She does, so they say good-bye. He hangs up and gives me an impish look, which is funny on an old guy. “All settled. She’s willing to consider forgiving you for being a jackass — her words — if you’re willing to consider forgiving her for being a janeass — my word.”
I laugh. I have liked a lot of people on this trip, but none of them so much as I like Turk right away.
While we wait for Aisha, we talk about what needs to happen next, and Turk is generous to a fault about it. No problem is too big. Everything has a solution. So when it’s all settled, I call my mom.
“So I’m coming home,” I say, by way of hello. Gomer sits up and licks my cheek. I wipe his slobber off my face. Gross.
“Good,” Mom says, her voice icy.
“Yeah,” I say. “Are you going to ask where I am or what I’m doing? Because it’s pretty big. I have big news.”
“Carson,” she says, “I just want you to come home. I really don’t care to hear any more stories. Your dad is doing very poorly today.”
“Tell him to hold on, please. Tell him I’m coming home and I have something for him. Tell him that exactly, okay?”
She exhales. “Just tell me when you’ll be here, please.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow evening. We’re flying in. As I said, we have a surprise. Okay?”
She hangs up on me.
I look at Turk. I don’t know what he sees, but he puts his arms around me.
“Well, that hurt,” I say.
He nods and nods. “Your mom is a tough one?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll work my Turk magic on her,” he says, and that makes me smile.
I call my dad, and my mom is right; he sounds rough. I keep it nice and short.
“I’m gonna be back tomorrow night.”
“Good,” he says. “Good.”
“I love you. Did you know that?”
“Wow,” he says. “That’s … nice, Carson.”
“I love you and I’m just sorry for everything that’s happened to you in your life.” I feel myself getting emotional, and Turk gives me a supportive nod.
“Thanks,” my dad says, sounding bewildered.
“When I come back tomorrow, I’m gonna have … some answers for you. It’s gonna be good. You’re gonna hear some things that you need to hear. It’s gonna be all right, okay?”
Long pause. “Okay.”
Nothing more.
“I’m scared,” he says.
“Don’t be scared. I’m done being scared. Just know I love you. You’re loved, Dad.”
“You’re freakin’ me out,” he says.
“I’m a little freaked out too. But good freaked out. Well. Yeah, good. Trust me. All will be revealed.”
And then I’m off the phone, and then everything hits me all at once, and I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve climbed a mountain. Turk sets up the guest room, puts me to bed, and closes the door. Within seconds I’m deeply asleep.
The craziest thing happens while I’m sleeping. I open my eyes and focus on the ceiling, and I swear I see my grandfather’s face there. Hovering over me. Staring down at me. Calm, serene. Just there.
I don’t freak out. I don’t yell out to see if Turk can come in and see what I see. I just look. The more I look, the more I’m sure of it, that it’s the outline of his face. Once in a while, it’s like the face of the Burger King dude, and then it morphs back to my grandfather.
I think about mirages. I realize I don’t know. I want it to be him.
So it is him. Like Laurelei said. It’s true for me.
We smile at each other, me and my grandfather. And I decide that I will never share this with anyone. This secret I’ll carry with me the rest of my life.
When Grandpa fades, I close my eyes and sleep some more, and it’s a calm sleep. When I wake up, there are voices in the other room, amiable voices. I hear Aisha laughing, and then Turk laughing, and I wrap the blanket around me and feel this content feeling in my chest. It’s how I used to feel on days when I pretended to be sick and stayed home from school, and my grandparents would be in the living room and I’d be all cozy in bed. I would stare at a spot above the window, just stare at it, until the room became distorted and the window would lose all proportion and the spot would suddenly be so big, and me so small. I’d feel a buzz in my head as I breathed and stared, and I felt — safe. There was safety in being small. I knew in those moments it was all going to be okay, and it was delicious, that strange, distorted little place of my own, with the comfort of my grandparents just beyond the door.
I savor it for a while, and when I’m ready, I get up and walk out to the living room.
