My Three Dads

A SILVER STREAM PRESS BOOK

My Three Dads

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First E-book Publication: June 2013

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MY THREE DADS

I was going on sixteen when I first laid eyes on my biological

father. I saw him only once. The social worker pointed him out to me and
asked if I wanted to meet him. I refused. "He's not my dad," I told her.
An understatement. The only things he'd ever given me besides half my
DNA (and I don't look like him, whatever Gran said) were his first and
last names, Carl Crawley. I hoped I'd soon be rid of the latter, and not
only because it was his. The only thing I wanted more was for him not to
come back into my life.

"First laid eyes on him" only means I have no memories of

having seen him before. He lived with me and my mother until I was two
and  a  half.  Then  he  simply  disappeared,  and  I  don't  believe  we  ever
received a penny in child support from him. Neither did his mother, with
whom I lived after my mother died a little over a year later. I had never
met  her  before  and  she  lived  in  another  part  of  the  country.  I  imagine
being  uprooted  like  that  must  have  been  pretty  traumatic  for  a  boy  just
turned four, but I was shunted from one family to another so often during
the  coming  years  it  became  like  second  nature  to  me,  and  I  no  longer
remember feeling any particular distress.

I have some memories of my mother, none of them clear. My

grandmother I remember well. What I remember most is she used to ask
me  about  her  son,  my  father,  and  I  couldn't  answer  her  questions.  Gran
would show me photographs, tell me I looked just like him, and ask if I
remembered  him.  I  tried  to,  but  couldn't,  and  I  didn't  see  any
resemblance,  either,  no  matter  how  long  I  stared  at  them.  Maybe  he
looked like me when he was little.

Young as I was, I could tell Gran was a forgetful woman. She

misplaced  everything  and  sometimes  even  forgot  to  prepare  meals.
Those  days,  I  ate  whatever  I  found  in  the  refrigerator.  And  then  there
were  those  photographs.  She  showed  me  the  same  ones  over  and  over,
so  ten  years  later,  I  didn't  need  the  social  worker  to  tell  me  the  man
sitting  on  the  bench  across  from  us  was  my  father.  I  hadn't  seen  the
photos in ages and it had been twice as long since they'd been taken, but I
knew the second I laid eyes on him. He had aged a lot and I thought he
looked  harder,  though  my  aversion  to  him  and  the  circumstances  of  our
non-meeting  could  account  for  that.  However  self-righteous  his  stance,
the necessity of having to appear in court and convince a judge to grant
him parental rights he didn't deserve must have taken its toll.

Anyway, Gran kept acting weirder and weirder—dementia, they

called it—so they put her in a nursing home shortly after I'd started first
grade, and the Child Protection Agency took custody of me. They looked
for my father but couldn't locate him, which is why I am fairly certain he
hadn't been paying child support, otherwise they would have had an
address for him in their files. Gran might have known where he lived—
she used to say she was going to write him about me—but she was in no
condition to tell them and it was probably all in her imagination,
anyway. So I went into foster care.

Over the next few years I moved from one part of the state to

another, staying with this family or that family until I lost count, so many
that, although I can recall their faces and how they tried to discipline me
—time out, grounding, no dessert, spankings—I forget which name goes
with which. I probably didn't stay with any of them for more than six
months, and I had to change schools at least once every year.

My first family had fostered about half a dozen children and had

three of their own. One would think that with that much experience
nothing could faze then, but they disliked me from the start. I understand
why I made a bad impression. My new mom asked if I wanted to see my
grandmother, and I said, "No. She's batty." That must have shocked her.
She concluded I didn't love my grandmother, and perhaps I didn't. I
honestly don't remember how I used to feel or not feel. She launched into
a long lecture about caring for people, and I just stared at her, wondering
what the hell she was talking about. They sent me back to the county in
less than a week. When a social worker came to pick me up, they said,
"You didn't warn us we were getting a problem child."

I had been labeled, and it stuck. One by one, the families that

followed  confirmed  it  and  added  details.  Lying,  disrespect,  tantrums,
fights  at  school,  you  name  it—the  list  goes  on  and  on.  I've  seen  the
psychologist's  report:  "unruly,  uncooperative,  uncommunicative,
unresponsive,

unfeeling"—pretty

much

un-everything

(but

not

unintelligent)—"delinquent, incapable of emotional bonding." Frankly,
it's a wonder the Child Protection Agency found anyone willing to take
me in.

Between placements I lived in a state-run facility called the

Boys' Home, their politically correct term for orphanage. The older you
got,  the  more  likely  it  became  you  would  stay  there  till  you  turned
eighteen. At fourteen or fifteen, you could pretty much consider yourself
a permanent resident for the next three or four years. Believe it or not, I
preferred  the  orphanage  to  living  with  a  family,  which  may  explain  my
sullen  attitude  whenever  I  was  assigned  new  foster  parents.  I  felt  more

comfortable there, in a familiar place where I knew what to expect and
found mostly the same kids each time I returned. At first they were a lot
older than me; by the time I left for good, not so much. I never doubted
that was where I would end up.

I have no idea why the agency kept on looking for a family to take

me in. Someone there must have seen some mysterious potential in me
that, looking back on how I was then, I myself cannot see. They must
have been ready to give up on me when they placed me with James and
Leonard. My guess is they did it out of desperation.

* * * *

I was going on twelve when I learned they had found the

umpteenth home for me. They assembled a panel, two women and a man,
to inform me, so they said, of my options. Options? It sounded ominous.
Since when did I have any say in the matter? "Options" made it sound as
though they were considering other possibilities than the facility for boys
or a family. I expected to be given an ultimatum: behave or get sent to
reform school.

"It seems your last placement didn't work out," one of them

began. "What do you think the problem was?"

I shrugged. As if I didn't know she meant I was the problem! "It

was no different from the others," I said.

"So where do we go from here?"
I was suspicious. They were asking for my input as if I were an

adult. "You tell me," I said.

"There's Mr. Schafer and Mr. MacPhalen."
"You mean I get to choose? How can I? They're both just names

to me."

"Both, not one or the other."
So I was right. I imagined them as the directors of some kind of

living arrangement for problem kids, one step short of reform school. My
spirits, already close to rock bottom, fell. "So that's where I'm going," I
said.

"If you agree."
Were they asking me to sign my life away or something? There

had to be a catch. "Why wouldn't I? Is there something wrong with the
place?"

All three looked embarrassed. The second woman spoke up.

"They're a gay couple."

"Do you know what that means?" the man asked.
First they pretend I'm a grown-up, that I can control my own

destiny, then they ask me if I know something every kid my age knew.

"Well, do you?" he repeated.
"Yeah, I know a thing or two. I'm not a baby. I have hair growing

on my dick." I did, but not much. I probably could have counted them on
my fingers and toes.

The women looked flustered. "You don't have to tell us that," the

man said angrily.

I pretended not to understand how he meant it. "I know I don't.

The doctor's seen it, so it's in my file."

The second woman repeated his question. "Does it make a

difference to you?"

"Does what make a difference to me?"
"That they're a gay couple."
"Not if they leave me alone."
"All prospective foster families are thoroughly investigated," the

second woman quickly assured me. "If we thought there was any chance
—"

"Then why should I care?" I interrupted. "I won't be there all that

long, anyway."

"If that's your attitude, you won't be long anywhere," she

snapped.

"Whatever."
"The other kids may tease you about it," the first woman

explained, trying to sound kind.

"What other kids?"
"Your friends at school."
Since when had I had friends at school? "It's summer," I pointed

out, "and like I said, it's only temporary, right?" They looked at each
other, exasperated. "That's how it's always been," I added.

"We're hoping it's a good fit this time."
Gays, zombies, whatever. "I can take care of myself," I mumbled

grudgingly.

"Then you're willing to give it a try?"
Lotsa luck, I thought. I didn't expect I'd be there long—a few

months at most—and that was fine with me.

* * * *

So I was sent to live with James MacPhalen and Leonard

Schafer. I thought they looked a bit young to be foster parents, being used
to middle-age couples. It turned out they were in their mid-thirties,
solidly established in their careers. Leonard was a bank manager; James
ran a travel agency. They just exercised regularly and ate sensibly, and
both had the good fortune to be good-looking men. That they had not had
to face the responsibilities of parenthood until I came into their lives
also helped. Having kids can turn a person's hair prematurely grey.

They were, as I said, both handsome, but in very different ways.

Although Leonard was the better athlete, it was James who looked like a
sportsman.  He  stood  five  feet  eight  inches  tall  and  had  curly,  light-red
hair, a ruddy complexion, green eyes, and a square head with small ears
atop a thick neck and a stocky frame. He liked to complain he needed to
watch  his  weight.  He  also  complained  about  having  to  shave  twice  a
day.  He  was  most  definitely  hairy—arms,  legs  and  chest.  With  the  top
two buttons of his shirt open, you could see the tangle of red hair above
his undershirt. As I would soon discover, he had a slightly bawdy sense
of  humor,  which  disturbed  me  because  he  was  gay.  In  time,  I  realized
there  was  nothing  sinister  about  his  jokes;  they  were  just  jokes.  I  don't
mean  he  told  dirty  stories,  but  if  someone  said  something  that  could  be
taken in a sexual sense, he wouldn't just let it pass by, he had to make a
comment,  not  so  much  off  color  as  blunt.  Leonard  picked  up  on  double
meanings just as quickly but held his tongue.

Leonard gave the impression of being more reserved, even

introverted (which he wasn't), because of his thoughtful expression. He
was two inches taller than James and naturally slender, with skin the
color of light copper, dark brown eyes, and dark, almost black hair. He
had a long, thin face, a large mouth, and a prominent, very straight nose.
His hands were big—the span from the end of his thumb to the tip of his
pinky measured over ten inches (an octave and a fourth on the piano!)—
but were delicately shaped. His feet were enormous—he wore a twelve-
and-a-half shoe—and shaped less delicately.

Their house was nicer than any I'd ever lived in, and they had an

absolutely  fantastic  dog,  a  collie  named  Sally.  I  bonded  with  her
immediately.  There  was  a  basketball  hoop  on  the  garage  and  an
enormous  rec  room  in  the  basement  with  a  pool  table,  foosball  and
exercise equipment. They gave me a big bedroom all for myself—I'd had
my  own  room  once  before,  but  only  because  (or  so  I  suspect)  stuffing
two kids into it would have been in violation of the fire code—and also
a  radio  and  my  own  computer,  too.  They  asked  me  what  sports  and

games I liked and went out and bought what I needed to play them, and
also took me shopping for clothes. They took me to the dentist and had
me fitted for braces. In short, they gave every sign of thinking that I'd go
on living with them for some time to come.

