in jeans and a blue windbreaker, his hair greasy
    and limp against his scalp, clearly lacking the benefit of a recent shower. On the edge of his chin and below his sideburns were small, asymmetrical patches of dark stubble, the first evidence I’d ever seen that Sammy was capable of growing facial hair. “I don’t really know what’s up,” he said. “I was sitting in my room, listening to ‘Bobby Jean’ for like the millionth time, and I just couldn’t breathe anymore. I had to get the hell out of my house.”
    “Why ‘Bobby Jean’?”
    “Have you ever listened to the lyrics?”
    “Maybe. I don’t know.”
    Sammy flashed his customary disdainful frown reserved for those philistines who didn’t fully appreciate the complex beauty of Springsteen. “The song is about someone whose best friend leaves town without saying good-bye,” he said.
    “You should listen to it again sometime.”
    “Maybe I will.”
    Sammy nodded, lost deeply in thought. “Joe,” he said, “before all of this happened, we were friends, weren’t we?”
    “Sure.”
    “So why aren’t we anymore?”
    The naked directness of his question caught me off guard and I had to look away for a minute before answering. “I don’t know. I’ve tried to stay your friend,” I said, my words ringing false in my own ears.
    “Do you hate me?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Because I would understand it if you did,” Sammy said. “I wouldn’t agree with it, but I would understand it.”
    I sighed deeply. I didn’t want to be talking about this right now. “I don’t hate you, Sammy.”
    He looked into my eyes intently, trying to measure the level of truth behind my statement. After a few moments, he nodded. “Good,” he said. “I don’t think I could stand to be hated by you right now.”
    “Let me know when would be good for you,” I said, belatedly flashing him an exaggerated smirk so he would know I was joking.
    He smiled. “I