FAST FORWARD

Part 5: Nightmare on Elm Street



 

Saturday, November 22, 2003


Justin

Brian’s on the phone with Deb, he's frowning and shaking his head. "No. No, Deb - absolutely not."

I put a hand on his arm but he shakes it off, walks away two paces and back again as he listens to Deb. "Absolutely fucking not," he says again, "No, I will not fucking compromise. How can you even ask me that?"

"What?" I put my hand on Brian's arm again and whisper, "What? Brian, what's Deb asking you?"

“Deb – listen, I have to go, I’m due at the office. Yes, I fucking know it’s Saturday, I don’t punch a fucking time clock.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, I recognize that look of utter frustration and anger held in check. “Listen,” he says again, his voice calmer now, “Will you be home this afternoon? Okay, I’ll drop by, we can talk then. Don’t you DARE do anything until I get there. Understand?”

He listens, his frown deepening. “I don’t care what kind of fucking commitment you made, you didn’t ask me first. So that’s your fucking problem.”

There’s a brief pause, then Brian says, “Yes. Yes. No, absolutely not. Deb, if you do that, I’m moving to Timbuktu.” He glances at me and adds, “And I’m taking Sunshine with me, you’ll never see him again.”

I laugh, but uncertainly. Brian’s joking but he’s far from being in a joking mood.

Brian’s listening silently again, then he growls, “Don’t talk about this to anyone else. Not anyone.” He glances at me again, “Especially don’t talk to Justin. Because. That’s why. I’m serious.”

He waits again, then says, “Deb, I’m hanging up. I’ll see you later. Yes, I’m angry – what do you think? Never mind, don’t tell me. See you later.” And with that he snaps the phone closed and shoves it in his pocket.

Brian grabs my wrist and turns it around to look at my watch. “Fuck, it’s almost ten o’clock, I’ve got to go.”

“Brian, you have to tell me – “

“No, I don’t fucking have to tell you anything. I’ll see you tonight.” He swings away and strides over to the jeep, pulls open the door and hoists himself inside. I’m right behind him, I reach out for him and he almost slams the door on my arm, he catches himself just in time.

“Jesus Christ!” He opens the door carefully and grabbing my arm, pulls me close. “Are you okay? Good, because now I'm going to break your arm on purpose." Brian releases me and puts the key in the ignition, he glances at me and then does a double-take. Looking more closely at my face, Brian turns off the engine, turns sideways on the seat and takes my hands in his.

“Justin, it’s just a problem, I’m going to take care of it. Don't look so - "

"How do I look?"

"Scared. Worried. I don't know. Just - don't. I'll take care of it, it's not a big deal."

"If it's not a big deal then why won't you tell me?" When he says nothing, I go on, "Brian, don't shut me out."

He shakes his head, turns to stare out the windshield a moment, then turns back to me. "Is this one of those relationship things?"

"Yes."

Brian takes a deep breath and exhales it in a big whoosh. "Okay. It's just - all it is, is just - Deb invited somebody to Thanksgiving dinner that I don't want to be there."

"Who?"

Ignoring my interruption, Brian says, "I'm going to take care of it so there's no reason for anybody else to get involved. It's - frankly Justin, it's my business. Not yours."

"Who?"

He stares at me, frowning. Finally he says, "Justin, I promise to talk to you about this tonight, so let it go now. I was supposed to meet Cynthia at the office twenty minutes ago, we've got a Monday deadline for a presentation and we need to polish it up today.”

"Okay." I'm defeated by his sincerity. Maybe he'll talk to me later, maybe he won't, but at the moment he's promising, so all I can do is let him go. "Will you be home before I leave for my mom's?"

"Maybe. I don't know. But I'll wait for you there, I mean, I won't go to Babylon without you."

"Okay. Thank you for the beautiful car, Brian - it's almost the best present I ever got."

Brian laughs and pulls me closer, leans his forehead against mine. "Only 'almost?'"