I wasn't so sure I would. I didn't tell that to James or Leonard, of

course.  What  would  have  been  the  point?  They'd  only  have  asked  if  I
wanted  to  leave,  and  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  their  feelings  by  admitting  I
didn't care one way or the other. They were nice guys and trying really
hard. So they'd have asked for reasons, and then what could I say? That it
had never worked out before? That Ms. Baxton, the social worker from
Child Protection who had driven me to their doorstep, kept coming by to
check up on how we were getting on? I'd been in foster care often enough
to  know  they  checked  up  after  a  week  and  did  a  review  of  the  family
situation  after  a  month  and  then  were  supposed  to  stop  by  every  month
for at least a year. I also knew that most of the time they didn't. Once or
twice a year was normal. We saw Ms. Baxton so often I began to think of
her as Ms. Backsoon. In part, she stopped by because of my history, but
I'm sure their being gay had something to do with it. Leonard and James
didn't act as if they thought all those visits were unusual. I was their first
foster  child,  and  they  thought  all  foster  parents  received  them.  I
eventually  challenged  her  so  they'd  know  it  was  them,  not  me,  she  had
concerns  about.  "We  sure  see  a  lot  of  you,"  I  said  one  day  when  she
stopped by unannounced.

"It's because I'm amazed how well you're adjusting to one

another" was her explanation. "I see so many families where it just
doesn't work out. I need the up."

I didn't believe her then, and I know now that I was right. Sure,

there had been many families where I didn't work out. Still, sensational
stories in the press aside, on the whole, foster placements go smoothly,
and most are stopgap, short-term arrangements in any case. The visits
continued unabated.

So I had reason to doubt I was there for the long haul, nor was I

sure I wanted to. I'd sloughed it off when the people at Child Protection
gave me the chance to express my concerns, but I felt more than a little
leery  about  having  a  gay  couple  for  foster  parents.  I  had  no  idea  what
they would be like. James and Leonard were the first homosexuals I had
ever  met,  and  that  they  seemed  to  want  to  be  my  pals  as  well  as  my
parents made me suspicious. All I knew (or thought I knew) about people
like  them  was  that  they  acted  swish—kind  of  silly  but,  as  far  as  I  was
concerned,  no  big  deal—and  they  liked  to  suck  cock  and  let  other  guys

take a ride on what the older kids at the orphanage called their Hershey
highway, an expression that made me giggle the first time I heard it.

"It ain't funny, kid," one of the boys said, although the smirk on

his face told me he found it funny too. "Hurts like hell."

"You mean you've done it?" another boy asked.
"No way, José."
"Then how do you know it hurts?"
"It gotta hurt," the first boy said with a shudder. "Just think about

it."

"I don't wanna think about it. It's gross."
I nodded, feeling queasy. It did sound gross, and sucking did, too.

"Why do they do it if it hurts so much?" I asked.

"Because they're sickos."
Despite the casual unconcern I had affected in front of the Child

Protection people, I was far from happy about it and didn't let the other
kids  know  my  next  "family"  was  going  to  be  a  couple  of  queers.  It
surprised  me  that  neither  James  nor  Leonard  acted  swish,  not  that  I
wouldn't have known they were gay even if I hadn't been warned. They
shared a bedroom and slept together in the same bed. I didn't need to be
told what else went on there. They called each other honey and made a
point of saying "I love you" (which struck me as corny), and sometimes
they held hands while we watched TV. It freaked me out when they did. I
did  my  best  to  hide  it  but  they  must  have  known  since  they  never  went
beyond holding hands and rarely cuddled when I  was  around.  The  way
they  looked  at  each  other,  too,  was  special,  very  different  from  the
matter-of-fact,  almost  indifferent  expression  I'd  seen  my  heterosexual
foster parents wear when they interacted. On the other hand, a couple of
them used to exchange a perfunctory kiss when the dad left for work in
the morning, and my gay dads didn't. Still, it was obvious that it was for
my sake they didn't; whether because they were afraid it would make me
uncomfortable  or  my  watching  would  make them  feel  uncomfortable,  I
couldn't tell.

Although they limited their displays of affection, I lived in fear

they  would  tell  me  what  they  did  in  private.  (As  if  any  of  the
heterosexual  couples  I'd  lived  with  had  volunteered  that  information!)
What  else?  They  had  a  rainbow  pasted  by  the  front  door  and  a  large
book of art photos on the coffee table with a naked man (not frontal) on
the cover. I didn't need to be told what kind of photos were inside. Not
my kind of thing.

For the first week or so I worried that one of them would come

into my room at night and force himself on me, or maybe both would. I
was afraid to say anything in case they took it as an invitation, but I did
ask why there wasn't a lock on the bathroom door. Leonard said that a
closed door meant it was in use and you should wait your turn or knock
if it was urgent. As he put it, "We respect each other's privacy here."

"You're sure?" I said.
A serious expression came over his face and he sat me down.

"Carl," he asked, "did anyone in any of the families you've lived with
ever molest you?"

For a second I thought it might be a come-on, and replied

hesitantly. Perhaps too hesitantly. My "no" didn't seem to convince him.

"It's important you tell me if someone hurt you that way because

it has to be reported."

"Why? Nothing happened, but if it did, it's over and done with.

And I'm safe with you, aren't I?" I challenged.

"One hundred percent safe. But it has to be reported. Other kids

could be placed in the same family, and they might do to them what they
did to you."

"Nobody did anything to me. I'd've told."
I could see he wasn't entirely satisfied, but he didn't bring it up

again for a long time, not until he felt I trusted him enough to confide in
him. Then he said, "You remember when I asked if you'd ever been
molested?"

"Yeah. It was a pretty intense moment."
He didn't question my statement, although for me the only intense

moment had been at the beginning, when I wondered for all of a second
if he was going to hit on me. "I think you were telling the truth," he said,
"but if you weren't and you ever feel you want to talk to someone about
it, I want you to promise you'll come to me and not James."

"Why not James?"
"Because someone molested him when he was a boy, so I should

be the one to break it to him. I know how to do it gently."

I nodded. "By a priest?" The papers had run a couple of stories

about kids molested by clergymen, and James was a lapsed Catholic.

Leonard shook his head. "Let's just leave it at that, shall we? If

James feels like telling you about it someday, he will."

Leonard's implicit promise of "no bad touch" did not set my mind

at  rest.  What  did—of  all  things!—was  being  naked  with  them  in  the
locker  room  when  they  took  me  to  the  municipal  swimming  pool.  They
paid  no  attention  to  my  body  nor  to  each  other's  and  went  about  their

business of changing and showering in the most natural way imaginable.

The door from the men's lockers was located by the deep end of

the pool. James and Leonard dove straight in; I stood by the side. "Jump
in," James said. "The water isn't too cold." I shook my head. "What's the
matter? Can't you swim?"

"Would you believe these are the first pair of swim trunks I

owned?"

"Walk to the shallow end and wait for us there. We'll teach you."
To teach me, they had me lie full length across Leonard's arms. It

was the first time either of them had touched me except to shake hands
when we were introduced or touch my elbow at the mall if I headed in
the wrong direction, and it was the first time I could remember feeling
anyone's hand on my belly. But I knew instinctively that this was not bad
touch.

Back home, I finally dared to leaf through the coffee table book

when  I  was  alone.  The  men  in  it  were  naked,  but  the  photos  were
discreet—peek-a-boo  rather  than  full  frontal.  Even  so,  it  was  not  the
kind  of  book  most  people  would  leave  out  where  an  eleven-year-old
could get his hands on it.

James caught me at it. "Nice, aren't they?" he asked casually.
Immediately, my guard went up again. "If you like that kind of

thing," I said, a challenge in my voice. "I like girls."

He smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
"I mean, I don't like boys. Not that way."
"Good. It'll make your life a lot easier."
"But you and Leonard do."
"I thought you knew that. Does it bother you?"
"Nah. Gays are people like everyone else."
"Right you are."
My professed political correctness was one big lie. I could see

they were nice guys—I liked them already although I wasn't about to
show it—and I knew they weren't predators, but I still had my
prejudices. Hardest of all was knowing I lived with two fags and having
to pretend I didn't care. It wouldn't have been an issue if they had taken
me in when I was five or even just a couple of years younger than I was,
but for an eleven-year-old it was a big adjustment. Even when I finally
stopped caring, I still thought I was only pretending I didn't.

Their homosexuality wasn't the only thing I found difficult. No

sooner had I started feeling secure that neither they nor any of their gay
friends would mess with me than a whole bunch of other prejudices

surfaced. Some of their friends were African-American (not the word I
would  have  used  then  when  I  thought  about  them).  Then  I  found  out
Leonard  was  Jewish.  I  didn't  think  I'd  ever  seen  one,  but  I'd  heard  an
earful from Gran and in a couple of the families I had lived with since.
(Does it make sense that, although we had not been able to bond, most of
their prejudices should have rubbed off on me?) In any case, it surprised
me that Leonard, a Jew, looked just like everyone else. So that was why
we  never  went  to  church!  (Not  that  I  missed  it.)  I  already  knew  that
James had been brought up Catholic. Being Catholic didn't seem quite as
bad, but I hadn't heard much good about that denomination either.

Gays, Jews, Blacks, Catholics—quite a lot for an eleven-year-

old to have suddenly dumped on his plate. I knew better than to let on
what I'd been told about "those kinds of people" and I could see they
were decent guys, but it took some time before I felt entirely comfortable
around their friends or knowing what I knew about the men whose home
I lived in. Could I really have been such a creep? Looking back, I find it
hard to believe it ever bothered me at all.

* * * *

Before a year had passed, I came to realize how lucky I was. I

doubt  they  felt  the  same,  but  they  were  determined  to  make  it  work.  I
wasn't  the  easiest  kid  to  bring  up.  For  one,  I  hadn't  been  properly
socialized.  I  wasn't  dishonest  or  destructive  or  anything  like  that,  just
sullen  and  evasive.  I  was  out  of  touch  with  my  own  feelings,  so  there
was  no  way  I  could  open  up  to  people  and  let  them  into  my  life.  Hugs
made me feel uncomfortable, and, as you can imagine from what I've told
you  about  myself  then,  more  so  when  it  was  a  gay  man  who  wanted  to
hug me. I'd lived in so many different homes and under so many different
sets  of  rules  that  I  didn't  see  the  use  of  any  of  them,  and  I  rebelled.
Besides, I thought I could take care of myself. I'd been moved in and out
of  so  many  different  schools  that  I  looked  with  distrust  on  every  new
batch of classmates I was thrown in with and didn't make friends easily.
Nor did I have to, as far as I was concerned. I could beat any of them of
up. My education was full of holes, and when Leonard tried to help me
with  my  schoolwork  it  made  me  feel  stupid,  and  that  made  me  turn
stubborn.  Considering  what  I  had  going  against  me,  I  adjusted
remarkably quickly, but it took time.

