Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  She looks at me with a twisted face.

  “I gotta use the bathroom.” I rush away from the table, sprinting away and landing in the closest stall. I vomit all liquid—wine and my post-workout Gatorade—into the bowl. My breakfast was too long ago to provide a cushion. Strings of blond hair hang toward the bowl as the purging turns to dry heaves, sounding like Dad in the first-floor bathroom. I draw concern from a nearby stall.

  “Are you okay?” a woman calls out.

  Embarrassment and guilt are all that’s left inside me.

  “I’m fine,” I say, unable to summon the truth in this case. I wait for the woman to leave before dragging myself out of the stall and to the sink.

  My reflection scares me: thin, pale, drunk, and weak, barely able to hold myself up—looking more like Dad than ever.

  20

  Agony

  I’ve been in hiding since that night with Margaret. My grand confession. With the fall semester starting at the Mount, I simply explained that senior year with a double major and the demands of my basketball scholarship made it impossible for me to come home on the weekends. Other than a few dinners with Dad and Violet in D.C., I’ve stayed away from family. Dad’s been feeling the distance, writing letters to me at school, bemoaning, “I haven’t been out to the bars in ages.” He didn’t seem to have a clue that I betrayed him, but that was weeks ago, and now, I’m terrified that Margaret has spilled to the family. I can’t even deal with the possibility that she told Mom. Tonight, as I drive around Chevy Chase Circle, onto Western Avenue, passing Blessed Sacrament Church—the carved doors dressed with Christmas wreaths—a wave of nausea rises as I imagine the destruction I may have caused. Since finals ended last week, I’ve been hiding out at Violet’s—finding every excuse to stay away. But Christmas Eve is tomorrow, and not showing up for our biggest celebration of the year is as inexcusable in the Worthington family as buying an artificial Christmas tree.

  Turning Violet’s Mercedes onto Irving Street, I see a trail of cars lined bumper to bumper in our driveway. The road is crowded, with only one spot left, across the street from our house. The bare oak trees under a dull winter sky add to my heavy heart. It’s strange how you can long for a past that is filled with sadness. I reach for Violet’s black gown in the backseat, the dress she was going to wear if I invited her. It hurt her feelings that I didn’t. But even though I told Margaret and Mom my secret, I’m still in the closet to the rest of my family. It’s possible they could have told others, but no one has reached out to me, so I’m guessing my secret is safe. Before I can grab the overstuffed bag of Christmas presents from the backseat, Margaret is standing on the sidewalk—no coat, smoking, head down. Her beautiful black hair shields much of her face. I close the heavy car door and cross the street. I feel older since the last time I saw her, even though it’s only been a few months, and I’m still twenty-one.

  Margaret’s eyes are bloodshot and swollen.

  “Mom knows,” she chokes.

  “Everything?”

  She nods and puts her arm around me as we take a slow walk toward the house.

  “Helen decided we just shouldn’t keep it from her anymore. Now Dad’s sleeping at the office,” she says.

  My insides feel cold, shaky. Climbing up the front steps, my lungs feel challenged from a week of Dunhills. I stop on the porch and begin to cry. “I don’t know what to say to her.”

  “She’s stronger than we give her credit for,” Margaret assures me.

  I never considered Mom strong, but maybe my sister is right. After all, what weakling could have thirteen pregnancies and countless contractions? What coward could withstand a raging drunk in her face, then turn around and cook, sweep, scrub, make thirteen bologna sandwiches and place them lovingly into brown lunch bags? A weak person can’t prepare a formal Christmas Eve dinner of Yorkshire pudding and roast beef for thirty-plus people, attend midnight mass, and entertain family and church friends afterward with homemade sweets, then stay up until sunrise to finish wrapping gifts and stuff thirteen stockings. Mom cared deeply that the first thing we saw upon walking into the living room on Christmas morning was our monogrammed red stockings, stuffed to the gills with Cracker Jacks, nail files, and sweat socks. It never dawned on me until right this minute that Mom might be the strongest woman in the world.

  The living room sounds like group therapy—a powwow of “can you believe its” about all the missed clues and betrayals. My sisters and brothers cross-talk, trying to make some sense of their holy father’s secret. Voices overlap each other like a litter of puppies.