"Yeah," I murmur as we give each other a few tiny mouth-bump kisses, "The bracelet is the very best. Read it to me?"

"Later. Now move so I can shut my door or I'll take off anyway and drag you down the street."

I move away from the jeep and watch Brian drive away, waving even though I know he won't wave back. Then I see his arm come out the window and he kind of flaps it in the breeze. I guess that's a wave.



Brian

If I killed Debbie, I don’t think anyone would blame me. Maybe Michael would blame me, but he’d understand. Christ, she’s been interfering in his fucking life for thirty years. And doing her best to fuck up my life for twenty.

Cynthia harasses me for keeping her waiting and tries to finagle it into permission to take Friday off. I'd intended to give her the day off anyway, I know she's wanting a long weekend with her new boyfriend and the day after Thanksgiving is dead in the office anyway. Of course I give her a hassle but eventually let her think she's getting a special favor and say bitterly, "Oh all right, take the day off - I can get along perfectly well without you anyway."

I should have known she wouldn't be fooled. "When were you going to tell me, on Monday?"

Raising my eyebrows I give her my patent scathing look but it doesn't work on her anymore, she just laughs. "Thanks, boss. Why don't you take Friday off, too? Enjoy the holidays this year - for a change."

"Somebody's got to keep the office going, while you're busy fucking your boyfriend's brains out. Besides, you know I hate holidays."

"This year should be better."

How the hell does she know that?

"Not necessarily. Now let's go over those faxes, did you make duplicates?"

"Of course." Cynthia turns her attention away from her boyfriend's dick and I shove all thoughts of strangling Debbie on the shelf while we deal with the new Poindexter presentation for Monday.



Debbie

"Brian, what else could I say?"

He's standing in my kitchen with arms crossed, glaring at me. Vic took one look at Brian's face and retreated upstairs, I don't blame him. Grimly Brian replies, "You could have said fuck off."

"No I couldn't. Besides, this might turn out to be a good thing, maybe you and she could - "

"Christ - don't you get it? After all these years, you don't get it? You know what she's like. You know fucking well."

I do, of course I do, but - "People change, Brian. She's alone now, she's getting old, she's lonely. She was almost crying when she - "

"My mother has never cried in her fucking life. You're just making excuses for yourself now, for inviting her. Do you imagine you're fucking Ghandi or something? Or Henry Kissinger? Or Mother Theresa? Or Dr. Phil?"

"Are you through?"

"No, I'm not fucking through. This is not going to happen, you're going to un-invite my mother, or Justin and I will not be here. I mean it."

"Take off your jacket and sit down, Brian, stop beating me over the head. Sit down, have a cup of coffee."

"I don't want any fucking - "

"SIT DOWN, NOW!"

With a huff and a shake of his head, Brian pulls off his jacket and throws it toward the sofa. Then he pulls out a chair and sits down. He says nothing while I pour him a cup, and he takes it from my hand and slurps a gulp before making a terrible face. "Sugar, God damn it, where's the - thanks." He takes the sugar bowl from my hand and pours a stream into the cup, accepts a spoon and stirs it up. After another gulp, he says calmly, "Debbie, if you want my mother at your dinner, fine. But I'm not bringing Justin here."

"That's the second time you've said 'Justin.' I sit down across from Brian and ask, "Why don't you want your mom to meet him?"

Brian sprawls in the chair and looks at me over the rim of his cup. "She's met Justin. Three times. Each time she's treated him like dog shit on the bottom of her shoe."

I'm surprised. Not surprised at Joan Kinney, surprised that Brian's willing to admit he gives a damn about Justin's feelings. "He's a big boy," I remind him, "Justin can hold his own with your mother."

"Yes, he can, but I can't sit around watching it happen. I'll rip her fucking head off."

I almost make the mistake of smiling, it's still so amazing to see how much Brian cares about that boy. "Well, maybe you could talk to her first. Go see your mother and tell her - "

"No."

"You're probably way overdue for a visit anyway, how long since you've seen her?"

