FAST FORWARD

Part 3: Clutter



 

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Brian

"Clare told me you gave your father money all the time." Mom folds her hands in her lap, folds them either in prayer or to keep from reaching across the end table to slap me, I don't know which. I've always annoyed the shit out of my mother. Sometimes without meaning to.

"Why would I give money to Pop? I hardly ever even saw him." I shrug and pick up a hideous knick-knack from the coffee table, a china shepherdess in a blue dress with three fluffy white sheep gathered at her feet, staring up at her with sappy looks on their tiny faces.

"Well, did you or didn't you, Brian? Can you never answer a simple question?"

Why the fuck did he tell Clare? "I gave him a few bucks once in a while," I admit finally, still staring at the china shepherdess with rosy pink cheeks. "What do you care?" I glance up at her, waiting for it.

She purses her lips. "You know perfectly well that your father spent every penny he could get hold of on liquor. He never shared any of your money with me, maybe I had needs too, did you ever consider that? Did you Brian?"

"Guess not," I shrug again, replacing the china shepherdess on the table and picking up the companion shepherd boy instead. Much more attractive. Blond curls, a ruffled shirt, painted-on bright blue eyes, killer smile.

"I'm not counting the time you replaced the roof," she adds quickly. "This was your home too, you grew up here, I would assume that, as an adult, you care enough about your old home to help with expenses once in a while."

"I'm not counting that either," I assure her, rubbing a finger gently on the smooth china rump of the shepherd boy. I'm also not counting replacing the furnace or repaving the driveway. She's right, it was my home too. Even if it felt like a prison. Probably a lot of kids feel that way growing up.

"And now I find out that you've been paying school fees for Clare's boys. For the past two years, she says."

My head comes up at that and I regard her suspiciously, I wonder what brought on Clare's compulsive confessing. "Were you harassing Clare about something?"

"Why are you paying their school fees?"

"Were. Past tense. Her second husband's paying them now, you know what a deadbeat her first husband was."

There's a pause, and I ask again, "Were you harassing Clare about something? Why'd she suddenly decide to tell you all this?"

"I do not harass my children. Not that I ever see either of you very often." When I say nothing, just keep staring at her, she drops her eyes to her lap, and we both watch her twist her hands together for a moment. Finally she looks up again, tosses her head and declares, "I just mentioned to Clare that you're supposedly this big successful businessman and yet you never do anything to help out your family."

Christ, mother-guilt's a bitch. Luckily it has no effect on me.

When I say nothing, she goes on defensively, "Most sons do things for their mothers, but you've never wanted to."

I glance at her folded hands which have begun twisting around each other again. She's definitely trying not to slap me. Not that she's slapped me for years, but she's wanted to, I've seen it on her face a million times.

Setting down the shepherd boy - carefully, very carefully, no point in throwing it across the room to smash against the wall - I stand up abruptly and stare down at her. "Mom, if you want something, just ask. That's all you have to do. That's all you've ever had to do."

She leans back her head to look up at me, narrowing her eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Brian? You'd like to make your mother beg you for something, so you can lord it over me."

Biting hard on the inside of my cheek, I look away from her. "I won't lord it over you. Just fucking tell me what it is you want."

"Watch your mouth, you will not speak like that in my home."

Shaking my head, I mutter, "Sorry." Then I just wait. I won't ask her again.

"Sit down, Brian, are you in such a hurry to get away from me?"

I'm always in a hurry to get away from her. "I've got to be somewhere," I tell her, as I sit down on the very edge of the sofa, my knees pushing against the coffee table. It's true, I've got to be somewhere - anywhere but here.

After a brief pause, Mom goes on, her voice softening, "Brian, I didn't mean for us to argue this way, I just wanted to have a nice visit. You've hardly touched your coffee, and you used to love my peanut butter cookies."

I reach for the cup and drain the lukewarm coffee in one long swallow. "You can send the cookies home with me." Justin would love my mom's cookies.

"For your - young friend?"

Swinging my head toward her, I wonder what's coming next.

