Waltzing at Midnight (30 page)

I laughed. “Not exactly just like it.”

“Oh, well, close enough. What’s twenty-five years, more or less?” Faye’s eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. “Can you imagine?”

“You’re nuts,” I said, “even if Rosie would go along with it.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Rosie’s afraid, I think, to even imagine the future. These sorts of ceremonies are all about a belief in just that, your future together. Besides, she’s come right out and said that marriage is not for her, and I don’t see why she would feel any differently about a commitment ceremony.” We had arrived at my office door. “It’s a wild idea, Faye, but I’m sure your family will be much happier if we don’t realize our teenage fantasy of a double wedding, under the circumstances.”

After congratulating her again, I said good-bye to Faye and settled back into my work day, musing over her crazy idea. I didn’t care about a ceremony. I had done it once. All that mattered to me was that Rosie and I were together and we were happy. Still, it was a funny idea, and the image of Faye’s parents sitting through 222

such a ceremony made me chuckle. Her brothers, too, all older than Faye, looking like jocks and lumberjacks—well, her family would certainly boycott such a thing
en masse
.

And what about my family, I thought. Outside of Amy, I wasn’t having much luck on that front. I still hadn’t spoken to Bradley, and I couldn’t muster the courage to talk to my parents at all about my situation. In phone conversations with my mother, the subject of Rosie was carefully avoided. I knew she knew the truth because Amy told me that remarks had been made, but neither of us spoke of it. I was afraid to discuss it with her. It was easier to pretend there was nothing to discuss. But that was getting increasingly uncomfortable.

“You can’t really have a meaningful relationship of any kind,”

Tyler said during one of our many talks on this subject, “if you keep pretending. It’s like the whole Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy.

It’s such a pile of shit. If you don’t mention it, it doesn’t exist. Bull crap! The fact that they can make a national policy out of that kind of flimsy lie is absurd.”

“You have come out to your parents, haven’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, sure. When I was fifteen. I was in a cold sweat for days beforehand, working up the courage. When I told them, my father went berserk and demanded that I recant and my mother broke down and wept. But I was so relieved because at least I had said it, you know.”

“And they recovered?”

“They recovered completely. So completely that they forgot.

I had to keep telling them, over and over, and they just stared blankly like they didn’t see me. And my mother kept inviting girls over for me to meet. Once she even devised some ridiculous scheme to leave me alone in the house with this girl, this skank, thinking that hormones would take over and I’d be cured. To this day, they still don’t acknowledge that I’m gay. They tell lies to relatives and they avoid certain subjects. If they talk about homosexuality at all, they do so as if it has nothing to do with them, like an abstract idea or something that happens in other places, to other people. Right in front of me! It’s much easier just 223

not being around them.”

“That’s too bad,” I said.

“Yes, well, I’ve adapted. I have a new family now.” He smiled at me. “You know, if everybody got to pick their own family members, they’d never pick the same people God stuck them with.”

True, I thought, laughing. One thing Tyler and I had discovered, personally and through our research, was the pain and damage that silence could inflict. You didn’t have to tell the whole world if that was too difficult, but you did at least have to tell the people who loved you. What was the point of being loved, after all, by someone who didn’t know who you were?

When my mother invited me for Easter dinner, I accepted, but after hanging up the phone, felt frustrated with myself. I called right back and said, “Mom, does your invitation include Rosie?”

“Well, dear,” she began, “your father doesn’t like to have strangers around. You know how he is. Just family for holidays.”

I was feeling particularly reckless. “Rosie shouldn’t be a stranger to you. We come as a package.”

“Your father won’t like it.”

“Don’t use Dad as an excuse. Do you want us to come or not?”

She stuttered momentarily, then said, “Yes, of course. Don’t get upset. Of course she can come.”

“Fine,” I said a little too harshly.

Easter—or the vernal equinox, as Rosie called it—at my parents’ house was going to be a significant event. This would be the first time Rosie had come into contact with several members of my family, including Bradley who, Mom assured me, would be there with his girlfriend Brenna.

