Where You Are

by J. H. Trumble

  He looks down at his athletic shoes, and I know—I know—that I’m doing the right thing. “Look, I can’t call you,” I say, “but if you need me, if you need to talk or just let off some steam, you can call me. Okay?”

  I hand him the Post-it. He looks at my number for a moment, then meets my eyes with his. “Thanks, Mr. Mac.”

  Robert

  I enter Mr. Mac’s number in my phone as I cross the parking lot. I don’t know why he decided to give it to me, or whether or not I’ll use it, but it feels good to have all the same.

  Nic is leaning against my car when I get there. I shove my phone back in my pocket.

  “Hey, what took you so long?” he says and gives me a brief hug, leaving enough distance between us to drive a school bus through. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  Apparently I’ve been forgiven for my lack of clairvoyance. “I thought you had plans tonight,” I say, tossing my backpack in the front seat.

  “I do, but I wanted to see my guy for a few minutes first.”

  His guy. Hmph. Nic talks about all his friends like they’re his personal possessions. My guy, my girls. Tonight he’s hanging out with his girls—cheerleaders, all of them. And I’m not invited. I imagine they’re going to do girly stuff like paint their faces and their nails and talk about boys.

  He’s like their little mascot. I think it’s degrading; he doesn’t see it that way.

  That last part—the talking-about-boys part—sticks in my craw a bit. Apparently having a boyfriend and lusting after hot guys is not mutually exclusive. Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in Nic. He’s cute, he’s funny, he’s smart. All true. And he’s gay. A definite plus. Beyond that, though, we don’t have much in common.

  He’s never even been to my house. He doesn’t do sick people, he told me once. But when I told him my dad was dying three days ago, he’d gushed and cried and carried on like someone had just run over his pet turtle.

  Nic does do drama.

  “Look, I made something for your dad,” he says. He pulls something out of his backpack and hands it to me. It’s a book, carved up with the pages glued together. Most of the cover and a good many pages have been cut away, framing the page beneath, which he’s painted over with something white that allows the words to seep through just a little. Some of the words are still completely exposed—a word here, a word there—and he’s circled them with a black Sharpie. My eyes trail across the page—you—are—loved. Off to the side he’s drawn a pink daisy with a yellow center and a green stem that weaves among the words. I turn the book over. On the back in red ink: B+.

  “Do you think he’ll like it?” Nic asks excitedly.

  Your B+ art project? “Yeah.”

  “Oh, good!” He kisses me on the cheek. “I gotta go,” he says, already backing away. “Can’t keep my girls waiting.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “You want to hang out tomorrow? I don’t have anything else to do.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer.

  I pull my car up next to a Dumpster and toss the book in.

  Andrew

  “One beer,” I tell Jen.

  She eyes me and nibbles on a tortilla chip. “Were you always this stuffy, Drew?”

  “Not stuffy. Just not stupid,” I say in my defense. “This place is crawling with gossips. I’d just as soon not be one of their subjects.”

  “Aaah, come on. We’ve been locked up with hormonal teenagers for four months now. It’s our turn to let it all hang out.”

  I laugh. “Sorry, partner. I’m not lettin’ nothin’ hang out tonight.”

  “You’re no fun.” She inches her chair closer to mine, then gathers her long blond hair and pulls it over one shoulder, twisting it in a move that I assume is intended to be alluring. I decide to change the subject.

  “So, what are you going to do with that novel when you finish it?”

  “I joined the Romance Writers of America. A hundred ten bucks, can you believe it? But they’ve got this special-interest chapter—Passionate Ink—for erotica writers. And I’m thinking . . . maybe my roommate had the right idea. She paid her way through college writing dirty novels. And, hey, I can write erotica. I’ve had sex.”

  I try not to grin too broadly as she goes off into a long, animated monologue about her publishing plans and pen names and the steamy scenes she wants to write. The music is loud—Journey, I think—and I lose some of her words in the beat.