"Clare said he's nice. He helped her with the boys' schoolwork, she said. Is he," she pauses, then forges ahead, "Is he your, whatever-you-call-it?"

"Yes." I nod my head, keeping my face blank. Justin's my whatever-you-call-it. I haven't settled on a euphemism yet.

"You saw him at Clare's wedding," I remind her. "Of course you didn't speak to him, but you saw him. You've seen him a couple times." She compresses her lips and I'm sure she's remembering the first time she saw Justin. Nearly-naked and sweaty with an unmistakable just-fucked look, the day Justin had dared me to try Viagra, the day she showed up with a chocolate cake and told me I was going to hell.

"Brian," she says, keeping her voice level, the voice of reason. Hardly ever has the Good Christian façade slipped all these years. "Brian, you know I don't approve of your life, I'm not going to pretend that I do. So why would I approve of some boy who's hanging around with you?"

"He doesn't need your approval. Neither do I." I stand up again. "And I've really got to go, so if you want something, tell me what it is."

"Sit down, I can't speak when you're towering over me."

One last time I perch on the edge of the sofa. But I've reached the outer limits of my endurance, in two minutes I'm leaving whether she's done speaking or not.

"All right," she says resignedly, "I thought you might be happy for me, finally your mother has a chance for a vacation, a real vacation, your father never took me anywhere."

"So who's taking you somewhere?"

And why should I care, Mom, why the fuck should I care?

"A group from the church is going to Rome. Reverend Tom is going to lead us, we might even get to see the Pope!"

"How exciting." I've heard that Rome's a gay European hot spot; I wonder if Reverend Tom's going to ditch his flock in St. Peter's Square, slip away among the crumbling ruins and get his dick sucked by some dark-eyed Italian boys.

"Yes," Mom agrees, then she takes a deep breath and sighs. "But I'm not sure I should spend the money, I have so little in savings for my old age."

Pop had insurance but not much, I don't suppose she's living high on the hog on his pension. "I'll pay for it," I say quickly, standing up again, "Just tell me how much."

"If you can't spare it, I'll understand," Mom says quickly, "I mean, I believe you're supporting that boy?" When I don't answer, she adds, "And Clare says you have other 'major expenses,' but she wouldn't tell me what."

Well, I owe Clare for that much anyway, she apparently hasn't told Mom about Gus. I don't want her to know. I don't want her ever to know. I can't believe I told Pop.

"It's no problem, just tell me the amount. I don't have my checkbook on me, I can send it to you tomorrow."

"Brian," she leans forward and whispers, as if it's a secret. "It's three thousand dollars. I didn't know it would be so much - "

"That's fine." I grab my jacket from the back of the sofa and pull it on. I just want to get out of here. An hour locked up in this old house and I’m fucking claustrophobic, so I make my way quickly to the door, but Mom calls me back one more time.

“Wait – let me put these cookies in a bag for you. Or for your. . .” Her voice trails off and I turn away from the door.

“His name’s Justin.”

“Justin,” she repeats reluctantly, looking as if she just tasted a bug, before she moves into the kitchen and opens a drawer. I follow slowly behind her, watch as she transfers cookies from the plate into a large plastic bag and zips it closed. I don’t want her fucking cookies, but I do want to give them to Justin. I’m not sure why.

“Thanks,” I say as she hands me the bag, but she doesn’t let go, instead she closes one of her narrow hands around my wrist.

”Brian,” she says, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“No, you can’t.”

Of course she ignores my words. “Brian, does that boy – Justin – does Justin’s family know about him?”

I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes,” I answer, “he told them himself when he was seventeen. He’s got a lot more guts than I ever had.”

“And his mother – did she, did she accept him that way?”

“You don’t get a choice, you mothers,” I answer her, hearing the bitterness in my voice, the anger. “But yes, to answer your question. Yes, she accepts him, she loves him. She’s actually had us over for dinner once, believe it or not.” Christ, that was an ordeal I don’t want to repeat any time soon.

Mom’s surprised, and when she raises her eyebrows I suddenly see a reflection, like I’m looking in the mirror. So that’s where I got that supercilious expression.

