Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  “What’s the date again?”

  “July 20th, but I’ll go up a few days early, if that’s okay with your father.” She looks to him for approval.

  “Do what you wish, just make sure the invoices are up to date before you leave.”

  “Do you think you’ll take the train up?” she asks him.

  Dad’s mouthful prevents him from giving her another tongue lashing, but he’s chomping at the bit. We wait politely for him to finish chewing.

  “I’ve got an office to run. There’s no way I have time to get to a bloody family reunion, for God’s sake!”

  “Not even for a day or two?” she persists.

  “NO, DEAR, NOT FOR A SINGLE DAY!” he yells. “I SAID GO TO YOUR REUNION FOR AS LONG AS YOU DAMN WELL PLEASE, BUT SOMEONE HAS TO WORK AROUND THIS PLACE!”

  “Well, I just thought it would be nice if the whole family were together.”

  Dad belches loudly, his stomach calling for a reunion with the first-floor bathroom. My leg shakes against my chair, wanting this ungracious dining experience to end.

  “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, WOMAN, ARE YOU DEAF?!”

  He stands up and throws his linen napkin onto the table.

  We follow his fast-paced tear out of the dining room, shaking our heads in unison, as the bathroom door slams. Mom wipes her watery eyes and bites her lower lip, trying to keep it together. There’s no room for me to allow the lump in my throat to escape. She needs fluffing up after being beaten down.

  “Is it too much to think your husband would come to the family reunion?” she asks wearily.

  I smile, knowing this is not the time to tell her: “Yes, in your case, it is too much to think that your husband would come to the family reunion, and it’s also too much to think that I’m going.” The noisy dumping out of my father’s stomach overtakes our quiet. I take a deep breath, not sure who I feel the most sorry for in this moment. His violent vomiting grows louder. It’s a toss-up who’s the bigger victim here: Dad’s stomach or Mom’s heart.

  “How about seconds?” I joke for her sake.

  She can’t help but laugh, which gives me permission to join her. It’s a troubled laugh, as if I’m being squeezed too tightly in the middle of this threesome.

  17

  Visitation

  If you drive south on Connecticut Avenue from Chevy Chase Circle, in thirty minutes you will land at Dupont Circle if there is no traffic. After a short but detoxifying run this morning, I’m in a confident mood as I ride shotgun with Mom to Holy Pilgrimages. She hums along to the easy-listening station, packed into the driver’s seat of her Impala—her safety belt stretched to its limit.

  “Mom, I’m not going to be able to go to the reunion.”

  “What! Why not?” She adjusts her weight with a strained face.

  I can’t tell her that I have eyes for a congressional aide, or that I have a master plan to be the only Worthington swimming south of the Mason-Dixon line that weekend—other than Dad. I’ve been scheming to have the greatest pool party since Margaret’s senior-year luau, when Dad blended stiff whiskey sours for her underage friends while the pig on a spit got roasted. I’m envisioning something more lavish: champagne on ice and canapés. And lots of gay people. A first in our backyard, assuming you don’t count some of my father’s clergy pals who have dipped their toes in our pool after Sunday mass. The thought of having my people in our backyard with no racing heartbeat, no fear of my brothers shouting, “You fag!” and no hiding my attraction to girls, is a relief.

  “I have to train,” I say confidently, knowing it’s partly true.

  “I’m sure they have basketball courts on Cape Cod.”

  “It’s not the same. I have the guys at the playground.”

  “Honey, this is the first, and who knows, maybe the last reunion. You need to come,” she asserts, as if she forgot I turned twenty this year.

  “Plus, Dad wants me to be at the office at least once a week, and you’re going for a whole week, right?”

  She turns away from the red stop light, her gaze landing on me. Her brow is pinched, eyes squinting.

  “I’m sure your father wants you to be with your family, Tina,” she digs.

  “He’s not going!” I insist.

  “That has nothing to do with you. Now, I’d like you to drive up with me.”

  “No!”

  She hits the accelerator with the green light, like I do when I’m mad. Her tight angry face is a shock—the way you never expect the sweet neighbor to be the ax murderer. We’ve had our opening argument on the subject. I can’t defend myself or cross-examine her. That’s breaking our family code among my siblings and me: we treat Mom like the saint that she is.

