Second Dad Summer

by Benjamin Klas

  Near the pond, an altar was set up. Michael informed me that it was for “impromptu commitment ceremonies.”

  When we got close to the altar, Dad got down on one knee. Michael gasped. Dad tied his shoe. Michael kicked him but also laughed.

  Clearly, Michael was winning the day.

  “I’m getting thirsty,” I said, regretting the words almost as soon as I said them. Now Michael was going to get to do the I-told-you-so thing.

  “I could use a refill anyways,” said Michael. He pulled me to the nearest lemonade stand. Somehow, the way that he didn’t rub it in was even more frustrating.

  “A refill,” Michael said, rattling the ice in his cup, “And a large cherry lemonade for my young compatriot.”

  “Just plain,” I called over his shoulder.

  When Michael handed me the large cup, I mumbled a thank you.

  After we had our drinks, Dad led the way to an empty table. I was surprised to see Mr. Keeler sitting nearby.

  A cigarette hung from his frowning mouth. His face looked like he would rather be anywhere else besides the festival, but he wore tons of rainbow stuff. Unlike Michael’s bin of pride swag, Mr. Keeler’s rainbows looked old. Weathered. And some of them had two extra colors, the rainbow with hot-pink and turquoise added to the stripes.

  His rainbow t-shirt was faded almost pastel and his rainbow visor had a crease down the middle. The rainbow suspenders hung slack from his shoulders as he leaned forward with his cigarette.

  I hadn’t expected Mr. Keeler to be gay, especially with how he called Michael a pansy.

  Dad nodded to Mr. Keeler. “Happy Pride.”

  Mr. Keeler just nodded and released a mouthful of smoke.

  I could tell Michael was agitated. I was beginning to figure out he always got this way around Mr. Keeler. As we drank our lemonades, Michael kept shooting looks back at Mr. Keeler.

  Dad rested his hand on Michael’s leg. “Let it go,” he said. “Someone else can deal with it.”

  Michael pulled a smile across his face. We sat for a few minutes in peace, the buzz of the festival filling the air.

  Suddenly Michael turned to face Mr. Keeler. “Excuse me,” Michael said. “This is a smoke-free festival. I’m sure you weren’t aware.”

  Mr. Keeler blew out another mouthful of smoke. “I was aware.”

  Michael’s cheeks turned red, and his back straightened. Dad patted him on the back. Then he turned to me and winked. That wink meant something, just a shared moment between Dad and me at Michael’s expense.

  Michael stood up, pulling away from Dad. “This is a family festival and—”

  “Family festival.” Mr. Keeler spat the words. “You’re like all them other pansies out there, flitting around for free magnets and stickers. I remember when these festivals were about fighting. When we worried about whether or not the police were gonna haul us away, not whether or not we had face painting and balloon animals. Or cigarettes.” He held the cigarette to his lips and took another long draw.

  “Well,” said Michael. “I just wanted you to be aware.” He picked up his drink, turned to us. “Let’s go somewhere a little cleaner,” he said. He swept off, leaving Dad and me to follow his angry strides.

  As we left the seating area, Dad nodded to Mr. Keeler and again said, “Happy Pride.”

  Mr. Keeler muttered the word, “Pansies.” But he winked at me and gave me a tiny, half smile as I followed Dad. I smiled back. I couldn’t help it.

  Michael was halfway across the park before he settled on a clear patch of grass by one of the stages. He sat down and took a long sip of his lemonade, his shoulders still tight.

  Finally he sighed. “Well.”

  The spot was shady. We listened to a woman singing ballads on the nearby stage.

  “Now, this is nice,” Dad said lying back, his hands under his head.

  “I need to tinkle,” Michael said. “I’m feeling that first lemonade. I’ll be back.”

  Michael ran off to the line of port-a-johns leaving Dad and me sitting in the grass.

  “So,” Dad said. “What do you think?”

  “I think he has a small bladder,” I said.

  Dad laughed. “That’s the truth. But I meant the festival.”