“You mean – Justin’s mother knows about you too?” When I nod, she adds, “And she approves of her son living in your house?”

I pull my hand out of her grasp and say sharply, “It’s not up to her to approve or disapprove. Justin’s twenty-one, or almost. He’s a man, not a child, he makes his own decisions.”

“Twenty-one! He looks like a teenager.”

I can’t argue with that. “Now I’m going. Thanks for the cookies. I’ll send you a check tomorrow.”

“Brian – “

“No more questions,” I say harshly, turning away and moving through the living room toward the door.

“Brian,” her voice stops me just inside the door, but I’ve got my hand on the knob. Reluctantly I turn around and look at her, and realize that I’ve raised my eyebrows in just that same supercilious expression as Mom did in the kitchen.

“Brian,” she says quietly, “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to him, to Justin, at the wedding. It was rude and un-Christian of me.”

“I’m sure God forgives you,” I tell her; “but I can’t speak for Justin.” I pull open the door and she follows me out onto the porch. It’s cold and she pulls her green cardigan tight around her neck.

“Tell him – if he likes the cookies, tell him I’ll make him some more sometime.”

I look at my mother and we stand awkwardly staring at each other on the narrow front stoop. We’re both waiting, for what I don’t know. Then for some reason I lean down and my lips brush her cheek. Immediately I’m sorry, and I straighten up quickly and hurry off down the steps, as if the Hounds of Hades were on my heels. What a ridiculous gesture that was. It doesn’t mean anything.



Justin

"What's this?"

Brian's shoved a plastic bag into my hands. "You've never seen cookies before?"

"Where'd you - "

"They're from my mother." He turns quickly away, pulling off his jacket and moving up the stairs to the bedroom. Naturally I follow him.

"For me, Brian? For me personally?"

He stops and turns to look at me then. "Don't get all excited, it's just a few fucking cookies."

"But," I persist, as Brian hangs his jacket in the closet, "But did she say, for me personally?"

Then Brian grabs onto me and pulls me into his arms, he hugs me so tight I can't move, I can't breathe, it's like a death grip. "Don't," he orders me.

"Don't what?" I manage to gasp, struggling to draw breath.

"Don't be so fucking - " Then suddenly he lets me go and heads off into the bathroom.

I follow him but I decide to let it drop. Instead I ask, "Did you have a nice visit?"

He lifts the toilet seat and starts to take a piss. Turning to glance at me, his face as blank as he makes it when things get too personal, Brian says, "I don't want to - "

" - talk about it," I finish for him, turning away and heading back toward the kitchen, where I resume chopping celery. In a few minutes he joins me there but I don't look up. "I'm making Chicken Diablo."

I feel Brian slip his arms around me from behind, he pushes his body close against me and presses his face into my neck. His skin's cool from being outside, I can smell his aftershave and a faint whiff of cigarettes. He says nothing for a moment, just hangs onto me as I go on cutting celery. Finally he whispers, "It was okay."

"That’s nice," I say carefully, then add, "I like peanut butter cookies."

"Me too," he agrees. "Mom’s a good cook."

I remember the chocolate cake she brought the time she almost caught us fucking but I decide not to mention it. Brian hadn't eaten a bite, in fact he'd wanted to throw it in the garbage but I talked him out of it. I ate some and took the rest to Mel and Lindsay.

"Justin," he murmurs a moment later, "What is it I'm supposed to tell you?"

I lay down the knife and turn around, turn right into his arms. He still hangs onto me but leans back so he can look at my face.

"Did you get upset, going over there? Did she say things to make you feel bad?"

Brian closes his eyes and groans.

"Tell me."

Releasing me abruptly and turning away, Brian pulls open the fridge and stares inside. "No, I did not get upset."

"Okay." I won't torture him any more, I go back to cutting my celery, dump it into a bowl and start slicing a carrot. There's a long silence while Brian continues to stare into the refrigerator. Finally I tell him, "Michael called, he wants you to come by the store tonight if you have time."