  “Tina, I rarely ask anything of you.” She pauses, letting the guilt smother me. “I am asking that you be part of the family and come to the reunion.”

  Part of the family? Her disapproval stings, makes me defensive and frustrated because I don’t know how to fix this. Upsetting her kills me. But I don’t know how to be with Mom and be all of me. As long as I can remember, I’ve had the sense that I’m too much and should cut myself down to a size she can handle. Mom’s right, more and more I avoid being home and at family functions, because I’m suffocating under the mask I must wear in our family. I need air.

  “I really have to train here, Mom. Sorry.”

  The saint retreats, and we drive the rest of the way feigning interest in everything but each other. As we drive around the bustling, hustling Dupont Circle, I innocently glance at the action. A few young guys sip coffee out of paper cups and eat donuts, all the while shifting their bodies, eyes roaming like a searchlight over the small park.

  * * *

  Inside Holy Pilgrimages, my father’s overseas voice can be heard all the way from his private office. Shouting through the phone, across oceans and deserts, he reads the itinerary of his upcoming pilgrimage to Fátima at his overseas agent. Mom takes her place in the receptionist’s swivel chair, since Dad hasn’t approved any of the “bloody fools” that Dale has interviewed.

  “Mom, would you like me to get you a coffee?”

  She keeps her head buried in her file of invoices. “No, thank you.”

  The wall between us seems to have been built in a day. What happened? I’m her lucky thirteen, and she is my first love.

  “Well, good morning, Christine. Morning, dear.” Dad has a bounce in his step, the way he does when I shout to him at the Lost and Found, “Dad, do you want to dance!?”

  He offers both of us kisses. Maybe he’s warming up his “love thy wife” muscles before Monsignor arrives. Why can’t he warm to the fact that this “bloody woman” delivered thirteen of his children, spending 117 months pregnant? Nearly two weeks of labor.

  “Christine, I’d like to show you a few things before Monsignor arrives.” Dad motions for me to follow. Mom looks up as we walk away. I feel her eyes on our lying backs as we disappear down the hallway and into his office. Dad closes the door behind us. It smells innocent enough, like vitamins and cologne. But no matter how many overhead lights and desk lamps may be on, it feels dark and mysterious, now that I know Dad is hiding secrets in here, even if I don’t know what they are.

  “Did you get some breakfast this morning?”

  “Yes, I grabbed some after my run.”

  “Taking after your father.” He smiles.

  He walks over to a large, brown wooden file cabinet, while I contemplate what he means. I’m guessing the last time my father ran was when he was a choirboy, late for mass.

  “I was a scrawny kid with thick glasses, but I could run forever.” He holds up a three-inch navy blue ribbon that says first place. His face looks fifty years younger.

  “How old were you, Dad?”

  “Nine.” He goes distant. “And Mother was going to get to this race. Promises, promises. The race started, but no Mother. I didn’t care, it made me run faster. No tears for that woman . . .”

  I take the ribbon from him
, admiring it.

  “Did she ever see you run?”

  “No, she was too busy with all her gents. Bloody woman,” he says with grief straining in his throat. His story makes me want to cry. Not because my long-gone grandmother seemed more interested in her men at the expense of her children, but because he’s telling me something about himself without being three sheets to the wind.

  He takes the ribbon back, handling it like the treasure it is.

  “So what are your plans for the reunion?” he asks, sliding the file drawer closed.

  “I’m not going,” I say quickly, and he beams with pride. “Mom’s not happy, but . . .” I add.

  “Too bloody bad. There’s no reason for you to go if you don’t want to go. I don’t blame you!”

  He walks over to the window and looks out. Something catches his eye, but he speaks through his lust. “The three of us should plan dinner and the bar that weekend.”

  I can tell he’s a fan of Miss Kentucky, the way he smiles at me.

  “I’ll call Violet.”

  “Yes, you should. Let’s plan on Saturday. Maybe I’ll have some of your good luck and meet someone.”

