Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  “Is someone with you?”

  I wave a frozen Violet out of the hallway and into the kitchen.

  “My friend . . .”

  “Hi, Mrs. Worthington,” Violet says shrilly.

  “Mom, this is Violet,” I pronounce, slowly kissing Mom’s warm cheek.

  “Whew, you stink! Were you smoking?” Mom snaps.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Well, you must have been around it . . . and you reek of alcohol, Tina.”

  “No, we . . .” I stammer, feeling guilty for lying about this and so much more.

  I look to Violet. She’s better at the spin, since she spends her days bullshitting constituents on behalf of the congressman. Violet does her power walk—the charm oozing from her extended, polished hand. She always drinks more but seems to handle it better.

  “Mrs. Worthington, it’s sooooo nice to meet you!”

  “You too, Violet,” Mom says flatly.

  “Ma’am, it’s all my fault. I was smoking like a runaway train, and the windows were up. Can you believe this rain?” she screeches.

  Mom is low-key, raised by Nana to be kind and loving and polite but not overly demonstrative, and certainly not loud. Mom’s solemn face scrunches up at Violet’s high-pitched outburst.

  “Where were you girls?” Mom asks.

  “We went to Georgetown, but then . . . we couldn’t find parking, so we went over to Hamburger Hamlet . . .”

  My lie is way too complicated.

  “I thought they were renovating Hamburger Hamlet.”

  “We ate at the Hamburger Hamlet in Old Town, near my place,” Violet jumps in.

  If Mom were a detective in the interrogation room, she’d be pacing right now, rubbing her hands together, ready to tear our lies apart.

  “You drove all the way to Old Town for a hamburger?”

  Mom eyes Violet’s fuchsia heels, dangling from her two fingers.

  “Yeah, Violet needed to get something for work tomorrow.”

  “Why would you need something for work tomorrow?” Mom plows on.

  I feel where she’s going, and I need to put a stop to this.

  “Mom! Why are you asking a million questions?” I snap.

  Mom’s face reddens as she turns on me.

  “Tina, you are telling me all kinds of stories that make no sense, you have had too much to drink, and I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  Her tone breaks me. My shoulders begin to shake, my head falling in shame. Violet rubs my shoulder and takes me in her arms, hugging me. Sobs overtake me, and I’m unable to pull away from Violet’s affection.

  “Darlin’, it’s okay, don’t cry.” Violet rubs my back.

  Halting our intimacy, Mom’s voice is stone cold.

  “Violet, I’d like to be alone with my daughter, please.”

  “Oh, yesss, of course, I’ll just wait . . .”

  She leaves the room. I walk over to Mom, desperate for her fat arms to squeeze me till I bleed buttermilk, desperate for her warm neck, desperate to bury my nose into her freshly cut and colored hair. Wobbly and hysterical, I lean like a blow-up doll into her. She wraps an arm around my waist. Heaving into her chest, I drench the neckline of her nightgown with my tears. The familiar safety of her hug is comforting. I’m exhausted from juggling lies like knives, hoping none come down on me. I want to show Mom all of me, once and for all, proving to myself that she loves me—no matter what. Something surges inside me—like a sewer unable to contain the runoff after a bad storm, I begin to overflow, debris bubbling up to the surface, everything I’ve hidden in plain sight.

  “Mom . . . I don’t really date guys much because I like . . . girls better,” I say, weeping.

  Falling apart, I sink into the straight-back chair—the cool black wrought iron against my back offering no real support. Mom’s tense body doesn’t seem interested in wrapping me up snug as a bug, like she used to, like I want her to.

  “Tina, I’m worried about you. You are drinking too much . . . you’re going out every night with strange people too old for you to be hanging around. It’s not normal.”

  She didn’t hear what I just told her—maybe unable to take hold of such a sinful subject. Her response is typically indirect. But I need something more from her now, as all the pain of hiding my whole life is banging on my chest. What is “normal,” anyway?

