Between Enzo and the Universe

by Chase Connor

  Peter chuckled. “Huh. Ya’ know, I never really thought about that. Though I guess I kind of knew that, too. But, no, Minneapolis isn’t an island. It’s just a bigger city. The Mississippi River runs through it, though. It’s kind of close to Lake Superior and Lake Michigan, too.”

  “What is close?”

  “A couple of hours?” He guessed. “You can go there for the day.”

  “Do you go there often?”

  “No.” Peter sighed. “I rarely travel just for fun anymore.”

  “Why is that?” I asked as the waitress appeared at our table with two plates.

  She smiled and greeted us as Peter and I both sat back to give her room to serve us our first course. Warm roasted root vegetables and lentils with a turmeric and mustard dressing. My stomach wanted to do cartwheels. Once the waitress was sure that we were perfectly content, and had stepped away, I reached for my fork. Peter mimicked my actions but picked up our conversation where we had left off.

  “I guess I’m just married to my work.”

  “Are you not married?” I asked. “Do you have a…spouse?”

  He grinned as I shoveled a forkful of food into my mouth. Immediately, my taste buds began to sing, and my stomach begged for me to just swallow the food without chewing. It took effort, but my teeth moved into action. I promised myself to chew and eat like a normal person, to enjoy the meal as it might be my last really good one for a while. Besides, being in The Lazy Duck, and with Peter’s kindness in paying, I wanted to act like a civilized human being.

  “I don’t have a wife back home. Or kids.” He said. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

  “Okay.” I shoved my fork back into my salad for my next bite. “I never let older men take me to dinner while wearing their coat.”

  “Understood.” His grin grew. “I had a boyfriend until about a year ago. We lived together. Things didn’t work out.”

  “Why? Why didn’t things work out?”

  “Married to my work. Remember?”

  I nodded and chewed the warm, delicious salad, trying not to close my eyes in rapture.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” He asked, pushing his fork into his food once again. “This is really good.”

  “It is delicious.” I agreed. “No. I have never had a boyfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  I smiled and gently shook my head. “I am not like that either.”

  “So,” he grinned along with me, “neither of us is pulling one over on the other?”

  “What?”

  “You’re a twenty-year-old gay man, and I’m a thirty-nine-year-old gay man having dinner together. No secrets or subterfuge.” He noticed my confused expression. “Deceitfulness?”

  “Oh. No.” I agreed. “I am not trying to deceive you. But I do feel guilty for this.”

  “I don’t want you to feel guilty.” He said. “I’m enjoying your company.”

  “You are easy to talk to.”

  “Do you think that I’m a dirty old man?”

  “No.” I shrugged as I took another bite of food, my eyes on my plate.

  “Would you be upset if I said I thought you were handsome?”

  For the first time in my life, I set my fork down, ignoring food in front of me. I wasn’t upset or embarrassed. I was overwhelmed. Though my English was decent, and I could easily carry on a conversation, I knew it would be hard to explain to Peter how I felt.

  “I feel…” I laid my hands in my lap, my stomach in knots, though it was begging for more food, “I feel that I do not understand why you think that.”

  “Why?”

  Looking down at my meager clothes, then back at Peter, I tried to make him understand.

  “I did not help you with that awful man at the festival so that you would buy me dinner.”

  “I didn’t buy you dinner for any reason other than you helped me simply because it was the right thing to do, Enzo.” He stated gently. “You did a good deed simply because it was the right thing to do. I wanted to repay that kindness.”

  For a few moments, I allowed myself to stare at Peter to try and detect any hint of sarcasm or teasing of any kind, but nothing about him told me that he was being less than sincere. Finally, I picked up my fork and slid it into my salad again, my stomach feeling less tight.

  “I wish more people were kind.”

  “People usually aren’t kind to you?” He asked, skewering more salad for himself.

  “People are usually not kind at all,” I said, though my voice held no emotion. “People here are…they do not like the way I speak. Or my eyes. They think I am just poor immigrant who came here with my pockets empty and is congesting their city and living off of their public assistance. They think that I want things placed in my hand when I just want…I want…”

  Peter stared at me, his forkful of salad halfway to his mouth.

  “There is something I need to do after dinner,” I said softly. “If you would like to come with me, that would be okay. If you need to go to your…hotel?”

  “No.” He smiled. “Where do you need to go?”

  “I would like to go to church,” I said, nearly embarrassed, but I decided that the emotion was useless at that moment. “I have not said my prayers today.”

  Peter stared at me for a very long time, his fork hovering over his salad.

  “I can go to church with you.”

  “Okay.” Another bite of my salad.

  It was so delicious.

  “What religion are you?”

  “I am Catholic.”

  “Jeesh.” Peter grinned wickedly. “I don’t know now.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that.

  “I’ll go to church with you, Enzo.” He said again, his eyes radiating warmth. “But you have to do something for me after.”

  “What is it?” I asked cautiously.

  “I never meet someone like you when I travel. A local who’s so kind and handsome. You have to show me more of Montreal.”

