I’m going to dare to say it now——so brace yourself——the thing we never talk about: the fact that you can’t bear to touch me, or have me touch you. Not even an accidental brushing of the hands, a bump of shoulders, knees under the table. Certainly not the kind of touching most children have regularly: a hand on a fevery forehead, a game of tickling, a goodnight kiss. For years I made up excuses for you, and tried to convince myself you didn’t really hate me as much as you hated Dad. But the evidence didn’t confirm it.
So I took all the sadness of the divorce, and all the love I’d once had for both of you, and all the fear I had of being alone, and turned it into a stone wall to hide behind. To protect myself. I’m so protected now, dear Mother, sometimes I feel like I’m barely alive.
I am immune to emotion. And I hate you for it.
Your loving son,
John
Dear Dad,
The letter to Mom was easier. Because even though I’m mad at her for lots of things, I still want to tell her about it. So I guess that means I think she might still be able to hear what I’m saying. I don’t really think you’ll be listening, but since this is only an exercise, (or maybe an exorcism?) I’ll try to figure out what it is I have to say to you too.
Even though I blame you more than Mom for the miseries of my growing up, I don’t hate you. Maybe that’s because hate is such a strong emotion, and you don’t really call up any feeling in me at all. Who are you? A guy who left his wife and child because they didn’t fit the selfish lifestyle he preferred. A guy who eats dinner with his kid every Friday night, but has nothing to say to him. A guy who didn’t realize his son even existed until the kid brought a girl home and draped her jeans over the shower rail.
Maybe you’re more than that. I know in your sophisticated, literary world people think you’re a big deal. I thought so too until I was ten years old. Maybe someday I’ll write a brilliant novel, and then you’ll want to know who I am, you’ll want to tell everybody, “That’s my son!”
And I’ll say, “I remember you. You’re the guy I used to always see at Bertucci’s on Friday nights. When I had dinner there by myself.”
Your egotistically named son,
John Frances Galardi Jr.
Chapter Eleven
I saw the letter on top of the pile of mail on the kitchen counter when I got back from doing prom errands with Brian, picking up the tuxedos and flowers. But Brian was obviously settling in for a while, scavenging through the fridge for bagels and cream cheese, so I tried to ignore it. Why would Marisol send me a letter? I’d be seeing her in a few hours, wouldn’t I?
We hadn’t had a decent phone conversation since I’d seen her last, that morning at Dad’s. She was always in a hurry and couldn’t talk long. Yesterday I’d finally gotten her to stay on the line long enough to give her directions to my house, which she didn’t seem all that interested in. She kept saying, “I can find it, I can find it.”
Finally, I said, “You are coming, aren’t you?”
“I said I’d come. I don’t lie, Gio.” She sounded furious.
“Look, if you don’t want to come …” I couldn’t finish the sentence. What would I do if she didn’t come? The humiliation of it, and the money already spent, were nothing compared to the pitiful ache I could feel already, in my throat and in my chest, just imagining I might not be with her after all. But then I shook myself out of it. What was wrong with me? Did I expect something momentous to occur at a high school prom? If Marisol backed out, I’d live.
“Let’s not discuss this anymore, okay?” she said, a little more calmly. “I’ll be there at six o’clock. I’ll pick you up, and we’ll meet your friends at what’s-her-name’s house.”
“Emily,” I said. “You won’t like her.”
“Can’t wait. Gotta run.” And that was that.
I realized Brian had been yakking away while he toasted bagels and polished off Mom’s tomato juice. He seemed to be praising himself for his taste in corsages.
“Her dress is white, so any color would have been okay, I guess, but the pink roses are really classy, don’t you think? I’ve never seen roses that tiny before, have you? I never even realized roses came in so many colors. Did you like the pink the best? I could have gone with the yellow ones, but …” I couldn’t listen to it.
“Your corsage is nice too. Kind of dark. I mean a purple orchid on a black dress, but if you think she’ll like it.”
I didn’t really think she’d like anything. She didn’t want to come; what difference would a purple orchid make?
Brian was so excited, I was almost jealous of him. He was crazy about that goofy little freshman, and she liked him too. Who’d have guessed that could happen? I let him blab on for about an hour, interjecting just enough verbiage that he believed we were having a conversation. Finally I convinced him to leave so we’d both have time to disinfect every pore of our nervous male bodies before the curtain went up on tonight’s show.
At the door he reminded me: “The limo comes at six thirty, but get there before that because Emily’s mom wants to take pictures of us.”
“Don’t worry.” I knew I ought to tell him that Marisol wasn’t really my girlfriend. Wasn’t interested in me that way at all. Was, in fact, gay. I didn’t expect her to hide it from anybody, and yet, I didn’t feel like announcing it either. It would just come out naturally. That way it wouldn’t be a big thing. Nobody would care.
I closed the door on Brian, walked slowly to the kitchen like there was thin ice under my feet, and sliced open the letter from Marisol, my hands actually shaking. It’s mail, I told myself. What are you afraid of? There was only one sheet of paper inside with a poem on it. A Post-it note in the middle of the page said, “Not for the zine. You’ll see what I mean.”