And I've made it sound smoother than it was. We had some rocky

times, which made life harder for them than it did for me. I was used to

conflict and finding myself at loggerheads with the people I was
supposed to obey. We had our set-tos about chores and homework and
manners and bedtime and God knows what else. Nothing new about that;
how they handled it was unlike anything I had experienced.

That James and Leonard never punished me kept me from

recognizing  their  discipline  as  discipline.  No  matter  what  I  did,  they
never said I was bad. They could even turn a scolding into a compliment.
"You're  better  than  that,"  they  used  to  say.  When  I  did  something  they
liked, they praised me, but not so lavishly that it rang false. They made
me want them to be proud of me, and when I realized I cared what they
thought, I realized I cared about them, too. I realized it, but I wouldn't say
it  because  I  thought  it  sounded  weird. And  because  they  were  gay  and
always telling each other, "I love you."

I'm ashamed to admit their relationship remained an issue for a

long time, although I kept it to myself. I had come to terms with it (more
or  less—it  freaked  me  out  when  they  exchanged  a  birthday  kiss  on  the
mouth)  and  I  felt  guilty  it  bothered  me,  but  it  did.  I  was  afraid  that  the
kids  at  school  would  find  out,  that  they'd  hear  about  "the  gay  couple  at
the PTA meeting" from their parents or they'd ask why it was always my
dad (James) and not my mom who came to class on open school day, and
that made me belligerent. I didn't make many friends my first year there,
which  worried  them.  It  shouldn't  have.  Having  any  friends  was  an
improvement.

I found an outlet for my discomfort in asking them about

themselves, like "How long have you two been together?" and "Where
did you meet?"

"On a softball team," James said.
"How long until you realized you were both gay?"
"About two seconds."
"Can you really tell that easily? I mean, I can't. Not with you,

anyway."

"A lot of gay men think they can," Leonard said. "It's called gay-

dar. Is there such a thing? I'm afraid the jury's still out on that one."

"If there was, we wouldn't have as much gay bashing and police

entrapment," James muttered.

"Then how did you know?"
Leonard laughed. "It was a gay softball team."
"Oh. And did you two click right away?"
"You mean love at first sight like in the movies? No. Was there

interest? Yes—at least for me there was. I thought James was

gorgeous…"

"I still am."
"…but he was in a relationship."
"Let's not go into that."
According to them, they had never had issues, misunderstandings,

or even an argument worth mentioning for as long as they'd been
together. "So you see the course of true love sometimes does run
smooth," Leonard said.

"If you're lucky," snorted James. "Never did for me until I started

dating you."

Eventually my questioning became less discreet. "What exactly

do two men do with each other?"

"Do you mean what do we do with each other?" Leonard shot

back. "That, my friend, is none of your business."

"I just wanted to know if it hurts."
"James has never hurt me, and he's never said I hurt him. I hope

he would if I did."

"You're the epitome of gentleness," James said. I knew from the

look on Leonard's face that James had gone too far, but he went further
and added, "Nothing short of a miracle."

Having seen them both naked, I understood what he meant. I

blushed.

"I don't think that was even remotely appropriate," Leonard

scolded.

James defended himself. "If it's going to embarrass him, he

shouldn't have asked. Anyway, it's high time we taught the kid the facts of
life."

"He doesn't need to know those facts. Just where babies come

from and how they got there."

It annoyed me to hear them planning my sex education as if I

weren't there. "I know about the birds and the bees," I said.

"How much do you know?" James asked.
"Enough."
He roared with laughter. "What's so funny?" I asked Leonard.
"Damned if I know. You'll have to ask James."
"Would you believe? A thirteen-year-old who thinks it's possible

to know enough about sex!"

"I don't need to know the kind of things you can teach me."
"You'd be surprised. Leonard used to be married."
I was surprised. "You were married?" I asked Leonard.

"Yes, for a few months."
"Did you have sex with her?"
"And he thinks he knows enough about sex!" James exclaimed.
"Were you married, too, James?"
"That's one mistake I didn't make. But you don't need to be

married to have sex. Did you know that?" he teased.

"How could I not? You and Leonard aren't married. Are you

saying that you're both experienced enough to tell me about women?"

"Minimally experienced, but yes."
"He doesn't need to know about women at his age," Leonard

interjected. "He needs to know about himself."

"I know about myself," I bragged. "I know what men do and I

know how it feels."

"We know you know," James said.
That caught me off guard. "You do?" I gasped.
"Who d'you think washes the sheets in this house?"
I thought I would sink through the floor.
Neither of them bothered to pretend they couldn't see how

mortified I was. "That was a cheap shot," Leonard said, "even if he was
asking for it. This conversation is not going the way I envisaged."

James concurred. "Ditto. I thought we would decide the contents

of the lessons. It seems we were wrong. Ask away, young man."

Flustered though I was, I managed to ask, "Then you've both had

sex with girls?"

"Women," Leonard corrected.
"And you didn't like it?"
They looked at each other. James signaled Leonard to answer.
"We didn't hate it, if that's what you mean."
"Speak for yourself," James muttered.
"I didn't hate it. It's just that men attracted me more. Much more."
"How can you tell you're attracted to someone?"
"Are you attracted to anyone?" I shook my head. "That's how you

tell. You're either attracted or you aren't. That's what I meant by telling
you about yourself."

I don't see how he could have given a clearer answer than that,

but it made me feel foolish. "What advice can you give me on having sex
with girls?" I persisted.

"Don't."
"Ever?"
"Yet."

"Maybe we should just get him a book," James said.
They did get me a book, but I didn't learn much from it except to

come to them when I had questions.

* * * *

One of the advantages of living with James was that we got to go

on great vacations because he owned a travel agency. Almost overnight,
I switched from being underprivileged to overprivileged. On the first
trip we made together, they took me to Disney World. They did it for me;
theme parks weren't their style. They had fun, too—just being a parent
can be fun—but they would have had a lot more in Venice or Paris or on
a cruise up the Nile (or a gay cruise, for all I know). They did like the
beach, though, so we spent a couple of days at the beach, my first view
of the ocean. James went for a long walk, and Leonard asked him about
the scenery when he got back.

"Nothing special," he said. "The usual."
Leonard's question made no sense to me. It was the same scenery

as far as the eye could see: a wide strip of sand between a long line of
high  rises  and  the  water  (the  good  part).  I  solved  the  mystery  when  I
wandered off and came to a sign warning that I had reached a "clothing
optional" section and, being unable to pass for over eighteen, had to turn
back.  The  clothing  in  question  had  to  be  swim  suits,  since  no  one  was
wearing  much  more.  I  saw  from  a  distance  that  the  men  there—I  didn't
notice any women—were, in fact, stark naked, although I couldn't make
out the details. Not that I strained my eyes looking. As I said, there was
nothing to see but naked men.

On subsequent trips, I got to see the Grand Canyon, the Great

Smokies, Washington, D.C., and the Statue of Liberty. We always ate
dinner in posh restaurants, though at lunchtime we went for fast food to
indulge my childish palate and, I suspect, their own despite James's
inevitable moaning it would make him fat.

We stayed at the fanciest hotels at reduced rates or even free,

another professional perk James took advantage of. Sometimes they'd
give us a suite, a living area and a bedroom with two queens—a joke
James made so often it became stale—and once we even had a hot tub.
We all soaked in it together in our swim suits. I thought it was so cool I
stayed in until Leonard insisted I come out. I did, unwillingly, my hands
and feet more wrinkled than prunes.

Of course they slept in one bed and I in the other. I could have

used  the  fold-out  sofa  in  the  living  area,  but  what  would  have  been  the
point?  The  bed  was  more  comfortable  and  they  wouldn't  have  had  sex
within earshot of me. Mindful of my presence, they'd go to sleep each on
his  back  on  his  own  side  of  the  bed,  but  they  always  woke  up  much
closer  together.  Very  close—more  often  than  not,  I  found  one  snuggled
behind  the  other,  usually  Leonard  behind  James  with  his  arm  wrapped
around him. I was too embarrassed to say anything, but after seeing them
like  that  a  few  times,  I  felt  I  had  to  at  least  acknowledge  it.  "Like  two
spoons," I said and thought I was being original.

"Just like spoons," Leonard said. "Maybe that's why they call it

spooning."

That was too good for James to resist. "Why not forking? You put

forks in the drawer the same way."

It made me blush, but I couldn't stifle a giggle.
"Please, James. Not in front of the B-O-Y."
That made me giggle more. At the same time, I realized it was

only on account of me they'd been holding back, and I felt guilty for it.
They should have been able to show openly how much they loved each
other when there were just the three of us together as a family. I
understood why they wouldn't advertise their gayness in public. I wanted
to say something like, "You know, it's okay for you to you smooch if you
feel like it. It won't bother me," but I was too embarrassed.

I loved our vacations. I had never had so much fun in my life.

Until I came to live with them, I had hardly gone anywhere except into a
corner or up to my room for a time out, and here I was traveling from one
end the country to the other. It was quite an education. Of course at that
age broadening my horizons was irrelevant to me except insofar as it
gave me something to write about for the first English composition when
school started again. That I got to visit so many neat places made the
other kids envious. They'd want to hear all about them, which broke the
ice and helped me make friends. We took winter vacations, too, but my
teachers seldom asked us to write about how we had spent the holidays.

I'm sure some of my teachers envied me as much as my

classmates did, and some of you who are reading this probably do too.
You're wondering how their being gay could have been an issue for me
when they treated me so well. It wasn't really, not anymore, except
maybe in the back of my mind. It seems that way because in trying to give
you an idea of what living with them was like and I've jumped around a
lot, so the feelings I describe aren't always those I had at the time I'm
telling about. Also, old attitudes die hard and tend to resurface every so

often. I was annoyed with myself when they did.

* * * *

It began to feel wrong to call them by their first names. I felt it

put us at a distance, not as much distance as calling them Mr. Schafer and
Mr.  MacPhalen,  which  they  expressly  told  me not  to  do  when  I  was
introduced to them, but more distance than I wanted there to be. It took a
while  to  work  up  the  nerve  to  ask  if  I  could  call  them  Dad,  if  only
because that's what they had asked me to call them at first and settled for
James  and  Leonard  when  I  refused.  Besides,  if  they  were  both  called
Dad, how would they know which one I meant?

They didn't see a problem. Did it really matter which one of them

came if I called for my dad, and if I was talking to one of them, it would
be obvious who he was. "But if you really think it's a problem, you can
call one of us Dad and the other Pop or Pa." I didn't like the sound of
Pop or Pa, so both became "Dad" and it worked out just fine.

My wanting to call them Dad naturally led to the question of

adoption. I think James brought it up first. Had I thought about it? I
hadn't. Was it something I wanted? I balked at that, and they sensed it
immediately. "You don't have to decide right away," Leonard said. "The
agency probably wouldn't even consider it, anyway."