  I smiled. “Okay.”

  “Great.”

  “I think you are handsome, too.” I murmured as I skewered more salad.

  Peter merely smiled as he dug into his salad, not embarrassing me by making a big deal out of my returning the sentiment.

  No Hands to Hold

  Moving from France to Canada was an adventure, that’s what my father told Noe, Ila, and me when my parents decided that my father would take a job in the Canadian province of Québec. For some reason, one that I still do not have a full explanation for, my parents decided that it was easier to move the entire family to Québec if we all became Canadian citizens. So, the arduous, lengthy, and costly process of moving to Canada and becoming citizens began. We found out that my father needed the proper credentials to work at his new job in Québec, we had to be permanent residents of Canada for a specific number of days within a five-year period, file Canadian taxes for three of those five years, and then we could apply for citizenship. The rest of us had to file paperwork to live in Canada with my father while he worked since we were not Canadian citizens. Later, after our move, we found out that Ila, Noe, and I did not have to meet the residency requirements to become Canadian citizens as long as our parents were in the process of applying for citizenship since we were minors, so the three of us became citizens within a few years of our move. My grandmother and parents did not live long enough after our move to ever become full citizens of our new homeland. Once all of my family was gone, I was alone and found out that I was a dual citizen of Canada and France, though I had no idea what to do with that information.

  When I was left all alone in my new homeland, I had a barely furnished apartment, a few clothes, and the debt of my parents that I was, fortunately, not responsible to repay. Though, I was left with nothing to make a life of my own, either. I had no friends since it had been difficult for me to make friends in my new school. The fact that my French was sometimes odd to the students in my new school, and my English was weak compared to my fellow
students made finding common ground frustrating. The fact that I had a brother with special needs, who did not look like he was my brother, and a sister with special needs, made me even more of an outcast. On more than one occasion, I was asked by other students what was “wrong with me.” It was more than once that the school called my parents to complain about how I responded to those types of questions. To me, explaining to fellow students that there was nothing wrong with me—and there was nothing wrong with my brother or sister—even if I laced that explanation with a handful of expletives, was perfectly acceptable. The school thought otherwise.

  My grandmother was the first in our family to leave us, though it was not as difficult to accept since she was older. People die when they get older. It is a sad fact, but one that you cannot dispute. No one lives forever. Like my grandfather, she seemed to just get older and older in a space of time that seemed overnight. There were numerous trips to the doctor and a few visits to the hospital, and it was made clear to us that many things were wrong with her health overall, but none all that unusual for someone of her “advanced age.” It was hard hearing that term: advanced age. My grandmother, while wrinkled and graying towards the end, never exuded anything but energy and warmth until she started to get sick. Then, seemingly overnight, she was no longer energetic and warm.

  One night, she went to sleep, and the next morning, she didn’t wake up.

  It was odd, burying my grandmother in a foreign land that none of us were citizens of at that point. But there was really nothing else that we could do then. Cremation could have been an option so that we could return to France and sprinkle the ashes on my grandfather’s grave or over some landmark that had meant something to her in life. But by that time, my father was ill. He was older than most men who had children my age, but he had always seemed younger, like my grandmother. Regardless of how he seemed, he was, in fact, ill, and the need to care for him and find a way to make money when he could not became our main priority. Thinking of taking my grandmother’s ashes back to France just so that she could be near my grandfather seemed a waste of resources.

  I’d like to think that my grandmother understood why she got buried in a foreign land, in a cemetery that none of her people were buried therein until later, but I am not so sure. Sometimes, when I think about what had to be done in the span of six years, just to ensure that someone in the family would be left, I am not sure of any of the decisions that were made. Those are not things you can change, however. I found myself dreaming that one day I would have so much money that I could have my family exhumed and cremated. Then I would personally take them all to France where they rightfully belonged. Or maybe I would keep them with me so that we would be a family again. Then I realize how morbid those thoughts are and push them out of my head.

  On my best days, I am sad that I cannot speak to my family. Not just because I miss them all, but because I want them to know that I am okay. And maybe to let them know how much I miss them. Oftentimes, I find myself wondering how I have been allowed my years when my brother and sister, who deserved the opportunity so much more, were not allowed the same. Mothers and fathers and grandmothers are expected to leave you. But brothers and sisters are supposed to be with you, hand in hand, until the end. They are supposed to be there with you, holding your hand in old age, reminiscing about the good days past and the ones that are still to come.

  But sometimes you reach out, and you find that there are no more hands to hold.

  So, you have to hold your own.

