“Maryland. I live in Bethesda and Charles lives in Chevy Chase.”
“No way!” I touch Charles’s shoulder. “I’m from Chevy Chase!”
“Where?” he says incredulously, assessing my gown.
“East Irving Street—right around the corner from Blessed Sacrament.”
“B.S. is my parish!” Charles laughs.
“You go to mass?!”
“I have a lot to repent for,” he says dryly. “But Saint Augustine said, ‘Love the sinner, hate the sin’ . . . so I guess there’s even hope for me.”
* * *
“Can I have two beach chairs and an umbrella, please?” I ask the acned teen manning the wooden shack in the middle of the “family beach.”
“Let me carry something.” Violet looks sexy and helpless, holding one hand on her sun hat as a hot gust blows.
“Why can’t they put the rental shack closer to the gay beach?” I bitch, still nauseous from closing down the Blue Moon last night.
The four of us were barely hanging on to our bar stools when the hot bartender had enough. Charles had been bribing him for an hour—after closing—throwing fifty-dollar bills at him to let us stay. I toyed with him, kissing his tan neck, and tried to playfully seduce him. “Come on, George Michael, let us stay.” At 4 a.m., he turned every single light on in the place and tossed us, despite Violet’s final wild and drunken appeal—exposing her breasts to him—which delighted Charles and Billy, but not so much the barman. Me, I’m always happy to see them.
The midday heat and my pounding headache irritate me as much as the long trudge through the deep hot sand, avoiding oily teenagers and their rich parents reading political thrillers beneath their umbrellas. There’s fifty yards’ worth of empty clean sand between the end of the family beach and the rambunctious and preening “boys,” who dominate the gay territory. It’s as if both groups need time to wipe their feet, or kick up their heels, before entering their private zones.
“Hey, girls!” Charles rushes over, his long, toned legs deeply tan. We learned last night that he’s a wealthy lobbyist who spends most weekends at his summer home here.
Billy laughs from a nearby blanket. “How ya feeling, ladies?”
Lying on his stomach, he arches his chest up, keeping his middle firmly planted, like a beached seal. Charles carries our gear to a clear space next to theirs, with the drive of a man who refuses to take no for an answer.
“My wife here made enough lobster rolls to feed all these fags,” Charles jokes.
“Too bad, I was hoping for tuna fish,” Violet dishes.
“What, you didn’t get any of that last night?” Charles teases.
We settle under our umbrella, tossing a ball of dry humor around our foursome, recapping the previous night’s wild highlights, and filling each other in on blacked-out moments. We all seem to love sarcasm and sex talk.
“How about Miss Violet showing her hornets for Mr. Barmaid?” Charles giggles.
“WHAT? I did NOT!” Violet screams with indignation.
“The bartender was at a total loss—‘Uh, what do I do with THOSE?!’” I imitate.
“Billy, why don’t you ever flash your hornets?”
Charles stands over his young lover, nudging his foot toward his crotch. Billy’s greasy hands protect his packed Speedo from Charles’s hairy toes. My girl relaxes on her colorful striped beach chair, occasionally tucking in what she wants in and pushing up what she wants out. One dip in the Atlantic and we will all get to see what’s on the other side of Violet’s white bathing suit. As I rub suntan lotion onto her back, I feel Charles’s eyes on me.
“Tina, you don’t have an ounce of fat on you.”
“My baby’s all muscle.” Violet lets out an exaggerated moan as I rub her shoulders.
“Billy, see what you’re missing?” Charles teases.
“Oh, honey, you enjoy it and tell me about it later,” he says, yawning.
Now, facedown on my turquoise beach towel, I untie my bathing suit top and slip it out from under me.
“All right, enough of this laying around. Who’s getting in the water?” Charles demands.
“You must be kidding, darling, those waves could knock a Thoroughbred over,” Violet says, lighting up a Dunhill.
“Let’s go.” I jump off my towel toward Charles, who eyes my bare chest.
“Like that?! You’re going to get a ticket.”
“Fuck it. What’s the crime? Small breasts?” I shout back, strutting down to the shore.
