My head spins as I steal a glimpse of Nic swallowing hard. Not bothering to look for Michael, Dad takes the bottle out of its icy home and refills our glasses. There is only the sound of the bottle clinking against our glasses and the bass of men in conversation around us.
“That would be nice,” Nic suggests unconvincingly.
Since I trade in secrets and lies, I step up to the plate. “Yeah, that would be . . .” My voice rises.
“My ladies, I noticed . . . as you stood at the top of the staircase . . . and then descended . . .”
He takes a long pause, smiling and nodding at us, then continues, “I am . . . it was very . . . well, yes.”
“What, Dad? What?!” The words fly out of me.
Nic pushes her knee into my thigh.
“Dear, I have eyes. I noticed as you two walked down the stairs. Yes, I knew immediately. I know young lovers when I see them.”
Dad takes our hands to his lips and kisses them. A quick glance darts between us girls, releasing uneasy laughter. How could he know? Dad joins Nic’s hand with mine and raises his Dom. I’m light-headed and terrified at being so exposed, shaking from the inside at the thought of my whole family knowing. Head down, I pause, stunned and frozen as a statue, holding Nic’s hand in mine. This is crazy. I let go and grab my champagne glass, unable to look at Dad.
“‘Love is a many-splendored thing, it’s the April rose, that only grows in early spring,’” he croons, pitch-perfect.
Nic stares at him, enchanted.
Dad raises his flute to me and my dry throat locks. I have no words, my secrets laid out.
“And you may be interested to know . . .” His voice drops lower. His eyes glide across the dining room like a spy assessing the enemy, and he covers the right side of his mouth. “I buried my lover in the war,” he confesses.
“What?” I mumble.
“‘Pardon me,’ Christine, not ‘what,’” he corrects my ungracious language.
“Pardon me?” I ask properly, unable to look at anything but my distorted image in the monogrammed dinner plate.
“I said, I buried my lover in the war . . . His name was Omar.”
* * *
“Did you order the crab cakes?” Mom asks as she pushes her saucer-size eyeglasses up her nose. As she stands at the kitchen stove, her arms hang out of her sleeveless muumuu like flabby wings.
“No. I had chateaubriand,” I say, plopping myself—still a little drunk—at our Formica kitchen counter. Nowadays, the three wrought-iron chairs are mostly empty at breakfast, since Rebecca got married and Magdalene moved to Austin to be with her boyfriend. I like having my own bathroom, but everywhere else, there’s just too much space. A week has passed since I secretly moved out of Nic’s house, hung my ACC Championship plaque on my bedroom wall, and slipped photos of us under the mattress.
I catch myself in an alcohol daze, staring at my red Maryland shorts and untied high-tops, wondering if the whole Omar thing was a mirage. This morning, I rolled out of my floral duvet cover sweating liquor but determined to conquer any sign of flat-footedness and my weak left hand before heading back to basketball training with the team in September. I may have been a benchwarmer last year, but I promise myself next season—sophomore year—I’m going to be a starter. Even after a first-round cut at last year’s East Coast Olympic trials, my eyes are still set on the 1984 Games. I keep reminding myself that I was the youngest player at the tryouts—just seventeen—and I will get better each year.
“Well, you missed out, Miss Fancy Pants. It’s not every day you get to eat at the University Club. You’ll just have to take my word for it—those crab cakes are yummy,” Mom says, popping an English muffin up out of the toaster. I consider peeling my sweaty legs off the vinyl cushion, stumbling over to the back door, and making my way into the deep end of our pool before this conversation goes any further.
“I used to love chateaubriand for two, but it’s not much good when your father’s stomach can’t tolerate it,” she muses.
The removal of most of Dad’s stomach—a by-product of ulcers—when I was a baby suddenly takes on new meaning when I consider his secret. On the one hand, I know he must have wanted to be a father, but maybe in another way, he couldn’t stomach not being able to express his true nature. Then again, maybe the guilt of living a lie gnawed at his gut. A wave of nausea crashes through my bloated middle. I want to shake Mom. Tell her everything. Then give her a hug and never let her go.