  I find myself thinking again about Robert. Would he actually call? And why me? Maybe he gave his phone number to all his teachers. Don’t know, not going to ask. But I can’t help speculating. And I can’t help feeling that there’s something about me that’s more approachable than other teachers, some special quality that Robert intuits.

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” Jen says.

  Most of her chatter has fallen on deaf ears, but this little indictment somehow grabs my attention. I look at her, and she nods toward Philip, who’s making his way to our table.

  “He thinks he’s got this so under control,” she says, snidely. She grins widely up at him as he approaches. I’d like to warn him, but I can see it’s too late.

  “Hey, you two, what are you up to for the holidays?” he asks. He pulls out a chair across from us and sits.

  “Just hanging out with the family,” Jen says brightly. “I bet your kids are excited about hanging out with their dad for two weeks straight.”

  He smiles. “Actually, Diana’s got a honey-do list for me a mile long. It’s going to be a working holiday for me. What about you, Drew?”

  “I’m headed to Oklahoma to see—”

  “Hey, is Liz here?” Jen interrupts. “I wanted to ask her about her trip to Mexico.”

  Philip looks uncomfortable. He glances around the room. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her.” Then he gets up and tells us he’ll catch us later.

  “You are shameless,” I say to Jen.

  “He deserves it. He’s got four freaking kids at home.”

  “He’s a nice guy.”

  “He’s a douche.” Jen grins and drains her mug. “I’m gonna get another beer.”

  Chapter 4

  Robert

  When I get up Saturday morning, I find Aunt Whitney in the kitchen surveying empty cabinets and drawers. She has taken everything out of them and stacked it on the counters. And she’s obviously been here awhile; the old shelf paper is gone too, and new green spongy stuff has been precisely fitted to each shelf and drawer in its place.

  It’s just a shot in the dark, but I’m guessing Mom didn’t ask Aunt Martha Stewart here to rearrange her kitchen for maximum efficiency. She’s going to be pissed when she can’t find the manual can opener later.

  I take a glass and pour some milk. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.

  “Out running errands. I told her she should wake you up to do the errands, but she vetoed me on that. She acts like she can’t get out of this house fast enough most days.”

  No kidding. Can’t imagine why.

  “You want something to eat? I made your dad a breakfast burrito.” She sighs. “He barely picked at it. There’s still some eggs and bacon left. I could put one together for you.”

  I mumble a no, thanks, but take a piece of bacon anyway.

  “I think your dad’s asleep now.” She stoops to size up a bottom cabinet, then reaches up for a large saucepan and sets it on the shelf inside. “I think he was up all night again. He doesn’t like being alone, you know.”

  He wasn’t alone. Mom was right there in the bed next to him. It’s a slight, another tiny dig on my mom—the bad mother, the bad wife. They hate her—for getting pregnant in college, for dropping out, for marrying Dad, for supplanting them in my dad’s life, for existing. She’ll never be good enough to bear the Westfall name. I know that, and so does she.

  Aunt Whitney straightens up and leans against the counter. She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “You look so much like your dad did at your age. You should be very proud of hi
m, Robert. He’s a very brave man.”

  I want to scream at her. How? Tell me how having cancer makes you brave or good or noble? But I don’t.

  Aunt Whitney sighs. “He would have been such a good doctor.” Her voice catches in her throat.

  She seems lost in her thoughts for a moment, then suddenly finds herself again. She examines the scarred nonstick pan she’s holding. “God, some of this cookware is just a disgrace. I don’t know why your mother doesn’t invest in some good Calphalon.” She forces the pan into a trash bag of other discards she’s been collecting in the corner.

  Andrew

  “There’s my girl!”

  I scoop up Kiki and spin her around. She squeals in delight and pats my face like I’m one of her dolls.

  Maya smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “So, what do you two have planned for today?”

  I look at Kiki. “You want to go see Santa?”

  “Ho-ho-ho!”

  Maya laughs. “Good luck with that. My guess is you won’t get her anywhere near the jolly old elf. But if you do, I want pictures.”

