by Nancy Geary
“I try very hard not to dwell too much on the past,” Ferris said, forcing a laugh. “Been there, done that seems to me a healthier approach.” He glanced down at the floor. “But when I’m here, especially, I can’t seem to help myself. This house is so full of history. I wonder about the chosen and the bypassed paths, the ones in my life and the ones in yours, too.”
“It’s never too late to change directions if that’s what you want. Look at Dad,” Grace said, trying to infuse the conversation with a lighter tone. It was Christmas, after all. She wanted to feel a sense of celebration or, absent that, at least of getting through the holiday without being too morose.
Her strategy worked. The thought of William’s escapades made them both laugh. That he’d fallen in love with the neighbors’ au pair, a young girl from Bordeaux who barely spoke a word of English, was shocking enough. But that he’d failed to mention it, had married her in secret, and had led a clandestine life for ten years was comical. It was only when they decided to sell the house on Beacon Hill and move to a château somewhere south of Paris that he’d confessed she was his bride. Although William had extended several invitations since he’d established residency abroad, neither Ferris nor Grace had managed to make the journey.
“Perhaps there’s a lesson in that,” Ferris replied. “Dear old Dad, experiencing the joys of Viagra.”
Grace was relieved to see him smile at his own humor.
The sound of running feet broke the quiet of their interchange. India and Deshawn crashed into the gangly legs of their great-uncle, nearly toppling Ferris. Behind them came Marley, or rather Marley’s enormous belly, judging by Grace’s view. The woman was still a month away from delivering their third child, but she appeared ready to explode at any moment, a prospect she accentuated with her version of maternity chic—a Lycra top and skirt that barely managed to stretch around her. Even the contour of her protruding belly button showed.
Erin, Bain, and Hank brought up the rear.
“Susan’s putting Henry down,” Hank explained. “She said to start without her, which I recommend we do. By the time she gets through the required pre-nap reading, it’ll be midnight.”
Grace and Bain needn’t have bothered with the seating arrangement since, after proceeding through the buffet line, everyone sat where they wanted. Grace found herself between Deshawn and Marley, while Hank monopolized his father’s ear at the far end of the table. Erin sat in a middle seat with India on his lap. Across from him, Ferris stared blankly at the wall, lost in thought.
“Inventory is definitely low, especially in the single-family and three-bedroom range. People are buying, not renting,” Grace overheard Hank say.
“What about corporate transfers? They’re always a ready rental pool,” Bain replied.
“I hear you. But the transfers aren’t coming my way. There are too many specialty firms doing that now.” Hank emptied the bottle of Merlot without so much as a glance to see if anyone else’s glass needed refilling. “My market is definitely soft. Frankly, it may be time to reposition myself. I’m thinking about mortgage brokering. Interest rates have gotten so competitive that even the institutional lenders are willing to pay to have customers brought in.”
Grace wished she had headphones. She wanted to hear something invigorating, a Puccini aria or a Vivaldi sonata. Her son the mortgage broker—no doubt an appropriate development to keep himself out of the unemployment line, but it wasn’t what she would have ever imagined as a career choice.
Deshawn had fallen asleep in an awkward position with his head partially on her lap. She adjusted him slightly, repositioning his body so that her thighs served as a better pillow. His mouth opened, his lips curved in the circular shape of babies still accustomed to a nipple. She gently stroked his cheek and ran her fingers through his soft curls.
Blocking out the conversation, she focused instead on the warmth of Deshawn’s body and the tinkling of silverware on the china plates. The candlelight flickered off the crystal and silver, and the red glass cast a warm sheen on the table. Her meal was a success; little remained in the dishes on the sideboard. Self-congratulations were better than nothing, and since her family seemed to have forgotten that protocol, she silently offered up the finest of compliments to her own culinary expertise. She’d pulled off casual elegance whether anyone acknowledged it or not.
“So has Erin told you about our plan?” Marley’s voice interrupted her musing.
“Why, no,” she replied, feeling dread even before Marley began to elaborate. “What plan is that?”
“He’s quitting his job, selling the business.”
She rested her hand against Deshawn’s back and felt his sides rise and fall with each breath. “Now? Just when his maple sugar company is starting to be profitable?” Grace vaguely remembered Bain relaying that news a few months before. The Ben & Jerry’s deal had never materialized, but he had managed to sign a contract to supply a small candy outfit.
“Yeah.” Marley rolled her eyes. “That took a while. Which might mean he could collect a couple of thousand for the whole kit and caboodle. We don’t care at this point. It’s more important for him to be home with the kids than engaged in some capitalist venture that frankly is only going to result in a lot of rotten teeth.”
“Home with the children,” Grace mumbled, trying to keep the alarm out of her voice.
“Erin is so maternal. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“But—but—” Grace stammered. She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say. Marley was supposed to be the maternal one. Erin was the father. What happened to the man as provider? What was either of them planning to live on, let alone their children?
She glanced down the table at Bain. He’d taken care of her. Even with their more recent financial pressures, she’d never really worried or wondered. He was in charge. Wasn’t that what a husband was supposed to be?
