“I know that now.” He lays the mattress back in place. “But a while back I started to think about stuff. How he never talks about women, never goes on dates … hell, the only people who call him are guys … except for that one woman I’ve heard him on the phone with.” He pauses, scratches his head. “And to be honest, for a long time I wasn’t even sure it was a woman.”

What I want to say is, Oh, it’s definitely a woman, Tank. Her name’s Helen Dawkins.

But instead I say, “The guys who call him are just his cop buddies. You know that.”

“Yeah, but can you see where I was a little worried? I started to think, hey, maybe the old man’s a flamer. And that really got to me, because who wants a gay dad?”

“Not me.”

“Exactly,” he says. “I was so worried about it I decided to sneak around in here.”

“It’s a hell of a stash,” I say, unsure of how to react.

But in reality the whole thing depresses me. Ever since I determined that Big Dale is more than likely not the one giving Tank steroids, I’ve been clinging to this tiny shred of hope that he might eventually redeem himself and emerge as a quality dad. As for his apparent fling with Helen Dawkins … well, I was beginning to think, beginning to hope, really, that maybe the two of them are totally in love and deserve each other. I mean, let’s face it. Huey Dawkins is nothing but a drunk. Maybe his wife deserves better, kind of like how Justin feels Mom deserves better.

But no. Now it seems Big Dale Foster is just another sick male with perverted sexual tastes. Gross. It’s all just totally gross and disappointing. Why does one man need so many magazines? And why does a father feel the need to beat up his own son, anyway? It’s all so beyond me. I don’t understand any of it.

So Tank’s going through the closet now, and I’m hoping, praying even, that he doesn’t find anything else relating to his dad’s personal life. I just want to go outside behind the garage and have a smoke and a drink with my best friend. I just want everything to be normal again.

“No treasures in the closet,” Tank says. A wave of relief washes over me. “But give him time.” He smiles. “Dude, I have to piss. Don’t touch anything.”

Tank leaves. I look around the bedroom, hoping this is all a bad dream. He’s left the closet open. For some reason I can’t quite figure out, I actually walk over and start checking the pockets of every piece of clothing I see, totally ignoring Tank’s order not to disturb anything and kissing my own private wish for a return to normalcy goodbye.