"Because you're gay?"
"Why else?"
"But there's no law against gays adopting, is there?"
"Not in this state, but that doesn't mean they'll make it easy for us.

And since we aren't married, only one of us can adopt you."

"That's what I don't like about it. Having to choose between you."

It seemed a good way to account for my hesitation without hurting their
feelings.

"It wouldn't be up to you," one of them said. "We'd flip a coin."
"And who'd get to adopt me, the winner or the loser?"
"No losers. Whoever gets to be your legal dad, if anything

happens to him, we'll have it written up so the other gets custody. You
have no next of kin."

Not wanting to choose wasn't the reason. I don't know if they

guessed the real one. It no longer mattered to me that they were gay; it
hadn't for years. But somehow having two real dads who were gay did.
And if they adopted me, even if it was only one of them on paper, they
would really be my dads. I can't explain why it should have made a

difference. Maybe I felt that if they were my dads I'd have to stand up for
them and not just for myself. That doesn't make sense, though. I would
have defended them anyway, whether or not I'd been adopted.

Defended them, not gays in general. I had yet to make a complete

turn-about and was afraid the other kids would think I was queer if I did.
While it didn't bother me that they were gay, the idea of gayness still did.
I knew it was stupid to feel that way, and I struggled with it. I agonized
over my beliefs and questioned convictions I didn't have. Some self-
styled experts maintain that kids shouldn't be asked to cope with that kind
of stress. No doubt some can't. I know it was hard for me, but I benefited
immeasurably from it, and I'm sure any kid would in the long run.

The subject of adoption got moved to a back burner. They didn't

bring it up again. I did when I was in high school. By then the word
"homosexual" had lost all meaning for me. I loved them and they loved
me. My old assumption that when I turned eighteen I'd leave their house
and go live on my own and we wouldn't see each other again no longer
held water. We had bonded, and for life.

We still had our problems, of course. I was a teenager, after all.

"Problems" is putting it mildly. We had our one real crisis. I did
something unforgivable. At least, I considered it unforgivable. In a sense,
they did, too, but as adults they recognized that when you care for
someone, holding on to a relationship is more important than anything he
may have done.

It happened during the summer before I started high school. I was

fourteen and my hormones were in turmoil. Sex had ceased to be a matter
of curiosity and had become an obsession.

I woke up thirsty in the middle of the night and thought I would go

down to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of orange juice. From the top
of the stairs, I saw that a lamp was on in the living room. I moved down
a few steps and stopped. I had a clear view of the couch and of James
and Leonard making love on it.

They weren't actually having sex. They would not have been so

careless as to do that in the open while I was home. This was foreplay,
very heavy petting, and they weren't naked. They had on tee-shirts and
light lounge pants. Still, this was the first time I had seen them physically
intimate, and to a fourteen-year-old, it looked like the real thing.

You might think that seeing them going at it embarrassed me or

else it aroused what people like to call "my prurient interest." It did
neither. I felt happy because the absence of physical contact between
them had begun to seem wrong when they were always telling each other

how much in love they were. I thought maybe I should walk in on them
and say something like "Go right ahead. Don't mind me," or maybe just
cough to let them know I was there and continue on into the kitchen. Then
it occurred to me it would fluster them if I "caught them at it." A better
plan would be to wait until morning and hint I knew what they'd been up
to. That would give me time to think of how to put it.

I should have gone back to my room right then. Instead, I stayed

to  watch,  quiet  as  a  mouse.  Their  mouths  glued  together,  Leonard  lay
stretched  out  on  top  of  James  face  to  face,  rubbing  against  him  through
their  lounge  pants.  James  was  rubbing  Leonard's  buttocks,  squeezing
them with both hands, while Leonard ran his up and down James's arms
and legs.

Suddenly, Leonard broke free of James and looked up. I could

imagine  him  or  James  saying,  "Did  you  hear  something?"  We  kept  the
upstairs  hall  light  on  at  night,  so  I  was  not  entirely  hidden  in  the
shadows. They'd see me if they turned to look. Sally, our dog, was on the
stairs  beside  me.  I  gave  her  a  little  shove  and  scurried  back  upstairs.
Sally went running down into the living room. "The dog!" I heard James
chuckle as I stealthily made my way back to my room.

Without thinking, I had missed the opportunity to get my comfort

with the sexual side of their relationship out in the open. Up to that point,
the spying I'd done so far would have been excusable—barely, but still
excusable. I'd stumbled on them by accident; I hadn't set out to spy on
them intentionally. But I went further.

I heard them come upstairs and tiptoe past my door on the way to

their bedroom, so stealthily I imagined them suppressing giggles. One of
them whispered something and the other answered, "Shhh." Then I heard
their door close. Now my curiosity was aroused, and I let it get the better
of me. My room was at the top of the stairs, in back, theirs at the front of
the house down the hall from mine with the bathroom and office-study
between them, so I couldn't hear what went on their bedroom from mine.
I waited a while and went to listen.

What I did was stupid, crass, and inconsiderate in the extreme. I

know no one will believe me when I say it wasn't only an adolescent's
fascination with sex that drew me to their door, but also my need for
reassurance, both some kind of proof that I wasn't gay and that they loved
each other as much as they said they did. I have no idea why that should
have been necessary after witnessing them making out on the couch, not
to mention that on occasion James had dropped some pretty blatant hints
to this B-O-Y that they did more than just "spoon." Nor have I the

slightest idea exactly what my fourteen-year-old self imagined the
connection was between being in love and making love, or even if I
really believed there was one.

I'm not trying to make excuses for myself. When I recall the

incident,  I  feel  some  of  the  same  emotions  I  felt  then:  a  contradictory
hodge-podge of detachment, nervousness, and guilt, and I also remember
wondering  if  (or  maybe  hoping  that)  the  gayness  would  turn  me  off.  It
didn't,  but  it  didn't  turn  me  on,  either.  I  know  that  the  mere  thought  of
their biological parents having heterosexual intercourse gives most kids
the willies, but it didn't affect me like that. For one, I didn't have familiar
faces to put on the people doing "the dirty deed" when I found out how
babies  are  made,  and  that  knowledge  was  old  hat  by  the  time  I  met  the
men I had come to look on as my dads.

They were very quiet at first. I only heard some slurping and

hums of pleasure, whispers I couldn't make out, an occasional sigh, and
the soft creaking of the bed when they shifted position. To picture what
they were doing called for imagination and I gave mine free rein, though
not the way you think. Instead of picturing them going at it, my mind put
what I imagined them doing into words.

I can't say how long it went on; maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Then

Leonard  asked  distinctly,  "Ready?"  James  must  have  answered  yes,
because  there  was  some  more  creaking  followed  by  a  breathless  quiet
which  I  assumed  coincided  with  the  act  of  penetration.  Then  the  bed
began  to  creak  rhythmically  and  more  loudly,  and  over  it  I  could
distinguish their grunts and soft moaning.

The noises stopped. Had they finished? Where was the cavernous

orgasmic sigh I'd heard about? Then the door flew open. Leonard stood
in front of me, furious, his face flushed, glaring at me, clutching his
lounge pants in front of his privates. Behind him, James lay face down on
the bed, his head buried in a pillow, with only the corner of the sheet
hastily tossed over his backside to cover his nakedness.

I had never seen Leonard so angry, nor have I since. He blew up

and slapped me across the face. "What the fuck are you doing spying on
us?"

"I wasn't spying," I protested, frozen sheepishly in place like a

little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, only mine was shoved
down the front of my pajama bottoms.

"Like hell you weren't!"
"I heard noises. I wanted to see if you were all right."
He lit into me. "Tell that to the Marines! You knew damn well

what kind of noises they were, or it didn't take you long to figure it out. It
was no accident. You stayed to listen. We don't come barging in on you
to catch you beating off. We respect your privacy and we expect—
expected—the same from you in return. Hell, even if we hovered over
you and interrupted your juvenile perversions to protect your lily-white
innocence, you'd owe it to us as adults."

He kept moving into my space as he spoke, and I kept backing

away from him until we were halfway to my room. My rational mind
knew he wasn't going to kill me, but I had never seen anyone, least of all
Leonard, lose it so completely. I felt guilty, ashamed, and scared out of
my wits. According to my second foster family, I used to cry a lot (it's all
in my file), but I don't remember having cried before that night, nor have
I since, except the next morning. Now I was bawling. "I'm sorry," I
spluttered.

"Sorry, you little shit? That you have no respect for us is one

thing; you could at least show a little consideration. Do you think we're
here to put on a show for you? How do think I feel? I'll tell you how I
feel. Betrayed, that's how. Leered at, as if we were nothing more to you
than a couple of faggots. And James? You think it makes him happy to
know his son gets off on watching him take it up the ass?"

The accusation was crushing; that it was completely unfair made

no difference. "I wasn't watching," I sniveled. "I didn't know who was
doing what."

"As if that matters. You knew what we were doing. How would

you feel if the situation were reversed? Devastated? Humiliated?
Wishing you were dead? I told you what happened to James when he
was a kid. Put two and two together and think how fragile he must be."

I heard James say, "Leave it be, Len; I can take care of myself.

Can't you see the kid is crying? He's heartbroken. When you get right
down to it, it upsets me more to see him like this than to be caught with
my proverbial pants down."

Leave it to James to try to lighten the situation! He had slipped

into his lounge pants while Leonard was hauling me over the coals, and
now he stood next to us in the hallway with his hand on Leonard's arm.

"So you're saying we should let it slide?" Leonard growled.
"I'm saying we'll deal with it in the morning when our minds are

clearer."

Leonard turned on his heel and stomped back into their room.

"Go to bed, Carl," James said softly, and he followed Leonard, closing
the door behind them.

I hardly slept at all that night. I felt horrible, crushed. Not

because of the names Leonard had called me, because of what I had
done. And I had done it to them. It seemed monstrous, an offence for
which it was impossible to make amends.

I came down to breakfast my eyes red from weeping. They were

waiting for me at the table. Leonard wouldn't look at me. I assumed he
was sulking and hated to think what I would see in his eyes if he did.

James motioned me to sit. Instead, I placed my hand on the back

of my chair to steady myself and asked, "Are you going to send me
away?"

"Send you away where?" James asked, startled. He honestly

didn't understand what I was talking about at first.

Leonard understood immediately. He looked up, aghast, and,

shoving his chair back, he exclaimed, "Oh, Jesus, is that what you think?"
He rushed to me and took me in his arms.

I collapsed against his chest and burst into tears. "I don't deserve

to be with you," I said, my voice broken with sobs.

"What did I tell you?" James muttered, half to himself.
"We wouldn't ever, ever, ever send you away," Leonard

protested. "It would leave a gaping hole in our lives." He held me tight
and kissed me on the cheek. Neither of them had kissed me before.

Leonard was crying too. I raised my head and saw James looking

at us, amused.

