"He intimidated you?"
"Absolutely not. So, that was you on the Internet? Giving that guy a blowjob? Or was that some kind of Rudo mind fuck?"
"No, it was me."
"How long ago was that?"
"A couple of summers."
"Do you still see the guy?"
"Is that really what you care about? If I still 'see' him? Would that really bother you if I said, Oh yeah, I run into him occasionally at the corner newsstand?"
"Do you still suck his cock?"
"No."
"Did you enjoy it?"
She shoots you a glance, defiant. "Did it look like I didn't enjoy it? Were you sitting too far from the screen?"
She puts her hand on your knee. "There was a time when I was young, or younger, and I felt free. I felt like I could do anything I wanted to do. If I wanted to give a guy a blowjob, I'd just do it. And if it was being videotaped to upload to the Internet, I was cool with that. I was my own person. One time I got on the train wearing a white dress, and by accident I got off at Harlem. 125th Street. I had some drinks at a bar down the street from the train station, then I just wandered around the Harlem sidewalk scene on a Friday night. Didn't know anyone. Probably stuck out like a white thumb. But I felt free. I felt like nothing bad could ever happen to me, and nothing bad did happen to me. I danced with a bunch of black guys, I tried on different African masks, I traded shots with a bunch of really funny black women, then I got back on the train, and returned to the city.
"So what do you want, Patrick? Do you want to find a girl who never sucked another guy's cock? Or if she did, didn't enjoy it?"
Sitting next to her on your bed, you say nothing.
"I've fucked a lot of guys. That's me. But I can talk in depth about authors, filmmakers, painters, composers. If you want to talk about Mahler's ambivalent feelings towards his fifth symphony, I'm your girl. I would really enjoy doing that, lying naked on your bed sheets with crushed barbeque potato chips and clam dip stains. And I can hold you while you cry. Because inside every big guy there's a huge sob session, high voice, shoulders trembling, all that childhood pain coming out, that rarely gets released, even at the age of eighty. I can do all that, arms hugging you. If you choose me. But if you want me, then accept who I am. Celebrate who I am."
You raise your hands in the air. "Hooray! My girlfriend sucked some guy's cock, and it's all over the Internet! Break out the champagne!"
Those bedroom eyes swivel up to your hurt eyes. She makes her ironic sexy face again, hopeful, eyes hooded, lips parted. "So I'm your girlfriend?"
Gretchen knows a guy in her atonal music class who has a car and doesn't need it over the long Thanksgiving weekend, so the two of you borrow it for fifty dollars, to drive to your parents' home in Pennsylvania. You want to ask her how well she knows the guy, but resist asking her, because you don't want to arrive at your folks' home with that kind of argument sitting like a sick baby between the two of you.
Maybe it's the different light, country light versus city light, but as the two of you travel through Pennsylvania, you glancing over at her in the passenger seat to say things like, "Girl U Want", "Ramsdale", and "I thought that was meant to recall the airplane trip Nate and Claire took to Seattle, where Claire first learns about his AVM", you realize her face actually looks different than how you originally saw it.
There's that first face, the one you saw the day you moved in, and had seen since, a pretty girl, where you don't notice the forehead is a bit too broad, the nose a little too long, just the eyes and the spirit. But now, glancing sideways at her, keeping one eye on the winding highway, adding, "Did you know that the take they ended up using was when Brooks decided, while the cameras were rolling, to start in the middle of the scene as it had been written, and backtrack, Marshall going along with the reordering," that she had a second face, a private face, that the country light or her greater relaxation with him, or his falling in love with her was showing, the face of a woman who was not conventionally pretty, like the first face, but maybe beautiful, a face far more intelligent, far more unique, far more vulnerable.
Both of you are nervous as you pull into your parents' driveway.
Gretchen lowers her head, looking up past the windshield at the redbrick height. "Wow. Big house."
While the two of you are still in the driveway, getting out your separate suitcases, the front door swings open.
Your mom's out first, of course. Touching her hair to make sure it's in place, eyes blinking rapidly. "Hey, you!"
