A Place at the Table: A Novel

by Susan Rebecca White

  Dahlia cuts a knowing look at Sebastian, then smiles. “Lovely! Does it need to be refrigerated?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say.

  “Bobby, dahling, you have got to stop calling me ma’am. Makes me feel ancient.”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I say. “It doesn’t mean anything about your age. It’s just what I was taught to do.”

  She gives Sebastian another knowing look, and suddenly I feel about fourteen years old instead of twenty-one. And then it occurs to me that the age difference between Dahlia and Sebastian probably isn’t any greater than the age difference between Sebastian and me.

  I am now feeling desperate for a drink, but Sebastian is slow and deliberate with such things. No Mr and Mrs T Bloody Mary Mix for him. He has the Silver Palate Cookbook opened and has pulled out tomato juice, horseradish, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce, and a lemon from the fridge and is now plucking basil leaves off a plant kept on the windowsill.

  “Anyone home?” calls a man’s voice.

  “We’re in the kitchen, dahling.”

  Sebastian’s father enters the room. I’m surprised by how large he is. Fat, to be exact. Sebastian is so lithe, and so is Dahlia. I had just assumed that they would be a family of tiny people. Though it is the weekend, his dad is in a suit. He has a full gray beard growing over his chubby, ruddy face. On his head rests a black yarmulke.

  “Dahling, this is Sebastian’s friend, Bobby. Bobby, this is my husband, Mel.”

  I expect Sebastian to once again correct his mother, to insist on her calling me his boyfriend or, Lord help me, his lover, but thankfully he says nothing.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “Was I knighted without knowing about it?” asks Mel.

  “Bobby is from the South,” Sebastian says, using a mock whisper as if he were informing his parents that I am a wee bit on the slow side.

  “You get the Times?” Dahlia asks her husband.

  “The place on the corner was sold out, so I had to walk a couple of blocks to the place right by the shul. They had it.”

  “Well, thank God for small miracles. Okay, look. We’ve got bagels, we’ve got fruit salad, we’ve got cream cheese, we’ve got lox, we’ve got tuna salad, we’ve got whitefish. I’m just going to put everything on the counter and we can all help ourselves, okay? Sebastian, should I make a pot of coffee?”

  “Only if you and Dad want some. Bobby and I are having real drinks.”

  Sebastian hands me a Bloody Mary, topped with chopped basil. The fresh smell of the herb hits my nose before I even take a sip. Heaven.

  “Don’t bother with coffee,” says Mel. “I’m fine with a Diet Pepsi.”

  Dahlia begins pulling Zabar’s bags out of the refrigerator.

  “I don’t know why you insist on going there,” says Sebastian. “You know the whitefish is better at Barney Greengrass.”

  “Bobby, have you ever heard the expression ‘Opinions are like assholes’?” asks Mel.

  “Everybody’s got one, and they all stink,” deadpans Sebastian.

  Mel touches his finger to his nose.

  Dahlia is pulling the to-go containers out of the Zabar’s bags, placing them directly onto the counter. I can’t help but think of how my mother would have transferred the purchased salads and dips into her own Wedgwood china bowls, the ones with apples and pears painted along the sides. Not that she would have purchased prepared foods for a brunch.

  “Were you at temple?” I ask Mel, motioning to his yarmulke.

  “Bobby, let me give you a pointer,” says Mel. “Call it shul. Temple is for the Jews who want to be goyim. And no, I wasn’t at shul. Not on Sunday.”

  “Dad has become observant in his old age,” says Sebastian. “He wears the beanie cap all the time.”

  Mel looks at his son wearily.

  “Come, come,” says Dahlia. “Grab a plate from the cabinet and let’s get this show on the road.”

  Again I think of Mama, how the china would have already been laid out, a napkin for each guest rolled into a polished silver ring. Although Meemaw might not have put out china, at least not for close friends. Meemaw might have just put out a stack of Dixie plates and some paper napkins for backdoor guests, as she liked to call them. (Meemaw had a needlepoint pillow that read: “Backdoor Guests Are Best.” I once reminisced about that with Sebastian, who immediately joked that such a pillow would convey a whole different message were we to put it on our sofa.)

