“Where are you now?” Mom says, sounding upset.
“I’m . . . in Wheaton, but I ran out of gas . . .”
“How are you going to pick up your father?” Her voice is filled with mistrust.
“Well, one of Nic’s friends . . . my friend, too . . . Violet . . . she offered to drive me to get him. So . . .”
My mother is silent. Worse than any other thing she can be. Mom doesn’t raise her voice, but her disappointment is deafening. Inside her withdrawal lives the intolerable pain of having her child lie to her. I can feel it the same way I did when she caught me smoking in fifth grade, sitting on the hill at Chevy Chase Playground with Boo Hayes, fellow troublemaker. Mom saw us puffing away, but when I got into the backseat of her car, she still asked, “Were you smoking?” And I lied, “No.” It’s a pattern now, a constant game of hide and seek with the truth. I feel guilty, but it doesn’t stop me.
“And I think Dad might want to have brunch or something. I’m not sure, but he said something before he left . . . but I’m not sure . . .”
Her silence continues. Violet enters the hallway, dressed in a slinky pink halter sundress, trying to fasten her necklace as she rushes into the bathroom.
“But . . . hopefully, he won’t want to,” I mutter.
“I’m sure it won’t kill you to go to the University Club for brunch, dear.”
Her dig lands in my gut. I’m desperate to make it better for her, wishing I could reach through the phone, put my arms around her snowman middle, kiss her cheek, and tell her I’m sorry for lying, and sorry that he doesn’t invite her to brunch, and sorry that he’s so mean to her. I want to drown her with my love. To gush that she’s the most special person to me in the whole world. But I don’t have the time for that now. Violet comes out of the bathroom, smelling like an expensive perfume my father might bring back from Rome.
“Mom, if he calls, can you please tell him that I’m on my way?”
“I’ll tell him. You’d better go.”
“Okay, I’ll call you—” The phone clicks midsentence.
On the ride to the airport, my eyes are glued to the car clock while I flip through my Rolodex of possible lies. Violet drives her BMW at a steady eighty, watching for highway cops. With still another twenty miles before us, his jumbo jet has already touched down. I’m screwed, and my stomach knows it. There is no way that picking him up late, with a stranger, without his car, still in last night’s smoke-filled clothes, isn’t going to bring on a tongue lashing. The longer he stands at curbside pickup, the worse his ulcers will get. Oddly, or not, his first ulcer was removed—along with half of his stomach—the year I was born. The family Christmas letter from that year reads, “In February, under doctor’s orders, John spent two weeks resting in Hawaii, and was fortunate enough to have his close friend, Harvey, vacationing in Hawaii at the same time.” Now that I know what I know about my father and my godfather, it is just too obvious. How is it possible that Mom didn’t know Dad and Harvey were enjoying more than balmy weather and pig roasts? In the years that followed, Dad had two more operations, and his doctors have told him, “Eat small portions, very slowly.” But like everything else, Dad does things his way, pushing and punishing, never stopping to take care of himself. Like a guy in a hot-dog-eating contest, he crams food down, barely chewing. Then, minutes later, he excuses himself from the table and heads for the first-floor bathroom. The vomiting always sounds violent, like he’s at war. His stomach firing back from being torpedoed with heavy artillery. When the dining room table was full with all of us at home, my siblings would lob quiet sarcasm back and forth as my father’s dinner echoed into the toilet down the hall.
“Anyone for seconds?”
“Mom, I don’t think Dad likes your cooking.”
“Was that shepherd’s pie I just heard?”
“Poor man. He really should eat more slowly” was always Mom’s response to his nightly visit to the bowl.
My mother eats like a tortoise; my father a hare. And when it comes to keeping food down, she wins by a mile.
“I hope he likes me,” Violet says, as if we’ve been seeing each other for months, instead of a day, breaking me out of my daydream. “Tell me about him?”
Explaining my father—or what I know of him—in twenty minutes is as impossible as explaining the Immaculate Conception. Jesus, I pray he likes her, too.
“He likes to be called Sir John.”