I put on a brave face. "Punish me any way you like. Whip my ass

with a belt until it bleeds."

"We don't hit each other in this house. I'm sorry I slapped you last

night. I lost control. And I'm sorry I overreacted and said the things I did.
I had no right to."

"You had every right to, and every word you said was true. I'm

lower than dirt."

Leonard drew me back to him. "Don't say that. No human being is

lower than dirt, even the most hardened criminal. You did something
stupid, and I took it personally. Sometimes I get a little overprotective of
James."

"Sometimes? A little?" James huffed.
"I know it wasn't aimed at us," Leonard concluded.
"What a big heart you have!" I exclaimed.
"That's not the only big thing he has," James cut in.
I turned to face him. I couldn't believe he could make jokes about

what had happened. "I'm so sorry I hurt you, Dad," I said. "I know you're
only making light of it because you're bleeding inside. Will you forgive
me?" I was too young and felt too guilty to realize he was only trying to
relieve the tension.

"I've put it behind me already, Carl," he said. "I'm not as fragile

as Leonard makes out. I didn't know he'd told you I was molested.
Maybe that's a secret I shouldn't have kept from you. You're old enough
to hear about it now."

I shook my head. "Knowing about your past is no more my

business than your sex life."

"I think we've thrashed this out enough," Leonard said. "James

and I were talking about how you should be punished before you came
down, and we've agreed on what it will be."

"Anything. Whatever you cook up will be fair. Just don't be too

lenient."

I sat down to hear what was in store for me.
"By way of apology," Leonard began, "we want you to write an

essay on your feelings for us. You have to be absolutely honest and say
things you've felt that you've kept bottled up inside, whether you
withheld those feelings because you didn't feel they needed saying or
because you didn't want us to know what you thought."

I couldn't believe my ears. "That's it? No grounding, no extra

chores?"

"You're not to leave the house until you've finished it and have

read it aloud to us."

"We're not fishing for compliments," James said. "If there's

anything you don't like, we want to hear that, too. We mean to clear the
air once and for all."

"What's not to like?" I asked, astounded.
"That we're gay, for one."
"That doesn't matter. I thought you knew that."
"It doesn't matter anymore. We know it bothered you in the

beginning even if you denied it, bothered you a lot. You're to tell us how
you overcame your distaste for—"

"For what you listened to and witnessed last night," Leonard

interrupted. "We don't mean a short essay, Carl, and writing it won't be
as easy as it sounds. We're asking you to look deep into your soul and
see what's there. The essay isn't about us really, it's about you and you
finding out who you are."

I wrote fifteen pages. I thought they would want to keep it, but

they wanted me to keep it. I still have it, and I read a couple of times a
year. I drew heavily on it when I wrote this story.

After I read them my essay, I said, "There's a question I want to

ask you that I didn't think belonged here: Am I cramping your style?"

James chuckled. "You mean like last night?"
"I mean the exact opposite of last night. You're so reserved with

each other when I'm around. You keep your distance, no real hugs except
twice a year on your birthdays, and hardly ever even touch except maybe
to hold hands on the couch. I bet it used to be different."

They glanced at each other. "I guess he was cramping our style,"

James said. "I didn't think to include it. Did you, Len?"

"Never entered my mind."
"Include it where?" I asked.
"We wrote something about you, too, each of us separately, and

we're going to read them to you once we have this 'cramping our style'
thing settled," Leonard said. "Yes, we have been holding back in front of
you, and now we won't anymore. Thanks for the go-ahead."

"You're absolutely sure it won't disturb you?" James asked.
"God, no."
"But you're blushing."
"That isn't why."
"It isn't?"
"No. Look, I know how weird this is going to sound, but that's

what made me do what I did last night."

"Huh?" They said it simultaneously.
"I know for a fact you two are a couple and… Well, you love

each other, don't you?"

"Head over heels," James asserted.
"What I didn't know was if you…" My voice trailed off.
"Acted on it?" James finished my sentence.
"Yeah. I do now, and it makes me happy." Leonard gave me

suspicious look, so I added, "Not that I have to do it again in order to
stay happy."

Leonard kept staring at me. I thought he was going to make me

write another essay, this time about honesty. It would not have been
entirely unjustified.

"Nice save," James said. "Now it's our turn."
Then each of them read what he had written. They weren't nearly

as long, a page or two at most. They also brought out the psychological
profile Child Protection had given them four years before, and they read

that to me as well. Nothing it said surprised me, but it was still like a
punch in the gut.

"Do you recognize yourself?" Leonard asked.
"It's how I was then," I mumbled.
"And how does it make you feel?"
"I dunno. Kinda stupid, I guess."
"It shouldn't; it should make you proud. You've come a long

way."

"So you see, we knew what we were getting ourselves into when

we took you in," James broke in cheerily.

"Do you still think you're lower than dirt?" Leonard asked.
I shook my head. I was all teary. Not crying, just teary. "I love

you so much," I said. "I want to kiss you, both of you. We don't hug and
kiss often enough. I want you to adopt me."

"This is not a good time to make that decision," James said. "We

feel too mushy. We're not thinking clearly."

So we shelved that project again, and before a week had gone, by

I'd forgotten I had ever said it. Looking back on the incident a few days
later, I wondered how they had known I was listening. I didn't dare ask;
they might have thought I planned on doing it again. To this day, I haven't
figured it out.

James and Leonard were true to their word and from then on they

acted  more  demonstratively  with  each  other.  I  even  got  to  witness  an
occasional  pat  on  the  ass—usually  James  patting  Leonard—but  if  their
nighttime  noises  became  louder,  they  still  didn't  carry  as  far  as  my
bedroom.  That  they  were  no  longer  self-conscious  in  front  of  me  made
me  feel  good  inside.  Sometimes  when  they  hugged,  I'd  pretend  it  made
me jealous to see them so affectionate and I'd say, "Hey, I feel left out!"
and make as if to join in the cuddling. It must have put a damper on the
sexual  thrill,  but  I  could  tell  they  appreciated  it.  Our  relationship  was
closer  than  ever  and  our  feelings  for  one  another  were  healthy  in  their
openness.

* * * *

I started high school that fall. Though only fourteen, I was in

many ways more grown up than the typical college student, thanks to that
essay. I knew my values and I had committed myself to them. I felt ready
to take on the world. Fortunately, I only had to deal with the usual

teenage cliques.

Having two dads hadn't caused problems in junior high. Not

everyone  knew,  of  course,  but  some  did,  and  I'm  sure  they  gossiped
about  it.  What  gossip  there  was  went  on  behind  my  back;  nobody  gave
me  flak.  Maybe  they  were  scared  of  me.  They  couldn't  all  have  come
from tolerant, gay-friendly homes.

My high school was bigger, nearly four times the size, and

several miles from where we lived. The kids were tougher, and didn't
know my reputation. Not that I was about to pick a fight anymore or let
someone pick a fight with me. I'd become a very different kid. My dads
had had their influence.

Less than a month had gone by before someone said something.

"Hey, is it true what I hear—that your dad's gay?"

I corrected him. "Are gay."
"Huh?"
"My dads are gay. I have two dads."
Before I could add, "You wanna make something of it?" he

asked, "Which one's your real dad?" He made it sound as if I hadn't
answered his question and he wanted to belabor the point. "What I
wanna know is which creep is Crawley?"

Believe it or not, I appreciated his joke. Crawley just happened

to be my name; I didn't consider myself one. To me, Crawley meant my
biological father, and he was definitely a creep. So I felt like laughing
but didn't. It would have marked me as weak and a target for bullying.

"I mean, which one slept with your mom?" he went on.
"Neither of them did. I'm adopted." Not strictly true, just a wish,

but once spoken, I knew for sure I wanted to be.

The kid looked like he was going to add some snotty remark. I

beat him to it.

"So neither of them is my biological father. I couldn't have

inherited it. You have nothing to worry about."

"I ain't worried. If you tried anything with me I'd break your ass."
"Think again. I'm the one who'd break yours if you tried anything

with me."

"As if I'd wanna! Hey! You saying you can beat me up?"
"No. I'm saying I'm not afraid of you, so you should keep your

hands and your filthy ideas to yourself."

I turned my back on him and walked away. He didn't follow me,

and after that initial encounter I didn't have to take any guff from him or
anyone else. More than that, I had made myself popular unintentionally.

We'd  been  overheard  by  a  couple  of  kids  in  the  liberal  set,  and  they
immediately  befriended  me.  By  the  end  of  the  day  I'd  asked  one  of  the
girls  for  a  date,  so  not  only  did  everyone  know  I  wasn't  gay,  they  all
thought I was a stud and a fast operator. I didn't plan it that way. I just
thought she was cute.

I told my dads that I had a date with a girl for Friday night.
"Cool! Your first date!"
"Yeah, my first. I don't know what to expect, I'm not sure how I

should act. I was hoping you'd give me a few pointers."

"You're the expert, Len," James said.
Leonard didn't hesitate a second. "Be yourself," he said.
"That's it?"
"That's it. You've asked her out already. That's the hard part."
"That was easy."
"Then you have it made. What kind of date is it?"
"A movie."
"How are you going to get there?"
My blank expression made it obvious I hadn't considered the

logistics of transportation.

"No problem," James said, "I can drive you. What time are you

picking her up?"

Another thing I had overlooked. "Well, the show's at seven

o'clock… I think."

"Better check the paper." It was at seven. "Good, now you can

call her and set it all up."

I didn't know her phone number.
"A few pointers is putting it mildly," James said. "The kid's

totally clueless. Do you even know her name?"

"Julie."
"Julie what? Forget it. She won't be in the phone book anyway.

It's a good thing you didn't make the date for tonight."

James drove us there and Leonard picked us up and drove us

home. I think they made a better impression on her than I did. Luckily,
you don't have to make much conversation sitting through a movie and it
gives you something to talk about afterward. I bought her a burger at the
diner down the street from the theater with a twenty James had slipped
me on the way to her house. "Don't keep the change," he added.

"Did you kiss her good night?" James asked when Leonard and I

got back.

"On the first date?"

"Will there be a second?"
I grinned and nodded. "Next week. I said I'd take her bowling."
He turned to Leonard and said, "That kid we have here—he's one

slick operator."

"I just hope I can think of something to talk about," I said.
"What did you talk about tonight?"
"The movie. We've pretty much exhausted that topic."
"Talk about things you're both interested in, talk about school,"

Leonard suggested. "Politics, the economy, philosophy… anything except
religion."

"What did you to talk about when you two were dating?"
"Sex," James said.
"But you said you were friends for a long time before you got

involved."

"We were involved for a long time before we got involved."
"Whatever you do, don't talk about that," Leonard advised.

"Unless you're planning to sleep with her."

