Page Turner Pa (17 page)

Closing the magazine, she stuffed it back under the bed, and resumed her vacuuming.

P
AMELA WASN'T SURE
whether to make the sour cream coffee cake or the lemon nut bars. Generally speaking the sour cream coffee cake was more of a crowd pleaser; then again the lemon nut bars were her own recipe. Finally she decided to make both (it took her the better part of three hours), after which, evading the Christmas tree, which had started shedding its needles, she went to examine herself in the mirror. Her hair, dyed in Rome, was gradually being reclaimed by its natural gray-blond tones, as if by some voracious species of weed. And how thin she looked! A sack of hot bones in a scratchy sweater, pilled and pulled, the frayed sleeves stretching so far below her hands that she could clutch at the hems, was even now clutching at the hems, with bitten fingernails.

"All right," she said, "enough," and pulled the sweater over her head. "Enough," she repeated, running a brush through her hair; though it was too late to get it cut, at least she could untangle some of the knots. Next she put on the pretty pink outfit she'd bought at Valentino, spritzed some perfume onto her neck, gathered up the desserts, and headed into the garage. Ten to seven in the evening on the fifth of January: the kids gone almost a week. "I must take that thing down," she reminded herself as she passed the drooping tree, still festooned with ornaments they had made in their childhood. Still, she could not quite bear the idea, not because she felt any sentimental attachment to the thing, but because the prospect of denuding it spoke too much to her of endings. Her stomach clenched at the image of the corpse lying next to the garbage cans, a few strands of tinsel still clinging to its branches, as if to say, This is what it comes down to: we make an adored icon of a thing, only to hurl it out to languish in bad weather. And when we pass it every day, the filaments of tinsel, gleaming in the winter sunlight, seem almost to wink at us: all hope murdered.
There is no greater woe than to recall past bliss in misery.

In the car, she tried not to think about where she was going. Indeed, only when she found herself turning left into Diane Moss's cul-de-sac did the first surge of panic seize her; suddenly she could not go through with it, and circling swiftly round the little eyelet at the end of the cul-de-sac—it always reminded her of spermatozoa—headed toward home. Then, halfway there, she changed her mind again, not because some new bravery had announced itself in her, but because the prospect of another evening alone, with only the dead Christmas tree to cheer her, seemed intolerable. At least the meeting was company. And so she made another U-turn, crawled cautiously down the cul-de-sac, parked in front of the Mosses' house. The driveway was already full of cars. Through the living room windows she could see warm firelight, the glimmer of the Christmas tree, a big woman in red holding a mug to her lips.

Cakes in hand, she rang the bell. "Pammy!" Diane said, kissing her on the cheek. "I'm so glad you came!"

"I brought these," she answered, handing Diane red boxes.

"Wonderful. I'll put them on the buffet. Come on in." Diane ushered her through into the living room, where eight or ten women, most of them Pamela's age or older, were hovering around the fireplace. Some talked; others kept to themselves. One glanced at her assessingly. Diane's dining room chairs were arranged to form a circle with the sofa and armchairs, while on the buffet an array of cakes and cookies had been spread out, so opulent it might have been a Christmas party. And what a weird, yet soothing, coincidence that when she had called the support group number, Diane had answered! She would have never guessed about Teddy. Also soothing to note that she was not the only one whom the meeting had inspired to bake.

Brushing crumbs off her skirt, which was tartan plaid and fastened with a safety pin, Diane strode to the center of the room. "All right, ladies," she said, sitting down on the sofa. "Shall we begin?"

The other women took their places.

"We have a few new members to our group whom I'd like to welcome. First, Enid." (She indicated the large woman in red.)

"Hello," Enid said.

"Hello," the others answered in unison.

Enid coughed, extracted a mint from her black pocketbook. "I'm not sure where to begin," she admitted.

"Just take your time. You're among friends."

"All right. Well, the reason I'm here is that this Christmas my boy, my Allen, came home and told us that he was, you know, gay. And I've just been ... well, I'm really having a hard time adjusting to it. I mean, you know, it's not something I ever expected to happen." (The other women nodded; they knew.) "Allen's a normal boy and all, he's not effeminate or anything, and it seems to me, he's only twenty-one, it's a little early for him to be making a choice, you know? But he says it isn't a choice." (She mangled her purse strap.) "So that's why I'm here. To find out what I should say because every time I try to talk to him I really put my foot in it."

