by Johnny Diaz
Chapter 19
“YOU drive so slow, GG! Can you pick up the speed a few knots? At this rate, we’ll get there, oh, sometime this century?” Nick taunts me.
We’re in my Nissan Sentra barreling south on Interstate 95 toward Providence for Thanksgiving dinner with Nick’s family. At times, my driving can frustrate Nick, because I’m not the world’s biggest speed demon, and you can’t really speed in downtown Boston or Somerville because of the narrow, dense streets and traffic lights at every turn. Besides, it snowed earlier this morning, and I would rather drive safely than be splattered along the highway with my amigo by my side. I don’t want to be one of those roadside memorials with flowers and teddy bears that read, Gabriel and Nick, RIP. They were killed because Nick was so impatient with his slore friend’s driving.
“We’re only half an hour away. Be patient, Nick. We’ll get there before you know it!” I reassure him. I lean over and flick his earlobe. He does the same to me, and that leads to some playful, girly slapping.
“I might as well get comfortable, then. This is going to be a looong ride.” Nick reclines the passenger seat and folds his arms under his head. He props his right foot on the dashboard.
“You’re just cranky because you’re either really hungry, you don’t want to deal with your family, or you’re really horny and can’t wait to get laid!”
“All of the above, my friend! You win the daily double, GG. The sooner we get there, the faster we can get our night started back in Boston. I want to go out and play this long weekend. I can party and sleep in with a cute guy,” he says.
I shoot him a sidelong look. “Doesn’t your dick ever get tired, Nick?” I say, turning my head to my right to momentarily face him.
He props himself up. “Um, no. My dick isn’t dead!” he says, grabbing his crotch and raising his thick black eyebrows. “I’m single and I like to play. Nothing wrong with that, especially after a long day of teaching middle-school kids.”
“Well, don’t worry. We can’t stay at your parents’ all night. They know we have an hour’s drive back. But if I had a big family like yours, Nick, I would love these gatherings. I would treasure them. Do you realize how lucky you are?”
Through my swishing windshield wipers, I notice the upcoming exit sign for Foxboro, where the New England Patriots play at the giant bowl-shaped stadium. The red taillights from the flowing traffic dot the interstate like blinking Christmas lights. A mix of melted snow and rain mists my windshield, and my car whips up some slush from the snow-covered roadway. Naked trees hug the highway’s shoulders from both sides. Like a small light bulb, a full moon hangs over New England and casts a luminous glow over the interstate.
“Sorry, GG. Sometimes, I can be insensitive. I know you’d probably prefer to be back in Florida with your mom and dad for Thanksgiving, but my family is your family. In fact, you can have my family, if you like loud, lovey-dovey, in-your-face relatives,” he jokes.
“No worries, Nick. I love your family, no matter how loud they can get. I think it’s endearing, especially the way your mom pampers you and your sister.”
“Well, get ready to be pampered. My mom has always liked you. I hope you fasted today, because they’re gonna have to roll us out of Providence with the feast my family is preparing.” Nick pokes my stomach with his index finger.
“I’m always game for a good home-cooked meal, no matter how fattening it is! It beats my usual take-out dinners from the Cheesecake Factory or Wendy’s.”
“Well, my mom made a special dessert just for you, Gabriel.”
“Really? Like what? Inquiring Cuban minds want to know!” I say, briefly turning my gaze to him again. My eyes widen with curiosity.
“You’ll see. Just get us there already, will you?” Nick says. Then he points at the road, noting, “Look! We’re approaching North Attleboro. We’re almost out of Massachusetts!”
And with that, I activate the cruise-control option and punch up the speed by four miles per hour. Well, for me, that’s speeding.
“Oh Gabriel, you are going sooooo fast! Watch out, you may get a ticket—for driving too slow!”
I shake my head, turn to Nick, and stick my tongue out. He does the same to me.
Almost half an hour later, after driving through the winding lanes of Interstate 95 through Pawtucket, we descend Exit 22 C into downtown Providence, New England’s mini-Boston.
