Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  “It’s Parents’ Night . . . no Dad?”

  “Nah. He’s busy with some archbishop from the Vatican. Like I give a shit.”

  “For a travel agent, he sure has some friends in high places,” Nic speculates, entering the room.

  “For an asshole, he’s sure lucky to have any friends,” I say.

  Nic laughs, handing me a paper plate piled high with rice, mu shu pork, chicken and broccoli, and egg rolls. Since Nic’s the grown-up with the job, she always treats me to dinner.

  “Thanks.” I kiss her full, soft lips.

  “Any of your old high school girls coming?” she says with a bite that even a joint can’t mellow.

  “NO! Stop it. I don’t talk to her anymore.”

  “HER? Which her? Last I remember, there were many hers,” she says sarcastically, plopping onto the couch next to me.

  I sigh deeply and head to the kitchen for duck sauce and, hopefully, an end to this topic. Older women don’t let anything slide, especially if you make a mistake—like sleeping with your classmate during Senior Beach Week. When Nic came to join me partway through the trip, we took a moonlit walk along Chesapeake Bay, and I confessed to bedding a willing Catholic girl. Nic collapsed into the sand in tears. I felt numb, but powerful, too. A rush of confidence filled me; she would never leave me.

  That is unlike my first lover—and former teacher—Miss Lange, who after my eighth-grade graduation from Blessed Sacrament decided it was time to be with someone her own age. For three years, Miss Lange and I were having sex on Saturdays while the rest of Chevy Chase was pruning azalea bushes around their stately homes or attending Georgetown Prep lacrosse games. Our fifteen-year age difference, and the fact that I was eleven when we started our affair, made it all taboo. “No one would ever understand, and no one can EVER know,” Miss Lange would drill me. But she too got jealous, especially when I’d go to junior high parties and the boys would ask me to slow dance. “Did you feel them get hard?” she would ask. I could never tell if she wanted me to say yes or no, so to be safe I would just shake my head and change the subject.

  Having an affair as a kid has its downsides: you can’t drive, you can’t pick up the tab, you have to be home before ten, and you can never spend the night without creating the world’s best lie. Then again, being the secret object of a grown-up’s lust made me feel like Wonder Woman. Still does. Bursting out at the seams with power, confidence, and maturity—way beyond my eighteen years. It’s not that I don’t get jealous, too, but I guess I’m usually the one causing the jealousy. On purpose sometimes. Like on the court, when I put my defender on their heels so they can’t recover. Offense is the best defense.

  “Do you want anything?” I shout to Nic from her cramped dark kitchen.

  “Iced tea, and for you to apologize,” she says, unsatisfied with a year of “I’m sorrys.”

  Inside the avocado-colored refrigerator, the tea-stained plastic pitcher sits among bottles of condiments and a can of whipped cream. I fill up her favorite Redskins glass, dumping in ice cubes. Sashaying back into the small living area, I deliver the beverage, hiding the whipped cream behind my back.

  “Well?” she presses.

  I pose in front of her, pushing my bare leg out of the loosening robe.

  “Don’t do that, I know what you’re doing,” she scolds, lighting up the roach.

  “Yeah? Well, I know what you’re doing,” I whisper, running my long fingers through her chestnut hair. She cracks a smile as she holds her deep inhale.

  “Close your eyes,” I say quietly.

  “No.”

  She takes a final hit, dropping the tiny ember.

  “You’re going to be very, very glad you did,” I assure her. “Close them.”

  She shuts her eyes, laughing. Her pretty face is relaxed; smooth olive skin with light peach fuzz highlighted by the glow of the lamp.

  I drop the robe.

  “Keep them closed,” I insist.

  I squirt the whipped cream across my bare chest, then straddle her, offering my small breasts to her mouth. She opens her eyes and moans, then begins licking the cream. Her hand grabs between my legs.

  “You like that, don’t you?” she demands, rage simmering.

  “Yeah . . . I do . . .” I pant softly.

  “It’s mine. Only mine, got it?” she growls, throwing me onto my back and climbing on top.

  * * *

  My jaw tightens when I see my father’s blotchy red face and lurching body cross the middle of the basketball court with just under three minutes left in the first half. Wasted, he lets his lower lip roll in and out like low tide. For sure, he’s feeling his liquid lunch with the archbishop. Somehow his dark Italian suit and silk tie still hang beautifully, but there is an ill-fitting cowboy hat perched on his head, and the sight of it makes me queasy.

