What Happens in Paris. Nancy Robards Thompson

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      “We have to call Ben,” I said. “Right now.”

      His gaze snapped to mine, a look of utter terror on his face.

      I put my bare feet on the floor and pushed forward on the chair. “Blake, the story was in the paper, and it affects our son as much as you and me. People who know him have probably read it, and some wiseass is bound to call or e-mail him sooner or later and say, Hey, I heard about your dad. It’s better he hears it from us first.”

      Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s Sunday morning. We won’t catch him in.”

      I threw up my hands.

      “Call his cell phone. He always carries it.”

      Blake shrugged, deflated. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

      I turned off the reading lamp, which left the living room with its drawn curtains sad and dark. I tried to ignore the tightening knot in my stomach as I followed him into the kitchen.

      “His cell phone is number one on speed dial.”

      Blake’s shoulders rose and fell on a noisy shallow breath. He kept his back to me as he picked up the phone and dialed. Every muscle in my body tensed, making me second-guess myself. Were we doing this the right way? Panic screamed and threatened to put me in a headlock. Perhaps we shouldn’t break the bad news over the phone.

      Ben was in school at the University of Montana. It wasn’t as if we could drop by and tell him in person. He’d come home for spring break just two weeks ago and wouldn’t be home again until summer. What other choice did we have but to tell him over the phone?

      “Hello, Ben? It’s Dad. Did I wake you?…Oh, yes, I’m fine…She’s fine, too. And you?”

      He listened for a minute. I edged closer to see if I could hear what Ben was saying. I couldn’t, but I noticed Blake’s free hand shook as he raked it through his hair.

      My God, he was really a wreck over this. I hadn’t realized it until then.

      I turned away and straightened my Eiffel Tower refrigerator magnet. Why was I feeling sorry for him? This was his fault. Facing the refrigerator, I folded my arms as if I could block out the emotions that were weakening me.

      Then the stupidest thought barreled through my mind. What if, faced with dismantling his family, Blake realized the enormity of his mistake?

      I mean he screwed up—and how—but should we have talked about it a little more before we told Ben?

      I’d pushed Blake to make the call, and even though I truly had Ben’s best interest at heart, part of me wanted to see Blake squirm to punish him.

      He was squirming.

      My God, the man was shaking.

      Admitting a mistake of this magnitude to your son must be second only to confessing to God. Well, maybe it was tied for second because he seemed pretty wrecked that I knew—

      “I’m glad to hear you’re doing so well, son—” Blake’s voice broke on the last word.

      Oh…he was only human. If it was just a mistake, should he have to pay for it with his family?

      Encroaching sympathy warred with the thought that Blake should have considered the cost before he dropped his pants.

      I remembered a time when I was young. I tried to steal a blouse from Casual Corner, but the store manager caught me before I could leave the shop. She scared me to death, telling me that she could call the police and have me arrested. She went on and on about how this one stupid mistake could ruin my life.

      In the end, she didn’t call the police or my parents. Instead, she made me promise never to steal again.

      She let me go. She gave me a second chance rather than ruining my life.

      I learned from that mistake, and I’d like to think I grew into a better person because of her understanding.

      Maybe Blake had learned his lesson. Maybe we just needed to talk about it, get counseling. It wouldn’t be easy, of course, but perhaps if we could surmount this, it was a chance for our relationship to grow.

      I reached out to touch him, to take the phone from him so I could tell Ben we’d call him back later. But before my hand fell on Blake’s shoulder, he said, “Ben, I’m calling with bad news. Your mother and I are divorcing because I’m gay.”

      After Blake left, the late-morning sun streamed in through the kitchen window. It made my head hurt.

      I slipped into the darkness of the living room, and lay down on the cool leather couch, flinging my free arm over my eyes.

      Divorce.

      He’d already made up his mind.

      Ben took the news hard. I’d never heard such language from him. Called his father a bastard. Said he hated him and never wanted to see him again.

      First, I was glad because I wanted Blake to hurt as badly as I hurt. Then I felt guilty because Ben was hurting. My baby. It was hard enough for me to learn the truth, but imagine finding out the person you’d looked up to your entire life had lied to you.

      I’d never been homophobic and had raised my son to be tolerant of all people…. This was the ultimate test. The logical side of me knew it was ridiculous to hate an entire sub-population based on the actions of one man. Oh…but this was so personal. It hurt too bad to form any conclusions.

      While I sat at the café table in the kitchen, trying to talk Ben down from the ledge, Blake disappeared upstairs.

      He came back down after I’d hung up, and all he said was, “Will you water the orchids, please?”

      He had about twenty-five plants in a small greenhouse in the backyard. I knew they were valuable, but I couldn’t believe he was thinking about them in the wake of what had just happened.

      Selfish bastard.

      “No. I won’t.” I loved flowers, but he fussed over those stupid plants like an old maid. I didn’t care if they died.

      “Fine. I’ll come by and get them this week. When would be a good time?”

      “Should I get an AIDS test?”

      He squinted at my non sequitur. “Would it make you feel better?”

      Anger sliced through me. “You are such a jackass. I don’t want an AIDS test to make myself feel better. You had sex with a stranger—with a man. And my life could be in danger because of it.”

      AIDS was only one in a jumble of questions logjammed in my mind, tangled up with the likes of how many sexual partners he’d had over the past eighteen years? Did he practice safe sex. Or did he think too little of me to do so? Even though we only had sex maybe once a year over the span of our marriage it only took one time—kind of like getting pregnant.

      Only AIDS killed.

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