“Maybe it isn’t meant to be,” Julian mumbled. “Kids need families, and I don’t have anyone to give.”
“Y’all got me,” Bonnie insisted. “And Philip’s parents, right?”
“I know.” Julian took Bonnie’s hand. “You were there at the end, with Mom, and gave me away at our wedding. But kids should know where they come from. When your grandkids ask where your sons came from, your sons point to you. There, their grandma. I have some old letters my parents sent. A story my dad told me once about cleaning carpets with his dad. That’s it. Their pasts died with them.”
Julian’s phone buzzed. Philip jumped to his feet.
“See!” Bonnie cried. “What’d I tell y’all? Is it Marisol?”
“No.” Julian sighed. “Facebook message.” He frowned as he read, his eyes widening. He shot a look at Bonnie and kept reading.
“What is it?” Philip asked.
“I don’t know,” Julian said. “He…” He turned his phone around so they could read:
Dear Julian—I almost wrote you so many times you wouldnt believe. But I saw the post on your adoption page today and your here in Houston so now or never. Im your brother. Half brother, the same dad Aaron Warner. Maybe you didnt know, probly not. Its cool your having a kid. I have a daughter, fourteen months. Anyhow just wanna say hi, if you guys wanna meet up with me and Tasha my wife while your here thats cool or whatever. But nice if you want.
Yours truly, Clayton Connors
Philip looked up, his jaw hanging open in amazement. Julian put his phone in his pocket. Bonnie sipped her low-cal Jack and Coke.
“Bonnie,” Julian said softly. His finger traced a pattern on the granite island. “Mom cleaned out her house before she died. Meticulously. You helped her. When we were cleaning out my dad’s place, we found a photo of a blond woman and boy.” He turned his courtroom eyes on her. “Do I have a brother? Is that why my dad left?” She stared at her drink. “You’re the only one left who would know.”
Bonnie pulled a Kleenex from the steeple of a little ceramic church and patted her eyes. “It wasn’t mine to tell you,” she murmured.
“So it’s true?” Julian asked.
“That he got some woman pregnant?” She grabbed a fistful of Cheez-Its and chewed. “Your mama got a letter saying so. We didn’t know if it was true or just meant to hurt her. She made me swear not to say a word. She was ashamed. But y’all should know,” Bonnie declared. “I was always giving your mama advice, about work and being a mother, trying to help, but the truth is—Lacy had something powerful in her. A strength of conviction that I…” She wiped her eyes. “I miss.” Julian rested his face in his hands. Bonnie sipped. “So!” she said with a perky lift. “Y’all gonna go meet him?”
“No,” Julian snapped. He looked up and saw Philip giving him the I-know-what-you-did-to-your-dad stare. “Why?” Julian said. “What’s the point? We’re grown. It’s done.”
“Jay?” Philip growled. “You spent all that time searching for your mom’s family in Mexico, and now this falls in your lap? He’s your brother. He reached out. We’re here. Our afternoon cleared. I’m not waiting around for Marisol to call. Good enough?”
A few minutes later, Julian messaged with Clayton, settled on a Starbucks near his place in Missouri City, and they were back on the highway. For miles going down 69, Philip scrolled on his phone in ominous silence. “Well,” he said as they curled around Minute Maid Park, “it seems we’re not the only ones with it all hanging out online. No private settings for Clayton. He’s twenty-two. A NASCAR enthusiast.”
“Thirteen years younger,” Julian said. “Makes sense, when my dad took off.”
“In the military.” Philip held up his phone to show a photo of Clayton in camo fatigues, holding a gun in some sandy place.
“Where is that?”
“Can’t tell.” Philip kept looking. “No pictures of a wife or baby. No Tasha in his friend list. Is this a setup?”
“If we die it was your idea.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird? No family pictures?”
“No.” Julian felt his eyes welling up again. “He was too old when you met him, my dad, for you to tell. But Clayton looks just like him. More than me.”
Quietly they drove across the south side, each of them lost in thought. “It all looks the same here,” Philip muttered at one point. “Ugly. Construction everywhere. Is that normal?”
Julian nodded vaguely. “We had this video project in school,” he said. “Texas history. The library got a video camera, and we had to check it out and interview a parent about the city we lived in. My mom hated cameras. She said, ‘Houston is a place where stuff gets torn down, but things keep rising up.’”
