(Miriam learns that others are noticing her sons, both of them.)

I was starkly reminded that I had more than one son with issues when, on the Thursday following our discussion with Jack, I answered the phone to hear the voice of the principal of Tim’s school. Tim was in his first year of high school, a freshman. I was bluntly told that Tim was on the verge of being expelled for fighting, that while Tim had a black eye, and was bleeding from his lip, the other boy had to be taken to Glendale Hospital with a broken nose.

Great I thought. I was the fortunate mother of extremes; a rowdy and pugnacious fourteen year old and a sissy eleven year old. Why me?

I did not know the principal, he was new to our town, but I promised him this was not like our son and that I would come and pick him up. I told him as forcefully as I could it would not happen again, a prophecy I knew unlikely to come true. I changed my dress, threw on some makeup and headed for Moundsville High School just three blocks away. I drove because I didn’t want to be seen walking home in the middle of the day with a bloody son.

When I walked in the school office Tim was sitting on a bench looking rather beat up but triumphant. His shirt was torn and bloody, knuckles raw and scraped, lip like a sausage and a left eye almost swollen shut. No one would have concluded that he won the fight but he just looked pleased and victorious. I couldn’t help but feel the huge contrast between my two sons, Tim and Jack.

“Tim! Why?” I said as the principal came out of his office. They had cleaned him up some but I still resisted a hug not wanting to add a dash of red to my beige dress.

“I’ll explain later.” Tim said calmly so that the principal could not hear.

“Mrs. Roberts. Your son’s behavior is unacceptable.” He barked turning toward Tim. “Young man, I’m giving you a warning. The next time you will be expelled.”

Knowing Tim that meant he would have one more chance to take another shot at whoever it was that invoked his ire.

“Timothy.” The principal continued. “It doesn’t matter that the other boy is a junior, or that the teacher who finally pulled you off of him told me he was taunting you.” The principal looked at me as if he knew the other boy had it coming. “Fighting will not be tolerated under any circumstance. Your mother is going to take you home and I expect you to be an angel from now on.” He naively commented, oblivious to our family dynamics that had Jack as The Angel and Tim not likely to ever be one.

On the way home I made Tim slouch down so he would not be seen and herded him in the back door as fast as I could hoping my nosey neighbor was focusing her attention elsewhere. Before I grilled my fighting son, I put him in the bath, laid out fresh clothes and retrieved an ice pack. He came into the kitchen looking better but beat up nonetheless.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked expecting to have to drag it out of him.

“Sure.” He responded immediately. “He had it coming, mom. He’s been saying things all year.”

I was afraid to ask. “Like what?”

“All the boys are just mean to Reuben, you know Reuben Rogers.”

“Of course, I’m in Bible study with his mother.”

“Yeah, well anyway mom, I know he’s a queer but so what.” He said almost casually. That was just like Tim. If something or someone was different or non-conforming he was so accepting. Tim was bold and well, opinionated. But he at least was polite, most of the time, and Reuben was friendly toward Tim. They had known each other from so many years of acting in the annual Christmas play at Simpson.

“Tim!” I admonished. “That’s not a nice word.” I reminded him.

“But it’s true, mom. Anyway this boy, Jerry, has been telling me I’m a queer too because I talk to Reuben sometimes.”

“Please don’t use that word.” I told him. “I don’t like it.”

“But that’s the word he said.” He protested. I could hardly object if Tim was quoting the offending party.

“This Jerry, what’s his last name?” I asked suspecting I knew.

“I donno.” Typical Tim. “He’s a junior and plays football.”

“Would it be Adams?” I asked as I dabbed mercurochrome on the knuckles of his right hand.

“That’s it, I think. You know him?”

“No. I know who his parents are and I think I’m not going to be able to avoid getting to know them better.” I quipped. “So this Jerry Adams called you that word and you let it get to you?” I guessed.

“He’s been saying stuff all year, mom. I didn’t care. I still talked to Reuben. Then he started calling Reuben ‘big queer’ and me ‘little queer’.” I really was getting tired of the queer talk.

Two things about awful words and my oldest son. First, I wasn’t surprised that I had not heard about this before from Tim. Tim wasn’t a talkative boy. What surprised me was that it went on so long before he exploded. Second, under other circumstances I might have wondered about Tim, and the reference to homosexuality being used against him, but Tim was all boy, and from his infatuation with Marjorie Blankenship since they were close during the Christmas play, sometimes a little too close, I was not worried.

“And when he called you that you hit him?”

“Nah. I knew it pissed him off when I ignored him.”

“Tim!” I admonished.

“Sorry mom.”

“Then what happened?” I pushed.

