Break in Case of Emergency

by Brian Francis

  “Look, I’m not saying that’s a right response,” he says. “But it’s an honest one.”

  The waiter comes to the table and sets a small plate with three egg rolls between us. They’re golden brown with little dots, like blisters.

  “Everything okay here?” he asks.

  “Yes, just fine, thanks,” Arthur says.

  The waiter leaves and Arthur passes me the plate with the egg rolls. I take one with my fingers but it’s burning hot and I drop it onto my plate.

  “Careful,” he says.

  I cut into it and steam rolls up.

  “I didn’t come back because I was afraid no one wanted me back,” he says.

  “I don’t understand how you could think that,” I say as I squeeze some plum sauce from a plastic packet. “But if that’s what you say.”

  “I’m not father material, Toby. I’m a child. I’m a raging homosexual who dresses up in women’s clothing. I’m hardly someone you’d want to bring to parent-teacher night.”

  “But you never asked me,” I say, looking up at him. “You weren’t here. And I think having a raging homosexual father in women’s clothing is better than what I had.”

  “And what did you have?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Chapter 41

  I tell him I lied. Why he left isn’t the only question I have. There are more. Lots more. I don’t even give him the chance to ask his question to me.

  “Did you love my mom?”

  He looks up from his chop suey. “Very much. Don’t ever doubt that, Toby. I know I’m not exactly someone who inspires trust, but I did love Heather.”

  “But how can you love a woman if . . .” It’s hard for me to say the word.

  “If I’m gay? Being gay doesn’t stop you from loving people of the opposite sex.”

  “Fine, but there’s me, remember? The two of you were . . . romantic.”

  He sighs. “I don’t know if romantic is the word I’d use. We loved one another. Just not in that way.”

  “My mom said she loved you,” I say. “In that way.”

  I watch as his eyes start to glisten. He sets down his fork and rubs the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t say anything for a few moments and I’m thinking I should say something, but I don’t know what else to say, so I just wait.

  Eventually he clears his throat and sits up straighter in his chair. “Your mom wanted me to be someone I couldn’t be. I couldn’t be her boyfriend. Or her husband.”

  “So why didn’t you just tell her that? Instead of running away? Maybe it would’ve made it easier for her.”

  “Maybe it would’ve. But I felt like a pretzel inside. Living here made me feel like a freak. Your mom was the only one who made me feel normal. She loved what I did, my impressions. She was the only one, you know? The only one in this entire stinking town who celebrated me. Everyone else was trying too hard to make me feel ashamed of who I was. Especially my own family.”

  He looks so sad, and my heart cracks the tiniest bit.

  “Your mom needed someone to see her not as crazy Heather, but as who she actually was. A teenaged girl who only wanted to fall in love. Problem was, she fell in love with the wrong person. And while I loved your mom, Toby, I didn’t love her in that way. Not in the way that she loved me.”

  I know I already heard my mom’s side of the story, but I need to hear it from him. “How did it happen? The night I was . . . made.”

  He sighs. “The night before I left, we met in the playground at an elementary school. I had told Heather I was leaving. I remember her crying, saying that I was the only one who could keep the voices inside her head away. ‘What will I do without you?’ she asked. I felt so guilty, but I knew I couldn’t stay. Toby, if you learn one thing from me, it’s this: living your life to make other people happy will only make you miserable. I had to go. I had to leave or else I’d die inside. I hugged her, and she hugged me, crying against my shoulder, and I remember how smooth her hair felt against the palm of my hand and how all the stars in the sky seemed to come out that night, just to say farewell. I’ll spare you the details, but one thing led to another. That was the night you were conceived.”

  “How can you be sure?” I ask.

  “Because it was the only time. You were conceived that night, on the playground, under those stars, by two people who loved one another. But two people who were barely older than you are now.”

  I never really thought of that before, that my parents were more or less the same age as me. And what do I know about life? Or about love? What do I know about anything? They weren’t all that different, even though it’s hard thinking of your parents as the same age as you, imagining them passing you in the hallway at school, or sitting in front of you in class, what you’d think about them, the kind of people they were.

  “We loved one another,” Arthur says. “In a broken kind of way, but it was still love.”

  * * *

  He asks if we can stop off at the mall.

  “I haven’t been there in ages,” he says. “Your mom and I would hang out in the food court, eating french fries smothered in gravy from a place called Handy’s. Is it still there?”

  “I don’t think so.” What if someone I know sees us? What will strangers think? Even in his jogging pants and Las Vegas T-shirt, he looks like a misfit. He’s going to attract attention to himself. I’m beginning to understand that he can’t help it. It’s just the way he is. Maybe that’s true for everyone like him, for everyone who’s different in some way.

  I don’t want to go.

  “Is the record store still there?” he asks as we get back into the Chevette. “And the Laura Secord? What about the movie theatre? Let’s see a movie tonight, Toby. What do you think? We’ll get popcorn and Milk Duds.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” I say, nodding at the containers of leftovers. Dinner for Three ended up looking like Dinner for Six.

