by Tanya Boteju
As Jeff the server came around to light the candles at each table and the patio lanterns flicked on, Gordon’s breathing seemed calmer, and he’d stopped thrusting his hair behind his ear every thirty seconds.
We’d barely touched our nachos—it hadn’t seemed appropriate—and the cheese clung cold and hard to the chips. But that didn’t stop Gordon from abruptly breaking off a chunk now and shoving the whole thing into his mouth. He looked up into the darkening sky as he chewed, and I noticed with a warm twinge in my chest that his hand remained securely in Deidre’s.
We let Gordon stuff himself with the nachos, and Deidre ordered some more food to share. We were all famished—between drag boot camp and all these damn emotions, my stomach was about to consume itself.
After we devoured our food mostly in silence and Deidre insisted on paying the bill, she took one long look at us and said, “I know just what we need, babies.”
Deidre drove us back to her place and commanded, “Sit your butts down and don’t move.” Then she disappeared into her bedroom.
I took a deep breath and turned to Gordon. “I’m sorry if I broke your trust, Gordon.”
He slumped back against the puffy cushions strewn across the couch, interlaced his hands on his chest, and stared at the coffee table. “Whatever. I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He perched his feet on the edge of the table, and I resisted the urge to tell him to remove them. “But no one else, Nima.” He turned to gaze at me. “Seriously. No one else can know about this.” His eyes were puffy and red, even though he hadn’t cried once that afternoon.
“I promise,” I said, adding, “I’m here, though . . . just . . . so you know.”
He sighed and nodded, his attention reverting back to the table.
Deidre emerged from her room, her arms full of clothing.
“Okay, my lovelies, we need to change gears!” She threw a black collared shirt at Gordon and told him to go change into it. He tried to protest, but with one cocked eyebrow, Deidre sent him shuffling off to the spare room.
She then told me to stand up, and before I could even object, she whipped off my shirt and pulled a new one over me.
“This shirt is tight on me but just right on you,” she said—if just right meant one shoulder falling loosely to the side and a small portion of my midriff showing. Then she gave me a touch of mascara and eyeliner, some shiny bangles, and a gold necklace with a twisting, spiral pendant on it. “A little gay-girl makeover,” she called it. Stepping back to take a look, she exclaimed, “Girl, you know how good you look?”
I didn’t. But when Gordon came back in and gave me a slow head nod as he checked out my outfit, I thought that maybe it wasn’t completely untrue.
Gordon didn’t look half-bad either. The shirt was slim-fitting and short-sleeved, like basically every item of Deidre’s clothing I’d seen so far. It was the first time I’d seen him in anything but a T-shirt, and I was impressed with the overall effect. He still looked like casual Gordon, but with a touch of finesse. Trust Deidre to make me use the word “finesse” to describe Gordon Grant.
“All right, sugarplums, I’ll be right back.” After about twenty minutes, Deidre reemerged in a flowing mint-green blouse, high-waisted black pants, and what looked to be at least three-inch black pumps. Her wrists jangled with gold bangles, and a chunky gold necklace adorned her throat. A sleek black wig angled sharply across her forehead and tucked behind her ear.
Gordon and I had been playing with the mini pool set we’d found in the living room, but when Deidre entered, we both looked up to gape at her. Gordon looked down again swiftly, and I wondered for the first time if his admiration was more of the “crush” variety. I slipped that thought away for now, though—we had enough complications already.
Next thing on the agenda: gay bingo. I, of course, didn’t know this was a thing, but it was. Deidre took us to a pub called the Royal about three doors down from the scene of my previous night’s embarrassment. I tried to push the snapshots that flashed through my mind of that horror show way down as we entered.
I was worried again that my age would be a problem, and sure enough, the door person wanted to see my ID. But Deidre stepped in and said Gordon and I were with her, and that made us “legit” enough. The door person, clearly as susceptible to Deidre’s charms as the rest of us, gave her an awkward, “Aye, aye, ma’am,” to which Deidre replied, “Thank you, sweetheart. But ma’am is for my mama,” and whooshed us inside.
