Brownie Points

by Jennifer Coburn

  Logan smiled. “I guess I can go to that stupid party, too.”

  “It sounds pretty gay, but go, suck it up and be polite, and you’ll get the lay of the land. You got nothin’ to lose, buddy,” said Jason. He took the key out of the ignition and opened the door to get out.

  Pretty gay?! I mouthed.

  Jason shrugged and gave me a look as if to say what he’d told me the last time we had this conversation: “The word has different meanings. I mean ‘dorky,’ not ‘homosexual.’ Don’t make a big deal of it.”

  The kids were already running up the brick path to our home. “Just say ‘dorky’ next time, okay?”

  ™˜

  It wasn’t a bad house. In fact, it would be nice to have so much open space and ceilings that rivaled a planetarium. There were certainly worse places to live than Utopia. We could live in the hood and face gang violence. We could live in an area where the Klan is alive and well. We could live in a country where we weren’t allowed to vote or educate our kids. There were far worse places for our family to live, I thought as I stared at the white lacquered banister that looked as though it was made from a Home Depot kit. I looked up at the equally generic lighting fixture and down at the plush beige carpet and sighed deeply.

  Yes, there were worse places to live, but there were better ones too. One of them was the sweet little gingerbread Victorian on the hilly street where we knew our neighbors, I walked to work at the Four Circles Gallery blocks away, and the barista at Tea and Sympathy knew exactly how much milk to put in my chai latte.

  After we closed escrow a few weeks earlier, Jason and I drove up for an orientation for new parents at the middle school and met a few of our new neighbors. One of the dads patted Jason on the back and asked if he was “jacked about his sweet new crib.” Jason gave the guy a perfunctory smile, then shot me a look I’d seen before. It wasn’t every white guy who tried to cram as much MTV lingo into one sentence as possible. In fact, it wasn’t even very many. Still, it was enough to remind Jason that there were some people who would see his skin and write his life story in a moment. It was always the same history, too. Poor, black Jason was the first in his family to graduate from college and leave behind his gangsta life thanks to a killer jump shot and affirmative action. They never drew the conclusion that was Jason’s true story: that his choice to pursue firefighting was a huge disappointment to his father, a surgeon at the Johns Hopkins Burn Center. Jason’s family paid full freight at his boarding school and college, and used the same affirmative action program that the rich white kids did, a father who golfed. I was always the one who wanted to set the record straight, and it was always Jason who told me not to bother.

  At the school orientation, the Utopian fathers exchanged a round of thinly veiled self-congratulations about living in an upscale community. Their blowup-doll wives agreed dutifully.

  Jorge, my Puerto Rican Yoda, once told me that we were most critical of other people’s shortcomings when we saw them in ourselves. In the privacy of my own thoughts, I had to confess that he was right. I might have had an air of self-satisfaction too. Back when I had high hopes for my career, things like chain restaurants and Prada backpacks didn’t bother me in the least. It was only when I realized I’d failed at my own artistic dream that I began rolling my eyes at other people’s lifestyles.

  As we crossed the threshold of our new home for the first time as a family, I tried to take my eyes off the assembly-line construction of the house and focus on how much this meant to Jason. Ten years ago, when I was miserable in my job in advertising, Jason suggested I pursue sculpting full time. “This ain’t a dress rehearsal, baby,” he told me. “Chase the dream ’cause it’s not coming after you.” Now it was my turn.

  I looked around the empty foyer. Positive, positive, I can do positive. “There are four bathrooms so we can all poop at the same time.”

  Jason smiled and put his hand across my waist. “I appreciate that, baby.”

  When I looked back at him, I silently promised myself I’d really give this place a chance.

  Maya shouted hello to see if she could get an echo in the empty foyer. “Where’s my room?”

  “Top of the staircase, turn right,” Jason answered, giving my butt a light swat the way he always did when the kids were about to leave us alone. He started doing that at Berkeley when his roommates were on their way out of the house. It still makes me smile. “Yours is up there too, buddy.” Logan and Maya trotted up the stairs to inspect their new digs. I felt a smidge guilty that their first time seeing the new place was the day we moved in, but everything happened so fast. The kids were in San Diego with my mother while we were house-hunting, then flew to Baltimore to visit Jason’s family while we were closing escrow. This didn’t seem to bother them in the least. We heard both kids hoot with satisfaction and high-five each other over the size of their rooms.