She closed her lips. "Thank you, Enid," the women responded chorally, after which Diane added, "Our next new member is Caroline."

"
Carolyn,
" a gaunt woman in a beige pantsuit interrupted.

"Sorry. Carolyn."

"Mind if I smoke?" Given the go-ahead, Carolyn lit up. "Okay, I'm in a little bit of a different situation from you, Enid, because my son came out to me five years ago. The whole acceptance thing, we're already through that. I can handle his being gay. What I can't handle"—she exhaled—"is his lifestyle. He's twenty-five and he's not doing anything. He lives up in San Francisco and he works in this shop that's called—I'm not kidding—Does Your Mother Know?" (The other women laughed.) "And the thing is, I read about AIDS and all, and I really worry, because he's not in a steady relationship, and as far as I can tell he spends most of his time at the leather bars. I try to talk to him about it, I try to tell him he should find himself some nice guy and settle down, and he shuts me up. He says it's none of my business. Is there an ashtray?" (Diane handed her one.) "So that's why I'm here. I'm wondering if anyone else has had the same experience."

"Thank you, Carolyn," Diane said. "We'll talk about this after our third new member has spoken. Our third new member is Pamela. I have to interject here that Pamela is an old pal of mine. Our boys went to high school together, and now they're roommates in New York."

"Hello, Pamela."

"Hello." As was her habit in moments of anxiety, she balled a tissue in her fist. "Well, first of all, thank you, Diane, for inviting me. I'm also in a little bit of a different situation than the others because my son ... well, he hasn't actually
told
me he's, um, gay." She gulped. "In fact ... but I'm ashamed to admit it."

"Go on," Diane urged quietly.

"All right. The only reason I found out was that when he was home for Christmas I was cleaning his room one day—he was at the mall with his brother—and I found a magazine. You know, only men. God, I'm so embarrassed!"

"I did the same thing," one of the women said.

"It's okay, honey," another said.

"Anyway, after that, I—well, I guess I just have to come out with it. I went through his suitcase." She closed her eyes. "And there was a picture ... a picture of a man we met when we were on vacation in Italy this summer. The picture showed Kim when he was younger, but I recognized him plain as day. And on the back he'd written"—again, she gulped—"You are all that I wish for."

She pulled at her lips.

"Well, it all clicked then. What was really going on when we were in Rome, why he and Paul spent nearly all their time together. I should have known, but I didn't. Then just as I was putting the picture back Pauly came home, and I had to stuff everything into the suitcase, and I think I must have put the clothes back differently than he'd had them—Paul's very fastidious about these things—because at dinner he kept looking at me strangely. And of course I had to stay quiet. I had to pretend nothing was going on. That was the worst part." She paused, drank some water from a glass that Diane had handed her. "So, as you can imagine, I've been having a very hard time with this. If I tell him I went through his things he'll be furious. On the other hand I want to get him away from this man because I'm convinced he's influencing Paul negatively."

She stopped talking. From across the room one of the other women, tall, with long black hair, dressed in lime green, was gazing at her with peculiar urgency.

"If you want to know what I think, you've got to tell him," Carolyn said.

"Come clean. Admit what you did. He'll be mad at first, but he'll get over it."

"Then you can move on to the more important things, like making sure he's practicing safe sex."

"But how can we know?"

"By being absolutely frank. You just say, sweetheart, let's talk turkey. Are you taking precautions?"

"Especially if your son's a bottom. No matter what the studies say, I'm absolutely convinced, it's more dangerous if they're bottoms."

"Whether they're tops or bottoms," Diane said, "the most important thing is to educate them about condom use. The younger boys don't always know the facts. For instance, only to use water-based lubricants."

"Otherwise the condoms disintegrate."

"And what about oral sex?
Is
oral sex safe?"

"I'm not sure. Some say yes, some say no. Certainly it's worse if you've got cuts in your mouth."

