The phone calls began shortly after the death of my Dad’s long time friend and mentor, Kevin Cavanaugh. His widow had no family and few friends so my father felt an obligation to help manage her affairs. She began calling every Saturday morning, at first to discuss her finances, but later just to talk. She could go on for hours so my parents sympathy evaporated after a few months and they developed an unspoken system for dealing with the calls.

Around 10 A.M. the phone would ring. My mother would be in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes and my father would be sitting in his tattered reclining chair doing a crossword puzzle. I was usually still trapped at the dining room table. I was only ten years old but I was already an adamant vegetarian who spent many hours after meals sitting at the table refusing to eat everything on my plate.

"Who do you think that is," my dad would grumble loudly.

"I don't know but it's probably for you," my mother would yell in reply.

"Son, can you get the phone?"

"No, dad. I can't get up from the table. Remember?" My dad would groan, get up slowly and walk to the old rotary phone fastened to a wall in the dining room. He would pick it up on the fourth ring.

"Hello....I'm fine Marion. How are you?....I'm glad to hear it....Oh really....Did you get the interest check?....Good. I was worried....You don't say....I see....Huh....Hmm. At this point my dad would quietly let go of the receiver, leaving it dangling in mid air while he went back to his chair and puzzle. I could hear her deep voice exhorting from the phone quickly and without pause. I would laugh mercilessly at my father's prank. I imagined her as one of those faceless adults in a Peanuts cartoon.

"Wah, wah, wah, wah" she would say, sometimes for hours on end. Eventually she would get off the phone and the dial tone would return, followed by an incessant beeping that signaled the phone was off the hook. I was always excited at this point because my dad would come wandering by to hang it up. He would see me still sitting at the table and remember I was grounded until further notice.

"Have you had enough," he would say sternly. I'd nod my head. "Okay, you can go then. But remember we can't waste food when people are starving." I would run quickly out the door and down the street to hang out with the gang, Mrs. Cavanaugh and the phone call all but forgotten.

I know the phone calls continued to come through the years although my personal involvement with them diminished. I became too old to be grounded and like most teenagers spent little time at home. In fact Mrs. Cavanaugh faded into a distant childhood memory until the Thanksgiving holiday of my freshman year in college.

It was an exhilarating time for me. I had only been away from home for three months but I had already found myself, or rather I found him. He was a tall, dark haired, sweet talker from Savannah. When I checked into my dorm room on the first day he was already there, standing next to the window bare chested, playing the saxophone. In the back of my mind I had known for a while that I was attracted to men but I always dismissed these feelings as something I would work through. I never got the chance to try because seeing Brad was like hearing the sound of one hand clapping. Weeks later, when we had sex for the first time, I watched his green eyes shining in the candlelight as we climaxed and I knew that it was love. I told him afterwards that I wanted to do something for him to prove the depth of my feelings, anything, all he had to do was ask. I was unprepared for his response.

Brad was already openly gay. He had a boyfriend in high school and they caused quite a stir when they showed up at the senior prom together. I thought he was militant but he insisted he was just being honest about who he was and that if we were going to be together it couldn’t be a secret. He said we needed to validate our relationship so it wouldn’t slip between our fingers and that the first step for me was to tell my parents. I was panicked by the idea but as I laid awake in his arms each night being stroked by his soothing breath I knew I would find the courage somehow. I decided it was my mission that Thanksgiving weekend and I practiced my speech over and over again during the two hour drive home.

I arrived to find a tiny frail looking woman in her sixties sitting in our living room. She had milk white skin, dark eyes and a prominent nose. Her short sparse hair was bright red, the same color as her lipstick which was put on in such volume that she appeared to have a very large mouth. She was wearing an immaculate floral print dress that might have been fashionable years earlier, giving her an aura of faded elegance. My mother introduced me to Mrs. Cavanaugh then quickly took me into the kitchen. "She has cancer and is not doing well," my mom explained. "So mind your manners and watch what you say".

It was an intimate dinner; only the four of us, and Mrs. Cavanaugh was as talkative as ever. She told us about working in an aircraft plant during W.W.II. She was hired as a welder because she was so small she could crawl into the tips of the planes. She said it only proved that with God’s help even disadvantages could be turned into gifts. She also told us how she met and fell in love with Mr. Cavanaugh at a cantina in Hollywood. He could not join the military because of his asthma, but he wanted to contribute to the war effort so he spent his evenings playing piano at a club for soldiers on leave. She was there as a hostess but spent most of her time sitting next to Mr. Cavanaugh humming along to Gershwin tunes and quietly dancing with him during the early morning hours when everyone was gone. They married in an elaborate ceremony a year later and soon after bought a bungalow in West Hollywood.

"What a sentimental story," I said, thinking about Brad serenading me with his soulful sax playing.

