Did I want it to be? Hadn’t I been doing it Dennis’s way? Wasn’t that the better choice? Wasn’t that why I sought the company of people who didn’t talk everything to fucking death?
I thought about Miss Goldman, sitting in her corner at the dry cleaner’s. With ignorant people like me thinking she hadn’t had much of a life. Would that be me? Never finding a way to release something toxic that churned inside me until finally I was leached clean? Or else, after it destroyed my insides, would it spill over onto other people?
I was walking to the men’s room in Cutter’s when the drunk’s words registered and I realized he was talking about us.
“Fucking punk kids,” he said. “Everything handed to them. Don’t appreciate any of it.”
It stopped me. I stared at him. I noticed his bleary eyes and realized he was just a stupid, tired drunk. I turned back toward the restroom.
“They oughta be fighting like real men their age. Instead of sitting on their asses, getting drunk. Just walking on blood and ashes, not giving a shit.”
I froze for a few seconds. My ears were roaring. I turned around. I wasn’t sure what I thought I could do, but I never had a chance. Dennis exploded out of a group of men standing nearby. He was on the drunk, hitting him, and he didn’t stop until he was pulled off by two men as big as he was.
“Just get out of here,” Cookie said, shaking my arm.
I couldn’t stop staring at Dennis, the drunk’s blood splattered across his face and chest. A beast inside me thrilled with recognition of the same animal inside him. It took hours for me to settle down after Fred dragged me from the bar.
Had I cried that night? Probably not. I used to cry at sitcoms. Insurance commercials. A dog without a collar. Losing a favorite graphite pencil. I’d been dry as a bone for longer than I could remember.
“One of my roommates has two snakes,” I said to Dennis. “She feeds them mice. Live mice. She gets them from a pet store.”
Dennis pushed his thumbs into the muscles around my shoulder blades. His hands were strong, and the pressure was so intense that it silenced me for a minute. I could almost hear Gavin saying, Breathe! I breathed.
After a while, I went on. “On one level, I understand that snakes have to eat. And they eat mice. It’s the choosing that bothers me.”
“Your roommate choosing. Like she’s playing God,” Dennis said.
“Exactly. Why this one and not that one? And why do I fucking care? Why do I even think about it?”
His thumbs went down either side of my spine in the same rhythm he’d used on my shoulders. Press, release, move. I felt like I was shivering inside.
“You tell me,” he said.
“It’s like she’s God playing a game,” I finally said. “The way I play backgammon. But a game has strategy. Rules. There’s a reason for what you do in a game. It’s arbitrary shit that makes me crazy.”
Press. Release. Move.
“A woman wakes up one morning, drinks her coffee, kisses her partner and her nine-month-old baby good-bye, then goes to work. Not to her own office, where she goes every day. To somebody else’s office. Why that office, on that floor, in that building, on that day? It’s so fucking random.”
“Right,” Dennis said. His voice was tender. I wanted to crawl inside it and never leave.
He reached over to turn off the light, then put his arms around me again. I knew I could talk as long as I wanted, street music in the background, and he’d keep holding me.
I knew something else, too. Dennis would listen to me because he did belong to that world where things went unsaid. When our fathers and uncles and their friends started coming home, they didn’t brag about what they’d done. They barely talked about the war at all. Like Kruger, Dennis came from a place where silence was part of being a man.
Maybe we both needed for me to talk.
I felt like something clicked inside my brain. Dennis’s silence was part of how he’d been taught a man should be. But my silence—had that come from my mother? The person who didn’t want to burden anyone? So instead, she left people—left me—feeling helpless and inadequate. Did I make people feel that way, too, with my silence?
Not Roberto. I never had to explain things to Roberto; he just knew. It was like he was the twin I was supposed to have been born with.
But just because I had Roberto, did that mean I never had to talk to anyone else? Maybe sometimes people needed to hear things. Maybe I needed to say things to them. Like with Dennis and me.
Tonight, I answered Kruger’s earlier question, I’m getting a lot of some. And I don’t mean just sex.