  Sebastian reaches into the pantry and takes down four brown ceramic plates. He hands me one. It is surprisingly heavy, slightly misshapen, and feels a little rough to the touch.

  “Goys first,” he says, motioning to the spread of food on the countertop.

  “Sebastian!”

  “Relax, Dahlia. Bobby doesn’t mind a little teasing.”

  I take a bagel, some plain cream cheese, a tiny bit of lox, and a huge scoop of fruit salad. I want to suggest that Dahlia set the crawfish spread out as well, that it would go well with everything, but instinct tells me to bite my tongue, to let things unfold as they may.

  “Try the whitefish,” says Dahlia, eyeing my plate. “Despite what my son says, Zabar’s does a nice job with it.”

  “Just a fair warning,” says Sebastian. “Dahlia Dahling is known for pushing food.”

  “Why such a smart-ass?” asks Dahlia, but she doesn’t sound truly despairing, more admiring.

  Still, I take a scoop of the whitefish.

  • • •

  We eat in the living room, sitting on the white leather sofas, Sebastian beside me, Mel and Dahlia on the one facing us.

  “So tell us all about yourself, Bobby,” says Dahlia. “We know you’re a famous cook, and we know you’re from the South, but we don’t know much else. Tell us about your family, where you went to college.”

  I cannot count the number of times I have been asked where I went to college in the months since I began dating Sebastian. Such credentials are of paramount importance to his crowd.

  “What were your SAT scores?” jokes Sebastian.

  “Well, my mom is a housewife. But she’s sort of a super-housewife—she wrote a book about the art of entertaining.”

  “Gracious Servings,” says Sebastian. “A guide for young Baptist brides.”

  “Are your parents very religious?” asks Dahlia.

  There is really no way around this, even though I don’t want to talk about my Baptist past with my Jewish boyfriend’s parents. “Yes, ma’am. My dad’s a Baptist preacher.”

  “No kidding?” says Mel. “I’m thinking you won’t be bringing our son home for the holidays then, will you?”

  “For godsakes, Melvin,” says Dahlia. “Forgive my husband, Bobby. He can be an ass.”

  Mel appears unperturbed by his wife’s assessment.

  “No, Mel’s absolutely right,” I say. “My parents and I have a hard time with each other. We’re not exactly estranged, but we certainly talk on the phone a lot more than we visit.”

  That’s an understatement. I haven’t once been back to Decatur, and Mama and Daddy haven’t once visited me up here.

  Sebastian places his hand protectively on top of mine. It’s a sweet gesture, but after a moment I pull my hand away, tucking it into my lap. I just can’t touch him around his parents. I know Sebastian would like for me to be more “out,” for me to be more defiant in my homosexuality. But I sometimes wish he had more patience. After all, he’s got over twenty years on me and he’s not from the South. When we first started dating we started tracking our histories, determining that while I was making craft projects with the Royal Ambassadors he was participating in the first Gay Liberation Day march.

  I wish he could acknowledge how much further I have to stretch.

  “What about siblings?” asks Dahlia.

  “I have two brothers, both older. I’m the baby. My oldest brother, Troy, is a pediatrician, living in Atlanta. And my other brother, Hunter, works in commercial real estate
.”

  Dahlia blinks a few times. It looks as if she is going to say something, but then she doesn’t. “Well again, we’re just thrilled about the Times piece. I can’t wait to try your cooking.”

  Then why don’t you put out my crawfish spread? I think, but of course I say nothing of the sort.

  “He’s such a talent,” says Sebastian, resting his hand on my thigh. “You two need to go to Café Andres before it gets impossible to get in.”

  “Are you there every night?” asks Dahlia.

  “Gus and I—he’s the owner—actually split our time in the kitchen. I’m there Tuesdays through Thursdays for lunch, and then I cook dinner Friday and Saturday nights.”

  “I’ll come to lunch next Tuesday,” Dahlia says, decided.