“Come on, wild thing.” He throws his arm around my waist, dragging me into the ocean.
The waves crash hard as we dive, avoiding a wipeout. The undertow sucks at my legs, pulling me from shore. Surfacing next to Charles, I let out an exuberant scream, and he joins me. He’s forty-five but has more energy than most of the young soda crackers on this beach. I’m thrilled I met him.
“Your nipples look as cold as mine,” he says, snickering like a nervous schoolboy.
Through aggressive waves, we are hysterical, barely able to keep our heads above water, as we critique everything from a bad toupee to a guy having an impossible time getting out of the water without losing his inner-tube-size shorts. Eventually, Charles and I wobble out of the salt water. As we climb between uneven rows of beach towels, sunken beach chairs, and coolers, Charles grabs my hand, stopping a short distance from our chairs.
“Your body is just like my ex-wife’s,” he says seriously.
“Is that why you left her?”
“You are too much!” He laughs.
“Seriously, why did you separate?”
“Divorce. Because she’s impervious, and all she cared about was her credit line at Neiman Marcus.”
“And all you cared about was guys,” I scold him.
“I tried not to act on it until we were through . . . but, honey, I like coming in the back door, what can I say.”
“Why do you go to mass?”
“I love the Gospels, the Eucharist . . .”
His sincere love of the Church sets my mind off. Maybe I need to atone for outing Dad to Margaret. For ripping my parents’ marriage apart. Perhaps there is a way I can escape my overwhelming guilt?
“You have to meet my dad,” I tell Charles as we grab our towels.
But my lip quivers at the mention of him. Images around me blur as a thick cover of tears instantly forms. And then my heart sinks. Embarrassed, I try to shake it off and straighten up long enough to collapse into Charles—nothing between our bare flat chests. His cool strong arms wrap me up. I breathe in the smell of coconut and sea salt on his skin.
“It’s okay,” Charles assures me as Violet rushes over.
“Darlin’, what happened? Oh, baby, what is it?”
I bawl, and I bury myself into this stranger who reminds me too much of my father—if Dad had ever held me in the midst of a crying fit. Charles’s palm cradles the back of my head. Suddenly aware of my nose running all over Charles’s chest, I step back, wiping it away.
Despite my shame, I’m too weak to fight. Violet places me on the blanket while Charles slips his white button-down shirt around me. Billy has even risen from the dead to gawk at my suffering. Violet kneels at my pruned feet, gently cleaning off the sticky grains of sand. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, forcing a laugh at my pathetic self.
“I’m sorry . . . I’m fine. I just need a walk.”
“Come on, we’ll all go,” Violet cheers.
“No, no . . . I’ll be right back,” I assure their worried faces.
Charles extends his hand, lifting me off the sand, and stands close to me while I turn myself into Garbo: floppy hat, black shades, and his long white men’s shirt.
The sun has sunk toward the horizon, while the late-afternoon breeze sends chills through me, offering a wake-up call: I have a sunburned face. Walking toward the straight beach, I leave behind the hyper boys and their older, richer caretakers—who are responsibly planning Blue Moon cocktails at seven, fol
lowed by dinner at eight. The same full itinerary that Charles has kindly organized for us tonight.
The shoreline shifts from lithe young men in colorful little suits to giddy young girls in bright bikinis. Shockingly, my eyes don’t wander. I only want to walk. And walk. If the shore would continue uninterrupted, I’ll bet I could walk to New York. Or if I were Jesus, I would walk east across the sparkling diamond ocean—back to Egypt, then across the Red Sea.
Ducking behind a few fishermen throwing out their lines, I notice the beach has emptied, the day’s intense heat now gone. The straight beachgoers have the ease of a life lived well. Not stuffed into a straitjacket of lies.
I imagine a new day—Monday, arriving home.
Kissing Violet good-bye and heading inside 5 East Irving Street, where Dad sits alone at the dining room table. White tapers burning in our special-occasion candelabra; silver tray with chateaubriand for two with new potatoes; his famous alcohol-drenched brown gravy awaiting in a china boat; and a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape breathing easily for hours—like him.
