by Kim Fielding
The only other name to stick in Elliott’s head was that of Ashur’s sister, Miri. A very pretty girl who looked young for her age, she was all sparkling eyes over Elliott. “Si, is this—”
“Don’t,” Simon begged.
She put a hand over her mouth, but her smile was still visible in the crinkle of her eyes. “It’s really nice to meet you!” Her palm muffled her words a little.
Elliott found himself liking her immediately, which was unusual for him. Her physical resemblance to Simon was minor, but he sensed she shared his good nature. “I’m happy to meet you too,” he said. “Simon’s told me good things about you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like I was a dumb-shit and got knocked up?” She patted her stomach, although her pregnancy wasn’t yet visible.
“I teach college. Making mistakes is par for the course for my students—and some of their mistakes are much worse. I’ve had three students get arrested.” And his ex-lover too, but he didn’t mention John.
“Ooh! You’re a professor! That’s so cool!” She gave Simon a reproachful tap. “Why didn’t you tell me that!” Then she turned to Elliott again. “What do you teach?”
“History.”
“Wow! Cool! I’m taking classes now. Just at the junior college, but I’m supposed to transfer next fall.” She rubbed her tummy again, and for a moment her smile fell away. But it reappeared quickly. “I’m in the pre-nursing program. When Simon was in the hospital, I talked to some of his nurses, and they said if I get a BSN degree, it’ll be easy for me to get a great job.”
Simon put an arm around her shoulders and beamed. “She gets top grades now, but I used to babysit this brat. I know what she’s really like.”
Miri slapped his chest playfully. “And I know what you’re really like too.” She looked at Elliott and raised her eyebrows meaningfully, clearly conveying more than she said. But she was still smiling, and Simon leaned down to kiss the top of her head.
Then the others in the room had to be introduced, mostly people in their twenties, thirties, and forties, with some teens hanging around the edges—generally staring at their phones—and little kids darting in and out of the crowd. The majority were Assyrian, but not everyone. The assembled spouses represented a variety of ethnicities.
Eventually Simon tapped Elliott’s shoulder. “Time for the rest.”
“There’s more?”
Simon just grinned.
The fragrant kitchen was as packed as the living room, but mostly with older women. A lot of them were engaged in food preparation, while others seemed intent on giving advice. The only man in the midst of the action was Sargon, who was fussing over an enormous turkey. Simon kissed several cheeks as he and Elliott made the rounds. There was some whispering among the women, which Elliott couldn’t understand because it was in Assyrian and Simon pretended he didn’t hear. His mother stood at the stove, stirring an enormous pot and ignoring them both.
Then Simon took him out into the backyard—a large grassy space with a wooden fence and several leafless trees—where all the older men and some of the children had gathered. The men wore light jackets and sat in patio chairs, smoking, drinking coffee, and talking loudly in Assyrian. “They’re not arguing,” Simon hastened to explain. “It’s just what they do.”
“I know.”
“Yeah, you’ve probably seen some of them around town. They hang out at coffee places for hours. That’s what they do when they retire. I think their wives shoo them out of the house.”
Elliott had seen these men, or people like them, around Modesto. But he’d also encountered them in Sarajevo and Zagreb and Trieste. Only the languages differed.
“Will that be you when you retire?” Elliott asked.
“I won’t have a wife to kick me out.”
They exchanged a long look.
Then Simon was introducing Elliott again, and while these men were more cautious in their greetings than the younger crowd, they remained polite. When Simon mentioned that Elliott was a history professor, they became animated, and soon Elliott was being given an impromptu lesson on the Assyrian people. He knew very little on the subject and found himself quickly engrossed in the conversation, asking numerous questions and receiving many—often conflicting—replies. Simon stood close by, quiet for once but watching fondly.
Elliott and his new comrades were deep in the middle of debating the pros and cons of the Ottoman Empire when Sargon stepped outside. “The food is ready!” he bellowed.
A small stampede ensued.