There's that moment when she reaches the two of you, glancing teary-eyed at Gretchen, back at you, where she's not sure if she should hug you in front of Gretchen, as if that would turn you into a little boy again, but she does anyway. In the passion of her embrace, you glance over at Gretchen, who, surprisingly, looks shy.
Your kid sister Holly is right in line behind your mom, throwing her arms up around your ribs. You rub the top of her head, watching Gretchen, eyebrows way up on her forehead, shake your mother's hand.
Last, of course, is your father.
Hands on his hips. Dressed in a suit, although a light-colored suit, since he's at home, rather than at the office. No hug, no handshake. But he looks proud of you. "Good to have you home son," in that deep voice you wished you had.
You look around. The driveway, the neighborhood, but it all looks different. Flatter. No longer yours. And can never be yours again. Are you happy? Are you sad?
Everyone heads inside, your father insisting on carrying Gretchen's suitcase, Holly doing most of the talking, about getting first place in a school science project, how her hair has more static now that the air is colder, how good a marzipan elephant she ate while she was waiting inside for you, at the front window, tasted.
Inside the two-story foyer, stained-glass front door closed and locked against the outside world, the familiar smells of the house coming back to you, your father pulls you off to one side while Holly, thrilled, and your mother, cautious, grill Gretchen. In a low voice he asks, "Son, will you be requiring a second bedroom for Gretchen, or…" His eyes look right into yours.
Gretchen clears her throat from the other, more fun conversation. "I'd like a separate bedroom if that's possible, Mr. Morgan."
"So, do you prefer Mrs. Morgan, or…"
All of you are sitting at the dining room table, you and Gretchen side by side under the coffered ceiling. Thanksgiving of course will be cooked by your mom, but this dinner, the day before, your father has decided to have catered.
Your mom tilts her head, thinking. Smiles. "That would be fine."
You know Gretchen well enough to see her the minute slump of her shoulders, though no one else would notice. "Okay. Sounds good. Mrs. Morgan." She smiles back at your mom, then looks down at her empty plate.
Your father, at the head of the table, raises his hand, as if there were so many guests sitting in the chairs he has to do that to get everyone's attention.
"Our dinner this evening is being catered by Andre Wilson."
Your mom smiles excitedly at Gretchen, who smiles back enthusiastically.
Your father looks at you. "Chef Andre of course has written a number of best-selling cookbooks, including his latest bestseller, Small Meals, Big Flavors." He switches his look to Gretchen. "And of course he was featured in Aria TV's third season of Modern Masters, where he made it to the final three." Leaning backwards in his captain's chair, twisting his head, wood creaking, your father calls out, "Chef Andre?"
Chef Andre emerges from the kitchen off the family dining room, wringing his hands.
Late twenties, dressed all in white, including a white chef's jacket. Tall, maybe even taller than you. Spiky dark hair.
Chef Andre bows. Straightens up, eyes under his brows searching around the table, deciding to whom he will address his comments. He clearly decides not on your father, who is paying him, or your mother, who as the wife of the wallet would surely appreciate the glamorous attention, or on your kid sister, who
is obviously enthralled, already getting a crush, or on you, the returning son, but rather on Gretchen. "Tonight we are going to start with an amuse bouche I have created just for the Morgan family. And of course, for their beautiful guest." He bows towards Gretchen. Raises his right fist. Finger snap.
Two young women with red noses parade out of the kitchen, trays held high, flowing down either side of the table.
Each diner's amuse bouche is served in a silver spoon, carefully balanced on a small white plate you recognize as coffee saucers from one of your mother's sets of china.
"A bite of Kobe beef filet mignon, larded with ramp, seared over a salt block, then briefly simmered in a blueberry reduction."
You slide yours into your mouth. Hate to admit it, but it actually is delicious.
Gretchen, pale-haired, bedroom-eyed, looks charmingly unsure what to do.
Chef Andre rushes to behind her chair. Before anyone can say anything, he reaches over her back, elbow grazing her shoulder, picks her spoon up by its elegant handle. Crooks his arm so he's holding the aromatic spoon to her lips. "One gulp, little pet."