We drive on small, narrow, bright-green ramp panels that loop along this cute red-bricked residential development before the roadway deposits us and a few other drivers along the Pleasant Valley Parkway. We pass the backside of the stacked cement parking garage of Providence Place Mall and then drive along the river on the wide Memorial Boulevard, where the bright red glowing sign of the Biltmore Hotel beckons in the distance. We navigate the brief, steep-inclined streets that flank the Rhode Island School of Design and Brown University’s sprawling low-rising academic buildings, which have always reminded me of the crimson-hued Harvard University campus. We pass bustling Thayer Street, a one-way thoroughfare packed with a variety of restaurants, coffee shops, bookstores, and clothing boutiques. An old movie theater sits there with a vintage marquee that seems to feature independent films. College students and urbanites like to hang out and meet up here, including Nick and myself for our day trips to Providence.
A few minutes later, we pull into a charming middle-class neighborhood of one- and two-story Victorian homes. I drive to the end of the block and park in front of Nick’s childhood home, a two-story cream-colored house. A small statute of the Virgin Mary greets us from the front yard.
As we walk up the five wooden steps to the front door, Nick turns to me. “Gabriel, are you ready for this?” He puts his hand on my right shoulder.
“Sure… I think.” I gulp loudly. My stomach rumbles at the smell of the roasted turkey wafting in the air.
Just as Nick is about to open the front door with his key, it swings open.
“Nicholas! My baby!” squeals his mother, Alexa Dias, before embracing him at the entrance. She squeezes him tightly and peppers him with kisses.
“Um, hi, Mom. Good to see you too!” Nick says, trapped in the embrace.
As she hugs him, she leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Gabriel, so good to see you. Thank you for bringing my son back to Providence. He never visits anymore. We never see him!” Nick’s mom is a female version of him, with thick black hair that flows to her shoulders. She has the same Egyptian-green eyes and plucked and shaped black eyebrows.
We finally make it inside, where an intoxicating smell of mashed potatoes, stuffing, and bread rolls greets us. I wipe my feet on the welcome mat, which reads Bem-vindo, Portuguese for “welcome.” Although Nick was born in Providence and so were his parents, they retained their cultural ties to Portugal because Nick’s paternal grandparents were born there, while his late maternal grandparents hailed from Ireland. Nick is quite a mutt, which explains his tanned skin and green eyes. He grew up speaking Portuguese and English, although Nick never speaks Portuguese in Boston unless one of his Brazilian students needs help.
Deeper inside the house, the rest of the family welcomes us in waves. Nick’s paternal grandparents hug me, and Nick’s little sister Vickie, who is a senior in high school, gives me a peck on the cheek.
“Hey, Gabriel. Welcome back to our dysfunction junction,” she says, rolling her eyes and twirling one of her permed dark-brown curls with her right index finger. I’ve always thought Vickie wore too much mascara. Her eyelashes are so long and curled up that if they could, they would reach out and touch me. But I guess that’s her look. She’s sweet, though, and reminds me of what it might have been like to have a younger sibling. When she sees Nick, she simply punches him in the arm.
“Oh no you didn’t, you little slut!” Nick says before he begins to chase her.
They run through the house with Vickie squeaking up and down the stairs. The clomping of their feet drums against the wooden floors upstairs. When Nick f
inally catches her, she giggles and shouts, “Nooo. Stop! You gaylord!” Nick and Vickie’s laughter fills the house.
I smile at the scene.
“Will you two calm down? You’re like two dogs in a park!” yells Nick’s father, Paulo, as he rises from his leather recliner in the living room. He shakes my hand firmly, gives me a hearty hug, and welcomes me to the family’s Thanksgiving.
“We are happy that you can share the holiday with us, Gabriel. We don’t see enough of you—or our son. Thank you for coming to our house,” he says.
Like Nick, he also has short black hair combed up, but he has a receding hairline. Nick’s father also has a beer belly and soft brown eyes. He runs the family restaurant nearby in Federal Hill, which is also home to many Italian restaurants and bakeries.
