by Emma Straub
The menu was simple: pancakes, bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, jam, fresh-squeezed juice, fruit. The twins were gluten-free, as was Wendy, so Astrid made a small batch of gluten-free pancake batter as well. She’d never heard of children with a gluten insensitivity before the twins were born, and it wasn’t that she didn’t believe it—she knew some celiac people, real ones—it was just that the twins weren’t it, and neither was Wendy. She was helicoptering eating disorders into existence, and Elliot wouldn’t say a thing about it. He was like the family dog that showed up at mealtimes, tongue out and panting. Both bowls of batter sat ready on the counter, each with its own ladle. The bacon sat cooling on a long oval plate. Astrid picked up a piece and ate it with her fingers.
The doorbell rang, and Astrid hurried to the foyer, even though no one coming would wait for her to open the door. When she got to the door and it was still closed, she looked through the glass panel on the side of the door and saw Birdie, with both arms wrapped around a bowl covered with plastic. The fruit salad.
Astrid pulled open the door. “You’re the first guest! Everyone is late.”
Birdie leaned in and kissed Astrid on the cheek. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Astrid said, already softening.
Birdie nudged Astrid back inside. “You sure you’re ready?”
“Ready or not, here I come. Who knows when the next school bus is coming ’round the bend.” They walked back into the kitchen, and Birdie set the fruit salad down on the table.
“There are lots of ways to do it. One at a time, all at once. I came out to my parents when I was twenty-five, even though I’m sure they’d known since I was twelve. I wrote a letter, and then they wrote a letter back all about how sorry they were that I was going to go to hell, and we never spoke of it again. Which was pretty good, I thought.” Birdie picked up a strawberry and examined it.
“Well, I think that’s horrible,” Astrid said. “I’m going to tell them all at once, and they can cry or rend their clothes if they want to, but then it’ll be done and we’ll have pancakes.” She shivered, not wanting to feel nervous but feeling it all the same. Feelings were the problem, really—if you asked her children, Astrid didn’t think they would report that she had any, outside of the basics. Certainly not fear. Control: that’s what Astrid had always had. Was control a feeling? The summer light filled the kitchen, with stripes of yellow banded across the hardwood floor. It would be a hot day, but it wasn’t yet.
Astrid and Birdie’s friendship had been fast, and unexpected. Birdie took over for Nancy at the salon five years ago, and Astrid could hardly believe it, that Birdie and Russell had lived in the same town, that they had both touched her body, the same body. Birdie had arrived so long after Russell died that the wounds weren’t even fresh, it wasn’t a topic of conversation for months. Had Russell ever touched her head? He had given foot massages. He had touched her body, he had touched her cheeks. But Astrid couldn’t remember her husband ever touching her hair. Maybe to push it out of the way on a windy day? She couldn’t remember. It had been so long that she didn’t feel sad anymore, about the things she’d forgotten. Astrid remembered what she remembered, and that was enough.
When Russell died, everyone reached out to Astrid, in the way that polite people do—they sent cards, they called and offered to do “anything,” which really meant nothing beyond the extraordinary gesture of putting said card in the mailbox. Nicky was a senior in high school then, the star of the spring play, and Porter was twenty, fat and happy from beer and independence in the dorm. Or at least she had been happy, until Russell died. Elliot was already out of college, applying to law school, trying on suits for size. Whatever else he did, Astrid didn’t know about it. The four of them went to see a grief counselor, at the suggestion of Nicky’s school counselor, a woman who, like so many people, took one look at Nicky’s cheekbones and wanted to nestle him into her bosom, metaphorically speaking. His movie, Jake George, was about to come out, and the potential for it was heavy in the air, like the biggest and heaviest ornament on a Christmas tree. Porter and Nicky had both cried, and Astrid and Elliot had remained steady and then it was over. It hadn’t done a thing.
