Dinner at Fiorello’s

by Rick R. Reed

  He winced and pulled away when his mom laid a hand upon his arm.

  “Yes, Henry, we really do.”

  Henry turned back and stifled an urge he felt—which was almost overwhelming—to cry. “Why? Why do you need to talk to your son about who you’re cheating on Dad with?” And a couple of tears did escape. Henry angrily pushed them away with the back of his hand. “This is not appropriate, Mom. This is not my business.”

  His mother stared down at the floor. “His name is John.”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “I heard you the first time.”

  “I’m in love with him, Henry. This is more than just—what do you guys call it?—hooking up? I wanted to tell you at some point, but I thought that day was far off, when I was ready to talk to your father. Maybe after you left for university. When I was making plans to move in with John.”

  “What?”

  His mother went on. “But then I saw you hiding across the street when I came out of his place, and I realized how close that restaurant you’re working at is to John’s apartment.” She licked her lips. “I was so stunned I didn’t know what to say, what to do, so I just took off.”

  “What could you say, Mom?”

  She touched his arm again, and then stroked his cheek. He shrugged her away.

  “I could say that you don’t understand what drove me to John. And maybe that’s more than a son needs to know. But you do need to understand things have not been good between your father and me for a very, very long time. I felt neglected, like all my nerve endings had been cauterized. I felt nothing, numb. I walked through my days depressed and thought things would never change. I thought my life was over.

  “And then one day, I needed to get a key made, and I went to the hardware store on Howard. You know, the one your father likes, that little mom-and-pop operation? And there he was. John. I don’t want to upset you, Henry, but there was something there when our eyes met—”

  “Shut up.” Henry cut her off. “Just shut the fuck up.”

  “Henry!”

  “What’s wrong with you? You think I want to hear this? I’m your kid.” He looked with longing at her, in hopes she’d understand that what she was telling him was hurting him in ways he was too upset to even understand.

  “I just… I just wanted you to know so you’d realize it had nothing to do with you when I make my move.”

  “Make your move? To what, run off and be with your hardware store man?” Henry laughed bitterly. “Oh, won’t Dad love that? Losing his wife to some lowlife store clerk who makes keys? Add me to the equation, washing dishes and busing tables, and he’ll be so proud of us both!” Henry began to laugh, harder and harder, so hard his sides ached and he collapsed on his back on his bed.

  His mother stared at him, her mouth open.

  Suddenly he stopped and sat back up. He didn’t know if he had just laughed or sobbed. Probably both. His cheeks were damp, and his throat hurt. His eyes felt raw, burning. What he did know was that he needed to be alone. He didn’t think he could bear one more second of his mother sitting so close, looking for—what—validation? Understanding?

  Sorry, Mom, I’m fresh out of both.

  “Honey, you’re not being fair.”

  “I’m not being fair?” Henry laughed. “I think you’re the one.”

  She had her mouth open to say something else, and Henry held up a hand. “Please. Maybe we do need to talk, but I can’t. Not right now.” And even though he thought he’d lie for the next eight hours staring at the ceiling, he said, “I’m just too tired. I need to sleep. Could you please, please, please just leave me alone?”

  Henry felt a paradoxical rise of his spirit and a sinking of his heart when she stood and started toward the door.

  “You rest, honey, and we’ll talk when you’re up in the morning.”

  Henry didn’t say anything. He put his feet up on the bed and turned toward the wall. He kept his eyes shut tight and listened as his mother crossed back toward him. She reached down and awkwardly, and with some difficulty, loosened the quilt beneath him. She tossed it to the end of the bed. She then bent to loosen his shoelaces and take off his shoes. She pulled the cover back up and over him, tucked it in around him, and then ran her hand down the length of his body. Henry’s shoulders went up as he felt her lips, cool, on his cheek as she kissed him. “Sleep tight,” she whispered.

  She turned out the light, and the room was plunged into darkness. The windows opposite him turned into slate gray rectangles. Henry could see stars. He listened as she opened and closed the door behind her.

