Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  “Marianne, where’s my mom?”

  My cousin points to the bathroom door.

  “She’s been in there awhile,” she whispers.

  We both know why. She’s in there purging tears the way Dad would purge his dinner.

  “Maybe I should knock,” I say, bravely approaching the door.

  “I was in there with her before. Let’s give her some more time,” my cousin explains softly, blocking the door.

  Stepping away, I walk into the dining room and grab myself a glass of white wine. I stay tucked away, avoiding the crowd in the living room, my stomach in knots, wondering who knows what. Feeling shaky, I sneak up the back stairs, holding up Violet’s loaner gown in one hand so as not to trip. I’m glad she decided to go home to Kentucky for the holidays.

  As I slip up the second-floor steps, I hear Matthew talking in the foyer.

  Scrunching down out of sight, I rest my head against the wooden railing, eavesdropping.

  “It was in his briefcase—which was unlocked—just lying there underneath some brochures,” Margaret reports.

  “Are you shittin’ me?” Frances rages.

  “No, man, we both saw it—the gay guide to Rome,” Matthew explains.

  “What did you do with it?” Frances asks.

  “Margaret gave it to Diego as an early Christmas present,” Matthew jokes.

  “Look, don’t say anything to Mom right now, she doesn’t need to know this,” Margaret declares.

  “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t say! He’s a fucking liar and a pervert, and I’ll tell Mom whatever I want to tell her,” Frances blurts.

  I peek through the railing and see Frances storm off. Matthew puts his arm on Margaret’s shoulder.

  “Mom really doesn’t need to know this shit!” Margaret fumes.

  “What did you do with it?” Matthew asks.

  “I threw it out, what the hell do you think?” Margaret slugs Matthew in the shoulder and walks away.

  * * *

  The week after Christmas, the family grapevine has it that Mom’s going to see a therapist; Dad’s back from overseas, according to his itinerary on the bulletin board—probably sleeping on the cracked leather couch at his office, avoiding everyone. I found out walking home from midnight mass with Magdalene that my whole family knows about me, too. I guess they aren’t dying to talk about my lifestyle any more than I am.

  For now, I’m safely out of Dad’s reach, since he’s not calling home. And I’m not calling him. He’s probably wondering why I haven’t phoned him at the office, and I’ve already come up with excuses to tell him when we finally speak. “I thought you were still away, Dad,” or “Every time I tried to call you, Mom would walk in the room.” Or “Mr. Sheehan decided to cut our holiday break short for training.”

  No one has told me whether my parents know I’m the source, and I’m too scared to ask anyone. Tomorrow, Mom’s leaving for Boston to be with relatives. Eight hours on I-95 North will be a breeze compared to this nightmare. Boston’s bitter winter will surely feel warmer than sleeping alone in their lumpy bed. Margaret told me that Mom’s leaving “indefinitely, ’cause she needs some time away to think.”

  I probably haven’t had these kinds of constant anxiety pangs in my stomach since I was trying out for the Olympics. Only seventeen, I was willing to believe anything was possible back then. Now, I’m not so sure. If it weren’t for my ingrained Catholic guilt, I would have found a thousand excuses for not having dinner with my mother tonight. But she cornered me this morning at breakfast, and her tone was so full of disappointment that I didn’t have it in me to decline her invitation to dinner.

  “Tina, you almost ready?” Mom calls up from the second-floor hallway.

  I lean over the third-floor balcony, my freshly blown hair hanging like a curtain around my face.

  “Coming,” I say in my sweetest little girl voice.

  Hopping in the passenger side of Mom’s car, I find the heavy door nearly frozen and the vinyl upholstery ice cold. I wrap my winter coat tightly around the last conservative dress I own and strap myself in. Everything about my outfit, including Kate’s old flats with a bow, feels wrong, but I didn’t want my clothes to be the source of any tension tonight. Mom navigates herself into the lopsided driver’s seat.

  “Sweetie, can you do this?”

  She holds out the seat belt—stretched to its limit—and waits for me to take it from her and buckle her in. Our seat belt ritual is much faster than Mom playing blindman’s bluff over her stomach, trying to locate the fastener.

