Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  Violet grabs my hips, laughing. “Feel better?”

  I jump up and down with my arms swinging wildly in the air, feeling madly and passionately in love with the music.

  I hear my father over my back.

  “Bruce, is that genuine leather?”

  I glance over, catching my father’s right hand on Bruce’s boner. His favorite ruby ring prominent, catching the rainbow of disco lights spinning around us. Another horny dog in a leather collar runs to the scene and gets behind Dad. They all hump each other, using the music as an excuse. Dad catches me looking.

  “Christine, I’m feeling free!” he shouts.

  My head rush has passed, and in its place, a pain surfaces in my heart at witnessing my father in the middle of these men. I force a smile at their threesome, then turn away. Violet passes a vial of poppers my way, and I aggressively sniff, searching for my own freedom.

  16

  Inquisition

  Our swimming pool was built when I was five years old because Dad realized that, as the older kids were becoming teenagers, summer jobs, boyfriends, and girlfriends were making it more and more difficult to keep all of us in our Dewey Beach rental for the summer. Nearby Rehoboth wasn’t a big gay resort back then; otherwise he might have found a way to continue leasing that massive oceanfront house. They tell me that Dad would drive down to be with us on weekends—unless he was overseas. But most beach days, it was just Mom and thirteen kids covered in Coppertone. She would easily be inducted into the Patience Hall of Fame, if there were such a thing.

  I roll out to our backyard in my bikini—beach towel wrapped around my neck, black sunglasses covering the evidence of my two-day binge. The tall, faded fence is a warm backdrop to the row of azaleas and the dark mulch tossed between them. My mother gave up on grass a long time ago: too much trampling. Our backyard is what Miss Lange described as “lived in” when she came over to swim one rare day that the house was empty, the coast clear. It was the only way I ever got her to set foot in 5 East Irving Street.

  Today, the humidity adds an extra dose of lethargy to my morning. I needed three aspirin just to get out of bed. I’m eager for a chaise lounge and too sluggish to care about my noisy nephew Tate, in the shallow end, screaming about his monumental feat.

  “Awnt Tina Tuna, I’m swibbing!”

  His mop of brown hair is like a wet bird’s nest.

  “Yay, look at you go so fast,” I mumble.

  My mother stands, dripping perspiration, at the edge of the shallow end. Adoringly watching her grandson, she talks quietly with Margaret, who’s wading—purposely keeping her head above water, so as not to turn her newly highlighted hair chlorine green. The steaming pavement has me walking like I’m on midday August sand.

  “Awnt Tuna, you funny.” Tate laughs as I dash on the balls of my feet to the group of beach chairs near the deep end. I feel the two women’s eyes on me, the way classmates dissect the new girl at school.

  “Hey, sis, hi, Mom,” I offer, laying a towel on the chair.

  “Well, good afternoon.” Mom’s tone holds layers of questions and judgments.

  “Come talk to us.” Margaret’s attempt at an innocent attitude fails.

  I’m desperate to collapse and sleep, but there’s no time to rest when the weary is engaged in an epic cover-up, bigger than John Paul I’s murder. The crystal blue water sparkles in the fierce sunlight, looking more inviting than another walk across the cement. I hop over to the diving board and climb up on the low white platform.

  “Here I come, little man!”

  Despite my light-headedness, hitting the end of the board and springing into the air is effortless—a move I’ve made a thousand times. Bending into the cool water silences so many aches and pains, and seduces me to hang loose as jelly underneath the surface, wrapped in the water’s easy embrace. I swim the length of the pool underwater, seeing Tate’s flapping turtle legs in the shallow end.

  Being immersed in the quiet, safe deep brings back thoughts of all-day swimming in the Aegean Sea with Nic. Bliss. Only darkness or a sexy topless Euro-gal got me out of the clear Mediterranean water.

  “AH, I GOT YOU!” I grab my nephew’s pruned feet.

  He yelps with joy.

  I give him a big kiss on his forehead and fall back underwater like a crazy drunk playing Tea Party until my lungs shout, “Give me liberty or give me death.” And I burst out of the water, gasping for liberty.

  “I’m the Cookie Monster!”