  The Things We Cannot Abide

  Peter was quiet and respectful as he sat in the pew a meter away from me as I knelt on the stone floor, my hands clasped together, my head bowed, and prayed. At The Lazy Duck, we had finished our salad and then found our second course was a wild mushroom risotto, which delighted us both. We carried on with our easy conversation as we ate the second course, nearly going so far as to lick our bowls clean. Our third course was lamb chops atop white beans with a green tea sauce, and we hungrily dug into that dish as well. By the time the fourth course came, a plate of cheeses and breads with nuts and jams, our bellies were extended, and Peter was on his second glass of wine, looking rosy-cheeked and cheerful. Seeing him warm and well fed, amazed by all of the wonderful food made me happy. I knew that The Lazy Duck had been the right choice. Our dessert was dark chocolate gelato drizzled with raspberry coulis with an orange-scented Tuile nestled atop. By the time Peter paid the bill, which I had asked nothing about, we had eaten and drank more than we had a right to have eaten or drank.

  We practically waddled out of the restaurant, feeling as though our coats would never button around us, though we managed the task admirably. As we waddle-walked down the street towards my favorite chapel, I wore Peter’s old black peacoat, and he wore his new fancy navy overcoat. The coats were warm and protected us from the icy wind that had settled in after the sun went down, but the amount of food we had ingested probably would have kept us warm just fine. The walk to the chapel went by quickly, though we were both walking slower than usual due to the food in our bellies because Peter was telling me about growing up in the United States.

  Though never interested in farming himself, he did, in fact, grow up on a farm in the western side of the state of Iowa, which seemed exotic and interesting to me at the time. Peter described to me the farmlands and rolling hills and plains, the bluffs and cliffs, and the many lakes. He told me about growing up carefree and running around barefoot during summers with his friends, then putting on heavy sweaters and coats and scarves during the often bitter, snowy winters. He spoke of building snowmen and making snow angels and snowball fights. He had no siblings, but he was fortunate enough to have neighbors nearby to play with during warm days in summer and snowy days during winter. Thanksgiving—held in November in the U.S. instead of in October like Canada—and Christmas were two of his favorite holidays, but Halloween was his absolute favorite.

  Autumn held a special kind of magic and wonder for him, though he was nearly forty years old. Halloween was an oddity to me then, as it pertained to America anyway. Peter told me about carving pumpkins and hayrides, warm apple cider and haunted houses, costumes, and going door to door for candy bars, scary movies, and doing fun activities with friends and family. Most of it seemed like crazed rituals that even my wildest thoughts couldn’t conjure up—but I wanted to experience all of it. From what I had seen in television shows and on the screen in cinemas, I knew that an American Halloween would be my favorite thing about the country.

  Thanksgiving in America was an exercise in hedonism, it seemed. It was relayed to me through Peter that many people in America had the day off—which was always the fourth Thursday of every November—to spend with their families. Food was consumed in the form of meats and casseroles and any number of side dishes. Wine and beer were drunk with abandon, and American football and parades were watched on T.V. Families came together to show thanks but also to make complete asses of themselves. Peter’s words, not mine. The following day, morbidly referred to as “Black Friday,” was the start of the Christmas shopping season. Peter tried to explain the day to me, but it was so horrifying that my expression caused him to sputter with laughter whenever he opened his mouth to tell me anything about the day.

  Eventually, he told me about Christmases and what they meant to him growing up with his mom and dad—both of whom were mercifully still alive—and the customs of his family. There was always a live Christmas tree, decorated with strings of lights with large bulbs and antique ornaments made of Mica glass that had been passed down by his grandmothers, the whole tree dripping with tinsel. Christmas Eve was always a big affair in his family, for that was when everyone got together for a big meal—and his family was big. They would eat until they were nearly sick and sing songs around a Player piano while the kids drank hot chocolate and ate sweets, and the parents drank wine and spiked cider. Then everyone would disperse, and Santa Claus would come in the middle of the night, so of course, Christmas morning
continued the wonder and merriment.

  While I didn’t have much experience with Halloween or Thanksgiving—Halloween not being a big deal in France when I was a child—and Thanksgiving became a new holiday when we moved to Canada—I told him about my memories of Christmas. He was not surprised since we were headed to a church, that our Christmases revolved around our faith. There was Midnight Mass and Christmas Mass, of course, but we often spent most of Christmas Day at the church, usually at my mother’s insistence. We would open presents very early in the morning, even though we had been to church so late at night, so we could get to church again later in the morning. By the time that all of the church-going was finished, we kids would rather go back to bed than to play with our gifts. But our home life and our Christmases were wonderful because our family had love. I told Peter about Réveillon, how it was like an American Thanksgiving, where people in France would eat course after course of food, stuffing their faces, and celebrate their togetherness.

  I told Peter about how Noe had come into my life as my brother when I was barely ten-years-old, so I had experienced more Christmases as a child with him than with Ila. Explaining how Noe found it difficult to tolerate flashing lights and loud noises, so most of my toys could not have the batteries put into them, but we still had fun playing with them. When Ila came a few years later, Christmas became an even more joyous event because seeing the wonder on Ila’s face reminded me of how joyful the holiday was for our family. Even though we had hard times, what with neighbors who didn’t want Noe in their yard, and church members who were disgusted by Ila’s Downs, we had each other. And I had never wanted more than that.

  Well, that wasn’t necessarily true.

  I had wanted better lives for my brother and sister from the time they became part of our family until they were no longer with me.