“Did your father have a lot to drink?” she asks, pinching off burnt scrapple from the edge of her worn spatula. She sucks the black morsels from her fingertips.
“Not that much,” I lie, tallying the two bottles of Dom, two bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and God knows how many rounds of Frangelico. My head spins with all the things I do not tell her—that he’s planning to meet Nic and me for a few days in Athens. That he’s already made another reservation for three at the University Club the night after we get back from Santorini. How do I tell Mom that Dad was screwing a Palestinian soldier before Mom and Dad’s first date—that blistering day in Jerusalem when they walked the Stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa?
“How did your friend . . . Nic? Is that her name?”
“Yeah, Mom, short for Nicole,” I remind her for the twentieth time.
“That’s a strange nickname for a teacher . . . coach . . . Well, how did Nic enjoy the chateaubriand and everything?” She’s been fishing ever since Nic and I started spending time together after she became my junior year softball coach, often suggesting that I hang around friends my own age.
A plate of scrambled eggs, scrapple, and a perfectly toasted English muffin are served to me with a loving smile, and I forgive her for wanting to know more than I will ever tell her. About Dad or me. She sits down next to me at the counter. Her big legs spread out and her pale blue slippers seek support on the bottom rail of the chair. I feel as heavy as she looks, overwhelmed by what I learned last night. Lying to Mom about myself is one thing—I’ve been doing it since I was eleven—but Dad, he’s, well, my father, and her husband. Her gay husband, or whatever he is. Holy shit.
“It’s very generous of your father to pay for her trip. She really lucked out,” Mom adds, shaking her head.
“Where’s your breakfast?” I try changing the subject.
“I’ll get it, you just enjoy yours. It’s not often I get to see my baby—at least off the basketball court.” Mom smiles, patting my bare knee. She sips her coffee, looking to the screen door, becoming still. “Oh, Tina, listen to those birds singing. We have our own personal choir.”
I lean over and kiss her fleshy cheek, hoping someday soon, Dad will stop criticizing her for everything she’s not and just treat her to some crab cakes.
* * *
I just can’t wrap my head around this. I spent hours in my room this afternoon, going over last night’s confession. My case against Dad—the mean SOB I’ve hated for as long as I can remember—has now done an about-face. With this revelation staring me down, I realize that it’s entirely possible that I loathed him all these years because he hated me first. Clearly, I never knew him. Not fully.
Since Dad arrived home from work tonight—promptly at 6 p.m.—every word out of his mouth seems to have a double meaning, or maybe I’m just hearing everything that way now. My nervousness amps up the moment Mom, Dad, and I take our seats at Dad’s end of our ten-foot table. Our threesome seems so tiny compared to the endless empty dining chairs—all twelve of them. Dad looks over at me as Mom puts her napkin on her lap. His long stare locks my limbs—always a sure sign I’ve done something wrong, and in a blink I pull my elbows off the table and sit up straight.
“Would you like to say grace, Christine?” he asks with a smile.
“Dad, why don’t you do the honors?” I respond way too formally.
Mom chuckles at our odd exchange. We all make the sign of the cross and bow our heads.
“In the name of the Father and the Son and
the Holy Spirit. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ, our Lord, Amen.” Dad finishes grace with a squeeze of my sweaty hand, served with a side of smirk. I glance at Mom, glad she missed his show of affection toward me—too busy buttering her slice of pumpernickel.
“We’ve got Christine’s itinerary all planned out,” Dad boasts as Mom gets busy with a barbecue chicken thigh.
I happily grilled the meat tonight, taking advantage of any reason to escape into the backyard, poolside, and breathe easier, even if the air was laced with lighter fluid and charcoal.
“Yes, I heard. Some people have all the luck,” Mom says.
“I will try to join them in Athens for a few days, if possible, on my way to the Holy Land,” Dad explains with a forced air of parental responsibility. Knowing the whole truth underneath the fact is both exhilarating and scary as hell. I am all too familiar with this game of cover-up. “I’m going to Nic’s,” or “I’m going out to a party,” while avoiding the details that actually create my world. This connection is unnerving. My full-time juggling act has become second nature. But I don’t know what to do with his.