  Tate delights in my immaturity.

  “What happened? You decided not to work out this morning?”

  Mom never asks about the details of my training.

  “I’m going to do a long workout tonight,” I lie, knowing that a short shoot-around is about all my hangover can handle, unless miraculously, I could do basketball drills underwater.

  “What time did you and Dad get in last night?” Mom asks.

  “Gosh . . . I don’t even know, sometime after midnight.”

  “It had to be well after midnight, because I was up until one o’clock!”

  Ouch. She has never taken this tone with me. I didn’t even know she possessed this angry voice. I dunk my head back into the water, creating a waterfall through my long hair. I reach out for the splashing toddler and pray that Mom and her strange new attitude will paddle away, too.

  “Where did you all go?” she presses.

  All? Fuck, did Dad tell her Violet came, too? Shit, I hate this.

  “The University Club.”

  “Till one in the morning?” Margaret chimes in.

  I dunk all the way under.

  Surfacing, I try to find my confidence. “Yeah . . . I mean . . . we were there till . . . I don’t even know . . . forever. Then he needed to stop by the office for something, so we drove him there . . .”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Margaret asks.

  “Ohhhh . . . my friend . . . Violet.”

  “So you went to the office?” Mom is relentless.

  “Yeah, we waited for so long . . . in the car, um, I don’t know what he was doing . . . I mean for an hour or more—I thought maybe he passed out . . . you know, um, how he is . . . but . . . then he came out and said he needed to drop something at one of the embassies, so—”

  “On Sunday?” Mom interrupts.

  “Yeah . . . and so, then . . . he was wanting to—of course—get something to eat, and ’cause . . . it was getting late . . . we just grabbed a bite in Georgetown.”

  “Where did you eat?” Margaret asks, adjusting her sunglasses.

  This cross-examination is going to give me an ulcer. I hear the phone ringing faintly through the open kitchen windows and hustle through the water toward the steps.

  “I’ll get it! It might be my friend about working out tonight.”

  My arms and legs push harder through the resistant water, the way you do in a bad dream when you have to escape evildoers with machine guns through quicksand.

  “Well?” Margaret calls, as I rush up the pool steps.

  I pretend not to hear her and disappear inside the screen door.

  * * *

  I have always loved the back stairway at 5 East Irving Street—a narrow and more private option than our grand mahogany staircase that climbs from the entry foyer to the third floor. The hidden stairs, like the scavi beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, have a mysterious, sneaky quality. They were built for the help—an unobtrusive way to get to the kitchen. As I tiptoe down, cool as KGB, I’m hoping to avoid detection. After a lifetime of sneaking up and down the bare hardwood, I know to place my foot on the back of each stair—any contact with the creaky front hardwood will blow my cover.

  After my afternoon siesta in the cool of Kate’s old room, my mission is simple: get to the kitchen, raid the fridge of as many carbohydrates as possible, find ginger ale at any cost, and get the hell out before any more interrogation from Mom.

  The early-evening light in the kitchen brings on a moodiness. Miss Lange used to call it “the blu
e mood.” She would get depressed at that time of day. I would go visit and stay until the sun made shadows through the venetian blinds. I hated leaving her sad face for home. I’d sit in the plaid armchair at her bedside. The Tiffany lamp and overhead light never went on during her blue moods, no matter how many jokes I told her or how many chapters of Lady Chatterley’s Lover I read aloud.

  The fridge is jam packed and could feed the three of us through the blizzard of the century. After raising a family the size of an orphanage, buying in bulk is in Mom’s nature.

  “Tina, is that you?” Mom calls out as the basement door swings shut.

  “Yup,” I say, grabbing a package of cold cuts and the Swiss cheese.

  Mom pats my shoulder as she enters the kitchen, carrying a large frozen Tupperware container. She pops open the microwave, plops the hard block of dinner inside, and hits defrost.

  “Your father is on his way. Why don’t you set the table for me, please?” Her voice is chilled and clipped.

  “Sure, Mom,” I say, kissing her on the cheek. “Is it just the three of us?”

  “Yes, just the three of us . . . still seems strange to say that,” she muses.