"Hell, no. Nothing heavy like that."
"Good. Don't."
Sound advice, which I had ignored often enough by the time I

graduated high school, though not with Julie. I didn't tell them, but they
knew even before I had done it. They gave me a wealth of information
about contraception and how to protect myself from STDs. They were a
veritable encyclopedia.

"Will you also tell me how to pleasure her?" I asked.
I said it to rile them, but they took my question in stride. I was

just a little kid when we'd had our first discussion of sex. They knew me
better now, and coming up with age-appropriate answers wasn't an issue
anymore.

James snorted. "It's the rare parent who'll tell his son something

like that."

"Mine did," Leonard said. "Or he tried. Not exactly what I'd call

useful information. He never told me how to please a man. I had to figure
that out for myself. When it comes to technique, Carl, your best teachers
are your partners."

I can't imagine a man who could talk more openly and sanely

about sex than they did. I often turned to them when I was in college. I
never felt I had to hide anything from them or that they wouldn't
understand what I had to say. That doesn't mean I told them everything.
Like most kids—well, a lot of them—I did some pretty dumb things,

things I rather not go into here, things I was ashamed I'd done even then.
It helped to know that they'd done some pretty dumb things too when they
were my age. They admitted it, without going into the sordid details, and
they took it for granted that I was sexually active and straight.

Did I ever have sex with a guy just to find out what it was like? I

didn't. Did I ever think about it? Sure I did. It still crosses my mind now
and then, but I know I won't because it isn't something I fantasize about. I
look at it as an academic question, not out of bi-curiosity. Lord knows
I've had ample opportunity to experiment. Guys have hit on me. I almost
tried it once, but I backed out well before the last moment. I only had to
think of how my dads would have reacted if I came home and told them
I'd sucked some dude off. They wouldn't have asked if I'd liked it; they'd
have asked, "Why?"

None of this has anything to do with the story I set out to tell, how

I  ceased  being  a  Crawley  and  officially  became  the  son  of  the  two
coolest  men  in  the  world.  I  brought  up  the  topic  of  experimentation
because I've been asked about it so often. You'd be surprised how many
people  have  asked,  more  surprised  than  they  were  by  my  answer.  The
things  that  must  go  through  some  people's  minds  when  they  hear  you
were raised by a gay couple!

* * * *

After I blurted out that I was adopted that day at school, I did not

run home and ask my dads to adopt me. I had something else on my mind,
my first date. And I didn't run. In fact, I forgot about the whole thing until
my second date with Julie, the bowling date where I was worried we
wouldn't have anything to talk about.

Julie asked me what it was like having a gay dad. She didn't ask

in a nasty way, she sounded interested, as if there was something cool
about it.

"I guess it's the same as having a straight one," I answered. "I

suppose what's different is not having a mom. I wouldn't know, really.
They're the only dads I've had."

"You were adopted when you were baby? Were they already a

couple or did they meet later?"

That led to me telling my life story, but without letting on I hadn't

been legally adopted. That I had trouble distinguishing one foster family
from the other and couldn't put them in the right order seemed incredible
to her. "Up until you were eleven! How can you not remember?" she

reasoned.

"They all blur together," I said.
"It sounds like you've repressed it all."
"Maybe. Or maybe those memories don't come alive because

there just aren't any strong feelings to go with them. I didn't care what
happened to me one way or the other so long as I didn't get hurt. The
dads I have now are only ones that matter."

"Yes, you were very lucky to get them. The rest of it sounds

terrible. I can't imagine being that numb. When exactly did they adopt
you?"

"As soon as possible." A neat way of skirting the question.
"You hit it off right away, huh?"
I had to think about that one. "Yeah, we did. But it took me a long

time to believe it was permanent."

When I got home, I said, "I've made up my mind. I want you to

adopt me."

"Are you sure?" Leonard asked.
"Positive. Aren't you? Because it could be kind of embarrassing

if you're not. My friends all think I am already."

James frowned. "Are you trying to force our hand?"
I could usually tell when James was teasing, but this was so

important to me I took him seriously. My face fell.

"Because you don't have to," he added. "We've been dying to

since I don't know how long but didn't want to pressure you."

"And that's not all I want," I said, relieved. "I also want to take

your last name."

"Great! Whose?"
"Both."
"Hyphenated?" They both said it at once.
Carl MacPhalen-Schafer? Carl Schafer-MacPhalen? It would

make for a long signature.

"I could combine the two and be Carl MacSchafer. What's so

funny?" (I was totally ignorant when it came to the ethnic etymology of
names.)

"Nothing, it was just unexpected. An unusual name," Leonard

mused. "Very unusual. It'll take getting used to."

"Not for me it won't. I hate being a Crawley."
"I hope that's not your only reason you want to be adopted,"

James teased. Joking and losing his temper were how he dealt—or didn't
deal—with intense emotions. "So, whattaya say, Len? Should we all

become MacSchafers?"

"Oy vey."
"Are you guys thinking of getting married or something?"
"We can't, but we can change our names."
"Save that for when you can get married," I said, "because

someday you will." That earned me a big hug.

As usual, Leonard made the decision. "James and I will look into

changing our names after we've set the adoption in motion, but we will
change them. Only one of us can adopt you and neither of us wants to feel
left out. Only one of our names will be on the papers, but we're doing
this together as a couple every step of the way."

They went off to a corner of the living room and flipped a coin to

see who would adopt me. "Who won?" I wanted to know.

"Not telling. You'll find out when they call you in for an

interview, maybe not until it's finalized."

"A surprise?"
"Yeah. To keep you interested."
Months later, when I was finally interviewed, I said before I

even sat down, "Don't tell me who it is."

"Who who is?"
"Who's adopting me. I don't want to know because they both are,

or would be if it weren't for your stupid law."

So I only found out when we came before the judge, and I have

no intention of letting anyone know here or anywhere who my legal
father is. They both are.

But there's plenty of story left before our dream became a reality,

over  two  years  worth  of  story. Adoption  is  a  drawn-out  process,  even
when  the  adoptive  parents  have  had  you  as  a  foster  child  for  close  to
four years. They filed the initial petition; then we waited. It had been set
in  motion,  but  the  ball  wasn't  rolling.  It  didn't  seem  worthwhile  for
Leonard and James to become MacSchafers.

We hit a roadblock almost immediately. The kids I hung with at

school and most of the rest of them were fine with my having two dads.
Some of the adults had a problem with it, and the school administration
stepped in and made trouble for us.

When parent-teacher conferences rolled around, one of my

teachers—we never found out who—saw that my parents were both of
the same sex and became suspicious they were abusing me. He or she
needed no further proof than that I was in foster care with two gay men.
That I was happy, popular, well adjusted, doing straight-A work, and on

two sports teams was beside the point. Before I knew it, I'd been called
down to meet with the guidance counselor.

When I realized where his questions were leading, I blew up. I

called him a homophobe and a lot of other things. "Stupid ignorant
busybody" he let pass, but homophobe raised his hackles big time.

"I have nothing against gays. I've had a report of possible abuse

and I have to follow up on it."

"Well, you go ahead and do that."
"It's what I'm doing."
"Who the hell—excuse me, who the heck—says they're molesting

me, anyway?"

"I'm not at liberty to reveal that."
"But whoever it is is at liberty to badmouth innocent people

behind their backs and make accusations they can't substantiate."

"I'm impressed with your vocabulary."
"Forget my vocabulary. In fact, just put down that this

molestation business is a lot of bullshit and forget the whole thing."

"It sounds like you have a chip on your shoulder."
I'm afraid I lost it then. I was so mad I was trembling. "I have a

chip on my shoulder?" I yelled. "Some freaking bigot comes out and
accuses my dads, men I owe everything to—and I mean everything—and
I have a chip on my shoulder? If you ask me, someone else has his head
up his ass."

The guidance counselor just sat there and stared at me in

amazement. Didn't he get it? I stormed out of his office.

Big mistake. Two days later an investigator from Child

Protection came to the house. My dads had no idea why. I hadn't said a
word to them about the guidance counselor. I'd been too angry and knew
I hadn't handled it well.

The investigator was the first of many follow-up visits that went

on through Christmas break into spring semester and put the adoption on
"indeterminate temporary hold", whatever that oxymoron was supposed
to mean.

"You'd think they'd be glad we wanted to adopt you," James said.

"How many foster homes were you in, Carl?"

"You think I remember? Ask them. They have all that

information."

"Maybe that's enough to make them think we want to keep you

because we're using you as a sex toy."

"That's not funny," I said.

"And definitely not something you should say to the Child

Protection people," Leonard added.

As far as we could tell, everyone who came to see us, everyone

who interviewed my dads or questioned me, gave glowing reports. But
they kept coming. To make sure, they said. And in the meantime kids they
were supposed to be keeping an eye on were probably being beaten and
neglected every day, maybe even molested.

Finally, it looked like it was a go. Child Protection agreed to

support our petition and the question of adoption passed on to the courts.
"Now that they've given their okay, it'll be clear sailing," our lawyer
assured us. "The papers still have to pass across quite a few desks, but
they'll all rubber stamp them."

Some did, some didn't. "Maybe we can wait until I'm eighteen

and have me adopt you," I quipped.

"It'll never fly," Leonard said. "How will you demonstrate you

have sufficient income to support two grown men?"

* * * *

From feel-good soap opera with occasional comic relief, my

story now turns to high drama. Before I get to that, however, I'll insert a
few paragraphs of low farce to relieve the tension.

As a straight-A student (thanks in no small part to my gay-A

dads),  I  was  encouraged  to  enroll  in  enriched  courses  as  early  as  my
sophomore  year.  The  school  suggested  I  take  only  one  for  starters,  so  I
began with a World Literature class. I thought it would be easy since my
years  as  a  loner  had  turned  me  into  a  reader. All  the  others  kids  in  it
were seniors, and they towered over me. I expected some would pick on
me. Instead, they viewed me as some kind  of  hothouse  special—such  a
young kid taking a senior class had to be super smart—and considered it
a privilege to rub elbows with me.

The syllabus included The Farce of Master Pierre Pathelin, a

medieval  French  play  about  a  destitute  lawyer  who  rooks  a  wool
merchant out of a bolt of cloth so his wife can make him something fit to
wear. He pretends to be rich and talks the merchant into letting him have
it  on  credit.  He'll  come  to  Pathelin's  house  for  a  sumptuous  dinner  and
get  paid  then.  He  arrives  to  find  Pathelin  in  bed,  acting  delirious.
Pathelin's wife swears up and down he's been ailing and bedridden for
weeks and there's no way he could have gone out to buy the cloth. Later,
Pathelin  finally  lands  a  client,  a  shepherd  who's  been  stealing  his

employer's  sheep.  Pathelin  advises  him  to  play  dumb  and  reply  with
bleats  if  anyone  speaks  to  him.  They  get  to  court,  and  who  do  you
suppose owns the sheep? The same merchant. He mixes everything up in
his  argument—the  stolen  sheep,  the  cloth  he  hasn't  been  paid  for,
Pathelin's  medical  condition—punctuated  by  the  shepherd's  constant
bleating and the confused judge's demands that he stick to the subject at
hand: "Let's get back to our sheep, shall we?" (Revenons à nos moutons.
It was Leonard who filled me in on what the French said, and except for
a handful of isolated words, like oui  and oh là là, that's all the French I
know.) The merchant loses his case, but when Pathelin asks for his fee,
the shepherd just bleats at him.