“My dear, come sit,” he will say to me.
Slightly uncertain, I will drift to his end of the table, looking tanned and rested in my white sundress.
“You look like Katharine Hepburn, sporty and tan,” Dad’ll say with great pride, then take my hand and peck it, and hold it against his freshly shaven cheek.
“I have been praying each day since the family found out about me for our Lord to show me how to be a better father and a better husband.” His voice will sound sorrowful as he weeps with regret.
“I love you and beg your forgiveness . . . Christine.”
An angry wave bangs into me, sending me and my wishful thinking into the tumultuous water. As I sit soaked in the stirred-up ocean, Charles’s shirt floating around me, I see her. On the beach. Miss Lange is reading under a large royal blue umbrella—probably her favorite, D. H. Lawrence.
As if I’m back at my grade school desk while she lectures from her fire-engine-red teacher’s podium—the one I painted for her—Miss Lange licks the tip of her polished index finger and turns the page. I scan the beach looking for Ingrid. I imagine Ingrid putting her foot down in the sand. “Jane, this is crazy! We came to Rehoboth where there are gay people like us, and you insist on sitting here on the straight beach. I’m tired of living in the closet with you!” Or some such thing. I wonder if she’ll ever step out of the closet? Tell her parents? Stop hiding?
Floating in the suddenly dead sea, I take in my first love until I am full. On the distant horizon, the last of the light tap-dances—a final glow of day, before falling off into the unknown. I consider my life: basketball, sex, booze. Something’s missing. I watch the water drip from the hem of my soaked garment, wondering what it is.
23
Cross
Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I agreed to cocktails with Dad at the Four Seasons in Georgetown not long after I got back from Rehoboth. I’ve never been able to say no to him. Or most adults in my life. Saying no isn’t popular in my family. Someone will be mad at you, or you’ll hurt their feelings, or you will be accused of being selfish.
Being selfish in our house is a mortal sin. Mom—if she ever says no—takes an eternity to do it, hemming and hawing, taking time to render her decision, or apologizing in advance for what might be a “no.” I can’t recall her ever saying no to Dad, always at his beck and call. I hate this trait in myself. Why am I on my way to drinks with my father, when part of me absolutely wishes I weren’t? Am I still burdened by guilt? Do I think this five-star hotel can add a little shine to this messy phase we’re in? So far, my betrayal of Dad has created distance, discomfort, but not an end to our relationship.
I leave Violet’s car with the valet, having insisted to her that I do tonight with Dad alone, and click my way through the marble lobby. The hotel air-conditioning brings a twenty-degree drop from the sticky D.C. night. The cold feels good, soothing the mild throbbing in my temples. Here we go. I enter the lounge, to the left of the front desk area. It’s mostly empty except for a small midweek after-work crowd that has formed around the large horseshoe bar. A pianist at a baby grand plays a soft, jazzy rendition of “The Girl from Ipanema.” Dad sits by the floor-to-ceiling window, the smirk on his face telling me that he spotted me long before I found him. He stands, looking fresh in a beige summer suit, sport shirt, and no tie, and greets me, as relaxed as I’ve seen him in a long time. Maybe it’s the wine; he doesn’t seem drunk, but the edge is off for sure. Maybe it’s being newly single.
“On time for a change,” he teases. “You must need a drink!”
We kiss on the lips, the scent of his cologne musky but almost sweet.
“You smell good.” I smile.
“Paco Rabanne. I quite like it, too. I also picked up a few bottles of perfume on my trip. You should stop by the office and take what you like.”
“Thanks, Dad, I will,” I say, grateful that we are off to such a calm and civilized start.
“Now, let’s get you a cocktail. It’s bloody hot out there,” he says, pulling out the awning-striped armchair for me.
A middle-aged waiter arrives out of nowhere.
“Good evening, madam. What can I get you this evening?”
“What would you like, dear?” Dad waits as I glance at the cocktail menu.
