by Chris Kenry
After dinner that night, as we all sat around the table drinking coffee and picking at the remains of the seven-layer birthday torte my mother had made according to the rigid guidelines in the May issue of Martha Stewart Living, the conversation, as usual, turned to business and moneymaking. Business is my father’s hobby, in the same way my mother has her hobbies, but with the obvious difference that he has kept the same one seemingly since birth, and she changes hers with dizzying frequency.
“I’ve always been at the right place at the right time,” my father was saying. “Most people think that’s lucky, but really there’s little, if any, luck involved in it. I’ve always positioned myself to be there.”
We had all heard this before, with the exception of Susan, who now sat entranced by his business lore.
“I was in the oil business in the fifties and sixties,” he said. “But I could see the money leaving there, so I got into computers. Now it’s cell phones. Keep one step ahead of trends, that’s what I always say; that way, when everyone else catches up, I’m ready with something to sell them.”
Susan nodded reverently, stirring her coffee.
“Now you must have had some foresight to have jumped on the temp bandwagon,” he said.
“Well, yes,” she said proudly, “I suppose I did. I worked for an insurance company while I was completing my M.B.A. and I remember wishing I had a less demanding job since my studies were taking up so much of my time. I kept thinking, ‘I know all of these computer languages, I’m a great manager, surely I could find something less taxing.’ I noticed we were using a lot of temporary employees to do some of our more menial data entry and clerical stuff, and that the agency employing them was doing a really sloppy job with their billing and scheduling, and I realized I could do it better. It was that simple.”
“The best ideas usually are,” said my father.
“Isn’t she great!” said Jay, squeezing Susan’s hand and giving her an admiring gaze.
“Yes, she is,” said my father. “She’ll make a lovely addition to the family. But what does she think about marrying a lawyer?”
“I think it will be wonderful,” she said, and smiled shyly.
“Jay had a future in software design,” Dad said. “I don’t know why he decided to change direction midstream. Law seems a little unstable.”
“Come on, Dad,” Jay protested. “You know how much I hated it. I’m like you—I don’t like working for other people. Especially other people who are dumber than me and expect me to sink to their level.”
“But law?” said Dad, a sour look on his face. “You’ll always be working for someone else. Usually some criminal thug.”
Jay laughed. “At least that will make it interesting! But seriously, Dad, that’s the way it is with any job. You work for your customers, Susan works for her clients, Carey works for the hospital and her patients. Jack . . .”
He paused awkwardly.
“Well, Jack will be doing the same thing.”
I suppose I should have felt flattered that I got a mention, since my mother, absently sipping her coffee like an autistic child, her mind off on her koi pond or her teahouse, was overlooked completely.
“My point is,” Jay continued, “we all work for someone else. At least as a lawyer I’ll be more puppetmaster than puppet.”
“And what,” said my father, shifting his weight and his gaze toward me, “is to become of my other son?” Suddenly all was quiet, and all eyes, even my mother’s, turned to me. There was an expectant silence. It was like I’d just mentioned E. F. Hutton and everyone was waiting to hear my investment tips. I shrugged and tried to look nonchalant, but my intestines felt like they were digesting broken glass.
“Are you still working at the gym?” Jay asked, breaking the silence, knowing full well that I was.
“Oh, yeah,” I said cheerfully, “but only part-time.”
“Can they make you full-time,” he asked, “or would you even want to do that?”
“Funny you should mention that,” I lied. “Because I actually talked to them today about going full-time, which I’d like to do and they would too, but right now they can’t afford it.”
“They can’t afford it,” my father said derisively. “Hell, you can’t afford it. You need something that will pay the bills. What do they pay you there anyway? Six, seven bucks an hour?”
“What about going back to school?” Susan chimed in.
“Yes,” said Jay, enthusiastically. “I’ve always thought you should take the LSAT.”
“Christ.” Carey groaned. “You think everyone should take the LSAT. You just want to have a higher score than all of us.”
“That’s only partially true,” Jay said, smiling slyly. “I also think Jack would do well in law school. It gives life some structure.”
“I don’t know,” I said hesitantly, wishing we could get off this topic.
“You’d make a great lawyer,” said Susan. “You’re good-looking, you’re articulate, you have a strong voice—”
“Good God, Susan,” Jay protested. “There’s a little more to it than that! You make it sound like being a newscaster.”
“Sorry, darling,” she said, laughing slightly.
“Well, if not law,” Jay said, “maybe you should go back for something else, like an M.B.A., or even an M.F.A.”
“I have thought about it,” I said, and my mind recalled the many discussions I’d had with Paul on the very same subject, Paul dealing out the possibilities like cards and me unable to make sense of my hand, totally uninterested in the game.
“I don’t know that going back to school is really the answer,” I said. “I mean, there are lots of things I’d like to study, but nothing that will help me find work. As much as I hate to admit it, Dad is right: I need to make money.”
“What?” my dad said, cupping his hand around his ear theatrically. “Did everyone hear that? Did someone just say they think Dad’s advice is wise? I don’t believe my ears, but I’ll throw in my two cents and agree: the last thing you need is another useless degree.”
