“You make Chinese better than this, too.”
She sighed. “Then maybe we should never eat out.”
“Except for the steaks at Trail Run.”
No one anywhere made better steaks than that restaurant. Trail Run’s beef and other meats were always the very top quality, and when they were delivered to your table, the waiter asked you to cut into it to make sure it was cooked to your specifications. If it was too well-done or too rare for your taste, it was rushed back into the kitchen and corrected immediately.
Trail Run was a very popular restaurant. On weekends, it was sometimes impossible to get a table there although they occasionally stayed open for an hour or so after their posted times so late customers wouldn’t be turned away. Yes, their food was worth losing sleep over.
I glanced up as she ate the last of her pork. It amazed me that our relationship had lasted this long and had grown so strong. It had started rather slow. We’d met at a national lesbian art conference. When I saw her that first afternoon, I was highly impressed. Her display table was right behind mine. She had almond-colored hair and hazel eyes. Her stance was tall and had a thinly disguised tinge of command to it. I immediately wanted to get to know her. I’d introduced myself and complimented her work. We sat together that evening at dinner and I spent the remainder of that evening talking to her at her exhibit, only turning away when someone came up to examine my work. The rest of the weekend, we’d flirted and had all our meals together and we’d spent the one night we had together talking, sipping drinks, and laughing. Nothing sexual happened. That would come later. I did kiss her good-bye when she got ready to board the plane that next afternoon.
And that one kiss? She stared into my eyes with a warm, surprised smile, then turned and walked away. It was a good thing I hadn’t kissed her on the first day, because neither of us would have gotten to see any of the exhibits, nor been able to display our own art and stand behind the bench to hawk it to everyone who had come to our tables.
* * * *
Our cross-country courting lasted over eight or nine months. Then I got a call from her daughter one day.
“Hi, sweetie,” I greeted her. “How’s everything there?”
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “Mom wanted me to call you and explain why you wouldn’t see her online for a few days. She’s in the hospital. She’s had a heart attack.”
The news hit me like a lead weight.
“What? Where is she? Is it bad? When did this happen?” I didn’t know which question to ask first.
“No, no, no,” she assured me. “It wasn’t bad, but the doctors want her to stay in there a couple more days so they can do tests and make sure everything is okay.”
“What else did the doctor say?”
“She’ll have to take it easy for a while, but there shouldn’t be anything keeping her from coming home soon.”
“Is there a phone number in her hospital room?” I asked.
“Sure. She told me to give it to you. The best time to get her is just after lunch. I think they’ll be doing tests in the mornings.” She hesitated a moment. “This happened last night and they’ve already done some things for her already today.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost six o’clock here on the east coast. They were two hours behind.
“Would now be a good time to call?” I asked.
She hesitated. “I guess so,” she finally said. “It’s probably too late for them to be doing tests and stuff.”
“Good. I’ll call her. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Of course. You’d be the first one I’d call. Talk to you soon.”
“Thanks again,” I said as the call ended.
Of course, I dialed her right away.
“How dare you have a heart attack without letting me know first?” I said when she answered.
There was a light laugh. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said. Her voice was a little weaker but she sounded in good spirits.
“So? What’s up?”
“It was just a minor heart attack but the doctors want me to stay here another couple days so they can test everything before they give me clearance.”
“And what were you doing that brought this on?”
“Worrying.” Her statement was flat as if it were an everyday occurrence.
“About what?”
“Probably everything: the kids, the house, the website, the plumbing under the kitchen sink, building a new wall in the garage so I’ll have a bigger workspace, money to do it all, and you.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about me anymore. I’ll be out there as soon as I can get a flight.”
“Oh, you don’t have to, honey. It will all be okay.”
“Shhh,” I hushed her. “I’ll be there. That way when you get out of there, you’ll have a little help until you get back on your feet.”
I heard her sigh. “I’d love that,” she finally admitted.
My heart relaxed. “I would, too.” We spoke for another half hour.
“I’ll call you in the morning after I find a flight. Don’t give the doctors any trouble.”
She tried to chuckle but I heard weariness creeping up on her.
“I can’t wait for you to get here.”
“Me, neither.”
* * * *
When I got there the next afternoon, her daughter and younger son were waiting in her room.
“Mom came through the operation just fine, the doctor said,” was how she started. “They’ll have her back in here in about a half an hour.”
“Operation? What operation?”
There was a look of dismay on her face.
“She didn’t tell you,” she moaned. “She said she had.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I interrupted her. “What operation?”
“The doctor said there was an aneurism in one of the veins coming out of her heart, so they operated to fix it up and make sure it didn’t blow.”
“No, she didn’t tell me that. When did they find that?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“That’s okay, then. It was probably after I called.”
She nodded her agreement. I still wonder if it really was after I called, but I supposed it didn’t matter.