  “You’ll like it, baby,” Jason said. He kept repeating this promise so many times, I wondered who he was trying to convince.

  “I know,” I said, forcing a smile as we walked into the kitchen. I noticed a toy trumpet resting on the unblemished granite countertop. “What’s this?” I picked up a small brass horn with a scroll stuffed inside. Unrolling the parchment, I read aloud, “Hear ye, hear ye! Your presence is requested for games and feasting to celebrate Sir Max’s birthday.”

  “Sir Max?”

  “Must be the police chief’s boy.”

  “Oh right, the sword fighting thing,” Jason said as he leaned against the granite countertop, amused.

  “He lucked out with that invitation, right?” I asked. “With all of the years he’s been fencing, I’ll bet he’ll really impress the kids.”

  “Who said he was too young to start lessons at six?” Jason asked, moving closer so we could drink in our new surroundings together.

  I laughed. “Uh, I believe it was the fencing school.”

  “And look how wrong they were,” Jason said. “They thought a little boy and a sword would equal trouble, but he proved them wrong.”

  “Well, Logan’s hardly your typical boy, is he?”

  “Nope,” Jason said looking past the kitchen counter and into the family room. “Both he and Maya are pretty damn special.”

  “Jason,” I said, my tone more serious. “You know what I’m talking about. When are you going to listen to me about him?”

  “Baby, let’s not start on that today. This is a day to celebrate.”

  Trying to reintroduce the dismissed subject, I joked. “We could make this his coming-out party.”

  Jason sighed, annoyed that I wouldn’t let this go. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s too soon to tell on that sort of thing.”

  “I can tell,” I said.

  “He’s thirteen. Lots of boys his age are —”

  “Gay, Jason,” I interrupted. “Gay, gay, gay. Get used to it already. The kid is gay and the sooner you accept it, the better off we’ll all be.”

  “Has he ever told you he’s gay?”

  “Don’t you remember the hat he made for Opening Day at the races?” I said, recalling his creation — the wide rim decorated as a horse track complete with plastic model thoroughbreds and jockeys. The center of the hat was made from silk red roses and blue first-place ribbons. It was the height of gaudy chic. He won the award for best hat, and a tight-faced socialite paid him a hundred dollars for it.

  “He’s a businessman,” Jason dismissed. “Look, baby, you’re an artist. Of course our kids are going to be creative. There are plenty of straight —”

  “Straight male hat makers?”

  “I was going to say straight artists,” Jason corrected me.

  He pulled me in to lean against him. “He’s not a hat maker. He made one hat, one time.”

  “Trust me, Jason, there will be more hats in our future,” I said, laughing.

  “Don’t be so quick to slap a label on the kid,” Jason said. “A boy doesn’t need his own mother calling him gay.”

&nb
sp; “It’s not an insult, you know.”

  “I know that,” Jason snapped. “Come on, today’s a day to celebrate. We got a new life here. A fresh start.”

  I imagined Jason starring in a Windex commercial where fathers could wipe away the gay from their sons.

  “Since when do you have a problem with gay people?” I asked.

  “I don’t,” Jason dismissed. “Some of your best friends are gay.”

  I surrendered for the moment, but felt the emptiness that came every time Jason failed to admit the reality of our son’s orientation. I needed the closure of Jason knowing, acknowledging and accepting. I needed him to say, “Of course he’s gay and that’s cool with me.” Jorge once accused me of “shoving Logan out of the closet,” a criticism that stung the way only truth could.

  “Okay,” I told Jason, quietly reminding myself to relax and let life unfold on its own.

  With that, Maya came running down the stairs as Logan slid down the banister next to her, sitting on the rail with his hands outstretched as if to say, ta-da! “Look what we found in your bedroom,” Maya said, handing Jason and me a booklet of swatches entitled “The Fabric of Utopia.”