  “Dad’s always acted weird around waiters and busboys.”

  “Father Perry gave me the creeps, taking you boys up to Mom and Dad’s bedroom for private confession.”

  “Well, he never took ME!”

  “You were too young.”

  “Now it’s extra weird that all you boys swam naked with Dad at the YMCA.”

  “Hey! Everyone at the YMCA swam nude.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “I never told anyone this, but my buddy Tommy McBride said he saw Dad once, really drunk, walking around the fountain at Dupont Circle.”

  “Yeah, well, what was TOMMY doing at the Dupont Circle fountain?”

  “Shut up, you homo! Tommy worked down there!”

  “Yeah, that’s my point about Tommy!”

  I sneak past our Christmas tree—not as dazzling as usual, the tinsel too clumpy this year—and drift down the hallway, avoiding the loud free-for-all in the living room.

  My sister Magdalene chases me down, hugging me warmly.

  “Tina, why didn’t you just tell me about . . . your lifestyle? I feel really hurt that I had to hear it from Margaret.”

  Coming out in my family as a grade schooler, or even in high school, seemed about as safe as riptides. I wish I could say so, but even that doesn’t feel safe. I shrug, not knowing how to respond to her, and to the probability that now all my siblings know my secret. I want to cover up, even though I’m fully clothed; my throat stings from the battle to contain my tears.

  “I’m sorry” is all I can manage.

  I need to see Mom and, hearing a low whisper, head toward the kitchen. Inside the bright yellow room, Mom sits at the breakfast bar—her back to the doorway, talking on the kids’ phone. She really is just one of us, trying to survive the shocking news that the Wizard of Oz is not a wizard at all. Her shoulders have no life. A polished fingernail mindlessly scratches at the countertop.

  I put my arm on her back, startling her. Pulling back, I give her a small wave.

  “Hold on,” she says, covering the receiver.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I blurt out.

  “Let me finish my call,” she says in a monotone.

  There’s no anger, and no love—just a flat response. As I leave the kitchen, my face is hot with shame. I feel like I have caused an oil spill. For someone so good at lying, you’d think I could have easily said no to Margaret’s question. But I felt pressure to give her what she wanted. Clearly she must have already known or suspected. “Is Dad gay?” she asked me! That kind of question doesn’t just fall out of a daughter’s mouth without reason. But confirming this makes me no hero. Especially in a family where most of my brothers and sisters probably think being gay is wrong, even sinful.

  I doubt they are interested in hearing what I have to say about Dad’s secrets and lies. I’ve never felt that my voice—the youngest voice—was ever as important as my older siblings’. It’s natural, I suppose; they are as much as fifteen years my senior—they must know better. Plus, no one is rushing to champion my coming out. Maybe they are all just too overwhelmed with the shock of what their father’s been up to. I don’t blame them. But I feel utterly invisible now. As I reach the third floor, the heat intensifies, radiators clanking. A large pink laundry hamper reeks from what might be a deserted towel from last summer. The smell of mildew stings my nose as I head for my old bedroom. I strip off Violet’s baggy winter c
oat, kick off my black ankle boots, and crawl onto my bed. Assuming no one has been in here since summer, I did a lousy job making my bed. A lumpy sheet annoys the back of my legs, but I’m too lazy to smooth anything out. Pangs behind my forehead must be from the cheap table wine in Violet’s fridge that I polished off, same for my dry mouth. I wonder if one day I could ever not drink. It seems impossible, although I might value not having so many headaches, upset stomachs, and blurry, lost weekends.

  Arms behind my head, I examine the room, landing on the small attic door. Up there, the ceiling’s so low, you can barely stand up in the unfinished room with raw beams and insulation drooping off the walls. It’s there that Kate found love letters between Mom and Dad. There was the evidence that Dad was rejected from the priesthood in England. When I read them, I was shocked to hear how desperate Mom seemed for Dad to marry her, how needy. It made me see their marriage in such a different way. If this house could talk, I wonder what it would say. Would it be a good Catholic home and forgive the many sins? Or would it shake from its foundation—from all the pain and suffering and betrayals?