Aisha is sitting in my spot on the couch, sprawled out with her arms above her head and her feet on the floor. Gomer is lying on her stomach. When she sees me, she shoos Gomer away and looks at the floor in front of her. She says, “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she says again, creating an imbalance of heys, two against one.
I study the floor too.
“Oh my God,” Turk says. “Do you have any idea how over the bickering children thing I am? I’ve had you both here for, what, three minutes? No wonder I didn’t have any kids. Exhausting.”
I steal a glance at Aisha just in time to see her stealing one at me.
Turk points to the door. “Out,” he says. “And no, I’m not abandoning you, because heaven knows there are enough abandonment issues here to sink the Titanic. You’re going out into the world to say what you need to say to each other. And then you’re coming back here, and I’m making dinner, and we’ll eat it like one big happy family, which we will be, because you’ll have your shit together. Understood? Understood.”
We tentatively walk toward the door.
“Go, go,” he says, waving his hand. “I’ll be eagerly awaiting the new and improved and made-up Carson and Aisha. God, do I hate conflict.”
I walk down the stairs behind her, a little bewildered by whatever that was. It’s funny getting to know a grandfather when you’re already seventeen. It’s like you should already know his quirks, but you just don’t.
“You okay?” she asks when we’re at the bottom of the stairs. She sits down, so I do too.
“I guess so,” I say, looking down at the ground. “I’m exhausted thinking about it, but I’m glad I know. We’re flying home —”
“He told me,” Aisha says.
“I’m well aware that I’m an asshole. The volleyball game was not my finest hour. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Me too. And just so you know, Brianna’s over. She wanted a one-time thing. So I guess I probably overreacted about how exciting it all was.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, but in truth I feel relieved. Does that make me a bad person?
“I do that again and again. I get all excited about someone new, and it’s too much, too soon. I did it with Kayla and I did it again here.”
I don’t have a whole lot of relationship wisdom to share, so again I just say, “Sorry.”
“I’ve never been looked at like that before,” she says.
I cock my head at her. “You’re looked at everywhere you go, actually.”
“Maybe. But this was different. It was, like, people liked what they saw, instead of me just standing out as different. I loved it.”
I take a look at my friend, my beautiful friend. She is even better on the inside than the outside, and people don’t know that. They don’t see it. I wish people could see what I see. “I get that,” I say.
“I’m not your sidekick,” Aisha blurts out.
“What?”
She turns toward me. “All this trip, it’s like, Carson’s stuff. We’re in my car, but this is Carson’s journey. To find your grandfather. Did it ever occur to you, even once, that I might be doing this for me too?”
I bite my lip. I’m learning to not say the first thing that comes to my mind, I guess, because I don’t say, This wasn’t just some trip. This is my life we’re ta
lking about here. My grandfather. My dad. And then I’m so glad I don’t say it, because I hear it, and for the first time it occurs to me: Me. My life. Aisha. Her life. Shit. How come I’m so selfish and stupid and dense sometimes? She has her own life, and all this time I was treating her thing with her dad like it was some side issue, when for her it’s the issue.
I close my eyes, afraid to look at her. Finally I get up the courage to speak. “You’re right. I didn’t get that. I’m sorry. I get a little in my head, I guess.”
She nods, and then she smiles a bit, and I think, Say something! Say you’re cool with it! Say a joke! Anything!
But she doesn’t say anything. Just keeps that little, content smile on her face.
As an old lady pushing a shopping cart saunters by, Aisha says, “I’m okay if you want to be the sidekick in my life.”
“I’d be lucky to be that,” I say. “And by the way, you can kiss girls. I’ll learn not to want to stab them in the eye.”
“So can you. And I’d be jealous if you started kissing some girl too, by the way.”
I blush, for the first time ever with Aisha.
“Thanks for that,” I say.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, we take a nice stroll with Gomer through the Castro, Turk’s neighborhood. He explains that when he moved there, back in 1975, it was pretty much all gay. It’s become a lot more mixed, he says, his expression sour.
