He missed working with buildings. Cement and mortar. Wood and tile. Yet his father was willful. After the two years, he felt more and more sucked into his father’s plans. His father had successfully eked out another season from his promise. “Build your own house here!” Luis prodded. “Get married. Raise beautiful Mexican children.” Michael looked over to where Charlotte was holding the measuring tape along the ground for Bobby and felt a sudden lurching of his heart. Such times as these, the idea of staying in California was very appealing indeed.
He looked back at the house, away from the girl. But it could never be. He would give his father this final season. Then he’d return to Chicago and the architectural firm that waited impatiently, that promised he’d rise as fast as any of the skyscrapers he helped design.
Charlotte looked up from the measuring tape and saw Michael standing alone on the small rise. The man seemed a part of the scenery as he stood, hands on hips, his hair whipped by the wind like the meadowsweet at his feet, his jaw set like the granite rocks.
“He must love his job,” she said to Bobby.
Bobby looked up and followed her gaze to his brother, standing alone and studying the house. “His job?” He offered a smile filled with irony. “Yes. I suppose he does. Pity.”
Charlotte looked at him, puzzled.
Bobby pulled back the measuring tape and tucked the pencil in his pocket. “We’re all done here. Let’s go catch up with Renaissance Man and see what he’s been scheming. Yo!” he called out.
Above, the gulls arced and cried out in reply.
“You’ve got the worst house and the loveliest site,” Michael said when they reached his side. “You could do a lot with it.”
“I can’t do anything with it,” she corrected him. “Since I don’t own it. An old widow owns it, and I think she’s just holding on to it for sentiment’s sake. She doesn’t want to do any repairs or even paint it, so I doubt we’ll get her interested in renovations.”
“Too bad. There aren’t many opportunities like this available anymore.”
“Forget the house,” Bobby said, coming up from behind. “She didn’t ask for an architect. The lady just wants a garden.”
“I realize that,” Michael conceded, shaking his head. “I can’t help but mention what seems so obvious to me. I’m just tossing out ideas.” He smiled at Charlotte with what she could only interpret as flirtation. “No charge, of course.”
“My brother,” Bobby confided loudly enough for Michael to hear. “He’s mad for houses. He’s an architect, did you know that?”
“An architect?” Charlotte replied, confused, looking at Michael. “I thought…”
“I design gardens now,” Michael replied firmly, cutting off any further discussion on the topic. He glared at his brother in warning.
“He’s stubborn, too,” Bobby added with another laugh. Michael’s discomfort only seemed to add fuel to his teasing.
“I’ll remember that,” she said, catching Bobby’s eye. She liked him, though he really was a rascal.
They were laughing when they reached the front patio.
“Would you like some coffee? Some water or something?”
“Water would be nice.”
She led them through the house toward the kitchen, stopping dead when she entered. Melanie was shredding lettuce in the sink, still in her bikini. Her incredible body, all bronzed and slick with oil, was displayed like a feast. Michael coughed as he entered the room.
Melanie turned her head and smiled, totally at ease in her attire.
“Sorry to bother you, Melanie,” Charlotte said, a little embarrassed. “We’re just passing through.”
Melanie, however, had eyes only for the two tall, handsome men who stood regarding her in silence. She offered a coy smile of acknowledgment.
“These are the men from the nursery I told you were coming. Michael and Bobby Mondragon.”
Melanie’s gaze flickered over Bobby, then rested on Michael, swallowing him whole. “Well, hello there,” she drawled in her breathy voice. “So, you’re the gardeners?”
Charlotte saw Michael stiffen and he pursed his lips, as though holding in a retort.
Bobby, who had a fine sense of the absurd, bowed slightly.
Melanie had a fine-tuned instinct herself where men were concerned. She arched her back as she turned from the sink, offering a full view of her ample bosom and generously curved hips and thighs. Charlotte glanced nervously at Michael and Bobby. Michael’s face was unreadable. Bobby was smiling, obviously very amused.
Charlotte thought now seemed an excellent time to offer drinks.