  One of my teammates steals the ball from North Carolina State’s point guard. Her breakaway layup sends a wave of cheers through the stands. Hundreds of hands clapping awaken Dad and he scurries off the court.

  The backs of my knees are sweaty from sitting on the bench for the first half. All season, I’ve discouraged my family from coming to my games, preferring not to feel a gang of sympathetic eyes on their benchwarming baby sister. Dad hasn’t needed any dissuasion, as his reason is always “I’m working.”

  “Hey, John Wayne, park your pony!” Nic shouts from a few rows up.

  She has no clue that the man is my father. A few of my teammates burst into laughter, high fiving and kicking their feet against the bench like wild horses. I force a chuckle, so they won’t suspect this zigzagging guy shares my DNA, while keeping my eyes down, so they also won’t know the woman doing the heckling is my girlfriend.

  “Focus!” Coach Norris’s tight mouth narrows, her big eyes glaring at the bench.

  As Dad begins his wobbly climb up the steps of the coliseum, I could give a shit about our six-point lead, and instead, rubberneck to follow the train wreck. A few rows up, Mom gets his attention with a reserved wave, head low. Her mannerisms scream modesty, a woman who doesn’t like to draw attention to herself or stand out in a crowd. Mom squirms in the red metal seat and pushes herself up, using the narrow armrests as leverage. Dad stumbles over the legs of a few fans, and I can see him, smiling, and charming, and probably mouthing, “Pardon me, pardon me, pardon me.” The charm evaporates by the time he reaches Mom. Standing like a traffic cop with his outstretched arm, he insists that she sit down. She squeezes herself back into her seat while he looks away, head shaking.

  High-tops screech on the hardwood, and then the horn blows, signaling the end of the first half. Our bench empties into the locker room.

  After we win the game, Maryland’s mascot, the Terrapin—a goofy round turtle—is bouncing around the plush carpet of the banquet room, giving high fives and low fives to Tasha Ricketts, the game’s high scorer. Coach Norris and her staff stand in a corner, sipping celebratory beers with a few fathers who dissect the game while proudly holding commemorative Parents’ Night T-shirts. I slipped mine into my mother’s purse when we entered the party, wanting to hide any reminder of another game where I rode the bench.

  The University of Maryland has over thirty thousand students. The women’s basketball program recruits from all over the world. My teammates are Olympians and high school All-Americans; we have a staff of athletic trainers; and Adidas gives us free sneakers. I’m as far as I can be from my high school days, as a big fish in a little pond.

  Most of my teammates pile man-size portions of food onto their plates, talk with their mouths full, wipe mustard with the back of their hands, and burp loudly under the adoring gaze of their parents. I spend long stretches of time in the ladies’ room, avoiding reality and Dad, but finally find myself standing alone at the ravaged banquet table, the silver platters, which had been piled with thick slices of rare roast beef and turkey, now wiped clean. I stare at sprigs of parsley lying wilted on trays and condiment stains of yellow, cream, and red on the w
hite tablecloth.

  I discreetly watch my father, supported by the massive trophy case, slowly twirling his wineglass stem between his manicured fingers. Whenever Dad drinks, he gets drunk. He drinks often. A few feet away, Mom sits alone in a winged armchair, eating her third helping of potato salad. She drops her head with each forkful, as if too ashamed to chew in public. Watching them in their own worlds, I’m flooded by an urge to overturn the buffet tables. Dad catches me looking his way and starts toward me. I turn my back, praying he’s coming for the pinot grigio instead.

  “Dear . . . you . . . play . . . PLAYED . . . marvelous,” he slurs.

  He takes my hand in his large clammy one. Inches from my face, sweaty beads tap-dance on his forehead; blood vessels crawl up his face, infesting his nose and overtaking his otherwise good skin.

  “I didn’t play, Dad.”

  He pulls mouth spray from his breast pocket, struggles to remove the cap, then squirts it onto his tongue.

  “A partridge in a . . . ?” Dad quizzes, sliding the spray back into his jacket. I fake interest in a bowl of cherry tomatoes.

