The Edge of Grace

by Christa Allan

  I squirmed, unsure what I had to say would make sense to Max. But he wanted to know. "I'll try to answer the same way, in the nicest way possible. My brother living is more important than his sexual orientation."

  29

  Ben and I got by that Christmas with more than a little help from our friends. Using my debit card, a reasonable limit, and Ben's list, Julie created magic for my son on Christmas morning. I perked up our puny tree with Saints and LSU ornaments; a purple, gold, and black surprise for Ben. He did, though, chide me for not including the Hornets basketball team or the Zephers baseball team. I promised to make amends before the next Christmas.

  The best gift of all was delivering dinner and dessert to David, Max, and the nurses and staff on his floor. We fed their bodies, but their smiles fed our spirits.

  Sidney Washington asked if we could meet at his office, which was actually a renovated home in a section of the city on its way to becoming commercial. I'd never met him in person, just seen him in television commercials and heard a few radio spots. He was a least half a foot under the six feet tall I expected him to be. Ah, the power of the media. The new Pygmalion. What the public wants, will get reshaped.

  His handshake was too long, plus he was one of those two handed shakers. The kind who covers the whole handshake with the free hand, like it might be needed to prevent my hand from flopping out like a fish.

  "So glad you could meet me today, Caryn," he said as he sat behind a desk that was more attractive than he was. But it looked suspicious, like a desk ready for or just coming off a photo shoot. Papers were too neatly disarranged or too tightly stacked to appear as if they'd been given real attention. On the right corner of the desk was a collection of framed photos, all family. Sidney and wife, Sidney and wife and collie, Sidney and wife and son, Sidney and wife and son in tropical places, snowy places, mountain range places, desert places. The desk screamed look at me enjoying my family and see how we travel around this great country of ours, and it's so obvious I love my wife because not only is she in all the pictures, she and I are notoriously scandal-free happy.

  "And you, sir. I'm delighted to have been offered this opportunity." And now, time for token gratuitous family comment." That's an attractive family. And it seems you travel often. How old is your son?"

  "I'll bet Sid Junior is not much younger than you. He'll be twenty-one in a few weeks."

  I tittered, and I don't do that often, but his remark clearly called for it. "Not much at all. I've been celebrating the anniversary of my 29th birthday for a few years now."

  Each time he spoke to me his gaze dropped down from my eyes like an elevator, and it landed on floors as it went down the front of my body, floors where it had no business being. I recrossed my legs, thankful I'd worn a long peasant skirt that even hid my ankles.

  I purposely glanced at my watch, which stopped working two years ago and I only wore it for its bracelet value. I wanted to redirect his attention to menus and to nudge the elevator into making its return trip to my face. "I'm sure you're a busy man, and I don't want to take too much—"

  "That would be impossible. Someone as pretty as you are could never take too much of my time."

  Which is exactly why every other week, a man in political office stood behind a podium and begged forgiveness for an indiscretion while a tight-lipped, vacant-eyed, lawyered-up spouse suffered what she'd make sure was his last indiscretion—at least on her watch. Even a wife with stage three cancer isn't reason for a man to keep his moral elevator from going straigh to the basement.

  This is when I wished I could play the husband card. Where I'd smile saccharinely and ooze enough Southern charm to make a pitcher of sweet tea, and say, "That is so kind of you. That's exactly why my husband's glad he married me."

  I choose to ignore the comment, because to dignify it in any way would suggest that it meant something to me. And it didn't. What it meant, though, was I needed to be careful to not do anything that would suggest impropriety, schedule meetings in public places, and only hope that he told his wife she was beautiful and could never take up too much of his time. And meant it.

  After reviewing the catering options I presented, he promptly closed the folder, pushed it to the side and said, "I'll need some time to review these." He drummed his fingers on the desktop, then picked up his phone. "Lurlene, Ms. Becker and I need to meet with my wife sometime within the next few weeks. What do I have open?"