“I told Charlotte that I thought it was ridiculous for her to make you come all the way out here just to draw up a design for a flower bed. She has all these grandiose ideas, but she has no idea what she’s getting into.”
“And you do?” asked Bobby with a thin smile.
“Oh, sure. Did I mention that I once had a very large garden? With a pool?”
“How very fortunate for you,” Bobby replied. “We can recommend some very reputable pool companies.”
“What? No,” she hurried with a small frown. “We certainly don’t want anything so grand here. I hope Charlotte hasn’t been giving you the wrong impression. We’re in between films.”
“You’re an actress?” Michael directed his question to Charlotte.
“I’m Melanie Ward. You don’t recognize me?” There was an unmistakable hurt in the tone.
“You look familiar,” Bobby hurried to reply. “But I don’t see many movies.”
Melanie’s face fell.
“Melanie’s been in loads of films, but she’s a character actor,” Charlotte rushed in. “Everyone knows her face. Didn’t you see Crazy Girls?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Bobby replied, smiling weakly. Everyone knew he hadn’t. An awkward silence fell.
Michael kept his questioning gaze on Charlotte.
“I’m just beginning,” she hedged, aware of Melanie beside her. “I’ve done a few small films. Nothing’s out yet. I’m still a nobody. You wouldn’t know me.” Her cheeks ached from holding on to the starched smile.
“Her first major role starts next month,” Melanie prompted with pride in her voice.
“Next month? Then you’ll want this design in a hurry. I’ll work on it right away and call you, what? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow would be fine,” she replied.
Melanie gave off an unladylike snort and slipped her sunglasses back on as though to punctuate her remarks. “I said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t know why you’re going to all this trouble. It’s just a rental, you know.”
“So I’ve been told,” Michael replied. “However, I’m sure I can design a flower garden that will fit Miss Godfrey’s budget.” He turned to Charlotte again and looked at her as if she were the only one in the room. “And it’s no trouble at all.”
Charlotte was walking back to the kitchen, hoping to find out what Melanie thought of Michael Mondragon. She saw in her eyes that Melanie had found him attractive. That pleased Charlotte. She looked forward to flopping on Melanie’s bed, laughing with her pal again and giggling about boys, the way she’d always imagined sisters or best friends did.
She was about to push open the door when she stopped, hand stilled in midair.
Melanie was standing before her bureau mirror, staring at herself. Her hands slipped down to encircle her waist while she sucked in her tummy and pushed out her ample chest. Then she pivoted from left to right, one shoulder up, the other down, her cheeks sucked in and her full lips pursed in a sexy pinup girl pose.
Charlotte caught her breath and stepped back. This felt too personal, like she was a voyeur or a Peeping Tom. She’d taken another step back when she saw Melanie slowly exhale, like watching a balloon deflate. Her shoulders slumped, her breasts and stomach sagged, her head drooped and her mouth slipped into a frown. Melanie stood quietly and still before the mirror, her breath marking the rise and fall of
her ample breasts. Suddenly, she hid her face in her hands and wept bitterly.
Charlotte winced and backed slowly away from the door, careful not to make a sound. Her heart ached for Melanie. She knew better than anyone the pain of not liking one’s own reflection.
In the pickup truck, Bobby was not letting his little brother off the hook easily. He was merciless in his praise of Charlotte’s beauty, her poise, her sweetness, anything he could think of, because the more he heralded her the more stone-faced Michael became. It was an old game they’d played years back when Michael was in high school and had dated scores of girls, but seldom the same girl for very long.
“Madre de Dios, the face of an angel she has,” Bobby exclaimed. “Those wide-set eyes, such an exquisite color. I’d love to paint her in one of my murals. I’d call it Venus on the Taco Shell.” He laughed, leaning far over the steering wheel. “Do you think she’d pose nude?”
Michael scowled. “Watch where you’re going.” He shifted in his seat. “And your mouth. Better yet, pull over. I’ll drive.”
