by William B. Graydon
We knew the world would not be the same. A few People laughed, a few
people cried, most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita. Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and to impress him takes on his multi-armed form and says, “Now, I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” I suppose we all that, one way or another.
– J. Robert Oppenheimer
I was in the bathroom, attempting to be extremely quiet. I didn’t want Jake, my husband, to hear me. After the litmus paper changed color, I looked in the mirror. A somber portrait of my likeness leered at me. I was pregnant. I knew that I would have to tell Jake, but that wasn’t the problem. Once Jake knew, he would insist that I have the baby tested.
“Ginny,” Jake knocked on the bathroom door, “everything alright?”
Quickly, I gathered the home pregnancy test supplies, and threw them in the trash can. I grabbed several tissues and placed them over the pregnancy test remnants. I opened the door.
“Yeah,” I just had a piece of steak stuck between my teeth, took me forever to get it out.”
“Oh,” Jake turned away from me, and walked back toward the bed, “It’s late, I thought something was wrong.”
“No,” I turned off the bathroom light, “sorry I worried you.” I joined him in bed, pulled the cover over me, and glanced toward the bathroom. I’ve got to tell him. Maybe tomorrow.
I didn’t sleep much, so I was up a five am. I made coffee, the weak, disgusting way Jake liked it. After the coffee was done, I poured a cup and added a spoon full of instant coffee so that it actually had flavor. At the kitchen table, I sat quietly, holding the cup with both hands, waiting for it to cool. While I sat, in the dark, I fooled myself into thinking that I could feel my baby kicking. That’s why I didn’t drink any coffee. I had heard caffeine was bad. So I just sat there, holding the coffee cup, like it was an anchor, binding me to the kitchen table, because if I let go, I’d float away. Far away, and I wasn’t sure of the place I’d end up in.
Jake came into the kitchen, and before speaking or looking at me, he poured a cup of coffee. After taking his first sip, he joined me at the table.
“You were up early” Jake said, taking another sip of his coffee.
“I’m pregnant.”
I wanted him to choke on the coffee he had just sipped, but he didn’t. He calmly placed his coffee cup on the table.
“That’s great,” he stood up “that’s just great, when did you find out?”
“Last night.”
“Ah, that’s why you were in the bathroom, right?” Jake returned to his seat.
“Yup. ” I took sip of ice cold coffee. “That’s why.”
Any minute now, I thought.
“Well, thank god for science. You can have the test, and we won’t have to worry about having any queer kids,” Jake sipped more coffee, “I love the way you make coffee.” Then he sat back in his chair, and smiled.
“Happy to soon be a father?” I asked.
“Yup,” Jake said, then stood from his seat, and came to me. He placed my face in his hands, and kissed me, “I have to get ready for work.” Jake left the kitchen, while I continued grasping my coffee cup.
#
About twenty years before Ginny and Jake married, a scientist in Oslo discovered what would become to be known as the “Gay Gene.” The discovery, at first, was a godsend for the gay and lesbian community. At last, they could all say, without a doubt: “I didn’t choose to be gay.” This platform soon vanished. The science used to the discover the gene, was also used to destroy the gene. Parents, free to have their unborn children genotyped were able to decide: keep or terminate. Don’t like red hair: boot ‘em. Going to be short: no way. Down syndrome: are you kidding me? Autistic: no thanks Rain Man. Homosexual: over my dead body.
That’s how it happened, and not slowly. It was like gardening. If the plant doesn’t look right, grab it from the roots, pull it out, and plant another. It was considered to be advancement. Thank god for science.
I was still in my nightgown when Jake came home, and I was still sitting at the kitchen table.
“What the hell’s going on Gin” Jake asked, sitting across from me.
“I don’t want to have the test,” I said, holding my coffee cup, “I don’t care if our child’s gay, straight, blind, deaf, or whatever.”
“Oh God,” Jake covered his face with his hands, “Ginny, don’t you remember your brother?”
You asshole, I knew you were going to bring that up. I let go of the coffee cup, and placed my hands on the outer edges of the kitchen table, and leaned forward, “Jake, I know my brother was killed because he was gay. That was almost twenty years ago.”
“Ginny,” Jake got up from his chair, and walked toward me, attempting to put his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t touch me,” I stood, for the first time all day, feeling a bit faint, “just because it’s considered safe, clean, and not murder, doesn’t make it right.”
