Ramsey's speech (outdated short story)

!CW!

implied homophobia

     Moments after Ace rang the doorbell, Mrs. Ramsey had rushed to the door still wearing her apron. She was holding a wooden spatula when she yanked her son in for a hug, forcing him to slouch down and bend his knees.

      “Gene! Oh hi Gene! Look how big you- you look just like your father.” She said, just as she had half a year ago. She pressed a kiss into Gene’s cheek.

      “Hi mom.” Gene replied.

      “Aiden, oh honey your hair has gotten so long.” She said, wrapping her arms around the far taller male to give him a tender squeeze. Jobie gave her a wide eyed glare.

      “Hi-” Ace started.

     “What.” Jobie interrupted. “That is not Aiden.”

     “My name is Aiden, Jobie.”

     “What.”

     “Oh- Gene, introduce us.” Mrs. Ramsey said, to which Gene gestured silently towards her, then to Jobie. He then put his hand back in his pocket. “Gene… Are you Jobie?”

     “Yes.” Jobie replied.

     “I’m mom, I’m so happy Gene has made so many friends haha- Oh, Rory you wore a shirt!”

    “Hey mom.” Rory chuckled, stepping through Ace and Jobie to wrap an arm around Abigail, pulling her in for a warm hug.

     He wore a flowy and loose button up that was three buttons undone; stolen from Ace’s luggage.

     “Well come on in, we’ve got both rooms open.”

     “Oh we’ll be staying upstairs.” Rory said, to which Ace smiled to himself.

     Gene’s room upstairs had been nearly unchanged since he had moved out of it to instead live in the basement. The old room was still decorated with cowboy posters, cowboy bed sheets, and a lamp of a cowboy riding a bucking bull.

     “Oh sure, I went up and washed the sheets today.” Abigail said, helping Gene peel off his leather jacket.

     “I’m staying downstairs.” Ace said.

     “Aww what, man cmon, cowboy room.” Rory replied

     “I don't wanna get shoved off the bed, I don't think we’ll all fit… That would be odd anyways,” He added. “You can stay up there if you want.”

     Rory looked at Jobie, Jobie looked at Rory, then Jobie glared at Ace.

     “Hell yea, little mans on my side.” Rory nodded while wrapping an arm around Jobie’s shoulder. This got him a nervous look from Ace.

     “Language.” Abigail warned.

     “Oh, heh, sorry mom.” Rory replied.

     “Ramsey! Ramsey, your son is here.” Abigail called out as she walked back into the  kitchen.

     Ace reached up to place a hand on Gene’s arm, but his hand hesitated and he lowered it. He instead stepped closer to him.

     “How long are we staying?” Ace whispered.

     “Mm?” Gene hummed, leaning in closer.

     “Are we staying long?”

     “Don't know.”

     When Gene arrived at the Ramsey household, no one came to see him. He stood alone in the front entrance, carrying a cardboard box that read
“Bedroom.” Ramsey’s lazy basset hounds came trotting over with stiff wagging tails, looking up at Gene with droopy eyes and open panting mouths.

     Gene stood and waited, unable to step forward and unsure in calling out. Where he would be roomming was a mystery to him. His old room upstairs would be difficult to access now that his feet only fit half way on the rickety sailor steps, and carrying his boxes up there wouldn't be easy. There would be no privacy up there, since the half attic of a room was completely open to the living room and kitchen. The guest room in the basement- where Gene roomed in his late teens- would be preferred if it was open, but it could very well be a guest room that Gene was not welcome in.

     He stood and waited, the dogs panted, and his mother was muttering to Ramsey down the hallway. Ramsey’s voice rumbled and Abigail shushed him before a door closed to the master bedroom. There were heavy footsteps, and a big man with a thick mustache above his lip appeared alone.

     “Aye.” He greeted in his low raspy voice.

     Gene nodded.

     Ramsey breathed heavily through his nose and reached up to rub one side of his face with his large palm. He stepped forward and walked past Gene to guide him along with the basset hounds, who were still circling around Gene as they walked.

     The old yellow tinted light flicked on in the basement, then flickered, then stilled. The walls were covered in thin sleek slabs of red wood, and the floor was carpeted. A queen sized bed sat pressed against the wall, the sheets an off-white color. There was a dresser with a radio on it, a nightstand with a pull-string lamp, and a bathroom to the side.

     Gene set down his first box with a grunt and held his lower back when he stood straight again. The hounds stuck their heads into the cardboard curiously with their stiff tails wagging.

     “Alright, uh…” Ramsey mumbled while still standing at the edge of the stairs. He rubbed the back of his neck and scanned the room, then pointed down at the box Gene had set down.

