“What am I supposed to do?! I have to find my dad!” I cry, leaving for the men’s room.
In the dim bathroom, my heart drumming, I slip past men’s backs as they point themselves into the urinals. At the four stalls I whisper, “Dad? Dad?” and look under doors. Under the third door I discover leather slip-ons that look like Dad’s entwined with deck shoes. Staring at their hairy calves, I hear a moan. Suddenly outraged, I shout in a low gruff voice, as I bang on the door, “Get the fuck out, there’s a line!” and then haul ass out of the bathroom.
Trembling, I’m suddenly desperate to find Nic, like a little girl lost in the grocery store. I search the steamy, packed club with mounting panic. Finally, I spot her pushing her way out of the club as if she’s clearing a path with a machete. I run like hell, apologizing as I knock drinks and bang elbows, catching her in the alleyway just outside.
“Nic, wait!”
She turns, tears in her eyes.
“I’m really sorry, really,” I say, afraid this time I’ve finally gone too far.
“I need to go, I can’t . . . I just need some space,” Nic says without looking at me.
I watch her walk toward a cab. A wave of dizziness follows—my body heats up in a panic, and a fear of being left alone swallows me. Refusing to look at the departing cab, my eyes stay down.
“Baby cakes, you runnin’ out on Miss Darla?” the drag queen purrs, holding the door open as she flicks her cigarette into the gutter.
* * *
After another round of drinks, Dad and I walk across the potholed street to his red convertible, holding hands. Light-headed and nauseous, I can’t stomach any more partying. “Mom’s alone at home and has a lot of preparing for tomorrow’s barbecue. Maybe I should go home and help her—skip the University Club tonight,” I say softly, hoping to guilt-trip him but not get him mad.
“They are expecting us, dear,” he insists, as if they really give a shit.
While carefully driving Dad’s car from the rough streets of Southeast D.C. to the dignified Northwest neighborhood, I lose my buzz, worrying about drifting across the center lane of Massachusetts Avenue. I can’t chance another warning from Washington cops. They let me go last summer after they caught me weaving away from an Adams Morgan bar—I bullshitted them that I’d had only one margarita. Then there was a second traffic stop when, after too many White Russians at a piano bar in Foggy Bottom, the cops had me curbside across from the Watergate, doing the whole head, shoulders, knees, and toes routine. I seem to thrive in high-pressure situations—scored a pass by the fuzz.
“Ah, Michael, there will only be two of us dining after all,” Dad says, his eyes somehow still sparkling.
I look around the dining room, uncomfortable with his endless flirtations. The University Club is mostly empty, a respite from the dance club.
“My archangel, there’s no need for all that. I might just get lucky tonight,” Dad teases Michael as he removes the extra place setting. I suddenly wish Nic were here.
“Dad, what was the preppy boy’s name you were talking with for so long?”
I succeed at halting my father’s display. His aggressive eye on me is a parental reminder that he didn’t raise a child without manners.
“Excuse my daughter, Michael. I was going to suggest—since our third party became ill—that you join us.” Dad gives him a loose wink.
Michael grins.
“Thank you, Sir John, I’d love to, but I’m on duty,” he says, holding his hands behind his back.
“I’ve been ‘on duty’ since I was an officer in the British Army, running the War Office in Palestine, but please join us anytime—after your duty.” Dad’s eyes are glued to our server.
“Dad, he’s working!”
“Christine, I think you need a drink! Please, Michael, bring my daughter . . . what would you like, dear? Red wine, perhaps? We’ve been on the dance floor all afternoon, so we’ve worked up a thirst.”
He gives Michael another wink. I bury my face in my menu, but my hands are shaking enough that I can’t focus. My body feels trapped in the chair, an invisible strap holding my hips in place, stuck here alone with him and all these lies. The large chandelier becomes distorted, a massive spaceship looming above me. A full-blown panic threatens to take over. It’s familiar, but it’s been years since I felt this overwhelmed. The first time was in my bedroom with Simon. And then, repeatedly, for a few years in the musty laundry room, where the unfinished ceiling beams would seem to grow thick and crush the breath right out of me as I lay frozen on a frayed bath towel with my brother’s face between my legs.
