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9 ONE MORNING WHILE I WAS AT SCHOOL, MOTHER REACHED INTO THE nightstand by my bed, saw my diary, and learned exactly how I felt about Vince. Then she found my will and my goodbye notes. I'm going to run away, I wrote, or kill myself. She sat on my bed and nearly collapsed in tears. She knew that she was going to have to call for help from our minister, Mr. Sitwell. When they met, he told her that she should drive over to the small town of Quincy to see Dr. Harry Blount, the eminent psychologist who specialized in the problems of adolescents. It was just twenty minutes away, and she wouldn't have to worry about being seen by one of her Tallahassee friends. Besides, Blount was a fellow Presbyterian, not one of those atheistic university psychologists. Blount saw her the next day. Concerned about my father's health, he told Mother to call Dr. Linet to ask whether he thought Dad could handle the stress of hearing that his son might be a homosexual. "It isn't too late to help him," he assured her. "It isn't as awful as you think." They scheduled an appointment for me. Mother went to see Linet. It had been only two months since Dad's heart attack. Dismayed, Linet told her that she had no choice. She would have to tell Dad. He would stand by the phone at the appropriate hour. The next day Mother called Linet to be certain he was available, then asked Dad to join her in the living room. As they sat down, she told Dad that she'd found my journal. She told him that the books she'd found in my room months earlier had not been there because of some passing curiosity. It was now clear that Walt might possibly be on the verge ofin fact, perhaps might likely already be convinced that-he was a .. . homosexual. Copyrighted Material 60 Years later Dad told me that those words caused him to drop to his knees sobbing. He wanted to kill himself. I've ruined my son's life, he thought. But he was not going to tell Mother anything. This was going to be someone else's fault, perhaps the Devil's. Later that night my mother called me into the living room. "Walt," she said, "your father and 1 want to talk to you." Her voice emanated from some hideous nightmare. "Come in here." Whatever was wrong, 1 didn't want to hear it. Dad sat on the couch, upright and somber, his arms resting squarely at his sides. All the lights in the room were on. 1walked in. Oh, God, 1thought. They know. 1felt nauseous. "Walt," my mother said, "I found a journal in your room ... " "That's none of your business," 1 interrupted. "You be quiet," she scolded. "Sit down, because we're going to have a talk. You have a serious problem. You need help. Your father and 1are just horrified at the things you've written." She frowned. She hesitated, as if waiting for me to identify myself as someone else's child. "You're afraid that you're a homosexual, aren't you?" "It's none of your business what 1think," 1said, still standing near the door. Dad's expression hadn't changed. He stared at me. "Sit down," my mother commanded. 1 went to a high-backed chair and sat down. 1 reached nervously to my neck and tugged at the shark-tooth necklace I'd made. 1caught it with my thumb and broke it. 1 stared at the chain in my hand, mesmerized by the links, the sharp serrated teeth. "Son," Dad said, coming alive, "I'd be so mortified, ashamed ... just sickened if word got out that you were a ... homosexual." His voice shook with emotion. "I'd rather blow my brains out than have a son who's a homosexual." The arteries in his eyes grew dark and salty. "Your mother has had to be very strong through all of this, and 1 want you to listen to her." "There's a psychologist who wants to see you," she said with an attempt at bonhomie. "He's very good at helping boys with these problems. You can tell him anything. He'll keep your confidence." 1want to die, 1thought. 1stared at a wood plank in the floor. "So you will see him, right?" Dad said. I shrugged my shoulders...
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