by Ty Jacob
His dad sat down and looked at the floor, and neither of them said anything. It was like sitting in a room with a rattlesnake and no doors.
He saw now that his dad was a lot like the johns he used to meet in bars – not that his dad was gay. It was something else. All his life Mike had lived with his dad’s drunken unpredictability. The man seemed to move back and forth at random between sadness and anger. It was never clear which one was next until you were alone with him.
It was Paul coming down the stairs that saved Mike now.
“Mike, how about a beer?” Paul said.
Mike’s dad interrupted. “Sure, I’ll take a one.”
Paul hesitated, then nodded, picked up the empty beer can on the coffee table, and turned back to Mike. “How about you?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Not even a Coca-Cola?”
“Okay.” Mike wanted to keep his head clear. There was still a rattlesnake in the room.
Lisa came down carrying a little baby that was wearing only a diaper and a white T-shirt. Mike was amazed at how small it was. “Sit on the couch,” Lisa said. “You can hold her.”
“I’ve never held one before.”
“I’ll show you. It’s okay. Sit down. You’ll have to learn sometime. You’ll be holding your own son or daughter some day. Abbey will need cousins, Michael Dudley. And you better provide.” She smiled, clearly trying to soften her words.
As Lisa set his niece down into his arms, Paul was already leaning over behind her, saying “Make sure you support her head, Mike. It’s all about the head.” Lisa nudged him away.
Looking down at Abby, Mike was surprised by the surge of fear he felt. Here was this tiny little thing, still somewhat sleeping, so incredibly helpless, relying on the people around her for her very life. She was perfect. It was like holding a rare and fragile piece of china, one of his mother’s figurines in the cabinet behind him – the lady with the billowing dress, or one of the porcelain doves. As a child he’d never been allowed to touch them. The most valuable things were always so easy to break. He touched Abby’s miniature pink hand with his finger. She made little sounds, peeps and squawks. He laughed. “She makes noises like a chicken.”
Lisa laughed too. “That’s my girl.”
“Hey, little chicken,” Mike said. This baby had never seemed real before now, not even as he was buying it presents – her presents. Before she was just an idea, something mentioned over the phone. But now here she was. And she was delicate. And he was certain that he was going to break it.
“Take her, please,” Mike said. He felt like an alien in this place.
Lisa frowned and reached out her arms. “Let’s go out back.”
There was no fence at all around the backyard. Everyone’s patch of lawn was open to the others. Nobody here had anything to hide. Lisa walked Mike around, showing him everything she’d planted, carrying Abby. “I did it all myself. This is the wisteria I planted last year.” She pointed to a trellis at the back of the house. “It’s coming in nicely, don’t you think?”
Behind them, their dad and Paul had come outside. They were sitting down to drink their beers on the deck.
“Yes, very nice,” Mike said. He was amazed by the fastidiousness of everything, the careful edging around every flowerbed.
“I was going to plant roses, but I hate those gosh-darned thorns. I planted marigolds instead. See? Aren’t they pretty?”
Orange and gold flowers stood in perfect little rows, and Mike realized that he would never be able to tell Lisa about himself, about what he did for a living. There was no room for the prickly tangle of his life here in this garden, this perfect place that Lisa had made.
She turned to him and spoke quietly. “You didn’t seem so happy to see Dad.”
“That’s clearly mutual.”
“I wish you two got along better. I don’t understand.”
Suddenly Abby opened up her mouth like she was revving up for something. She had tiny pink gums. She began to cry.
“She’s hungry,” Lisa said. “All she does is eat and sleep and poopy-doop. I’ll go feed her. You go talk with Dad and Paul. Be nice.”
There were four white deck chairs. His dad and Paul were sitting in two, and the others were empty. Mike sat down and picked up his Coke.
“Great back yard,” he said to Paul, trying to be nice.
“Thanks,” Paul said.
Mike’s dad spoke up then. “You’re drinking soda pop like some sissy boy. Why don’t you be a man, have a beer with us?”