"You know, I still live in that house," she continued. "We spent so many happy years there before those damn queers changed the neighborhood into a modern day Sodom....and before the tragedy." Her story had been all gossamer and starlight to that point but the words 'damn queers' slapped me back into reality. I felt my face get flushed but I quickly controlled my anger. I tried to imagine what Brad would do if he were here. He would probably tell her calmly that those were outdated ideas based on ignorance and fear, then he would reach over and gently squeeze my hand. I wondered who my parents would side with and I was flooded with anxiety. I spent the rest of dinner picking at my peas.

Later that night while my dad was driving Mrs. Cavanaugh home I approached my mother in the kitchen while she was wrapping up the leftovers. I wanted to mention the ‘damn queers’ comment to get her reaction but different words came out instead. "So what was the tragedy Mrs. Cavanaugh mentioned?" My mom looked pensive.

"Well," she said slowly, "her husband didn't die of a heart attack like we told you. He shot himself. She had a great deal of difficulty dealing with the situation, and you were young, so we thought it best to tell a little white lie." It was an innocuous question but her answer left me curious.

"Why did he shoot himself," I asked eagerly

"Know one knows for sure. He didn't leave a note. Now lets drop the subject. This is a holiday and we should concentrate on pleasant topics." I decided my mom was right. It didn't seem like a good time to discuss much of anything so I said goodnight and went to bed.

On Saturday at 10 A.M. the phone rang. I was sitting at the table pretending to read the paper, but really thinking about Brad, as my dad walked in and answered it. Following the usual pleasantries my dad left the phone dangling and went about his business.

"Wah, wah, wah, wah" I heard from the receiver. It was really a blast from the past. No one was around and I needed a distraction so I decided to pick up the phone and see just what kind of conversation Mrs. Cavanaugh carried on with herself.

"What was I supposed to do," she was saying, "pretend I didn’t catch them." Her voice seemed edgy and she was breathing hard. "It was the worst moment of my life. I felt like our bedroom door was the gate to Hell." She sobbed for a few seconds before continuing. "It wasn’t just his salvation at stake, but mine as well. We had such a terrible fight....he....he said the most awful things. Can you imagine him telling me that he preferred men over our wedding vows?" She started crying again, giving me a moment for reality to set in. I wanted to say something but I was speechless.

"He even said that he was glad I found out," she finally continued, "he didn't want to live a lie anymore. He said our life together was a lie! I couldn’t stand it anymore, I felt terribly ill, so I locked myself in the bathroom and vomited for hours. When I came out he was lying on the sofa asleep with an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. That's when I knew what to do. I put on a pair of my white Sunday gloves and got the gun out of the drawer. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it so I asked God for guidance. I don’t know how long I stood there praying, with the gun in my hand, but slowly the image of him lying in bed with another man on top of him enveloped me and I was filled with rage. I screamed out, ‘God, why have thou forsaken me,’ then I put the gun in his mouth and fired."

She was weeping hysterically now and I was so light headed that I needed to lean against the wall so I wouldn’t fall over. The whole situation seemed so surreal. I didn’t know what to do so I just started breathing deeply. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Suddenly, there was a preternatural silence on the other end of the phone. I held my breath, afraid that she had heard me, but she abruptly began talking again.

"I told the police it was suicide and they believed me. It’s been so hard living with my secret, only confessing my transgression to the empty silence at the other end of the phone....until now." I didn’t know how to respond so I didn’t say a word, hoping she hadn’t figured out I was listening. "At last I’m at peace with my self," she sighed. "I’m ready for judgment."

I finally found my voice. "Mrs. Cavanaugh are you all right....Mrs. Cavanaugh....are you still there?" The only answer was the firm click of the receiver. The whole world was spinning so I just stood there with my eyes closed, listening to the dial tone.

"Hey, did she hang up already," a voice intruded. "I forgot to ask her about some investments I recommended". I opened my eyes slowly to find my dad smiling in front of me.

"I just....I picked up the phone and she hung up," I stammered.

"I’m sorry dad, I’m really sorry."

"Don’t worry about it. She usually goes on and on about nothing. I’ll just stop by her place later. I need her signature on some papers anyway." I hung up the phone without replying and went outside to get some fresh air.

I walked around for hours and when I returned in the late afternoon my parents were sitting somberly at the table. "Son, I have some bad news," my dad said after a few moments. "When I went over to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s this afternoon I found her....well, she was dead."

"How, what happened," I asked.

"There were some empty bottles of medication lying on the floor. Her cancer was progressing and it appears that she may have taken steps to end her suffering."

"At least she's at peace now," my mother interjected quietly. I was overwhelmed but I managed to sit down at the table without making a scene.

I felt like a spectator to a Greek tragedy. All the elements were there: deception, irony, thwarted desires and hidden fears. I wondered how many more lives ended in such tragic consequences because people were afraid to speak and to listen and to accept. Finally I knew it was the right time for me to tell my story because I wasn't doing it for Brad but simply because it was the truth.

"Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you. It's not going to be easy and this may not be the best time but you need to know." The words came out like a strong sea breeze so I spread my wings and took flight.