Feeling safe, I curled against Dennis, sighed, and began.
“Her name was Gretchen Schmidt. She was my cousin’s mother. That morning, she left early for work because she had a meeting in the North Tower….”
September 4, 2003
Dear Nick,
I’m so glad you called, because you’ve been on my mind a lot. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear your voice until after we hung up. I agree with what you said. This anniversary seems harder than last year’s. I think that’s why Daniel and I decided to go ahead and make the trip to Europe, just to get away from everything that will be on TV here.
Gwendy said she isn’t interested in going to any of the memorial services. She and Kruger are going to Wisconsin and will be there on the eleventh. This eases my mind, because I know the Stephenson family and Adam’s family will make sure there are a lot of happy things going on for Emily, Gwendy, and Kruger.
I know you said you can’t get away from work, but if you change your mind, I’ve got your passport. All we have to do is buy a ticket and you can go to Spain with us. Or if you want to go to Wisconsin, that’s fine, too. I’m enclosing our itinerary and all our phone numbers if you need to call me for anything. Even if just to talk. You can always charge any calls to our home account. Just in case you don’t have that card anymore, I’m dropping in a copy.
I love you, Nick. I probably don’t tell you that enough, or let you know what a comfort you’ve been to me over these last couple of years. I’ve never had one moment’s regret about the way I borrowed my brother’s son three years ago and kind of forgot to give him back. You’re the best.
Love,
Blaine
12
Tonight Is Forever
“You know, this place wouldn’t be so bad if you guys hadn’t turned it into tent city,” Fred said. He cleared a place on the futon so he could sit down. When he moved stuff around, I caught a faint scent of soap and aftershave from Roberto’s clothes. It was one of my comfort smells, even more than freshly brewed tea. Or Isleta and Emily after their baths. Probably a scent that evoked childhood wasn’t all that comforting, in my case.
It struck me that I no longer noticed the things that had once bothered me about my apartment. The cramped space. The lack of privacy. The noisy fat guy upstairs. Morgan’s snakes.
Fred watched while I tried to decide between two T-shirts. One had Marvin the Martian on it. The other had a publicity photo of my uncle-in-law, Daniel, with Tina Yothers at a fund-raiser called Bottle Blondes Benefit HIV/AIDS.
“Strange,” Fred said, staring at the second T-shirt. “On our TV set, she looked like a redhead on Family Ties. And now her hair’s black.”
“It was meant to be ironic,” I said. “They’re both natural blondes. Should I wear Marvin?”
“It’ll make you look more like a kid,” Fred warned. “You don’t want to go back to jail.”
“I was never in jail,” I said, pulling the Blondes T-shirt over my head. “Anyway, we’re going to Club Chaos. We know the owner. Plus I won’t be drinking.”
“You quit drinking?”
“You make it sound like I had to go through rehab.”
“At least you only wear Tina. Where’s Roberto?”
“He’ll meet us there. He had to set up a display after Drayden’s closed.”
“Anything exciting happened at work late
ly?”
“What’s with all the questions? Am I being interviewed?”
“Touchy. Must be the hormone shots.”
“You take hormone shots?” Kendra asked as she parted the sheets and joined us.
“So much for privacy,” Fred said.
“No. I take wolfsbane injections,” I said. “To protect me from Morgan when the moon is full.”
“I heard that,” Morgan said from the kitchen. She didn’t sound miffed, though. Maybe, after seven months, she’d also become indifferent to annoying things about our apartment. Things like me and any other human who breathed her air.
“You should have gotten the soundproof sheets,” Fred said.
Kendra turned her back to me so I could lace her up. “This dress is hot,” I said.
“There’s not a lot to it, though, so I figure I won’t get too sweaty—”
“No, I mean hot. Sexy.”
“Thanks.” She sounded surprised, and it occurred to me how rarely she got a compliment from any of us. “I bought it a couple of years ago when I went to a party for Hugh Jackman.”