I grab my crystal goblet off the table and gulp down the water. My father’s voice echoes as if he’s talking underwater.
“Young man, please bring us a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and some warm bread.”
The tuxedo-wearing archangel places his cold palm on my shoulder.
“It’s pretty cool your father takes you dancing,” he says sweetly.
“Not to worry, young man, I can take you, too.” Dad gives Michael a mock smack with his napkin.
Michael laughs like a girl and hustles off.
Feeling Sir John’s stare, I gulp my ice water and read the menu with feigned interest, grateful that the letters begin to emerge from their thick blur. I breathe slowly, reminding myself that there’s no need to be afraid.
“Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Sir John.” Our server shows off the label.
Dad blesses the bottle—making a grand sign of the cross like he’s the pope on the balcony above St. Peter’s Square. I think of the way Dad said good night when we were kids, blessing our foreheads with his thumb. Dad knows the entire mass by heart in English and in Latin; standing up, sitting down, and reciting prayers three beats ahead of the congregation. Each night after dinner, he led the family through the rosary, all of us kneeling in the living room before the cross and my parents’ holy portraits. Once upon a time, he really did want to be a priest. Even though Dad had never spoken of it, my sister Kate found a letter in the attic in which he confided his disappointment over being rejected from the priesthood in England. No explanation for the rejection—just that he was heartbroken and weighing his options for the future.
Dad calls me back. “Salute, Christine.”
We tap our crystal glasses and drink our fine wine fast, chasing down our lost high. Dad takes my hand in his. My body tenses.
He sings, “‘There’s a place for us, a time and place for us, hold my hand and we’re halfway there.’”
I force a smile and take a big swig of wine. I can’t decide if being Dad’s new best buddy is fun or frightening. Have I really gone from hating him to loving him so fast? He never seemed to like me much, constantly reprimanding me, sneering. My mind plays Ping-Pong: Who is the real Sir John? Was having thirteen children just a cover? Did he really want all of us? He boasts to anyone who will listen that he had hoped for twelve boys, so he could name them after the twelve apostles. One thing I know for sure, he prefers sons to daughters, waiters to waitresses, grandsons to granddaughters, and, apparently, men to women. So how does he now magically love me as if I’m a disciple? Is it just because I like girls? Or maybe because I know how to keep a secret as well as he does?
He keeps his droopy, bloodshot eyes on me while draining his glass. As if I were his subject, he examines my features, nodding with approval all the while. There’s an expression on his relaxed face that is foreign, so open. His purple-stained lips are soft.
“I love you,” he gushes.
“I love you, too, Dad,” I say gently, and realize that I might mean it.
“Well, then it’s settled, we are in love!” He laughs and kisses my lips.
He pours us more wine. Our glasses touch, and we hold them pressed together.
“To us,” my father says, winking.
Suddenly I am caught in the spell. I feel warm and giddy, and I’m glad that Nic went home, that I’m here alone with my father and his loving eyes are on me. Just me.<
br />
I hesitate, then ask, “Dad, were there other men?”
Before speaking, he assesses the room and then discreetly leans closer.
“We must be careful, Mossad is watching,” he whispers.
“Who?”
He takes another look at two olive-skinned gentlemen dining across the room.
“Israeli Intelligence,” he slurs.
I’m not sure whether to laugh or duck under the table. But when I look over at the two men wearing boring gray suits, sipping beer, they catch my eye and raise their glasses. Just typical Washington politicians flirting with women a third their age, I figure. Dad nods, assuring me it is safe for him to proceed.
“Well . . . if you must know . . . yes. Your godfather, Harvey . . . yes, Harvey and I were lovers for many years,” he reveals.
Brain awhirl, I recall my seventh birthday. Dad took Rebecca and me to Disneyland in California. Mom stayed home. It was the only trip we ever took without Mom. A plane ride, then into a helicopter. We sat in a small banquette between Harvey and Dad as I blew out my seven candles. At the Disneyland Hotel, Rebecca and I shared our own room with double beds. Dad had a suite down the hall with a king. I recall my godfather was at breakfast the next morning.