  “A . . . partridge . . . in . . . a . . . ?” he repeats.

  “A pear tree,” I shoot the answer at him, searching for something to grab on the table so I don’t grab his neck.

  “You played . . . very well . . . my . . . Mary, Queen of Scots . . . now . . . who was the . . . actress . . . in the movie about Mary?” he says, cross-eyed.

  “Katharine Hepburn,” I say without looking at him. He takes out his thick wallet and removes a fresh hundred-dollar bill, forcing it into my clenched fist.

  “Correct you are, my basket . . . ball staaar.”

  “I didn’t even play, Dad,” I snap.

  He seems genuinely confused and places his shaking hand on the tablecloth, landing in a glob of mayo.

  “God writes straight with crooked lines,” he says, reaching for a bottle of wine.

  It’s empty, but I don’t say anything. He clumsily turns the wine bottle, clipping the lip of his glass and knocking it onto the table. I grab it one-handed and flip it upright, in one fierce motion.

  “Chris-tine, dear . . . you look tired . . . from your . . . scholarship, your studies . . . a vacation . . . my dear . . . this . . . is . . . a must,” he rambles, eyes rolling back.

  Dad reaches for another wine bottle. I snatch it from him.

  “They’re all empty, Dad! Let’s go.”

  I’m captain of the family team now. A position he lets me take only when he’s too drunk to remember where he put his rage; too drunk to do anything but battle his eyelids for control. I walk away, he follows. His hand lands heavily on my shoulder. I slow down, allowing Dad to hang on to me as we make our way toward Mom, who is sweeping the last bit of potato salad off her plate with a finger.

  “Greece . . . yes . . . Greece . . . a few days in Athens . . . then . . . off to one of the islands,” he suggests.

  My jaw lets go of its lockdown, as if I’ve inherited my mother’s patience. I look at him, unafraid. His offer softens me. Tears surprise my eyes. He’s showered the older ones with trips to Greece, the Holy Land, and Lourdes to help push wheelchairs on his Pilgrimage for the Disabled, but this is the first time he’s offered me such a trip.

  “Dad, can I bring a friend?”

  His face lights up, stopping and staring at me as if I was just born. A flash of sobriety washes over him. His smile spreads, as broad as a clown’s.

  “Yes, my little Kate Hepburn, of course, you may bring a friend along.”

  4

  Revelation

  Last week, after completing my final exams, I pulled my clothes out of Nic’s cedar closet, preparing to leave the comfort of her safe, mellow haven, where I don’t have to keep any secrets or listen to my dad ranting at my mom, and return to my third-floor bedroom at 5 East Irving Street for the summer. I finally broke the news to Nic that Dad wanted to have dinner at the University Club with me and my “Greece counterpart” to discuss our itinerary. Despite being excited about the potential of her first trip abroad, she paced in her galley kitchen, repeatedly adjusting her bathrobe, and then rolled a joint as she spewed her concerns: “We have to act really cool. Does he know I was your softball coach? If he asks, should I say I’m thirty or lie? How old should I say I am?”

  Tonight, when I hopped into Nic’s idling brown van outside my house—she never comes to the door—her joint was down to a roach. I lean my face out the window and inhale freshly cut grass as we round Chevy Chase Circle, wrapped in a ring of white tulips. In the center of it all, a grand fountain blasts water toward the fading orange sky.

  “If Shirley Chisholm, Geraldine Ferraro, or Bella Abzug wanted to be a member at the University Club or just drop in for some crab cakes, they’d be denied,” I grumble, dabbing my mouth with fuchsia lip gloss in the visor mirror.

  The formal dining room is the only place in the University Club where women are permitted, but only when a male member accompanies them.

  Nic shakes her head as she turns her van off D.C.’s elegant Embassy Row and into the cobblestone circular driveway of the University Club. We roll up to the valet, and even though Nic detailed the tires and vacuumed the tan carpeting in her gas-guzzling love shack, I wish I had asked to borrow Mom’s Impala. The back of the van is wall-to-wall shag rug—floor, walls, and ceiling—with a single mattress covered with a brown paisley sleeping bag. A brand-new air freshener dangles on the rearview mirror, its pine scent mingling with Nic’s musky men’s cologne.