It always went this way: my father making me look stupid and me not knowing what to say.
“Now, Steen, stop,” Mom interrupted. “His degree is not useless! I’ve learned a lot about arrangement, color, and anesthetics from Jack.”
Carey and Jay snickered; Susan bit her lip. “Mom,” said Carey, “I think you mean aesthetics, not anesthetics.”
“Whatever,” she said, dismissing the correction with a wave of her hand and turning to me.
“You were an enormous help when it came to positioning the artwork the last time we redecorated, and the cushions we’re all sitting on now—I never could have found them without your help. So don’t you listen to your father and his talk about a useless degree.” She leaned closer to me, shielded her mouth from my father’s view with a cupped hand, and whispered, “His little phones are not the most useful things in the world.”
“Barbara!” he roared. “I can hear you quite clearly, and let me remind you that those useless little phones are what enable you to have any goddamned chairs at all.” His voice was stern but he was smiling, as was she.
“My point,” she continued, speaking to me but looking at my father, “is that maybe you need to try to make money doing something that you love instead of trying to fit yourself into the business mold. I mean, you’re very good at ast . . . asmat . . .”
“Aesthetics,” I said.
“Yes. And I think maybe you should do interiors, or some sort of design work.”
A collective groan.
“Thanks, Mom.” I sighed. “I appreciate the compliments, but I think the last thing the world—or the market—needs is another gay decorator.”
“Another wise thing coming from my son’s mouth,” said Dad. “That makes two tonight. I think you should go for the hat trick.” He chuckled a moment, but then became serious again, gesturing at me with his coffee spoon.
“Look, son,” he said. “When
your mother and I started out it wasn’t easy. We lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment and certainly didn’t have meals like we had tonight.”
My siblings and I exchanged expressions of Oh, no, not again, and settled back for what we knew was coming.
“I wanted to be with my new bride more than anything,” he said, smug and self-righteous. “But I knew that sacrifices had to be made. I had to travel and work all the time to get myself established. The answers weren’t just going to pop out at me. And that’s what you need to realize: work is just that—work. Regardless of what you do. You have to work at it to make it succeed.”
It was alarming how similar he and Paul sounded. I had heard this same speech countless times during the last year we were together.
“Look at your sister,” he said. “She’s not completely sure which direction she’s headed, but she’s working hard. She hates her job, but then so do most people. Most of the time I’m not wild about mine—”
This was a bold-faced lie.
“—but I have to do it, and usually the payoff outweighs the tedium.”
I was thankful my sister interjected here, holding up her black-nailed hand in protest.
“If I can interrupt the prophet of doom for a minute. First of all, I do not hate my job. I hate the ass-wiping and mopping up puke, but for the most part, I love it, which is why I went into the field I’m in and not something like accounting. Not because it pays well, because God knows it doesn’t pay enough, but because I like it. Mom is right,” she said, looking at our father, but speaking to me, “you’d better do what you like, or at least something you can stand, or you’ll never be successful. I mean, look at Dad. He complains and whines, like most men his age, but he’s doing something he loves. He loves it so much it’s hard to keep him off the subject. And Jay, look at Jay, who loves law so much he thinks everyone should be a lawyer. Why did he quit computers? Because he hated it. It sucked. It was the wrong thing. And when you realize that, it takes a lot of courage to change your course, but it beats the shit out of the alternative.”
Jay nodded his agreement, seemingly amazed at Carey’s uncharacteristic burst of eloquence. I too was surprised, and regarded her with a warm feeling in my heart. It did not last.
“You’re smart, Jack, you have an amazing body, and you’re good with people. I think you’re a natural for physical therapy.”
“Physical therapy!” I cried, somewhat disgusted, as I pictured myself in a tepid whirlpool surrounded by harnessed old women in skirted, one-piece bathing suits.
“Now don’t knock it,” she said, becoming very animated. “CU has this really awesome program that only takes three years, and I have this friend, a guy whose sister used to work with me in the head shop, and he’s just like you. He’s not a fag or anything, at least I don’t think he is, but who knows. Anyway, he’s totally into working out, just like you, and you’re both also really patient with people. You’re totally alike. You’d be perfect. This guy has almost a year left until he graduates and he’s already getting job offers. It would be so cool if you got in, because then we could both go to—” She stopped abruptly and looked around coyly, and then back at me.
“Well, that’s just what I think you should do,” she concluded.
I eyed her quizzically, wondering what she hadn’t said, but she was looking down at her lap.
“Back to your point about doing what you love,” said Dad, and went off into a long-winded oratory on how if everyone did only what they loved the world would be full of candy makers, etc.... I tuned him out almost completely and thought instead of what my next boyfriend would be like. The one who would come and rescue me from the ivy-covered turret late some night. I was almost to the point where we sped away in his big Jaguar, or maybe it would be a Range Rover, up into the hills, when I was rudely awakened from my reverie by a smack in the side of the head with a flying piece of frosting that had been catapulted from my sister’s fork across the table. Without missing a beat I quickly grabbed at the remnants of my torte and flung them at her as she attempted to duck beneath the table.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” said Dad, throwing his napkin down on the table in disgust.
“Children!” my mother shrieked. “The wallpaper!”