Mike turned to look at him. This was the first thing the man had said directly to him since he’d arrived, and that made it the first thing he’d said to him in twelve years. It almost felt like the continuation of their last conversation. Mike shook his head. “No thanks, Dad. I’m okay.”
“Los Angeles is makin’ you soft, boy.” His dad said the name of the city as though it rhymed with cheese. Los Angeleese.
“I work out every day, old man,” Mike said with a smile. “Nothin’s gonna make me soft.” He slapped his hard stomach as he looked down at his dad’s frail frame.
They fell into silence.
“It’s a hot one today,” Paul said. “Not a lot of rain lately.”
“Mmm,” Mike’s dad said.
They were sitting in silence when Lisa came out, still carrying Abby, who had on a tiny yellow hat with a duck on the front.
“You’re all so quiet out here,” Lisa said. “Sounds like it’s a funeral, not a family reunion. Paul, tell them about that new subdivision that’s going up over the road.” She turned to Mike. “It’s full of mini-mansions.” She sat down, holding the baby in one arm and a Diet Coke in the other. Her brown hair was catching the sun.
Mike took a long breath, looked out across the perfectly manicured lawn, and decided to leave. Tomorrow morning he would make up some excuse, tell some kind of lie that would allow him to return to LA early. He already knew that he would never come back here again.
37. Porn Star Roast Dinners
SASHA TOOK THE large chicken out of its plastic bag and set it in her brand new roasting pan on the kitchen counter. Its juices ran down her fingers. With her kitchen scissors she cut shapes out of tin foil: two circles, one triangle, and a few long straight lines. She set the silver shapes aside. It was then that she remembered to rinse. She picked up the bird and ran it under the faucet, inside and out, and patted it dry. Next she stuffed the chicken with apple slices, dribbled a mixture of apple juice and olive oil over the outside, and seasoned it with freshly ground cloves.
It wasn’t easy to tie the wings up behind where the chicken’s head should be, but she managed. This would be a new arrangement for the chicken, and she couldn’t wait to see how it would turn out. She pushed the legs apart so that they weren’t pressed up against the body and she placed the tin foil shapes across the cold skin, pushing them down firmly. Finally she put the chicken into the oven, along with another roasting pan full of cut potatoes, and she wiped her hands on her red and white gingham apron.
Billy had called yesterday to say he was coming home from Ohio early. He would be home today. “It’s just too hard here,” he’d said. She offered to pick him up at the airport, but he told her that Rafael doing that.
“I’ll be home by 5:00 at the latest.”
“It’ll be Sunday. I’ll make a roast dinner,” she said.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Because of the Hard Place tour, they hadn’t had a roast dinner together in over a month. That was far too long.
She smoothed out her apron now. Underneath she had on a conservative seafoam green dress that flared just below the knees. The look she was going for today was of a 1950s housewife. The dress was complemented by a pearl necklace with matching earrings, a very sensible bobbed, blond wig, and heels that were just high enough to give her some style but not so high as to make it difficult to go about merrily dusting and vacuuming, at least in theory. For a roast dinner, the fash
ion was as important as the food.
She never understood why Billy kept the charade going with his sister, saying that he earned his living as an actor, refusing to come out to her. Sasha refused to hide the truth for anyone, not even her family. Of course there had been a time, back in the days of the dinosaurs, when as an awkward teen she’d tried on dresses only in secret, but happily that time was long gone. Now Sasha marched into Women’s Plus shops all over LA and made a point of looking surprised and insulted whenever the sales ladies told her there were no changing rooms for men. Invariably she would charm the staff and they would let her use the ladies’ changing rooms, or sometimes the staff bathroom.
Unfortunately, her own family had never been as understanding as the Women’s Plus sales staff, nor as easily charmed. Since moving to LA, Sasha had been entirely honest with her parents about her life, and they’d responded years ago by cutting off all contact. Some people just couldn’t handle having a transvestite homosexual pornographer for a son. To make it worse, when her parents ended contact she also lost her two brothers. They were just memories now. If she called they slammed down the phone in a conspiracy of silence. It felt to her as though they were all dead, as though her entire family had been snuffed out by an awful, cataclysmic event.