* * *
—
But talking was nice, it was true, if the talking wasn’t always so focused on the one thing, like every widow was a robot of sadness, and so all those years later, when Nancy moved to Florida and Birdie took over the salon, Astrid asked if she’d like to have lunch. That was how it started. Every Monday, Astrid and Birdie went to Spiro’s for omelets, or the serviceable vegetarian place on Columbus Street for salads and iced tea, and talked and laughed, and it made a difference in her mood. Astrid didn’t need a therapist; she had Birdie.
Their first kiss didn’t happen for another two years. It was February, close to Valentine’s Day, though Astrid hadn’t thought of it at the time. Weeks later, when Astrid had pointed out the coincidence, Birdie had laughed and said, yes, Astrid, I know. Astrid had been seduced, and she didn’t even know it was coming. Chocolat was playing, for the holiday, at Upstate Films in Rhinebeck, and Birdie suggested they go, which sounded just lovely to Astrid, who was used to being home in the evenings, as if her children were going to wander in and need to be fed and tucked in. It was freezing cold and windy, and Astrid remembered holding her hat to her head so that it didn’t blow away as they walked from the car to the theater.
The movie was well-photographed nonsense. She’d missed it when it came out the first time. The actors had extraordinary faces and sometimes that was enough. Birdie snickered often, and Astrid didn’t shush her. Russell had also loved going to the movies—any movie with gangsters, with the Mafia, with machine guns, he loved it. This was different. Birdie leaned close to make comments about Johnny Depp’s gypsy character, about the dialogue, about the way the characters rolled their eyes in ecstasy when they tasted the chocolate. At one point, Birdie ran into the lobby and came back with a package of M&M’s, unable to resist. Toward the end of the movie, when Birdie reached out and put her hand on top of Astrid’s, she gave her a look, playful and curious, and as soon as Astrid felt their skin touch, she understood what had been brewing, that it had been there all the while, just under the surface, like a child who understands a language fully before they can speak it. When Birdie kissed her good night after the movie, she kissed her on the lips, and Astrid was ready. That was the story she wanted to tell her children, in some parallel universe, where all things were equally appropriate. Where she’d been a different sort of mother. For the last five years, she and Birdie had been best friends. When Elliot’s twins were born, she bought soft-edged dump trucks in two different colors, thoughtful and generous. No one ever thought about their mother’s lunch dates. Clapham was LGBTQ-friendly; all the guidebooks said so. There were rainbow flags hanging out of shop windows and restaurants. It turned out that Astrid was even friendlier than that.
The doorbell rang again, and Astrid jumped.
“I’ll get it!” Cecelia called, running down the stairs. She pulled open the door and Elliot’s boys ran inside without a moment’s pause, each of them wielding a large plastic sword. The boys weren’t identical, but Wendy had somehow kept them dressed in nearly identical clothing every day of their lives, and it took slowing both children to a complete halt and holding them side by side in order to tell which one was which. Wendy put a Z and an A on the toes of their sneakers, which they then sometimes swapped, just to mess with their minders.
“Hi,” Wendy said, stepping over the doormat. “Sorry. Hi.” She had a heavy-looking nylon bag on each shoulder.
“Thanks! And don’t worry, I’ll catch them!” Cecelia scampered off after the boys, happy to have actual targets for her energy.
Elliot followed Wendy into the kitchen. They were both in their weekend attire, which meant chino shorts with belts and polo shirts. They could golf at a moment’s notice, like rich superheroes.
&
nbsp; “Hi, Mom,” Elliot said, and gave Astrid a dispassionate kiss on the cheek. He looked at Birdie, who was standing behind Astrid, and paused. “Birdie,” he said. “Good to see you.”
“I get my hair cut in Rhinebeck,” Wendy said, apologizing, as she had every time she’d been in the same room as Birdie, as if Birdie’s job required a follicle confession. “I’ve been going to my person forever.” Wendy had been at the top of her class in college, and then the top of her law school class. After the twins, she’d gone back to work part time at a law firm in New Paltz, but her specialty—corporate law—had been downgraded to small businesses, and Astrid knew that it did not fill her with fire and passion. Her most successful client was a man who owned most of the Hudson Valley’s Dairy Queens.