  Chapter Two

  Maya’s disappointment in being excluded from Max’s birthday party was short-lived. As I was unpacking the kitchen the following day, our neighbor Michelle stopped by to deliver a plate of brownies and an invitation to her daughter Ashley’s American Idol birthday party. “What’s this?” I asked as the compact Ivory Girl handed me a thumb drive. She followed me into the house and placed her brownie plate on the kitchen counter, beside the scone platter, muffin basket and cupcake tray that had arrived earlier.

  “Ashley thought it would be cute to make a music video with the party details,” Michelle explained. “She’s always loved to sing.” Michelle pushed her well-tamed brown spiral curls behind her ear despite the fact that she was wearing a tortoiseshell headband. In her white safari dress, Michelle pulled off that East Coast prep school look I used to admire so much when I was a kid. I never quite looked as if I should be crunching brown leaves under my loafers while strolling through an ivy-laden campus in Connecticut, though. I looked more like one of the scholarship kids at Yeshiva High.

  Apparently, birthday parties were thrown at a whole new level in Utopia. I like to think of myself as hipper-than-thou, but I fell into the party trap just like most parents in our San Francisco circle. We kept up with the Joneses and hosted laser tag and bowling parties. Jason thought I was crazy for putting together a Salvador Dalí party at my studio when the kids were nine. Guests painted surreal self-portraits and played pin the mustache on Mona Lisa. (Only Logan’s friend Josh seemed to mind that this was more Dada than Dalí.) We even had a surprise visit from Jorge dressed as Dalí. He presented the kids with a melting clock birthday cake that had candles that looked like fingers.

  As Michelle gave me the lowdown on the Los Corderos birthday scene, I discovered that my Dalí party was strictly minor league. Birthday parties were an arms race for mothers. The more parents spent, the greater their familial security. Of course, there was always the threat of mutually assured destruction when a Cirque du Soleil party conflicted with a celebratory recreation of Hogwarts’ Triwizard Tournament. Michelle explained that guest lists were more political than the local mayoral race.

  “Is there anything special Ashley would like?”

  “No gifts, please. Ashley has way too much junk already and we’re trying to downsize big time. Simple living so others can simply live and all that.”

  “Really?” I asked, intrigued. Michelle said she lived a few houses from us, yet she drove her Chevy Militia to deliver a high-tech invitation to a party modeled after a television show. Was this what Gandhi had in mind when he coined the phrase about simple living? Or was it that Michelle employed a minimalist approach to accessorizing? I gave myself another mental swat, remembering that I was most critical of others when I felt like shit about my own life.

  “Oh gosh yes!” Michelle exclaimed, seemingly delirious that anyone had asked her to expand on her family’s new lifestyle. “We told Ashley that the real gift of friendship is not about their presents, but their presence.” Michelle lifted her eyebrows to ask if I got it. “We’re setting up a full stage in the backyard so the girls can sing songs for Ashley, you know, changing the words to pop songs and making them about her.”

  What? Maya’s never even met Ashley!

  Reading the panic on my face, she added, “I guess since Maya’s never met Ashley, that might be tough.” Michelle shifted weight from one tanned leg to the other as she considered a solution. “Why doesn’t Maya come over tomorrow? That way the girls can meet and Maya will get some ideas for her song. Or tell her to check out Ashley’s Facebook. She’ll feel like she’s known Ash forever.” She reached into her purse and handed me a boppy little calling card with a photo of Ashley, her private phone number, and email and Facebook addresses. She grabbed my cell phone, scanned an image from the cards and informed me that I now had all of Ashley’s info. Turning to leave, Michelle caught a glimpse of a vase I had just unpacked and set on the kitchen counter. “Oh my gosh! How cute is that?”

  “Do you like it?!” I asked, beaming.

  “Like it? I love it. Where did you get it?” Michelle asked.

  “I made it.”

  “Get out of town!” she said. “How did you ever come up with an idea like that?”