“Ginny, what the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about killing unborn kids!” I grabbed my coffee cup, walked to the sink and poured out the coffee.
“Ginny,” Jake said, walking toward me.
“Please,” I turned to face him, creating an imaginary boundary between us, “don’t say anything, and don’t touch me.”
“Gin, I’m sorry. It’s just that bringing a gay kid into a world that doesn’t want them doesn’t make sense to me. Why would you want our child to live a life of turmoil and violence? Hell, Gin, since they discovered this gay gene there’s hardly any gay people left. If our child was to be gay, he, or she would be practically alone. I don’t want that for our child. And we can stop that from happening, you can have the baby tested.”
“I didn’t know you were a baker,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
“What?”
“I’ve never heard someone sugarcoat bigotry so well.”
He looked alarmed, shattered, and unglued. As I watched Jake shrink away from me, I realized why I married him; because he looked so damn cute, and was now only a mere fixture in my life, like he always was. Choosing husbands was not the same as picking fabric, curtains, or dishes. Those things you toss away. Husbands linger, even if you leave them.
I fought crying, with every ounce of my lacking- independence, but it happened. Then it started, my right upper lip curling upward, my breath becoming sporadic, my face contorting in unnatural composures, and soon, my face was soaked.
“Ginny.” Jake attempted to hug me.
“Don’t,” I turned away from him, “I need to be alone.”
He left me, alone in the kitchen, while I stood at the kitchen sink. My tears stopped, and I wondered if they had only begun because I wanted him to leave, knowing that Jake couldn’t deal with emotional turmoil. After standing by the kitchen sink for about twenty minutes, I decided to finally shower and change. I left the kitchen, not looking in the living room, because I knew I would see Jake, plopped on the couch, watching the latest USA RAW wrestling match.
While I showered, the warm water reminded me of the hot bath I took after my father told me my brother Max had been killed. Max and I were two years apart, he was older. He was 15 when he died by the hands of fellow adolescents, when we lived in Utah. Max, had just begun to realize his sexual identity, and at the time, it was almost like being from outer-space, sort of like the sounds Jimmy Hendrix could make from his guitar, extraterrestrial, and electrifying. Unfortunately, Max wasn’t a superstar. Max was only a gay 15 year old, and that’s what killed him.
“Ginny,” My father said, walking into my bedroom, “Max is dead.”
I began to ask him what happened. All the who’s, why’s and what’s, but he would not tell me anything, only that my brother was gone. Two days later, I read about it in the newspaper. Max had been castrated. His castrated penis had been covered with super-glue, and shoved into his mouth, and his nostrils had been taped shut with duct tape. It remained undetermined what killed my brother, loss of blood, or suffocation. The teenagers accused of the crime were never convicted. Thank god for justice.
I shut off the water, and opened the shower curtain. Once I stepped outside the tub, I was mildly alarmed by the lack of sound from downstairs. Jake always blasted the sound from the television. It was silent. I quickly dried myself, robed, and went downstairs.
The television was off, his beer bottle was still on the coffee table, and when I looked out the window, I noticed his car was gone. For the first time, since I learned I was pregnant, I smiled. I placed both hands on my stomach, turned away from the window, and glanced at the photograph of my brother Max. Maybe the both of us can stop this, I thought as I picked up Jake’s empty beer bottle, and walked into the kitchen, knowing my anchor was waiting; waiting to hold me down.
#
I did have the test. My son was going to be gay. Jake attempted to pressure me into terminating the pregnancy. I refused.
“Well, I can’t be a part of this.” Jake told me, the last time we spent the night together in the same house. I haven’t seen, or heard from him in eight months.
My son is due in about thirty days. I’m a bit heavy now, and my ankles are swelling like Hindenburg sized balloons. Despite my extra weight, I’m floating, because I let go of that damn coffee cup, my anchor. I can’t wait to discover the place my son and I end up in. There’s something magic about floating upstream. I think that’s what keeps all of us, as a whole, from drowning.
Bill Graydon: Age 36, New England Native, have lived in Florida for the past six years. Served eight years in the Military, and finally cashing in on the GI Bill. Planning on Graduating in Dec 2010! I care deeply about social issue that impact the harmonization of our society, thus I also attempt to insert some bit of a social commentary in any piece of fiction I write.