“Why don’t you take some time off, dear? It would be nice for you to have some time with your youngest.” Mom’s voice is as kind and gentle as a kindergarten teacher’s.
“It would be nice. I haven’t taken a vacation since . . . I don’t even know the last time,” Dad throws out.
It’s the familiar tone he takes when he’s describing the traveling. Part victim, part braggart. I recall a hundred nights sitting at this table listening to Dad go over and over his detailed itinerary before officially posting it up on the bulletin board the day before he departed for two, three, or four weeks at a time. As I sneak a piece of gristle out of my mouth, now I wonder: Did he really need to travel that much? Did he have other motives? The way he explained it last night at the University Club made it sound as if he had much more to tell. “We have all the time in the world to discuss this, Christine.” The gleam in his eyes made it clear that the Palestinian, Omar, was just the first chapter.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Miss Basketball Star.” Dad nudges my elbow playfully. “What’s wrong, you only slept until noon?” he teases.
“No, I was up pretty early,” I lie.
“I wish I had known you were up early, we could have gone to six thirty mass together.” He laughs.
As I roll my corn in the puddles of butter on my dinner plate, Dad hums a few bars of some Gregorian chant, tapping his long fingers on the bare wood. His fingernails are immaculate, as usual. If I didn’t occasionally catch him in the first-floor bathroom clipping them, I’d think they were the product of a manicure. Not a hangnail in sight. After last night’s bombshell, his impeccable hygiene is about more than a former British Army officer being tidy. His obsession with not having a single hair growing from his ear comes back to me. For some reason, my sister Kate was the go-to gal for the plucking, poor thing. I nearly choke when I recall catching Dad getting dressed years ago, wearing his boxers and clearly putting deodorant on his balls.
“I need to use the bathroom, excuse me,” I say, trying to shake off the sensory overload.
“Will you bring me another Tab, sweetie, while you’re up?”
“Sure, Mom.” I slip behind Dad’s chair and pass by Mom, stopping to kiss her head.
I walk beside the long marble buffet, letting my hand glide across its cold, smooth surface. Once out of the dining room, I let out a sigh and head for the bathroom, closing the door and locking it. I rest my face against the lightweight wood. I feel the urge to vomit.
Over by the sink, on the white counter, is Dad’s giant bottle of Listerine, his contact lens solution—he’s never worn glasses. Too vain? I examine the scrub brush for his crystal clear nails and the small round plastic brush that he uses regularly on his scalp despite having a flattop. Creams, aftershave lotions, and multiple pairs of tweezers. Jesus Christ. Look at all of this. No straight man would use all of this.
I sit on the toilet, biding my time, my hungover head in my hands. Truth is, I’m relieved that someone in the family knows my secret and loves me even more because of it. I just wish I could go back to dinner feeling calmer. It’s not like I don’t appreciate him not hating me, I just need a little time to get used to our new secret language.
5
Covenant
Entering the Lost and Found, a rowdy men’s bar, I strut a few steps behind a tanned Nic in her capri pants and Dad in his white linen suit, adjusting the floppy straw hat I bought myself on our Greek vacation. I’m jittery. Jesus, never thought I’d be at a gay bar with my dad. I’ve been going to these clubs since I was sixteen, when Nic took me to Crazy Eights, across from the projects in Baltimore—a neighborhood so dangerous, you had to knock on the door to get buzzed in. Once inside, I put on such an act of cool and confidence that no one even carded me. Nic said I behaved like I owned the place.
“I’ve got it, love.” My father waves off Nic’s billfold as he pulls a crisp hundred-dollar bill off the top of a thick wad of fresh notes. Dad stares lustfully at the leather-clad bouncer’s bulging crotch and I catch the hunk returning the look. Nic catches my eye.
“Is your dad gay or bisexual?” she whispers.
“Hell if I know,” I snap.
“Well, he’s one heck of a charmer,” she says admiringly.