“Sir John?!” she screams.
“Yeah, he’s a knight,” I say, knowing it will impress her.
“You messing with me?”
“No, he’s a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre . . . was knighted by the pope.”
“How do you get knighted by the pope?”
“You help the church in the Holy Land and give money and . . . I don’t know . . . he supports an orphanage in Jerusalem.”
Her wide-eyed expression is the same as that of everyone else I ever told.
“How does your father afford to support an orphanage with thirteen kids of his own? Who are you, honey, the Kennedys?”
I laugh off her words, knowing this is the part where I run out of answers. We’re different from the Kennedys—less tragedy—but we are two large Catholic families with plenty of secrets. They had Mafia connections; we seem to have Vatican connections. John F. Kennedy was concerned about the CIA; Sir John seems concerned about the Mossad. And although they preferred different genders, both Johns have engaged in countless affairs, resulting in untold damage to their marriages.
Arriving at Dulles, we slow down as we circle past the various airline terminals and the passenger cars loading and unloading at the curb. As Violet speeds toward the Alitalia sign, I spot my father, glaring as he looks back and forth between his double-faced watch and the approaching cars, tapping at his forehead with a white handkerchief.
“Let me get out first, so I can explain . . .” I hop out before Violet comes to a full stop, then lean back in the passenger window. “Don’t worry, he knows I’ve been with women.”
“Dad!” I call, rushing to him, oversmiling. “Sorry.”
Even though I’m twenty, I’m sure his tense face and hard eyes are a sign that he’s about to ground me for the rest of my life. Ever since I can remember, I have been afraid of him and been pretending I wasn’t. Even now that I’m suddenly his favorite, I know better than to expect a reprieve from his fury.
“What the bloody hell?! I’ve been standing here for a half hour in this heat.”
“Dad, I’m so sorry, I . . .” The words turn to sobs as I drop my head, hiding behind my uncombed hair.
“What the . . . ? What’s wrong? Dear, dear . . .” His tone softens.
He puts his bags down next to me, and I look up, afraid but ready to confess all my sins.
“Hiiiiii, I’m Violet. So nice to meet you, Sir John.”
Violet gives an awkward curtsy, like she’s meeting the queen. My father’s face brightens as he assesses Violet’s snug sundress and heels; her sports car with the driver’s door jutting out.
Dad turns to me with his familiar smirk. “My dear, why didn’t you just say so?” He gives me a wink and turns to Violet, extending his hand.
“Pleasure, Violet. I trust you will be joining us for brunch?”
Violet smiles. “I’d love that, Sir John.” She gently puts her arm on his shoulder.
“And after that, who knows where we’ll all end up?!” he jokes.
“Or if we’ll even be standin’ up,” Violet teases.
“Touché, my lady.”
I can tell Dad appreciates Violet’s femininity, her lovely, well-made dress, and that unmistakable wild, I’m-up-for-anything sway in her walk. He never called Nic “my lady.” Dad slowly escorts my belle to the driver’s side and closes her door, then ducks into the backseat with his bag, letting the Lady and her Tramp lead the way.
Dad digs into his carry-on as Violet leaves the airport. Suddenly his arm stretches into the front seat, his large hand holding a
velvet box in front of my face.
“I thought it was time for this,” he announces.
“Should I open it now, while we’re driving?”
“I believe presents should be given when least expected. Any day. Every day,” he explains. Inside the black case is a beautiful ring. Violet squeals with delight.
“Oh my goodness,” she says admiringly.
“Emeralds and diamonds and white gold,” Dad boasts.
“Thank you, Dad. It’s really beautiful. I love it, thank you,” I gush, slipping it on my ring finger.
15
Hallelujah
My hangover has mellowed by the time we arrive at the University Club and settle in to my father’s regular corner table. No more queasiness or headache. What’s left is the good part: the loose, horny, relaxed me, ready to test the drinking waters again. We all agree on a pinot grigio, a good way to ease into our brunch. My father is thrilled that Michael is covering a sick waiter’s shift, Sunday being his usual day off. Violet lathers on the southern charm. Her “Sir John” this and “Sir John” that are a balm on his perpetually malnourished ego. She shrieks with delight over his world-class stories, making us the liveliest table among the well-mannered crowd. Although he always plays his Vatican cards close to his chest, Dad shares his beloved tales about his private audiences with various popes and boasts of his close relationship with cardinals and bishops from around the world.