“What’s that?” Philip asked, pointing out the window at an abandoned stadium.
Julian looked at the lonely husk of it and remembered one strange night in sixth grade, back in the toughening-up phase. His dad took him to the Astrodome for the wrestling match of the year—a showdown between Hulk Hogan and the flamboyant Macho Man Randy Savage. Aaron watched the WWF from the couch on Saturdays, and though they never talked about it, he must have seen Julian peeping at the muscles and pageantry from the kitchen table. They barely spoke on the drive downtown, so uncertain of how to be together. But inside the stadium they got Cokes and hot dogs, and the crowd hissed at the entrance of the villain in his sequined cape, and Julian was swept into the drama. The men locked arms in a violent embrace. Popcorn and Raisinets flew. Then he was on his dad’s shoulders, chanting at the clotheslines and pile drivers until they bellowed with the crowd as one primal beast—Ma-cho Man, Ma-cho Man—screaming their throats hoarse until the Hulk dodged a body slam and the match flipped and goodness was restored in the form of a blond, Speedo-clad victory strut along the ropes. Afterward, as they walked to the car, Aaron asked what he thought of the Astrodome. He didn’t know what his dad wanted so he said, “It was fun screaming with everybody.” “Yeah,” his dad replied, putting an arm around Julian, “You gotta let it out sometimes or else you’ll go crazy in the head.”
Julian didn’t share any of this with Philip as they drove. “The Astrodome,” he answered. “They warehoused Katrina folks there, kind of its swan song. Condemned now. Always a swan singing somewhere. And then somebody DMs you on Facebook, and you’re driving crosstown and—” He signaled and swiftly changed lanes. “It’s not a setup. Meeting Clayton. But could you do some recon? Go in ahead of me and just watch out?”
“Sure.” Philip frowned. “He saw me, on our adoption page. I should wear sunglasses.”
Julian knew Phil lived for this kind of stuff, but he was too nervous to have opinions about it. “It’s fine, meeting him. Right?” He turned to Philip. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
They followed the navigation off the highway, to a Starbucks in an empty shopping center. Philip put on his Ray-Bans, pulled his US Open cap over his curls, and went in. Julian stared at his hands on the wheel. A breeze drifted through the window, bringing a surge of pine and memories of the last Christmas he spent with his mom. He thought of how the years made the unthinkable happen, had allowed his mom to slip from his daily memory, until the dream of parenting called her back to mind.
Julian went inside and cautiously peered around. Phil was in the corner reading the paper. A skinny blond kid with a buzz cut jumped up from a table, a goofy grin spreading across his face. He looked even more like Aaron than the Facebook photos. Growing up, there was a picture on his dad’s dresser—long ago lost in some move—of Aaron getting a Purple Heart, and except for the acne scars on one cheek this kid in a random Starbucks could have been standing in the photo. “Julian Warner?” he said.
“Clayton?”
The kid lunged at Julian. Philip shot from his chair, but he stopped when Julian raised his arms and patted the kid’s back, returning the bear hug he was caught in. Julian pulled away. “Look at you!” the kid said, eyeing him. “Your nice clothes and—it’s redder!”
&nb
sp; “What?”
“Your hair. It’s redder than the pictures. And tall! How tall are you?”
“Um. Six-one.”
“I’m six foot. I’m Clay. I got us a table,” he said, talking fast and beckoning Julian. “And coffees. I don’t know how you like yours so I left it black but I can get you milk if you want, you want me to—”
“No.” Julian sat down. “Black’s great.”
“And a chocolate chip cookie and Rice Krispie Treat and brownie. You pick.”
“Thanks. OK. The Krispie, I guess.”
“That’s my favorite!” Clay said.
“Oh no, you take it.”
“No, I—My bad. We’ll split.” Clay broke it in half, handed Julian a piece, and bit into his. He watched Julian as he chewed, grinning. Julian smiled back, a little unnerved. “Crazy!” Clay cried. “Tasha says sugar gets me wound up and I talk too much. Without sugar, too. Are you freaked out? I’m Clayton Connors,” he announced, tapping out his points on the table edge. “Son of Crystal Connors. She met your dad in 1992 in Conroe, when he was working HR for Texaco, and—”
“It’s OK,” Julian interrupted. “I know. I mean, I didn’t know about you, but I saw a picture of you and your mom once in my dad’s stuff.” He sipped his coffee, grasping for words. “Is she still in Conroe? Your mom?”