There were times when she missed them. She had fond memories of her Nebraskan childhood, her mother’s own roast dinners every Sunday, her incredible pancakes, the family trips to Lake McConaughy in the summer. Nevertheless, she was convinced that it was better this way, better to lose your entire family than to lose yourself.
The orange of the carrots and the green of the zucchini looked handsome in the silver pan on the counter. These roast meals, which had started intermittently in the Sasha-Billy household years ago, were now a firmly established and regular Sunday tradition. It was something to rely on, a kind of soothing constant in an otherwise erratic and occasionally perilous universe. Sometimes she invited others. Sometimes it was just she and Billy. She called them her Porn Star Roast Dinners.
In spite of the obvious potential for debauchery, the dinners were meant to be purely wholesome affairs. Most times they were. In fact, they had descended into orgies only twice – when she’d served far too much wine and invited far too many people (at least ten both times if she remembered correctly) – but nevertheless those two dinners were the ones everybody still talked about. People told stories about them in bars and on shoots. She didn’t mind. A little infamy was good for the soul. Not being one to let an opportunity pass by, she’d naturally joined the orgy on both occasions, even though whenever she laid a hand on Billy, he quietly and rather predictably moved away. Each time she’d made do with the other young men in the room, who all seemed very happy to accommodate a director with such a sizeable talent as hers.
She put two bottles of chardonnay in the fridge and began setting the table. Tonight it was dinner for five. If this particular meal were a film she would perhaps call it Roast Chicken Rumpus, and the credits would say that it starred Billy Knight, Phil Dass, Günter Besenkammer, and that annoying Rafael Herrera. Sasha, of course, would direct.
She couldn’t wait for Billy to get home. She had a surprise for him, and she was looking forward to telling him.
Günter was invited only because he was dating Phil now, and Sasha liked Phil. Up until recently, she’d only seen Günter as Steve’s spying, coke snorting assistant, but rumor had it Günter had given up the cocaine altogether and mellowed as a result. If nothing else, at least the boy was consistently good eye candy. He did, after all, have the most beautiful biceps in Southern California.
By the time everything was ready, it was just past 5:00. Billy was a little late. She poured herself a glass of chardonnay, and then sat down in Billy’s armchair in the front room. The burgundy upholstery enveloped her.
Looking over toward the gorgeous dining room table, she suddenly found herself wondering if her life could stay this way forever. She loved living with Billy. Would he ever tire of her and move in with some hunky lummox like Renaldo instead? She didn’t think so. She hoped not. She had resolved, long ago, to never let that happen. Fortunately, although Billy slept with a lot of men, he hadn’t become emotionally attached to any of them since Kerry. She would do it again if she had to – get rid of whoever threatened to take him from her, do whatever was necessary to keep him at her side. She had no qualms about it. Even if their relationship wasn’t perfect, Billy was hers. She would never let him go.
She looked at the clock and realized he was a full fifteen minutes late. She got up and basted the chicken and then peeked underneath the foil shapes. Her new arrangement was working. It was going to look absolutely marvelous.
Phil and Günter were the first to arrive, even before Billy, and they each carried a bottle of wine. Günter was wearing jeans and a hot pink mesh tank top, but Phil – bless his queer little heart – was in full drag.
Long ago Sasha had realized that Phil was more ashamed of wanting to wear dresses than of actually getting fucked on camera for money. But now here he was, finally dressed like he should be.
From the moment they arrived, Sasha saw that Günter was treating Phil like a real lady – gesturing for Phil to enter the apartment before he did, allowing Phil to sit down first. Günter was clearly unlike the mass of gay men, who found drag entertaining but wouldn’t be caught dead dating a man in a dress. It seemed Günter actually liked Phil in drag. Thank the goddess! Phil needed this. He needed to feel okay in women’s clothing. What was wrong with it anyway? Why did it distress some people so much – even the ones who wanted to do it? Phil’s dress was a low-cut, black sequined thing, far too flashy for a Sunday roast. He obviously needed some pointers on makeup, but the Audrey Hepburn-like French twist in his brunette wig and the elegant, majestic way he carried himself revealed that he was off to a very good start.