  I’ve never felt normal. And I suspect Mom has known I was never exactly normal. The family Christmas letters that Mom always wrote called me “bossy” at three; “never happier than when she’s playing football with her brothers” at six; “a real tomboy” at eight. And when the family gathered to watch Simon’s home movies of his wedding, my thirteen-year-old strut to the pulpit in my pink gown to read from the book of Corinthians brought teasing from Simon’s wife: “Tina, you walk like a boy!”

  And chuckles from Mom.

  “I don’t date guys ’cause I don’t want to,” I blurt, wiping tears on the back of my hand, knowing that now I’m the one being indirect. But I can’t say it any better. More clearly.

  She pulls out a cracker from the plastic wrapper and cups it tightly in her hand.

  “Sweetie, I think you’re tired and need to get some sleep.” She sweeps my interest in girls under the carpet. Does she prefer I simply go back in the closet? I slump out of the kitchen and find Violet sitting on the floral couch in the living room. She gives me a sad look; she heard it all. Embarrassed and ashamed—maybe for not being more lovable to my mom—I wave Violet toward the front door and keep walking. We limp onto the front porch, still drunk despite the sobering conversation.

  “I’m so sorry, darlin’.” She goes to hug me.

  I move away, not feeling worthy of hugs and kisses right now.

  “Let’s talk tomorrow,” I say. “I don’t want her coming out here looking for me.”

  Violet takes the hint, kisses me on the cheek. “She’s just in shock. If I ever told my mother, she’d have a heart attack or try to have me committed—you’re braver than I am, Miss Thing.”

  “Bye,” I say, heading for the front door, not wanting her to see me cry.

  * * *

  When I roll downstairs the next morning, still in my short summer nightgown, the house is church quiet. I plop myself down on the bottom step, not caring about my unladylike position despite not wearing panties. The fog from last night hasn’t lifted. Was it all a dream? Maybe I was drunk enough, and vague enough, that Mom didn’t understand what I was saying. God, I hope so.

  I’m suffering my penance for my confession—a gut filled with knots and nausea to go along with another hangover, another morning workout lost. Despite multiple tooth-brushings and a long Listerine gargle, my throat feels raw, and my sinuses are filled with nicotine from smoking Violet’s fucking Dunhills. The headache thumping across my forehead is the only constant companion I’ve had all summer. What did I do? What should I say when I see Mom? What about Dad? He’s not going to like that I told Mom about me; he likes being the only one in the family to know my secret. Thank God he’s not due back from Rome until next week. Maybe Mom will keep pretending I never said anything last night. Maybe Mom won’t tell Dad anyway. Fuck. Right now, I wish I could snort last night’s confession right back up my nose and down my throat. I wonder how many memories you can kill with a hit of poppers? Or a line of cocaine? Or a half dozen sea breezes? Or a case of Pouilly-Fuissé?

  Resting my chin on my shaky hand, I count the number of runs in the sea foam wall-to-wall carpet—a gift from our dearly departed black Lab, Sambo. An image of our dog lingers in my memory: lying at my parents’ feet as they sat lover close in this exact spot, dressed in their Christmas Eve best. The snapshot caught Dad in a nanosecond of love for Mom, a result of the perfect mixture of whiskey sours and Johnny Mathis’s Christmas album. Lady Anne ate up his hand-holding and serenade: “A beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight. Walking in a winter wonderland.” No matter if he gives her a crumb or the whole cake, she’s grateful. “Something�
�s better than nothing” has always been a favorite expression of hers. And, still, always, she gives him everything. No matter what Dad does or says, I think Mom treats him the way she wishes he’d treat her. Maybe someday.

  I pull myself up, using the railing as a crutch. My stomach is crying out for something to soak up last night’s alcohol. What I eat in the morning depends on how much I drink the night before. If my first meal of the day is burgers and fries, I got hammered the night before. Scrambled eggs and toast: I was in bed by eleven.

  Dragging myself into the kitchen, I see the ticking sunflower wall clock and am reminded of how alone I am in this cavernous house. A wave of dread lands me in one of the wrought-iron kitchen chairs. Unable to hold my head up, I lay my cheek on the cool countertop. Tears crash out of me. Fluid pours over my bloated face and into my messy hair as I heave uncontrollably on the Formica. I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should stop drinking so much.