“Let’s get a drink, my ladies,” Dad shouts over Bowie’s “Let’s Dance.” His arm extends, insisting we lead the way through the afternoon tea dance. No chance that he’ll lose us in this sea of muscle and neatly trimmed mustaches. I couldn’t stand out any more if I were Mary Magdalene belly dancing at the Last Supper. Hairy arms swipe mine, leaving patches of wet and earthy smells on my ivory gauze blouse, overpowering my mother’s Joy perfume that I pumped off her vanity. The dated, Saturday Night Fever–like dance floor is packed. There are the Village People cops with batons, cowboys in chaps showing off big packages wrapped in soft leather, and drag queens wearing vibrant boas and wide-shouldered Dynasty gowns with exaggerated makeup and false eyelashes. I bounce my narrow hips to the booming music as I scope the dance floor. The bar is three deep for drinks, but Dad is happy to wait, surrounded by a small clique of slight young guys, as well as the burly muscle types.
A cherub-faced preppy guy taps Dad’s back and then quickly says he’s sorry while eyeing my father’s snug trousers. I feel myself flush. For years Dad’s enormous penis, which is always visibly tucked down his left pant leg, was nothing more than a shared joke with my brothers and sisters.
One dinner when Dad was away on some holy trip, Kate sprayed a mouthful of red wine across the white tablecloth.
“Kate, what in the world . . . ?” Mom demanded.
With a straight face she said, “Frances was wondering if Dad gets his left pant leg tailored a bit larger, so he can fit ‘Sergeant Pepper’ in there.” The table fell silent. My heart raced, hoping we hadn’t embarrassed Mom, while my own face heated up.
“Well, your father wears . . . boxers,” my mother said, blushing, a silent laugh jiggling her round belly. The gang erupted into howls.
“No, no, children.” She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a laugh. “European men have a different . . .” but before she could finish, the room hit a fever pitch. Tears rolled down my face, and Kate ran helplessly toward the bathroom.
My father’s smirk at the country-club hustler flitting around him turns my stomach. Flirting at the University Club with Michael is one thing, but there’s no buffer here. No line in the sand.
My father slips a hundred-dollar bill into my palm, and with a quick nod like a CIA operative, he murmurs, “Keep an eye on things.” I watch the hustler cross the dance floor—his swaying ass leading my father to the men’s room.
“Three white wines and a shot of tequila, please,” I shout to the shirtless bartender.
“That must be weird for you, huh?” Nic whispers in my
ear.
I shrug and kick back the burning tequila, not bothering to chase it, and walk away. I step in my four-inch Candies onto the dance floor and feel the same rush as when I step onto the basketball court. The bass-heavy music sets off a string of moves, quick and connected, as Isaac Hayes groans, “Don’t let it go, don’t let it go.” A gorgeous, sequin-gowned drag queen is fanning her flawless Lena Horne skin as a few bulky men dance around her adoringly. I move in, pivoting toward her, and grab her small waist. A whistle blows, tambourines shake, and the circle of men are left flat-footed. The sequined beauty queen puts her hand inside my gauzy shirt. A thrill rushes between my legs as she holds my breast, her long press-on nails scratching my bare skin lightly. I feel her sigh and lean up to her mouth, losing my breath, insides dropping as if I’m speeding down a roller coaster.
“No, no, little one, no kissing on the mouth,” she says in a smoky voice.
I kiss her cheek softly, smelling L’Air du Temps in her long wig—the same perfume Miss Lange wore. She touches her face and looks at me wide-eyed, like she’s a mime pretending to be flattered. I lean in again, hoping she’s changed her mind. She lets me move closer this time. Men are chanting us on. Sharp fingernails dig into my upper arm as Nic spins me around to face her.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demands, yanking me off the dance floor.
Caught but blinded by glamour, I look back as the beauty queen blows me a kiss.
“I’m so over that!” Nic yells, shoving me toward the bar.
“She’s just a drag queen,” I play it off.
“How would you feel?”
“I wouldn’t care,” I lie, glancing toward the men’s room. No sign of Dad. My stomach starts to ache, worry trumping any remorse.
Three fresh shots of tequila are lined up in front of our wineglasses. I pick up a shot, pour it down my throat, then kick back another.
“Tina, I can’t do this anymore.”
I hand Nic the last shot of tequila, wanting this conversation to go away, so I can focus on chasing down Sir John. She sets it on the bar and faces me, her gentle brown eyes needing something—something I can’t give.
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