“Not on your life, gringo. You’ve got your mind on that pretty little gringa, and there’s no way I’m going to put my life in your fevered hands. Who knows what you’ll be grabbing when you downshift. That Melanie, however.” He whistled softly. “What is it with that one? If I was a betting man, I’d have lost five bucks that she was going to fall out of the bikini before we left.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
Bobby burst out laughing again.
Michael shook his head. “I can’t stand women like that. So obvious. There’s nothing left to the imagination.”
“Oh, I dunno. I’d say there was a lot left to the imagination. X-rated, of course.” He pushed the envelope. “You mean to say you weren’t thinking of that gorgeous Charlotte Godfrey in that way?”
Michael swung his head to glare at Bobby, but remained silent.
“Ah, I see how it is,” Bobby said, wonder mixed with a little pity. “No joking with that one, eh? Very interesting. Has cupid’s arrow finally hit your heart? Well, well, well.” He considered for a moment. “Papa won’t like it. He has his heart set on you marrying a nice Mexican girl and having lots of little Mexican babies.”
“Oh, no,” Michael replied, laughing now. “You are the eldest Mondragon son. Not me. That’s your job to fill.”
Bobby grew very silent, strangely so. They drove a mile more as an awkward silence settled in the cab. Bobby lit a cigarette and turned to look at him from time to time, his expression changing from cautious to pondering to resigned.
“If anyone is going to produce Mondragon babies,” he said, at length, “it’ll have to be you, hermano. It isn’t going to be me.” He paused, flicked an ash. “I’m gay.”
Michael felt the air whoosh out of him. He looked straight ahead and rode out the news, his emotions rising and falling with the hills. He heard the words I’m gay again, but couldn’t grasp them. Not Bobby. Not a Mondragon.
Yet, from somewhere deep in his mind, he had to admit that he wasn’t really shocked. He’d always wondered about Bobby, but wrote it off in his mind. Bobby was eccentric. Bobby had style, good taste, culture. So what if he was thirty-one and didn’t have a girlfriend? He just wasn’t sexual. Better asexual than homosexual. Everyone in the family thought this, hinted at this, but dared not voice it directly. Such things were not discussed. Secrets, especially important ones, were best held close.
Michael’s mind felt numb as the miles passed uncomfortably in his silence. He kept thinking of how he’d missed all the signs. Bobby’s mannerisms, the tone of his voice, his having a lot of friends who were girls, but no girlfriends. He was careful with his dress but never flamboyant. His father had noticed this, too. He used to laugh at Bobby’s double breasted suits, his fine leather shoes, his attention to detail. What did Papa call him? A man-about-town? But always with a hint of pride in his voice, that his son was so good looking. A Mexican man showing the gringos how it’s done. Papa especially liked the scarf tied around Bobby’s neck. Thought it was Mexican. Such fools they were. The scarf was not a bandanna. It was Hermés.
“Does Papa know?”
“What do you think?” He took a long drag from his cigarette. “Haven’t you noticed that Papa and I are—” Bobby searched for the word “—incommunicado?”
Michael nodded and cleared his throat. “Sure,” he replied uneasily. “He’s never easy to get along with. I figured that he’s still angry at you for not taking over the business.”
“Oh, yeah, he was,” Bobby replied, his sarcasm unable to disguise the depth of his bitterness. “Still is…especially since you took off, too. It’s sad.” A long drag on his cigarette. “Papa and I used to be so close. Once he was proud of my murals, especially the ones about Mexican culture. When he used to point them out to his friends, it made me feel proud, you know? Like what I did had value. Even if it wasn’t the family business.” He shrugged. “I guess he thought that I’d just give the murals up as I grew older. Like my painting was just some little boyhood hobby.”
“You didn’t tell him?”
“What? About being gay? Jesus, I told you I was gay, not nuts.”
“He should know. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”
Bobby burst out laughing. “Esse, you think I don’t tell him because I’m ashamed of being gay? Who is being naive here?” His dark eyes were scornful. “I’m gay. It’s who I am. I have no problem with that. But Papa?” His expression turned bitter and his eyes glittered with scorn.