"I'm not going over there. You made this mess, you can clean it up."

"How?" I ask, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table. "I call her up and say, sorry, you're not invited after all?"

He just stares at me. Then, "Why the fuck did you invite her in the first place? You know I can't stand her, why'd you imagine I'd want her here on Thanksgiving?"

"I had a weak moment - so shoot me!" I throw up my hands and get up to retrieve the coffee pot, refill both our cups. "I told you - I ran into Joanie at the grocery store, we said hello, that should have been it, we've never been friends all these years."

I don't need to remind Brian that his parents had always disliked me, especially after I made a couple visits to their house when Brian was fourteen and read them the riot act. I don't think Brian ever knew about that, but after he'd had a couple sleepovers with Mikey, I'd seen bruises on that kid that could only have been made by his bully of a father. So I hiked myself over to their house and gave them hell - threatened to call the police if it happened again. Which of course it did, many times over the years, till Brian got big enough to stand up to his dad, luckily by the time he was sixteen he was as tall as Jack. I'd even gone through with my threats and called the police a couple times, called anybody I could think of, even the priest of their church, but nothing ever did any good. Nowadays folks can't get away with that shit, but fifteen-twenty years ago it was pretty common, especially in this neighborhood.

"And?"

"And, your sister came up to us, I guess she takes your mom grocery shopping?" Brian nods, and I continue, "So Clare saw all the stuff in my basket - I get everything but the perishables ahead of time - and she asks about Thanksgiving, do we have a big family dinner etc. Then she says, usually Joanie eats dinner with them, but Clare and her new husband are going to visit his folks in Chicago, so Joanie'd be all alone this year."

"So what?"

"Brian! It's hard to be alone on holidays."

"Sometimes it's worse not to be alone on holidays."

And I remember all the Thanksgivings and Christmases that Brian would sneak away from home as soon as possible, hanging around oh-so-casually in the back yard till one of us found him there, smoking and shivering. Then we'd invite him in and he always ate like a linebacker, for some reason he didn't like to eat at home. Even back then Brian was close-lipped about everything including his family, but it wasn't hard to figure out he was pretty fucking miserable at home.

"So Brian," I say briskly, "You want to punish your mom and make her be alone now, is that it?"

He laughs then. "You know that guilt shit doesn't work on me." Then he's serious. "Deb, this isn't about her. It's about - it's about our family. This family that you made for Mikey and let me be a part of. Our family is a good place to be. If she's here, she'll ruin it." When I shake my head and open my mouth to argue, he adds, "Deb, I know her better than you do."

We sit in silence for a few moments, then I give in with a sigh. "Okay kiddo, I'll call Joanie and tell her - something." What the hell am I going to tell Joan Kinney?

"Deb."

I glance at Brian and he's shaking his head. "Deb."

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Okay. Let her come."

"Are you sure?" Now I'm having second thoughts. "Because I'll - "

"No, I'm not sure." He gives me a rueful smile. "But I'll try not to kill her."

"Maybe it won't be so bad."

"Yeah it will." Brian pauses and says, “One thing: Don’t mention Gus. She doesn’t know about him.”

“You haven’t told her about her grandson?” For some reason this shocks me.

“Luckily, Linds and Mel are having dinner with Mel’s family. Are Ted and Emmett coming?”

“They’re going to have dinner with Ted’s mom. It’s just me and Vic, Michael and Ben, you and Justin. And Jennifer. And now Joanie.”

Brian closes his eyes. “Holy shit.”

We sit in silence for a moment, then Brian pushes back his chair and stands up. He pulls out his wallet and hands me two hundred-dollar bills.

"Don't - "

"I always do, shut up. Besides, that's hardly enough to cover the groceries Justin will eat and you know it."

We laugh then and Brian permits a brief hug. "Thanks, you're always so generous."

"That's all the money you're getting, so save your breath." He turns quickly, grabs his jacket and shrugs it on. He glances at the kitchen clock and says, "Fuck, he's gone already."