“No. She died. Lung cancer. A few months ago, right before the holidays.”
“I’m sorry.” He winced, and waited. “Mine too. Cancer. Were you guys close?”
“Yeah.” Clay ate the last of his Krispie and started on the brownie. “Sorta. When she got sick, I graduated early and enlisted. It was good money, and the bills were—” He clucked his tongue. “Lots of doctors. I deployed to Afghanistan. We didn’t see each other as much after that. We went to Disney World when I was on leave. Me and her and Tasha. Mom wanted to go so bad. No energy, because of the chemo. But we did some rides. Epcot. We were close.”
Julian was watching Clay gather brownie crumbs and drop them in his mouth when he had a sudden rush of all the times he felt scared and less than growing up—in the closet in high school, starting at Harvard, meeting the Rosenblums. He thought of Marisol and Clay, babies having babies. He thought he might cry. Clay looked up, eyes full of anxious concern. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “It was hard being far away when she was sick, but I had a blast over there. Didn’t kill nobody. Partied. Met Tasha. She was ROTC. She’s a nurse. Here I go, talking your ear off. Y’all’re adopting a baby. Congrats!”
“Yeah,” Julian mumbled. “Trying to.”
“Isn’t that why y’all came down?”
“It is, but.” He sighed. “The whole process has been harder than we thought.”
“Why, because you’re gay? You know what?” Clay swiped a napkin across his mouth and threw it down. “Wait, aren’t you a big lawyer? Doing your civil rights?”
“Yeah. Courtroom combat, I guess.”
“Then you know people are fucking ignorant. The other day Tasha and I were at Panera Bread with the baby, getting lunch, and this guy and girl are giving us the Look—Tasha’s black, African American, whatever—you know, like they don’t say nothing to you but they give you the Look? And then the girl knocks Tasha with her purse as they’re leaving. So I say to Tasha: ‘home girl with the big butt, twerking like we at a strip club, only God can judge, fuck the haters, somebody loves ya.’”
“Oh. Is that—something you wrote, or?”
“No!” Clay laughed. “Miley Cyrus. I couldn’t write that. People are stupid.”
“Yeah.” Julian smiled. “I don’t think it’s because we’re gay. I think adopting is hard for everybody. Our birth mom got cold feet, two hours ago.”
“For real?” Clay watched him. “Wait, y’all came all the way down here for—” Julian shrugged. “Fuck.” Clay reached over and patted Julian’s arm. “Wanna come see our baby? Vanessa? She’s cute. Maybe cheer y’all up?”
“I don’t—That’s very nice, thanks, but we’re—”
“We’re like ten minutes from here. Tasha wanted to meet y’all bad. I told her we’re meeting at Starbucks because he doesn’t know me from a stalker freak. I been talking about y’all ever since y’all put up that adoption page on Facebook. Your life, it’s amazing.” Clay snapped off a piece of cookie and chewed. “My mom—” he began, staring at the table. “She told me about our dad, and you, when I asked her once. Aaron cut her off. Mom and me. No nothing after she told him she was pregnant, is what she said. So when she was alive, it didn’t feel right to try and reach out to you or … out of respect for her, raising me and stuff.” He looked at Julian. “But I wanted to write you. Find you. For a long time.”
“OK.” Julian took a breath. “Yes. Let’s go to your place.”
“Yeah?” Clay hopped up and stuck his fist out for a bump. “Awesome! Tasha’s gonna be psyched.” He gathered their trash. “Hey, do you see a lot of Aaron these days?”
“Oh no,” Julian blurted. “No, I haven’t seen him since—he visited us in New York a few years ago, but that was—”
“He’s like not even online. Like nowhere.”
“I know.” Julian nodded emphatically. “He never was, has been, um, I just—” He pointed to the corner. “Let me tell Philip where we’re headed.”
“He’s here?” Clay whirled around. His oversize button-up billowed out of his khakis like a pirate shirt. Philip lowered a corner of his paper and peered mysteriously from behind his shades. “Get over here!” Clay cried, bounding to him and going in for a hug.