The pub was small, with a bar and stools on one side, and a low, round stage on the other, separated by several high-top tables. The yeasty scent of beer permeated the air, mixed in with what smelled like pine-tree air freshener. The carpet appeared to have absorbed more than its fair share of both beer spills and stiletto wear and tear—the burgundy material showed a variety of discolorations and bare spots.
“Don’t be disenchanted by its appearance, babies. This place is an institution!” Deidre said she used to host gay bingo night here, but “decided to share the red carpet with younger queens.”
That night our hostess was named Luscious Galore, and she was luscious all right. She reminded me of the one curvy drag queen on Winnow’s wall, full-bodied and proud of it. I tried to ignore the little niggle of sadness that arose in my stomach at the thought of Winnow and just appreciate the scene unfolding in front of me.
Apparently, gay bingo was bingo with a drag queen hostess, lots of off-color jokes, and drag performances at the very end. Prizes consisted of money and drag paraphernalia like feather boas, wigs, and glittery things, plus a few naughtier items that made me blush and made Gordon smirk. Deidre introduced us to a few regulars throughout the night, as well as to a couple of the queens. Just like the night we first met, Deidre remained attentive, funny, and affectionate—and her plan to “change gears” worked. It was impossible to focus on problems with the shenanigans taking place around us.
This world was new to me, and I’d still have these moments when the unfamiliarity caused me confusion, or embarrassment, or apprehension—like when the host cracked jokes about tops and bottoms and bears and twinks, or when the guy at the table next to ours performed an undisclosed act on an undisclosed toy he’d just won.
But I’d have other moments too. Moments when I realized no one here cared that I liked girls, when I was in awe at the artistry of some of the queens’ dress and makeup, the ease with which they expressed themselves through their bodies and their performances. Moments when the laughter around me felt free and loose and real. I felt like a baby in the big leagues and like Alice walking into Wonderland . . . except all the queens were merry entertainers, not despotic murderers.
“Deidre, thanks for bringing us here,” I said, as Luscious paused from calling out numbers to gulp back an enormous goblet of her “special medicine.”
Deidre nibbled the pickled green bean from her Caesar and smiled. “It ain’t your typical bingo scene, is it?” She winked at Gordon, who sniffed and focused his eyes on his bingo card, but whose flushed cheeks betrayed his pleasure. “Sometimes a little gay bingo is just plain good for the soul.”
At the table next to ours, an older man wearing a vintage leather cap, studded suspenders, and jean shorts yelled out in a gruff voice, “You got that right, sister!” and reached out his hand for a high five, which Deidre happily reciprocated. They both let loose riotous laughter—the man’s a guttural tumble and Deidre’s a high-pitched flutter. Gordon looked at them, then glanced at me, his eyebrows questioning but his eyes showing a glint of amusement. His expression made me laugh as well, and then something between a cough and a snort came from his mouth. For the first time in my life, I witnessed Gordon Grant laugh.
By the end of the night, my cheeks ached, and Gordon looked like he’d had some air pumped back into him. We hadn’t won any of the bingo games, but it felt like we’d hit the jackpot in other ways.
As Deidre drove us back to her place to crash for another night, we both
sank into her buttery leather seats in sleepy bliss.
CHAPTER 16
The only thing about bliss is that it’s sometimes accompanied by ignorance.
I woke up late the next morning, stretched luxuriously in the crisp, clean sheets of Deidre’s spare bed, and then quietly went to slip out to use the washroom. On my way, a glow from inside my open backpack caught my attention.
Shit. I’d completely forgotten to call or text Jill back.
I pulled the phone from my bag. Six messages, three voice mails.
Shit in a sock drawer.
I sat on the bed and read the messages first:
Saturday, 10:22 a.m.: Hey, girlie. Don’t forget to check in with me today.
Saturday, 1:17 p.m.: Nima, just shoot me a text to let me know you’re alive, okay??