“I’ll have a glass of Moët, please.”
Dad turns to our waiter.
“And you can bring me another white wine while you’re up,” he says playfully.
The waiter walks away as I take in the serene surroundings, trying to think of something to say.
“I don’t think we’ve ever been here together, have we, Dad?”
“Well, it sounds to me like you frequent the place and never invited me.”
“No, no, Dad, I’m just saying . . .”
“I know what you’re saying, my dear. I’m only joking with you. But it has been too long since I’ve seen you. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve been out to the bars.”
“You can always take a cab,” I state with more chill than I meant.
He looks away, tracking down our waiter with his eyes, as if to say, let’s drink first. Dad’s never been a selfish drinker; he’s always equally concerned that you have your drink as much as that he has his. Our waiter arrives and I await Dad’s toast.
“Here’s to the gods. We won’t save any libations for them tonight. They can buy their own bloody drinks,” he declares defiantly. “Now, tell me how you have been and what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into lately.”
I shake my head. “Not much. Violet and I went to Rehoboth for a few days, and I’m just trying to get back in shape before preseason practice starts up in September.”
“When do you start classes?”
“There’s a short orientation for all the M.B.A. students on August 30th, and then classes begin the next week.”
“So, you have a little time. Maybe we should plan a trip. Get out of town ourselves. Violet can join us, perhaps, fly over to Greece. I can spend a few days with you girls and then head on to Rome.”
“I don’t think I can, with everything going on . . .”
“Everything? What’s everything?”
I drink my champagne, wondering if I should share what happened at the beach. Would he just dismiss it as weak, or something six thirty mass or a tea dance could shake off? I’m not him. Whatever happened to me on that beach has left me shaky and wondering if I need help.
“I’ve been thinking about going to therapy,” I confess, unable to look at him.
“Oh God, not you too! My dear, there is nothing wrong with you. Has your mother talked you into this?”
His anger is palpable as he wipes his mouth with the cocktail napkin in disgust.
“No, no, not at all. I don’t know . . . I was just thinking that maybe, you know, talking about stuff . . .”
“What stuff?”
I hesitate. My jaw tightens, clamping down on the ugliest
secret. Persistent, that dark voice commands: Say it.
“Dad, there’s something that happened in the family . . .”
“Oh, let them talk, Christine, it’s none of their damn business. I don’t regret one single thing. And you shouldn’t either.”
“That’s not what I mean.” My voice is shaky. “When I was little—nine, ten, eleven—Luke and Simon used to bother me.”
I swallow hard, hoping the burn in my throat will disappear. “They abused me.”
I hate that word. It’s the most uncomfortable-sounding word in the universe. A word that, when spoken, nearly always causes someone’s face to pinch, or clench, or nearly gag with disgust.
But Dad’s face is hard to read. He puts his glass down. He bites down on his cheek, maybe at a loss for words. Or maybe clamping down on some emotion. Is that a smirk I see, or pain?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
My body trembles as if it can’t sustain the intensity, or the enormity, of the answer to that question. I feel a swell of anger toward him for his absence and terrifying dominance. I decide in a nanosecond that this isn’t the time to explain that he was the scariest person on the planet to me as a little girl. That as a rebellious teenager, I still walked on eggshells, with shoulders hunched and squeezed, as if tension might have a shot at protecting me from the avalanche of his daily rage. An angry voice barks in my head: Are you now telling me I had an out and I didn’t take it? I can’t tell if the little demon is angry at me or him.
“I don’t know why,” I eke out.
“Does your mother know?”
I shake my head.
“I wish you had told me. I would have beat the living hell out of them,” Dad boasts angrily.
Ah, maybe that’s one reason I didn’t tell him. I heard about the beatings Dad used to give Luke when I was still a baby. He’d take Luke into the basement and beat him with a belt. No one has ever explained why, other than suggesting possible theories: Dad did what was probably done to him as a kid. Luke must have reminded Dad of himself. I don’t need therapy to tell me that Dad was the last person I was going to tell back then. Strange, then, that he’s the first family member I’ve told.
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