"Who?"

"Justin's having birthday dinner at his mom's."

I don't have to ask why Brian didn't go with him, Jennifer has told me how uncomfortable it was when she's had Brian over for dinner. She still hasn't forgiven him for showing up at Justin's prom and Brian knows it. Jennifer's coming here for Thanksgiving too. Ye gods, what have I done? Two hostile mothers for poor Brian to deal with. I only hope we all survive the holiday.



Justin

Dinner with Mom and Molly was great, Mom’s a terrific cook, she made all my favorite foods and Boston cream pie for dessert. She gave me money to use toward the new computer software program I need, and a new pair of Addidas. And she sent a huge bag of leftovers home which turns out to be good because Brian hasn’t eaten dinner.

Brian’s lying down on the sofa, watching tv with the sound turned down so low you’d have to be a dog to hear it. I sit down on the coffee table and we say hey. “If you’re too tired for Babylon, that’s okay.”

“I’m not tired.”

He looks really zapped out to me. “Hungry?”

“A little. Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, let me heat up some leftovers for you, it’s grilled salmon and that orzo and spinach pasta stuff you like.”

“Mmm,” he says, letting me take his hand to pull him up. He follows me to the kitchen, perches on a barstool and watches me fix him a plate. “Not so much orzo, it’s carbs, remember?”

I pretend to take a bit of orzo off the plate; no matter what he says, he’s looking so tired, his body needs some carbs for energy. I’m dying to talk to him but I want him to eat first. We sit at the counter and I have a piece of Boston cream pie while he has dinner. He eats a lot for him, a sure sign he was really hungry; normally he likes to leave stuff, he says he’s still in defiance of the clean-your-plate rule. When he’s done I hand him a bottle of beer while I rinse our dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then sit next to him again.

“Third degree time.”

He takes a long drink, then shakes his head. “No need. Debbie ran into my mom at the grocery store and invited her for Thanksgiving. I didn’t want her to come at first but I sort of changed my mind. That’s all, end of story.”

“Your mom’s coming to Deb’s for dinner? Brian, that’s great!” I feel myself getting excited.

“No, it’s not great,” he denies it, setting down his bottle with a thump. “It’ll be a fucking Nightmare on Elm Street. You don’t know my mom.”

“But I’d like to. Maybe – “

“Don’t start that shit, Justin, okay? My mother is not going to like you. People don’t change, frowns don’t get turned upside down like fucking umbrellas. It’s time for you to grow up - maybe it’s time for you to stop pretending you’re a Power Puff Girl.”

His voice is bitter but I’m not insulted. Well, maybe I am, a little, but I ignore it. “Why’d you change your mind then?”

“I don’t know.” Brian drains the bottle then and stands up. “But let’s get ready for Babylon, you said you wanted to go crazy tonight, remember?”

"We could just stay home - "

"No, come on, I want to go too."

So we change our clothes and head off to Babylon, losing ourselves for a couple hours in an orgy of JB and bumps and nonstop dancing. I couldn't have asked for a better twenty-first birthday and I wouldn't want to be any place in the world besides lying in bed with Brian, his body collapsed over mine, the cool night air drying the love-making film of sweat on our naked skin.



Thursday, November 27

Brian

Before I open my eyes I can smell turkey baking. It's Thanksgiving. No, it's not turkey. I flare my nostrils to take in more scent but I still can't identify it, so I decide to open my eyes and sit up. I can see Justin in the kitchen, he's making something exotic to take to Deb's, what is it? Oh yeah, some kind of Indian bean dip, he read me the recipe though of course I didn't listen, and now I can't identify the ingredient that's annoying the hell out of my nose.

"What's that smell?" I demand, my voice still rough with sleep, and I throw off the duvet and stand up a bit unsteadily. I got amazingly drunk last night, I started drinking right after dinner. Justin was worried, I remember noticing that before I was very far gone. Lucky for him he didn’t push me when I was in that black mood. That black mood, I suddenly remember, because today is Thanksgiving and who knows who might be dead by the end of the day?

