The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  “Yaaah, sure.”

  “You, uh, want a glass of milk?”

  I nodded my head and yawned, and he gave me his. Then he poured himself another.

  We both rested our elbows on the kitchen counter, drank our milk, and did not say a word.

  The tears began to flow down my cheeks. “Pop, why are you so mad at me?”

  His face changed. It was twisted, and he looked down. Almost immediately, he looked back up, straight at me. I could see the tears glazing over his eyes. I knew he would hate for me to see him this way, but his gaze stayed steady.

  “When you were a little girl, I had such high hopes for you,” he said, through a tight voice and tears. “I wanted you to marry a good man and have lots of children, and I wanted you to stay in the neighborhood and live nearby. And now it is all gone to shit. It is too late for me to have grandchildren, and you, oh, Barbie, Barbie, I do not want Hell in your future. Of this I am very worried. I know that God will judge you. And all of us someday, but—”

  It was all I could take. Seeing him like that, the dam burst. And I sobbed like I had not in years. It was painful, as if my tear ducts could not handle the load. And as if my throat was not large enough to manage all the noise that was trying to escape. I collapsed in my father’s arms, but he was now too weak to hold me up. So I shifted gears, straightened my legs, and held him up. He was a blubbering mess at this point, same as me.

  When I could finally choke out some words, I said, “Oh, I don’t want to lose anyone else. Maybe I should just get married and have children and do what I’m supposed to do.”

  “You will not lose me, Barbie. Not my heart. God will decide your fate. I cannot lie about that. But that is up to Him. You will not lose my heart. You will not lose my heart. Never. I love you, and I know God will not fault me for that. All I want right now is your happiness.”

  “I love you too, Pop.”

  We just held each other for a while. My whole face was like a sieve, wet and drippy. But it felt nice being back in my father’s arms.

  “I guess I am not as tough as you think I am, Pop.”

  We pulled apart as my father waived his hand. “Ehh, good! Who wants a tough daughter?” Then he stuck his bottom lip out and scowled. “Hey, everyone, look at my big, tough daughter.” And he smiled.

  And I did, too. Even laughed. And then the tears started again.

  “Hey, you are plenty tough,” my father said. “And I would not change a thing about you.” And I saw the tears collecting again in his eyes.

  You are a terrible liar, Pop. But I love you so much for it.

  And for a moment I thought maybe I should lie too. Tell the old man that I grew up. Tell him things have changed, and that I am engaged to a wonderful doctor. A Catholic. Give him some happiness for a moment since I cannot give him any for real that will last. But of course, I am a terrible liar, too. He would see right through me…

  I went to bed that night for the second time—feeling very happy I had come home. And very sad to be reminded I would be going to Hell. Nah! This is something I have made peace with God about a long time ago.

  And even though I would never say anything, I was pretty sure that all that noise in the kitchen that had woken me up in the first place was no accident. I was also pretty sure that my mother who was still in her bedroom when my father and I exited the kitchen, had gotten a real earful from our talk. And I do not mean from the bedroom, as the scurrying steps, when we opened the kitchen door, would indicate.

  I woke up the next morning from that hard and uncomfortable couch, feeling good. Overnight, everything in my life seemed a little easier than it had been yesterday.

  For a while I lay in bed and thought about something I had said last night. I had told my father that I did not want to lose anyone else and how I should just get married and have some kids and live a nice normal life. I realized that I really did mean it. I had cracked for a moment. For that single instant, I simply could not take it anymore. I wanted to do exactly what my father would have wanted me to do. I did not want to disappoint him anymore. For that moment, doing it his way—at least the thought of it—would have made me genuinely happy.

  As I lay there, my thoughts shifted to Dot. She had not done things according to plan. But whose plan? My plan. Just like I had not done things according to my father’s plan. I let it sink in for a little while. Maybe—and this would probably be obvious to others—you just cannot live your life according to someone else’s plan. Sometimes you cannot even live according to your own plan. Plans change because life changes. And not everyone wants the same thing. Dot does not want the same thing I want, and I cannot be bitter with her for that. I will still grieve like crazy, but I do not want to be bitter anymore. That is my new plan, I thought, to punctuate the whole thing with irony. And then I smiled. I was so aware of that smile. I thought, how often does a person just smile for himself? For himself—or herself—alone? And then I heard the clatter of dishes.

  I kicked the covers off of me and ran into the kitchen.

  “Ma!” I yelled. I startled her, and she almost dropped a pan.

  “What? What is it?” she said.

  I was tingling with energy. “I want to cook breakfast this morning. I want to thank you for all those times you cooked breakfast for me.” Besides, your arms are more than likely tired out from all the times you must have crossed yourself last night listening in on my conversation, I thought.

  “This is why you scare me? To cook breakfast? No, I will do it.”

  I shrugged.

  “I cook better scared,” she said.

  “Hey, who am I to interfere with your plan?”

  My mother looked confused. I beamed and gave her a kiss and exited the kitchen.

  Breakfast was superb. I was glad that Ma did not let me cook. It is what she enjoys.