  Flipping my cheek to the other side, a sharp pain in my neck rises from too long in an uncomfortable position. I watch the clock, wishing I could go back in time and erase last night. The black second hand moves—tick, tick, tick—like a bomb threatening to go off.

  The last time I watched the kitchen clock this long I was in seventh grade, on the night of Rebecca’s graduation party at a classmate’s house. Miss Lange was there, and I was jealous because she was hanging out with other kids; I couldn’t wait to grab any tidbit about my lover when Rebecca walked through the door at 11 p.m. I’d been waiting in the living room all night, unable to concentrate on the television.

  “All the adults got really drunk and Miss Lange was doing the bump with Bucky Smith,” she detailed as I hid my possessiveness. That information sent me spinning into insomnia, while I replayed Rebecca’s words obsessively, sitting in this exact position, watching the second hand inch along, until the sun rose. Waiting and waiting and waiting until I could call her. Twelve years old, and too mature to count sheep. But not too mature to bypass the phone and instead pound on her front door at 9 a.m., waking her and her parents, rushing upstairs to cross-examine her.

  “Why were you being such a flirt?” I demanded, clearing off her bedside table with one furious hand.

  My question deserved an answer, but all I got was a question. “Why are you being so immature?” Her hangover was obvious in her gravelly voice.

  “ANSWER ME!” I screamed, ripping the wet cloth off her forehead.

  She rolled up urgently to a sitting position and reprimanded me: “If you raise your voice again, you are leaving.”

  And with that I flew off the king-size bed, bumping into her card table—where she had been laboring over her beloved thousand-piece puzzle for months. And with two angry hands I destroyed her nearly completed Mount Rushmore.

  Remembering her words, “Why are you being so immature?” a surge of anger overtakes my tears. Fuck her, she’s the one that wanted to be with a twelve-year-old! Mom would never understand that—I’m not even sure if I do.

  But right now, I’m just glad I wasn’t drunk enough last night to tell Mom about Miss Lange. Too much is too much. Impossible to untangle, like an old phone cord. I wipe my nose on my T-shirt, too tired to grab a tissue.

  The mustard phone rings—the “kids’ phone” that Dad had installed so we’d stay off the “bloody main line.” For most of our lives, one phone line in the entrance foyer was all we had for thirteen kids who were dying to call out. Tying up the phone, you ran the risk of Dad’s wrath. Sir John loathes a busy signal. “The telephone is for giving and receiving messages!” he’d scream, veins bursting. After years of having to call the emergency operator in order to break into our calls, he was fed up and finally put in a separate line for his children on the kitchen wall.

  The ringing continues. I need to eat, not talk. I raise my wet face off the breakfast counter and head for the refrigerator, hunting for anything starchy. A pile of potato salad hides in the back underneath plastic wrap—maybe something Mom was hiding for me. Or her.

  As I finger mounds of gooey chunks into my mouth, the phone begins to annoy me. Who the fuck won’t take “No one’s home” for an answer? Maybe it’s Violet on a coffee break from returning calls to angry Kentuckians, insisting the government give them a tax break for raising Derby-bound thoroughbreds.

  “Hello?” I relent.

  “Hey, kid, what’s up?” Margaret’s voice is higher pitched than normal, sweeter.

  “Nothing. Just gonna go work out,” I lie.

  I hear Tate in the background, begging to ride his Big Wheel.

  “Feel like getting a drink later?” she says, as if we spend our days getting manicures together. I can’t recall the two of us ever going out for drinks.

  “I’ll be at the playground till at least seven,” I explain, trying to sound disappointed.

  “Come on, after your practice,” she insists.

  I hesitate, nothing surfacing from my brain fog to offer as an excuse.

  “Let’s meet at the Lily at eight,” she says.

  “Who’s taking care of Tate?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll get someone. All right . . . gotta get him lunch or he’s gonna have a tantrum. Later, kid.”

  * * *

  The Lily is actually in D.C., even though it’s five minutes from our house in Maryland.