Why the fuck did I waver when I finally had Deb convinced to dis-invite my mom? I know why I wavered and it pisses me off. That's why I started drinking last night, I suddenly realized that I was pissed off and I knew exactly who did it to me. It was all Jesse's fault. Jesse made me back down, back away from hurting my mom. Oh, he wasn't with me, I haven't even talked to him for a few days, he knows nothing about it. But he was inside my head last Saturday when I was talking to Debbie, and he made me back down. Made me decide that it was wrong to want to hurt my mother, push her away with such finality. How'd he do that?

"I think you're smelling saffron, I've never used it before," Justin calls to me, "Don't you like it? It's really cool, it turns stuff bright yellow, want to come and see?"

"Fuck that, I'm going to turn the toilet bright yellow, want to come and see?"

"No water sports for me, I’m busy - you'll have to play by yourself." He laughs and though my head is pounding and I'm about as far from laughing as I am from dancing an Irish jig, for some reason I'm not annoyed with him. I'm glad he's here in fact, glad he's in the kitchen, glad he was in bed with me last night, glad he'll be in bed with me again tonight. Christ, that’s a first – I actually feel thankful about something on Thanksgiving.

"Come take a shower. I need you to wash me, I can't stand up straight."

Justin tsks. "Give me ten minutes to finish this dip, okay? Then I'm all yours."

I wander into the bathroom, take a piss, then sit down on the toilet and leaf through the latest Out magazine, flipping to the back pages to check the fashion layouts. I think about Justin's comment that he's 'all mine.' Justin is being monogamous with me during this three-month period and it doesn't seem to bother him at all. I see him eyeballing other guys so I know he's still breathing, but it seems that Justin can be perfectly content having sex with just one man.

I'm frankly surprised that I've been able to keep the vow of monogamy, but for me it's NOT easy. I had to stop counting the guys I didn’t fuck. I had to stop using the sauna at the gym, too much willing naked flesh taunting me even with my eyes closed. I steer clear of the backroom at Babylon and stay home many nights rather than struggle to resist the temptation of guys who want me, who want to be fucked by Brian Kinney.

I'm barely hanging on to my promise, but once the three months are over, I'm going to explode into a surfeit of sexual excess. In a way I can hardly wait, in another way it worries me. It worries me how it will affect Justin, how it will affect our - God-damn-it - relationship. I told him I'd never be monogamous and he said he accepted that. But it's going to bother him when I go back to my normal tricking routine. Why should I care that it bothers him?

"You okay?" Justin's in the doorway. "You look kind of sick or something."

"Just hung over," I lie. And there it is - I'm lying. I never lie. But I don't want to talk about this monogamy thing right now, so a lie is easier. Being in a relationship is fucked, you compromise your principles and tell lies and try not to hurt the person you're with. I was right to steer clear of this mess all my life. It's too fucking complicated.

"Come with me," Justin murmurs, lowering his voice seductively, "I'll wash you all over - with my tongue."

My cock twinges in anticipation as I follow Justin into the shower.



Justin

Brian feels shaky to me, not just hung-over but really uptight. I couldn't believe how much he drank last night. I didn't dare challenge him - the mood he was in, he would only have gone slamming out of the loft. The shower calms him, the blow job calms him even more, and by the time we dry off and start getting dressed he seems to be feeling better. I talk him into eating half a bran muffin with his morning coffee, he needs something in his stomach to counteract the leftover liquor dregs and the incoming acid of the coffee. He even agrees to take an aspirin.

"What time are we picking up your mom?"

"We're not." He finishes half the muffin and picks off a few crumbs from the other half. Before I can ask how she's getting to Deb's (I know she doesn't drive) he says, "I'm picking her up, you're driving your own car there."

