Bound South

by Susan Rebecca White

  Imagine their young bodies, lithe and sure, nailing the ball, stroke after stroke. The sun that shone upon them made the white of their shirts almost blinding.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Coming-Out Party

  (Louise, Spring 2006)

  Charles and I sit at the kitchen table eating a late breakfast of croissants and coffee. (The croissants I order from Williams-Sonoma. They arrive frozen and uncooked and you set them out the night before to let the dough rise. Hot out of the oven they are buttery and flaky—absolutely to die for—and worth every penny of their admittedly exorbitant price.)

  “Charles,” I say. “I have been thinking long and hard about this and I have decided that you absolutely may not drop out of college.”

  “Is that a Freudian slip?” he asks. “Long and hard?”

  “Oh good Lord, be serious,” I say, dabbing a tiny bit of jam on the end of my croissant. “You know that I don’t care one bit that you are gay. I love you and I’m happy that you trusted me enough to be honest about your life. But I have already had one child drop out of school and move across the country. I am not going to have my other child do the exact same thing.”

  Charles crunches into his croissant. He seems to be considering my words while he chews.

  He swallows.

  “Would you like more coffee?” he asks.

  I look down at my cup. It’s already empty. Even though I only drink decaf, I’m a coffee addict.

  “Yes, please,” I say. He stands to fetch the coffeepot, my sweet, evasive boy. He is still in his pajamas, even though it is eleven in the morning. Of course I can’t judge; I’m still in my silk robe. (I wonder if Charles has had as much trouble sleeping as John Henry and I have. For the fifth night in a row we have stayed up past 2 a.m. talking about things, talking about Wallace mainly.)

  Charles pours hot coffee into my mug.

  “Is that decaf?” I ask, looking up at him. I made two pots, decaf for me and caffeinated for him.

  “Of course it is,” he says, sitting back down at the table. “Look, my situation is entirely different from Caroline’s. She dropped out of high school—not college—and in case you don’t remember, she was embroiled in le grand scandal de Coventry.”

  “Oh I remember,” I say. “Believe me, I remember. Listen. Consider this. Just go back for the rest of the year and then you can transfer anywhere you want. NYU or Oberlin or Berkeley or wherever. Your father and I will pay the tuition wherever you get in.”

  “I don’t want to go back to Chapel Hill!” says Charles, sounding for all the world like a three-year-old on the brink of a tantrum.

  “Well stay here then,” I say, although this is not something that John Henry and I discussed. “Stay here and apply to transfer to a college that’s better suited to you. Or transfer to Emory.”

  “Emory!” says Charles, disdain in his voice.

  CHARLES MAY OBJECT to Emory—Lord knows why—but bringing up Emory gets me thinking about Stephen Pollard, Tiny’s framer. Ever since he framed my first two Earl LeTrouve paintings I’ve been on Stephen’s mailing list for gallery shows and art lectures and such. And I’ve bumped into him at Whole Foods on Ponce so many times it seems as if we are destined to be friends.

  Stephen went to Emory. In fact, he has a group of male friends from Emory who get together in the Hamptons every few months. The last time I bumped into Stephen he was picking up chocolate truffles to take for that weekend’s trip.

  What I should do is have Charles meet Stephen so that Stephen can sort of show him the gay scene around town. Charles should be able to find it on his own considering that we live within a stone’s throw of Midtown, but maybe he needs someone who is actually “out” to introduce him to the action. I don’t mean the sex action; I mean, well, I mean whatever it is gay men do in Atlanta besides go to Outwrite Books.

  What I’m thinking is that maybe I could have Stephen and his partner over for drinks or dinner, and then maybe see if Chevre could come, and then I could ask that nice couple—Ricky and Jim, I think their names are—who live just down the street and whose gorgeous house was on the Tour of Homes last year.

  Drinks might work best, something very casual, just to let Charles meet everybody and see that his father and I really are okay with his lifestyle (at least John Henry is pretending to be) and that there are gay people in Atlanta living full and rich lives.