  We mostly focus on the need for the heater to hurry up and take our chill away as we make the ten-minute drive into Bethesda. As usual, Mom’s Irish luck lands us the perfect parking spot, right in front of the rustic front door. The Sir Walter Raleigh Inn—like a lot of restaurants around D.C.—has a red and black colonial décor with white tablecloths and a preppy crowd. The mostly female staff wears frilly aprons over their dresses. The hostess points out the all-you-can-eat salad bar on the way to our corner table.

  “Have you dined with us before?”

  “Yes, a few times,” Mom assures her.

  Mom and I settle into the sturdy armchairs at our table for two, reaching for the hardback menus. I know exactly what I’m ordering, but I take my time looking, since Mom doesn’t know I was a regular here with Miss Lange. They had to be early dinners, since I was still in grade school. So as not to create suspicion, I’d usually make up some story about how Miss Lange’s parents invited me to go out to dinner with them and then pray Miss Lange and I didn’t run into any of my family. I think my fallback lie—in case of an emergency—was that her elderly mother had gotten sick, deciding to stay home at the last minute. Lies get confusing, though, when you juggle so many. Once I forgot that I told Mom I was going over to Miss Lange’s to be tutored, and so when we were driving on Brookville Road coming back from lunch—out of habit—I ducked down in Miss Lange’s front seat when I saw Frances’s car approaching. Of course, when I got home Mom wanted to know where I’d been, because my sister had told her I wasn’t in the car with Miss Lange. I lied and said I stayed at her house, studying, while Miss Lange ran out to get her mother’s medicine.

  “What looks good, sweetie?”

  “I’m gonna have the prime rib and a side of fries.”

  “I think I’ll go with the surf and turf.”

  After ordering, we take our large white plates and head for the soup and salad bar.

  “I have to try a little of this clam chowder.” Mom inhales deeply over the tub of white creamy soup.

  “I’ll get it for you, Ma. You do your salad.”

  Taking care of her feels as soothing as a warm facecloth. I soften from the weeks of family tension. Maybe it’s my way of saying I’m sorry, but truth is, I’ve always taken care of Mom. Sometimes, I like being the husband she doesn’t have—holding doors, helping her cross slippery sidewalks, carrying her bags, climbing up on the counter to retrieve the instant coffee that got shoved way back in the kitchen cabinet, out of her reach. I feel valuable, useful in that role.

  Back at the table, I’m glad the carafe of red wine is waiting. I pour it for us as Mom slathers butter on her pumpernickel bread. The first time I drank wine from these carafes was on my thirteenth birthday, when Miss Lange and another teacher from Blessed Sacrament, Miss Ruben, brought me here to celebrate. Acting cool, I asked to have some of their red wine with my prime rib. They agreed, and we had a merry ol’ time. I got drunk, practically hit on Miss Ruben in the ladies’ room at the end of the night, and finally, Miss Lange had to take me to Hot Shoppes for coffee to sober me up before dropping me off at 5 East Irving Street.

  “Salute.” I smile, clinking Mom’s glass.

  “You sound like your father.”

  It doesn’t exactly sound like a compliment. But I skip over it, the way I’ve been taught by her—just pretend you didn’t hear what you just heard.

  “Have you spoken to him?” she blurts.<
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  I shake my head, swallowing a hunk of blue cheese. The important question hangs in the air like storm clouds, dark and determined to wreak havoc. I drink and silently pray she doesn’t ask me for more details about my time with Dad.

  “You found the salad bar, I see.” Our waitress chuckles, looking at our huge salad portions, slices of black bread hanging over the edge of Mom’s plate.

  “Yes, thank you, it’s wonderful.” Mom nods, wiping her mouth.

  “It’s great,” I add.

  Our waitress leaves and Mom finally looks me in the eye—for the first time since I arrived home for Christmas.

  “Tina, you are my child . . . and I love you,” she says kindly.

  This is the Mom I know. The one who would make me squeal by tickling me with her pointy chin in my neck or burst out in song, a perfect imitation of the beloved Maria von Trapp.

  “I love you, too, Mom.” It feels so good to tell her again.