“So diversity is a bad thing?” I say.
Aisha and Turk share a look. “I forgot we have a breeder in our midst,” he says. He pats my shoulder condescendingly as we keep walking. “No, sweet child. Diversity is not a bad thing. But neither was having one neighborhood in all of America — back then, anyway — where it was considered normal to be gay. In fact, that would still be a nice thing.”
I say, “So you want to be normal? That sounds boring.”
They share another look. This has been happening a lot, this two against one thing. In the last fifteen hours, Aisha and Turk have become this team, and for once I’m not jealous. I get it. They have something in common. I’m just happy to see Aisha smiling and joking.
Scratch that. Aisha, Turk, and Gomer are a team. I’m not sure if Gomer is gay, but he did sleep with Aisha last night — the lucky dog. He hasn’t left her side since, possibly because she gives him these epic belly rubs. He stretches out on his back and she scratches his belly with both hands. In response, Gomer’s eyes and mouth open as wide as they can.
Yeah, I can see why people love dogs.
Gomer is trotting, prancing, really, his tail up like he’s proud to be taking a walk. Every person we meet needs to stop and fawn all over him, and Gomer greets them by standing up on his hind legs and attempting to lick their faces when they bend down. We wind through tree-lined streets chock-full of Victorian houses scrunched together. When we pass a nondescript cream-colored building with purple doors pushed up against a row of skinny Victorians, Turk stops.
“This is my church.”
Aisha and I laugh. I’ve known the man for a day, and the one thing he isn’t is religious. Last night at dinner, he started oversharing about his lack of a sex life in the last two decades. I’d never heard a seventy-year-old person talk about sex before, and frankly I’ll be okay if I don’t again for a while. But Turk doesn’t change expression.
“You serious?” Aisha says, an eyebrow raised.
“As a heart attack. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’re, like, Christian and a fag?”
“Whoa,” I say, but Turk doesn’t seem quite as taken aback.
“There are literally millions of us Christian fags, dear.”
“But don’t Christians basically think we’re going to hell?”
“ ‘Christian’ is a rather wide range. To group all Christians together is rather like grouping all homosexuals together, wouldn’t you say?”
I think back to Mr. Bailey saying the same thing, and I savor the irony of Turk and Mr. Bailey agreeing on something. Gomer pulls on his leash as a big dog trots by. Turk reins him in.
“All I know is my dad threw me out based on his beliefs, and he’s a Christian,” Aisha says.
Turk pulls her toward him, firmly but gently. “What your dad did,” he says directly into her ear, “that’s not Christlike, okay? That’s not Christian. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”
“Oh, he’s a real Christian all right,” Aisha says, and I feel my shoulders rise and tense.
“He may think that,” Turk says. “But true followers of Jesus Christ would never turn their back on a child who was suffering. That’s not conscionable. He’s living in fear.”
“Okay,” Aisha says.
We’re all more comfortable when Turk lets go of Aisha and we start walking again.
“Forgive me,” he says, chewing on his mustache. “I get so sick of assholes hijacking organized religion. Seriously. Somebody told your father, in the name of Christ, to kick you out of the house? Totally unacceptable. Sitting in a church makes you no more of a Christ follower than sitting in a Ford dealership makes you a Mustang owner.”
I say, “So you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God? That he was born without his mom having sex? That he was crucified and resurrected? That he died for our sins? Really?”
“Actually, I was born Jewish.”
I raise an eyebrow, as best I can, anyway. “Turk? What kind of Jewish name is that?”
“It’s a nickname. My given name is Tzuriel. It means ‘Rock of God’ in Hebrew.”
“I think Tzuriel Braverman came up when we Googled Turk Braverman back in wherever,” I say. “We didn’t pursue it, as we didn’t think it was a thing.”
He laughs. “Tzuriel is my given name, and my professional name. I’m an author. I tend to write about religion and sexuality.”