We were then in the early stages of the adoption proceedings,

and I had a field day discussing the play, which I compared to my own
experience  with  the  American  legal  system:  the  pettiness,  pointless
procedures,  needlessly  obscurantist  jargon,  and  similar  rigmarole.  The
only  difference,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  the  idea  of  an  impoverished
lawyer,  above  all  a  shyster  like  Pathelin.  I  was  joking,  of  course,
exaggerating.  Or  so  I  thought.  The  last  thing  I  expected  was  that  the
adoption  would  drag  on  for  another  year  and  a  half  and,  before  it  was
settled, we would face nitpicking and complications that made Pathelin's
shenanigans  look  like  the  epitome  of  sanity.  I  told  my  dads  about  the
play,  and Revenons à nos moutons  became  an  oft-repeated  family  joke
every time the adoption took a new twist, and there were plenty.

Now, revenons à nos moutons.
More than a year went by. Going in circles made for slow

progress. At last, in the spring of my junior year, a date was set when
they would make my adoption official. I said, "This calls for a
celebration."

Prematurely, because out of the blue, who should show up but

Carl  Crawley  Senior.  No  one  could  find  him  when  they  had  to  put  my
grandmother  away,  but  then  a  gay  couple  tries  to  adopt  me  and  they
produce him easily enough. Either that or he learned about the adoption
by chance. How on earth he could have, I can't guess, so I tend to think it
was  Child  Protection  that  finally  cared  enough  to  go  in  search  of  him,
though it's hard to believe Social Services would consider anything more
important  than  the  cost  of  child  support.  (Money  talks.)  Anyway,  he
couldn't  have  been  easy  to  find.  Maybe  they  were  required  to  make  a
special effort as part of the adoption process.

Leonard and James thought retaining custody of me was a lost

cause, not to mention adoption, but they kept it to themselves. As they

told me later, it would have upset me. Upset? It would have devastated
me. At the time, I saw it as just one more pesky detail we needed to get
out of the way. I wasn't frightened, just pissed off. He (biological father)
wants nothing to do with his inconvenient spawn (me) until he hears I'm
living with a couple of gays, which is how he would have understood it.
I'm  quite  certain  the  possibility  of  a  "gay  couple"  was  beyond  his
comprehension.  Oh,  I  can  imagine  what  he  said  when  he  found  out.  I
don't  know  him  from  Adam  and  I  don't  need  to.  All  I  have  to  do  is
remember how I'd been five years earlier and multiply by ten. "No son of
mine is gonna be raised by no queers!"

Sorry Dad (ex-Dad, I should say), but you're too late.
My blissful ignorance was short lived. My birth certificate listed

him as my father, and Child Protection or some other branch of Social
Services had made up their minds that this beamish boy belonged with
his biological burnout. Two social workers showed up at the door with
the news. I should pack my things now and come with them. ("Now" in
block capitals.)

"I'm not leaving here. These are my dads. This is where I

belong."

"Do you honestly think it's in the boy's best interest to go back to

a father he hasn't seen since he was two years old?" James asked.

"We'll be doing an assessment. He can always come back to live

with you if it appears he would be better off here."

"That's insane," Leonard argued. "Doesn't it make more sense to

leave him where he's happy and you know he's in good hands while
you're doing your assessment?"

"I'm afraid you have no choice."
"We'll see about that," James said. "I'm calling our lawyer. We'll

get a restraining order."

"In the meantime he has to come with us. The court says so."
"You went to court without even telling us what was going on?"

James almost yelled it.

Leonard said, "I'm calling Lambda Legal," and went straight for

the telephone.

"If you want to play dirty, so can we. As soon as he's off the

phone, I'm calling the newspapers," James told the social workers.

"The boy still has to come with us."
I stalled for time. "It'll take me a couple of hours to get my stuff

together." My mind was going a mile a minute, but I sounded so calm one
would have thought James and Leonard were the only ones who were

upset. The last time I'd cried was the night my dads had caught me spying
on them. I cried then because I hated myself; now I was just scared. I'd
dealt with the system often enough before to know I mustn't let them see
how panicked I was.

"You don't have to take much. You can come back for the rest,"

one of them said, addressing me directly for the first time.

"Will I be going to the same school? What about my science

project and the other kids in it? I can't just walk away from them like
that. All my notes are up in my room, and some of the things we need for
our demonstration. I'm not budging." I was grasping at straws; there was
no science project.

"Okay, if that's how you're going to be about it. We'll come back

in two hours. That should give you more than enough time to pack and
call your friends and let them know what's happened. And this time we'll
have your father with us."

"My dads are right here."
"Two hours. And don't give us a hard time or we'll call in the

police."

Leonard got off the phone while they were leaving. "The lawyer

says it'll take a few hours to get the restraining order. Maybe not till
tomorrow morning."

James wanted to call the newspapers. Leonard stopped him. "It'll

take them longer to print the story than it will to get the order. Hold off
on that until we're forced into it."

"I'm outta here," I said.
Their mouths dropped open. "Where to?"
"I don't know. Hide out at a friend's, lie low in a movie theater,

ask one of your friends to put me up for the night… I'll think of
something. Don't worry, I'll let you know where I am. I'm not going to
skip town or anything."

"No, don't contact us whatever you do," Leonard said. "If they

find out we know where you are, it could get us in trouble. Here's the
number of the lawyer's office. Call there. They'll tell you when they have
the restraining order."

James offered to give me his cell phone.
"Are you crazy?" Leonard said. "If he uses it, they can trace the

call to you. He won't get in much trouble for running away, but if they
can prove we're hiding him, you and I are in deep shit. Screw up like that
and we can kiss custody goodbye. It's safer to look for a phone booth."

I must have looked doubtful, because he added, "Yeah, I know.

Good luck in finding one."

Before I left, James put a couple of sandwiches in a bag and gave

me fifty bucks in pocket money.

So I wasn't at home when three social workers showed up with

Carl Senior, and I missed the dramatic confrontation of the three dads.
The two I cared about described it to me afterward.

He did not make a favorable impression on them, nor could they

see how he could have made one on the representatives of Social
Services either. He was rude and surly. But the first item on the agenda
was my whereabouts.

"He's not here," Leonard said. "He's run away."
"Have you called the police? Aren't you worried about him?"
"No, we know why he ran off. He'll let us know if anything

happens to him or he feels he's in danger."

"That isn't very responsible of you."
"Why isn't it? He's been gone less than hour and he's fifteen years

old. We trust him. He's very mature for his age."

"Do you have any idea where we can find him?"
"None whatsoever."
"Like shit they don't," Carl Senior said.
"You'll call us if you hear from him?"
"Of course."
"And you'll inform the police if he's not home by dark."
"His curfew is ten on a school night. Not until then."
"Did he leave a note?"
"Did he have to? Isn't it clear enough why he left?"
James turned to Carl Senior. "You can see your boy is well off

here. Can you honestly say you can offer him as much?"

"It ain't how nice yer house is that concerns me. It's his moral

wellbeing."

"He's been with us for over four years and his head is screwed

on better than when he got here, thanks to us."

"How can I be sure his head's the only thing you've screwed? If I

find out either of you homos—"

Leonard cut in and told the social workers, "I'm afraid I'm going

to have to ask you to leave. No, not ask—I insist you get that man out of
my house NOW. I don't have to tell you why." If he hadn't intervened,
James would probably have slugged the guy.

Two of the workers hustled a grumbling Carl Senior out the door

—grumbling what, I can imagine—while the third gave Leonard an

emergency number to call as soon as they heard from me. He waited until
they left then threw it away.

When the dads I had chosen told me about the confrontation, I

said, "The douche bag's afraid you'll turn me into a faggot. His word, not
mine. Anyway, he's too late. You've had me five years."

"Thank God you weren't here," Leonard exclaimed. "If the social

workers heard you say that—"

"I'm not that stupid."
"And you're not gay."
"Yeah, I'm not, but I wouldn't be ashamed of it if I were."
While they were busy dealing with Carl Senior, I had kept busy

moving from one theater to another in the multiplex, trying not to think
about what might happen. I saw three movies in all without paying much
attention to any of them, which used up half the money James had given
me. It was after eleven when I got out. I didn't know it, but by then the
police were out looking for me. My dads had promised to call them if I
wasn't back by ten. It was an easy promise to keep, since our lawyer had
pulled a few strings and they had the restraining order in hand.

I called the lawyer's office. It was closed. The message machine

gave  a  number  to  call  in  case  of  emergency.  I  called  and  got  another
message machine. I crossed my fingers that whatever I told them would
be considered confidential and left a message explaining why I couldn't
give a number they could reach me at and that I just wanted to know if
the  restraining  order  had  gone  through.  I  waited,  wondering  how  they'd
be  able  to  get  back  to  me.  Then  it  hit  me  that  their  message  had  also
given  a  contact  number  for  each  lawyer.  I'd  recognize  the  name  of  the
one  James  and  Leonard  used.  I  called  the  office  again,  then  called  him
and got another message machine. I had the presence of mind to leave a
message saying I'd call every half hour before I hung up.

I wasn't sure what to do next, so I sat in the park. Luckily, it

wasn't  the  middle  of  winter.  I  glanced  at  my  watch  every  two  minutes
until I told myself I was behaving like a baby. I had to force myself not to
look  again.  When  I  did,  I  discovered  more  than  an  hour  had  gone  by.  I
went in search of another phone booth and managed to press all the right
buttons  although  my  hand  was  shaking.  This  time  the  lawyer  picked  up
right  away.  He'd  got  my  message  and  had  all  his  calls  transferred
directly  to  his  home.  I  finally  learned  the  restraining  order  had  gone
through.

It was after one in the morning. I called home and told them

where I was. James told me the police were out looking for me.

"The police? You're kidding. Who called the police?"
"We did."
"Why?"
"I'll explain later."
"Were you worried sick about me or something?"
"Not really. Worried, but not worried sick. Stay where you are

and Leonard will come get you in the car. I'll call and let the police
know you've been found, you're safe, and we've gone to get you. You are
safe, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be safe?"
Leonard came to pick me up. "Did you spend a pleasant

evening?" he joked.

"Yeah, just great. My stomach was churning the whole time. Did

they bring my so-called father with them when they came for me?"

