When he been returned to his bed after surgery and his mind was still scrambled by anesthesia, he had opened his eyes to see his father, wearing his work clothes, standing at the foot of the bed. Later, Bill thought he must have taken time off work to come to the hospital. He stood there for a long time, not speaking, not moving, his hands in fists at his side. His eyes were distant, as if he did not recognize the figure on the bed at whom he was staring. After a few minutes, he bowed his head, a gesture at once helpless and dismissive.
“Dad,” Bill croaked. “I’m sorry.”
His father turned and walked away.
No one else in his family came to see him. Not his mother or his two older brothers. Not even his grandmother who called him her treasure. Certainly not his tobacco chewing, woodworking grandfather. No one from his class. Not Marco. Not anyone except Father O’Neill from St. Philomena’s, a short, stocky, bald man with hairy knuckles that Marco used to joke proved priests jacked off.
The priest pulled up a chair, touched Bill’s arm and asked, not unkindly, “How are you doing there, Bill?”
Bill, who had known only the detached touch of doctors and nurses, burst into sobs he could not control.
The priest let him cry, murmuring, “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“No,” Bill said. “It won’t be okay. My mom won’t even come to see me.”
“You put your family through a lot. People know what happened.” He sighed. “I’ve been talking to your folks. Trying to get them to take you back.”
For an instant, his heart stopped; for, in his panic and terror, he had never actually imagined that his family would not, somehow, find a way to bring him home.
“What do you mean, Father?”
“Listen to me, Bill,” the priest was saying. “This is a small town and the people here, they have ideas about things, about what’s right and wrong, that they aren’t going to change.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “So, let me ask you, are you a homosexual?”
It was a question, not an accusation, and asked neutrally, but the word scalded him.