  I throw my pillow at the clanking old radiator, wishing I could scream out loud. The heat is stifling in my room—both in the dead of winter and the middle of summer, I’ve never been able to breathe easy. But I can’t go downstairs, either; the air is too thick down there, too. I miss Dad, but I don’t know what he knows. I don’t know if he’s aware of what I’ve done. Right now, I don’t know where to be.

  * * *

  In my room, the brass desk clock reads eleven thirty. I slept through until the morning and missed any chance to connect with my siblings, or my mother, the night before. Out the French windows, the December sky is the color of a janitor’s wet mop. I’m gloomy, too.

  Removing yesterday’s clothes, I throw on sweatpants and head for the closet, pulling out a shoebox. Inside is a shiny pair of Adidas high-tops, white with red stripes—courtesy of the University of Maryland athletic department. Scholarship players get two free pairs of sneakers per season. Without a lot of playing time, I had no use for the second pair.

  On my way into the girls’ bathroom, a wooden plaque catches my eye in the hallway: today is the first day of the rest of your life. It’s one of the many decorative items that Dad bought from priests with a knack for arts and crafts. There is one plaque I’ve always hated that hangs in the den: the greatest gift a father can give his children is to love their mother. Dad has definitely given me and my family lots of gifts, but that sure ain’t one of them.

  As I hit the second-floor landing, I hear Mom’s voice coming from her bedroom.

  “We’ve been through this, John,” she begs.

  I inch toward their closed mahogany door, sliding slowly against the wall, ears burning. Mom weeps. I’ve never heard that sound from her. Whenever anyone died—including her oldest sister, Elizabeth—she would never cry in front of us, she’d retreat to her bedroom.

  “What about Harvey? . . . Harvey!” Her voice is rising.

  He must be giving her a heap of lies. She’s on the phone, so I can only hear her side of the conversation, but I can imagine the web he is spinning.

  “It’s not normal, and you betrayed all of us,” she continues. And then with a calm, as if the Holy Spirit has filled her, she says, “After the holidays, I’m going away for a while.”

  I want to run away, but I’m afraid for her.

  “I’m not interested in speaking with Father Shannon! How is Father supposed to help us when he has the same problem as you?!”

  I hear her blow her nose.

  “John, you lied to me,” she snaps.

  My mother begins to cry louder. Then, finally, she says, “I’ll pray for you, but I can’t live with you right now.”

  I hear my mother walk toward the door and I hightail it away, slipping down the steps two at a time, grabbing my ball from behind the couch and hustling out the front door. Sprinting down the middle of Irving Street through the freezing December air, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, knowing I should be wearing a parka. My legs pump around the O’Neills’ hedges, leaving some skin on a sharp bare branch. I ignore the sting. If I ran into traffic right now, got hit by a truck, I wonder if it would even hurt?

  Like a wild animal I charge to Chevy Chase Playground. My breath pumps as I take the short cement steps two at a time, landing on the outdoor basketball court. It’s empty. Most people are out doing last-minute shopping or helping their mothers bake Christmas cookies. No fools, like me, are out shooting baskets with numb fingers. Taking the court like a possessed gym rat, I sprint from baseline to baseline. I chase off extreme thoughts of divorce, our home being sold, the family torn apart. I’m scared to face my dad. If Mom told him that I’m the source, my life is over. Why didn’t I just tell Margaret, “NO, DAD’S NOT GAY! HE HAS THIRTEEN CHILDREN, HOW COULD HE BE GAY?”

  I grab the ball and begin full-court layups, flying from one basket to the other. His words pound into 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 ignore my queasy stomach and take ten foul shots at the peak of my exhaustion. I pant through them, hitting eight out of ten. I’m unsatisfied. Dad’s cold tone keeps ringing. “Now, as for my life, I take it you will assure me the same courtesy.”