  “That’s fine,” he says. “We can skip the movies. But let’s go to the mall. Just a quick walk around. For old times’ sake. I’m a nostalgic boob at the best of times.”

  Hearing him say “boob” makes my face feel hot. I haven’t asked him anything about why he dresses up in women’s clothing or what kinds of songs he performs or anything about his profession at all. I don’t want to know. My mind can only take so much information; it feels like my skull is going to bust, given everything that’s happened in the past week.

  I could say I’ve got homework or that Grandma Kay will start to worry, but if I say either of those things, I’m afraid I won’t sound convincing. So I say, “Maybe just a quick walk,” and I cross my fingers that no one will be there. It’s a Monday night, I remind myself.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  Chapter 42

  Look at these tragic clothes,” he whispers to me loudly. “Have you ever seen so much polyblend in your life?”

  We’re in one of the women’s clothing stores in the mall. At first, I didn’t want to go in because I was afraid he might want to try something on. But he said we could look for something for me.

  “You’d do well with some colour,” he says. “Purple, or maybe a nice chartreuse.”

  I don’t even know what colour chartreuse is, but I don’t bother asking. I just want to get out of here. The saleswoman comes over to us.

  “Can I help you folks find anything?” she asks.

  “My dear, what we’re looking for can’t be found in a store like this,” Arthur says. The smile disappears from her face. She looks at him, then back at me. Then back at him.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Don’t be,” he says. “You’re the one who has to work here.” He’s dangling a pink blouse between two fingers.

  “Can we get out of here, please?” I whisper to him. “You said we’d only go for a short walk around.”

  “I got distracted,” he says as we leave. “Shopping has that effect on me.”

  He asks if we can go to S
ears.

  “I used to love that store. It was the closest I ever got to big-city life. I’d spend hours poring over the catalogue. It was the entire world to me.”

  “I need to go home,” I say. “Grandma Kay will start to worry.”

  “Oh, Kay will be fine. We’ll pick her up something. A pair of glamorous earrings.”

  “She’d never wear them,” I say.

  “I know,” he sighs. “Depressing, isn’t it?”

  Sears isn’t busy. We walk past the men’s department.

  “I have no interest in any of this,” he says, with a flick of his hand. “Just look at all those browns and blues and beiges. It’s enough to make me want to kill myself from boredom.”

  He stops, realizing what he’s said. He looks at me. “Sorry, darling.”

  I don’t say anything. My suicide, or my attempted suicide, is only one more thing people won’t want to talk about, just like my mom’s death.

  “Now this is more like it,” he says as we approach the makeup department. “Follow me. I’m going to show you a few tricks.”

  I don’t want to, but I’m realizing how demanding Arthur is, and how the only way to deal with him is to give in when he wants something. I think I’m starting to understand Shirley a lot better. And Bruno.

  “Can you believe this pedestrian garbage?” he asks, looking at the displays of lipstick, foundation and blush. “Never mind. I can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Not that your face is a sow’s ear. Or a purse for that matter.”

  “Why are you talking about my face?”

  “I’m going to give you a makeover.”

  “Here?” I ask, looking around. “Right now?”

  “Can you think of a better time? Take a seat on this stool. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with you. I’ll do my best to not have you walking out of here looking like a Parisian whore. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Nonsense. Have a seat.”

  I sit down, against my better judgment. “Please hurry up.”

  “You can never hurry up beauty,” he says, taking some sample bottles from the counter. “The Sistine Chapel wasn’t painted in a day. Close your eyes.”

  I close them and feel him move closer. I press my hands together to stop them from shaking. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. He starts by smoothing foundation over my face. It feels like a cool kiss.

  “First rule of makeup is blending,” he says. “That rule seems to have eluded poor Shirley. Have you noticed her face? It looks like a paint-by-numbers of a sunset. You’ve got a couple of pimples that we’ll cover up. I don’t miss my teenage years, I’ll tell you that much. Lord, I was a pizza face at your age! The blind students used to read my face.”

  “You’re making that up,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “I swear on Helen Keller’s grave, it’s the absolute truth.”

  If I open my eyes, I’ll see his face inches from my own. He’s that close. I’m breathing his air, pulling it down into my lungs, holding it for a few moments before letting it go.

  I hope he notices he’s breathing my breath too.

  “How much longer are you staying in Tilden?” I ask as he dusts eyeshadow across my lids. I want to know the answer to this and I don’t want to know.

  “A couple more days,” he says. “Then it’s back to Toronto to the airport and then back to Rome.”

  “I thought you had a show in Toronto.”

  “I cancelled it. There were more . . . pressing . . . issues.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You have no reason to apologize. Besides, cancelling shows only strengthens my reputation as a temperamental diva. Drives fans crazy. It ups my street value.”

  I don’t think I’d want to see him perform, all dressed up. It would be too weird. But I’m curious too. To see what he can do. To see what my mom saw in him.