  A bit presumptuous. Maybe he could have asked me what I had open. Proved he thought I needed his business more than he needed mine—which is true. But he just let me know, in that phone call, that his time was more important than mine. I was tempted to say "no" to whatever date he picked just on general principles.

  He uttered a series of "uh huhs" and then a "wait just a moment" before he turned to me. "Would the last Wednesday in January work for you?'

  I opened my planner, and scanned the month, which actually was as empty as his moral code. But I pondered, made myself look perplexed, and then answered, "Yes, that will work. What time?"

  "How about noon, we could meet somewhere for lunch?"

  Just on my own, general principles, I said, "Is one o'clock too late for lunch? I have something that morning." I considered David "something," quite an important something. I left myself time to drop Ben off at school, go to David's, lunch, Ben and then, depending on Max's schedule, maybe David's again.

  When Max called to tell me David was being discharged and he was bringing him home, I expected it would be Max's home as well. So, little wonder, they were both confused by my questions about wake up times and leave for work times.

  I called David after I dropped Ben off at school to tell him I was on my way, and he said Max had wanted to talk to me, and would I mind waiting because he'd run home for a few minutes.

  "What do you mean? Max went to his house? His house and your house aren't the same house?"

  "No. Why would you think it was?" I'm almost certain I heard a grin in David's voice.

  I assumed David and Max lived together. I don't know why, since David and Lori never did. They were in a relationship where sex would be the natural consequence of them loving each other. But for David and Max, I assumed—because they were gay—their being together was about sex, not the relationship.

  Wrong again.

  My response surprised me, so I could only imagine David's face when he heard it, "Honestly, because you're gay."

  "So being gay comes with property? If that were true, I'd be a retired and wealthy real estate agent." This time David did laugh. "Seriously, Caryn, Max and I have only known each other for a little over six months. I'm not saying we won't ever share a home. But not now."

  Apparently, I had a great deal to learn about this new country I now resided in part time, with dual citizenship.

  "I'll own that assumption. I should be at your house in fifteen minutes. Anything you need me to pick up on the way?"

  "No, I'm good. Really. See you soon."

  "Okay."

  I was just about to click off when David said, "Caryn, thanks. I love you."

  David lived in a shotgun house in the Fauborg-Marigny section of New Orleans. Max, as it turned out, lived five houses down from David's, and that's how they met. At a neighborhood Night Out Against Crime. Not very romantic, but maybe that didn't matter.

  Max gave me a key to David's house and one to his. "Don't argue. Just take them. I feel more comfortable knowing if you needed something for David that was in my house, you could get it."

  "Here's a list of phone numbers . . . my store, the neighbors between David and me, Dr. Armstrong, and this great Cuban restaurant around the corner. They deliver. You can program them in your . . ."

  He glanced at my cell phone which must have seemed to him as prehistoric as the first Philco floor radio, and turned to David, "Have you seen what she's calling a cell phone?"

  "Does it still have a cord and a rotary dial?" David asked and craned his neck from where he sat on the
sofa to catch a glimpse of the artifact Max had scooped from me to show him.

  "Your brother got the decorator gene and the technology gene. You, so far . . . got the chef gene."

  "Are we keeping score?" I asked.

  "Got the feisty gene, too. Okay. We can work with that," Max said as he returned my cell phone. "If I can wrangle a cell phone from the 21st century for you, will you accept it without trying to make it seem like you'll be in my debt forever? Because you won't be. You'll be in Sprint's debt forever. I'm just brokering the deal. "

  "Just tell him 'yes' now; otherwise, he'll start calling you every hour. He's persistent that way," David advised.

  Max looked at him. "All I wanted to do was get us tickets to a Saints game. If you'd have said yes the first time, the price wouldn't have had time to go up." He turned back to me, "So, what do you think?"

  "I don't know. I mean I am due for a trade-in on this one, but the monthly plan will go up won't it?"

  "Well, there you go. Proof positive you're related. Both of you have the thrifty gene."