  The big question is, Should we have champagne or cocktails?

  And what in the world will I serve for nibbles?

  And then it hits me: gay men love retro. I’ll make old-fashioned country club goodies, the kind of stuff served for appetizers at a southern wedding. And I’ll let Charles be in charge of the drinks—gimlets!—so that he can interact with everyone.

  I AM AS NERVOUS as a girl before her first date. It’s silly, really, we’re only having three people over (Ricky and Jim had tickets to the symphony and couldn’t make it), but still, I’ve never hosted a party for gay men before. I have to hold myself back from running to the hall mirror to check my hair one more time before my guests arrive. In honor of my retro-sixties appetizers and drinks, I bought myself a wig that gives me a perfect teased flip. I hope I’m not overdoing it. Charles will probably think I am, if he ever gets home. (I am going to kill him if he doesn’t show up soon. He’s been gone all afternoon. I don’t even know if he’s showered.)

  Chevre is going to scream when he sees me, he is so used to my short hair. (I decided to cut it all off when I turned fifty. And you know what? The new cut took ten years off me.) Keeping with my retro theme, I’m wearing a simple blue A-line shift that looks like something my mother might have worn to a cocktail party when I was a little girl. Except my dress is new.

  John Henry is in the library watching the Braves on TV. I told him he has to turn the game off when the guests get here but that he can do whatever he wants in the meantime. Really, he is being a good sport about all this. He even went out and bought us a new bottle of premium gin for the gimlets. And he didn’t make fun of my wig.

  The doorbell rings.

  My first guests!

  And no Charles.

  I quickly scan the living room to make sure everything is in place. I decided to make things simple and just to put the hors d’oeuvres directly on the coffee table so that people can serve themselves: baked and buttered saltines, spicy cheese straws from a recipe Caroline gave me, sticky stacks of caramelized bacon, shrimp with cocktail sauce, and for the nonretro folks, a big tray of cheeses (Epoisses, aged Gouda, Brillat-Savarin, and Saint Agur) from Alon’s with crackers, walnut bread, and apples. And of course I put out a platter of my famous brownies.

  John Henry is at the front door before I get there. He looks nice in his brown corduroy sports coat and chinos. Ever since he turned fifty the man has let me pick out most of his clothes and I have to say, I do a good job. And—hallelujah!—he finally got rid of his comb-over.

  “Ready?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Open the door!”

  It’s Stephen and Bob.

  “Welcome!” I say.

  “Thank you so much for having us,” says Stephen. “We’re thrilled to get the chance to peek at your gorgeous house!”

  “And to enjoy the evening with you,” says Bob, nudging Stephen.

  Stephen laughs. “That goes without saying. Louise, this is for you.”

  He hands me a bottle of Perrier-Jouët champagne. I am delighted to feel that it has been chilled. In fact, I think I’ll open it up right now.

  Stephen is short, about my height, his gray hair trimmed close to his head. He has perennially ruddy cheeks, which make him look as if he’s always just coming in out of the cold. Bob is the beauty of the two. His eyelashes are so long, Nanny Rose would say, “they are wasted on a man.” He is about six inches taller than Stephen. He wears his hair long enough so that you can see the wave in it. His blue eyes are piercing.

  (It occurs to me that if Bob were just a little younger, Charles might
try to steal him away.)

  “I absolutely adore champagne,” I say, leading them into the hallway. “Do y’all mind if we go ahead and open this?”

  “Please do!” says Bob.

  John Henry asks if he can take coats from anyone, but the men are only wearing their suit jackets.

  “What a gorgeous grandfather clock!” says Stephen. “Is it an antique?”

  “Why yes,” I say. “It’s a church clock, from the George the Second era, I believe.”

  I hand the bottle of champagne to John Henry. “Darling, why don’t you go open this and bring us each a glass. And I’ll just give Stephen and Bob a little tour.”

  John Henry goes off dutifully to the kitchen. I show Stephen the tiny renditions of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, one painted on each corner of the clock face.