She only spent another two days in the hospital, then we took her home with the doctor’s orders: No climbing any stairs, do not lift anything over fifteen pounds, no running and stay in bed as much as you can until I see you next week.
She obeyed most of that but I’ve never known her to stay in bed when she could think of other things that needed to be done. The one thing that made her want to stay in bed would not help her relax.
And that was the beginning.
Sometimes I wonder how long it would have taken us to move in together if she hadn’t had that attack. That was the impetus, though. It took me over two years to pack or sell everything, going back there every other month or so, before I could give up my house in New York and move in with her officially.
* * * *
All the years haven’t been golden. We’ve had differences of opinion and outright arguments from time to time, but we never forgot our promise not to go to bed angry. Oh, we might wake up in the morning ready to take up our altercation again, but we never ended our day with hard feelings. We always said I love you as the last thing before we fell asleep.
“Do you want some ice cream for dessert?” she asked. The question shook me from my reverie.
“Yes,” and then I stopped to think about it. “Let’s wait until we go food shopping. There’s that really good ice cream shop just around the corner from there.”
She thought about it. “Oh. Yes. I’ve forgotten about that. Are you finished eating?”
“Yup.” I nodded. “All done.”
She placed all the dishes and trash onto the tray and carried them to the trash barrel, then left the tray on the counter at the food shop.
“Need anything before we leave?” she asked as she walked ba
ck.
I shook my head. “I’m fine for now,” I answered.
“Alright, release your brakes.”
I pulled the brake levers back as she backed my wheelchair from the table. I’ve been in a chair ever since my leg was mangled in a skiing accident four months ago. I went through several operations and weeks of therapy and it was getting much better, but it would take a little while longer before I could walk on it.
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, not the way we planned it. I came here to take care of her, but we deal with whatever happens as best we can. We give each other support and love; even after almost twenty years. That will last forever.
“Thank you for everything,” I said softly to her. “I think you spoil me, too.
“That’s because I love you,” she whispered back.
“Not as much as I love you,” I smirked back at her.
“Probably more.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“Prove it.”
“Wait ‘til we get home.”
Some things will never, ever change.
* * * *
ABOUT NANISI BARRETT D’ARNUK
Nanisi Barrett D’Arnuk first published in 1996. In 2000, she and her partner were victims of a hate crime which burned their house to the ground, destroying everything. She has since rewritten her first series, The Cameron Andrews Mysteries. For more information, visit facebook.com/nanisibarrettdarnuk.
Paper Anniversary by Kim Davis
“Why did you check your bag?” my father asks as we wait at the baggage claim carousel for my flight from Chicago to San Diego.
“They made me,” I tell him. “The overhead bins filled up before I boarded, so I had to check my bag at the gate.”
He shakes his head. “These freaking airlines. They let you bring a bag onto the flight and then they don’t give you enough space to store it. At least they didn’t charge you for the bag since they forced you to check it.” While he launches into a diatribe about how many millions of dollars the airline industry makes off of things like baggage fees and seat upgrades, I tune him out and try to concentrate on the real reason I’m in San Diego. Last summer, my father, Tim Wattley, married his long-time partner, Craig Pearson, and I’m visiting to spend some time with them and help celebrate their first anniversary.
After my father and mother’s marriage imploded and they divorced, he came out as a gay man. He was single for a few years before moving from our hometown of Chicago to San Diego and meeting Craig. Even though he and Craig have only been married for a year, they’ve been together since I was in high school and I just finished my sophomore year of college at the University of Michigan.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I notice my roller bag coming down the conveyor belt. When it gets close enough for me to grab it, I notice that it’s not actually my bag. It’s just another black roller bag that looks like my own.
“That’s not yours?” my father asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure they put yours on the plane?”
My father thinks he’s being funny, but he isn’t and I start to worry that maybe my bag didn’t make the flight. What if it’s still parked at the gate at O’Hare? Not that I had anything valuable packed inside, but just the thought of being luggage-less makes me nervous. Sure, everything I packed could be replaced, but losing my luggage would put such a damper on a week-long visit that I really want to be happy and fun.
“Nick,” my father says, interrupting my thoughts. I watch as he pulls a black roller bag from the conveyor belt and checks the identification tag before placing it on the floor. “Let’s go.”
“Is that mine?”
“No, I just pulled some random person’s luggage to take home. Yes, it’s yours.”
He shows me the identification tag that has my name scribbled on it: Nicholas Wattley. My handwriting is terrible.
“You’re far too paranoid for a twenty-year-old,” my father says as we head to the parking lot.
“That’s what happens when you’re an only child from a broken home,” I tell him.
He just rolls his eyes at that and I laugh. He asks if I’ve called my mother and I tell him I called her as soon as my flight landed. My mother and I spoke briefly as my plane taxied to the gate and she told me to enjoy the week with my father. I told her I’d try and, really, that’s all I can do.