  When it’s the three of us, I set Dad’s end of the table; but if it’s just the two of us, I set Mom’s end. I don’t know what they do when I’m not home. I grab silverware and head off to set the table, avoiding her. The dining room has inlays of dark wood between the cream plastered walls. Large carved mahogany pocket doors can close off the living room from the dining room, although they rarely do. The religious statues decorating the thin wooden ledge that runs around the entire room create a solemn mood. The memory of Erie’s ironing dotting the whole room fills me with nostalgia for a fuller house.

  As I set the table, I absentmindedly fold a paper napkin and place it under my father’s fork. Catching this mortal sin, I yank it out and blow my nose—still stuffed from plowing through Violet’s coke last night. Inside the eight-foot marble-top buffet are white linen napkins reserved for Papa Bear’s place. The rest of us, including Mom, have always used paper napkins. I pull out three of his cloth napkins, deciding we all deserve the royal treatment.

  Smells of stew fill up the house, and I’m optimistic the meat and potatoes will soak up any leftover alcohol from my sinful Sunday. The front door slams with Dad’s heavy hand, and I automatically tense.

  A beige linen suit flies past the dining room—his sweaty blotched face beelining to his mostly empty kitchen—not noticing me filling our water goblets. From the wrinkle of his suit, my hunch is he’s coming from a short nap slumped over his desk after a long liquid lunch at the University Club with a clergyman. A foul mood always follows these lunches, especially when he’s coming to a place he’d rather not be. I put my ear on the wall and listen.

  “Hi, dear.”

  “Would you mind telling me where you were today?” he snaps.

  “What? . . . I told you, I needed to help Margaret with Tate while she saw her lawyer—”

  “All day?!”

  “Most of the day, and then—”

  “AND THEN WHAT? THERE ARE INVOICES SITTING ON YOUR DESK THAT NEED PAYING. THESE NEED ATTENTION, AND YOU SAID YOU’D BE IN LATER.”

  “Dear—”

  He interrupts.

  “NO, DEAR, I HAVE A BLOODY OFFICE TO RUN AND YOU ARE ON SALARY, SO THERE’S NO EXCUSE FOR BILLS NOT BEING PAID, BECAUSE YOU’RE LAYING AROUND, SHOPPING, OR LUNCHING, OR WHATEVER YOU AND THE GIRLS DO . . .”

  “We were not shop—” Mom’s voice weakens as the tsunami hits.

  “I AM WORKING EIGHTEEN-HOUR DAYS, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, AND YOU ARE SITTING AROUND, STILL NOT DOING ANYTHING ABOUT THIS WEIGHT! PLEASE, DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS EXCESS!”

  Pressed against the paneling, my body trembles with anger; the light switch digs into my shoulder. Finally, I burst into the kitchen, distracting Dad from his evil routine.

  “Hi, Dad, you look nice!” I give him a kiss on his lips, receiving his perspiration, but no love.

  He stares at Mom, still revved up.

  “How about some iced tea, Dad? Mom, what would you like to drink with dinner? Jeez, that smells good. Hmm, I’m starving. Can I put out anything else, Mom?”

  In the middle of them, I’m a skilled, if hyper, matador, quickly pulling the animal this way and that way. Tricking him into ramming his bull head into thin air, instead of into someone’s rib cage.

  “Yes, Tina, put the bread and butter out.”

  I force a smile at Dad, hoping it will dull his blade. My sweaty palms anxiously squeeze the breadbasket and butter dish, heading out of the kitchen. His wing tips are on my heels, following me through the tiled hallway and into the dining room.

  “Did your mother ask you about last night?” he whispers.

  “Yes. I told her that after we had brunch at the University Club, we took you to the office, and waited for you, and then went to dinner in Georgetown.”

  “Where?”

  Mom enters the room, catching our sotto voce exchange, and I let out a cough alerting Dad that she’s at his back.

  “Mom, let me get that.”

  I rush over to her, taking the white ceramic bowl, placing it on the buffet. Removing the glass lid, I welcome the steam up into my face—a soothing distraction. Dad takes his place at the head of the table, while Mom and I pile large helpings on the china plates at the buffet. The wide gaps of silence, and the shared knowledge of the hidden truths among us, bring on an uneasy rumbling in my belly. I give Dad his plate, and he gives me a wink, reminding me that we are the masterminds of these lies together.

