Page 68 of Center of Gravity
“Who isn’t?” Dinner had run long, as I’d expected and I might have been a bit tipsy and thinking about Alex, wishing I’d just told him to come. “I think it’s worse if I get my heart broken by a not-yet college grad.”
“You’re being ridiculous. You don’t even know that would happen. And you know what’s worse than being heartbroken? Never giving yourself the opportunity to be heartbroken again.”
God, I hated when she made more sense than me. Logic was supposed to be my territory.
“Hey,” she said, “Did you ever get any further figuring out who was writing those letters to Dad?”
I hadn’t. I’d forgotten about it between work and Alex, but when we hung up, I went into the living room and fished out the shoebox from the box of other personal items I’d brought back with me.
I spread the letters over the coffee table and went through the photographs again. Winslow darted around me, sniffing at the edge of the table with interest. I refilled his water bowl and went and opened the sliding glass door to my tiny porch to let some fresh air in. I still hadn’t figured out how to combat Winslow’s doggy scent in my tiny apartment.
After circulating through the letters again, I returned to the photographs and kept getting stuck on one in particular. The one that had stuck out to me before, where a younger man was displaying some award in one hand, his other around my dad’s waist. There wasn’t anything outwardly intimate about the pose and hell, my mom was there, too—I recognized her in the background with her back turned, talking to a group of women—but there was something about the way my dad was looking at the guy.
At New City College, my dad had presented the History Department’s award for achievement for years, I remembered that. I retrieved my briefcase, pulling my laptop out and opening it on my knees, then I navigated to the college’s web site and fifteen minutes later found the archives. And there he was: Michael Masters, recipient of the History Department’s Scholastic Excellence award, 1993. I’d been twelve at the time.
A Google search of his name turned up a faculty page for Braswell College outside of Jacksonville, Florida. Michael Masters was the head of the history department there, and it was undoubtedly him. He had a kind expression, but a sharp face, a tenacious face. And office hours every afternoon. Before I could rethink what I was doing, I wrote down the address of the school.
I hadno game plan and plenty of time during the drive to wonder what I was doing beyond satisfying my own curiosity, but at the least, I could report back to Summer that the mystery had been solved. I’d packed up at the office after lunch, figuring I could beat traffic and make it to Braswell College before office hours were up and be back in Savannah a little after dinner time to tie up loose ends.
Michael’s office was located on the north end of the small campus in a building that appeared to have been recently renovated. The smell of fresh paint and carpet was pungent when I went inside. When I peeked through the crack in his door, there was another student in with him, so I waited.
After the girl left, I rapped lightly on the door before pushing it wide.
His expectant expression shifted to one of uncertainty, then lit with a tentative warmth. I could tell somehow he recognized me. I didn’t know what I expected, maybe a flash of guilt or shock, but there was none of that and for some reason that comforted me. I didn’t feel any sense of righteous indignation—not at him, at least. At the moment, I had only curiosity.
“I was wondering…” he started, and then gestured me in. “I knew he kept my letters. You look so much like him, it’s…” He shook his head, and then put his fist to his mouth as if he might clear his throat as I came in and sat. I didn’t shake his hand and he didn’t seem to expect it. But when I’d situated myself and looked up again, I saw him blink rapidly before he took a deep breath and then did clear his throat.
“Rob,” I said.
“Yes, I know. Hugo would send me printouts of articles, awards you got in high school and college. He was very proud of you. Summer, as well.”
I nodded, swallowing thickly, and found I had nothing to say. When he offered me a drink, I accepted, and he reached into a little fridge next to his desk, producing a bottle of water. He didn’t have a ring on his finger, and the photographs on the shelves behind his desk mostly featured a black lab and a tabby cat.
“I’m not sure why I came now, honestly,” I said.
He gave me a thoughtful nod, his silence prompting me to speak further or not. I got the idea he was good with either. It felt respectful and nice and despite what he represented, I thought I might actually like him.
“Did my mother know?”
“Later on she did.” He picked up a pen, and then put it back down and rubbed his palms slowly together. “I’m not sure how much you want to know, but it was of course very complicated. There was a period of time when we didn’t speak at all, and then once he suspected you were gay, we began speaking again. He struggled with it, in his own way, as he struggled with his own sexuality. But he loved his family fiercely and there was never any chance that he would divide it.”
“Even though he carried on with you?”
Michael shook his head. “Our relationship was a bit unusual, I suppose, only infrequently sexual”—he glanced at me, I supposed to see if he was crossing any boundaries—“for various reasons. My age, our professional relationship, your mother, his own issues. But I loved him deeply in spite of those things.”
“Why?” I bit out, aware that maybe I was projecting my own bitter experiences on the situation.
“Why does anyone love anyone else? Sometimes it’s beyond reasoning, though I must have asked myself a thousand times over the years.”
I stood, taking my water bottle with me to the window to look out over the lawn below. Stiff Bermuda grass neatly trimmed, a few students straggling across the quad, weighted down by backpacks.
“You were at our house once.” I remembered it suddenly, a dinner in Jersey. I must have been close to fifteen.
I glanced over my shoulder to catch his rueful smile. “Yes, that’s when she found out.”
Christ, he wasn’t lying when he said it was complicated.
“When your mother was diagnosed, she reached out, actually. I hadn’t seen him in half a decade. We always wrote, though, always, even after the rise of email, he liked the tangible qualities of a letter.”