“That’s okay,” Birdie said. “They’re doing a great job, your hair looks terrific. So full. It’s hard, after childbirth, most women lose a lot of volume.”
Wendy looked pleased. “It’s expensive, but hey, it’s worth it, right?”
Elliot picked an apple out of the bowl on the counter and took a big crunching bite. “Your hair always looks the same.” Wendy flicked him on the shoulder, her fingernails clicking against each other.
“It looks great,” Astrid said. “That’s what he means.”
There was a knock at the door, and then Porter opened it, holding more food. Some Clap Happy cheese, of course, and probably a nice crusty loaf of bread. Astrid liked things prepared, things with ingredients and recipes, but everything that Porter cooked or made was—what did they call it now?—rustic. Porter ate all her meals out of a giant bowl, like one of her goats, just everything piled on top of everything else. Astrid watched her daughter wade through the bags that had been dropped by the door, the toys that Aidan and Zachary had somehow already strewn about, and one of Cecelia’s shoes. Astrid felt full of love for her daughter, who had brought things and was going to stay. Birdie told Astrid that she should tell her children things like that, when she had little moments of appreciation, that it was nice to know your mother thought nice thoughts about you, even if they were tiny little things that didn’t matter. Astrid had always kept tiny little things to herself, in addition to most things that weren’t tiny or little at all. It wasn’t small, being in love—she was in love—for the second time in her life, and at this point, when falling in love seemed less likely than, well, getting hit by a school bus. Astrid reminded herself of that, watching Birdie fill the kettle at the sink, her dark curls lying against her neck. When they met, Birdie’s hair had been mostly brown, and now it was mostly gray. Maybe all her life she’d been waiting for someone with curly hair to arrive.
“Everyone, I have something to say,” Astrid said. Porter set her things down on the counter, and Cecelia poked her head out of the hallway.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Porter said, shaking her head. She drew a line across her neck with her finger. “Mom, don’t.”
“No, Porter,” Astrid said. She wasn’t in the business of telling someone else’s secrets. Porter took a breath and nodded. That was something, right there! She would have to remember to tell Birdie, it was an anecdote in the making, something she could tell her grandchild when she was born, her last grandchild, no doubt—your mother thought I was going to tell everyone about you, but Gammy would never. Elliot and Wendy were having an almost-entirely silent conversation about him taking the car, and her getting the boys home; no one was paying attention to her. The boys were running up the stairs, shouting, “POW POW POW.” Life wouldn’t slow down more than this. Astrid cleared her throat and continued. “Birdie and I are in a romantic relationship and have been for quite some time. And after seeing Barbara, well, I don’t know, it didn’t interest me to keep it from you any longer. If you have any questions, ask away. But brunch is served.”
“What did she say?” Elliot asked Wendy.
Porter let out a giant laugh and then clapped her hand over her mouth. She buried her head in Astrid’s shoulder. “Wow,” she said, and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Birdie, you are in for it.” Porter walked over to the sink and gave Birdie a hug. “Or you’ve been in for it, I guess.” Porter shook her head. “I love it.”
“Mom, are you serious?” Elliot kept his voice low. “This is totally crazy. What are you saying?” He scrunched his face and turned toward Wendy. “What are we supposed to tell Aidan and Zachary, that Gammy has a special friend? I can’t believe you’re springing this on us like this. Honestly, I’m angry.” He clenched his jaw. “How long have you been lying to us?”
