Hiding Out

by Tina Alexis Allen

  “So someone went through your things at the office?” I probe innocently.

  Dad nods.

  “I had gone up to New York for some meetings with Alitalia, and when I returned my desk and papers were a mess, and someone had the bloody nerve to go through my briefcase.”

  “Really? Did they take anything?” My voice cracks from the strain of acting.

  Dad looks around the room, then leans into the table.

  “They took my gay guide to Rome,” he whispers.

  “Why would she take that?” I react.

  From the shock on his face—which must be mirroring mine—I know I have blown it, I have derailed. His eyes blow steam as powerfully as the Orient Express. My face heats up.

  “Who’s she?”

  He waits like a death squad, ready to shoot, no matter the answer.

  “And don’t lie to me!” He slams the table.

  Crumbling, I stammer, “Well, I overheard that Margaret and Matthew might have gone to your office to see if they could find proof . . . after she told Mom, I guess.”

  “You guess? And how did Margaret come to tell your mother ANYTHING?”

  I take a giant breath. Fuck.

  “I told Mom I was gay . . . and then Margaret started asking me questions.”

  “What type of questions?”

  “Just stuff . . . She asked if you were gay.”

  He pauses, still as a predator.

  “And you said . . . ?” he whispers.

  “. . . Yes.”

  He looks around, as if contemplating whether to kill me.

  “Did you tell her about your godfather?”

  I can’t look at him, tears dropping like raindrops near my shrimp.

  “I couldn’t lie.”

  He bangs the table, knocking over his wineglass, yelling, “YOU COULDN’T LIE?! YOU COULDN’T LIE?! YOU’VE BEEN LYING YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!”

  “Why should we be ashamed?”

  “DON’T YOU DARE TALK TO ME ABOUT SHAME, YOUNG LADY. SHAME CAN BE QUITE THE DISCIPLINE!”

  “Dad, times have changed!” I cry out.

  “NO, DEAR, TIMES HAVE NOT CHANGED. YOU MAY HAVE CHANGED, BUT TIMES HAVE NOT!”

  I catch Danny out of the corner of my eye, approaching us. Rubberneckers from surrounding tables stare at our scene.

  “Sir John?”

  “Not now, Danny!” He waves him off.

  Dad leans inches from my face, whispering, “Now, if you choose to discuss your personal affairs, that’s your prerogative, but you don’t discuss mine!”

  “Why did you even marry Mom?!”

  His hand rises like in the old days, and I duck, expecting it might land across my face. “IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS WHY I MARRIED YOUR MOTHER!”

  My hands tremble, but still I want to help all of us. Him, me, Mom, my brothers and sisters. Our lives are so horribly tangled.

  “Dad, maybe you can go talk to Mom’s therapist,” I plead, considering for the first time that I might need to lie down on someone’s couch, too.

  He pounds his clenched fist onto the table.

  “Christine, I didn’t ask you to dinner TO HAVE A BLOODY PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION!!”

  Danny returns with an older man wearing a suit. But before they can speak, Dad turns on them. “I’M LEAVING!” He rises quickly.

  Straightening the hem of his blazer as if punishing it, he walks around the table and stands over me. He bends down toward my ear like a vampire preparing to dehumanize me.

  “Never speak to me about this again,” he threatens.

  A chill weaves down my back, as if Charles Manson himself had issued the warning. He marches out. And now all eyes are on me.

  22

  Baptism

  I should pack. But I can’t seem to move from my desk, sad and heavy from the August heat. I used to be able to push the chair in without my knees banging the top of the desk. Sitting on the green cushion—faded and worn thin from its years of offering me comfort in grade school—I feel like a stranger in my own bedroom. Once upon a time, I’d sit here, repetitively writing Miss Lange’s and my initials inside my denim binder where no one could see. And then in high school I hunched over the oak desk, cramming for Latin exams and writing English papers on Macbeth and Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.”