From the kitchen, Nick’s mom rings a miniature cowbell, signaling for everyone to gather in the dining room, which sits between the kitchen and living room. We gather around a long rectangular table where I’m sandwiched between Nick and Vickie. Ceramic plates painted with fruits and vegetables decorate the dining room’s walls.
On the east wall hangs a large picture of the infamous last supper. Nick has told me how religious his mother is, hence the Virgin Mary in the front yard, yet she embraced Nick when he came out to her in college. The rest of the family doesn’t seem to have an issue with him being gay, either, from what I can tell, because they’ve always embraced me as a long-lost member of their family. They’ve been extremely warm and welcoming to me since Nick and I have been friends. Nick’s family reminds me of how every family should be—loving, loud, and loyal.
When I’m around Nick’s family, I imagine my parents still together, like Nick’s. I picture Papi and Mami acting all lovey-dovey the same way Nick’s parents do whenever we visit. I fantasize about coming home to one house instead of two homes. As I sit at the table, I envy Nick for all that he has. I don’t think Nick realizes how lucky he is, but I do. If I were Nick, I’d be here every weekend, at home.
I’m snapped out of my train of thought as we begin to say grace. As we eat, Nick’s father talks about his restaurant and how business has been slow because of Rhode Island’s weakening economy, one of the worst in the nation. The grandparents complain about the hoodlums at Providence Place Mall, where they go to walk each floor of the towering mall for exercise.
“That place is a zoo sometimes,” says his grandmother, whose gray hair is pulled into a bun, as she slowly slices the turkey on her plate.
“Kids these days! No offense, Vickie. You’re not like them,” the grandfather pipes in, taking a pull from his beer and winking at Nick’s sister. “I remember when that mall wasn’t there and it was just a vacant old lot. You know, they moved the river to make room for that monster of a mall. It was that NBC TV show that ruined everything.”
Nick and Vickie both roll their eyes as they stifle their laughs. They’ve heard this rant before.
“That old TV show on NBC called Providence?” I say in between bites of stuffing. I remember the show fondly and how the three adult siblings return home after their mother dies. They take care of their father, a local veterinarian. The theme song, a cover of the Beatles song “In My Life,” has always been one of my favorites.
With his eyes, Nick signals for me to switch subjects. He leans over and whispers, “Don’t get him started on that TV show. He hated it and blames it for the regentrification of downtown.”
“That TV show—” Nick’s grandfather begins before Nick’s mother jumps in, saying, “We’ve heard that story before, Papa Dias. Gabriel, tell us about your family. How are your father and mother doing in Florida? What do they do for Thanksgiving?”
With my fork, I pick at the white tender slices of roasted turkey and take a mouthful before answering. “They’re good. My dad is with my aunt and cousin tonight for dinner. My mom is at a friend’s house. I’ll be down there for Christmas. Thanks again for allowing me to share this holiday with you and your family,” I say to Nick’s father and the rest of the family at the dinner table.
“You are always welcome here, Gabriel. You’re one of the Dias family.”
“Like, totally,” says Vickie, leaning her head on my right side and gently rubbing my upper back.
Nick looks at me and winks. “Trust me, you don’t want to be a Dias. You’ll end up like us, all crazy and nutty,” Nick says, holding up his fork. But deep down inside, I wouldn’t mind being a member of his family. I’d be honored.
As we finish dinner, everyone passes their plates over to the next person until they all arrive at the end of the table where Nick’s grandmother sits. She piles the plates into one neat stack with all our knives and forks on top. She carefully hands the plates to Nick’s mother, who carries them into the kitchen. Nick’s father follows her. Through the opening of the doorway from the dining room to the kitchen, I catch them exchanging a sweet, tender kiss. They quietly mouth to each other, “I love you!” I watch the scene unfold as I sink into my chair and pat my bulging stomach.
Nick pours me another glass of white wine and clinks his glass with mine. “To Boston, to Providence, to good friends!” he says.
“To impatient backseat drivers!” I say.
And at the same time, we bust out and say, “To slores!,” laughing at our inside joke.
As we drink our wine, Nick’s parents emerge from the kitchen with two pies: a golden pumpkin pie and a dome-shaped flan topped with dark caramel syrup like the one my mom makes.