  He didn’t once open his eyes and, despite his upset, felt himself drifting off, betrayed by a body that simply had no more to give—not even consciousness.

  IT WAS silent, as though all the sound in the world had been sucked out of it. Yet Henry was happy. The day was brilliant, the sunlight casting harsh, crisp shadows on the sidewalk as Henry followed Vito down Greenview Avenue.

  Henry knew that this was sort of a game. When Vito turned to look behind him, Henry would duck, laughing, into a doorway or behind a dumpster or some shrubbery. He followed Vito until they were on Morse Avenue, and then Henry lost track of him. The next thing he knew, Vito was ahead of him again, but now he had the dogs with him. And Henry’s mother too. And that guy. What was his name? John?

  Henry laughed because John and Vito looked like they could be brothers. “Like mother, like son,” Henry said and laughed, thinking he shared the same taste in men with his own mother. “It’s definitely time to tell her I’m gay.” Even though Henry said the words, again, no sound came out.

  And then it was night. And Henry found himself alone on the street. He pounded on the street-level door he knew led up to Vito’s apartment. There was something shadowy moving behind him, and it was getting closer, closer.

  He pounded harder, his spine rigid, afraid to turn and look back. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt a hot breath at his neck.

  And all at once, Vito was at the door, reaching out to snatch Henry inside. He slammed the door behind Henry and smiled. “That was close,” Vito said, but no words came out of his mouth. It was as though Henry absorbed the words telepathically. Henry, inside and presumably safe, looked behind himself and through the glass-paned door to see what monster had almost gotten him in his clutches.

  “Was there always glass in that door?” Henry asked Vito, thinking that last time he saw it, the door was solid wood.

  Vito didn’t answer, and all Henry saw outside was not the night, not Morse Avenue with its river of traffic and neon lights, but the beach behind their house in Evanston, in brilliant sunlight. His father was on the raft he liked, the one that had a cup holder where he could park his bottle of Stella Artois. His dad waved to him and then was carried away by a current in the sparkling aquamarine water. A V formation of geese flew by, and they broke the silence with their honking. A dolphin jumped out of the water.

  Again, he felt more than heard Vito speaking. “Never mind that. It’s going to storm soon, and you don’t want to see that. Come upstairs. I have a surprise for you.”

  Henry followed Vito, snatching one final look over his shoulder. Outside, blackness pressed in once more, and Henry just knew instinctively that something lurked within those pitch-black shadows.

  When he turned back around, Vito was gone. Henry ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  When he got to the top, whatever force that had caused sound to disappear returned it. There was a small group in Vito’s living room—Vito, the little dark-haired boy from the photos, the blond man also in the pictures, his mother, and John—all shouting “Surprise!” in unison when Henry entered the room. Everyone was laughing at what must have been the stunned look on Henry’s face.

  And then Henry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bookshelf and saw that he had no face. The realization caused his heart to skip a beat. Everyone seemed to know that too.

  They all laughed.

  Then his moth
er said, “Your face is in the bedroom. Why don’t you go in there with Vito and get it?” She winked.

  Henry looked to Vito, confused. But Vito stood in the doorway to his bedroom, taking off his clothes. Henry took in the hairy, muscled body, and even though there were people all around, he felt himself getting aroused.

  Vito jerked his head to get Henry to follow him. He turned, and Henry admired the two globes of fur-covered flesh that were his ass.

  In the bedroom, Vito lay, waiting for him. His dick was hard and pointing straight up. A line of precome dribbled down the shaft.

  HENRY AWAKENED, bright sunlight flooding into his room. The final throbs of orgasm stained the inside of his boxers, sticky and warmly wet. He shuddered and moaned, turning on his side and pulling the pillow over his head. The dream images scattered, yet left in their wake a strange euphoria. Henry laughed to himself and thought he needed to clean up.