  “You hear that, Kiki?” I say to her. “Mommy wants a picture of you with Santa, and we can’t disappoint Mommy, right?”

  My daughter’s cat strolls out the front door, and Kiki squirms to be put down so she can pet him. I drop her lightly to her feet. “So, you spending the day with Doug?”

  “He’s playing golf right now. Maybe later.”

  “Golf? Wow. How . . . upper-middle-class straight.”

  “Quit. Not everybody can be you. And at least he wants to be with me.”

  Ouch. But that’s Maya. Letting go has never been her strong suit. And now what should have been a friendly exchange of our child has become another awkward moment between us.

  “He’s a great guy, Maya. I don’t know why you two don’t make it official. Give the poor guy a break.”

  “Are you just trying to get out of paying child support?”

  At least she can still make a joke. I take that as a sign of continued progress. I know it’s been hard on her going from best friend to one-time lover to a married couple to this.

  Kiki has thrown herself over the aging cat, who seems to have resigned himself to the assault.

  “Are you taking care of yourself?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “I don’t like you being alone.”

  “Thanks, but I spend my days in a classroom so small I can’t spit without hitting a teenager.”

  “Eew.”

  I laugh. “Trust me, after a day at school, alone is all I want to be.” I don’t look at her when I say this. “I’ll drop Kiki off in the morning.” I free the cat and scoop up the toddler.

  “Are you going to your folks?” Maya asks.

  Kiki pokes at my nose and giggles. “Yeah. I wish I could bring this one, but maybe Easter.”

  “Sure,” she says.

  Maya and I have a good relationship, but it’s had its ups and downs. We both agree though that Kiki has been worth all the bad decisions. (I think of them as bad; I’m not so sure Maya agrees.)

  Kiki looks a lot like her mom—rich brown skin, thick black hair, and huge eyes set widely apart. I love her more than anything. Maya knows that. We share her, perhaps not equally, but there’s enough play in our agreement that I never feel shorted.

  My own parents barely skipped a beat when I came out. There was some discussion about how they already knew, but I think that was just a lie to get past that awkward phase. Because even though sexual orientation is really about identity, there’s no getting around the sexual part. If I’m gay, I’m interested in what’s going on between guys’ legs, and like it or not, my parents had to face that.

  So, not surprisingly, they were shocked and more than a little confused when Maya got pregnant. When I announced we were getting married, they sat me down for a real talk, the don’t-compound-one-mistake-by-making-another talk.

  I listened patiently to their arguments, even considered some of them, but in the end I did what I believed was the right thing. I married Maya. We’d slept together only that once. We didn’t even pretend to be a real husband and wife in that sense. For me, at least, we were friends and we were parents. I don’t know why I ever thought that would be enough for either of us.

  The mall turns out to be a mixed bag. Kiki refuses to go anywhere near the poser in the red suit. I won’t traumatize her by forcing her onto his lap, but I drop to one knee just to make sure this isn’t a momentary case of cold feet. After all, you’re only two once.

  “No like him,” Kiki says, her bottom lip jutting out. She sticks her thumb in her mouth and I gently pull it back out again.

  “But he’s Santa. Like we saw in the movie, right? And Santa is nice. Don’t you want to tell him about the doll you want for Christmas so his elves can be sure and make one just for you? You could tell him how much you like Rudolph, too, and that red nose. I’m sure he’d like to hear that.”

  “Hey, teach!”

  I look up and see one of my students, a freshman. He’s holding hands with a girl I don’t recognize, and he keeps flicking his head to the side to clear his early–Justin Bieber hair from his eyes.

  I’m trying to recall his name, but seeing him in a different environment makes him hard to place. And then I remember—second-period Algebra, back row, corner seat. “Hey, Alex. Doing a little Christmas shopping?”

  “Nah. We’re just hanging out.”

  “Well, have fun!” And get a haircut, I think. They move on and I turn back to Kiki. She looks glum and maybe a little sleepy. “You want to build a teddy bear?”