  “Bobby keeps adding little southern touches to the menu,” says Sebastian, still playing the role of cheerleader. “Sneaking them in. Like the little plate of warm cheddar and chive biscuits you get when you first sit down. Unbelievably delicious.”

  “Sounds fabulous,” says Dahlia. “Have you thought of opening your own place?”

  “Forget that,” says Mel, waving away the idea with his hand. “Ninety percent of restaurants fail. What was your undergraduate degree in?”

  “Um, I studied art history,” I say, choosing to omit the fact that I never actually earned a college degree.

  “So you’re a practical guy, huh?” asks Mel.

  For a minute I am confused, because there’s absolutely nothing practical about a degree in art history, but then I realize he is teasing.

  “Right, right,” I say, draining my drink. “Lots of jobs out there for art history majors.” I try to smile, joke my way through. And then I remember that his own son has his master’s in art history and has a damn good job because of it.

  “And where did you say you studied?”

  “He didn’t,” says Sebastian. “He just assumed you read it on the résumé he sent over.”

  “At GSU,” I say.

  Mel looks quizzical.

  “Georgia State University, Dad.”

  “I was at Columbia,” says Mel. “But I left the city for my PhD. Went to the University of Michigan. That was a strange experience, living outside of New York. Not something I’d want to repeat.”

  “Now that I’m here, I can’t imagine ever leaving,” I say. “I just love it.”

  I am pandering, of course, but it’s true, I can’t ever see myself leaving the city. New York reminds me of the Belthorp, Sebastian’s apartment building. It was once beautiful and proud; now it is crumbling, ruined. But that means people like Sebastian and me can live here. Can live here and live together and not be bothered and be okay.

  “What is it you love about New York?” asks Dahlia.

  “It’s where the interesting people are,” I say.

  Dahlia smiles. I can tell she likes my answer.

  • • •

  The minute we walk out of the town house I turn to Sebastian. “Why didn’t your mother put out my crawfish spread? Does she not trust my cooking?”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I should have told you: My parents don’t eat shellfish or pork. At least not in their house. If they go out for Chinese food they’ll eat it, but only because it’s all chopped up into little bits so no one can tell what’s what.”

  “Oh Lord. I’m such an idiot. Your parents keep kosher and I brought them crawfish.”

  “They actually don’t keep kosher; they just avoid the most obviously traif foods.”

  I’m pretty sure Sebastian has used that word before, but I can’t remember exactly what it means. I don’t bother asking for a definition, though. I get the drift. Un-Jewish.

  “Your mother must think I’m an idiot.”

  Sebastian puts his arm around me as we walk west on 81st Street.

  “Dahlia thinks you’re adorable,” he says. “She told me so, when you got up to use the bathroom. I’m sure she thinks you’re too young for me, but we all know that.”

  “What did your dad think?”

  “God knows. You can’t pay too much attention to Mel. He’s a little reactionary. About five years ago he had a heart attack, and afterward he turned very religious, very observant. Before, he was this relatively tolerant guy, and suddenly he was questioning the fact that I’m queer, going so far as to suggest that maybe if I tried dating a woman I’d realize I wasn’t gay after all. It’s been a fucking headache, to be honest. That’s probably why I didn’t introduce you until now. I just don’t like dealing with the stress. But they recently got a new rabbi at their shul, and I think his ideas are more moderate around gays, and Mel seems to be loosening up a bit. Or maybe it’s just that Mel puts up with me and I put up with Mel because we both love Dahlia too much not to.”

  I think of my family, of what they would do if I brought Sebastian home to meet them, insisting my mother refer to him as my boyfriend. Insisting my father have breakfast with him. It’s inconceivable, really. It would never, ever happen. And yet even knowing that, I feel a sudden nostalgia for Mama and Daddy. For what Mama would serve were she hosting a brunch: sausage, egg, and cheese casserole, coffeecake swirled with cinnamon, pecans, and brown sugar, grits baked with garlic and cheese. There would be the rich smell of coffee in the air, and the subtle scent of fresh-cut flowers from the garden. Daddy would have been there when we arrived, and in every room there would be framed pictures of the family.