     “No, I’m alright,” Gene replied, putting his hands back into his pockets.

     Ramsey nodded, then both men stood in silence.

     Gene looked at his old father’s shoes, and Ramsey looked at the box.
Ramsey opened his mouth and took a breath to say something, but then closed his it and headed back upstairs. The basset hounds followed.

     Gene laid facing the ceiling, his back pressed into the mattress beneath him. His fingers were intertwined on his stomach, and his ankles were crossed one over the other. He was melted into the bed, fused to it. The insulation of a blanket and a quilt weighed him down and made his body fear the bite of cold when he would eventually have to pull open the covers. Above him, the ceiling thumped with footsteps and turned words to mumbles when his mother would speak. She was cooking, and Ramsey was listening.

     “All of them, in our home. He brought them in our home,” Abigail would say.

     “Mm…” Ramsey would reply.

     Or perhaps;

     “Was it Aiden who turned him?” Abigail would say.

     “Mm…” Ramsey would reply.

     Though Gene’s eyes were closed, he did not sleep. For the past month, he desired to be away from the house, but he could not leave the bed. Oftentimes, he would sit up and stare at the floor, debating the day. Then, he would lay back down.

     Despite having been in trouble very few times as a child, Gene felt like a young boy who was grounded for a very long time. He was sentenced to solitude.

     Though he could smell the food being cooked,- a stroganoff mushroom sauce with cooked beef- he would not be invited up for dinner. He would listen to his parents pull the wooden chairs out from under the table, talk while they ate, then wash the dishes. But he would not be invited.

     However, as one of the chairs rutted against the floor above his room, there was a firm knock on his door. He opened his eyes, and the door came open.

     Heavy footsteps thudded on each step, followed by deep slow breathing at the bottom of the stairs. Gene closed his eyes again.

     He expected Ramsey to ask him to go fishing.

     “Aye.” Ramsey said.

     “Aye.” Gene replied.

     “Uh…. your mom made dinner.”

     “Mm…” Gene hummed.

     For a long while, neither man said anything. Gene could hear the scratch of nails on the side of Ramsey’s stubbled cheek.

     “I got you a bowl.”

     Gene took in a deep breath through his nose and raised his head, looking at his father. He had one hand still on the railing, and nothing in the other. He was waiting for Gene to follow him.

     “You don't gotta do that.” Gene said.

     “Yea… but uh.” Ramsey replied, sticking a hand in his pocket. He then turned and left back up the stairs.

     Gene let his head fall back onto his feather filled pillow and let out a long sigh through his nose. He stayed laying with his fingers intertwined, his ankles crossed, and his eyes closed. Till finally, he began to sit up.

     After Gene slowly got dressed in a pair of jeans and a white T shirt, he spent a long while staring up at the door from the bottom of the stairs. Ramsey left it cracked open,which allowed a slit of light to spill down the steps.

     He could hear his mother talking while Ramsey pulled a chair out to sit down. Silverware clinked, Abigail chatted, and Ramsey would occasionally sniff. It was peaceful, and Gene felt as though interrupting would be dirty.

     Yet, Gene began to walk up the stairs.

     The door creaked as he emerged from the depths, turning his head to look out into the kitchen. Abigail had gone silent, her back to him while Ramsey was facing him on the other side of the table. He glanced up at Gene while in the middle of chewing, giving him a single nod. Beside Ramsey, there was a bowl at Gene’s empty seat.

     Each creak of the wooden floorboards groaned loudly, and the rut of the chair legs as Gene pulled it back made his heart skip. Without a word, he sat down and picked up his fork, staring down at his bowl as he began to spin the pasta around his utensil.

     The kitchen window was cracked open and crickets chirped outside in the cool fall air, a record spun lazily in the living room playing John Lennon’s Beautiful Boy, and the chandelier lights above the table buzzed.

     Abigail dropped her fork and leaned forward onto the table, covering her eyes with her hand. Her lips turned to a thin line and she swallowed thickly, then let out a soft cry. Gene’s eyes glanced up but his head did not move.

     Ramsey’s thick hand reached across the table to take hers, rubbing his thumb up and down her knuckles while she wept.

     Gene chewed slowly, looking back down at the bowl of food his mother had made. He no longer moved his fork, letting it sit still in the bowl.

     A deep seering shame twisted and writhed in his chest.