  “But, sweetie, my faith is also very important to me, and I can’t accept what you are doing. It’s a sin and goes against my faith. I have to follow what the Church says,” she explains.

  Her words hurt the same way they did years ago when she mistakenly thought I took money out of her purse. I wipe my mouth on my knit sleeve, realizing what I’ve done only from her raised bushy eyebrows. Looks like my mom has cut me from the Holy Father’s team of good Catholic girls ready to raise their pompoms and spread their legs for good Catholic boys.

  The wall between us—a confessional screen shielding straight talk—angers me. Why can’t I just say what I mean and mean what I say?

  “Mom, what about Dad working for the Vatican? Isn’t that wrong?” I blurt, knowing I’m avoiding the weight of her words, the hurt. I want to punish, make her see that I’m not the one to judge. Maybe she should judge Dad for all the pain he’s put her through. But she’s always let him off the hook, given him the benefit of the doubt at her children’s expense. I think of her response after Dad slapped me for speaking up in her defense once. “He didn’t hit you that hard,” she said: a bigger betrayal than his hard hand across my face.

  Mom clears her throat. I bite into a cucumber, knowing I’ve tested her. I bury my anger, allowing only guilt and hurt to surface.

  “That’s an awfully strange thing to say. Who said your father works for the Vatican?” She’s not asking me as much as telling me I’m wrong, mistaken.

  Mom ends it right there. Whether she’s in denial or not, I can’t be sure. But I do know my fears about tonight were way off base. Not a word about Dad and his lifetime of secrets, cruelty, and cheating. No snooping for his dirt, asking questions about our disco nights.

  Nope, she’s worried I’m going to hell for licking pussy. Enough has been said for one night. Maybe a lifetime. She’s made herself clear: doctrine first, daughter second. Maybe she needs time. And maybe I need to get the fuck out of this steak joint. Her disapproving, flushed face considers the one remaining crouton on her plate, then she says, “I just wish you would at least be with someone your own age.”

  There seems to be no air in my stomach, nothing but a frozen head on top of slumping shoulders. Since it’s not okay to be mad at her, everything goes tense. I’m holding back my rage with the force of riot police. What does she mean? Why does she care how old my girlfriend is? Does age difference make the sin bigger? I imagine, if I walked into church with Mom right now, she’d suggest I head straight for the confessional. To hell with that. No matter how much I love her, and how much I wish she would just scoop me up in her arms, I can’t be different for her. And I won’t.

  * * *

  Dad stands as I enter the restaurant, wiping his purple-stained lips with a white cloth napkin—a habit he has, even when he’s not eating.

  “Well, I nearly forgot what you looked like, my dear.” He kisses my lips and immediately helps me with my coat, then calls for the waiter to check it for me.

  “Thank you, young man. Danny has been taking good care of me over the holidays,” Dad says playfully.

  Danny smiles, taking my coat. “Always a pleasure, Sir John.”

  “And let’s get my daughter a glass of red wine. I’ll have another . . . and a partridge in a pear tree,” Dad teases.

  Despite Dad’s nearly full wineglass, he always prefers a backlog of alcohol lined up, never leaving a dry moment to chance. I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress pants, eager to take the edge off. No sooner had Mom left for Boston than I heard from him, insisting we have dinner the next night. I’ve been in complete dread, worried that Mom may have implicated me. But so far, so good; his love for me seems intact, his mood surprisingly upbeat.

  “When is Violet back?”

  “Thursday.”

  “Well, let’s dine this weekend at the University Club and then hit the bars!” he says, as if everything is normal. As if his wife of nearly forty years hadn’t just learned he’s been screwing around with men, as if she didn’t just pack her bags and leave her home to have some space and time to think. I look around, hoping something will distract me from losing my cool, coughing up the confession I am so desperate to give. Dad catches me in a thousand-mile stare.

  “Where are you, love?”

  “It’s nice here,” I cover, continuing to look around, avoiding his eyes.