Then it occurred to her. They would turn to Bain for help, as Erin had done so often in the past. But a thousand-dollar investment in his start-up company was a far cry from covering the needs of a family of five.
“How is your . . . your massage business?” Grace asked finally. At least let there be one source of income.
Marley shot her a stern expression. “I’m a healer, not a masseuse. And my practice has really blossomed. The bond with my clients is intense. I’m wondering how they’ll manage in the few weeks I’m out with the new baby. Two of them want to come to participate in the delivery.”
Virtual strangers watching the most intimate moment in someone’s life? The thought made her stomach turn. “What did Erin have to say about that?”
“Actually, he was very receptive to the idea. India and Deshawn will be with us, too.”
Grace scanned the table. There was nothing left to drink. “Ferris,” she commanded. “Would you mind opening another bottle of the Merlot?” As fast as humanly possible, she stopped herself from adding.
Ferris, no doubt relishing the prospect of more himself, got up and disappeared into the pantry.
“So the plan that you mentioned is that you’ll return to work and Erin will stay home?”
“Yes. We’ve both decided that stereotypical male and female roles are the product of a society we don’t agree with. We want our children raised in an environment that nurtures their complete sexual identities.”
Ferris returned with a bottle in each hand and one tucked under his arm. “What does that mean?” he asked. “I for one am very happy with two genders and, for the most part, people who choose one or the other.”
“That kind of closed-mindedness is what Erin and I object to. We’re all both male and female. We have masculine and feminine sides. It shouldn’t be unmasculine to nurture or unfeminine to exhibit aggression or territoriality. The sides should be balanced in each person. The problem with current thinking is that the equilibrium is skewed. Just because someone has a penis, it doesn’t mean that all he can do is play football and drive a truck.”
“Yeah, but it probably also means he shouldn’t wear a dress.”
Ferris had uncorked all three bottles, and Grace didn’t wait to be served. She reached for the closest one and filled her glass to the top.
“That’s the kind of knee-jerk response that makes me sick about the world we live in. Remember, the labia start out as a penis and then shrink. So we truly are one sex.”
“Not the last time I checked,” Ferris muttered.
Grace covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. She appreciated that Ferris was willing to challenge Marley’s dogma.
“Go to other cultures and you’ll see a broader exploration and celebration of a universal sexuality. It’s so Western to think of a man and a woman mating for life.” When she said man and woman, Marley held up her hands and curled two fingers to make quotation marks. “Why not explore each other and those around us? If a man can realize his femininity by being with another man, or can make himself a better lover to a woman, what’s wrong with that?”
Grace wasn’t sure she’d followed the progression from balancing male-female traits to homosexuality. But watching Marley, the burgeoning mother, and Ferris, the consummate bachelor, debate the point was more humorous than she’d expected.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked down the table to where Bain and Hank sat with confused expressions on their faces. No doubt the well of real estate conversation had run dry, and they’d begun to eavesdrop.
“Marley is making the point that each of us is both man and woman,” Grace summarized. The sentence sounded absurd. Maybe she’d had too much to drink, but she had the urge to lie on the floor.
“I’m only reminding Grace that she started out as a man.”
With that Ferris spit his sip of wine into his napkin. Grace could no longer contain her laughter. Her shoulders shook, her body curled over itself, and she struggled to remain in her chair. Penile shrinkage, sex changes, energy healing; it was all too much. Ferris, too, was consumed by laughter.
Deshawn woke up and began to cry. Marley’s attention returned to her plate of food. His shrieks grew louder and Erin came over, swept him up into an embrace, and paced around the room, gently patting his back. Within moments, he had quieted.
“What did I tell you?” Marley said through a mouthful of brussels sprouts.
“This is insanity,” Bain muttered.
“No,” Grace called out, still laughing as she stood from the table and began to clear. “Just casual elegance.”
2003
Chapter Thirteen
Grace had made little progress in her attempt to knit a small blue sleeve. For no apparent reason, stitches dropped. She concentrated on her counting and still found the number coming up short at the end of the row. In order to avoid an imperfection, she had to then unravel, pick up the rogue stitch, and start again from that point. Her intent had been to finish the sweater by the time baby Henry had been born, but that milestone had passed more than a year before—and at the rate she was advancing, she would be lucky if it still fit him by the time it was completed. Perhaps she should have bought the pattern in a size suitable for a large toddler.
It was the first baby gift she’d made for any of her grandchildren, part of another renewed effort to fulfill a vision of her role that had yet to materialize.
Bain had the television turned to Monday Night Football, but he’d fallen asleep at halftime and hadn’t awoken when play resumed. The voices of the commentators as they spoke about yardage and completions blurred. Although Grace wasn’t listening and didn’t follow the game, she welcomed the background noise. There was still plenty of testosterone in the room.
The telephone rang several times before she decided to answer it.
“Mom?”
Erin’s voice surprised her. It had been weeks since they’d last spoken. Maybe more. She’d lost track of time.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah . . . sure . . . why do you ask that?”
Because it’s after ten o’clock at night and we haven’t heard from you since I can’t remember when, that’s why. Catching herself from an exhibition of impatience, she asked instead, “How are the children and Marley?”