  “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

  I open my drawer, maybe needing some proof that truth can be beautiful, and pull out Dad’s letters and postcards to me. I sort through images from religious sites all over the world—the flip sides written in his left-handed slant, with various airmail stamps. His envelopes feature the Order of the Holy Sepulchre’s red crusader cross logo. Their Latin motto reads Deus Lo Vult—God Wills It. At the bottom of the drawer is a large manila envelope with my old family Christmas letters in random order. Not surprisingly, neither Mom nor Dad wanted to create a Worthington Wonderland this year. “Dear Friends in Christ, 1984 was a year for the record books. John came out as gay and Anne has begun therapy . . . the end.” It would have been the shortest family letter to date. Smart to shelve it.

  I’m glad Violet’s picking me up soon to go to the beach. Last night, over Ethiopian food, she insisted I needed to get out of town and stop worrying about my parents. She’s right. After Mom came back from her sabbatical up north, she moved out of 5 East Irving Street and into her own garden apartment in Bethesda, and I went back to school for the winter semester, with anxiety that’s been hanging on like a bad cold.

  It was decided that before someone hammers a For Sale sign on our front lawn, Luke will do some renovations, a couple of rooms at a time, so my parents can get more money for the house. Luke’s never renovated a house, and from the way he’s attacking the walls, I wonder if he’s held a lifelong grudge against 5 East Irving Street.

  Dad was living here part-time for a while but now spends most nights at the office. Since graduation, I’ve been here part-time, too, preferring most nights to stay with Violet while I get ready to begin my M.B.A. in the fall.

  Between the renovations and a volcano erupting in the family over his behavior, Dad’s been traveling even more than usual. I learned from my siblings that a few months ago Dad—with the place to himself—had an out-of-town guest staying here, when one of my sisters showed up in the middle of the day and discovered Dad and his friend wrapped in nothing but towels, as if they had just stepped out of the showers. Or shower. There was no proof of any hanky-panky, but the serious circumstantial evidence blew through the family like a California wildfire.

  In case anyone in the family wasn’t angry enough at Dad, the outrage was then officially full throttle. What was he thinking? Even if it was innocent, why didn’t he just have the guy stay at the University Club? I’m afraid to ask, and he hasn’t mentioned it. I avoided Dad for much of the semester, and Mom, too, although I made sure to visit her new apartment soon after she moved in to help out and make sure she wasn’t feeling lonely. I helped her grocery shop, hang some pictures, and then, like so many times before, she made my lunch. I think making a kid’s lunch is one of the nicest things a mom can do. As we scarfed up our tuna on rye with lettuce and tomato, she reached over to a small buffet table and picked up her Bible. And began to read a passage out loud. It was the first time she’d ever read to me from the Bible, and even though I wondered about her motives, I decided to just listen.

  I hold on to the corners of my desk, resisting the urge to lay my head down and never get up. Tensing doesn’t keep tears from plopping onto my torn, worn blotter, messy from years of doodling. On the paneled wall in front of me hangs my gold medal from the U.S. Youth Games—the red, white, and blue ribbon still tacked securely. Feeling like a loser, I walk across the creaky floor to my dresser. I finish off the bottle of wine I bought on my way home from working out and head for the bathroom.

  The pink Formica countertop is covered with trash: old tissues with blotted lipstick, loose blond hair, Q-tips, and bla
ckened cotton balls. Turning on the old faucet, I wish I could just splash away the past. The filth around me is making me sick to my stomach. There’s not even a clean towel. In the mirror, a wet and disappointed face stares back. It wants to tell me something, but I’d rather plug in my curling iron and get packing.

  Standing in my closet, I sweep through the hangers. I decide my Rehoboth Beach weekend getaway with Violet should be glamorous. There’s no reason I can’t bring a little bit of fashion to the Eastern Shore. I hold up a peach chiffon bridesmaid’s gown that I wore in Margaret’s wedding, considering its potential. Flipping through my clothes, one of Kate’s hand-me-downs—purple psychedelic pants—seems an interesting option. I dash from one sister’s bedroom to another, digging through their closets for potential gems. A sixties silk scarf—fallen and forgotten—lies on the floor of Helen’s closet. I yank a white wraparound miniskirt off a hanger. The practically invisible stain will be easily hidden with a dab of white nail polish. I scoop up all the finds and take them back to my room, spreading them on my bed. I feel a little lighter, knowing there is potential for an outrageously stylish weekend far away from Sir John.