I want to ask why we need both cars but I can guess maybe he doesn't want us both trapped in a moving vehicle with his mother. I'd never admit it to Brian but I really am kind of intimidated by her, the few times we've been face to face, even though she never said a word, she looked at me with such hostility in her flashing eyes that I'd wanted to back up a few steps. I never did but I can't forget that I wanted to.

When Brian told me she was coming today I said 'Good' and I meant it, maybe somehow eventually she'll come to accept Brian and be nicer to him. He pretends not to give a shit about her but I've seen through him, he was really upset the day she found out he's gay though he shrugged it off and acted like he didn't care.

I go over to Deb’s a little early, it feels like Brian is pushing me out of the loft, I hope he’s not going to start drinking but I can’t very well refuse to leave. Deb and Vic give me hugs and I’m tied into an apron and put right to work. Michael and Ben arrive next, Ben hugs me but Michael doesn’t, Ben’s made some lemon grass dip, we taste each other’s concoctions and smack our lips. Vic pours everyone a glass of wine and then Mom arrives. More hugs, and we’re all hanging around the kitchen, smelling turkey and talking about recipes and our absent friends. Debbie announces that no one is to mention Gus, everybody’s surprised (except me and Michael) to find out that Brian’s never told his mom about his son. Mom purses her lips in disapproval but I decide to keep out of it, it’s his business not mine.

The front door opens and everyone immediately shuts up, then quickly everybody starts talking again to cover up that pause. Debbie surges forward with Vic on her heels.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Joanie, welcome to our home,” Deb says with a smile, “Welcome,” says Vic, offering to take her coat. You’d think she would look flustered or uncomfortable but immediately I see the amazing self-control she has, and glancing from Brian to his mom and back again, it’s almost uncanny how similar they are. Not in looks exactly, well a little, they have the same arching eyebrows and strong noses, but it’s more in the way they stand, almost rigidly at attention like soldiers.

“I brought a cake,” Mrs. Kinney says, holding out a plate to Debbie, “It’s Brian’s favorite, chocolate-chocolate chip.”

Brian and I exchange a look, we’re remembering the other cake she brought him. Deb says, “Oh you didn’t have to bring anything, but it looks delicious,” quickly taking the cake and handing it off to Vic, who hands it off to Michael to set down in the kitchen.

“Joanie, I think you know most of us,” Deb’s still smiling and playing hostess, “You know my brother Vic, my son Michael,” Michael waves at her, even though she’s only three feet away from him, “And this is Michael’s partner, Ben Bruckner, he’s a professor at Carnegie Mellon.” Ben nods and smiles. “And I think you’ve met Justin.” Those icy cold eyes glance at me, almost making me shiver, “Hello, Mrs. Kinney,” I say bravely (I hope), then her eyes slide off me and onto Mom, “And this is Jennifer Taylor, Justin’s mother.”

“How do you do?” Mrs. Kinney says formally, greeting everyone all together, then she’s shrugging off her coat and Brian hands it to Vic along with his own, everyone kind of shuffles into the living room to take up positions on the sofa and chairs. Ben and I bring our appetizer trays and set them on the coffee table. Mrs. Kinney sits down on the middle of the big sofa and Debbie and Mom sit on either side of her, protecting her flanks or preventing her quick exit, I wonder which it feels like to Mrs. Kinney? And do I have to keep thinking of her as Mrs. Kinney?

Brian sits in one of the easy chairs and hooks his foot around the leg of a stool, pulling it over next to him, he grabs my hand and guides me to sit down on it. Vic brings a glass of wine to Brian and to Mrs. Kinney, she half-empties her glass in one swallow. Then she glances around the room and says, “I’m surprised all you men aren’t watching the big game.”

“Queers don’t watch football,” Brian informs her blandly before taking a sip from his glass.

“Some do,” Ben interrupts seriously, “I’m in the football pool at work. And my roommate in college was on the varsity team, I went to all the games.”

”Well,” Brian drawls, “I don’t watch football and Justin doesn’t watch football and Michael doesn’t watch football and Vic doesn’t watch football, so I guess I should have said, four out of five queers don’t watch football.” I glance at Brian over my shoulder and realize that he must have had a few fortifying shots of JB before he picked up his mom.