“You grew up in the same house I did. What do you think would happen if I told him?”
“I can’t even guess.”
“Well I can. First off, he wouldn’t believe me. He wouldn’t even hear the words. And even if he did, well, he’d probably beat me to a pulp. To get the demon out.”
“I wouldn’t let him beat you.” Michael ground out the words.
“God damn it, Miguel,” Bobby shouted back. “I don’t want you fighting my battles anymore. I’m a man, too. I don’t need you to defend me to my own father!” The car swerved a bit, chewed some gravel, then settled back on the pavement.
“Take it easy…”
Bobby’s face was red and he was breathing hard. He took a minute to gather his emotions, then said in a quiet, steady voice, “I don’t want you to tell him.”
“All right. I won’t.”
“Swear it.”
“I said I wouldn’t.”
“Promise.”
Michael sighed and leaned his head back. “Sí, Roberto. Yo te promiso.” He paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s your decision. It’s just a damn shame that you can’t talk to your own father.”
“When could we ever?”
Bobby made the usual exit off the highway. When they hit the back roads, he reached into his pocket and pulled out another of those thick black cigarettes he favored.
“Does Mama know?” Michael asked more softly.
Bobby looked haunted but merely lifted his shoulders.
“We never spoke about it, of course. But when the family gathers for Sunday dinners, birthdays, saints days, whatever, she doesn’t ask me about my girlfriends anymore. She suspects but will never pry. She’s afraid of the truth. No, little brother. She won’t ask. Mamacita only wants to know if I’m going to church. To confession.” He let out a short laugh.
Michael refused to see the humor.
“They pushed the truth down so deep that they never had to deal with it. Or accept it. It’s easier to tell themselves that I’m a crazy, good for nothing artist with an artist’s ways.”
“Roberto…”
“No, I mean it. They’ve never come to visit my apartment. Not once.” He lit another cigarette in precise, angry movements. After a long drag he exhaled a steady stream. “It’s a nice place, too. I have good windows.”
Michael knew that Bobby was struggling to make this easier for both of them. He felt ashamed, like he’d let his brother do
wn. He should have been here, to protect him, as he always had. He wondered what Bobby had to go through during the past years while he was gone. Was he discriminated against? Mocked? Or worse? He’d heard about gay bashing.
He looked over again at Bobby staring out through the windshield. His face, like his secrets, was masked. Michael felt a rush of compassion and affection. Bobby was his brother. He’d go visit his brother’s apartment, he decided. Meet his friends. See his windows.
When they arrived at the nursery Bobby turned his head around and met his gaze, almost reading his thoughts. His troubled expression lessened, and his frown shifted into a crooked smile. Then, in the same manner of their father, Bobby leaned over to wrap an arm around his shoulder in a typical, masculine embrace.
Michael flinched. It all happened in mere seconds. A simple reflex. An involuntary movement. One flinch, but they’d both felt it. Bobby drew back, his face ashen as though he’d just been slapped.
Michael wanted to take it back. He hadn’t meant it.
“Bobby…” he said, reaching out to him as Bobby retreated, opening the car door. He grabbed his shoulder.
Bobby shrugged him off. “I’m sorry if I repulse you.”
Michael raised his empty hand to his forehead and rubbed hard, cursing his own stupidity.
“Bobby!” he called as he leaped from the car, slamming the door and running after him.
“Leave me alone,” Bobby snarled back, waving him away.
“God damn it, wait,” Michael shouted, hot on his heels. When he didn’t slow down, Michael reached out and grabbed Bobby’s arm, spinning him around. Bobby’s eyes glowed with anger, his jaw was locked with hostility.
“What the hell did you expect?” Michael ground out, anger flaring. “You dump a load like that on me and expect me to smile and say, ‘Oh great. You’re gay. Let’s go get a beer’?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“Bullshit. You knew that wasn’t going to happen.”
“Yeah, right again. I did. More’s the pity. Call me an optimist, but I’d hoped you’d be sympathetic. I didn’t know you were so fucking homophobic.”
Girl in the Mirror Page 13