  He forced himself to get out of bed and pad to the shower. He knew his mother would be waiting for him in the kitchen of what Henry now thought of as the main house. They were far from finished talking.

  Under the spray of warm water, Henry thought about how rejuvenating a good night’s sleep could be. When he came out of the shower, he was surprised to glance down at his phone and see it was almost noon.

  If his mother was indeed waiting for him, Henry realized he was ready to talk to her, not just to hear what she had to say about her own situation but to share who he was with her. It was time.

  “MOM, I’M gay.” Henry thought he would cut her off before she could begin talking about this John person. And what better way to do it than with a shocking announcement?

  They had just finished breakfast—Henry’s scrambled eggs and ham and Mom’s black coffee and rice cake—and had moved out onto the patio off the back of the house. They sat on the Adirondack chairs facing the lakefront. Today the water was gunmetal gray, churning, reflecting a cloud-choked sky above.

  Maxine was busy inside, emptying the dishwasher.

  Rain was coming, and soon.

  Henry searched for a sign on his mom’s face that would indicate shock. But her features, behind large Prada sunglasses, appeared placid. “And?” she asked.

  “And? What do you mean, ‘and’? Your only son just told you he’s gay, a pole smoker, a queer, a faggot, a fudge-packer, and all those other horrible terms people use for people like me, and all you can say is ‘and’?”

  “Well, Henry, if you’re looking for me to be surprised, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not. If your fascination as a little boy with Martha Stewart Living wasn’t enough to tip me off, the way you look all moony-eyed at your friend Kade would have done the trick.”

  “So you knew?” Henry felt equal parts relief and disappointment. This was kind of anticlimactic. He was expecting fireworks and drama, a “Was-it-something-I-did?” speech.

  She shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, not for sure. But I always kind of thought so. Ever since you were a small boy. Little things tipped me off. And please, Henry, don’t make me say something as corny as ‘A mother knows.’”

  Henry scratched his head, uncertain. This was not the way he’d expected this conversation to go. “And you don’t care?”

  “Well, of course I care, Henry. Care about you. That you’re happy. And you are, aren’t you?”

  Henry pondered the question. He wasn’t sure he knew the answer, and he told her that. “Is anyone happy?” Henry wondered. So far, being gay didn’t seem to offer him any advantage, certainly not when it came to love and sex. And being out, which he would have thought should be some kind of relief, seemed like no big deal to his mom.

  “You’re too young to be talking like that. Don’t be so negative. Happiness can come to us all.”

  His mother looked out at the water. A large sailboat drifted by. Henry, for a moment, expected a dolphin to leap out of the water.

  Henry couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but this admission and his mother’s lack of surprise, indeed her kind of nonchalance about it, made him feel closer to her than he had in a long time. Maybe she had more character than he gave her credit for. He wondered if children ever really knew their parents, or if parents ever really knew their children.

  “So what happens now?” he asked her. He guessed conversation about his sexual orientation was pretty much over. Wow. They’d spent, like, three minutes on it. Maybe this was better—that his mother lived in a world where being gay meant nothing more than a variation on the human theme, where it was—simply—no big deal. Still, Henry couldn’t help but wonder if his dad would be as accepting.

  So now he felt ready to talk to her about what she’d brought up the night before. Or at least as ready as he’d ever be….

  “You mean with what we talked about last night?” His mother leaned forward in her chair, and her eyes searched his face. She was probably looking for pain, probably trying to assess if he was truly ready to talk more.

  “Yes, Mom. What are you going to do? Are you gonna tell Dad?”

  She looked away from him at the question, her bright blue eyes scanning the horizon. Henry questioned his motivation for bringing things up again, questioned if he was really ready to hear whatever his mother had to say.

  She turned back to him. “Now that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, I think I have to. I mean, this secrecy has gone on for a lot longer than it should have. And seeing you seeing me was, in a weird way, liberating. You kind of forced my hand, Henry. And I’m grateful.” She nodded and slapped a hand on her thigh. “I’ll talk to him when he gets home from work.”