  “It’s so rare to have an old English clock that actually runs,” says Stephen.

  I hope my father—wherever his spirit is—hears that. I inherited the grandfather clock from him. He was so protective of it that he left instructions in his will detailing how and when to wind it.

  The bell rings again. “Excuse me,” I say.

  I answer the door and there is Chevre, the top of his Afro nearly brushing the archway above the door.

  “Oh my God!” he screams. “Look at you!”

  He reaches out to touch my hair while I smile and blush. “This is perfect, Louise,” he says. “I really think we need to grow your hair out again so it can do this on its own.”

  “Come on, come in,” I say. “I can’t grow my hair out, Chevre. Long hair on an older woman looks like mutton dressed like lamb.”

  “Please,” he says. “You can’t be a day older than thirty-five.”

  “You are a liar and I adore you for it,” I say.

  Stephen and Bob, who have turned away from the clock to face Chevre, stand waiting for an introduction. Chevre is a good foot taller than Stephen and he is probably twenty-five years younger. Perhaps this wasn’t the best pairing of guests. Oh well. Maybe Chevre and Charles will entertain each other while the rest of us go off and be old together. If Charles ever arrives.

  I introduce Chevre to the couple just as John Henry walks in with three glasses of champagne.

  “And one more, sweetheart,” I say, taking a glass from him. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, none for me, thanks,” says Chevre.

  “Would you like something else?” I ask. “We’ve got wine and bourbon and my son should be home soon to fix anyone who wants one a gimlet.”

  “Gimlets!” says Bob, obviously pleased.

  “Just some sparkling water for me,” says Chevre.

  Aha. He doesn’t drink. Maybe that is how he stays so skinny. John Henry heads back to the kitchen to get Chevre’s water.

  “I’m sorry to say that the guest of honor isn’t here yet,” I say. “But please, let’s go into the living room, somebody make a toast, and we can all have a bite to eat.”

  “What are we toasting?” asks Chevre.

  “We’re toasting champagne,” says Stephen.

  “Yes!” I say. “Champagne every day!”

  I am, I realize, a bit keyed up.

  NEVER IN MY life have I felt so appreciated for my culinary prowess. Stephen says my brownies are the best he has ever, ever tasted and Chevre keeps slapping his own hand away from the cheese straws but then taking one anyway. John Henry, not surprisingly, hasn’t said a word this whole evening, besides asking our guests if anyone needs another drink. From what I can tell, anytime he goes to the kitchen to fetch another bottle of champagne (we decided to stick to what we started with and so we dug around in the wine rack and found a couple of bottles of Nicolas Feuillatte to serve) he refills his own glass first. I hope he doesn’t get drunk and fall asleep in his chair. Then again, I’m not sure if Chevre, Bob, and Stephen would notice, they are paying so much attention to me.

  “Louise, this is such a beautiful room,” says Stephen. “You have a gift for decorating.”

  “John Henry nearly filed for divorce when I hung that,” I say, nodding toward my Jesus.

  “Oh John Henry! It’s wonderful!” says Stephen. “My only suggestion would be to install a light above it so that people can really take in the gorgeous hues of the piece.”

  “You want to draw more attention to it?” says John Henry, looking incredulous.

  Chevre throws back his head and laughs. “Uh oh,” he says. “You’re pushing it, Stephen.”

  “I’m so sorry that Charles is missing all this,” I say. “I hope nothing wrong has happened.”

  “Does he have a cell phone?” asks Bob.

  I mock slap my forehead. “Of course!” I say. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I am just going to run and give him a call.”

  Both Bob and Stephen stand when I get up. I haven’t seen a man do that since my father used to stand for my mother during nice dinners out, when she would excuse herself to go to the ladies’ room.

  In the kitchen I dial Charles’s number. His voicemail picks up after the first ring, and I don’t leave a message. I’m too annoyed with him to do so and if—God forbid—he has been in an accident I don’t want him to listen to a recording of me yelling at him after it’s all over.