I didn’t read it right away; I had to calm down first. I was a frigging mess just imagining getting through this whole prom event. In fact, my nerves had been shot ever since I wrote those letters to my parents. Marisol hadn’t mentioned that side effect. It was like my skin had all of a sudden been turned nerve-side-out. The letters were hidden under a pile of socks and boxers in a drawer, but I’d have to move them somewhere else or give up changing my under-wear. Every time I opened that drawer a cold wind shook me like some kind of supernatural force.
The poem was printed out on plain white paper, not decorated like a zine poem might be. No stickers or drawings or pictures—nothing playful about this communication. I could tell, by the title and by the timing, this was a poem for me. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was read it.
You’re Not Listening
I am invisible if I don’t
tell you. You’ll write my
lines however it suits you.
I haven’t lied, but you’re not
listening.
I needed your
affection. I didn’t think
it would affect me. You
are asking me to change
without a word.
We have in common trusting
no one. I rely on you
to want the wrong things.
You long for the pain
I can give you.
Won’t be long before I leave
you now we’ve solved
the initial mystery.
Couldn’t we just be
patron saints?
I am invisible if I don’t
tell you. You’ll write my
lines however it suits you.
I haven’t lied; it’s time you
started listening.
Marisol pulled up right at six, parked her mother’s Nissan at the curb, and got out. I’d been ready for forty-five minutes, hiding upstairs so I wouldn’t have to talk to Mom, and reapplying deodorant more than once. I’d finally decided not to mention the poem at all; whatever message I was supposed to get from it (I’m sick of you?) I could reflect on later, or she could bring it up herself. I wasn’t going to beg for trouble tonight. Besides, I did
n’t even feel like myself in this stupid penguin costume; I felt like I’d put on some hyperactive guy’s personality too. The minute I saw the car, I headed for the stairs. “Bye, Mom!” I yelled. “See you in the morning.”
“Wait a minute!” She was getting ready to go out to dinner with Al, just tunneling the final earring through her lobe. “I want to at least meet this girl.”
What could I say? She followed me down the stairs. I was prepared to open the door to the Spider Woman, or even Morticia Addams, but I was not prepared for the woman who was standing on the doorstep.
“I’m here,” Marisol announced without a trace of humor. Except for her voice I might have thought this little apparition was a twin, or merely a hallucination. She was draped in black, or maybe wrapped would be closer to the truth, from the high collar that stopped just under her chin, down both arms to points over her middle finger, around her slim hips and down to her ankles with only a little escape hatch in the back over her heels so she could walk without tripping.
“Wow.”
“It’s from the Forties, they told me.”
“You look like Audrey Hepburn,” I said.
She sniffed. “In what? Breakfast at Wal-Mart?” She caught sight of Mom hovering in the background. “Hi.”
“Hello there. Come in for a minute,” Mom said, backing up and making way. She kept pulling on the sides of her hairdo as if she was trying to cover her ears.
“Mom, this is Marisol; Marisol, my mother.” I did the intro as fast as possible, figuring to dash out right away, but then I remembered the corsage chilling in the fridge like a head of lettuce. “I’ll be right back,” I said, abandoning them to each other.
“What an elegant dress,” Mom said. “It does look like something Audrey Hepburn would have worn.”
“You think so?” Marisol said. “Audrey probably wouldn’t have worn these boots with it, though.” When I got back with the orchid, she was sticking her foot backward out of the hem slit to show Mom her old reliable boots, as scuffed up as ever.
I guess Ms. Van Esterhausen wasn’t too sure what to make of the whole outfit. “Well, you don’t really see the shoes anyway under a long skirt,” she said diplomatically.
“Except when I walk,” Marisol pointed out.
I struggled to get the corsage out of its box. “Is this okay? I mean, you don’t mind wearing it, do you?” I held up the orchid.
“Of course she doesn’t mind, you silly!” By now Mom was looking back and forth between the two of us, trying to figure out what was going on. I guess we didn’t seem like your usual junior class twosome.
“It’s nice,” Marisol said, forcing a grin to her lips.
“Now, where are you from, Marisol?” The inquisition had begun.
“Cambridge,” she said.
“Puerto Rico,” I said, weaving the straight pin around the flower stem and biting my tongue with the effort.
“He means originally,” Marisol explained, flinching as the pin grazed her skin. The orchid’s head flopped to one side.
“Isn’t that interesting?” Mom said. I guess she was too confused by that answer to ask anything else.
“Shit!” I plunged the pin into my own fat thumb.
“Oh here, let me pin Marisol’s corsage on—you go look in the mirror and get your boutonniere in place,” Mom said. It wasn’t until I’d handed her the corsage and dutifully marched into the bathroom that it hit me; Mom could pin the flower on Marisol, but she couldn’t do it for me. I’m not sure how long I stood there staring at myself in the mirror, trying to see if it was visible, the thing that was so repulsive about me my own mother couldn’t bear to come in contact with it.
“We’d better go,” Marisol called out.
I got the dark red rose pinned on in one try, then walked right past them both toward the front door. “I’m ready.”
“It’s too bad I don’t have any film in the camera to take a picture,” Mom said.