"Okay." Brian closes the fridge and wanders over to his desk, clicks on his computer.

"You can talk to Michael about it," I suggest, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice.

"About what?"

I feel him staring at me but I keep my eyes on the carrots. "Whatever it is you don't want to tell me."

"Justin - "

"It's okay." Then I do look at him and I make myself smile. "Really, it's okay. I know you'd rather tell Michael."

"There's nothing to tell!" Now he's getting angry. "There's nothing to fucking tell! I visited my fucking mother, okay? I drank a cup of coffee and listened to her whine about shit, then she gave me a bag of fucking cookies and I came home."

"All right. I'm sorry." The carrots are sliced, so I pick up an onion next. I do onions last because they burn my eyes.

Brian joins me at the counter again. "Here, let me do that. Wait in the living room till the smell goes away."

"Thanks," I sigh gratefully, handing him the knife. "Dice it up real small. Be careful, that knife is sharp."

I wander into the living room and glance through the tv guide to see if there's a good movie on tonight. I don’t have much homework but I don't feel like going out while Brian's with Michael.



Brian

The thing is, I really do want to talk to Michael about Mom. He knows her, he’s known her for almost twenty years, I don’t have to explain anything about my mother to Michael. Justin doesn’t know her. Justin’s transparently eager for Mom to like him. That’s not going to happen and I don’t want her fucking with his head. I’d rather she never spoke to him at all than to let her get her hands on him and make him feel like shit. As she could, as she probably would.

It’s one of those fucking relationship rules that you have to tell this stuff to your – to your whatever-you-call-it. It’s something I just can’t understand, because I don’t want Justin to tell me all about his mother or his little sister or his damned asshole father, so why does he care about my family? But he does.

If I go see Michael, Justin will think I told him about Mom, even if I don’t. Christ, these things are so complicated. After I finish cutting the onion and put it in the bowl, I rinse the knife and wipe off the counter, and tell Justin it’s safe to come back. Then I stroll over to my desk and sit down, pick up the phone and call Michael. I don’t raise my voice, but I know Justin can hear me.

“Hey Mikey, how’s tricks?”

“Trix are for kids. Wait.” I hear him lay down the phone and say, “That’s eleven dollars and ninety-one cents. Do you have a penny?”

While I’m waiting I pull up Ted’s website and watch two construction workers fuck against a telephone pole on a deserted country road. The background scenery is incredibly fake, but who looks at the scenery when a couple of sweaty musclemen are going at it?

“Brian, I’m back. Can you come by the store later tonight? Ben’s at a seminar in Philadelphia, I thought we could hang out at Woody’s tonight after I close up. I haven’t let you beat me at pool for a few weeks now.”

“Sorry Mikey, I’m busy tonight.” I don’t have to fake the sincerity in my voice – I really am sorry to miss this chance to spend time alone with Michael, no Gentle Ben hovering in the background keeping his eyes peeled. And no Justin hanging back, trying to give me space but unable to keep his eyes off me - waiting for me to give something to Michael that I don’t give to him.

“You’re always busy. Can’t you put off whatever it is?”

“No.” I glance over at whatever-it-is and now he’s cutting up chicken. Justin likes to cook, he’s good at it too. Before he came to live with me I think I used the kitchen only half a dozen times, to boil an egg or nuke a carton of soup. Now it’s Justin’s domain and I think it makes him feel at home. He hasn’t asked me and I haven’t offered to make any changes in my – in the loft. I need it to be exactly the way it is, stark and clean. No homey touches. No china shepherdesses on the coffee table. I can’t compromise about it.

My compromise is Justin’s desk in the alcove beyond the kitchen, which is always piled high with books and sketchpads and clutter. I’m able to mentally block off that corner and not really see it. I compartmentalize the corner mess so that it doesn’t flow into the rest of my personal space. Like maybe I compartmentalize Justin, to keep him out of other parts of my life that I don’t want to share.