Saturday, 5:10 p.m.: I’m trying not to freak out, but I left you messages and a couple of voice mails. Now I’m freaking out. Call me. ASAP.
The next three messages grew increasingly panicked. I listened to the voice mails.
“Nima, it’s Jill. You promised to answer the phone when I called, remember? I texted you too. I’m trying not to worry, but I’m starting to. Call me as soon as you get this!”
The next message was basically the same, but with stronger language.
The third message was left this morning around eight a.m. and almost made me drop the phone.
“Nima, I’m not trying to alarm you into calling back, but I thought you should know . . . I wish I could ease you into this more, but . . . your mom’s here. She’s here, now, at my house. She wants to see you and here I am, with no clue where you are or what you’re doing. I haven’t called your dad yet, but you need to call me, please. I’m sorry. But call. Now.”
I stared at the screen as the voice-mail lady recited my messaging options, and I wished my real-life options were as simple.
Reply? Forward? Save? Delete?
When I walked in the front door of my own house later that day, much of that feeling of bliss had already seeped away, and I could feel it being replaced by a tightening in my stomach instead, like an angry fist. I resented having to abandon the paradise Deidre had bestowed on me, and Gordon seemed to resent it too.
After I’d texted Jill (I hadn’t been able to bring myself to call her at that moment) to let her know I was sorry and that I was fine and that I’d be home soon, and then ignored her immediate call back, I’d had to explain the situation to both Deidre and Gordon. Deidre, of course, went into a mode of calm, deliberate action. She ushered us right into her van to drive us back to Bridgeton, thrusting bananas and yogurt cups into our hands to eat on the way.
She dropped me off first, putting the van into idle and stepping out to give me an enormous hug. She also told me to call as soon as I could and to remember she’d be there no matter what. I believed her, and it helped.
But now, here I was, standing in the middle of my boring old kitchen. Jill must have taken Gus to her place while I was gone, because I didn’t even get a welcome-home freak-out from him.
As I listened to the low whir of the refrigerator and saw the still-dirty breakfast dishes on the counter from two days ago when I’d last seen my dad, my backpack seemed to press me down to the linoleum and my knees and hands hit the floor with a thump and slap. I’d barely been alone over the past few days, so I hadn’t had to think about all the things Jill told me. And even though not all of the past two days had been positive, the parts that were had instilled in me more joy than I’d felt in a long time. And now, here I was—back in my kitchen, my mother only a few blocks away, and no one around to get me through this. Tears threatened.
I leaned back on my heels and stared at my shadowy shape in the refrigerator door, trying to regulate my breathing, trying to picture the walking feet on my bedroom ceiling, trying to remember the feeling of transporting myself across the church basement, my hand grasped in Deidre’s—a fiercer version of myself than I’d ever been.
I slipped my backpack off my shoulders and let it slump to the ground. With one big breath, I raised myself off the floor and walked back out the kitchen door, bound for Jill’s house.
When I pushed open Jill’s front door, the smell of potting soil filled my nose—usually I’d find this earthy, pleasant. But today, it seemed to remind me only of dirt. Plain, dirty dirt. Hearing murmurs from the kitchen, my stomach plummeted. Was this a mistake? Was I ready to see my mom? Instead of walking through to the back, I pivoted to my right and stared at the shelves of miniature garden statues and baby cacti. Jill had taken the time to alternate the statues with the cacti—a decorative touch that was so unlike her. Tiny earthen fairy, prickly knobbed cactus, tiny clay frog, pudgy round cactus.
There was something mesmerizing about the pattern, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d been staring before I heard Jill say, “Nima? What are you doing?” She was standing in the doorframe to the kitchen with her hands on her hips, her head tilted.
“Admiring your surprisingly tidy display, actually.”
“Uh . . . that wasn’t me.”
I frowned at her, puzzled.
“Your mom did that when she got here. I think she’s nervous,” she continued, glancing behind her.
A cough from the back. A chair scrape across the floor.
