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Of coursethe memory haunted her, of course it colored everything she did and felt and thought about homosexuality. AIDS would have reinforced those feelings for her. I should be kinder to her. More understanding.
But what about what I need from her and who I need her to be?
She was trying. I knew that, but sometimes I just wanted her to be further along than she was, so that I could lean on her when I needed her.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Dad said. “You’re thinking she should have dealt with it all in some better way by now. But she’s always preferred to stay in her fantasy worlds than to cope with the traumas of life. Why do you think she writes romance, Petey?”
“Isn’t that what she’s in therapy for?” I asked.
He nodded. “Therapy takes time, though, and you’ve got this envelope right now. She gave it to you, and I think she expects you to open it.”
“No pressure.” I set aside the sandwich, taking up the envelope again.
I struggled with the glued-down flap of the envelope before reaching across Dad’s desk for the silver letter opener. I used to pretend it was a rapier when I was a kid. I wrenched the sharp side through the crisp paper. The scent rising from inside was old, dusty, and faintly reminiscent of tobacco.
As Dad watched, I poured the contents out next to my empty lunch sack. Old photographs, a journal, and some faded, folded letters slid across the small bare spot on Dad’s desk. Most of the pictures were black and white, but there were a few early color-tinted ones.
“Ah,” Dad said, picking up one photo. It was yellowing at the edges. “Here he is. George Robbins.” He laughed, handing me the picture. “He was a handsome man. Like you.”
I stared at the photo of a reed-thin man with curly dark hair that he’d clearly tried to tame with some sort of product that left it shiny. He stood outside an old white clapboard house, smiling for the camera, a cigarette dangling from one hand, and his gray eyes twinkling.
He lookedmorethan a lot like me. In fact, the resemblance was undeniable. I had an uncomfortable new perspective on why my mother had reacted so badly to my coming out. Imusthave reminded her of him every day. There was no way I didn’t.
“I’d guess he’s about twenty-three in this one? Hard to say.” Dad pulled another picture out of the mess on his desk and handed it to me. “There he is with your mom.”
Mom had curly dark hair, too. I’d forgotten that she’d told me her hair went straight when she was pregnant with me and never curled up again. She was a tall kid, coming up to her brother’s chest. She gazed up at him adoringly, and he rested his hand on her head, looking into the camera with a more serious expression.
“I’m pretty sure his wife, Beth, took that shot, and these ones too,” Dad said, scooting a few more my way. “I looked through this envelope when you were a baby, but I didn’t read the letters or his journal.”
Grandma Robbins joined them in these, looking harried and annoyed. “Grandma doesn’t look happy.”
“Did she ever?”
I let out a stiff laugh. “I guess not.”
Turning my attention to the letters, I examined the outside of them first. There were only five, all well-worn, and all from a man named Harold Seville.Theywere what faintly smelled of tobacco.
The first lines of the one I opened set my heart racing.
Dearest George, I miss our nights together, darling. I understand your need to care for your family, but I can’t help but wish you’d leave them all behind and come home to me. It’s just a fantasy, but one I entertain every day. If the world would let us, I know we could be so happy.
“These are love letters,” I whispered.
“So I’d surmised, based on the return address and the fact that Beth gave them to your mother instead of throwing them away or keeping them herself.”
I scanned the rest of the letter. It was painful to read the yearning in it. So full of longing and dashed dreams. I could tell my uncle had cherished the letter. Even after all these years, it unfolded and refolded easily. I wondered if he’d written back or if he’d ignored Harold’s pleas.
Stuffing the letter back in its envelope and then into the manila one along with all the other things on the desk, I whispered, “I don’t think I can read all this right now, Dad. It feels too sad.”
Dad nodded. “What you do with this envelope and its contents is your business. Your mother said she wants it to belong to you now. When you read them, and I think you will, just know I’m here for you to talk about them. Whatever you find.”
I put the manila envelope back in my backpack and finished my lunch. Dad turned around to flip the cassette over, and Elvis Costello welcomed us to the working week.
When I left Dad’s office to head to Robert’s house, I decided to forget about my uncle’s stuff for a while. I didn’t need to add a dead man’s heartache to my own. I was carrying around enough right now.
I just wanted to heal.
And I didn’t see how reading about my uncle’s tragic life was going to help me do that.