  A knock on the door startles both of us back into our straight postures.

  “Yes? Come in,” he says formally.

  Dale stands at the door, his green scarf adding a wild pop to his pale yellow suit.

  “Mr. Worthington, Monsignor is here,” Dale announces with an exaggerated arm sweep. A surprising wave of nerves floods my chest at the sight of the man Dad said “holds much sway at the Vatican.” He’s nothing like the imposing presence I’d imagined. With a slim build, and of average height, he’s able to look my father squarely in the eye. His brown eyes dance, like someone who gets to eat the best pasta dishes anytime he wants. The perfectly clear, olive-skinned face lights up at the sight of Dad.

  He wears the black garb with a bright white collar around his tan neck.

  “John, buongiorno!” He carries a briefcase similar to Dad’s.

  “Monsignor!” Dad gushes.

  Monsignor blesses the back of Dad’s bowed head. In the other hand is an oblong gold band with a crucifix.

  “Monsignor, my youngest daughter, Christine.”

  I step up to shake his hand, but he holds my shoulders upright, pecking each cheek with his warm skin.

  “Is dis de basketball star?” His accent is a well-tuned musical instrument.

  I’m shocked to hear that Dad has been bragging about me. The priest moves into the center of the office, the briefcase remaining close against his thigh. He catches me staring at the case as he sits opposite Dad’s desk, placing the briefcase out of my sight.

  “Christine tried out for the Olympics at one point. When she’s done with her athletics, we’re going to see about her taking over Holy Pilgrimages!”

  He chuckles easily. “But John, you will never retire.”

  “No, I won’t! This you know, Father, but I will need some help . . . especially with the Holy Year in 2000.”

  “John, how old will you be in 2000?”

  “Eighty, and still traveling five hundred thousand miles a year, God willing!”

  No matter that they seem to have a genuine friendship, Dad never loses the obvious admiration on his face. He puts men with a collar up on a pedestal. Dad gives me a nod, indicating it’s time for me to leave—a gentle reminder that I don’t belong in the middle of these briefcases and their secrets.

  “It was so nice to meet you, Monsignor.”

  “Arrivederci, Christine.” He gives me a quick wave, and I leave the office, dying to know what treasures lie within that leather case.

  The sound of typewriters and business calls fills up the main room of the office, where Dale and his staff are actively pursuing Catholics with a yen to travel. Everyone seems wrapped up in their holy sales, unaware of my presence, so I fly back toward Dad’s office to eavesdrop. Their low conversation sounds serious, but it’s impossible to make out. After a few moments, their voices rise to the door, and I fall back, hiding in the mailroom, watching them from out of sight.

  “Dale, we are heading out,” Dad announces, exiting his office with Monsignor following behind empty-handed.

  “Okey-dokey, Sir John,” Dale says.

  The men walk down the hallway and exchange small talk with Mom. Then they are gone. I sneak out of the mailroom toward Dad’s closed office door. The overhead fluorescent lights have been shut off for some reason. He’s not one to conserve energy. Ever. Maybe this is a message to potential intruders to keep out. I hustle around the desk and check underneath, then move the front briefcase out of the way and count two more behind it. Ignoring my shaking hands and thumping heart, I lay the front one gently on the neat desktop and reach for the two metal releases, expecting them to be locked. Careful not to make a peep, I slowly open the case.

  The briefcase is jammed with money. It almost looks fake, like the paper bills stacked five feet high on the Bureau of Engraving and Printing tour.

  I pause long enough to take in what I’m seeing. Then I hear Dale laughing and quickly close the briefcase, placing it back where it belongs underneath the desk, and silently hustle out of the room.

  18

  Sin

  At 8 p.m. sharp, the weekend of the family reunion, Dad is manning the punch bowl in his white suit and, shockingly, a pink tie that Violet bought him and brazenly insisted he wear. We’d won him over to our plan for a Pink Party at the house while Mom was away by telling him we’d invited equal numbers of men and women.

  Upon opening the Saks Fifth Avenue box, he playfully informed Violet, “My dear, real men don’t wear pink.”