Slips it into her mouth.
Gretchen looks like she swallows it without tasting, trying to pull her chair closer to the table, away from Chef Andre's body behind her, but of course her chair's already pretty close to the white linen.
Chef Andre places his hand on her shoulder. Leans forward from behind her, twists his face around to look at her, maybe six inches between his nose and hers. "Did you enjoy that?" You watch, unhappy, as his middle finger, his longest finger, rubs her clavicle.
She dips her shoulder to get out from under the caress, face blushing.
Everyone around the table is quiet. Looking down
"Chef. Bring the next course." From your father. His voice is flat.
Holly's blue eyes are switching left and right, trying to think of some way to bring back the good mood. "Gretchen, I Googled you!"
Gretchen pats her white linen napkin to her lips. "Did you? I mean, you did?"
"Yeah!"
You feel the back of your neck get tense.
"You're an actress!"
Gretchen glances over at you, and you can tell she wishes the two of you were alone for a moment, instead of sitting here at the family dining room table, with a blue and green painting of an English landscape over the doorway, so you could discuss what just happened with the chef.
"Oh, not really."
Your mom perks up. "Have you been in movies?"
She smiles around the table. "I have, but not in any kind of noticeable role. I'm what's known as a background actor. If there's a scene in a movie or TV show where the main actors are talking, I'm sometimes cast as one of the people in the background, sitting at a table, or walking behind the main actors."
You're stunned. She had never mentioned this to you.
Your father nods. "They call that 'atmosphere', right?"
"Yeah! There's really no acting involved. In fact, they don't want you to do anything that would detract from the main actors in the scene."
"How much do you get paid?"
She looks at your father. "Well, I started as a non-union extra, so I'd only get $85 a day, but then over time I was able to join SAG and AFTRA, and my pay went up to $150 a day."
Your mom rests her right palm against the side of her face, fascinated. You remember, for the first time in years, all the movie magazines she used to read, wetted thumb flipping through page after page of colorful photographs. Waiting for the browned beef cubes bubbling in a stew to show tenderness, when pressed with the back of a wooden spoon against the curved side of a Dutch oven. "Do they pay for your clothes?"
Gretchen shook her head. Seeing her as the center of attention, you realize what a catch she is as a girlfriend. "You have to bring your own. And usually they want something nondescript, so it doesn't stand out."
Holly had her mouth open. "Have you ever been on TV?"
Gretchen bobs her head, happy. "Yep! I was a core extra on You Didn't Hear It From Me, which means I'd be in almost every episode, playing a school kid at Hughes High."
Chef Andre comes out, trailed by his two female servers. The room tightens again. He lifts his jaw. "For our first appetizer. Squab breast injected with lime and garlic, then marinated twenty-four hours in yogurt, then broiled." He waggles his dark eyebrows at Gretchen, who looks uncomfortable, your father watching with a scowl on his face. "I hope a beautiful young woman like you will appreciate the softness and fullness of the breast. It is one of the greatest pleasures in life, to put a soft, warm breast in your mouth."
He seems really pleased with himself. He starts to leave the dining room.
Your father raises his hand. "Hold it!"
Chef Andre stops. Looks at your father.
"Stay here until we try it."
Chef Andre dips his knees. Spiked hair. "Naturally."
"That first course? The little chunk of filet mignon?" Your father looks up at Chef Andre. "I didn't like it."
"Seriously? I've served it to–"
"Let me try this."
No one else around the table tries the squab breast.
All eyes on your father as he cuts off a slice of the squab breast, puts it in his mouth.
His impassive face leans forward, spits out the chewed slice onto his plate. "Tastes like shit!"
The two female servers behind Chef Andre shift their hips.
"Excuse me, sir?"
Your father turns around in his chair so his eyes look straight up into Chef Andre's eyes. "You heard me. Tastes like shit."
Your mom looks away, small smile on her face. Holly has a delighted grin on her lowered face.