“Calm down,” Rosie said as I chattered on about whether we should have put miniature marshmallows in the ambrosia salad after all. I turned down the quiet street where my parents lived, a neighborhood shaded by giant old elm trees.

“My mother thinks she’s a gourmet cook ever since she 224

developed the habit of putting together incongruous ingredients like cinnamon and chicken livers. That was how she dealt with
her
mid-life crisis. Sorry to put you through this, Rosie.”

“Don’t worry. The worst that could happen is a nasty fight in which a hotheaded family member pulls out a shotgun and wastes a few of us.” An image of Dad’s fully stocked gun cabinet came to mind. I stiffened. Rosie slapped my shoulder. “Laugh.

It’s a joke. And, believe me, this is going to be a breeze compared to when I take you to meet my family.”

“Oh, God,” I said.

When we arrived, Amy’s Honda was already parked in the driveway. Rosie, seeming carefree, grabbed the salad bowl and jumped out of the car. “Nice place,” she observed. “I like this part of town. It’s got character. It’s not row after row of houses with the same front door and false brick facing around the garage.”

Amy came bursting from the house and skipping toward us.

“Hi, guys.” I hugged her. Rosie hugged her with her free arm.

“Grandma’s nervous,” she whispered to me.

“Me too,” I said. “Is Bradley here?”

“Not yet.” Amy forged the way into the house where my father lounged in his La-Z-Boy recliner. He pulled himself up to meet Rosie. His smile was forced. What a day this was going to be.

My mother, when we approached her in the kitchen, didn’t even try to disguise her disapproval, though she may have thought she did. She wiped her hand on a towel before extending it to Rosie with a formal, “How do you do?” I was mortified.

“I’m so glad to meet you,” Rosie said. “What a lovely kitchen.

Oh, and that aroma.” Rosie sniffed the air. “Enticing. Ham, obviously, but something else. What is that smell? Very familiar.

Is it mustard? Did you put a mustard paste on that ham?”

“Why, yes,” my mother said, brightening. “It’s a mustard and roasted garlic paste, in fact.”

“My grandmother used to bake ham just that way. I haven’t had it for decades. What a treat!”

That’s right, Rosie, aim for the tender spot, you old 225

politician.

“Isn’t that interesting?” Mom said. “Where was your grandmother from?”

I left Rosie to charm my mother, relaxing a bit. Could she pull it off? I went out into the backyard to pet the dog. They’ll like her if they give her a chance, I told myself. Everybody does. Amy came out and positioned herself on a chaise lounge, sunglasses on, arms and legs bare. “You shouldn’t lie in the sun,” I said. “You know how dangerous it is.”

“I’ve got sunscreen on, Mom. Chill. I’ve got to get a head start on summer.” Amy rolled up her shirt so her stomach was exposed to the sun. “Now,” she said, “if I were going to the south of France like some people I know, I could get a whole-body tan lying naked on the beach.”

“I’m not going to the south of France. I’m going to Paris.”

“Speaking of Paris,” Amy said without looking at me, “do you know where that old saying comes from, ‘We’ll always have Paris’?”

That old saying, I thought, amused. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. And I guess you do too, now that you’ve seen the movie.”

“Dad thinks we ought to watch
Gone With the Wind
next.”

“Interesting choices he’s making for you. And that’s a good one since you are so fond of saying, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’”

“Is that from
Gone With the Wind
?” she asked. “Who knew there were all these cool old movies where characters repeat all my catch phrases?”

I laughed and then remembered the ordeal I was about to be faced with. “What is your brother’s state of mind about me lately?”

“We’ve had some talks. He’s trying to deal with it. I think I’ve convinced him that you’re not coming back. Yes, I think we’ve got him successfully through the denial phase.” Amy spoke with her idea of a German accent. “The boy is suffering from what he perceives is a rejection by the mother, a rejection of the masculine lover, ergo, the son. He is further confused by the conflict of 226

viewing his mother as both the nurturing teat and the…” In her own voice, she said, “Ah, well, let’s not go into that.”

“Why don’t you take anything seriously?”