  I shrugged. “There aren’t as many rainbows as I thought.” I assumed from Michael’s bin that the place would be like walking into a tub of Skittles.

  I thought about Sage again. Was I really ashamed of Dad? Why was my first impulse to hide him? It was the same thing Mom always did. She never talked about Dad being bi. She said she wanted to give him a fair chance in people’s mind. But was it really fair to hide who he was?

  Before long, the stage turned over to a poet who talked about her experience growing up transgender and her journey from male to female. A few of her poems were sad, but most of them were funny and bright. I had never thought gender was something that could be hilarious. Maybe it takes someone who really knows it to find the humor in it.

  Emily and Robi from Cocktail Hour came over to say hi. I sucked the melted ice out of my cup and watched people walking past. After I ate a couple of the chewy Real Foods bars, I saw Michael coming out of the crowd. He was carrying something.

  When he walked up, Dad sat up. “Feel better?” Dad asked.

  “Sorry it took so long,” Michael said. “I made a detour to get you these.” He held out baseball caps to Dad and me. “Since you two aren’t into rainbows.”

  Mine was navy blue with the word ALLY stitched in crisp white. I looked up to see Michael removing Dad’s Timberwolves cap, replacing it with one that had the blue, pink and purple bisexual flag on it.

  “Thank you,” Dad said before pecking Michael a kiss. “I mean it. This is just right.”

  I held the Ally cap in my hands, unsure. “Thanks,” I said, tucking the hat into my bag with the empty granola bar wrappers.

  I picked up my cup and sucked the last watery liquid from the bottom.

  “I’m starving,” Dad said. “Let’s find some food.”

  After getting a pile of kabobs and fresh-cut fries, we went back to the picnic tables. Mr. Keeler was gone.

  As the afternoon wore on, we finished the loop of booths and tables. Dad and I found a shady place under a large oak tree. Michael went to keep mingling. Dad lay down in the grass. It wasn’t long before his breathing became steady. He was asleep.

  I sat watching people walk past, families, boyfriends, girlfriends. So, this was my new world. I looked over at Dad’s bi flag hat. There is no way he would have worn it last year. Maybe it was good for him to be here where he could wear whatever he wanted to.

  As the sun shifted to the west, the crowd shifted, too. Many of the people with children were heading home. More adults were arriving. I had expected the festival to die down as the day wore on. Instead, the air became charged.

  Michael returned. “We’ll be bringing out the real bands soon,” he said, looking up from a schedule. “Then we’ve got the fireworks.”

  As I kept watching the crowd, I saw Sage walking through the mass of people. Two women walked hand in hand beside her. They turned down the path that led out of the park. Sage and her moms.

  “Be right back,” I said to Dad and Michael. I bolted towards the three figures, catching up before Sage and her moms went too far.

  “Hey,” I said.

  The three of them turned to me.

  “Hi,” Sage said. We just stared at each other for a minute. The two women with her stared at me, puzzled. They were both short. One had long red hair that flowed down over her shoulders, making her look sort of like a hippie. The other looked like Sage, sharing her perfect oval face shape, but her hair was short and she wore a polo shirt and khaki shorts. Sage looked extra bright contrasted against them.

  “Are these your moms?” I asked.

  “Yea
h,” Sage said, turning to them. “Moms, meet Jeremiah, the bicycle boy.”

  The one with red hair extended her hand. “I’m Reina.”

  “And I’m Lisa,” said the one in the polo.

  Sage pointed to Lisa. “She’s the Hmong one.”

  Her moms laughed.

  “Sage talks about you all the time,” Lisa said.

  I could feel my cheeks get warm.

  “Do you want to meet my dad?” I asked them. I took a deep breath. “And his boyfriend?”

  Sage’s face lit up. “Um, obviously.”

  I led them back into the crowd, then up onto the grass to where Dad and Michael sat waiting. As I did, I pulled out my Ally cap, hesitating, not quite ready to put it on my head.

  “I like it,” Sage said, pointing to the cap.