"I am so sorry, but–"
"I hired you because I thought you knew how to cook. Evidently, you don't. If you're going to serve us shit like this, at least bring out a bottle of ketchup. Holly, be a good girl and get the yellow pages for me. I think we'll order a pizza instead."
Gretchen raises her head. "Sounds great, Mr. Morgan."
Your father reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "What was your fee? Fifteen hundred? Here it is." He pulls out a folded check. As Chef Andre reaches for it, your father lets the check fall to the carpet.
Chef Andre looks at your father. "You let my check fall to the floor."
"So? Bend over and fetch it."
As the family watches, as his two female servers watch, Chef Andre bends over in his all-white outfit, fetches his check from the floor.
You don't want to be alone with your father during your Thanksgiving visit, but after the traditional mid-afternoon meal the next day, and before most of that meal will be made by your mother into delicious turkey sandwiches, the best part of Thanksgiving, your dad walks behind the sofa where you and Gretchen are watching the football game, neither of you that interested in it, and puts his hand on your shoulder. "A word?"
You follow him out through the downstairs rooms, through the kitchen. Where your mother has twinned slices of dense white bread laid across five plates, ready to add mayonnaise, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, sliced jumbo green olives, salt and black pepper. Out the backdoor to the back yard, where the temperature is too raw and cold for your short-sleeved shirt.
He turns around by the pruned-back rose bushes alongside the garage. Taller than you. Will your face be that harsh some day?
"Your mother cut these back Labor Day. This Spring, once the forsythia bushes start blooming, she'll prune them again."
You're nervous. For the past few years, you've tried to avoid being alone with him, without your mother present. Something some sons do with some fathers. "I remember that."
"Dirt loves flowers."
"I guess it does."
"Your uncle Oliver? My brother?"
"Yeah."
"You always thought he was so colorful. Growing up."
Your father pulls a photograph out of his jacket pocket. Hands it to you, like the final card dealt face down in a poker hand
. "Here's your hero, a year ago."
You take the photo from your father. Look down. A group of men, including uncle Oliver. Your uncle slumped sideways against one of the other men, eyes closed. He looks so drunk in the photograph you suspect he doesn't even realize his picture is being taken.
"I had to put him away. My own brother. In rehab. He'll get out in a few months, after his latest cure. Walk the line a few days, lose everything in a local bar, then I'll have to have him institutionalized again. He's weak."
"If you say so."
"If I say so? When he got out the first time, right after you left for New York City, I let him stay in our home. With your mom and your little sister. I brought that corruption into our innocent home, because I loved him. While he was here, sleeping in your room, he used to fill a glass with vodka, then add enough milk so it looked like it was non-alcoholic. He thought he was so sly. But like a lot of drunks, he started having explosive diarrhea. Do you want to live with that? Do you want to be a colorful character?"
"No."
"That chef the other night was a real jackass."
"I agree."
"So why didn't you do anything?"
"Well, you handled it."
"So what am I supposed to do, show up at your apartment in New York City every morning to pull your socks on your feet?"
Boy, does that hurt. "No, of course not."
"I didn't raise my son to be a shrinking violet."
"Is that how you think of me, dad?"
"Wipe your tears. Use your thumbs. Get rid of that wetness. Every time I had a talk like this with Betty, before she got lost in the dope world, you know how many times she teared-up? Never. Not once. So, did I raise a man? Or do I have to switch my faith to little Holly?"
You and Gretchen drive back to New York City. On the drive back, you tell her it's okay for her to be honest with you how she feels about your family. She is.
The two of you arrive home at the apartment while everyone else is in classes. She follows you and your suitcase into your bedroom.
Standing in front of you, with those deep circles under her eyes, she reaches out. To the top, milky white plastic button on your blue shirt. Thin hands by the button, you looking down at her arched blonde eyebrows, able to see how each hair contributes to that arch. Her left thumb presses the right side of your shirt against your chest, her right index finger and thumb pulling up on the left side of your shirt, sliding backwards across the top of the button, so that the milky white plastic button slips free, exposing skin.
You Can Never Spit It All Out Page 18