I tune back into Mikey and we talk about Vic, he’s home from the hospital and doing very well; and Michael asks if we’re coming to dinner Sunday at Deb’s. “Probably,” I tell him; I need to check with Justin but I’m not telling him that. Another relationship thing – you can’t make every decision on your own, you’re always having to check in with your – with the other person in your life. “I’ll let you know,” I promise, before we say goodbye and hang up.

There’s a pause and then Justin asks, “Will you have time for dinner before you go?”

“Go where?” I stand up and wander back into the kitchen, lean on the counter. Justin’s put a skillet on the stove and he’s pouring oil into it. “Hey, easy on the oil, it’s fattening.”

“Well I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I heard you tell Michael you’re busy tonight, so I assumed you’re going out.” He dumps the bowl of chopped vegetables in the pan and then glances up at me. “Right?

“Wrong. I have things to do here at home tonight.”

He’s stirring the pan slowly with a wooden spoon, his forehead slightly furrowed in concentration. “Like what?”

“Like, I’m going to eat dinner. Then I’m going to fuck you. Then we’ll watch the news and eat peanut butter cookies. And after that I’m going to fuck you again.”

Justin glances up at me and smiles. “Only twice?”

“Depends on how many cookies we eat. We might have to work off the calories.”

“Then let’s eat them all!” Justin laughs.

I join in his laughter but turn and walk away, shaking my head. If I have to be in a relationship, thank God that my – that he – can keep up with me in bed.

While I wait for Justin to finish fixing dinner, I wander aimlessly around the loft. I make a tour of the living room, enjoying the uncluttered simplicity of the room, the clean shapes of the white leather furniture from Milan, the flowing line of the drapes from floor to ceiling, the simple glass table covered with liquor bottles. I visit my desk, run my fingers through the grass sculpture that feels like running barefoot in the summertime, I like the neatness and order of my desk, my files, my row of reference books behind the desk.

Then I walk up the steps to the bedroom, enjoying the almost-underwater blue glow of the neons reflecting off the navy-blue duvet and the soft patina of the hardwood floor. I glance in the bathroom at the sparkling glass of the shower enclosure, reflected in the large mirror over the sink, the terra-cotta tiled walls giving the room a feeling of warmth even in winter.

Coming back down the steps I approach Justin’s corner. The desk itself is hardly visible, stacked high with computer and books and sketchpads and rolled-up drawings and who knows what all. The chair’s pulled out at an angle, and I find myself turning it around toward the desk at ninety degrees. Justin’s computer monitor is covered with stuck-on scribbled notes, and there’s a row of small Power Puff Girl dolls arrayed across the top of the monitor.

To one side and toward the back, almost against the wall, there’s a framed picture: Jennifer and Justin, taken when he was about twelve, he’s holding Molly on his lap. I hadn’t noticed this picture before, and I pick it up and peer closely at the smiling faces. This is Justin’s family – what’s left of it.

Turning toward the living room, I carry Justin’s picture with me, then I sit down on the sofa and push the stack of Architectural Digests to the left, and the modern rock sculpture so expensive and beautiful and meaningless to the right, and in the middle of the coffee table I set down Justin’s photograph.

“Dinner’s in the oven, it’ll be ready in half an hour.” Justin’s voice almost makes me jump as he comes up behind me, then he circles the sofa and stands next to me, looking down at the picture. “Why’d you bring that in here?” he asks.

Reaching for Justin’s hand, I pull him down beside me. “It was okay at my mom’s,” I tell him, swinging my head around to look at him. “She tried to make me feel guilty but it didn’t work. Or maybe it worked a little.”

Justin’s silent, probably afraid to say a word.

“She apologized for snubbing you at the wedding. And she did send the cookies especially for you.”

He smiles then, a wobbly smile. “Thanks.”

We’re silent for a minute or two, then I ask, “Where’s that sketch you drew of Lindsay and Gus when I was in the hospital?”

“I – I don’t know.” Justin glances over his shoulder at the disaster area that is his study corner. “It’s there somewhere.”

“Find it tomorrow,” I tell him, “I want to get it framed. I think it would look good hanging above the tv.”

After a moment I ask him, “What do you think?”

1/25/03
 

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