  Build-A-Bear is crazy. There’s a birthday party ahead of us with a gaggle of preteen girls, so it takes a while to get through all the stations. Kiki chooses a Dalmatian instead of a bear and dresses the stuffed animal in a froufrou little summer dress even though it’s winter outside. At the sound table, she picks out a little box that plays “Who Let the Dogs Out” and giggles every time it goes woof, woof, woof-woof. When we’re done, we print out the birth certificate and head to the counter to check out. I am exhausted.

  “Mr. McNelis!”

  “Kim! I didn’t know you worked here.” Kim I know immediately. She’s another of those serious students like Robert. Same class, in fact. She’s strictly academics though. I’ve wondered before if she knows what a cliché she is—Asian, smart, respectful. Even the serious, dark-framed glasses scream ambition. But she has a job, and therefore I must concede that she is more well-rounded than I thought. I have her pegged for valedictorian, or salutatorian at the least. I set Kiki on the counter and introduce her.

  “Is this your doggy?” Kim asks Kiki, bouncing the dog on the counter so the skirt on its dress flaps up and down. Kiki smiles and hugs the dog to herself. “She’s a cutie,” Kim says, then to me, “She’s a cutie too.”

  “Thanks. I think so.” I pull out my wallet while Kim puts together a traveling home for the dog, aptly named Spot now.

  “So, I didn’t know you were married,” Kim says, sliding the credit card receipt over for me to sign.

  “Divorced.”

  I hand the receipt over and see her eyes widen as she says, “Oh.” Then she flashes me a smile, a very big smile, and tells Kiki to take good care of that puppy. We leave, and I can’t help thinking I’ve just missed something.

  Robert

  I think I would have gone out to dinner with Hannibal Lecter if it got me out of the house for a couple of hours.

  With school out, the mall is packed with Christmas shoppers. But if there’s one thing Nic likes, it’s a big audience.

  He hangs his heavy sunglasses from the V-neck of his sweater as we merge with the crowd. “I want to pick out some boots,” he says, grabbing my hand.

  His hand feels foreign in mine, and immediately I suspect it’s just for show. It annoys me the way he’s thrusting his chest out as we walk. He looks like a rooster. It’s all so affected, like he’s advertising—gay boy here; c
ome and get me—when I know for a fact that if anybody took him up on it, he’d squeal and hide behind me like a little girl, and then I’d have to defend his honor. I hope I’m never called to do that because I’m not so sure I would.

  A lone guy with heavily tattooed arms in a sleeveless shirt strolls past us. Nic appraises him with his eyes, then turns and walks backward. “Wow, do you see those biceps? Damn, break me off a piece of that.” He gives an exaggerated shiver.

  Really? Seriously?

  “Um,” he says, grabbing my arm and pulling me up short. “Let’s go check out Hot Topic. I want to look for a beanie. I think I’d look good in one.”

  Right. I’d put money on the odds that Sleeveless in December just stepped into Hot Topic himself. I realize I don’t care one way or the other.

  “You go,” I tell him. “I’m going to get us some sodas. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

  “No soda. It’s bad for your skin. Get water, and make sure it’s not just filtered tap water.”

  I take the escalator down to the first level. There’s a Great American Cookies kiosk in the main thoroughfare just below Hot Topic. I’ll get Nic his water, but I’m having a soda.

  Waiting in line is Mindy, a drum major second to Luke and one of the shortest girls I know, and Anna, a senior tuba player. They both wrap me in a big hug when I get in line behind them. We’re band; we’re family.

  “Is Nic here with you?” Mindy asks.

  “He’s upstairs.”

  “I’m sorry about your dad, Robert,” Anna says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.

  I don’t know what to do with the pity I see in their eyes. It’s misplaced at best, and unwanted at worst. I smile wanly at her and mumble a thanks. She lets go of my hand, and she and Mindy pick up their conversation as I focus on the crowds breaking around the kiosk.