“In honor of Nick’s friend, I made a special flan the Cuban way,” she says, holding up the plate with the flan as if it were a gleaming jewel on display. “I hope this tastes just like your mother’s, Gabriel. Nick has told me how you miss your mother’s cooking and her sweet flan.”
I put my hand to my heart, and my eyes mist slightly. I look over at Nick’s mom, whose eyes beam with love. I then look around the table and everyone stares back at me, their eyes full of kindness.
She didn’t have to do this for me. I’m not even a blood relative, yet she went out of her way to make me feel welcomed in her home on a holiday when families gather and celebrate.
I blink back the tears in my eyes and look down briefly. I don’t know what to say because I am so moved by the gesture. “Mrs. Dias… wow… that is really nice of you. Thank you, or as you would say, obrigado!”
She tilts her head and smiles as she carefully places the plate down in the middle of dining table. Nick’s father plops down the plate with the pumpkin pie and begins to serve slices for everyone. Nick’s mom tops off each slice of pumpkin pie with a dollop of whipped cream. Immediately, the sounds of forks scraping against the plates fill the dining room as everyone chows down, savoring every spoonful of the delicious pie, flan, or both. (I have both.)
After a round of seconds, our plates are empty and our stomachs are full. We gather in the living room and watch some of the corny holiday specials that usually air on television this time of year.
IT’S just past nine at night, and Nick and I decide that it’s time to return to Boston. We hug everyone good-bye, which takes about fifteen minutes because with each hug, there is some talk about the weather (it’s supposed to snow this weekend again), driving safely (I always do, and my Nissan has new all-weather tires), and everyone asks when we’ll be back in town. (Who knows! I never do, because Nick prefers to hang out in Boston.) Nick’s mother and grandmother also delay us: they prepare leftovers for us to take back to Boston. We each leave with slices of the desserts and extra turkey in Tupperware containers.
“Please tell your parents that we wish them a happy holiday,” Nick’s mom says as she hugs Nick and nearly squeezes him to death.
Nick’s father shakes my hand and gives me one of his strong hugs, which smushes the leftover boxes against my chest. Once he releases me, I brace myself for the onslaught of Nick’s Mom’s hug. I manage to squeak out, “I’ll tell my parents that you said hi. Thank you again for having me over.”
Once she
releases me and I catch my breath, Nick and I descend the steps from the front door to the front yard with our goodies in hand.
“Nick, what we are going to do with all this stuff? We have enough food to feed a small village!”
“Let’s drop this off at your place before we head out to the club. That way, it won’t go bad,” Nick says as he climbs into the car.
With that, I make a quick U-turn on Nick’s childhood street, and we begin to the trip back to the Hub. Not long after, we’re weaving through Providence traffic lights toward Interstate 95. Within a few minutes, the lighted dome of the Providence Statehouse and the mall’s bright lights recede in my rearview mirror. Several cars whoosh by me under a sky that looks like a dark gray blanket studded with tiny lights.
“Gabriel, can you drive a little faster? At this rate, we’ll get back to Boston for Christmas!” Nick says crisply.
“Oh no you didn’t!” I say, shooting one of my playful but annoyed looks, but I can’t help but break out in a laugh. Nick isn’t just my wingman. He’s the gay brother I always wanted to have.
Chapter 20
IT’S just past 11 p.m., and the night is nippy, with the temperature in the mid-thirties—the standard for Boston in winter. Nick and I stand in a small but growing line congregating outside The Estate. Coming here was Nick’s idea, but since he was nice enough to invite me to his family’s home for Thanksgiving, the least I can do is go out with my buddy to a club, even though I’d rather be home with a drink and watching Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan again. Dancing will help burn off the gazillion calories I consumed from the dinner and two desserts.
“This is so silly. I bet the place is empty inside, and they’re making us stand outside to create some sort of illusion,” Nick complains in front of me.
“We’ll be in before you know it. There are only six people ahead of us, and it’s early. People are probably still at Thanksgiving dinner.”