     His parents had to comfort one another in his presence, both acutely aware of the dirty life he had been living behind their backs. The neighbors knew about their sodomite son, and the wild sex life he had been entertaining in secrecy. Abigail had wanted grandchildren.
Gene attempted to stand quietly, but the chair jutted on the floor under him,
and his fork clanked in the bowl as his hand slipped from it. He took the bowl in both hands, taking it to the sink to scrape out the soft pasta smothered in mushroom sauce that now felt curdled in his stomach. He briefly turned on the sink, messily spraying it around to guide the food near the drain. But as his mother’s crying increased, he turned off the faucet and abandoned the bowl by the sink.

     The morning that Ramsey took Gene out to fish was the first that Gene had said yes to since he had arrived. For seven months, Ramsey would lean on the wooden railing that led down to the basement while holding his fishing box. He would raise the box at Gene, displaying an offer, and Gene would not get up from his bed. If Ramsey was lucky, his son may roam onto the back porch to help feed the chickens, chop wood for the fireplace inside, or sit down on the bench by the lake to watch. But oftentimes, Ramsey was not lucky.

     On this particular morning, when Ramsey came down to make his silent offer, Gene was standing by his dresser looping his leather belt through the hoops of his jeans. He glanced back when Ramsey cleared his throat, and when Ramsey held up the red and white fixing box, Gene gave a single nod. Gene then looked back down to tighten his belt and finished tucking it into a loop. He had stolen this belt years ago from Ramsey himself, and still wore it years later despite the leather having worn and grown tattered where he slipped the silver buckle every morning.

     Within twenty minutes, both men were sitting side by side on Ramsey’s little boat that bobbed peacefully on the surface of the lake. Cattails drooped by the edges of the bank and would sway at the occasional wind. Half of the lake was cupped by large pine trees that dropped thin needles into the water, which would slowly spin. Morning birds sang above them and leaves rustled. Both men breathed deep and slow.

     Gene stayed more hunched over than his father with his shaggy hair curtaining his brows. The tips were still a faded red, and if he were to get a trim then the last remnants of hair dye would be snipped away. He held his fishing pole with a gentle grip while his clouded eyes watched the water ripple when the boat would bob. And when his line gave a tug, Gene did not reel.

     Gene felt Ramsey’s eyes as he glanced over, watching as his son’s fishing rod would bend then straighten with the soft tugs. The larger man shifted on his wooden seat, and looked away from Gene. He sniffed, then looked back over once more.

     “Aye…” He said, then cleared his throat.

     “Mm?” Gene replied.

     “Ya got somethin.” He motioned to the water.

     Gene said nothing.

     Ramsey shifted again beside Gene, and sniffed again. Gene wanted to begin reeling in the fish that decided to bite. If anything, it would give his mother something easy to cook tonight. Yet, Gene stared at the line that disappeared into the water that mirrored the sky. He did not reel it in.

     The cattails swayed, the leaves rustled, and the water rippled.

     “Hey, uh,” Ramsey started, and Gene did not look at him. “Listen, kid. I don't think… Well,”

     And for another long while, Ramsey was silent again. Neither looked at one another.

     “Abigail, she's been… She doesn't really, uh… know about these kinds of things. She doesn't understand it. And uh, I don't think she… Well, she doesn't know how to handle it and uh… I think she's hurtin. About Aiden. And hurtin about you.”

     Gene let out a slow sigh through his nose, looking away from the water and off into the woods. His heart sank deep in his large chest. It ached.

     “Well, I’m hurtin too. We all are but uh… I knew for a while that you and Aiden were… Something.”

     Gene looked at Ramsey.

     “You had something goin on that we didn't understand but…” Ramsey paused, searching for words. “I think I understand it more than uh… Abigail. And uh, I know you can’t help it. I think… I don't understand the others. I don't understand the… lifestyle.”

     Ramsey sniffed again, and began to reel in his line. He pulled the rod back, then threw it forward to cast a new line.

     “Well, I’m not gonna ask you questions about it. I know you’re missin em. But uh, I know my kid. And you're not a dumb kid, Gene. You were a hell of a lot sharper than I was… I know you made the right choices and uh,...I think you were happy.”

     Ramsey looked back at Gene, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder. The soft brown leather was warm from the sun. “I’m still proud of you, kid. I love you.”

     Gene felt the sorrow in his chest begin to swell as Ramsey gave his shoulder a tender squeeze. His big hand pressed through the fabric of Gene’s jacket, offering open armed love. Ramsey did not pull his hand away, and he didn't try to hug Gene. Rather, he kept his hand on Gene’s shoulder even as the younger man felt tears slide down his cheeks.

     His hands were freed of the rod as Ramsey placed it aside for him, which allowed Gene to cover his face with his hands as he began to weep. He shivered, he hicked, and he sobbed. His father held him.