  She teased, “It will look scarlet in the candlelight, Sir John, and besides, you can take it off later in the night—it might come in handy.”

  Her Mae West banter earned a belly laugh from him—a modern-day miracle. Between sips of his pink punch, Dad obsessively eyes every arrival through the side gate, as if awaiting his pink Prince Charming. His Sergeant Pepper has been laid out the way a sommelier lays out a fine bottle, easily viewed beneath his thin linen trousers. European cultural norm or not, it still feels weird to see your Dad so exposed.

  Watching him watching the gate is turning my stomach upside down, knowing I lied straight to his blotchy face when I first suggested throwing this soiree weeks ago. I said, “Dad, it will be a really small party—like twenty . . . guys and girls.” I emphasized “guys” and he seemed to spring to life. His smirk built into a joyful laugh, and I knew I had succeeded.

  “Well, my dears, how old are these ‘guys’?” Dad asked, giving Violet a wink.

  I piled it on. “Some my age, some Violet’s age, and probably some guys from the Lost and Found.”

  Fuck. Now that the night has arrived, I’m worried that Dad will be upset at the man-woman ratio. I invited fifty gay women and two gay men. When I flipped through my address book, it was weird to see so many names from the bars, but nobody I’d call a friend. Sometimes I wonder if exes are the only people I really trust enough to keep around. This morning, panic set in, so I begged Violet to call any gay guy she knew.

  “Honey, I’ve only lived in D.C. for a few months, but if this was Kentucky, pretty boys would be riding each other in every corner of this Victorian tonight!” she hooted.

  I get busy flirting around the pool, complimenting outfits, offering drinks, making introductions. The only queer I don’t entertain is Sandy, Violet’s beautiful blond ex, who’s been avoiding me the way you do the kid shouting “Marco Polo.”

  Her cold shoulder makes her intriguing to me. I eye her tan bare legs, hanging out of her pink miniskirt, and then trace up her thin body to her soft straight hair that she has released from her usual tight ponytail. She’s pretty, in a beachy, blond way.

  The gate swings open as Heather, a.k.a. Garbo, makes an entrance—all five foot ten of her—and something stirs between my legs. Despite having a massive crush on her for years, I’ve never had the guts
to ask for her number. As far as I’m concerned, anyone that sexy is excused for being snobby. I coolly observe her gliding in with her entourage and fantasize that she secretly wants me as much as I want her. Taking a long look around the backyard, I’m giddy that I have gathered this hot group of women.

  “What the hell?” Dad says, loud enough to be heard across the pool while observing another pack of lesbians filing through the gate. I don’t recognize any of them until about the tenth one walks through. My heart shoots into my throat, seeing Nic holding the hand of a plain-looking girl my age, with long dark hair like Morticia from The Addams Family. My face grows flushed with jealousy. Nic’s friends Patsy and Patsy bounce in last, clumsily slamming the tall gate behind them. I have run into them a few times out at the clubs, but they barely speak to me.

  I watch Nic with my highly trained peripheral vision as she scopes the crowd and her gaze lands on me. I pretend she’s not here, keeping my focus on a bunch of jocks that I’m entertaining by the candlelit diving board. “What’s the number-one come-on line in a men’s bar?” I pause. “Can I push your stool in?”

  The women erupt into laughter as I gulp down my second glass of vodka punch.

  “Hi, hot stuff,” Nic says, checking me out from a few feet away.

  “Hey!” I fake a smile, noticing the new gal clinging to her tan arm, even as she gives me a rough kiss on the cheek. After a month spent with a girly girl like Violet, Nic’s boyishness reminds me of a different version of myself.

  “This is Maggie.” Nic nods toward her date.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi,” Maggie says shyly.

  “Hi, there, I’m Violet Powers, Tina’s girlfriend.” Violet appears out of nowhere, throwing out her hand like she’s greeting constituents on Capitol Hill.

  “Nic,” Nic says, all business, offering Violet a firm handshake.

  Violet puts her arm around me, clutching my bare shoulder.

  “Darlin’, you need another drink.” Violet takes my pink cup. “Would you ladies like some punch?” She directs her question to Nic, flashing a big fat southern smile.