  After breakfast, my father and I played checkers. He accused me of letting him win. This is something—if it was true—that makes him madder than even losing.

  Later on, the three of us took a walk and had egg creams over at Flatbush Drugs. The place looked just like it did when I was a kid. Only the soda jerk had changed. But I cannot remember my drink ever tasting better. Pop said they taste the way they always do: “Damn good but no different than usual.” I guess it has been awhile.

  At one point, it was just my mother and me. She told me that she prays for me every day to several saints, I forget which, but they are the ones that are known for their self-control and chastity and the like. Hearing this made me feel steamed. I did not need her praying for me like there was something wrong with me. Like I needed fixing. I boiled silently for a moment while I waited for her to finish talking. By the time she was done, I made the decision to keep my mouth shut. It was very conscious. I decided she was doing what she needed to do. I cannot try to control everyone else. If she wants to pray for me, I guess it is none of my business. I fight for a living. What the hell do I need this for in my personal life? So I thanked her, and we squeezed each other’s hands. Then I smiled at her. And she told me to sit up straight.

  My father and I began walking every day. Pop was slowing down quite a bit and needed frequent breaks. We talked about everything except for my love life. We often ran into people we knew from around the neighborhood. Mr. Kaufman wanted to know what it was like out in Hollywood and winked that I must be on the lam. Mrs. Rossetti wanted to know why I was not married yet. “What are you waiting on, sweetheart?” Without a hint of irritation in my voice or heart, I said, “The right person.”

  On day two of my visit, I took a walk by myself over to Sullivan Place. The Dodgers would be back in town in less than a week, and I figured my father and I could go. My mother never cared too much for baseball, which is why I only bought two tickets. Pop was thrilled. They were along the first base line where he could get a good view of his favorite player, Gil Hodges. Maybe ev
en a little between-inning banter.

  The game was just four days away when my father took a turn for the worst. He passed the next day. The day of the funeral I cried like a baby. But at least some of those tears were of joy. I got to see him before he died. We got the opportunity to set things straight. Not everyone gets that chance, and thank God I did.

  But I still had one more thing to do before I left Brooklyn. I went to see the Dodgers at Ebbets Field. I refused to give my father’s ticket away. The game was terrific, and I got to see both Snider and Hodges homer and Robinson steal second. Erskine pitched a good game, and they beat Milwaukee 6-3.

  Now, I know as much about what happens to us when we die as the next person—not much. But I like to think Pop sat beside me that day, cheering on his beloved Bums—and World Champs. And I would not trade that theory for the world.

  Cliff Lonigan

  And then there was one. Yours truly. Overnight the whole operation fell apart. First Jerry stormed off. Then Barbara told me that Dot left. Imagine my own wife taking off without so much as a goodbye. And then Barbara herself flies the nest back to Brooklyn to see her father, the one who kicked her out in the first place.

  Well, the whole thing was a little odd. I mean, to have the entire set up change like that overnight. But just the same, it’s a pretty big world, and there are always other people to meet and greet.

  I wasn’t too worried. I knew Barbara would be back. You can’t keep a good dame down. As for Dot, she’s a kid, and she’s just figuring it all out. And speaking of Dot, she’s a real stand up doll, too. She was having problems getting in touch with anybody, but she tracked me down by phone and asked how everyone was, especially Barbara. She also told me that I had been a good husband. She felt terrible about how things had ended. And absolutely mortified, she said, about her behavior the night we went bowling. She intended to chip in her share of the rent for the next few months so as not to leave us high and dry. She would send it to us, saying she couldn’t dream of facing any of us in person. I thanked her for the “alimony.”

  I guess I was the most surprised by Jerry. In some ways, him walking in on me and what’s-his-name might have been the best thing that could’ve happened. He needs to learn how the real world works. It’s about sex, not love. It’s what—well, Jerry never understood that. It’s what I like physically; but love, that’s a whole different ball of wax. Men don’t love other men. That crosses a different line entirely. And another thing is that all men are pretty much the same when it comes to sex. You’ve had one, you’ve had them all. They’re pretty interchangeable. Anyway, maybe Jerry learned something that night.

  But still I was surprised by his leaving, and I didn’t have a clue about where he might have gone. And like I said, it’s a great big world out there, and so I decided to make the most of it. I attended a couple of parties where I was propositioned frequently by men. And the women, well they certainly dropped enough not so subtle hints telling me to chase ‘em—and catch ‘em. I did go home with a few guys. One turned out to be a little on the nutty side. He also talked a lot, which is something I don’t particularly go for.

  I thought about heading to San Francisco for a few days. Maybe things would be better up there. But in the end, I just laid low and loafed a little. I also felt like I might be developing a cold, and I did something I hardly ever do: call in sick, even though I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was warranted. This gave me some time to think, which may or may not have been such a good thing. At least when I’m at work, I have a purpose—I’m being paid for all this thinking I do.

  Anyway, the whole situation did make me realize one thing. A lot of people just live moment to moment, trying to fight boredom. In fact, I decided that a lot of human history has been devoted to fighting off boredom. Probably because something always seems to be missing for people. I guess that’s life. Sometimes I wish I was better at it.