  * * *

  The cursive red letters, reading dolles, tower over the small beach town’s main strip. If my eyes were closed and I stuck my head out of Violet’s car, I’d know instantly from the smell of fresh caramel popcorn and the salt water beyond that I was in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Towns, like people, have their own scent. Dolles and its famous buckets of sweets sit on the edge of the sun-beaten boardwalk, right next door to the shack that’s been selling vinegar hand-cut french fries since I learned how to say “french fries.”

  The Rehoboth boardwalk, sans bumper cars and blaring arcades, is the civilized man’s getaway, the place where moneyed Washingtonians lather on powerful sunscreen and sip daiquiris on the miles of wide white sandy beaches. Every hot and humid D.C. summer, 120 miles from the steps of Capitol Hill, the Beltway crowd is furloughed here, exchanging their conservative suits for Bermuda shorts and polo shirts. Expensive, maybe. Trendy, never.

  Violet pulls her car into an extremely narrow parking spot on the main drag—thanks to the self-centered driver of the hunter green truck who thinks it’s his or her God-given right to park outside the lines. My mother’s fresh-from-the-box Hermès scarf—a guilt-ridden gift from one of Dad’s overseas trips—is wrapped around my head, trailing down my back, Cleopatra style. I pop out of the car with an oversized mesh purse I found in Kate’s chest of drawers and sashay up to the Dolles walk-up window.

  “What would you like, sugar?” A middle-aged local eyes me, like he’s got a chance.

  “Grande caramel popcorn, monsieur.” I pull my oversized black Ray-Bans down.

  My French confuses him. The local gets busy with my order. With my back up against the counter, I check out the crowd, looking for the free spirits. There ain’t no way in hell I’d spend the end of summer in this preppy factory if this weren’t also a secret gay haven. It started a few years ago with affluent homosexuals from around Dupont Circle and Foggy Bottom who snatched up waterfront beach homes and brought their interior designers along. The “gay beach” is all the way at the end of the boardwalk, as far away from the center of town as possible without being in another zip code. Separate, and not equal.

  “Tina!” a woman’s voice calls out.

  I turn toward the boardwalk, where Miss Lange is waving happily with her same-age girlfriend. Their all-white matching beach garb makes me cringe. I’ve never understood why some lesbians think it’s an expression of true love to dress alike, when in fact it’s an expression of horrible taste.

  “Hi, Miss . . . hey there, missy,” I mumble, at a loss for what to call her.

  Missy was reserved for the bedroom, and Miss Lange for whenever we had our clothes on. But I’m now a woman who’s sailed the Nile, not a kid carrying no. 2 pencils.

  “How are you, Jane?” I finally manage.

  I kiss each of her deeply tanned cheeks, aware of her bad skin and her prematurely gray and dated hairstyle, still sprayed to death, despite the casual environment. She laughs at my new way with her. Her familiar L’Air du Temps perfume reels me in.

  “I don’t think you two have met. Tina, this is Ingrid. Ingrid, Tina. Tina was—”

  “Yes, I know who she is!” Ingrid snaps.

  We stand awkwardly in a triangle, halfway between their leisurely walk and my sugar rush. I’m struck by how unattractive Miss Lange is compared to Nic, and Violet, and all the others since her. I wonder if something happened to her face, or was I just blind?

  “I never hear from you anymore. Rumor has it you tried out for the Olympics . . . how was it?” Miss Lange places her hand on my arm. Her genuine interest in me switches on an old light, a need to be smart and give her the right answer.

  “I didn’t make it, but . . . everyone else was much older and more experienced.”

  “You should be used to that,” Ingrid says with a laugh.

  “Only when they seduce me.” I rub it in her thirty-three-year-old face.

  “You wear scarves now?” Miss Lange touches the silk train falling down my back.

  “I bought it in Cairo,” I lie.

  “CAIRO!? You didn’t tell me you were going to EGYPT!?”

  Her full mouth hangs open the way it might if I forgot to tell her I was getting married.

  “I didn’t know I had to check in with you before I left the country,” I say, my sarcasm as harsh as when she left me at thirteen.