“You write books about God?” Aisha asks.
He nods.
“Cool,” she says, and I’m like, Yeah. It is kinda cool.
“So you’re Jewish?” she asks.
“Well, I was born Jewish. I love the Jewish religion, what it stands for. In essence, Judaism is about being the best person you can be. I love that. As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve dabbled here and there. I mean, how can you be Jewish or Christian when the Dalai Lama exists? How can you be Buddhist or Muslim when there’s Christ’s teachings? There are so many wise people who have taught us so many wise lessons. How can a person choose to follow only some of the wisdom of the world?”
I ask, “So you’re not Christian, but you go to church?”
“This is the Metropolitan Community Church. There are tons of open and affirming churches. To me, a church that isn’t open and affirming isn’t really a church at all. This one is run by and for LGBTQ people.”
I look at Aisha. She’s just staring at the building. “I wish I could go to a service here,” she says, and we go back to walking.
“Well, you’ll need to fly back and get your car, won’t you?”
Aisha nods. I’ve been so focused on our flight back to Billings later today and introducing Turk to my dad that I’d forgotten we’ll return here in a few days.
“Well then, it’s a date. You’ll love it. There’s so much love in there, so much kindness. I sometimes feel as though the walls can’t hold it all in.”
We walk for a while. I try to digest what he’s told me. He’s a Jew who goes to a church and loves the Dalai Lama. He talks about sex and he’s a recovering alcoholic with forty years in AA and he writes books about God and he drives his convertible too fast.
God, Grandpa, I think to myself. Why’d you have to marry such a stereotype?
Turk is a local celebrity. Every block, he runs into someone he knows and stops to hug. He introduces me to some people as his new grandson, and to others as “Russ’s grandson.” The first garners puzzled looks; the second gets me hugged tight the few times it comes up.
As we get back to Market Street, I say, “So you believe in heaven and hell?”
Turk p
ulls on Gomer’s leash to stop him from sniffing a big pile of poop. “To me, hell is on earth. We’ve all been to hell. Heaven too. Living well takes us there.”
I snort. It sounds like a slogan you’d see on some late-night infomercial by some quack with a bad toupee selling CDs for $59.99, money-back guarantee if not completely sent to heaven for eternity, some restrictions apply.
Turk gives me an admonishing look. “Look. I get that there are assholes out there. They were out in full force when my friends were dying. I just refuse to let them rule me. I think Christianity is mostly good. I think religion is mostly good, even if it’s been the cause of most of our wars. That comes from a lack of flexibility, from not allowing others to disagree. Rigidity is dangerous. When someone tells you they know exactly what God is, run from that person.”
“For you,” I say, thinking of what Laurelei said.
“Huh?” Turk says, as Gomer does a little lamb leap toward a dog that’s obviously familiar to him, since the other dog makes a similar leap in Gomer’s direction. That owner waves and the two dogs sniff each other’s snouts and begin to circle each other.
“Laurelei in Wyoming said that to me. She said whatever people believe about God is undeniably true, so long as it’s followed by the words, for me.”
“I like that,” Turk says. “And I’ll add a resounding ‘fuck you’ for anytime someone else tries to put their ‘for me’ on me.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Aisha says.
“The Porcupine of Truth,” I say.
Aisha rolls her eyes. “Inside joke,” she says to Turk. “Carson has no joke filter. When he’s uncomfortable, he goes for the laugh.”
“Oh, I’m familiar,” Turk says, as we turn onto a side street. “If I had a nickel for every time Russ would say some nonsense when things got real. It was utterly adorable and truly obnoxious.”
Aisha puts her finger on her nose and points at Turk, who laughs.
“I’m standing right here,” I say. “Am I invisible?”
Turk ruffles my hair. “What’s the Porcupine of Truth?” he asks.
Aisha explains it to him. He takes it all in and slowly nods. “That’s definitely something Russ would have invented,” he says, his eyes a little sad.
The Porcupine of Truth Page 22