Julian watched from a distance as Clay laughed and slapped Phil’s back.
* * *
“What’s he like?” Philip asked as they followed Clay’s boxy old Corolla. “He’s cute.”
“He’s sweet,” Julian said in a measured tone. “He’s had a hard life. He joined the military to pay his mom’s medical bills. She died last year. He thinks our dad’s still alive.”
“Did you tell him?”
Julian shook his head. “It was right at the end as we were getting up.”
Philip whistled. “Classic doorknob syndrome. In therapy? Waiting all session till you’re going out the door to drop the bomb. You have to tell him.”
“It seems like so long ago. Clay would’ve been—sixteen when he died? All these years, thinking about our dad. You’ll see when you talk to him. You want to protect him. Marisol didn’t text you, did she?”
“No,” Philip said. “You?” Julian shook his head and drove.
Clay turned onto a street of faded little houses and parked in front of a tan one with a scratchy yellowish lawn. There was a metal security grate on the front door. He jumped out of his car and gamboled to theirs like a puppy. “Ready?” he said. He threw his arm around Julian’s shoulders and led them up the cracked sidewalk. “Tasha?” he called, poking his head in. “We got company!”
They walked into a tight living-dining space. Julian heard some musical racket as his eyes adjusted to the indoor light, and then he saw a baby from behind pounding on a toy piano in the shape of a smiling kitty cat. There was a huge flat-screen TV on a stand with a PlayStation, and an oily-looking couch and two folding vinyl lawn chairs filling out the room. Dolls and crayons and picture books everywhere.
“Oh my goodness!” a woman said, standing at a small kitchen peninsula. She wore glasses, and her hair short and natural, and pink velour athleisure wear. “Julian? Philip? Y’all came!” She rushed over and hugged them. She was shorter but definitely heavier than beanpole Clay beside her. “Hi! I’m Tanishia.”
“Hi, Tanisha,” Julian said.
“Ta-nee-shee-yuh,” she corrected, a little bookish. “Four syllables. Call me Tasha. Get the baby, Clay. Come meet y’all’s niece! It’s a mess, sorry, if I knew y’all were coming or Clay called ahead to—Clay, get Vanessa.”
“No worries,” Julian said. “We surprised you. It’s that kind of day, full of—” Julian stopped short, speechless at the sight of Clay hoisting a g
orgeous baby onto his hip.
“Full of surprises,” Philip picked up the thread, “like this one—hello, Vanessa!” Tasha smiled as the baby reached for Philip’s wiggling finger. “Good girl,” he cooed. Julian could see the way Tasha looked at Philip, the way everyone did. He had lost the slight banker gut since his Morgan Stanley days and leaned down. “She’s fourteen months?” he asked.
“Almost fifteen,” Tasha replied.
“Watch this,” Clay said. He swung Vanessa sideways and stretched her out and played her like a guitar. She shrieked with delight.
“Did you get the diapers?” Tasha asked. Clay’s face clouded, mid-strum. “What did I tell you?” she blew up. “The one thing you’re supposed to do?”
“I’m a little busy today!” Clay snapped, handing the baby to Philip.
“All week!” Tasha yelled louder. “I told you and now we’re out! You want me to watch the baby, work, and get the diapers—”
“I want you to shut up—”
“—how would I—”
“—on the biggest day of my life!”
“I’m done!” She threw up her hands. “Gimme a man who can bring home diapers!”
“Fine!” Clay shouted. “Get yourself a Third Ward baller with a truck full of Pampers!” Over her shoulder Clay saw Julian and flushed red. “Sorry!” he cried, scratching his head and turning away. “Sorry, sorry. TV?” He grabbed the remote and turned to Julian entreatingly. “Y’all wanna watch something? A movie? News?”
“Oh,” Julian said, stepping back onto a squeaking object. “I’m good.”
“Toys,” Tasha muttered, “all the freaking—excuse me.” She knelt down, pulling a rubber duck from under Julian’s foot, and started gathering toys. Clay turned on the TV, and in it drew him, a supplicant to some flat oracle. Vanessa played with the cord on Philip’s hood.
“Y’all want some lemonade?” Tasha asked, crawling around the couch.
“Sounds great!” Philip said.
Lone Stars Page 26
