It was Thanksgiving as Gerry and I pulled into the driveway at my parent's house, about a two hour drive from school. I was surprised Gerry agreed to come. He always liked to control the agenda, and the thought of two days at my parents, where he wouldn't, seemed to make him nervous, but ultimately he said yes.
They were waiting to meet us, inside the front door. The house already smelled like pie and turkey and casseroles. It felt good to be home.
"There's my boy," my mom exclaimed, hugging me. "You feel so good. Have you been working out?"
Embarrassed, and finally able to break off the long hug, I said, "Gerry, these are my parents, Margaret and Lee. Mom, Dad, this is Gerry." With the formal introductions behind us, my mom embraced Gerry with an equally affectionate hug. She's a hugger, I had warned Gerry earlier. My dad, more stoic, shook Gerry's hand, firmly, as men do. Through all this Gerry was a bit awkward, not his usual self, probably just nerves I figured.
"We're so glad you could come," my mom said to Gerry. "We've been looking forward to it."
"That means she's been cooking for days," my dad chimed in. "Nobody leaves this house until all this food is gone." He said with a laugh.
"Well, thanks for the invitation Mrs C and Mr C," Gerry said. "I hope it's OK if I call you that?"
"Oh certainly," my mom said, in a dreamy sort of way. It seemed Gerry's good looks, nice manners, and well built body were having an affect on her, much like they did on me.
My dad picked up the conversation from here. "Get your stuff boys. Gerry, we're putting you in Aaron's room since you're our guest. Aaron, you get the couch in the basement."
"Sure dad, no problem," I replied. This often happened whenever an aunt or uncle came to town, so it wasn't unexpected.
I led Gerry down the hall to my room, a typical teenage boy's room, strangely frozen in time from when I first left for school three years ago. It had all the regular furniture - desk, dresser, twin bed, bookcase - plus a collection of things left over from my childhood, but not needed or important enough to take to my dorm room. Gerry treated it like a crime scene, carefully examining everything, old school and sport trophies, posters, books, toys and games, framed photos. Filing away the facts and images in his mind, trying to make sense of me and my past.
Gerry spent a long time looking at one photo in particular, a photo of me and my dad in baseball uniforms, holding a large trophy. I was ten and my dad was the coach that year. We won the league title. I could tell from Gerry's expression that something was wrong.
"Aaron, I'm sorry, but I can't stay here," he said, almost with a panic in his voice.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I mean I can't stay in this room, your room. I just can't do it."
"I can move some of this stuff, make more space if that's what you need."
"No. I'll take the basement. Doesn't matter if it's just a couch. I'll be fine." The way Gerry said it, I knew he wasn't fine, at least not with my room. But I knew Gerry well enough to know he wasn't going to do any explaining until he was good and ready to. So the basement it was. I'd come up with some sort of explanation for my parents.
Gerry and I spent the afternoon helping out, alternating between kitchen duty with my mom, and watching football with my dad. Gerry knew everything about sports, which won over my father. In the kitchen he was attentive and helpful, surprising even me. By 5 o'clock I was convinced both my parents liked Gerry better than me. Sure, he was always competitive, but somehow it seemed more than that, I just couldn't figure out.
I found myself getting mad at Gerry. Why did he have to be so nice, so good looking, so helpful. When I wasn't mad at Gerry, I was mad at my parents. They hadn't seen me in months, and it was like I wasn't even there. It was all about Gerry, and he was happily soaking it all up. Dinner couldn't come fast enough.
Despite my bad attitude, Thanksgiving dinner was delicious, and the more I ate the more my mood improved. My parents asked questions about school, showing a genuine interest in what we were studying and how we were doing. They talked about how they met in school, started dating, and eventually married. They also had an endless supply of childhood stories about me, mostly embarrassing, but very entertaining as well.
It was going great, at least until my parents started asking Gerry about his family.
"I'm sure your parents are missing you, this being a family holiday," my mom said innocently.
"No, I don't think so," Gerry quickly replied.
"Do they live far away? Is that why you didn't go home?" My dad asked.
"No," said Gerry, with a hint of annoyance.
I knew this was not going to end well if the questions kept up. I could sense it, but
my parents didn't pick up on it. The questions kept coming. Do you have sisters or brothers? What does your mother do? Your father? Where did you grow up?
And then it all came spilling out.
"The truth is, my mother liked taking drugs more than taking care of a kid, and I never knew my father," Gerry said calmly, without any emotion. "Growing up, we lived in a car for a while. When that didn't work out, I ended up at some relatives I didn't know, turns out they didn't want me either. Then I lived at a bunch of different places..." He trailed off, seeming to run out of words.
Silence. Shock and silence. A clock was ticking somewhere in the house. Nobody said anything, ate anything, drank anything. All I could think about was how mad I had been at him earlier and how he must be feeling now.
My father spoke first, looking directly at Gerry. "I'm sorry son. I sincerely mean that." His voice strong and authoritative. "No child should ever have to go through that."
"Thank you Mr C," Gerry managed. "I'm sorry, I should have...or shouldn't have..."
"No. There's nothing you have to apologize for. You've done nothing wrong." My father said, in a reassuring way. "Son, listen to me. If you ever need a roof over your head, a place to stay, you are always welcome here. Always. If you are ever in trouble, or need someone to talk to, anything, I want you to know, Margaret and I are here for you."
"That's right Gerry," my mom softly added, as she reached over and placed her hand on his.
I was so proud of my father. We disagreed on politics and a bunch of other things, but when it came to love and protecting his family, he was second to none.
As I sat there struggling to make sense of what Gerry had said, he wiped his eyes with his napkin. "Thank you," he said.
At this point my mother stepped in, saving us from our quiet discomfort. "Gerry, be a dear and help me take some of these dirty plates to the kitchen. I think we're ready for pie and coffee."
Looking greatly relieved to be called into service, Gerry got up and helped my mom collect the dishes, taking them into the kitchen. I could just see them from where I sat, mom embracing Gerry with a long hug, trying to make everything better.
"Dad, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I would have said something to you before, but I didn't know. Honestly."
"That's OK Aaron. I shouldn't have asked all those questions." My dad replied. Then after a few moments, "He's a good kid. After all that he's been through, I'm glad he has someone like you in his life."
"Thanks dad."
Mom and Gerry came back in to the dining room with pie and coffee. The break seemed to do us all good. We found other things to talk about, including more embarrassing childhood stories, and the laughter returned.
Later that night I went downstairs with Gerry, to help with the pillows and blankets for the old couch.
"Aaron, I'm really sorry about today, and the way I acted," Gerry said.
"It's OK. You don't have to explain anything." I said, trying to be sympathetic and provide him with space.