“Speaking of things wolflike,” I said. I pitied Fred for the expectant expression on his face. He hadn’t learned that it was pointless to wait for Kendra’s rest-of-the-story.
“And?” Fred finally asked.
“I don’t know which shoes to wear with it,” Kendra said.
Adalla arrived sporting lots of hair and makeup. She went immediately to the kitchen to talk to Morgan. Kendra tried to eavesdrop, but they kept their voices low.
“Maybe they’re lovers,” Fred whispered.
“I think they’re witches,” Kendra said. When she saw my frown, she said, “I mean real witches. Like casting spells or cursing people.”
“If Morgan knew witchcraft, she’d have turned us all into toads long ago,” I said.
“Snake food,” Fred said.
I brushed my hair back with my fingers, put in another earring, threw a leather blazer over my T-shirt, and declared myself ready. Kendra still had to agonize over her shoes. Then we walked two blocks before hailing a cab so Fred could smoke a cigarette. He slid in next to the driver, and the girls and I had to sweat it out in back. Adalla whipped out a man’s handkerchief and blotted her face. Kendra shifted uneasily between us and scratched at the laces on her leather dress.
“Where’s this place we’re going?” Kendra asked.
“Club Chaos,” Fred said. “They put on the best drag show in town.”
“I remember the first time Blythe took me,” I said. “I didn’t act impressed enough. She then took me to several bad shows in other bars and clubs so I could understand the difference.”
“What’s the difference?” Adalla asked. “If you’ve seen one cock in a frock—”
“Not true,” I said. “It’s not just about a wig, dress, makeup, and a bitchy attitude. The performers at Club Chaos really get into their stage personas. Some of them lip-synch, but most of them dance and sing their own stuff.”
“And the stage patter is good,” Fred said. “They’re funny.”
I didn’t mention that Daniel and Martin had once performed at Club Chaos, long before their careers in television and theater took off. There were photos of them in drag in the lobby of the club. Daniel’s sequined attitude surfaced now and again, especially when he was in a bad mood. But sometimes when he was affectionate, too. Blaine pretended to ignore us when we called each other Nicole and Danielle, but I thought he secretly liked it. Daniel had been known to tell Blaine to pull the stick out of his ass. Daniel was the only person I knew who was never intimidated by my uncle.
While Fred described some of the performers, I thought about the club’s owner, Andy Vanedesen. Aunt Gretchen had been one of his best friends. He’d fainted at her memorial service. The rest of us had held our breath, expecting Daniel and Martin to jump on him for the drama. But Daniel propped him up. Martin borrowed an oriental fan from another of their friends and waved it furiously in front of Andy’s face.
When someone offered him a cane in case he felt wobbly again, Andy pushed Martin’s hand away and said, “Stop it. I just got a little light-headed. I’m not an old lady.”
“You’re right,” Daniel said. “Nobody would ever call you a lady.”
I’d once heard someone say that Andy was a silly old queen, but I thought he was sweet. After Gretchen’s service, I’d caught him sobbing into a dish towel in the pantry downstairs. Normally something like that would have sent me running in the other direction. Instead, I sat with him until he felt better. I almost envied him for being able to cry so hard.
Two years later, I still envied him. I looked down the avenue at the twin columns of light pointing skyward. I was glad Daniel and Blaine were in Spain. And I’d been relieved when my uncle told me that Kruger and Gwendy had taken Emily to spend a few days with Gwendy’s family in Wisconsin.
“Wow,” Adalla said. “When you get closer, you can see that it’s not just two lights.”
“It’s over eighty, I think,” Fred said.
“Do any of you ever go to Ground Zero?” Kendra asked.
“Nobody calls it that but journalists and politicians,” I said.
“I went once,” Fred said.
“Not me,” Adalla said. She seemed mesmerized by the lights. “How many nights will they be lit up?”
“They’ll turn them off at dawn,” I said. “Until next year.” When Adalla opened her mouth, I headed off what I was sure would be a suggestion that we go there. “The lights aren’t set up at the World Trade Center site.”
“Where are they?”
“Battery Park.”