  I walk to the back door and press my forehead against the glass. I am a little woozy from all of the champagne. I look outside toward the garage, at first only seeing darkness until my eyes adjust. There is Charles’s Honda Accord, parked in the driveway since our garage only fits two cars.

  I have a momentary flash of panic, thinking that Charles might be in his car killing himself with carbon monoxide. But I shake it off. Charles is not Wallace.

  I open the back door and walk outside, enjoying the feel of the night air against my skin.

  “Charles?” I call. “Charles?”

  No one answers. I walk to the gate that leads to the pool. Peering through it I spy the red glow of a cigarette being smoked in the distance.

  “Charles?”

  I open the gate and walk toward the pool. The light is gone, but I know he is down there. I can smell the cigarette smoke.

  “I know you’re down there,” I say. I am reminded of his childhood, how he used to hide from me anytime he did something bad. Which was funny, sort of, that he felt the need to hide, because I never remember punishing him the way I did Caroline. I can’t remember ever having spanked him.

  I take my time walking to him. My eyesight is not at its best in the dark, and I don’t want to trip over anything and land on the concrete. Finally I make my way to the edge of the pool, where he sits, his pants rolled up, his legs in the water.

  “I didn’t know you smoke,” I say.

  “I try not to,” he says.

  “Well that’s good.”

  He looks up at me. “Are you wearing a wig?”

  “Yes,” I say, adding impulsively, “I have cancer.”

  He looks up quickly, his face stricken.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was a joke. Not a funny one.”

  “Stranger and stranger,” he says.

  “Look, Charles, you and I need to talk and I can’t sit down on this concrete because it will tear the fabric of my dress.”

  “I don’t want to go inside to your party,” he says.

  “Well obviously,” I say. “Why else would you be hiding out here? Just come into the kitchen with me. No one is in there.”

  He stands, drops his cigarette on the ground, and uses his foot to unroll the bottom of his pants.

  “Are you sure your cigarette is out?” I ask.

  He steps on the butt. “Now it is.”

  We walk to the kitchen. Stephen is at the counter, pouring himself another glass of champagne. John Henry must have passed out.

  I feel Charles tense up behind me.

  “Stephen, this is my son, Charles Parker.”

  Stephen lifts his glass of champagne. “Delighted to meet you, Charles,” he says. And then he walks out of the kitchen as if he knows t
hat Charles doesn’t want to meet him.

  Charles sits at the kitchen table, his shoulders slumped.

  “I went to a lot of trouble to put this party together,” I say. “And you don’t even have the courtesy to tell me that you don’t want to come.”

  I feel myself choking up. I hate yelling at my son.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I didn’t ask you to do this. I didn’t want you to do this. I mean, God, Mom, I’m not going to become best friends with a bunch of fifty-year-old gay guys.”

  “Bob and Stephen are not some ‘bunch of guys.’ And Chevre is no older than twenty-five, I’m sure of it.”

  “Yeah, and he’s also, like, a queeny colorist from your salon. Jesus. Talk about central casting. What made you assume we’d have anything to talk about? I mean, what if I assumed that you wanted to be friends with every woman out there who also happens to like fucking men?”

  I stand from the table, blinking back tears.

  “You are being snotty and rude, and I have a party to host,” I say.

  “That’s right,” he says. “You have a party. Just admit that it’s your party.”

  I AM WALKING back to the living room when I feel someone grab my arm. I jump.

  “Louise.”

  It’s Stephen.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to get to you before you had to go back in front of everybody.”

  “Oh Stephen,” I say, and to my terrible embarrassment, I start to cry.

  Stephen clucks his tongue and pulls me in for a hug. He rubs my back, murmuring words of comfort.

  “Oh hon,” he says. “You tried so hard.”

  I pull myself away from his embrace. “Was I wrong to have all of you over? Am I just a fool?”

  Stephen reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a travel-size pack of Kleenex. He hands it to me. I take one and dab my eyes.