Although the house contained a formal dining room, it could hold only a tiny fraction of the assembled crowd. Food covered every inch of the large table and the sideboard, while the kitchen table and counters held the overflow. Everyone gathered as close as they could to the dining room, although Elliott and Simon stayed toward the back of the crowd. Sargon and Nahrina said a few words about how blessed they were to have everyone in their home. Sargon followed with a brief prayer. Then the feasting commenced.
As Simon demonstrated to Elliott, after you took your place in the long line, you eventually reached a small table where you collected a plate, cutlery, and napkin. “Do your parents really own this much tableware?” Elliott asked quietly.
Simon laughed. “They own a restaurant, remember?”
Oh. That made sense.
Nobody could possibly fit all the varieties of food on one plate, so the plan was to take some turkey, then choose among the rest. According to Simon, coming back for a second round—or a third or fourth—was encouraged. And that didn’t even include the desserts. The foods themselves ranged from traditional Thanksgiving fare to Assyrian specialties, with a smattering of other ethnic additions such as tamales, sushi, and ravioli. Elliott had never seen so much food in one place, nor such an interesting combination. He piled his plate almost as high as Simon’s.
Smiling, Simon took Elliott down the hall and opened a door to what looked like a spare bedroom. “Perks of being the hosts’ kid—I can hide out in here. You want a break while we eat?”
“Please.” Elliott hoped he didn’t sound too pathetic.
Simon abandoned him, but only long enough to fetch wine and sparkling cider from the kitchen. They sat next to each other on the pink chenille bedspread and dug in.
“You know what this room is for?” Simon asked.
Elliott took a more careful look around. There was a dresser and an empty desk with a chair. A pair of seascapes hung on the white walls, and a navy-blue curtain covered the single window. “Guests?”
“Occasionally, but they’ve got another room for that. This room is so their grandchildren can stay the night sometimes.”
The turkey had been delicious, but it suddenly felt dry in Elliott’s throat. “Oh.”
“Mom keeps saying she’ll decorate the room properly when she knows whether she has a granddaughter or grandson. Jesus, El. How am I supposed to deal with that?”
Elliott set his plate on the desk and sat down again, his thigh against Simon’s. “I’m sorry. It stinks. But you can’t let other people’s expectations rule your life.” Yeah, he knew it was easier advice to give than to follow. What was that awful old saying? Those who can’t do, teach.
Simon nodded but still looked miserable.
“Will it help if you explain that you can still have children?”
“Will I?” Simon asked bleakly. “With who?”
Elliott wanted to make a promise to parent with him—hell, he wanted to be a father too—but he couldn’t. Not with Nebraska looming. He settled for an inadequate reassurance. “You will.”
Shrugging as though it wasn’t important, Simon spooned some rice dish into his mouth. “You impressed my uncles,” he said after swallowing.
“Are all those old guys your uncles?”
“Uncles, second cousins, old family friends, whatever. They’ll happily draft you into their ranks. You could spend the rest of your life arguing history and politics with them.”
For some re
ason, that image made Elliott laugh.
They finished their meal in silence, then Simon looked at him questioningly. “More?”
“I’m good. You go ahead.”
“Trying to shrink this, remember?” Simon patted his belly. “Although I’m tempted to eat everything. I’m still really nervous.”
“Do you want to leave?”
Simon considered it for a moment before shaking his head. “I need to do this, El, and there’s no time like the present. In fact . . .” He stood with his plate in one hand and held out the other to Elliott.
Oddly, Elliott wasn’t nervous. Well, that wasn’t quite true. He was worried about what might happen and how Simon would be affected. But he wasn’t stressing about his own role in the upcoming drama. He’d survived the introductions to the Odisho clan, had even been a hit with the uncles, if Simon was to be believed. All he had to do now was support the man he loved, and damn it, he could do that.