  I roll the ball toward the sidelines, punishing my body, pushing for more. Defensive drills are next. First, crouching into a deep squat, as if I’m sitting on a low chair, then I begin to step and slide my legs from one side of the court to the other. Hands extended as if ready to swat flies. I torture my inner thighs, knowing they deserve it after all their indiscretions. Maybe I’m just a whore. I could have told my brothers no—maybe not at nine, when I was sleeping, but later, when I let their attentions continue until I was twelve. What about the tingly feelings? That was my fault, right? Not until my relationship with Miss Lange did I begin to say no or ignore their twisted games, and sometimes even get mad at them. I notice that even now, speaking up for myself isn’t easy, especially when someone does something cruel, something I don’t like.

  I am laser focused until my spent legs give way, sending me onto the asphalt, where I skin my knee and palm. Not feeling much, I pull out a piece of gravel, hop back up, and wipe off my dirty hands. I head toward the bushes to retrieve my ball. As I dribble back toward the hoop, a small voice in my head scolds me, “It’s your punishment.”

  21

  Wrath

  Despite a house full of adults and children dressed festively and full of delicious-smelling food, from the sounds of the scene you’d never know it was Christmas Eve in the Worthington house. Yes, some aspects are the same: the roast beef with garlic and sherry is cooking in the oven, and Johnny Mathis’s velvet voice does that familiar sad shaking, as if he might start crying at any second. Walking into the living room, I find my siblings talking quietly, sipping wine, nibbling on cheese and crackers and stuffed mushrooms. There isn’t a whiskey sour in sight.

  “Hi, kid,” Margaret calls across the room, the first to notice me.

  I offer hugs to my brothers and sisters. I’m bracing for some comments on my coming out of the closet, but I guess the shock of Dad takes priority. I don’t mind. I hug a few of my nephews, adorable in their miniature suit jackets. I love them, and their excitement adds some much-needed pep to the room. One of my nieces plays with her doll near the fireplace. I stare at the empty space: no straw, no wise men, no baby Jesus, and of course, no need for Dad’s white handkerchief.

  Margaret nudges me. “It’s weird not having the Nativity set up, huh?”

  “Where’s Dad?” I say quietly.

  “He’s not coming.”

  “But it’s Christmas Eve,” I say, surprised.

  My heart hurts. This is really serious, and it’s my fault. For as long as I can remember
, Dad has always been our leader on Christmas Eve, and again on Christmas morning—the one time a year he cooks, making strange-colored scrambled eggs, into which he throws every leftover in the refrigerator. “There’s no need to waste perfectly good food” is his motto.

  He rarely watches us open gifts, preferring to focus on the torn and discarded wrapping paper that he compulsively stuffs into large trash bags. Dad’s obsession with tidiness while raising thirteen children must have been crazy making for him. If anyone tries to give Dad a Christmas present—or a birthday present, for that matter—he refuses it. “Take it back and put the money in the mission jar for the orphans at the Home of Peace,” he demands, sounding furious at the waste. Most of us don’t even bother anymore. By Christmas afternoon, Dad’s on his way to Rome or the Holy Land. I have no idea why he leaves us each Christmas Day to travel halfway around the world, but he does, another layer to his secrets.

  I rush away from the somber mood. Desperate for a drink, I walk down the hallway toward the kitchen. On the wall hangs the large bulletin board where Dad posts his itineraries anytime he travels. He must have thumbtacked it up before Helen broke the news to Mom. I see his departure—Dec 26th, Dulles Airport to Leonardo da Vinci, Rome—and imagine him alone tonight, drowning in booze. I wonder what he’ll do or where he will attend midnight mass. I wonder if he is as sad and confused as I am.

  “Hi, Tina! Merry Christmas!”

  I bump into my cousin Marianne—Mom’s niece from New England—who’s spending the holiday with us, her normally jolly personality blanketed. She must know, too. I hug her, getting a whiff of cigarette smoke in her tight curls.

  “Merry Christmas. How long are you here?”

  “Just the weekend, but don’t worry, I won’t take your room.” She chuckles.

  I peek my head into the kitchen, where a few of my sisters are preparing tonight’s feast. Unwrapping dozens of French rolls, mashing an army-size portion of potatoes, dumping can after can of cranberry sauce into a lovely silver bowl, stirring the gravy while my brother-in-law Diego, in his usual sleek suit, uncorks bottles of red wine for the dinner table. Mom is nowhere to be seen.