  “Did you get some rest today, Christine?” He smirks.

  “Yes, I did, Dad.”

  I sit to the left of Dad, and Mom takes the other side. The sea of empty chairs around us adds to the awkwardness. Things will never be the same again. Even if “the same” was screaming, incest, chaos, and siblings cutting up each other’s prom dresses once in a while, it was a great big family in constant motion. And now, we sit at Dad’s end of the table, dying a slow death, our secrets tugging at the seams.

  “Tina, why don’t you say grace,” Mom’s tone suggesting that I need it.

  “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of 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.”

  “Amen,” my parents chime in, as we all make the sign of the cross.

  Like well-mannered folks, we all place our napkins on our laps. Dad looks at all of our cloth napkins as if he’s not special anymore.

  “I thought we should dine graciously tonight.” I wink, indicating my napkin. He lightens up.

  “Yes, we should. Whatever happened to gracious dining?”

  His lazy eye seems to be searching for the good ol’ days.

  “Where did you all eat last night?” Mom asks with a perfect balance of passive and aggressive. I glance at Dad, who quickly stuffs a large bite of food into his mouth and points his fork toward me to answer.

  “I told you . . . didn’t I? We ate at Mrs. Simpson’s.” My heart pounds against my number thirteen practice shirt, catching my mistake as soon as it leaves my mouth.

  “I thought you said you ate in Georgetown. Mrs. Simpson’s isn’t in Georgetown.” Her brow creases.

  “What does it matter?! We ate at Mrs. Simpson’s, and we had a lot to discuss about the future of the office. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Christine is the right one to carry on Holy Pilgrimages.” Dad turns to me. “Your business degree can be put to good use.”

  Mom reaches into the breadbasket, taking a sourdough roll. A loud bang startles me as Dad drops his fork onto his dinner plate; his eyes case her as she spreads the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.

  “Dear, is that part of your Weight Watchers program?” he barks.

  “Dad!”

  He spins his head toward me, reacting to my aggressive tone. His raised eyebrows and tight face force me into submission, and I
feel afraid to fight for her and risk losing him. I throw a Hail Mary. “Dad, what made you decide to start the business?”

  He settles. “Now, that’s a long conversation that we should have over dinner this week. Which day are you coming into the office?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure yet,” I hedge.

  “I’ll be in all week,” Mom interjects.

  His rolling eyes scold her again for playing hooky today. Blowing on his stew, he turns back to me. I take a piece of sourdough, hoping to soften my mother’s ache with solidarity, and send a silent “fuck you” to my father for abusing her calorie count, and her.

  “Why don’t you plan to come in tomorrow? Monsignor Galliani will be arriving and I’d like you to meet him before we head out to lunch.”

  “Sure, Dad, I can do that.”

  Back to our meat and potatoes, the silence is long and uncomfortable—a big empty space as a result of their dysfunctional marriage. Her Irish eyes rarely smile around him. Maybe they should have had more than a few dates before they decided to get married. Their long-distance courting, and his marriage proposal via first-class mail, were all the rage during World War II. Mom couldn’t see his body language or his glances at fellow soldiers. But would she have noticed even with a long face-to-face courtship? Or swept it under a rug like she does so many things?

  “Tina, did you order the crab cake?”

  My father slams his hand onto the table and aggressively wipes his mouth, shaking his head in her direction.

  “The brunch menu at the University Club does not include crab cakes!” he yells.

  Silence returns to the room. I want to jump out of my skin. My stomach pain sharpens with each second of angry silence between them. His outrage has subsided, but it lurks just below the surface, like a killer shark. I pray my crab-obsessed mother doesn’t dare go back in the water. I pretend that I’m enjoying soaking up the gravy juice with my crust.

  “Mom, this is excellent.”

  “Looks like there’ll be over one hundred and fifty of us at the reunion . . . it’s going to be fun having all the Allens and the Marshalls and all of us together . . . you’re going to drive up to the Cape with me, right, sweetie?”