We stopped almost as suddenly as we’d started, my sister, brother, mother, and I all laughing uncontrollably. My father looked annoyed, and Susan, the newcomer, not knowing how to react, looked down at her plate trying to control her giggles.
“Honestly, Caroline!” My mother laughed. “You’re twenty-six going on thirteen.”
“Well, my God,” Carey said, “Dad’s lecture was getting so damn boring I had to do something.”
“You had to bring the attention back to you,” Dad said angrily. “If there’s one thing I hope you twins can learn as you creep ever so slowly toward adulthood it’s that there are more diplomatic ways of changing the subject than by making a scene.”
“Oh, screw diplomacy.” Carey laughed. “It’s my birthday.” Then looking at me she added, “It’s our birthday. And besides, have I ever got a subject changer!”
She got up and ran out of the room, returning with her hefty purse, which she set on the table and rummaged through until she found the envelope she was looking for. Waving it significantly in front of us she asked, “Are you ready for this?” We all nodded and she removed the letter and read the following:
Dear Ms. Thompson:
After stringent revue of your test scores, recommendations, and work history, it is with great pleasure that we offer you a place in the University of Colorado School of Medicine. . . .
We all listened attentively, too shocked to say anything. My mother was the first to speak.
“Oh, my God, Carey!” she cried, amazed. “A doctor! This calls for champagne!” And like a black-and-blond lightning bolt she ran through the swinging door to the kitchen, thrilled to have another occasion to furnish.
My father had tears running down his cheeks, which was almost frightening because he never cries.
“I’m so proud of you, honey,” he said, smiling at Carey and getting up to give her a hug.
“We all are,” said Jay, taking Susan’s hand in his and presenting a united front of happiness.
“A doctor. Wow!” said Susan.
“Way to go, little sister!” said Jay, and he put up his hand for a high five.
“Jack,” said Carey, noticing my lack of enthusiasm. “What’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet.”
And I don’t doubt I was.
“What? Oh ... I’m just . . . so proud of you,” I stammered, my voice more bewildered than congratulatory.
She wasn’t buying it, and eyed me angrily from across the table, clearly disappointed that I wasn’t happy. Then her expression softened somewhat and I saw that she understood, even before I did, and was sympathetic. She understood that I was happy for her but that in contrast to her I now looked even more pathetic than I had earlier that evening. It was our twenty-sixth birthday, and her stock was soaring through the roof while mine was about to crash through the floor. She was going to medical school and was going to be a doctor. My stoner twin sister, who had been virtually written off as a lost cause years ago, had just announced that she’d been accepted into medical school! I was unemployed and living with my parents. I had never in my life held a job that paid more than six dollars an hour, but had, nevertheless, amassed debts equivalent to the GNP of some third-world countries. If that wasn’t bad enough I had a brother who had just gotten engaged and had just graduated with honors from law school. There I sat, numb, frosting dripping off my ear, trying desperately not to cry.
Through the swinging door separating the dining room from the kitchen I caught glimpses of my mother arranging the champagne flutes on a silver tray and folding a crisp linen napkin around the bottle. She looked over her arrangement critically and smiled, satisfied. Then, from one of the folds of her tunic, she pulled out what looked like a small compact and held it
at a distance, evidently checking her hair and makeup in its small mirror. Again satisfied, she returned it to her pocket.
As I watched her, I thought about insurance, of all things, and wondered what would happen to her if my father suddenly died and left her no money, no insurance. How would she survive? I thought how the two of us were alike: excelling at esoteric hobbies, but when it came down to putting a roof over our heads or food on the table, what did we know? Oh, we knew all about organic herb gardening, and Georgian furniture, and innovative ways to make centerpieces. We knew the correct way to set a formal table for a variety of occasions, and what to look for when buying an artichoke, but what skills did we have that could be considered marketable? This was not so important for my mother, as she has an arrangement with my father—he is the provider and she is the homemaker.
That is what they’ll put in her obituary, I thought. Barbara Thompson, homemaker. And it’s right that they should. She was remarkable as a mother, and had excelled at patiently nurturing and raising her children, excelled at taking care of her husband, at maintaining an elegant home, so who could begrudge her a few frivolous, expensive hobbies? She and my father are from a different era, and their marriage is different from the equal and independent marriages of today. She was a prize for him and he kept her like something to be treasured. In exchange, she bore him children, kept a beautiful home, entertained his associates, and kept him entertained. It was a good model for them, and one that had worked for thirty-five years. Unfortunately, I was realizing then, I had adopted their model in my relationship with Paul and it clearly hadn’t worked. Paul had never wanted a dependent “wife” to support, but he did want me, so he put up with my expensive hobbies and my laziness. But instead of being grateful for his indulgence, I regarded him as stupid, gullible, and weak. A pushover. A patsy.
My parents’ relationship was symbiotic, like the bird that rides on the rhino’s back, picking off bugs. The rhino gets relief from the bugs and the bird gets food and protection—both the rhino and the bird benefit. My relationship with Paul was more parasitic: I was, as my father said, the tapeworm, happily feeding off of Paul while he stoically endured the considerable discomfort.