As soon as we get in the car, my father tells me Craig is really sorry he couldn’t be there to meet me at the airport also. “He had a meeting at work that he couldn’t miss.”
“I know. He sent me a text.”
“He’ll be glad to see you. Maybe seeing you will stop him from being mad at me.”
“Craig’s mad at you?”
“Unfortunately.”
“What did you do?”
My father looks at me in shock. “Why do you assume I did something?”
“Dad, come on. This is me you’re talking to.” I love my father, but he can be difficult to deal with sometimes. A few days before he and Craig married, I feared they’d break up because they had a huge argument complete with broken glass and slammed doors. I’m still not sure exactly what the argument was about, but I have no doubt my father was to blame for it.
Dad frowns and shakes his head. “This thing with Craig…it’s so stupid. He came by my office last week to take me to lunch and he criticized me for not having any pictures of us on display. He told me he has a picture of us on his desk at work and he doesn’t understand why I don’t especially since we’re married now. I told him I don’t have pictures of anyone in my office.”
This is true. My father works as a managing director for a business consulting firm and, during the few times I’d visited his office, I’d never seen any pictures on his desk or anywhere else. Years ago when he lived and worked in Chicago, he had a picture of me and Mom together on his desk and after he got divorced, he replaced that photo with a smaller one of just me, but when he moved to San Diego and started working there, that picture moved, too…from his work desk to his home desk.
“Craig knows I don’t keep personal stuff like that at work,” my father says. “My work space is for work. Anyway, I told him to forget about the picture thing and he got mad and sulked over it for the rest of the day. After that, he didn’t bring it up again and I assumed the matter was over and done with. Then, last night, we exchanged anniversary gifts because yesterday was our official anniversary date, you know. I can’t believe we’ve been married for a year already. Anyway, the traditional first anniversary gift is something made from paper, right? Craig and I had both decided we weren’t going to give each other anything extravagant so no tickets to Bali or anything like that. I gave him some books he wanted and he gave me a framed picture of us from our wedding. It’s a beautiful photo in an engraved silver frame that’s just perfect for a desk or bookshelf. You can see where this is going, right?”
I nod and my father continues. “Craig told me I needed to stop being so stubborn and put the wedding picture of us out in my office for everyone to see. I told him to stop trying to control me. Then we had an argument and now he’s mad at me…again.”
“I don’t understand what the big deal is. Why don’t you just put the picture on your desk at work?”
Dad sighs and shakes his head. “It’s not about the picture. Don’t you see that?”
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about Craig subtly trying to change me. First he’s telling me how to decorate my office, the next thing you know he’s picking out my shirts.”
“He already picks out your shirts.” He does.
“Whatever. You know what I mean.”
Actually, I have no idea what my father means, but I don’t tell him that. Instead I ask where the picture is that Craig gave him.
“It’s on my desk in the office at home. I’ll show it to you when we get there.”
My father and Craig live in a small, but nice,
three-bedroom, two-bath house in San Diego. They bought it when they decided they wanted to live together and they’ve been there ever since. Craig told me that soon after they moved into the house, one of the neighbors approached him while he was working in the yard and asked how he and his “brother” were enjoying the neighborhood. Craig and my father look nothing alike. How anyone could mistake them for being brothers is beyond me. My father has dark hair and gray eyes and Craig has curly blond hair (streaked with gray) and blue eyes.
After I put my things in the spare bedroom, Dad calls me to the office to see the picture that’s causing so much angst between him and Craig. I can’t help smiling a little at the picture as Dad hands the silver frame to me. I remember when the photo was taken. It was during the wedding reception. Dad and Craig, both still dressed in the tuxedos they wore during the ceremony, were having their first dance as a married couple while “This Time the Dream’s on Me” played in the background. The picture frame is engraved “Tim and Craig” and includes the date of their wedding last summer. They look so happy and in love and the photo leaves no doubt about what kind of relationship they have. I’ve seen pictures of them where they look like two buddies who are about to play a round of golf or go out for a beer rather than two men in a long-term relationship. My father’s rather weak rationale for not having personal photos in his office at work makes me think he’s either a little crazy or just a total dick. Whatever the case, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t put this photo of him and Craig on his desk at work and Craig is right to be angry with him for being so stubborn about this.
“It’s a nice picture, Dad,” I tell him. “You should put it on your desk at the office.”
He rolls his eyes and tells me that he’s going to run some errands and pick up a few things for dinner later. He asks if I want to go with him, but I decline figuring I’ll relax and enjoy the silence. After he leaves, I plant myself on the sofa in the living room and watch television. I must have drifted off because the sound of someone coming in the front door wakes me up. I look up and see Craig coming towards me. He’s wearing a black suit and a white shirt with no tie. I notice he has new glasses that are black and more hipster-ish than the ones he used to wear.
Love Is Proud Page 9