“Oh, El. And, yes, you can tell the boys that Gammy’s friend Birdie is a special kind of friend, they’ll only care if you do. And why would you? You don’t need to put a name on anything. We’re not running off to join the circus. I’m not getting a tattoo on my forehead.” Astrid felt her cheeks burn, but she kept moving and put a stack of plates on the dining room table. She had expected this, even the word lying, as if that one slippery word could contain everything she felt for Birdie, everything she felt for her children, everything she’d wanted to share, and everything she wanted to keep to herself. “Please, help yourself. Bacon, Cece?”
Cecelia hadn’t moved from the edge of the hallway. Astrid couldn’t quite read the expression on her face. She slowly made her way through the foyer and into the kitchen, picking up a plate and a handful of bacon. “I thought,” Cecelia said, carefully, with just a hint of a smile on her face, “that I was here because it was a stable home environment.”
“Trust me,” Birdie said, picking up her own plate. “There is nothing more stable than—forgive me, Astrid—an elderly lesbian.” Birdie was nine years younger than Astrid—only fifty-nine years old. Those nine years would have meant something, once upon a time, different schools, different phases of life, but now nine years felt like a blink. In the not-too-distant future, nine years would be a lot again—the difference between eighty and seventy-one, the difference between ninety-five and eighty-six, but for now, they were floating through time together, both healthy and active, both breathing.
Elliot exhaled through his mouth. “I’ll get the boys and tell them it’s time for pancakes. Can we please cool it with the L-word, please?” He stomped toward the stairs and called their names, to which the only response was a high voice bellowing, “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU IN THE FACE WITH MY SWORD!,” which could have been either twin. Wendy hurried along after.
“I wouldn’t call myself a lesbian,” Astrid said. “Just to be clear, I’m bisexual. I think that’s the word one would use. Not that I’m using a word!” Though it did feel electric to say out loud, and Astrid looked forward to saying it again, in private, just for fun, to see if it zipped up her spine again, like the county fair game with the hammer and the bell. Birdie kissed her on the cheek.
“I have to say, Mom,” Porter said, “I really thought you were going to let me be the complicated one in the family for a few more minutes. Honestly, I’m impressed.”
“NFG,” Cecelia said, and then tightly pursed her lips, as if she could swallow back something she shouldn’t have said. Birdie and Porter and Astrid all looked at her expectantly. Cecelia rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me say it,” she said. They didn’t move. “No fucks given.”
Astrid let out a whoop. “I love it! That’s my new motto, my dear. NFG, Birdie, you hear that?” When had she last whooped? What else was she capable of? Birdie made her feel like she could parachute out of an airplane like George Bush on his ninetieth birthday. She watched Porter’s eyes fly open with surprise and, she thought, amusement.
“Mom, if you start saying the F-word in front of Elliot or his children, he will actually die.” Porter stuck her finger into one bowl of the pancake batter and then put the finger into her mouth. “What is this garbage?”
“Gluten-free,” Astrid said. “Try the other one. And I’ll be good, promise.” Porter ladled out the regular batter onto the hot griddle and the room filled with
the smell of warm butter. Birdie put her hand on Astrid’s back and left it there, where it glowed and hummed for several minutes, until Aidan and Zachary were finally dragged downstairs under punishment of death and they all sat at the table and ate, except for Elliot, who excused himself after seething for fifteen minutes, not to be seen again.
Chapter 11
Secondhand News
The weekend before school started, Porter took Cecelia shopping. Starting eighth grade at a new school in a new town was less than ideal but it did offer a certain unanticipated chance at reinvention, and where better to start than with one’s clothes? Porter thought about all the women she could have been if given the opportunity to have a drastic change in her life even once a decade—a shaved head, a semester in a country where she didn’t speak a word. Porter knew so many people, both men and women, who lived as if their parents were just faraway ghosts, with no gravitational pull, no say over their behavior. That sounded like a lovely way to live, and Porter was sure she’d enjoy it, if she someday moved to Mars. (Though, in truth, if Porter figured out how to get to Mars, Astrid would be waiting in her spacesuit on the other end, picking her up in a sensible Rover, having already found the only place one should buy astronaut ice cream.)