“Today after second period he was standing there with all his football buddies, and when Reuben and I walked by he said ‘big queer, little queer – making little brother sissy queer’. So I decked him.”

I’m sure Tim noticed that I nearly spilled my cup of coffee.

“What? What did he say?” I asked him to repeat the awful rhyme.

“‘Big queer, little queer – making little brother sissy queer’.” He repeated. I was aghast that this big football toting bully would be so mean as to use my little Jack to taunt Tim. “He was just so smug, mom. He deserved it.”

No doubt. As a mother I had not faced direct threats to my children, not serious ones. Yes, I often had to sooth their tender feelings, and assure them they were the best and most beautiful. Of course, I had to go to bat for them, to their teachers and sometimes to other parents. This seemed so different; my older son being called hateful names and attacking when his little brother was included. My presumption that my little Jack was just a normal eleven year old boy, and viewed that way outside our home, was shattered.

“So you hit him because he called Jack a ‘sissy queer’?” I forced myself to quote the Adams boy.

“He just had it coming mom. That was the last straw, just the way he said it, mocking, you know.”

I wondered if Jerry Adams might have hit a nerve with Tim. Tim, always so confident, always so boy, didn’t have to worry about how he was viewed but maybe he knew, or suspected, that the older boy might be right about his younger brother. I had to ask.

“And is he?” I asked before thinking a better way to say it.

“What?” Just like Tim, playing dumb. He was going to make me say it.

“Tim, do you think your brother is, uh well, either?” I asked trying to avoid using the words again.

“Mom, you know how Jack is. It’s not like he’s ever going to be on the football team.” Yes, I certainly knew how Jack was. I just didn’t think anyone else knew. Now I had to find out how much Tim knew.

“Go on.” I prodded.

“Mom, he’ll be ok. He just has to grow some. He’s scrawny.” He noted accurately. “He just doesn’t like to get dirty, or fight, or help me with the truck.”

Until then I suppose the only difference I really noticed between my two sons was the two and a half years between them. Tim wasn’t a big kid, certainly not football material, not that he would ever consider joining a team. Tim wasn’t a joiner. Oh, he had a circle of friends, mostly misfits and hangers, boys that liked to help him work on the truck, or talk about things much more exotic than football. Tim was average build, tall enough for a fourteen year old at five feet five inches. He didn’t play sports, or workout, or run but somehow he was so muscular.

Jack, on the other hand I now had to consider, was of slight build. There were girls in his class taller, much taller, than he was, and many with a larger, bigger boned, and more muscular frame. I hadn’t worried about it until Tim used the word ‘scrawny’. I just thought he would catch up as soon as he started to develop. But thinking about it, Jack was oh so skinny, chest, waist, and hips the same. While he played a lot of basketball there were no signs of muscles, yet.

There was one other very significant difference between my two sons. Tim was confident, brash, aggressive, sometimes intimidating and fearless, qualities that would serve him well as an adult man. Jack was the opposite, sweet, gentle, calm, understanding, thoughtful and caring, qualities that would make the road into manhood all the more difficult.

“I heard.” I revealed referring to what Jack had told his father and me.

“Heard what?”

“I heard that you called him a sissy and said he was useless, like a girl.” Tim’s expression went from confident and open to one of guilt. I waited for him to explain.

“He made me mad, mom. I was trying to bolt the oil pan back on under the truck and it was dark and I just needed him to get down there and hold the light. He wouldn’t do one thing for me.”

“In the dirt and oil, I presume.” I reminded him.

“So what. It wouldn’t kill him.”

“No but the word you used might hurt. You’ve got a black eye and a fat lip because Jerry Adams used the same word.” I reminded him.

“I never called Jack a queer.” He clarified forcing me to again cringe at that word in association with Jack. “I didn’t mean it, mom, when I said he was a sissy. Not the way Jerry did.” He said sheepishly. “I’m sorry.” He added.

“Well, Tim. You did use the word. Just how did you mean it?” I pried. Tim glanced at me and I sensed he didn’t want to tell me something.

“Timothy Roberts. Do you think your brother is a sissy?” I asked as direct as I could.

“It’s not like that mom. Jack’s not like Reuben. He’s uh, well he’s just not like the other boys.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well..” He began slowly. “Just watch him play basketball mom. He can hit any shot from the outside, and he can dribble like a pro, but…” He hesitated. “He gets crushed every time he goes for the basket. He just can’t play the inside, mom.” Much later I wondered if Tim’s description of his brother’s basketball abilities was an apt metaphor, unintended and accidental of course. My Jack couldn’t play the boy’s game inside.