  My palms feel moist as she throws the van into park. Two uniformed black men in bright white tuxedos open our doors. The outstretched hand before me is like a magic wand that turns me into a girly girl. I giggle, offering a limp wrist. As I slide out of the passenger seat—sundress riding up to meet my light gray panties—the attendant eyes my bare thighs. I enjoy the moment.

  “I got it! I got it!” Nic barks at the other valet who’s escorting her by the elbow toward the massive iron doors. She glances back at me, and her mouth twitches with jealousy until I release my attendant’s arm. Slightly bowlegged, Nic walks hurriedly along the red carpet and up the marble steps. The silk wrap dress and white espadrilles I lent her cannot hide her athletic bounce. From a distance, I check out her perfectly proportioned, smooth tan legs.

  “Wait up,” I call, catching her. I casually touch Nic’s arm—soft enough to count as an “I love you,” but fast enough to not raise suspicion. She pulls away.

  “Did anyone tell the University Club we got the right to vote?” I quip, offering my humor as a peace pipe.

  “You’re a handful, you know that?”

  “I know.” I smile at her as we pass another uniformed man holding a door for us.

  Nic takes a deep breath, and her hooded eyes widen as she peers down the grand staircase into the formal dining room. Mom was right, this place is fancy schmancy. Nic descends the immaculately polished steps, holding the brass rail, her face expressionless, her legs shaky.

  I scan the meticulously set round tables for Sir John—the name he prefers we use in public. Neither tall nor muscular, my father would not have made the cut in the Middle Ages, when the first Knights of the Holy Sepulchre were the protectors of Jesus’s tomb during the First Crusade, but in modern times he passes.

  “Christine, dear!” Dad waves like a passenger on the deck of a departing cruise ship. He wears his loose I’ve-been-drinking smirk. Sir John’s always the first one to arrive at a place that serves alcohol. On the table there is an empty aperitif glass and a smudged wine goblet—a drop away from being completely drained.

  “Oh God, here we go,” Nic mumbles as we pass table after table of gray-haired men in Capitol Hill wardrobes, eyeing us.

  “You look lovely, my dear.” Dad kisses my lips and I flinch at the unexpected affection. Intoxicating citrus cologne lingers in the air and I step back, surprisingly proud of his sleek navy suit, Pierre Cardin tie, and immaculately shaven face.

  “Hello, Mr
. Worthington,” Nic says, offering her nervous hand.

  Dad takes her face in his palms, kissing her on both cheeks. She blushes.

  “Well, well, another beauty. Aren’t I the lucky one?” he boasts.

  A blond waiter—head-to-toe in black tuxedo with tails—stands nearby, hands behind his back.

  “Michael, have you forgotten something?” Dad winks.

  The tall server sails over to pull out our cream-colored chairs and bows apologetically.

  “What may I get you, Sir John?”

  “A partridge in a pear tree.” Dad grins.

  Michael tosses his weight from side to side, laughing, eager to please.

  “And a bottle of Dom Pérignon, s’il vous plaît,” Dad adds.

  As Michael walks away, Dad’s lazy left eye follows him, then quickly returns to Nic and me. His lower lip slips out and he nods vigorously.

  “I noticed . . . the two of you,” he slurs.

  Nic reaches for her water, smiling at Dad. Across the crowded room, Michael picks up a silver wine bucket and our chilled Dom takes center stage, like a victorious prizefighter being carried to our table.

  “Thank you, Michael. Michael the archangel.” Dad leans back in his chair, watching our waiter’s soft hands open the champagne. I paw at my empty glass, twirling it from the stem.

  “Christine! Stop fidgeting.” Dad shakes his head disapprovingly.

  I want to smack his droopy lip back into place. As Michael fills our glasses, my fluttering hands remain neatly folded in my lap, waiting for everyone to be served.

  “Pour mine all the way to the rim, our archangel,” Dad directs.

  “As you wish, Sir John.” Michael bows his head, giving Dad the royal treatment.

  Raising his glass to Nic and me, Dad smiles openly, awaiting Michael’s departure.

  “Here’s to the Greek gods. Tonight we will not save any libations for them.” His flute taps ours and we drink.

  Bubbles tickle my nose; the champagne is smooth, warming my chest.

  “I think . . . I should join the two of you . . . in Athens.”