“My late husband loved football,” Mrs. Kinney says almost defiantly, and Brian immediately adds, “See? He was not a homosexual. He liked football AND he liked bowling.”

“We had a bowling team,” Debbie exclaims, “We played against the cops and almost won.” She pauses then adds, “Ben’s a great bowler. So’s Brian.”

“Brian, you never told me,” Mrs. Kinney turns and gives him a lip-curling smile. “Your father would have been so proud.”

“Yeah,” Brian agrees, returning the same kind of smile, “I’m a chip off the old block. I can’t out-drink him yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Mrs. Kinney, try the bean dip,” Ben leans forward and lifts the platter toward her. “Justin made it, it’s excellent.”

“Justin’s a fabulous cook,” Brian adds. “So’s Ben. So’s Vic. Michael isn’t and I’m not, but I guess you could say, three out of five homosexuals are fabulous cooks.” There’s silence while he pauses, then he goes on, “My dad didn’t cook. Did your dad cook, Justin?”

“Brian – “ I don’t know how to make him stop.

“We could watch the Macy’s parade, it’s on now isn’t it?” That’s Mom, jumping into the breech. “Justin and I always watched the parade together when he was little, didn’t we, dear?”

“Yes.” Oh Mom, please don’t tell about the balloons.

“And he always loved the Sesame Street balloons the best, didn’t you? Bert and Ernie and Big Bird.”

“Justin’s too grown up for that now,” Brian leans forward, one arm around my shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

“Well of course – “ Mom starts to say, but Brian continues,

”Now he likes the Power Puff Girls instead. Which one’s your favorite, I forgot?”

Vic pipes up, “How’s that new car of yours, Justin? Put a thousand miles on it yet?”

“That was quite a birthday present,” Ben says, “It’s a beauty too.”

“I had a gold Miata for a while,” Michael mumbles to nobody in particular, “But I gave it back.”

“Well, I think that turkey’s ready to carve,” Deb announces loudly, standing up and heading for the kitchen. “Let’s get the food on the table.” There’s a sudden rush of bodies as everyone gets out of the living room, leaving Mrs. Kinney perched on the sofa, her hands clasped primly on her knees, and Brian sprawled in his chair, turning his empty wineglass over and over and over in his fingers.

Within minutes the table is loaded with dishes of potatoes and stuffing and vegetables and a big platter of turkey expertly carved by Vic, Debbie’s making gravy and Mom takes rolls from the oven. We all sit down so quickly it feels like musical chairs, then of course everyone stands up again as Mrs. Kinney and Brian make their way to the table and we all rearrange ourselves. There’s a sudden hush as everybody remembers that we should say grace, “Who wants to say grace?” Debbie asks and nobody makes a peep. Then Ben bravely volunteers, he stands up and makes a speech about thankfulness and pilgrims and how Ben Franklin wanted the turkey instead of the eagle to be the symbol of our country, and somewhere in there he works in praise of the Dalai Lama, I stop listening and start praying for real, wishing this nightmare dinner would be over and done with.

I’m sitting between Mom and Brian and while Mom piles food on my plate as dishes go around the table, Brian’s whispering in my ear how many calories there are in gravy and stuffing and mashed potatoes. For almost the first time in my life I have no appetite. Then it gets quiet as everybody digs in. I glance up and see Mrs. Kinney staring at me.

“Justin,” she says, and I feel myself jump slightly, “Clare tells me you go to art school.”

“Um, yes.” I nod at her.

“Is that like a vocational school, are you learning a trade?” There’s something in her voice that snaps Mom to attention.

“Justin turned down Dartmouth for the I.F.A.,” she says abruptly, “And the I.F.A. itself is very competitive, only the best students are accepted.”

“Oh, is that so?” Mrs. Kinney says, her voice managing to convey both disinterest and disbelief. “Brian had a scholarship to Penn State, he got excellent grades.”