“His friends call him The Pencil.” He continued. “They’re not mean but they do tease him a lot, especially now that his hair is long.” He reminded me. “Maybe that’s why he spends all his time reading or whatever on the third floor.” He noted. “And he’s kinda like Brenda sometimes, in the bathroom all the time brushing that hair.” Now I was almost sure Tim was tuned into Jack’s forays up above but I had to find out if the brother knew exactly what Jack was doing.

“He studies up there. Remember you have the large bedroom with a desk. He doesn’t. And, really Tim, his hair isn’t that long. I am trying to get him to the barber.” I explained sounding so defensive.

“It’s over his ears, mom. Sam calls him ‘Jackie’, you know when they’re playing one on one. He says, ‘go ahead Jackie, take the shot’.” I resolved to at least trim Jack’s hair myself. “Mom, Jack told me the third floor was his room and that I should not go up there.”

“And have you?”

“No.”

“Do you think he’s hiding something?” Asking that, I knew I had gone too far. If Tim didn’t know anything my probing would soon make him curious. I wasn’t ready to reveal anything to Tim, or anyone. I didn’t want any surprises. If he did know what Jack was doing, Tim wasn’t going to be the one to reveal it, especially to me.

“Don’t know mom. Maybe you should check it out.” He challenged, wincing as I shifted the ice pack from his eye to his swollen right hand bright red from the mercurochrome.

I left it there and changed the subject. I had pushed far enough and I wanted to end on a positive note. Tim was showing signs of feeling the pain from the fight and wanted to lie down. I figured I would be getting a phone call from Mrs. Adams, and I wanted to put some things away on the third floor, just in case Tim decided to check it out.

I did ask him about Marge Blankenship and he revealed a first kiss, in the balcony of the Strand Theater where they met on a date. He confessed it was strategic on his part to meet in the balcony for the date so he could avoid paying her way to the movie. He mentioned that he needed some tool for the truck that his father would not finance, something to do with timing, and he was reluctant to spend money foolishly on a girl. My oldest son was acquiring all the necessary traits and skills to be a typical husband, so I suggested that he might want to lend such a tool to his father who could use all the help with timing he could get.

Overall though I was proud of Tim. My boy, my real one, was growing up, kissing girls and fighting. I wasn’t exactly happy about the fighting but it was the kind of behavior more in line with what a mom would expect, from a son. My hunch was that he knew his brother was cross dressing. After all Jack was open to me about how long he had been doing it to some degree or another, and brothers don’t grow up two and a half years apart not knowing each other’s secrets. What made me feel good was that Tim, if he knew, was loyal to his brother in spite of Jack’s unusual behavior, and even stepped up with his fists to protect Jack’s honor. To me it almost affirmed Jack’s gender protestations.

* * *
I expected the phone to ring all the rest of the day, not the doorbell. I knew even before I opened the heavy oak door there would be an angry, indignant Bertha Adams standing on my porch. I was right of course, but tried not to chuckle at the sight of the varsity football letter jacket she was holding, tattered, torn and dirty with accents of dried blood.

“Miriam.” She started waiting to be asked inside. As far as I was concerned before I let this angry woman into my home hell would need to freeze over, which from the feel of the near zero temperature, was a distinct possibility. I had no intention of allowing her in, where the victor was asleep on the couch, to figuratively rub my nose in what I was sure was her outrage of my son’s behavior. I was prepared to be contrite but I could be contrite on the frozen tundra of our front porch.

“Bertha, I was expecting you to call.” I greeted the dour woman whose face was barely visible amidst the gaudy knit hat pulled down over her ears and the plain gray scarf wrapped tightly, not tightly enough, around her neck. I stepped out onto the stone porch pulling the door closed behind me.

“And well you should after what Tim did.” She tried to bark but was muffled by the scarf.

“It takes two Bertha.” I remarked accurately.

“But only one had to go to the hospital. Who’s going to pay for the doctor bills? And hospital?” She asked as she pulled the scarf down so to better attack me. Obviously the Adams subscribed to the tenet that those who can most afford to pay, should. I knew her husband had been laid off from the midnight shift at Fostoria and was scraping by doing odd jobs for the Benson’s and Hugh Hawkins, but I was aghast that she so boldly shifted responsibility. I was speechless so she continued.

“And the jacket. Just look at it. It’s completely ruined. Jerry’s co-captain next year and we just can’t afford a new jacket. Why this cost $22.50. Where do you think we’re going to get the money for a new one?” She asked pretentiously.

I did feel a touch of sympathy for her. Times were tough in Moundsville, always tough for the workers: miners, shift workers, plant workers, steel and chemical, glass and enamelware. So many in the Valley never got ahead and I knew the Adams were in that boat. I was tempted to make a contribution but knew that would just compound the situation and validate the awful things this woman’s son said about my sons, as well as invalidate Tim’s heroic response.