"Oh God." Enid started weeping. "Oh God, I can't stand it anymore. And his father hit him on the face. On Christmas day. My mother crying. Why me? My sister, all her boys—"

Enid howled. The other women comforted her. In the wake of such visceral pain, Pamela's own question had been forgotten. Such outbursts, she had the feeling, they knew how to manage. And yet AIDS—that was a different matter. There was suddenly unease in the room, as if with its mention some tenuous balance had been thrown off.

Meanwhile the woman across the way, the one in green, kept staring at her, moving her lips silently. What message was she trying to send?

After about an hour the official part of the meeting ended. The women descended upon the sideboard, attacking the food with a ferocity they would never have shown in the presence of men. Some cakes languished, while others—Pamela's sour cream in particular—went in a second. And from its popularity she derived an obscure sense of pride. How unlikely that at such a moment some vestige of old, ordinary experience, such as pride in baking, should slip through—as if it were a PTA meeting, and Paul waiting at home! Even in crisis, it seemed, the old hungers persisted.

To the commonplaces of Pamela's life, nostalgia now lent a veneer of preciousness. Even around her unhappiness, her chronic dissatisfactions, a halo of sentimental fondness formed. For at least in those days there had been someone to come home to.

It was at this desolated moment that she felt the tap on her shoulder and, turning, found herself face to face with the woman in green, the one who had been staring at her.

"I have to introduce myself," the woman said. "This is very weird. I almost couldn't believe it myself. And maybe you'll slug me, but that's the risk I've got to take because here, at least, we're all in the same boat, aren't we?"

The woman smiled. Her teeth were a little crooked; stained from smoking.

"What are you talking about?" Pamela asked.

"I'm Muriel," the woman said. "Muriel Peete."

Pamela stepped back. "But I—"

"Don't blame Diane. She has no idea. Why should she? As far as she's concerned I'm just Muriel, which isn't that common a name but enough of one, and anyway, until tonight I had no idea you and she were friends. Of course I recognized you the minute you walked in the door. There are pictures in Kelso's wallet. I looked at them, I admit it. I was curious. I thought you were so pretty!" She smiled again, free from self-consciousness, despite her teeth. "I suppose you recognized me too—"

"No! Why should I have?"

"I assumed—but I guess not. I guess there's no reason you would have." Muriel swayed from one foot to the other. "Well, it just goes to show you. Anyway, I realize you probably don't want to talk to me. I feel horrible about what happened, really, Pamela. May I call you Pamela? Only Kelso says you're doing better now—"

"Not really."

"Oh. You're not?"

"No, things are pretty terrible." She looked her rival in the eye. Such an ugly woman, finally! It was almost gratifying: as if what Kelso was saying wasn't, You're not good enough, but rather, You're too good. I need someone lower, on my own level.

For a few seconds they were silent. Then Muriel said, "Okay, I guess that's it. Anyway, before I go off and stick my head in the sand, I just want to say, you should count yourself lucky. Your boy sounds like at least he's leading a steady life. Whereas my Stewart, when he came home for Christmas, he had this big sore on his lip—and what are you supposed to say to something like that? I ask you. What are you supposed to do? I could barely eat the Christmas turkey, thinking how he got it, who gave it to him." She shook her head. "Well, that's all. Good-bye, Pamela. You don't have to shake my hand. I'm glad to know you, I hope one day ... no, that's asking too much. Good-bye."

She left. To her surprise, Pamela found she was still standing in exactly the same spot where she'd been interrupted. In her hand the same plate on which someone else's not very good brownie, too dry, was breaking up.

All at once she was glad she'd taken the trouble to dress up, wished only that she
had
gotten a haircut.

"Well, what did you think?" Diane asked, coming up to her. "Was the meeting good for you?"

"Oh, fine. Still, that poor woman I was talking to just now, with the teeth"—she pointed in Muriel's direction—"I must say, I do feel sorry for her. It sounds like her son's really promiscuous!"

Diane smiled feebly, as across her own cheerful face, a tiny tremor passed. Then she said very primly, "Promiscuous is a word we don't use. It's judgmental."