  It’s been over a year now since I’ve been in New York, absorbing this city. Going to Woody Allen movies. Shopping at Fairway. Watching Balanchine’s toned dancers fly across a stripped-down stage. Walking around the reservoir in Central Park. Listening to Gus Andres reminisce about the late 40s, when everyone was young and artists mingled with commoners. I’ve been mugged. I’ve learned the difference between the local and the express. I’ve learned not to talk to the neighbors in Sebastian’s building, because God forbid one of them is crazy and then you have to deal with that person for the rest of your life or give up your good rent.

  In short, I am learning how to be a New Yorker, and while I might still bring a hostess gift to a brunch and call my boyfriend’s parents sir and ma’am, I am growing further and further away from my Decatur roots. But for the first time this fills me not with satisfaction but with melancholy. Sebastian holds my hand as we head toward Riverside Park, where we will walk off the bagels and the schmear. And though I love this man and though he makes me feel both secure and treasured, I am suddenly so homesick I can hardly stand it. I am thinking of Dahlia’s stark white walls, and I am thinking of my meemaw, of how you couldn’t even tell the color of her living room walls, they were so covered by pictures of our family. I am thinking of her pulling a pound cake out of the oven, how that nutty smell of baked butter filled the air. I am thinking of her soft, doughy skin, how easy it was to hug her, how she smelled always of good things: vanilla, cinnamon, buttered toast. And now my mind is stretching back to when I was a boy, safe and happy with Mama and Daddy: flying through the air on the zip wire, lounging on the Pawleys Island hammock stretched between two tall, skinny trees, catching fireflies at dusk. I am thinking of Daddy’s vegetable garden planted in neat rows and I am thinking of rolling lawns and I am thinking of spring flowers, hydrangeas and peonies and irises. I am thinking of all that is beautiful about where I come from. I am thinking of Mama and I am thinking of Daddy, and I am missing them; I am missing them terribly.

  But it’s an impotent nostalgia. Mama and Daddy are in my past. They would not take me as I am now, not really. Yes, they call to check in, but they don’t really want to know me. They only want superficial details that will allow them to create a tidy narrative of who I am—a footloose bachelor, not quite ready to settle down. They were so excited about the mention in the Times, like suddenly they had good news about their son to tell their friends, when so many other good things have happened to me, most importantly that I fell in love.

  But that is information they would never want to know or share.
That I fell in love with a man.

  A sadness like hunger spreads through my chest, and I try to distract myself from it by focusing instead on what I might prepare for Tuesday’s lunch special at the café. If I could find grits somewhere I could make Mama’s casserole with cheese and garlic. Serve shrimp on top. Dress it up with some basil cut in a chiffonade, maybe give it a fancy name—call it corn and crevettes—and serve it forth to the New Yorkers who will have no idea what they are eating, who will have no idea they are eating my loneliness transformed.

  11

  The Monster under the Bed

  (New York City, 1985)

  Sunday afternoon and we are in bed, my head tucked into Sebastian’s arm, my finger tracing his chest, pushing through the hair that grows there so abundantly.

  “What’s this, a third nipple?” I tease, in the half second before reality catches up with me.

  “Hmm?” he asks, drowsy and content.

  “Oh my God,” I say, circling the bump with my finger. I am no longer drowsy and satisfied but alert, on edge. I pick up his right hand, place it on the spot. “Feel this.”

  He is silent for a moment; then wordlessly he stands and walks to the closet, opening the door to look in the full-length mirror on the other side. He parts his chest hair with his fingers and examines the growth. It is purple, about the size of a quarter. He turns to face me, fully naked, his legs slightly bowed, his abdomen ropy, the hair on his chest obscuring his toned pecs. “This looks just like what Michael found.”

  Every few weeks there is another funeral to attend. Michael was Sebastian’s best friend from Princeton. They were in an a cappella group together. “All of us trying to be somebody we weren’t,” Sebastian would say, “And me double. I wanted to be straight and a WASP.”

  They sang in archways, wearing tuxedos on football weekends. The harmony of their clear, young voices lulled the visiting mothers and fathers into believing that the universe was a good and orderly place, that all was as it should be.