“I have no idea.” I answered as kindly as I could. I wanted to be snide and make a suggestion like ‘Have you tried the bank’ but knew that would not be helpful.

“Miriam.” She then offered even more boldly. “I think it only fair that you pay half, at least for the jacket.” It was telling that she seemed to be more concerned with the jacket than the medical bills, or her son’s injuries which she had not yet mentioned. I decided to change the subject.

“How is Jerry?” I asked now shivering from the cold. Bertha had me at a disadvantage. I was wearing only my house dress with a sweater and she was fully concealed with coat, boots, hat, gloves and scarf.

“Not good, Miriam. He has a broken nose, a chipped tooth and cracked ribs. He’s home but he is in pain, lots of pain.” Before I could express my sincere sympathy she continued, trying desperately to add to the guilt she presumed I had. “If this had happened during football season you would be dealing with coach Trueblood too.”

I suddenly no longer felt the bone chilling cold. This mother was obviously more interested in her son’s letter jacket, and his status on the football team, than his actual health. No wonder this high school junior was such a callous bully.

“Is he able to talk?” I asked sounding sincere.

“Why yes.” She answered.

“Then did your son tell you what he said?”

“What do you mean?” Bertha looked confused.

“Did he tell you the words he used, the names he called the Rogers boy and my sons.” I asked presuming the son did not provide the mother with the details of the incident.

“I don’t see what that has to do with it.” She noted trying to head me off.

“So Jerry didn’t tell you that he called Reuben Rogers and my boys, uh, well, queers.” Now I actually enjoyed using the word.

I had her, at least I thought I had. What mother would not be shocked and ashamed that her son was bullying other boys, boys that might be different? What mother would condone it or put up with it? I expected an apology.

“Miriam I shouldn’t tell you this.” She answered fully intending to tell me. “People are talking, Miriam.” I don’t know why my mouth fell open. I should have known. She continued.

“People wonder why you sent Brenda to private school. I guess Moundsville High School isn’t good enough for her. And you let Tim associate with Reuben. You know what he is don’t you. And now there is talk about Jack, that all this is rubbing off on him and well, Miriam, you need to be more strict with both your boys.” I was too stunned to react, or to correct her grammar, so she just kept saying things. If I wasn’t going to pay for the stupid jacket then she was going to make me pay otherwise.

“Why do you let that poor innocent boy look like that? Why haven’t you cut his hair? Miriam he looks more like a sissy every day. You have to do something. Miriam it’s not too late.”

Now I understood why Tim decked Jerry Adams. As Tim said ‘he had it coming’ and were I not a woman, and a lady, there would have been two broken noses in the Adams’ family.

“Enough!” I tried to scream through frozen clenched teeth but it sounded weak and muffled. “This conversation is over and you need not lecture me, you uh you.” I grasped for the right words. “You narrow-minded…” I wanted to use words that had never passed my lips but just couldn’t give her the satisfaction. “Just leave. We have nothing further to discuss. Get off my porch and I never want to see or hear from you again.” I ordered.

She did but as she turned to go I saw the look, the holier than thou look, the one that said you might be rich (we really weren’t, everything in Moundsville was predicated on inaccurate perception) but at least we don’t raise spoiled girls, or sissy queers.

By the time the door slammed shut behind me I had dissolved into tears. It wasn’t so much what she said. She probably did me a favor; she opened my eyes to what I was facing with raising a boy who truly believed he was not one. Had I not had that frigid conversation with Bertha Adams, the mother of the normal son by her standards, and most likely those of the vast majority of those who lived in Moundsville, I might have felt there was a glimmer of hope. Even with the difficult conversation Don and I had with Jack, and the things Tim revealed, I had been optimistic we could navigate a path to ease Jack into the inevitable life as man. Now I knew that path would be lonely and hostile without any good probability of a happy outcome. Like Reuben’s parents, Don and I were alone.

As I turned to retreat upstairs to compose myself, and fix my face, I saw Jack standing in the living room, watching. How long had he been there, or how much of my conversation with Mrs. Adams he heard, I do not know. He looked at me with tears rolling down my face, and then at his sleeping brother with the battered face and raw knuckles. He looked so sad, almost remorseful. For an instant I did not want to see this child of mine, this reminder of the turmoil boiling through my family. As I searched his sad face I saw what he was, what apparently others were seeing; an eleven year old sissy boy who was starting to look more like a girl than the boy he was. I am not proud of what I thought then; so ashamed that in that moment I did not like this boy, who we called Jack after the hero who died in battle the day he was born. I soon found myself again on my bed sobbing, this time selfishly asking God why He didn’t just make James Edgar Roberts, my child, a girl, and spare us so much anguish.