“Call me Phillipa,” Phil said.
“Ooooo!” Sasha squealed. “Girl knows how to work it.” She poured two more glasses of chardonnay and proposed a toast. “To Philippa.”
“Yes. To Philippa,” Günter said, and although it sounded like he’d once again lost his notoriously unreliable German accent, he was looking over at Philippa with such a distracted, warm smile that this time Sasha found the loss almost endearing. They clinked glasses and drank, and then Günter reached over and kissed Philippa lightly on the cheek. Already Sasha liked Günter more than ever.
“And to you too, Sasha.” Philippa raised her glass. “A toast to Sasha Zahore. For being such an inspiration to us all.”
“Oh, stop it,” Sasha said. “I’m just another run-of-the-mill cock in a frock.”
Günter cut her off. “No, Sasha. It’s true.” He raised his glass. “To you, for being so, so… you.”
They clinked glasses a second time. Sasha mumbled “Enough already,” and waved her hand dismissively in the air, although she loved it.
“I’m glad we’re here first,” Philippa said. “Sasha, Günter has something he wants to tell you.”
Günter stared at the floor. He and Philippa were sitting like a happy couple side-by-side on the sofa, the sporty jock and the little queen. Sasha glanced toward the door, wondering where Billy was.
“Go on, tell her,” Philippa said. “We made a deal. I came in drag, now you tell her the truth.”
Günter paused, then looked up at Sasha. “I’m not German.”
Sasha couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. That accent goes in and out more often than my dildo.”
Günter visibly winced.
“I’m sorry, doll,” Sasha said. She had to remember to be kind to Günter. Philippa liked him. “So you’re not from Frankfurt? Where are you from then? Lithuania? Albania? Bulgavadavia?”
“No,” Günter said. “I am from Frankfurt, kind of. Except I’m from Frankfort, Tennessee. That’s Frankfort with an O.”
Sasha snorted but quickly regained her composure. “Really? Frankfort-with-an-O, Tennessee? I had no idea t
here was such a place.”
“It’s not really a town. More like a road with some houses on it. It’s two hours east of Nashville, in Morgan County. Near Catoosa. Lots of game hunters there. Deer, wild boar, and wild turkey. We also hunt fox squirrels, gray squirrels, ruffed grouse, racoons, quail, and rabbits. Good fishing too.”
“Well, well. Aren’t you both full of surprises tonight?”
“Tell her the rest,” Philippa said. “Go on.”
“My name’s not Günter.”
Sasha leaned forward. “The wonders never cease. What’s your name, doll?”
“It’s Earl.”
“Earl?” Sasha blinked, swooping her eyelashes like tiny birds. “That’s fantastic. What a fabulous name.”
“When I came to LA, I didn’t think Steve would hire me at Cougar if I was some hick from Tennessee, so I said I was German. He still doesn’t know.”
Sasha could already hear the southern accent starting to creep back into this young man’s voice. It was delightful. “Well, Günter – I mean Earl. Don’t you worry about Steve. I’ll take care of him. He’ll be fine.”
“And tell her the other bit,” Philippa said, nodding toward Sasha as though to push forward the words.
Earl stared at the floor again. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“You’re talking to men in dresses, bitch.” Sasha snapped her fingers. “Spit it out.”
“I play the banjo.”
Sasha jolted back, put her hand on her chest, and gasped. “The banjo?!”
“It’s horrible, I know.”
Philippa reached out a thin, well-toned arm and patted Earl’s knee. Her sequins shimmered. “He’s very good, Sasha. You should hear him. He’s really talented.”
“Do you really, seriously play the banjo?” Sasha asked.
“To some extent a guy from Tennessee has no choice.”
“Go on, tell her how good you are,” Philippa said.
“Before I left Tennessee I was three-time Junior Banjo Champion for Tennessee State.”