  I blushed, stuffing it into my bag once again as I made the introductions.

  The next morning, we skipped church to go to the pride parade.

  Michael left early. He was riding the Uni-cycle in the parade. Although he invited Dad and me to ride along, I passed. Dad said he would join me in the crowd to cheer.

  While Dad showered, I sat with The Grapes of Wrath, trying to force myself through another chapter. I was actually relieved when my phone rang with a call from Mom.

  “Jer Bear,” she said. “What have you been up to?”

  I told her about the festival and parade.

  “That’s been a long time coming,” she said. “Your father never went to Pride with me.”

  “With you?” I asked. “Did you go by yourself?”

  “No,” Mom said. “I had a lot of lesbian friends in college.”

  I was surprised. “Oh.”

  “I miss you, Jer,” Mom said. “Are you sure you want to stay there all summer?”

  “Mom,” I said, annoyed, “I’m staying here for the summer. I always do.”

  She sighed. “I know. But you’re not trapped. It’s not like we have court papers or mandates. If this system isn’t working, we can do something different. You could go out for holidays or something.”

  Dad walked into the room, buckling his belt.

  “I’m fine,” I said into the phone. “I’ve got to go now.”

  “Okay Jer Bear,” she said. “Love and hugs.”

  “Don’t forget to water your tomatoes.” I hung up the phone.

  Dad smiled. “If they’re still alive,” he said, rolling his eyes.

  In the alley behind our building, we ran into Sage and Reina. Her mom Lisa was marching in the parade with Hmong Pride. We joined them on the way to the parade, getting seats in the grandstand on Hennepin.

  “We probably look like a normal family,” I said to Sage.

  Sage elbowed me. “Not normal,” she said, “Just straight.”

  The parade opened with a bunch of women riding motorcycles led by the mayor of Minneapolis. Then came a rainbow flag as wide as the street, followed by other flags. The bi flag, a pink, blue and white one that Sage said was the trans flag, the leather flag, and several others. As the parade continued and floats went by, I dreaded the moment when Michael would ride past.

  A group of people wearing matching T-shirts marched past with a Senator. A float for Marzetti’s Hardware went by; several of Lisa’s coworkers recognized Sage and Reina and threw us handfuls of taffy. Trucks pulled floats from real estate places and health clinics. Lisa marched past with the group from Hmong Pride, carrying their banner high.

  As the parade was winding down, I saw the bicycles coming down the street, looping around the pavement. Everyone wore their pride. Some people were in drag. Several cyclists tied rainbow streamers to their handlebars. Even in the colorful mix, Michael and the Uni-cycle stuck out.

  “Whoa!” Sage yelled to me. “Is that Michael?”

  I could feel my face burning. “Yeah,” I said.

  Sage laughed. I was surprised that there was nothing mean in it. “I love his bike,” she said. “I want one so bad.”

  Michael rode into the distance and people stood up. We followed the crowd and filled Hennepin Avenue with people as we marched back towards Loring Park. The parade was officially over, but somehow, I felt a part of it all.

  We spent the afternoon in the park, eating cheese curds, corn dogs and more kabobs with Sage, Reina and Lisa. I still didn’t like Michael. And he was still embarrassing. But at least he wasn’t a secret any more.

  Chapter

  7

  Days with Michael settled into a routine: I avoided him and he tried to pry into my life. It was never big stuff, just the little things. Always asking what I was doing, where I was going, when I would be back, reminding me to look out for potholes.

  “Don’t forget water,” he told me after I said I was going on a ride with Sage. He stood on a stool in the kitchen brushing paint into the corner where the roller would not be able to reach. The paint was bold yellow. When I complained about the lack of color with the “Hazelnut Cream” walls, I didn’t mean to make the kitchen look like a tub of mustard.

  “When are you going to be home?” he said.

  “Later.” I said. “Before supper.”

  I turned again to go. “Jer,” he called. I stiffened at the nickname. Only my parents could call me that.

  “I’m Jeremiah,” I said.