  My directness stuns her. And me. I slip my shades back on and glance at the Dolles window to check on my sweets. I can feel my armor melting off in this heat. That twelve-year-old girl-lover still lives behind this grown-up-looking exterior, but I refuse to let Miss Lange know this.

  “Well, see ya.” I turn to the carry-out window, displaying the biggest bill I have. Sadly, it’s only a twenty—not that impressive to the over-thirty crowd.

  “All right, munchkin.” She kisses my head from behind. I feel her inhale purposefully. My stomach jumps—maybe out of habit, maybe out of muscle memory. I don’t know. I withhold a direct good-bye to Ingrid, as punishment for being so unnecessarily rude.

  “Thanks,” I say, turning to find Violet, rushing to forget the past.

  * * *

  Walking down Baltimore Avenue—a quaint neighborhood street with a mix of small shops and well-maintained pastel beach houses—you could walk right past the Blue Moon, a classy cocktail bar, figuring it was another hangout for the heterosexuals who dominate Rehoboth. But a longer look inside the wide French doors would surprise the average Joe. The patrons are almost all gay men, along with a few lesbians and some nonjudgmental straight people.

  At first blush, the posh black-and-white floral wallpaper, small colored glass chandeliers, and spotless canary yellow bar stools are a bit shocking for those of us used to entering dirty gay bars through dark alleys, stepping over heroin needles just to enjoy a screwdriver or dance with one another. Violet and I are overdressed, in almost formal attire, having heard the rumors about the sophisticated clientele. One of the things I love about Violet is that she—like me—loves to make an entrance. Earlier, over a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé from the local wine store, we sat on our balcony at the Windy Sea Motel and got creative with my chiffon gown. First, Violet had to pin the dress, since I’m thinner than I was when I wore it in Margaret’s wedding as a teenager.

  “I need more of a Jean-Paul Gaultier look,” I insisted.

  Despite the cheap fabric, and not being black, the gown, thanks to Violet’s knack for sewing and my knack for ripping shit up, could now be mistaken for real fashion under the dim Blue Moon lighting. As we arrive, Violet’s fitted striped cotton blazer shows enough cleavage to catch the eye of a bunch of queens as we glide hand in hand toward the bar. We make a stir.

  “Love your threads,” a tall guy oohs as we pass through a pack of sun-kissed boys bopping to Boy George.

  Violet sings along loudly.


  “Two vodka tonics, s’il vous plaît,” I say to the buff bartender.

  “Oui.” He smiles.

  If I were to guess, I’d say half the guys in this place get their checks from the federal government: lawyers for the Justice Department, or civil servants, or congressional aides, like Violet. And now that I know what I know, I would guarantee there is a priest here—having left his collar and his conscience on a motel dresser nearby. As my mother likes to say, “Only God will judge.” I wish she’d said that to me after she learned my secret.

  “Cheers, Miss Thing.” Violet taps my glass, and we both suck vodka through straws.

  The jolt of the vodka, on top of our five o’clock cocktail hour, sets my hands free to roam her ass, as we stand side by side against the bar. My eyes scan Violet’s bare legs crossed at the ankles—her open-toe pumps displaying her scarlet nails. Feeling horny, I pull her face toward mine and kiss her passionately. I hold her tongue prisoner in my mouth, while my hand finds the inside of her blazer.

  “Ladies, this isn’t that kind of place,” I hear, as I’m squeezing her nipple.

  Busted by an authoritative voice, I turn around, ready to fight for my sexual defiance. A tall, handsome, middle-aged man wearing a bamboo Panama hat giggles. Only his girlish laughter belies his masculine presence.

  “My friend and I saw you two girls carrying on over here, and I said, ‘Those are my kind of ladies,’” he titters. “I’m Charles,” he continues. “This is Billy.”

  Billy is in his mid-twenties, dark, short, and slim.

  “I’m Violet, and this is my sex toy, Tina,” she jokes, with an exaggerated drawl.

  The guys howl.

  “Can I get a Stoli on the rocks, a Heineken, and whatever these ladies are drinking, please?” Charles calls to the bartender. I watch him gracefully pull out an expensive brown wallet from the breast pocket of his dinner jacket.

  “Where are you guys from?” I ask Billy.