“How do you know what grades I got?” Brian looks up from the pile of black olives he’s arranging in concentric circles in the middle of his otherwise empty plate.

“Brian, you always got good grades, the teachers told me many times that’s why you were constantly in trouble, school was too easy for you.”

“Brian was the smartest kid in our class,” Michael sputters.

Ignoring Michael, Brian says dryly, “You’re talking about high school, you know nothing about my years in college.”

“Well my dear,” Mrs. Kinney smiles, “I’m sure college was easy for you too, you never really had to work for anything in your life.”

There’s an abrupt silence around the table, I can feel Brian tensing, we’re squashed together so closely that I can feel his whole body tensing up, then suddenly he relaxes and leans back in his chair. “Yep, you guessed it,” he says agreeably, nodding his head three-four-five-six-seven times. “It was a piece of cake. A walk in the park.”

Michael bursts out, his face bright red, “Brian worked thirty hours a week while he was in college, and he - ”

Immediately Brian says calmly, “Mikey, shut up.”

“Do you work, Justin?” Mrs. Kinney’s addressing me again, raising her eyebrows, “Or no, I think Clare told me that Brian is supporting you.”

Before I can answer, Brian says lazily, “Life has been a piece of cake for Justin too, the last few years. Hasn’t it Justin?”

I look at him and he’s smiling, something in his eyes makes me smile right back at him.

“A walk in the park,” I agree, then he laughs and leans forward to kiss me.

“So,” Brian says, pulling away from me and glancing around the table, “Everything smells delicious. Please pass the turkey.”



Brian

By the time Deb serves coffee, everyone’s pretty relaxed – or as relaxed as this group is ever going to get; conversation has turned to safe subjects like politics and religion: Vic mentions the governor’s proposed budget cuts, Ben is touting Taoism, and Mom is talking about her church group’s planned trip to Rome.

Decisions are being made about dessert – who wants pumpkin pie, who wants pecan, and God help me, I’m about to forever destroy my mother’s illusion that I can’t resist her chocolate cake, when there’s a knock on the door. I hear it first, no one else notices, but there is such certainty of inevitability inside me that I’m not at all surprised nor am I unprepared when the door is pushed open and two women’s voices chime in unison, “Knock-knock!”

Even before I hear the ear-splitting screech of “Daaa-deee!” I’ve pushed back my chair, and I open my arms wide to catch the speeding four-year-old bullet who catapults himself straight toward me. He throws himself against my chest and his little arms go around my neck and he bubbles, ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

“Gus! Gus! Gus!” I mock, but he’s too young to be offended.

Everybody – almost everybody – jumps up from the table to hug Linds and Mel, who explain that they decided to surprise us by popping in for dessert on their way home. I’m aware that Debbie’s introducing them to my mother. With an inward sigh I stand up and move around the table till I’m standing next to her. “Mom,” I say, “This is my son Gus.”

“OUR son.” That’s Melanie of course.

Mom’s still seated at the table, her hands are twisting together in her lap. “Is this the last of your secrets, Brian?” Mom raises her eyebrows, “Or are there more?”

“I think this is it.”

I keep the sarcasm out of my voice for once and I’m aware of the struggle Mom is making in deciding how she’s going to handle this situation. Everyone’s fallen silent, everyone waits to see Mom’s reaction to the news that she has a four-year-old grandson, and to the news that her wicked son has once again fucked her over by keeping her in the dark.

In the end she does not so much decide perhaps as she latches on to the first thing about her grandson that she can criticize, though of course it won’t be her last. “Why on earth did you name him Gus?” she demands to know, while at the same time pulling Gus into her arms, which fold comfortably around him in a grandmother-hold.

“Justin named him,” I tell her. “They were born the same night.” I turn my head and catch Justin’s eye and without even wanting to, I feel my face relax into a smile.

“What?” asks Mom, but I don’t answer. That’s one secret she never needs to know.

2/8/03
 

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