  I appreciated the feedback because I still could feel the sting of broken glass cutting my fingertips when I made it. I wore gloves for the construction, but got a few serious nicks moving it to the drying shelf. That was truly one of my least marketable ideas. As pretty as the clusters of broken glass looked when they were glued to the flower vase, no one was all that interested in buying a piece that basically said Have some posies then bleed.

  “Turned out to be a pretty bad one, actually,” I said. “I have some variations of this one where I used window screen to contain the glass.”

  “You do?!”

  I nodded my head. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’m on a fruit cleanse,” Michelle offered.

  “Oh, um, I don’t have any fruit,” I apologized. “I haven’t had a chance to go grocery shopping yet. We ate out last night and just had Cheerios this morning. Hey, are there any good restaurants in Los Corderos?”

  “The Peppermill is amazing,” Michelle reported. “They’ve got these stuffed nacho thingies that are just, oh my gosh, don’t even get me thinking about it while I’m on this cleanse. I can only eat bananas today and I would kill for something that crunches!”

  I didn’t want to tell her that we ate at the Peppermill last night and the only thing I found amazing was how identical it was to the one in Palo Alto. It wasn’t just the menu and the décor. The entire wait staff, including our perky server Vienna, seemed to be lifted from the Peppermill’s southern counterpart.

  Bravely picking up my vase, Michelle said, “Do you do a lot of crafts?”

  “I’m a sculptor, actually,” I told her. “It’s what I do for a living.”

  Frankly, I was starved for the validation, seeing how our move promised only to decrease my visibility among the movers and shakers of the San Francisco art scene.

  Putting the vase down reverently, Michelle said, “That is too cool. We have something in common, then. I’m a bit of an artist myself.”

  “You are?” I asked, torn.

  “I don’t have all these artsy ideas, but when I’m doing crafts with the girls, I feel like I’m in my bliss spot, you know?” Oh my God, she’s read The Answer. Well, why should she be any different than forty-seven million other people on the planet? I just thought I was done hearing about people’s “bliss spot” last spring.

  “Girls?” I stammered because I didn’t want to go near her bliss spot.

  “I’m the Girl Scout leader for Ashley’s troop,” Michelle said with eyebrows raised in excitement. “Maya’s planning to
join, right?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” I said. “We haven’t really thought about it. She’s really into karate right now. Hey, is there a fencing school anywhere nearby?”

  “A school?” Michelle tilted her head, puzzled. “I don’t think so, but we have a million contractors and they’re not too expensive. Before you do anything, make sure you check your CC&R guidelines because Val Monroe won’t think twice about making you tear it down if it’s an inch over code. Last month she—”

  “No, no, no. I don’t need to build a fence. I mean sword fighting, that kind of fencing.”

  “Oh, right,” she giggled. “Gosh, I can’t think of any.” She placed her index finger thoughtfully on her cheek and offered, “We have a shooting range.” Switching gears entirely, she asked if I wanted to sub for her Bunco group the following week. “Wendy McFarlane is out of town and we need someone to fill in for her,” she said.

  “Your what group?”

  “Bunco,” Michelle repeated, amused by my ignorance of the New World. “It’s a dice game, but really just an excuse for us girls to get together, drink wine, and gossip.” I’m sure she felt like the Indian Squanto inviting the Pilgrims to the first Thanksgiving feast.

  “I don’t know how to play,” I said, half hoping Michelle would tell me she’d teach me. The other half of me wasn’t so sure I wanted to meet a group of new people because if I did it would mean that we were really here to stay.

  “It’s so simple, it’s boring,” she said. “It’s really a social thing. You’ll catch on to the dice part in, like, three minutes, tops. Next Wednesday night, seven-thirty at my place.”

  “Which one’s yours?”

  “I’ve got marigolds in front,” Michelle said.

  Who didn’t?

  “What do your door wreaths look like?” I asked.

  “Pink and blue summer flowers,” Michelle said.

  I didn’t ask exactly what “summer flowers” were because I remembered that we’d be at their home that weekend for Ashley’s American Idol party. Surely the invitation would offer a house number. “Hey, why don’t you make two wreaths out of vinyl records and hang them on the doors for Ashley’s party?”