Most of the people in the living room were eating and watching football on TV, so few of them saw Elliott and Simon’s arrival. Those that noticed did double takes at their clasped hands, but nobody said anything. Miri, however, made a squealing noise with her hand over her mouth and started to rush toward them. But she stopped and backed off when Simon shook his head and waved his plate toward the kitchen. She gave them a double thumbs-up instead.
Elliott was relieved at their low-key reception, but he also realized that the living room contained the relatively easy younger crowd. The truly tough audience—the more traditional members of the family—lay ahead.
In the kitchen, Sargon and Nahrina were supervising a dishwashing assembly line, although the actual washing and drying was being done by teenagers, who stacked the clean tableware on a wheeled cart. The older ladies were covering filled plates with foil and drinking coffee, nibbling on this and that as they went. The ladies noticed Simon and Elliott right away, and they all went quiet and still as Simon handed the dirty dishes to a gaping teenager.
“Mom, Dad,” said Simon in a whisper. Then he repeated it so they could hear him over the noise of the running water. They turned to face him.
As everyone stared, Elliott studied Nahrina’s and Sargon’s expressions and realized two things. First, they were not astonished to see Simon holding Elliott’s hand. And second, they’d been deliberately avoiding Simon this afternoon, most likely because they suspected what was coming.
Nahrina was the first to speak, her voice sounding strained. “Simon, why are you playing these games? We are busy.” She knew it wasn’t a game.
“Mom, Elliott is my boyfriend.”
“These are silly games!”
“He’s my boyfriend. We love each other. He makes me so happy.” Then, in case his message wasn’t already glaringly clear, he added, “I’m gay.”
She narrowed her eyes. “This is a stupid joke.”
“You know I’m serious.” As if to prove his point, he brought their clasped hands to his mouth and kissed the back of Elliott’s. “I love him. Just like you love Dad.”
One of the teenagers finally thought to turn off the faucet, and relatives started crowding into the kitchen from the living room and backyard. They were all eerily quiet, as if they were an audience at a play. It remained to be seen what kind of play. Tragedy? Farce?
Sargon took two steps closer and pointed a thick finger at Elliott. “You have done this! You have confused our son!”
Before Elliott could respond, Simon placed himself between Elliott and Sargon. “C’mon, Dad. Give me some credit for a mind of my own. I’ve known for years that I like men.”
“But you danced with all the girls.”
“Of course I did. If I’d danced with the boys, the entire hall would have fainted in shock. I know you’ve noticed I’m not dating any women—you guys bring it up now and then. Surely you must have speculated why.”
“You have not found the right girl.” Voice wavering, Nahrina sounded unconvinced by her own claim. “That is all. I will help you—”
“There is no right girl. There is a right man. Elliott.”
Sargon scowled more deeply. “He has tricked you. He has . . . seduced you!”
Simon’s laugh was bitter enough to hurt. “Seduced me? Really? I wasn’t some fainting virgin when I met him. I’d had sex with plenty of men. But Elliott’s the one I fell in love with.” His grip made Elliott’s hand ache, but there was no way Elliott wanted to let go.
At the mention of sex, many of the older ladies made muffled gasps or pressed their hands to their chests. Elliott would have considered Simon’s proclamation to be TMI under other circumstances. Yet Simon’s parents needed to hear this—and he needed to tell them the unvarnished truth.
After shooting Elliott a quick glance as if to confirm he was all right, Simon spoke again. “Look. None of this changes who I am. Nothing’s changed at all—I’ve always been this way. I love you. I just can’t go on any longer lying to you. It hurts worse than my damn knee! Please, please understand.”
“This is not how we raised you,” said Nahrina tearfully.
Simon’s eyes were wet too, and he worked his jaw as he struggled to keep his composure. This time when Simon looked back, Elliott thought he saw a hint of desperation. Hoping he was doing the right thing, he stepped forward to stand beside Simon. “Mrs. Odisho, you did a wonderful job raising Simon. He’s an amazing man. He’s patient and sweet and funny and smart, and he has the kindest heart I’ve ever met. He brought me a dog—a rescued dog, of course—so I wouldn’t be such a hermit. On our second date, he took me to Columbia because he knew I’d enjoy it. He is a good man. The best I know.”