“Because it’s so boring. Besides, you wouldn’t like it, would you?”

I considered that for a moment, then said, “Probably not.”

“He was at school the other day, you know, when you gave your talk.”

“He was?”

“Yes. He wanted to see you, but he didn’t want you to know he was there.”

“Did he say anything about it?” I asked anxiously.

“He said he didn’t recognize you, like you weren’t his mother at all.”

I sighed. “Great.”

“But I told him about our lunch afterward, how excited you were. And I told him that maybe you weren’t the same, but you were really happy now, and that was better, at least for you. I think maybe that made an impression on him. I mean, like, he couldn’t really want you to be miserable, now, could he?”

One would hope not. So, I was really happy now? I smiled to myself. Yes, for the most part. Things had just been getting better and better.

I inspected my mother’s flower beds for insects and diseases, finding them in good shape except for a few aphids, which I flicked off with a fingernail. When I got to the blooming freesias near the kitchen window, I heard Rosie’s laugh from inside, and then Bradley’s deep voice. My heart quickened. I hurried inside to find Rosie and Bradley sitting at the kitchen table in conversation.

Bradley was a big, bristling young man, healthy and beautiful.

It had been so long since I’d seen him and the photos had been an inadequate preparation for the real thing.

“In the Czech Republic I actually ran into a guy I knew,”

Bradley was saying. “There are Americans all over the place in Prague. Just hanging out.”

“The new expatriates,” Rosie said, nodding.

22

“How long since you’ve been to Paris?” Bradley asked.

“The last time I was there was about five years ago. It’s good to go back after you’ve already done all the tourist things so you can absorb the spirit of a place. On my third trip to Paris I spent one day just strolling through the Bois de Boulogne pretending I was a native out for a Sunday walk.”

I stood in the doorway, incredulous.

“I did that too,” Bradley said with enthusiasm. “I pretended I lived there, imagining what it felt like for the people who really did, trying to imagine myself living a completely different life from my own.” Rosie turned to look at me and Bradley followed her gaze.

“Mom,” he said tentatively, rising. I held out my arms. He approached and hugged me wordlessly. When he stepped back, his face was serious, emotional, with that familiar tell-tale quiver at the left side of his mouth. He didn’t know what to say. Me neither.

“I got you something,” he said at last and pulled a small package from his shirt pocket. “For your trip to Paris.”

Under shiny paper was an electronic device about the size of a checkbook calculator. “What is it?”

“A French language translator,” Bradley said, taking it from me. He demonstrated. “Look. You type in a French word like

‘amour,’ and it gives you the English equivalent.” He held it up so I could read the LCD image. “Love.”

My eyes misted as I took the device.

“Or you can translate an English word into French,” he said. “Well, this ought to come in handy. Merci beaucoup.”

I met Brenna, then, who was a warm, lovely girl with an elegant carriage. “I’m so glad I’ve finally gotten to meet you, Jean,” she said. “I wish it could have been sooner, but Brad’s been sort of stubborn about it.”

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps understandably.”

She nodded. There was strain among our little group during dinner, but the worst was over. Bradley had forgiven me and was 22

trying to overcome his unease. And Mom and Dad, once they’d met Rosie and realized she was such a regular person, managed to relax a bit. Rosie dominated the evening, of course, talking politics with Dad, swapping traveling horror stories with Bradley.

I heard her welcome laugh frequently.

My mother was impressed with Rosie’s appetite, for she was never shy about eating, and the ham with the mustard paste was a big hit with her. We downed a couple of bottles of wine while we ate, and everyone was feeling a little friendlier, it seemed to me, as the meal wore on.

“I didn’t vote for you,” Dad told Rosie as we were finishing dinner. “Do you know why?”

Oh, my God, I thought. I can’t deal with this. How can he be bringing this up? “Dad!” I barked, coming out of my chair.

Rosie held up a hand to me and gave me a look that said she had it under control. “Yes, I know why,” Rosie said with mock antagonism, pausing for dramatic effect. “Because of my criticism of the city manager.”