“You met Pope John Paul?” Violet’s tone sounds full of awe. She’s good with Dad, an avid listener. It likely serves her well with the congressman.
“I have met every one of them since Pope Pius XII.”
“When did he rule?” Violet asks.
“Reign, my dear. Reign. 1939 to 1958.”
“Violet’s not Catholic, Dad,” I explain.
“Well, then we must correct that and get you baptized!” Dad teases.
Violet squeezes Dad’s arm, laughing loudly, bringing some stares from nearby tables. I look to Dad to see if her boisterous personality offends him. But all I see is two people who seem to appreciate each other as much as they appreciate gracious living and fine wines. By the looks of them both, you’d think they were bona fide heterosexuals.
Dad shocks us with a story about his eating the eyeball of a bull with some archbishop in Africa and boasts to Violet about taking his thirteen children on transatlantic cruises on the Cunard fleets.
“First class,” he brags.
“Christine had the privilege of meeting Alfred Hitchcock!”
“What?!” Violet shrieks.
My father nods for me to tell the story.
“I was nine . . . and got his autograph one night at dinner,” I begin. “And he signed his name, and drew that profile face that he does of himself. And then when I got back home from the trip, I decided I’d take it to school to show my class. But when I was looking at his autograph more closely, it was really hard to read his name because, you know, it was like chicken scratch the way he signed it, and I figured the other kids wouldn’t believe it was really him . . . so, I took a pen and fixed it.”
Violet breaks out into hysterics as my father lets out a deep howl, as if it’s the first time he’s heard this story, instead of the one hundredth time. Violet leans over and kisses my cheek.
“That is the most adorable thing I have ever heard. Ever!”
She turns to my father. “Sir John, I’ve really fallen for your daughter.”
“Well, my dear, that makes two of us.” He picks up my hand and kisses it, looking deeply into my eyes, and sings, “‘The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.’”
I smile at him, wishing he could share this part of himself with my mother.
“Are you all ready to order some appetizers?” Michael asks, pouring a new bottle of wine.
“Yes, Michael, I think we could all use some nibbles.” Dad eyes Michael, as he always does, and Michael smiles at him openly. Violet taps me under the table, obviously wondering the same thing I am.
“Perhaps you’d like to join us later, as we continue our afternoon on the dance floor?” Dad smirks.
“I might just take you up on that, Sir John,” Michael replies, as he picks up my father’s fallen linen napkin.
“Well, I hope you will . . . my archangel.”
He eyes Michael’s crotch, and a wide-eyed Violet hits me again under the table. There just wasn’t time on the way to the airport to share Dad’s deep affection for effeminate young waiters, and men in general. I squeeze Violet’s hand under the table, trying to calm her need to squeal like a wasted sorority girl. Michael observes his other tables.
“I’m off at four,” he whispers.
“Marvelous, we are in no hurry. And we won’t save any libations for the gods.” Dad lifts his glass, continuing, “Salute . . . to the four of us . . . at four.”
Tea dance is in full swing as we stagger into the Lost and Found with Michael, who is the only one walking a straight line. He graciously holds the club door open for Violet and me. The air-conditioning does little to temper my out-of-control blood alcohol level. Sir John stumbles ahead to the man in leather chaps taking the cover charge.
“Keep the change,” my father garbles, passing a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill into the doorman’s heavily ringed fingers.
“Thank you, Sir John,” he says.
My eyes try to shake off the seasick feeling that lots of sex, little sleep, and three bottles of pinot grigio are having on me. Michael sways his tight ass up to my father, putting his thirty-something hand on my father’s seersucker suit jacket, leading the obviously intoxicated sixty-one-year-old into the main room of the dark club, like one would lead their aging grandmother across an icy sidewalk.
