|
Our drive home was uneventful. Justin dozed on-and-off, and every so often I looked over at him. He was sitting next to me, and as I drove I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had done to my son. I knew his days as a muscular 18 year old young man were numbered. Soon the full effects of his castration would become apparent.
The next morning my wife and I waited for our son to come down to breakfast. We had everything ready for him. Just as Dr. Dunn told us to, we placed pitcher of orange juice and Justin’s bottle of calcium supplements on the counter. According to Dr. Dunn, Justin would know automatically know what to do. He walked into the kitchen with a smile on his face and I remember thinking that he really didn’t look any worse for the wear. Like at the hotel Sunday morning, he had washed his hair in the bathroom basin and took a sponge bath so not to get his incisions wet. He looked around the kitchen for a moment as if searching for something, and spotting the orange juice and the pill bottle, headed straight for them. “Well,” I thought as I watched Justin swallow his supplements, “Dr. Dunn is expensive, but he certainly knows what he’s doing.” He then fixed a bowl a cereal for himself and sitting down at the table made small talk about his upcoming week with Brother Jim and the work waiting for him. The only thing he said about the occurrences of the last 48 hours was that he thought it was stupid that he couldn’t shower until Saturday morning. “That doctor was creepy,” said Justin shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Maybe so honey,” replied his mother, “but you have to agree you feel better and we should follow his orders.” Justin nodded his head and mumbled something that he did feel better than he had for awhile. He finished his breakfast, loaded the dish washer with his bowl and spoon, and grabbed his backpack. There was a few words at the door about when he would be home, which car he was using, and other daily details, and then he headed off to the parish house as if nothing had changed. And it seemed that week as if nothing had change. In fact, we all went back to our normal routine. On Saturday morning—one week to day of Justin’s surgery—I was working in my den completing a report for a client. It was a beautiful late August morning and I had the windows opens. A few minutes before noon I suddenly heard the distinctive sound of a basketball being dibbled on cement. Getting up from my desk and walking over to the window, I looked down to the basketball court and saw Justin beginning one of his hour long sessions. I walked downstairs to watch from the kitchen as my son played as if there was no tomorrow. He played hard, not taking any rests and quickly breaking into heavy sweat. Pivoting, dibbling, and dunking the ball through the hoop again and again. It was like he was trying to prove something to himself. Or maybe trying to prove something to me? “That kid is acting as if he still has balls,” I thought as I felt my jaw line tighten and noticed that my hands were jammed in my pockets in hard fists. Finally after playing for more than an hour, Justin came barreling into the kitchen carrying the basketball under his arm. His white tee-shirt was soaked with sweat, and as usual was clinging to the outlines of his muscular chest and flat stomach. I took a hard look at Justin. The only thing different than before he was a eunuch was that he was missing the outline of his dark pubic hair underneath his sweat soaked white shorts. Like usual, Justin went straight for refrigerator, and grabbing a half-gallon of milk, drank it straight from the container. Then, as was his habit, he tossed the empty carton into trash as if it was a game-winning free throw. My son turned and looked at me and smiled. “Don’t tell mom,” he said as his smile turned into a broad mischievous grin. His mother hated it when he drank milk straight from the carton. “Man, is this shower going to feel good,” Justin said. He grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it up to wipe the sweat off his brow. I could see plainly see his stomach muscles flex as he bent down to mop his forehead with the hem of his shirt. Justin confidently strolled by me as he headed out of the kitchen towards his room, and I felt myself becoming more irritated at my son than usual. End of part VIII
|