  Max explained there was a way for me to jump in on a family plan he and David shared, and that would reduce the cost of the monthly plan. And between a BlackBerry he no longer used or a special promotion he'd look into I'd be able to be the happy owner of a new cell phone. At least, new to me.

  Max checked the time. "I need to run. Mayme, my store manager, planned to open for me this morning, but she needs to leave to take her mother to dye her hair. Again."

  Awkward moment alert.

  David and Lori would have said good-bye with a brief hug and a kiss. What was supposed to happen now? Should I disappear into the kitchen to give them some privacy? Did they not need privacy? I realized signs of physical affections between David and Max would be challenging. That's an area I didn't want to have to talk about yet, but I also didn't want to play the "let's pretend one or the other of us is invisible" game either.

  Would they have expected Harrison and me to not show physical affection in their presence? And how would I have felt if they did ask that of us? Would I respect their wishes as I expected them to respect mine?

  "Max, I almost forgot. Julie's picking Ben up from school this afternoon, so I can stay until 4:30. I'm sure you have more to do right now than you have time to do it. In fact, Julie said she'd handle after school rides for this whole week. You and David can let me know tomorrow what works best for you." I picked up the large Chico's bag I'd carried in with me. "Now, I'm headed to the kitchen to make coffee, put away dinners, and make a grocery list. Talk to you later, Max."

  "I'll call around noon," Max said.

  Finding the kitchen in a shotgun house was a no-brainer. Just keep walking straight through every room, and if you fall off the back steps, you went too far. As I left the room, I caught a glimpse of Max as he walked over to the sofa where David stretched out. Beyond that, I didn't know. I didn't want to know.

  And that's all I knew.

  30

  I stacked the week's supply of meals I cooked in the freezer with the almost new carton of Blue Bell Caramel Turtle Cheesecake ice cream, assorted bags of vegetables, two containers of shrimp, and a box of double A batteries.

  Even before I looked in it, I knew the refrigerator would be empty by the way the door quietly and quickly opened. Unlike my refrigerator where salad dressing bottles, jars of one thing or another, blocks of cheese, sticks of butter and margarine, eggs, ketchup, bottles of crab boil and pesto sauces all happily coexisted and weighed down the door. Another door slamming lesson Ben needed to learn. He'd taken out his leftover birthday cake, but the box required a two-hand hold, so he opted to close the door with his right foot. It wasn't until I came along and opened the refrigerator that I discovered one of the adjustable door bins had popped off its side hook, and set in motion an avalanche of bins that led to broken bottles, cracked eggs, and shredded patience.

  David's refrigerator held water bottles, three take-out containers from P.F. Chang's, a gallon of soy milk, and Greek-style yogurts. Eliminated the need for a grocery list. "Restock" didn't require writing down. I emptied what I brought for lunch and dinner into the refrigerator, and checked the cabinets for boxes and cans, anything suggesting a food item, and what David had in the line of cutlery and cookware.

  I was hunting for chopping boards when my cell phone rang. David's number flashed in the small window.

  "Seriously? You're calling me from two rooms away?"

  "I started to wonder if you'd just walked out the backdoor and kept on going. You are still in the kitchen and not walking down Constance Street, aren't you?"

  "Just trying to get settled, figure out if I need to bring supplies from home. Speaking of, where's your cutting board?"

  "Cabinet under the sink. Hey, would you mind making me a cup of coffee? Whatever flavor you pick is fine. And I drink it black with one of those yellow packets in the basket with the pods."

  "Got it. Be there in a few minutes."

  David's bright red coffee brewer was the only appliance on the limestone countertop. I picked through the collection of flavored coffee pods, found Hawaiian Hazelnut, and brewed two single cups to carry back to the living room.