“Oh, that would be too much to expect,” I said, grabbing Marisol’s black elbow and propelling us down the path toward the car. The material was slippery under my hand. Right. Another person I just couldn’t grasp.
By the time we crawled into the car, Mom had already closed the front door. No nostalgic waving from the porch for her. She was on to more important things.
Marisol started the car. “What’s the matter? You mad your mother didn’t take a picture of us?”
I had to laugh. “A picture? She hasn’t taken a picture of me since I was a little kid.”
“Really?”
“That’s nothing.” I shook my head. “She hasn’t even …” My voice got clotted all of a sudden. I’d never said it out loud, never told anybody, and it seemed like I couldn’t. I shook my head again.
“She hasn’t even what? What were you going to say?”
I cleared my throat. “Hasn’t touched me. Not since I was ten.”
“Hasn’t touched you? What do you mean? She doesn’t hug you?”
“Doesn’t let any part of her body come in contact with any part of mine. Like with the boutonniere. She’d never be able to pin it on me. But she could touch you without a problem. She touches her new boyfriend. It’s just me. She’s crazy.”
“That’s awful, Gio!” Marisol took her eyes off the road to find mine, but I looked out the window. “I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“You haven’t?”
“Of course not. She’s your mother!”
“I know. I wrote her a letter.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I won’t give it to her though. It’s too mean.”
“It’s good you wrote it, though. It helps, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “I guess. I wrote one to my dad, too. Possibly even meaner.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this stuff before?”
“I don’t think about it that much.”
“Well, it certainly explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
I snickered. “You mean it explains why I’m so crazy?”
“You’re not crazy. Don’t let her make you crazy! You can’t let her!” Marisol demanded. I couldn’t promise. I couldn’t really talk about it anymore either. Not if I wanted to arrive at this prom in one psychological piece.
We didn’t say anything else until we got to Emily’s house. I wondered if Marisol was thinking about the poem she’d sent me. Whether it was too mean too. (It was.)
Brian and Emily were already outside the house posing for pictures when we drove up. Brian’s mother was there with both of Emily’s parents, recording every moment of our glorious departure.
Before we got out of the car, Marisol said, “They do know about me, don’t they?”
Here it goes. “I meant to tell them, but—”
“They think I’m your girlfriend?” Her voice rose in surprise.
“You don’t have to act like my girlfriend. I don’t expect you to.”
“I thought the idea of this was to be funny, to sort of goof on the whole thing …”
“I didn’t say that.” What was the idea anyway?
“Well, give me a clue here. Who am I supposed to be, anyway?”
“Yourself! Look, I’ll tell them right now if you want. ‘Marisol is a lesbian. She has no interest in me whatsoever. This whole thing is a farce.’ Okay?” I could feel anger heating up my face, but who was I mad at?
“Calm down, for God’s sake. You’re a mess tonight.” We both stared out the window at the yellow ranch house across the street, a kid on a tricycle. Lucky kid: He had years before he’d have to deal with this prom crap. “You don’t have to say anything now. Let’s see how it goes. I won’t lie, though—you know that.”
Before I could respond, the passenger-side door was ripped open by Mrs. Cookson, Brian’s mother.
“Here you are! Come on out! Don’t be shy! We want to see you!” She was mercilessly enthusiastic. We had no choice.
No sooner had we closed the car doors than Emily’s f
ather turned the camcorder on us. “Hey, you two. Walk over here.” The group was assembled in front of a big salmon-colored rhododendron bush. “Smile! Wave!” Mr. Prine directed as he backed across the lawn. I felt ridiculous. Who gets out of a car smiling and waving?
“Hey, John!” Brian yelled, though his eyes were quite busy taking in Marisol.
John. How could I have forgotten about that little problem?
While Mrs. Prine arranged us in front of the shrubbery, I introduced everybody. Emily was dressed to look as entirely opposite of Marisol as possible: short, strapless, and all in white except for Brian’s pig-pink roses, which were fastened to her wrist like a decorative growth.
“I love your dress,” Emily said unconvincingly, eyeing the booted hemline. Marisol smiled, but did not return the compliment.
After a beat or two she said, “It takes a good complexion to be able to wear white.”
“Thanks!” Emily said, convinced she had the good complexion it took.
“So, here’s the mystery woman,” Brian said, winking at Marisol. You had to wonder how this could be the same guy who, a few short months ago, would have swallowed his tongue standing next to somebody who looked like Marisol.
“Gio hasn’t told me much about you either.”
“Gio?” Brian looked at me quizzically. “You call John Gio?”
She looked at me.
“The thing is, when we met—” I started.
“I call him that—” she interrupted.
“It’s kind of a —” I tried again.
“Nickname,” Marisol said quietly. And I knew I’d have to pay for the lies sometime, mine and hers, small and white though they were.
“The four of you look over here now,” Mrs. Prine ordered. We spent the next ten minutes taking posing directions from both mothers: boys in back, girls in front; everybody in a line; each couple separately; the boys alone; the girls together. (That one was a hoot: tiny Marisol stood on the steps in back of robust Emily like an evil spirit perched on her shoulder or a bad conscience getting ready to whisper.)
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