  He. Was. Magic.

  The thing about magic is that it’s never real. It’s always an illusion. You’re tricked into believing something that isn’t true.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  “Is Bruno more than your manager?”

  I don’t know why I feel the need to ask him, but again, I’m curious.

  “Well, that’s a complicated question,” he says. “Open your mouth for me, will you? I’m coming in with the lipstick. If I say yes, it means putting my relationship with Bruno into a box. And I’ve never been a fan of boxes. I spent too much of my early years inside one. But if I say no, then I’m not being honest. Because he is more than my manager. He means the world to me. I’d be lost without him. He saved me at a time in my life when things were very dark. I think of him as my lighthouse. I don’t know if I’ve answered your question.”

  “You have,” I say. “Sort of. Have you always been . . . you know . . . ?”

  “A raging homosexual? Yes, darling. There was no way this fruity-tooty was fooling anyone. Not with these cheekbones. I’ve always known exactly who I am, for better or worse. Which may seem like a strange thing for an impersonator to say. But maybe not. Maybe it’s only when you know yourself really, really well that you have the freedom to be someone completely different.”

  I feel his fingers working on my cheeks now, rubbing the makeup in. Blending.

  “I don’t imagine a gay father was ever something that fit into your idea of who your father might be,” he says.

  “It’s a bit strange,” I say. “But maybe not that strange. You can get used to pretty much anything.”

  “Open your eyes.”

  I do and he’s right there, staring back at me. And it happens. I see myself reflected in his green eyes, the same eyes my mom saw. The same eyes I always imagined.

  “Look at you,” my father says softly. “You’re gorgeous.”

  No one has ever said those words to me before. They sound so strange. I can’t imagine I look anything close to that word. He hands me a mirror and I hold it in front of my face.

  I can’t help but gasp. These red lips, these long lashes. Where did these cheekbones come from?

  “It’s not me,” I say.

  “It is,” he says. “A piece of you, anyway. She’s been waiting to show herself for a long time. She just needed a little help.”

  I keep turning the mirror this way and that, trying to take in all the angles of my face. It’s shocking to see myself like this. All grown up. But childlike too. It’s like I’m a little girl pretending to be someone older. Someone more confident, but it’s just a mask.

  And just as I’m about to hand the mirror back to him, I catch the reflection of Mrs. Richardson staring at me from the other side of the cosmetics counter.

  Chapter 43

  Toby?”

  You’d think I was a ghost, the way Mrs. Richardson says my name. Maybe, to her, I am. Or it could be all this makeup on my face.

  I need to get out of here. My eyes move left to right, trying to figure out the best escape route. I can’t talk to Mrs. Richardson, after everything that I did, at their cabin. I can’t even—

  “Oh, do you two know one another?”

  Arthur. Oh, God. Please shut up. I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself this is a bad dream and that I’ll wake up any minute.

  “Yes,” I hear Mrs. Richardson say, but her voice sounds like she’s hesitating. “We’ve known Toby since she was a girl. My daughter Trisha and Toby have been best friends since grade school.”

  Her voice is getting closer. She’s walking over.

  Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please—

  “Isn’t that remarkable?” he says. “I always say, you never know who you’ll meet at the Sears cosmetics counter on a Monday night. Who’s going to show up next? Julia Roberts?”

  “Stranger things have happened,” she says. My eyes are still closed. I can’t bear to look at her. “How are you doing, Toby?”

 
; She’s right there, beside me. I feel her hand on my shoulder like a fifty-pound weight.

  “I’m fine,” I say, slowly opening one eye. I see she’s wearing a blue top. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

  “I spoke to your grandmother. I’ve been worried sick about you. We’ve all been worried.”

  “I’m okay now.” I try to smile.

  “I hope so. I really do.” She turns to Arthur. “Do you work here?”

  “Me? At the Sears cosmetics counter?” He lets out a loud laugh. “I’ve been desperate at times, but never that desperate.”

  I can tell Mrs. Richardson is confused. I don’t blame her, I suppose. Here’s a girl who tried to kill herself, at their cabin, who is now sitting on a stool in a full face of makeup, next to a man with a high-pitched voice wearing a Las Vegas T-shirt. I can only imagine what’s going through her head.

  “Is everything all right, Toby?” she asks.

  I nod. “Everything is fine.”

  “I’m Betty Richardson,” she says, extending her hand toward him.

  He’s going to say he’s my father. And that’s the last thing I want him to say. I look over at him and try to send him a telepathic message.

  Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.

  “Well, pleased to meet you, Betty Richardson,” he says. “My, isn’t that an exotic name? I’m Arthur Turner. Toby’s . . .”

  don’t say don’t say don’t say

  He glances at me then and smiles softly.

  “I’m an old acquaintance of Toby’s. From many years gone by. We’re just getting to know one another again.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Richardson looks from him to me. I have to get rid of her before this gets any worse.