Old disco blasts out of the speakers as hairy-chested, glistening men pump their fists and grind their groins on the dance floor. Their passionate baritone voices create a thunder.
Violet interlaces her fingers in mine and helps me cross the swirling, packed house. I need a bounce in my step, but first I need the room to stop spinning. My pickled limbs know they need to swing and sweat out some of this booze, or God help me.
“How ya doin’, Miss Thing?” Violet puts her arm around me as we reach the bar.
“I’m fucked up,” I admit, laughing.
“Me too. We drank waaaaay too much.” She doesn’t seem as drunk as I am. Her eyes are awake and intense on me.
“What . . . to . . . drink . . . my fair ladies?” Dad speaks slowly, almost losing his balance and falling on us.
“Nothing right now, Dad,” I say, steadying his skinny body against the bar.
He looks surprised and turns to Violet.
“I’d love a Bloody Mary, Sir John. Thank you.” Violet gives him a kiss on the cheek. “The ladies’ room, first!” She takes my hand and leads me away—crossing the floor, impossible without her help. I’m an out-of-control bumper car, smashing into mustached men in tank tops, bears in leather pants, and young androgynous hustlers on the lookout for wealthy-seeming men or fallen drink tickets. We make it through the rough seas and land in the dark restroom. Violet leads me past the urinals, toward the four stalls. The last one has an open door that she pulls me through, locking it behind us. Her tongue immediately lands in my mouth as I rest my limp body against the door.
“You’re flawless,” her tongue fishing in my mouth for a bigger response.
My motor has stalled. Stepping back, she reaches into her bra, pulling out a folded dollar bill in the shape of a triangle—a paper football ready to be kicked with the flick of a finger.
“Oh my God, your dad is a hoot.” She laughs, unfolding the bill.
White powder fills the center. Digging in with her pinky finger, my bombshell scoops some into her long nail.
“Here, darlin’, this’ll help.” She holds her fingernail under my nostril. I snort it, recalling the few times Nic’s friends brought coke over to her house. It made for really tense games of horseshoes a
nd sleepless nights.
The powder stings my nose, bringing a quick rush to my forehead. The alertness feels better than the heaviness I walked in with. Violet scoops herself a hit, then offers me another one. She puts the powder on the tip of her index finger and rubs it on my gums. A charge rushes through me, and I’m now ready to burst out of the gate and run the Kentucky Derby. My thighs want to kick, feeling their power again. The dance floor is calling. I pull Violet’s waist against mine, holding her round hips, and kiss her.
“Let’s go dance,” I say, unlocking the door.
As we pass the urinals, Violet and I look at a guy’s hard bare ass with some interest, then laugh our way onto the dance floor. Dad and Michael are dancing like robots together. I try to get a little rhythm going by dancing between them, while Violet flies into her arm-swinging groove. With fingers snapping, bob flopping, ivory heels twisting, she grabs the attention of the gay boys around her. A burly shirtless guy gyrates his way over to me, and Dad nods. Michael decides to sit this one out and squeezes his way off the jammed dance floor.
“Good afternoon,” my father shouts. “I’m Sir John . . . my daughter Christine.” He extends his hand to the shirtless guy, showing me off.
“Bruce,” the bear says, smiling.
Pulling out something from a pocket of his leather pants, Bruce unscrews the top, puts the glass vial to his nostril, and inhales. He hands it to my father, who looks lost, the way he might if handed a pair of cleats and a metal protection cup.
“Thank you, Bruce. What is it?”
“Amyl nitrate,” Bruce shouts.
“Anal what?”
“Poppers,” he explains.
“What do I do with it?”
“Just sniff it!”
I continue dancing as Dad takes massive hits up his nose and then passes the vial to me.
“CHRISTINE! JUST SNIFF IT, DEAR!”
I inhale—knowing the drill—in both nostrils and pass it over to Violet. We all take flight into the heavy bass on a remix of Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean,” our blown-out heads cracking wide smiles.
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