  The next day, I was back at work. Several days had gone by, and I began to wonder about the duplex. Was anybody coming back? Would I be stuck with everyone’s share of the rent?

  That night I decided to hit a bar. Eddie’s. It was that same place I had cracked that cop’s skull. I swore I’d never go back, but there I was. I was approached a few times, but my mind wasn’t on socializing for some reason, and I knew I was being standoffish. And I didn’t really consider the possibility of running into that cop from the last time I was here. Pretty screwy, huh? Like the bear sprung from a trap who doesn’t give the slightest thought to stepping into it again, that is until he actually feels the pain when those steel jaws snap against his leg once more. Consequences for his poor decisions. That’ll make him care again.

  So, I got good and sauced and went home. Had trouble sleeping, as usual. Then I woke up the next morning and did it all over again. Work and then back to Eddie’s. The seat at the bar was different but the attitude was the same.

  It had been a few days since Barbara had left when I heard some noise from next door. It was about nine in the evening, and a moment later I heard someone coming in from the closet.

  “Hey, look who’s back,” I said when I saw Jerry’s face. He was carrying a big piece of luggage. I have to admit I was happy to see him. I got up off the bed and moved toward him.

  “Cliff, how are you?” His voice seemed different. I stopped where I was and said hello. And then we looked at each other.

  Can you believe this guy? He’s always begging for a hug, and now it’s been a whole week, and he just stares at me?

  “Well, it was a long flight. I’m going to grab something in the fridge and hit the hay,” he said. Then he dropped his luggage and turned back around. I shook my head. Something wasn’t adding up. So, I followed him into the kitchen.

  “Not much here,” he said, looking in the fridge.

  “Well, you’re the cook around here. And the one who does the marketing, too, I guess.”

  He took the last two pieces of bread and made himself a butter sandwich.

  I ignored his sour demeanor and asked him where he’d been. He told me all about his trip back home to Kansas and how he told his mother that he was a homo. But nothing could top the story about his father.

  I grinned and lit a cigarette. “That’s gotta be the craziest way I have ever heard of a guy telling his father he was queer in my whole life.”

  “It was definitely crazy, but I suppose in a strange way it made it easier. My being in that bar was a pretty good conversation starter. I mean, it wasn’t like you when you told your father from scratch, so to speak.”

  “I never told my father.” Whoops.

  “What do you mean you never told your father?”

  I took a long drag and shrugged. “What would have been the point?”

  “What would have been the point? What do you mean what would have been the point? I can’t believe this. You-you told me I should face life head on. That I should be honest with myself. I can’t believe this.” He shook his head but was surprisingly calm.

  “Well listen kid, you’re glad you told them, right? That’s what’s important. In my case it wouldn’t have accomplished a thing.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’m glad I told them, and I guess it worked out. Somewhat. But I didn’t know how things would go before I told them, did I?”

  I got up and poured myself a drink. But Jerry was just getting started.

  “What else have you lied about, Cliff?”

  I smiled. “Not much.”

  “What about being bisexual? You know, I’ve never seen you show the slightest interest in girls.”

  “What’s the difference? There’s been plenty of girls.”

  “Suppose you tell me a story about one or two.”

  “I’m not going to, uhh, dig up stories, like I’m on trial. There are plenty of stories.”

  “Any of them autobiographical?”

  Why was I listenin
g to this shit?

  “Jerry, I don’t know what happened to you in Kansas, but you’ve really changed.”

  “Well, let’s just say, I’m kind of through giving a shit about things I can’t do anything about.”

  “Where did you get that from, a fortune cookie?”

  “And I don’t think I can do anything about you.”

  I took one last shot, put the glass down, and turned to walk out. He was really starting to burn me up. “Goodnight, Jerry.”

  “You know, I used to envy you,” he called after me. “Now I realize your whole bit is an act. You’re a fake, Lonigan. A fake!”

  How much was I supposed to take? Boy, he was really asking for it.

  I ran back into the kitchen. “Come here, you little faggot!” I said. I saw his eyes widen. He couldn’t be too surprised. He was asking for it.

  “You know you turned out to be a pretty crappy roommate, Cliff.”

  Smartass.

  “Come here!” I yelled.

  Then I went barreling toward him and let a good right fly. He absorbed it pretty well, but I know it hurt him. After that, the punches were flying by both of us. I was easily getting the better of him before he landed a pretty good one to my cheek. I fell backwards, and he pushed forward, landing on top of me. To tell you the truth, I think he slipped. After that, he hit me in the lip and then the bastard wants to have a conversation, all of a sudden, while he continues swinging at me.

  “Why did you lie about admitting you were gay to your parents?”

  “Because,” I said. Then I bucked him off and spun around like a wrestler getting off his back. Jockeying for position, a moment later, I had knocked him down, and now I was on top, sitting on his gut.

  “Because what?” he said, covering up as I slugged toward his partially covered face. I guess he was still feeling chatty.

  “Because what?” he repeated.

  I continued punching.

  “Because I was afraid, alright?” I said, bringing down a heavy left to the side of his head.

  “Afraid of what?”