  The brightly lit Hannihan’s is much more casual than the typical fine dining restaurants that Dad and I frequent. The large room is quiet, with a few families, some kids, a fat couple sharing some sort of gigantic gooey pie, all surrounded by droopy holiday decorations ready to come down. The thin paper menu feels almost awkward in my hand, as does the list of appetizers: potato skins, popcorn shrimp, and nachos.

  “You seem hungry. Shall I order us some appetizers?”

  “Sure, Dad,” I say, keeping my head down.

  Thankfully, Danny’s back with our giant goblets of merlot.

  “There’s our Danny Boy—you’re too young to know that song!”

  Our waiter smiles, clearly used to Dad’s alcohol-laced banter. I wonder if he’s hit on him yet.

  “Anything else?” Danny asks, holding the serving tray under his thick arm, white dress shirt tight around his biceps.

  “Yes . . . why don’t you bring us an order of the popcorn shrimp and an order of the potato skins?”

  “That’s a lot, Dad,” I interrupt, still bloated from a week of holiday stuffing.

  “And will you be having the Sir John Omelet for your main course?”

  “Now, young man, we are going to be taking our time, so don’t rush us, we are not ready to order, nor will we be for a very long time. We have a lot of catching up to do. Later—much later—I will in fact be having my usual. In the meantime, just keep a lookout for our wineglasses and make sure there isn’t a hole in the bottom.”

  Dad whacks Danny with his napkin.

  After our waiter leaves, I can’t help but ask, “The Sir John Omelet?”

  “They have put it into the computer, as I’ve been here nearly every day for my meals. I like that I can walk over from the office. By the way, you should take my car back to the Mount with you so you can get home to see me more often this semester. I don’t need it. I’ll take the Metro if I need to get somewhere.”

  I shift the conversation quickly. “How was Rome? Did you see Archbishop Magni?”

  “Yes, a good meeting with Magni—although the archbishop’s been having some health problems, but I was able to fit in some other Vatican meetings as well.”

  “With who?” I press.

  “Whom,” Dad corrects me.

  He wipes his mouth and takes a long pause, ignoring my question.

  “I trust your mother got off to Boston okay?” he asks, eyes down.

  Is that shame?

  “She left early yesterday, wanted to beat the rush-hour traffic.”

  There’s a long silence. We drink our wine, then Dad leans in toward me with a half smile.

  “What is the family saying about me?”


  I shrug, shake my head, my nerves rising. This is absolutely not going to end well if I don’t keep my cool, I tell myself.

  “Nothing,” I lie.

  “I was glad not to be there for Christmas,” Dad says defiantly. “I’m sure the family has sided with your mother, so to hell with them.”

  I grab my glass, wishing the lights could be dropped along with this topic.

  “I’m sure they are talking. Have you heard anything?”

  “No . . .”

  I feel his eyes on me. He wants something.

  I throw him a bone. “Well, everyone knows, of course, but . . . I haven’t heard anything else.”

  He takes a long sip, giving me time to steady my uneven breath.

  “I still can’t figure out how your mother learned these things.” He shakes his head, repositioning his wineglass.

  I feel a wave of nausea, afraid of what’s coming next.

  “Did you know, someone went into my private office and rummaged through my things?”

  “Really?” I overact being shocked.

  He leans in, as if not wanting our place settings to overhear.

  “I will bloody well find out, and whoever did it will be sorry! Those are my private things, and they had no right!”

  I nod my head in solidarity.

  He goes silent, watching a different waiter deliver food to a nearby table. My head goes light from fear. Dad picks a piece of lint off his navy blazer, his double-faced watch exposed.

  “Who do you think did it?” he presses.

  A hot flash of panic rises through me, and my palms get sweaty. Why does he think I know? I shake my head, smoothing the white tablecloth, trying to get a grip. His tapping finger plays in rhythm with my pounding temples. A heavy weight seems to pin me behind this round table.

  “Popcorn shrimp!” Danny announces as if it were as thrilling as a blazing Baked Alaska.

  “Thank you. Danny, please do bring us two more glasses of wine,” Dad says flatly.

  Danny leaves, his black trousers snug around his ass, a white apron string nearly hanging in his crack. I polish off the rest of my wine, and Dad turns the platter closer to me.