Scott Sherman - Third You Die

Ms. Peterson raised her tear-streaked face. “Who are you?” she asked again.

“Who am I?” my mother asked. “I’m your worst nightmare. A loudmouth Jewish mother with her own talk show and a burning hatred for anyone who would hurt a child.

“I’m Sophie, you despicable bitch.

“Stay tuned.”

We entered the van to cheers and applause. Except from Roni, the segment producer, who was weeping. She threw her arms around my mother.

“You did it,” she cried. “You got her. That horrible, horrible woman. What she allowed to happen to those children…” She couldn’t get out any more words.

“That was brilliant,” Andrew said. “Getting her to confess to bribery like that. That has to be the final nail in her coffin.”

Steven the makeup genius kissed my mother on the cheek. “I knew we were making a show today,” he said, “but now I see we’ll be making a difference. You done good, boss.”

I stood back, letting the other staffers have their chance.

A fact not unnoticed by the diva herself.

“My own son?” my mother asked. “Nothing to say?”

“What do you think?” I asked. “You did great. You know that. I’m proud of you.”

My mother raised a hand and waved me over. “Come here.”

I stood to give her a hug but she stopped me. She looked at my face, licked her thumb, and started wiping off my makeup while she talked.

I remembered her doing that when I was kid. Cleaning me with her spittle like that, although generally with a handkerchief or tissue. “That’s gross,” I’d cry, trying to squirm away.

“You have a little schmutz there,” she’d say. “Stand still.”

“You’re rubbing your spit into me. That’s disgusting.”

“A mother’s spit isn’t disgusting,” she’d instruct me. “A mother’s spit is love. Everything that comes from me to you is love.”

She never convinced me of that when I was growing up. Now, I wondered if there was more to it than I knew.

“You asked me why I wanted you there today, baby. You want to know the real reason?”

“Sure.”

“Because I was scared. What business do I have being an ‘investigative reporter’? What do I know about interviewing someone ‘the right way,’ to ask the kinds of questions I needed to ask? I was afraid I’d blow it. What the hell qualified me to go in there like that?

“I didn’t have what I needed here.” She tapped her temple. “I had it here.”

She put a hand on her chest. “The instincts of a mother. All I had to do was imagine what I’d do if anyone ever hurt you like they hurt Adam Merr. I knew if I could keep that in mind, the words would come to me. That’s why I needed you there. To remind my heart what it needed to say.”

Wow.

“Whatever you did, it worked. You nailed her, Mom. You probably saved some kids while you were at it. You even made for some Must-Watch TV. I think you might get that Emmy after all.”

I thought I’d seen every expression my mother’s face was capable of displaying. But the one she wore now-love, pride, and accomplishment, without the slightest trace of self-consciousness-was new to me.

My mother was always “on.” I couldn’t remember a time she wasn’t calculating how she looked or came across to others.

But not now. Not in this one particular moment. She was just there. Herself, unguarded, open. In this single instance of selflessness, something shone from her, a light that warmed me even before she pulled me into her arms for an embrace so sincere, so loving, that it felt like I was being hugged for the first time in my life.

“Bubeleh,” she whispered in my ear. “Emmy, schmemmy. Who needs an Emmy?”

It was after nine and Tony still wasn’t home. I missed him.

Between my amateur sleuthing and his legitimate investigating, I felt like we never saw each other.

I missed him.

It’d been a strange couple of days. Brent. Lucas. Adam. Even Rafi.

All these Lost Boys.

Okay, maybe not all of them were lost. There was still some hope for the first two. People can change. They can be saved or they can save themselves.

But what about the little ones? If the grown-ups in their lives couldn’t pull their acts together, what hope did the kids have?

For that matter, Brent and Lucas had been kids at one point, too. Thinking about it, they hadn’t been lost as much as thrown away. Rejected by families that hadn’t deemed them fit.

My mother’s hug earlier today came back to me as a sense memory.

Would anyone hold Adam and Rafi like that?

Would it make a difference?

I love kids. I do. But when I’m with Rafi, there’s a part of me that’s always holding back. Things are too unsure between me and his father for me to allow myself to get too attached. I don’t want him to get hurt, either.

I thought I was being smart. Now, I wasn’t so sure. The more time I spent around these Lost Boys, or thinking about them, the more convinced I became that, whatever their problems were, being loved too much wasn’t one of them.

Which brought me back to Tony. In his way, he was another Lost Boy. But he wasn’t a throwaway-he’d gotten lost by himself when he decided to hide his true self and couldn’t find his way back.

I didn’t want to hide and I didn’t want to be thrown away.

I didn’t want to feel like I had to hold back on my affections. As if love were something toxic or rare that needed containment or rationing.

I didn’t ever want to be afraid to give someone that hug, the once-in-a-lifetime hug that changes everything.

I didn’t want to be a Lost Boy.

And I didn’t want to lose any of the ones around me, either.

I’d find Brent.

I’d help Lucas.

I’d convince Tony to come out. I’d give Rafi the unconditional love he deserved.

If it was too late for Adam, who I didn’t even know, at least I’d helped expose the people who put him in harm’s way. They’d never hurt another child again.

And then I’d… cure cancer. End AIDS. Stop global warming, and, uh, invent a really good dessert that doesn’t make you fat.

Ugh.

Megalomaniac much?

It was crazy. I couldn’t save everyone.

But maybe one?

It started with Brent.

Maybe if I just concentrated on him.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

Think.

What did I know?

Maybe a visual aid.

I went into my bedroom and found an old copy of the Advocate. Sure enough, there on the back cover was a full-page shot of Brent’s smiling face and bare chest, in an ad for SwordFight Productions.

Hi, Brent. It’s me, Kevin. Where are you? What are you up to? Who are you, really?

“That’s him!”

The answer came to me.

Wait.

What?

That wasn’t coming from my head.

I heard that.

There was someone behind me. He put his hands around my neck.

Tony leaned in and kissed my forehead as he kneaded my tense neck and shoulders. “Hey, babe, how did you find him?”

“Find who?”

“Him. That one on the magazine. I’ve been trying to put a name to that face for two days now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I thought you were… wait a minute, how could you have known…?” Tony grabbed the magazine, rolled it up, and tucked it under his arm. Then he stood up, took me by the hand, and guided me to the couch. He pulled me onto his lap. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, Kevvy?”

Tony’s lap was usually my happy place. Not tonight. Tony didn’t like it when I played Boy Detective. Some silly objection to my almost getting myself killed a couple of times.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”