  I arrive a little after eight, hair still damp from my shower after a sluggish workout. At least I didn’t quit, I tell myself. At least I stayed until seven fifteen—even if the last hour was just foul shots. The lies I tell myself are getting pathetic. Really, I should be returning to Mount St. Mary’s for my senior year in the best shape of my life. But lately, another basketball season and even my dream of the Olympics are no more than afterthoughts.

  “Hey, kid,” Margaret calls from a corner banquette.

  I head over to her, thinking maybe I should have passed on the red lipstick and halter dress. The décor is modern—not as sophisticated as places in Georgetown or Dupont Circle, but a solid effort for our conservative neighborhood. Margaret gives me a once-over.

  “Are you going out later?” She sounds confused, like I’ve already dumped her for someone else.

  “No, no . . . I just . . . all my stuff is in the laundry,” I lie.

  What is it about my family that makes me uncomfortable standing out? Why can’t I just say, “I love dressing up and I do look fucking flawless, don’t I?” Someone must have sent out an unspoken message to all of us: “You are one of thirteen, so fall in line. Don’t be different. Don’t stand out too far.” Truth is, Mom likes everything and everyone even Steven. She always has. Dad isn’t against standing out, so long as it’s him and only him.

  “You want to eat something?” Margaret says, handing me a menu.

  “Nah, just wine.”

  She fidgets with the fork and smooths the cloth napkin on her lap.

  “Can I get you guys a drink?” our androgynous waiter sings.

  It makes me happy to see something queer in this straight place.

  “White wine.” I forget my cover and wink at him.

  “And I’ll have a vodka tonic,” Margaret interrupts our private exchange.

  I feel Margaret’s eyes on me while I pretend the other tables are extremely interesting.

  “How are you liking working at the office this summer?” she asks.

  “It’s okay, it’s money,” I say.

  “Dad’s still talking about you taking over the business,” she says, twirling her knife.

  “Well, he said that to everyone,” I say lightly.

  Our waiter quickly returns with our drinks and grandly sets them in front of us.

  I take a long sip of my chardonnay—it settles me, and I know I’ll order another. The silence lingers.

  “So . . . Mom called me today. She said you said some things to her last night . . . and that she thinks you’re gay. Is that true?”

  I take another big sip, my face heating up.

  Margaret presses.
“Are you?”

  And before I can answer, she tears off like Tate on his Big Wheel. “Not that I care. I mean, I kind of already knew. You are, right? It’s no big deal. I figured that’s why you never really had a serious boyfriend.”

  Even after my defensive drills on the sizzling asphalt today, I’m still not ready to guard her. She’s too fast, too nimble. Before I can shut down her lane, she’s breezed by me to the rim.

  “Yeah . . . I am,” I say.

  To my surprise, my body relaxes as soon as the words fall out of my mouth into the booth. I begin to pet the black and white satin fabric beneath me. The truth is as satisfying as a hot shower after a triple overtime win. It feels so amazing, I laugh out loud.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  Her angry tone throws me. I shrug, feeling ashamed.

  “Nothing . . . just . . . yes, I am gay.” The G-word gets caught in my throat.

  After so many years of careful pronouns and straight-up lies, I’m in the habit of trapping that word in my mouth.

  “Is Dad gay?” she demands.

  I clutch the stem of my glass. The room goes silent.

  I hear someone else answer.

  “Yes.”

  It couldn’t have been me. No way. I’m the secret keeper. Luke and Simon, Miss Lange, and of course, my homosexual father’s secrets, too.

  “Is that why you’ve been spending so much time together?”

  I nod, feeling an emptiness spread inside me. I polish off my wine, shocked at my words. Our waiter brings a second round.

  He sweeps away, leaving us both shaky.

  “Does Dad have a boyfriend?” Margaret presses.

  “No, I don’t think so, but he was with Harvey,” I confess.

  “Your godfather?! Jesus . . . he told you that?”

  I nod, ashamed of having archived so much information, afraid of how much is falling out of me, suddenly impossible to contain.

  “How about Father Shannon?” she presses.

  “Yeah, Father Shannon . . . and Father Perry . . . maybe Father Tremaine—he’s gay—but I’m not sure if they—”

  “That’s gross! Father Perry was always taking Philip and Luke for private confession in Mom and Dad’s bedroom!”