  Henry was glad he’d already be at the restaurant when that conversation occurred. It wouldn’t be pretty.

  “He’s not gonna take it well.”

  She laughed. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  They fell to silence for a moment or two. And then Henry asked, “But what are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know.” She got that faraway look in her eye again. She didn’t speak for a long time. “I don’t want to upset you.”

  The simple statement sent a chill through Henry, despite the oppressive heat and humidity of the day. He sighed. “Then maybe we should leave it alone.” He stood up, but his mother grabbed his hand.

  “Please,” she said. “Please sit back down. We do need to talk.”

  “Oh no.” Henry was back to thinking he was too young, still too much of a kid to have this talk. He wanted to bolt, run until his sides ached, until his lungs were close to bursting. He wanted to find his old high school friends on the beach at the end of South Boulevard, where they liked to hang out, and just become a teenager again. Get in a game of pickup volleyball, wonder about his tan line, brave the frigid waters of the lake by diving straight in. Maybe smoke a little weed if anybody had any. Forget….

  He wondered if he could ever return to that world.

  He sat. “Mom, I don’t know if I want to hear this.” He knew what she was going to say, could feel it coming like he was tied to train tracks with a locomotive bearing down.

  “Henry,” she said, her voice and face both sad. “I’m going to go.”

  Henry nodded and felt the lump rise up in his throat. Where was Maxine? Why wasn’t she coming outside and interrupting? If she would do that, they could pretend they’d never gone as far as they just had. Maxine would have the magical power to stop things. He gazed desperately at the back door, yearning to see Maxine’s solid form appear in it.

  But the doorway stayed empty.

  “I need to go live with John. We’ve talked about it.” She tried to smile, but the tears in her eyes thwarted the effort. “I won’t be far away. You can still come see me.” She patted his hand. “All the time.”

  Henry shook his head. He felt sick, the acids in his stomach roiling. “I don’t want to visit my own mother. I want you to be home.” He felt like his voice and his words were those of a three-year-old, but he couldn’t help it.

  She patted his hand again, and
he wished she’d quit it. “I know. But once I tell your father, I think I’ll pretty much have to go.”

  You got that right, Henry thought but didn’t say. Dad will be livid. He had an idea. “Maybe you don’t have to tell him.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you don’t need to say anything. Listen! It’ll be our little secret. I won’t tell.” He tried to smile and knew he was failing. “And then we can, I don’t know, just go on like we were before.” He snatched at his mother’s hand and squeezed it. “We can do this, Mom! And you can still see John. Anytime you want! I won’t say a word. I swear. I’ll even cover for you when you’re with him.” He bit his lower lip, hard, to hold in a sob that was about to escape.

  “Honey, you’re babbling.” She shook her head again. “I don’t think I can go back to the way things were. I was so miserable. My mind’s made up.” She looked away again, as if she were sizing up the gorgeous house they lived in and saying good-bye. “It’s been made up, really, for a long time. Getting things out in the open with you helped me see it’s time.”

  “But this is our family,” Henry whispered, voice breaking. “Doesn’t it matter to you how I feel?” Henry went from sorrow to rage in fewer than sixty seconds. “Doesn’t it matter to you that you’ll be leaving me here all alone? With him?” He stood and began pacing the flagstone pavers of the patio. What would he do? Yes, he’d thought his family was cold, that it was dysfunctional—but wasn’t everyone’s? This was all he had.

  “Maxine will still be here. I know how close you are to her.”

  “She’s not my mother.” Henry had thought he didn’t care much about his mom. He’d even called her a “cold bitch” many times to Kade and some of his other friends. But this moment, right now, was proving him wrong. He hurried over to her and knelt at her feet. He laid his head in her lap. “Please, Mom,” he whined, the idea emerging fully formed in his brain. “Take me with you. I can sleep on the couch. I won’t be any bother. I promise.”