  I placed David's mug on the coffee table. He had his cell phone mashed to his ear; the conversation on his end consisted mostly of "Yes" and "Okay." He mouthed "client." I slipped my shoes off, sat in the armchair and propped my feet on the ottoman. The blue ticking fabric of the matching chair reminded me of the musty lumpy mattresses at my grandparents' home close to the lake. The times our parents actually went somewhere overnight, they'd drop David and me off at Mimi's and Papa's. One of their two acres was fringed with water too shallow and seaweed-slimy for swimming, but perfect for dropping a cane pole with a red and white striped bobber off the end of a pier.

  After showers in water that smelled like rotten eggs, David and I would pull our mattresses out on the screened-in porch and cover them with scratchy white sheets. Some nights the four of us played "Go Fish" at the card table.

  Mimi told us that stars were the bright faces of all the people in heaven that shined down to remind us of the light of God's love for us. So at night, lying on porch mattresses, David and I marveled at stars that throbbed in the dark body of the night.

  Our grandparents died within a year of each other, one from cancer and the other of a broken heart. Mom sold the two acres. Too soon, unfortunately; five years later, the migration from the city started and it hasn't stopped since. Six houses, each valued well over a million dollars, now sit on that land. Everything once familiar to us there disappeared.

  Except for the stars.

  I looked at David's once purple and black bruises now faded to yellow and brown, and thought that my Mimi's story just didn't ring true any more. How could that light of God have shined on David's attackers? And, as if she heard me ask the question, Mimi's voice tiptoed into my consciousness: Light can also expose the truth.

  "Do you need me to zap that for you?"

  David had just taken his first sip of coffee, and he'd been on the phone so long, I figured it was on its way to iced coffee.

  "No, this is fine. Plus I'm still a bit clumsy, so good probably it's not too hot. Saves me a trip to the burn unit."

  "Did you want anything to eat?"

  "No. Sitting on my butt doesn't require much energy. And I did eat breakfast this morning. Max brought over a bagel with Nutella spread. Have you tasted that stuff? How did I get to be this old and not know about it?"

  "Luck? Once you discover it, you're doomed. I could eat it right out of the jar using a spoon. Guess that's why we didn't know about it growing up. Mom might have considered it an addictive substance."

  "Yes, she probably would."

  A long space of silence. Except for what I suspect was foot tapping in heaven.

  "We haven't really talked in months. Are we going to keep talking about food?" David wasn't confrontational; in fact, he sounded more like a parent coaxing a chil
d into a pool. I guess that's where David wanted to lead me—out of the shallowness.

  "No." I stared into my coffee mug, then looked at my brother." That's kind of the problem. I wish we could go back to those days . . . when we had those kinds of conversations without thinking we used them to avoid talking about something else. When things were. . ."

  "Normal? Was that the word?"

  I sipped my coffee. I needed to think before I answered.

  You were on your way to being honest. Don't take a detour now.

  I know, Harrison. I know.

  "I guess. I mean, if we were still talking about food or whatever . . . you'd be at work right now. Not recovering from getting attacked."

  David lowered his mug to the table and massaged the back of his neck as he looked at the ceiling. "You're right."

  I'm surprised he agreed with me so easily, but I nodded as encouragement. Maybe this meant he was beginning to understand his own confusion.

  "If I had just kept living the lie, the people who attacked me would have found someone else. And nothing would have changed in your life. As long as I stayed dishonest, everyone else's world kept spinning. And all this," he waved his hand over his body, "is my fault. For not hiding the truth about myself."

  Whoa. The train just stopped at the wrong station. "That's not how I meant it. I wasn't trying to blame you. I'm trying to be honest here. And the truth is, things were easier before you decided . . . announced, whichever, that you were gay."

  "Are you being honest with me? Because I can't help but think that you're more concerned with how my being gay impacted your life than mine. As long as you saw the David you wanted to see, everything was fine." He flinched as he shifted on the sofa. "I get it. You want me to be gay on my own time."

  "No. You don't get it. I didn't want you to be gay at all. I wanted you to get married, have kids, and grandkids, and just have a normal life."