By this point, several members of the audience were crying, and Elliott’s throat felt thick. But Simon graced him with a broad, beautiful smile that shone with love and gratitude, and someone in the back of the room clapped. Elliott suspected it was Miri.
Even Simon’s parents were visibly moved by Elliott’s little speech. Yet Sargon rubbed his chin—a shockingly familiar gesture—and Nahrina shook her head slowly. “We cannot have this,” she said.
“Mom, I can’t be any other way.”
“We cannot have this.”
God, Elliott had thought he’d known what a breaking heart felt like. He thought he’d experienced it when he learned of John’s betrayal. That was nothing, though—a flea bite, a tap on the wrist—compared to the ripping agony he felt now on Simon’s behalf. He wanted to howl with pain. He kept silent, however, holding Simon’s hand as Simon nodded stiffly.
“I love you, Mom and Dad. Nothing will ever change that. I hope—” He stopped for a deep breath, then turned to Elliott. “We need to go.”
It was surely one of the most awkward social situations Elliott had been involved in. Sargon and Nahrina remained as motionless as statues, and dozens of people stared as Elliott and Simon walked toward the front door. The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea for Moses. Elliott briefly considered throwing out a thank-you for the meal but decided it might be interpreted as mockery. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and his hand firmly in Simon’s.
During the walk to the truck, Simon limped so badly Elliott wished they’d brought the cane. They’d almost reached their destination when running footsteps sounded behind them. They turned around to discover Miri rushing toward them at top speed.
“Wait!” she called.
Simon waited until, panting, she reached them.
“You shouldn’t be running,” he scolded.
She rolled her eyes. “The doctor says I’m perfectly healthy and can do all my regular exercises. Anyway, I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
Instead of answering, she threw herself onto him in a fierce hug that made him stagger. When she was done with that, she astounded Elliott by bear-hugging him too. “I’m happy for you guys. You seem amazing, Elliott, and Simon deserves some amazing.”
“He does,” said Elliott quietly.
“And I want you to know tha
t I love you, Simon. Aunt Nahrina and Uncle Sargon will come around if you give them time. They love you way too much to be stubborn about this forever.”
Simon managed a smile. “You’re just happy because now everybody’s going to forget about your drama.”
“Yeah, I think your Thanksgiving scene is going to be a top hit for a while. Thanks for that.” She tapped his arm playfully. “But I heard that Rachel and her husband are close to separating, so unless they get some successful couples counseling or something, you might drop out of first place soon.”
“Great. Thanks for your support, brat. Elliott needs to get home now and feed his dog.” Simon bent to hug her, and his was more gentle.
Simon was quiet during the short drive home, but Elliott watched his face betray a range of emotions. In Elliott’s driveway, Simon left the engine idling. “I should—”
“Come in, Si. Please.” Because one thing Elliott had recently learned was that even the heaviest sorrow became easier to bear with sympathetic companionship.
Simon cut the engine and followed Elliott inside.
Ishtar, of course, was ecstatic to see them, nearly falling on the floor in her eagerness to be petted. They couldn’t get past her, and Elliott thought a few of the shadows disappeared from Simon’s eyes as he stroked her.
It took some time to care for Ishtar—a trip to the backyard, some food and fresh water, then another trip outside because she always had to shit after she ate. When Elliott returned to the living room, Simon was sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. It hurt Elliott to see such a vibrant, joyful man—the man he loved—reduced to blankness.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked as he sat beside him.
“Think I should eat these feelings away? ’Cause that’s what I do.” Simon’s voice was bitter, and he didn’t meet Elliott’s eyes.
“If it’ll make you feel better to eat something, that’s okay.” There were a million ways to deal with grief, some of them healthier than others. Overeating and compulsively buying books were probably not the best coping mechanisms, but they were better than binge-drinking, drugs, or violence. Elliott scooted closer.