My face felt numb. I turned back to the display and stared hard at a gopher statue wearing gardening gloves and gumboots. Give me strength, little gopher guy.
An arm was suddenly around me, a hand on my right shoulder. When I glanced at it out of the corner of my eye, the hand was brown, with short, tidy nails and a silver striated ring on the pointer. A shiver ran through me and I resisted the urge to shrug my shoulder to clear the weight. I set my jaw, breathed in, then out, and turned my head to the left.
My mom was staring at the display and didn’t turn toward me right away. My eyes traveled down the profile of my own face—short forehead, rounded nose, thick lips, tight chin. I watched her tuck her lips into her mouth and then wet them with her tongue. Her eyelids closed for a moment—a fraction of a second longer than a blink—and then she swiveled her head to face me.
“Hi, Nimanthi.”
Hearing this casual greeting along with my full name set a vein in my temple pulsing. Hi? That’s your opening line? I turned my attention back to the statues and cacti. My fingers began to tingle. I lifted my right hand and calmly, deliberately flicked each statue and cactus off the shallow shelving. One by one they toppled to the ground, some bouncing resiliently to the side, some becoming tiny clay explosions.
“Nimanthi?” This was my mother.
“Nima? What are you . . . ?” This was Jill.
What was I doing?
Ruining something, I guess. Ruining something Jill created and my mother arranged—taking her careful design and sending it crashing to the floor.
The arm across my shoulders fell away and reached across the front of my body instead to interrupt my petty rebellion. My mother’s hand folded over mine and stopped it midair. I let my arm drop to my side but kept staring straight ahead, eyes burning into the empty space left by my innocent victims. Fuck you, tears. You will not fall.
Two hands turned me away from the shelves and my eyes came to rest on a silver pendant that Dad let me pick out for her birthday many years ago, when I was only old enough to choose based on what was familiar and shiny. Three gleaming leaves, overlapping one another.
“Nimanthi . . .”
Agitated at hearing my name a third time from her mouth, I yelled, “Is that all you can say?”
She flinched and stepped back, letting her hands fall from my arms. As if for help, she looked back at Jill, and I lost it. “Don’t look at Jill! Can’t you do this on your own? Why are you even here?”
“I—I came to see you, Nima. I missed you. I wanted to explain. . . .” She folded her arms across her chest and her chin crumpled.
Oh hell no. You do not get to cry either. “So explain, then!” My arms flung outward. “Explain
how you could just leave me and Dad like that! Explain why you haven’t contacted us in over a year—how you could write such a shitty little letter like that and expect me to respond. Please Explain.”
She stared at my mouth for a moment, as if examining all the words that I’d just spewed at her. Her eyes closed and her arms fell to her sides again. All the air seemed to leave her body. Finally she opened her eyes and looked at me squarely.
“I don’t know if I can explain everything, Nima. I just . . . didn’t know how I could stay here and be your mom and Del’s wife like before.” She looked to the empty shelves. “I needed to sort out my feelings.” Turning back to me, she added, “I know I hurt you. And I’m so sorry for that.”
I’d thought an apology would help. But it didn’t. I didn’t want to know she was sorry. I wanted to know she couldn’t live without us. Without me.
“Are you moving back?” My fists clenched in anticipation of the answer.
She looked at Jill again, but quickly back to me. “I—not yet. I still need to figure some things out. I’m sorry, Nima . . . it’s not that I don’t want to, I just . . .”
“Just what? You just have better things to do? Well, that makes two of us!” My face grew hot and my fists ached with tension. Suddenly I wanted her to know how much I’d changed these past few weeks—how different my life was. “You know where I was before you showed up here, unannounced? Having the time of my life—that’s where! Performing. Onstage! Dancing. With a drag queen!”
Her eyebrows rose and her mouth fell open.
“Shocking, huh? Your boring daughter”—my voiced splintered into a whisper—“suddenly not so boring.” I wiped away the wet growing in my eyes. “If you moved back, maybe . . . maybe you’d see that.” Maybe you’d love me more. Enough to stay.