“How long? When did it . . . ?”
“For many years. Harvey was in Germany, reporting for Stars and Stripes. We’d rendezvous in Berlin on my way to Rome or the Holy Land, but that was many years ago, before he moved on . . . to San Francisco.” His voice is low and soft. His eyes are distant.
“Does Mom . . . ?” I can’t even get the sentence out.
He sits back, puts his elbows on the upholstered arms of his chair, and folds his hands, twisting his ruby ring on his index finger. He scans the large room, then moves in close. Alcohol and citrus curl around me.
“Christine, I assure you, I am not going to tell your mother about your personal affairs. I am not going to tell anyone—certainly not the family. No one. This is not information that the world needs to know. But it’s important that someone knows.”
I nod.
“Now, as for my life, I take it you will assure me the same courtesy. Are we clear?” His tone is cold sober.
“Yes, Dad.”
“That’s my girl.”
For a moment, we are equals. Quid pro quo. Our long stare seals our unspoken promise as if we’d pricked our fingers and shared each other’s blood. He’s not the first man in my family to insist that I keep a secret. But this one feels different, a nuclear bomb, a grenade in my hand. My heart pulses in my throat. I know that, should I make one wrong move, Dad, my entire family, and I are going to be destroyed.
6
Chosen
Five East Irving Street is 251 left-handed dribbles from the playground. Some days it’s more, but today, I sprint home—not wanting to be late picking up Dad at the airport. The day after we dined sans Nic at the University Club, he left on a spur-of-the-moment flight for Rome. Standing at the foot of the driveway next to our neighbor’s pristine hedges, Dad tightened his already snug necktie and whispered to me, “I have an urgent meeting with the papal nuncio, Archbishop Magni—Vatican matters. But upon my return we’ll hit the town . . . the Lost and Found.”
As he loaded his bag into the trunk of Mom’s Impala, we kissed on the lips and he began to sing, “‘So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good night.’”
As he slammed the sun-baked trunk closed, Mom stared at us curiously through the rearview mirror. Then he gave me another smooch and slipped a hundred-dollar bill into my palm.
Yesterday, Dad’s Pietà postcard addressed to me arrived in the mail with a Pope John Paul II postage stamp, requesting that I pick him up “promptly at Dulles Airport, arriving on Alitalia. There are a few matters that I’d like to talk over with you. Alone.”
I grabbed the card off the kitchen counter before my mother sorted the mail. I knew that last word would have hurt her feelings.
Instead of feeling lonely the past two weeks—Nic taking some space and Dad doing who knows what, or whom—I’m back training with laser focus. And without the hangovers.
Basketball on my hip, I run up the steep front steps two at a time, then do an agility drill across the porch to the front door. Our three-story canary yellow house is not the biggest or most impressive one in tony Chevy Chase, but it’s probably seen the most action. Constant comings and goings, as well as notorious pool parties and wedding receptions, have packed Irving Street over the years with more cars than a celebrity funeral. Sunday barbecues by the pool were often a parade of my father’s international cast of priests and nuns getting tanked in their trunks. The star attraction was always the frozen whiskey sours, although I could never take my eyes off the endless cavorting between the collarless brothers and the habitless sisters. After those barbecues, Father Bill would play Peter, Paul and Mary songs on his ukulele in front of the crucifix while everyone sang. After the wedding receptions there would be raucous dancing back at 5 East Irving Street in the living room, furniture pushed up against the walls, floorboards vibrating to their limit. Mom would screech with equal amounts of terror and delight while she crossed herself, praying that we all didn’t fall into the basement. But her joy at being surrounded by all of her children and a gaggle of holy sisters belting “We Are Family” was worth the price of a potential Rapture.