  Michael turned a little red. “Jeremiah, I feel like you’re avoiding me. I know I’m not your dad, but I really hope you’ll give me a chance. I’ve never been anyone’s parent, and I’m new at this.”

  I looked up at Michael, perched on top of his ladder in his white painting costume. Even when he was painting, his hair was still perfect.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, a well of annoyance building up inside of me. “You’ll never have to be my dad.”

  Even as I left the apartment, I felt a little bad about it. But it was better to be clear, right? I remembered what Mr. Keeler said. If I didn’t get rid of Michael now, I could be stuck with him forever.

  I got my bike and met Sage in the alley.

  I sighed.

  “What?” she asked, looking at the scowl on my face.

  “Michael,” I said.

  She laughed. Something had changed after Pride. I couldn’t quite explain it, but Sage and I were more connected. Maybe it was the knowledge neither of us needed to keep secrets from the other person.

  Every day we had explored, riding a little further than the last. Soon I knew more than how to get to the library. Sage showed me where to buy popsicles, the “secret” path across the highway, and a building that looked like a castle. Sometimes we rode to Marzetti’s for free popcorn when Lisa was working.

  “We’re going somewhere new today.” Sage’s eyes opened wide with excitement. “I’ve been saving it. It’s my favorite place. It’s like a temple.”

  “Ok,” I said. I didn’t know what to expect. Going to church was enough religion. I didn’t know how I felt about temples.

  The ride was surprisingly short. We came to a park full of oaks. A massive building rose through the screen of trees. It looked like a Greek temple with the huge stone pillars. I had passed the building several times, but hadn’t bothered about it. It looked so official I had assumed it was probably a government building.

  “It’s the MIA,” Sage said, her voice full of excitement. “The Minneapolis Institute of the Arts, but they call it Mia. There are rooms and rooms of pure beauty. You’ll love it.”

  “An art museum?” I asked. Going to an art museum wasn’t nearly as intimidating as a temple.

  Sage giggled. “You always think so boring,” she said.

  As Sage pulled me through the galleries, I thought maybe there was something to her temple theory. Somehow, it did feel holy in here, kind of like a church.

  People moved slowly, quietly, and stood before paintings and sculptures.

>   Sage led me through halls of marble statues, up a flight of stairs, through a room filled with menorahs and six-pointed stars. We came to a gallery filled with large paintings, some of them abstract. I didn’t know much about art, but I knew these were newer in the broad sense.

  Finally, with a dramatic sigh, Sage dropped onto a bench in front of the largest painting in the room. The canvas was as big as the wall. It was unlike any painting I had seen before.

  “This,” said Sage, “this is the painting that I come to see. It’s beautiful. It’s magic.”

  I rolled my eyes, but as I sat beside her and stared, I realized she was right. There was a sense of movement in the painting that I hadn’t seen in any other. People were posing in various ways on the canvas, a grandmother, a woman by a wood stove. In the center, a nude woman stood, arms outstretched in some sort of victorious moment, almost like the boxer, Rocky.

  Normally, nudes made me embarrassed, but there was something about this woman, so bold as she stared out from her painting, that I didn’t feel embarrassed at all. It was like she was daring me to do something, something as bold and reckless as she was doing.

  I turned. Sage was standing beside in the same victorious pose, arms high over her head. I looked around, several people were staring. I felt my cheeks get hot.

  I walked away from her to read the plaque. “The Studio by Larry Rivers, oil on canvas.” It amazed me how something so big could be labeled with just a few, simple words.

  I returned to Sage who was sitting now. We stared at the painting a long time. “It makes me want to do something,” Sage said. Her voice was low and reverent.

  “Yeah,” I said. The woman in the painting stood there, not hiding anything, bold and unafraid. “Me, too.”

  After that, we wandered through more of the museum. Gallery opened to gallery.

  It wasn’t long before I checked the time and realized we had spent the entire afternoon lost in the labyrinth of art.

  On the ride back to the apartment, Sage was unusually quiet. Finally, she spoke. “What are we going to do?”