“I love the Village,” Kendra said as she watched a group of people cross the street. “I wish we lived here instead of Harlem.”
Adalla gave me one of her Kendra’s-a-snob looks, but I pretended not to see it.
Andy himself hurried across the lobby to greet us when we went inside the club. He air-kissed me, bussed Fred on the cheek, and wiggled his fingers at the girls.
“Your friend is upstairs in Cybeeria with his date,” Andy said. “He said you’d all wait there before the second show.”
“Roberto has a date?” Kendra asked with a pouty look.
“He means Isaiah,” I explained as we took the stairs to the club’s cyberbar. “Roberto may not make it before the show starts.”
We were still sitting upstairs when Andy joined us with a bottle of champagne. His eyes did a quick scan of the table to determine who was drinking alcohol. He’d probably heard about the night I got in trouble at Cutter’s, something I would apparently never live down. Kendra, Adalla, Isaiah, and his date had drinks, but they were all legal. I’d been surprised that Fred hadn’t ordered a martini. My stomach had been floopy all day, so I was sticking to water with slices of lemon.
“Just a little taste for each of you,” Andy said, motioning for a waiter to bring glasses. He sat down at the table with us. “Tell me who’s who?”
“You know Fred,” I said. “Kendra’s one of my roommates. Adalla’s my weekend-in-the-park friend. Isaiah and I work together, and this is Isaiah’s date, Luis. He’s from Santo Domingo.”
Isaiah and I exchanged smiles as Andy purred over Luis, who was a striking man. Isaiah and Luis had met at church, where Luis was a tenor in the Full Gospel Gay and Lesbian Choir.
“Hi, everybody,” Melanie said as she came in and fell onto a chair. “It’s so hot. It sucks the life out of me.” She waved away the champagne flute that Andy offered, looked at the hovering waiter, and said, “A glass of ice water and a Sprite, please.”
“What’s the verdict?” Fred asked. “Did The Donald buy the sculpture?”
I’d always loved Melanie’s bashful smile, and she flashed it now as she said, “You are looking at the proud creator of a metal sculpture that will be in some unspecified Trump office in some undisclosed Trump building.”
“Where none of us will ever be allowed to see it,” Adalla said.
“Nick and I will,” Isaiah said. “We’ve got friends in high places.”
“You make deliveries in high places,” Fred said.
“Or we’re high when we make deliveries in places,” I said.
“I don’t want to know,” Andy said. He stood, told us to enjoy the show, and spoke to other groups of patrons on his way downstairs.
“Anyway,” Melanie said, “I’m not the only one with big news. Don’t you have something to share with the group?” She looked expectantly at Fred, who seemed puzzled. “Don’t be modest. Dr. Mills told me about the offer.” Dr. Mills was Fred’s uncle, BHSA’s headmaster.
Fred’s confused expression changed to discomfort, and he said, “He wasn’t—that’s not public knowledge yet.”
“We’re not really the public, are we?” Melanie asked. “I mean, if you can’t share good news with your friends…”
“What good news?” I asked.
Melanie ignored Fred’s shaking head and said, “Fred got a book deal.”
“What?” I asked as everyone else at the table murmured some form of congratulations. “What do you mean, a book deal? Fred doesn’t write.”
“Fred never told us that he writes, but Fred writes,” Melanie said. “He just got offered a fat advance—”
“Can we not talk about this now?” Fred asked. He absently patted the pocket that held his cigarettes. I could see he wanted nothing more than to have a smoke. I figured the only thing keeping him in his seat was worry about what Melanie might say if he left the table.
“My friend Josh Clinton has a book deal, too, for a collection of his photographs,” I said. “He’s like you, all modest about it.”
“Modest,” Melanie repeated.
“But I think it’s huge!” I went on. “I can’t believe you, always pretending like you aren’t creative. How did it happen? Did you send it to publishers, or—”
“It’s his blog,” Melanie said.
I heard some tone in her voice, almost like she was mad, and I looked from her to Fred and back again. “Am I missing something?”
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