“Ah . . . okay. We’re all okay.”
“That’s good to hear.”
There was a long pause. She waited for a question to come from him. Perhaps he’d like to know how his aging parents were doing, something along those lines. Perhaps he could ask if the heat was working well. Did they need their elder son to come down and look after anything?
But he asked nothing. During the silence, she remembered what had caused their frisson: Marley and her accusations. She and Bain were responsible for the debacle in Iraq because they’d voted for George W. Bush in 2000. They might as well have abused the Iraqi prisoners at Guantánamo Bay, or at least helped the American soldiers out with the task. Didn’t they see how people like them had ruined the country and destroyed its reputation abroad?
It was more of her political proselytizing. They should have been used to it, but as Marley’s hostility increased, her comments grew uglier and more venomous. Bain was selfish and shortsighted like every other American. Grace was passive and noncommittal, just the sort of woman whom the sitting president relied upon to offer no resistance. Traditional family values to the Republicans meant the men had flag bumper stickers and the women shopped at Wal-Mart and cooked three meals with starch and protein.
All the while, Marley sat on their patio with her breast exposed, nursing her third child, eating their grilled swordfish and drinking their rosé wine. When the evening ended, she planned to curl up in a bed made by Grace. There wasn’t an ounce of recognition of that effort.
During the argument, Grace had perceived Erin’s silence as his agreement and support of his wife. Only when Bain finally asked them all to leave—he’d had quite enough of being insulted in his own home—had Erin piped up, feebly urging his wife to apologize and begging his father to calm down.
The next morning, they’d left before Bain was awake. Erin hadn’t been able to look her in the eye as he’d packed up the car and had hardly been able to say good-bye.
“Is there a reason for your call?” Grace now asked. Her own boldness surprised her. She wasn’t in a mood to suffer through more silence. “I mean, it’s nice to hear your voice, but it’s just . . . well, you don’t seem as though you’re interested in much conversation.”
She could hear Erin inhale on the other end of the line and wondered if he was smoking. “I need forty thousand dollars.”
Had she heard correctly? “Forty? Why on earth do you need forty thousand dollars?”
“Don’t act like I’m asking for the world.”
He practically was. The downstairs powder room remained out of commission because Bain thought it might cost two thousand dollars to repair the plumbing, replace the fixtures, and redo the tile. That was two thousand more than they had, and now Erin wanted forty. “It is a lot of money.”
“Look, I haven’t paid the kids’ tuition. It was due in July and the second installment was due in September, and now the school has our names posted as delinquents. But the kids love the place and they’re getting an excellent education. You can tell already. India’s working on letters, and Deshawn’s done several great art projects, gluing beans and pasta swirls.”
For that kind of money, India should have mastered the cursive alphabet and he should be using gold nuggets. But Grace didn’t reply.
“If you and Dad pay, there’s a tax deduction. Most of our friends’ parents are doing it for them. Some federal program to benefit grandparents.”
“Tuition for two children is forty thousand dollars?” India couldn’t have been more than first grade. Was Deshawn even in kindergarten? How much could preschool cost? Why did he even put his children in private school if he couldn’t afford it? And what about public education? She and Bain had spent a fortune on private education and it didn’t seem to have done much for eit
her Erin or Hank.
“The money’s for the school and for day care. Marley’s working a lot these days.”
Forty thousand dollars; the sum seemed huge. Bain had bailed him out here and there—probably more often than she even knew—but never for this amount.
It wasn’t possible. Just that afternoon, the town newspaper had published the names of those who were delinquent in their real estate taxes. Alcott topped the alphabetized list. Irate, Bain had called the editor directly and threatened a lawsuit for libel. “I don’t care if it is a matter of public record! Who the hell goes down to town hall to review the records?” he’d screamed into the phone before slamming down the receiver. Then he’d turned to Grace. “This is great. Just great. Let’s make a public spectacle of our finances. Be sure to cancel our subscription to that rag first thing tomorrow,” he’d instructed.
She turned her attention to Erin. “And what about you? What are you doing with your time?” The questions came out before she could stop herself. Last she’d heard, he was the stay-at-home father, the liberated man. Then what was the baby doing in day care? Still, she wanted to apologize. She shouldn’t have said it, not with that tone, not being so judgmental. But there it was.
“Let me speak to Dad,” Erin said, ignoring her questions. His tone was flat.
“He’s asleep.”
There was a pause. “Ask him to call me tomorrow. I’ll be around.”
“Erin, I will tell your father to call, but I can tell you now that I’m quite sure we cannot loan you the money. I think . . . I think you should get a job.”
“Coming from you that’s just a tad disingenuous, wouldn’t you agree? Have you ever worked a day in your life?”
Grace felt his words cut through her. She’d never heard such disdain in his voice. Her own son viewed her as worthless—too useless or stupid or lazy to find and hold employment. She took several quick breaths to restore her composure. When she spoke, her voice was softer than it had been before. “I was married before I even finished college, as you well know. Your father and I had a more traditional arrangement in our marriage than you do, and I didn’t work because I was taking care of our children.”