Father Figure
I was five. My dad got sent to the prison in Auburn, maximum security. He says he didn’t kill that girl, but I saw the blood when he came home thinking we were all asleep. That’s why they made me testify even though I told them I wasn’t sure, maybe it was just mud. That fall he wrote me a letter saying he didn’t blame me or anything, that he ended up taking the plea deal so he could get out and see me some day. He’d be eligible in twenty-five years, if he made it that long.
I was eight. The library in my elementary school was staffed by this guy named Mr. Garrett. Mr. Garrett didn’t think it was weird that I liked reading dictionaries and encyclopedias. One day while we had free time and he was helping me find a book about spiders or something, I asked if he had any kids. Mr. Garrett said no with a sad smile. Later I saw him staring out the window rubbing his ring finger. There was a sliver of skin that looked paler than his suntanned hands.
I was fourteen. The family of the girl my dad probably murdered left town. They couldn’t deal with driving by the woods where the search team found her. They blamed my mother, so my mother drank. I spent too much time online and found myself on one of those subculture forums for people who were really into occult shit. Someone from across town offered to meet me after school, grab a coffee at the gas station and go for a walk down by the canal. We never got coffee. Daniel picked me up and drove us around in his Mustang, taking a meandering route through town until we were out on some dirt road I didn’t recognize. He pulled over and asked if he had to use a condom. When he dropped me off at home he asked me how old I was. We saw each other on-and-off for four years.
I was nineteen. I went to college several states away and met a group of seniors who held parties almost every weekend. You needed an invitation, but my roommate sold Adderall so I had no problem getting in. By the third time I knew the drill. Turn off your headlights as you get near the house so the neighbors wouldn’t see all the cars showing up. Disrobe as soon as you enter. Drugs were optional. Sex was expected. I spent every party looking for whoever in attendance had the most gray hair. While I sucked their dicks they’d tell me about their wives and children, their office jobs where nobody knew they were gay. They always gave me their number. I never called any of them back.
I was twenty-four. My thesis advisor Greg invited me over for dinner. Greg’s wife was in Albany speaking at a developmental psychology conference. He kept my wine glass full as he pored over the collection of photographs and illustrations I brought, most of which were portraits of men I admired. Standing behind me, Greg pointed to a nude self-portrait and asked me to describe my process. I didn’t get far before I felt his free hand tangle itself in my hair.
I was thirty. My dad sent me a letter asking if I could come to his parole hearing because the family support might help him convince the committee he had people outside. I cut my lease, loaded up my old Subaru and started driving south. I didn’t stop until West Virginia where I found this eight-room motel tucked away in the mountains. I told the check-in guy I didn’t know how long I planned on staying and he said that was okay, they didn’t get a ton of customers that late in the fall. His name was Adam, and he doubled as the motel’s bartender and short-order cook.
I stayed in town for a while, spending the first several nights occupying one of the three seats at the motel bar, making pleasant conversation with Adam. On the third night he told me he was a writer. When the last guest left he pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket and read me a poem about birch trees. On the fourth night a group of six women showed up, sloppy drunk except the driver, all of them flirting recklessly with both of us. Adam managed to usher them out at three in the morning and asked if I wanted to see his place. We were on each other before he even closed the front door. He smelled like gin and lavender and sweet onions.
I am thirty-three. I have an apartment in town that sits above a coffee shop and faces the mountains. Sometimes in the morning Adam and I stay in bed and listen to the shop downstairs open, hearing our friends’ voices through the gaps in the old wood floor. Adam is perfect because he doesn’t ask about my family or why I came to town in the first place. When I get a letter from my mother saying that dad died in lockup, he doesn’t dig the torn-up pieces out of the trash. Most importantly, he never asks me if I want to have kids someday.
Shaemus Spencer is a queer animator and writer. A native of Flint, Michigan, they live and work in Rochester, New York. Their work has been published or is forthcoming in Ghost Parachute and MoonPark Review. Find them online @chezmouse.