Walking into the quiet house feels odd since Rebecca moved out. The only sounds are my heavy breath and ticks from the grandfather clock. The bare mahogany railing in the foyer—once piled high with mounds of coats and scarves in the winter, damp towels from the pool in the summer, looks naked. The single pair of shoes—Mom’s dress sandals—looks lonely at the foot of the wooden steps. I miss the barrage of smells and their owners—preppy Kate cooking popcorn at all hours, Margaret and Luke’s cigarettes, Gloria’s lemony Jean Naté powder, Rebecca’s strawberry conditioner, and Dad’s Lysol spray—masking his frequent vomiting from hangovers and ulcers—in the first-floor bathroom.
“Is that my baby?” Mom calls from the dining room.
I plop down in the spot where I’ve eaten dinner for eighteen years—just to the left of Mom. The air-conditioning sends chills through my soaked T-shirt. I roll the basketball over my belly.
“Even in ninety-degree heat, that ball is attached to you,” Mom teases, reaching into a box of Ritz crackers. Her favorite mug, with the slogan smile, jesus loves you, is filled with black coffee and a film of crumbs from her late-morning dunking. If I wasn’t sweaty, I’d probably sit on her lap and tell her how much I love her—something I can’t seem to stop doing no matter how big I get. I’m always aware of positioning my weight just right. Causing Mom pain would be like hurting a newborn.
“Mom, I need to pick up Dad at Dulles, should I use your car or his?”
“I thought we’d both go pick him up.” She brushes a few crumbs into her cupped hand, then pours them into her mouth.
“That’s okay, you don’t need to go.”
“What if I want to take a drive with my daughter?” She pats my sweaty forearm. I cover my guilt with a laugh.
“But how about dinner? He’s gonna throw a fit if it isn’t ready,” I warn her.
“Dinner is all ready. The roast beef is done, I’ll just need to heat up the soup and carrots and throw some baked potatoes in the microwave. So there.” Mom puts her hands on the table for support as she lifts herself out of the chair. Her gold wedding band is worn thin and fits tight on her plump finger.
“Who’s coming over to swim today? Any of the grandkids?” I say, knowing that is a surefire way to distract her. She looks at me with deep disappointment.
“No. None of my precious grandchildren today. But little Ben got on the phone this morning and said, ‘Nana, Mommy said I can come swim ’morrow. Can I?’” She lights up.
“I thought Gloria said she was coming over with the baby today,” I lie.
“No, I just spoke with her this morning.”
Mom looks confused as
she picks up her mug and box of wafers. My mind grasps for straws.
“Somebody definitely said they were coming over today,” I add with conviction.
“Hmm. Well, you better get ready, sweetie, we should head out soon,” she insists.
“Mom, I mean it! You don’t have to go. I can get him and you can rest.” I try to steady my shaky voice.
Almost out of the dining room, she turns around slowly in front of a Turkish wooden icon of the Holy Trinity. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want to spend time with your mother.”
Her hurt voice stings. Guilt covers me like sap on a sugar maple.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, rushing toward her and wrapping myself up in her arms, pecking her cheek repeatedly.
She squishes me tightly. “I’ll squeeze you till you bleeeeed buttermilk,” she teases me with one of her favorite old sayings. Sometimes I get the feeling that we both wish I was still a baby.
* * *
Dulles International Airport is a forty-minute drive from Chevy Chase, assuming there’s no traffic on the lush green Beltway. It’s a good thing Mom doesn’t need gas in her Impala, because late is not an option. Neither is her driving.
“Slow down, Speedy Gonzalez,” she says, as I floor it entering the on-ramp from Connecticut Avenue.
“How long should it take him to get through customs?” I ask, checking the dashboard clock again and wiping my sweaty palms on the leather seat.
“We have plenty of time, sweetie.”
I wish I could believe her. Somehow, I have always known that she was too far away from me. By the time I was nine years old I knew she was too sad, too tired, too busy, for me to tell her my secret about Simon and Luke. Telling Dad was never an option. Would it be my fault? Their fault? Satan’s? Would he take it out on Mom like everything else that upsets him? I’ve never told anyone except Miss Lange. Her first question was “Did they penetrate you?” “No, never,” I said. “Thank God,” she responded.
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