"In the flesh."
"And?"
"We almost had a row. I'll fill you in when we get home so

James can vent with me."

"Will you at least tell me if I look like him? My grandmother

used to say I did, but I sure as hell couldn't see it."

"No, I wouldn't say there's much of a resemblance. He scowled

the whole time, which reminded me of how you used to sulk and knit
your brows in the beginning; that's about it. If he had brought you up,
now, maybe in time you'd have come to look alike."

"That's not gonna happen, not if I can help it."
"Don't worry, we won't let it, especially now that we've met the

bastard."

* * * *

Two weeks later I took the morning off from school to testify in

the case of Dads vs. Dad. They made me wear a tie.

The social worker and Child Protection lawyer came up to us

while we were waiting in the hall for the case to be called. That's when
she pointed out the man she called my "real father" sitting on a bench at
the entrance to the courtroom.

Carl Senior did not come into the courtroom with me, and James

and Leonard also had to wait outside. The judge wanted to hear what I
had to say first. Social Services presented their side of the story and our
lawyer presented ours.

"We always assume that a child is better off with his biological

parents," the judge said. That didn't sound very promising.

"This situation is different, Your Honor," our lawyer objected,

and  he  reminded  him  that  Crawley  had  abandoned  me  when  I  was  two
and  I'd  been  living  happily  with  Messrs.  Schafer  and  MacPhalen  for
going  on  five  years  and  I  had  flourished  in  their  care,  and  that  it  was  I
who had requested they adopt me.

"Is there any reason to believe the child's biological father would

not make a suitable parent?" the judge asked.

"He abandoned his wife and son," our lawyer said. "He never

paid child support and he's had no contact with him for thirteen years."

The judge turned to the representative for the State. "How do you

answer that?"

"We see no reason not to grant temporary custody to the

biological father while the Bureau for Child Welfare looks into the
matter, Your Honor. We're currently working on an assessment."

"Then no one can certify that he'd be well taken care of, and we

know his current situation is exemplary. What does the child have to
say?"

I had prepared and memorized a statement, but our lawyer had

covered all of it. "I'm scared, Your Honor," I said. "What if you decide
in favor of my foster dads and he refuses to give me back?"

"He can't do that," the judge said.
"What if he kidnaps me? He's disappeared before."
The judge didn't look very convinced. Without so much as

reflecting on what I'd said, he instructed the bailiff to bring in James and
Leonard.

I held my breath waiting to hear his decision. "The child will

remain where he is pending the outcome of an assessment of Mr.
Crawley." He banged his gavel twice.

We hugged and laughed. It was only a reprieve, but we hugged

harder than ever before and it felt better, too. I'd learned to appreciate
hugs and I felt safe with their arms around me.

While we were hugging, the Child Protection people and their

lawyer left to inform Carl Senior of the decision. By the time we came
out he was gone.

"Let's go somewhere for lunch to celebrate," Leonard said. "It's

no big deal if you're another hour late for school.

* * * *

We waited three months to hear the results of their assessment.

Finally James called Social Services, who referred him to Child
Protection. He was transferred from department to department; he kept
asking to speak to the supervisor. "You'd better take over before I blow
up," he said to Leonard.

The runaround tried even Leonard's patience. Holding the phone

to his ear, he gazed listlessly at James and me, tracing a circle in the air
with his hand as we expectantly nodded, anxious to know what he was
hearing. He gave an exaggerated sigh and asked, "Can we get back to our
sheep, please?" A pause. "Never mind. Just tell me what you know."

No one knew anything. Yes, they had records. No, they hadn't

forgotten. They were on top of everything.

"They say they're on top of everything," Leonard relayed to us,

covering the mouthpiece. "Sitting on it is more likely. And we're at the
bottom of the pile."

"What's she saying now?"
"He." He imitated a smarmy voice: "I'm sure we would have let

you know if a decision had been reached."

Could they estimate how much longer it would take? No. Could

he please speak to the supervisor? And so on, ad nauseum.

The call was finally transferred to a woman who promised to

look into it and get back to us in two days.

"Let's pray those two days don't go by as slowly as that phone

call," James said. They had been on the phone for over three hours.

The woman called back about fifteen minutes later. James

answered. From how his face lit up we could tell it was good news. "My
partner and my son are on pins and needles," he said. "Hold the line a
second while I let them know. I still have a few questions to ask you."

My biological father had bowed out about a month after the judge

ruled  against  him.  She  couldn't  say  why.  No  assessment  had  ever  been
completed, and what little they had found was confidential. She was not
at  liberty  to  divulge  any  of  it.  James  said  Carl  Senior  had  decided  he
didn't  want  "no  kid  who'd  been  raised  by  two  faggots"  in  his  house.
Leonard  thought  they  had  turned  up  a  criminal  record  and  he  was  a
burned-out alcoholic wife beater with no visible means of support.

James turned his attention back to the phone. "So what does all

that mean as far as the adoption?" he asked. "Is it proceeding as
planned?" Then, to us: "She can't say. We'll have to check with the
agency."

"What agency?"
It turned out there was no agency, only the court, which had been

waiting to hear from Child Protection. We called again and demanded to
know why they hadn't contacted the court, only to get the same runaround,
but not nearly as long. It was an oversight. There was nothing in my
dossier instructing them to do so.

They sat on their hands for another two weeks while we called

them every day and yelled at them to get their act together. Our lawyer
called three times. When the court finally got the necessary papers, it
turned out that some deadline had been missed and we'd have to start the
whole process all over again.

The second time around moved about as slowly as the first,

though this time we tried to speed things up by hiring a lawyer who we
knew wouldn't hesitate to make a stink. Summer was long past,
Christmas was approaching, and Santa still had me down on his good
boy list as "Carl Crawley, sixteen years old".

I made the same joke I had a year earlier. "Maybe we should just

put it off until I'm eighteen and have me adopt you." Then I added, "I
really love you two."

I had said it before, but not too often. Leonard's eyes teared over.

"Don't you think we know that?" he said.

What did I want for Christmas? I thought about it and told them I

wanted my name changed to MacSchafer, even if the adoption hadn't
gone through yet.

I got my wish, along with other presents. Our lawyer filed a pro

forma  petition  for  a  legal  change  of  name  and  appended  a  plea, pro
bono,  by  way  of  explanation.  It  was  a  real  tearjerker  of  a  petition,
detailing my life story and arguing my desire to honor the two men who
had given me their unquestioning love and support for so many years. It
was  not  a  surprise  present  since  I  was  shown  the  petition.  I  read  it
through and was impressed, although I found it demeaning to be referred
to over and over as "the aforementioned infant." The lawyer assured me
that such was the proper legal terminology and he could not avoid using
it.  Within  a  week,  he  had  found  a  cooperative  judge  to  rubber  stamp  it
and the aforementioned infant became Carl Winston MacSchafer.

I couldn't have asked for a worse Christmas gift. Since I was no

longer Carl Crawley, the judge handling the adoption said we would
have to redo all the paper work. Shouldn't the lawyer have known that?

"Can't they just put the legal name change document in his file?"

James asked.

They probably could have, but filling out the forms again would

be just as quick. Quicker, maybe, without the added complication. In
sum, "Don't worry, there's nothing standing in your way. From here on,
it's clear sailing."

"Unless Mr. Carl Crawley changes his mind and sticks his nose

back in."

Meaning my biological father. I was Carl MacSchafer now. My

dads made up their minds to become MacSchafers, too, but not until we
had taken care of what really mattered: the adoption. Nobody wanted to
start over on the paperwork a fourth time.

"The first order of business," James said, "is to get Carl

MacSchafer a passport so we can all take a real trip to celebrate when
he becomes our legal son. Where does Carl MacSchafer want to go?"

"Gee, I don't know. I've never been out of the country; you two

have been everywhere."

"How about Japan?" Leonard suggested. "I haven't been there in

years and James never. And they'll be able to handle your new name,
sort of. It'll probably come out something like Makoshefu. Crawley
would have been beyond them."

"Will I have to eat sushi?"
We chose by narrowing it down to ten countries, writing each on

a piece of paper, and putting them all in a bag. I closed my eyes, reached
in, and drew New Zealand.

"Looks like you'll be eating lamb," James said.

* * * *

The adoption went off without a hitch; that is, with no further

hitches. It was all legal a week before Easter, just in time for a week-
long school vacation in which to see New Zealand. With James's
connections, we didn't have a problem getting plane tickets and reserving
hotels on such short notice.

"Will you guys file for a change of name before we leave?" I

asked.

"We'd better put that off. It might turn out we'd have to have the

adoption papers changed, too, and we're not ready to tackle that yet,"
Leonard said.

"Put off until when?"
"When we can get married."
"That may never happen."

"Oh, it will. Times are changing quicker than we ever thought

possible. Not all that long ago we wouldn't have been allowed to foster
you, much less adopt you."

"And when it does happen, we will," James added.

We had packed and were ready to go. The post office would hold

our  mail  starting  tomorrow.  Had  we  set  out  one  day  earlier,  the  letter
would have been waiting for us when we got back. I lifted it out of the
mail  box  and  saw  it  was  addressed  to  Carl  Crawley  in  a  clumsy  hand.
From  my  biological  father.  It  gave  me  a  scare.  He  couldn't  undo  the
adoption, could he?

"Do I have to open it?" I asked my real dads. "I haven't been Carl

Crawley since the end of last year."

"What've you got to lose?" Leonard said.
"What do I have to gain?"
Sneering, James hazarded a guess. "Maybe he wants to leave you

something in his will."

They watched me open the envelope. No legacy, but I needn't

have worried.

Dear Carl,

I can't tell you how much it hurt that you didn't even

want to see me. I know I haven't been the best father in the
world but I'm still your dad, ain't I? Well, you made it clear
you don't want nothing to do with me so I don't see no
reason Id want to have to do with you likewise. Hope your
happy with your two queers.

Your Dad

"Hey, you queers," I said, "I hope you know how happy I am I'm

your son and how much I love you."

They looked at me, startled. I hadn't ever called them a name like

that before.

I handed them the letter. "Someone should teach him to spell," I

said, "and that's just for starters. He got the signature wrong, too."

THE END

POSTSCRIPT

I wrote this as an appreciation of Leonard and James MacSchafer

—yes,  they're  married  now—on  the  eve  of  my  graduation  from  college
(magna cum laude in Psychology), with the intention of reading it at our
celebration  dinner  as  I  had  read  them  my  punishment  essay  some  eight
years  before.  Then  I  thought  better  of  it.  There  was  nothing  in  it  they
didn't know and some things they didn't want to be reminded of. Instead,
I made up a limerick.

If I were religious, I'd pray for
My dads, James and Leonard MacSchafer.

So I'll just say their son
Says, "Thanks for what you've done.

You loved me and made me feel safer."

Cheesy, isn't it?

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