by Brenda Benny
It’s an intimate setting, with only about thirty tables spread across the three tiers in the dimly lit room. I’ve never been to this club in particular, but I can still remember how smoke hung in the air of similar places my parents brought me to in other cities when I was younger. The same apple-sweet cigar scent clings to the wood trim and the leather booths along the walls here.
A dark-haired woman appears beside Max, her tray held high, a green snake tattoo wrapped around her copper hued arm. “My, my, Max. And who is this you’ve brought with you tonight?”
“Hey, Eliza. This is Serena.”
She looks down at our entwined hands, and I quickly drop Max’s.
“Hi,” I say, flipping my fingers up awkwardly like I was about to shake her hand, and then realize she’s occupied with the tray full of drinks.
She gives me a brief smile before turning back to Max. “You sitting in my section?” Her head inclines to the area over her shoulder, with several empty tables.
“Sure thing. They’re coming on at nine?”
“So they say. You know – Musicians.” She lifts an eyebrow at Max. “Bring you a Stella?” She nods towards him, and then turns to me. “And a...?”
“A Coke,” I blurt out.
Max eyes dart to mine, and he quickly says, “Make mine a Coke, too.”
She nods, biting her lip, and giving me a look altogether different from what she’d reserved for Max. “Two Cokes. Sure.”
We find a table a couple rows back from the stage, and Max pulls out my chair for me.
“Guess you do come here often, hey?” I mumble to him.
He laughs, looking around at the other tables. “Not that often. But, yeah, I’ve been here to see some great music this past year.”
The bar isn’t full, by any means, but it’s still early in the evening. Our drinks are in front of us before I even shrug off my jacket, and the waitress moves on quickly to another table.
“Who have you seen here?”
“Mostly smaller blues bands you may not have heard of. Guys just making a living going from show to show all over North America.” His eyes become animated, even more so than usual, and he leans forward in his seat, drumming all ten fingers on the tabletop. “But years ago, some of the most amazing guys came through here – even before they were famous. Apparently Stevie Ray Vaughn played with Donald Duck Dunn. And even John Lee Hooker played a show here.”
“Do you think it’s a prerequisite to have three names and come from the Mississippi Delta to be a blues guitarist?” I wonder aloud.
He grins at my musing. “Maybe it’s so hot there, there’s nothing to do but sit on your porch, twang your strings, and sing about yo’ baby and da’ heat.”
I try to hide my smile. “Trying on a new accent for tonight?”
He looks like he is seriously contemplating this, his one eye scrunched closed. “Maybe I can pretend to be someone new every time we go out. Just think – it would be like you were dating internationally, but without the hassle of overseas travel.”
Somehow Max manages to say things that make me both cringe with discomfort and practically snort with laughter.
“Is that what we’re doing?” I ask.
Max tilts his head, and his eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean? Dating?”
I’m finding it hard to keep looking at him and begin to wipe at the condensation on the side of my glass. “Yeah.”
Oh, God. Why did I ask this question out loud? I’d meant it to come off as more of a joke. I’m just not very funny lately.
He waits for me to look up at him again. He’s chewing on his bottom lip like he’s trying to decide what to say. “Well, yeah. I mean, I thought this was… I guess, I hoped that we were…”
I can’t help it – I’m smiling again. He finally stops stammering.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he replies.
I have a nervous feeling in my stomach. But this time it’s different. This isn’t the sour kind that has become both predictable and persistent: this is the oddly sweet kind, with the hint of possibility.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I answer.
The gentle, rhythmic clap of hi-hat cymbals interrupts our goofy looks, and we both turn towards the stage. With an intro between the snare and cymbals, the drummer smoothly leads the band into their first song, which I recognize immediately as a standard played in our kitchen many times over the years.
A tall black man, with grey hair around his temples matching his short beard, is perched on a stool at the front of the stage. He wears a charcoal suit with a white shirt and one of those shoelace string ties held together by a silver clasp shaped like an animal skull. The first few notes that he teases out of his guitar lets you know that he’s sat on his fair share of porches in the heat, working through many a heartbreak. And when he opens his mouth, what comes out sounds like it has stewed for years in the best Cajun gumbo: thick and meaty with sweet okra high notes for garnish. He sounds a lot like BB King, with a huge voice that bellows over the drums and the bass, as his calls are answered by blues licks he plays on the guitar.
The musicians are clearly amazing. But what is even more entertaining is watching Max as he listens to their performance. He grins and almost begins to chuckle to himself in delight, looking down and shaking his head when a particularly good phrase is seduced from the strings. Other times he just stares in rapt concentration, watching the guitarist and bassist move through their solos. Every so often he looks over at me with an expression that seems to say, “Isn’t this awesome?” – I have to agree.
After playing for almost an hour and a half, the band takes a break. Finnegan comes over to talk to us for a while about the show, and it’s like he’s the comedy act hired between sets. Max and Finnegan talk about what musicians have been at the store that week, and about Max joining him for another coffeehouse gig he’s lining up.
I take another drink from my second Coke and look down at my phone. It’s hard to believe it’s already close to eleven. Eventually, Finnegan is called away to his mixing station backstage.
“My dad is going to pick me up before midnight,” I tell Max.
“Serena, I can drive you. I didn’t even have a drink tonight.”
I have even less tolerance for drinking and driving than the zero tolerance rules for novice licenses, but Max only drank Coke with me, and had to deal with some gentle ribbing from our server because of it.
“No. Really, it’s okay.” I have to think of something to justify this. “Um, my dad’s kind of protective that way.”
Max leans back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. “Protective?” He looks off to the side, like he’s contemplating this, and then nods. “Okay. What does your dad do, anyway? Is he a cop, or something?”
I almost snort laugh at the thought of that. “No. He’s a Theology prof at UBC.” It’s one of the reasons we live so close to the University of British Columbia campus.
Max’s eyebrows furrow. “A Theology professor? You mean, like, he teaches religion? Or is he some kind of minister?”
I shake my head. “He’s sort of an expert on the Spanish Missions.”
“Oh.” He looks like he’s mulling this over, trying to figure something out. “So, is that why you were in Spain last year?”
I feel my shoulders tighten and try not to clench my teeth. “Yeah. He was on sabbatical, doing research.”
“Research on what?”
“On the similarities between the missions and western Canadian settlement – or something like that, at least.”
Max’s face scrunches up. “Does that mean you’re going home early so you can go to church tomorrow?”
I smile at this thought. My dad likes to go to lots of places of worship. I’ve been through so many different services of so many religions over the years; it’s hard to keep track of them all. “Probably not, but sometimes we do.”
He presses his lips together.
“Why?”
I ask.
“Nothing. I just didn’t grow up in a religious house, that’s all. My dad just mutters about the ‘unholy’ actions of the Catholic Church whenever there’s a news item about their stance on things like abortion, and gay marriage.” Max shrugs, taking a sip from his glass.
My dad doesn’t necessarily criticize religions so much as he debates their historical actions – but I don’t say this out loud. Max must mistake my reflection for awkward silence because he starts to shift in his chair.
“Isn’t this, like, one of those rules people tell you? You know – don’t talk about religion or politics on dates?”
I shrug, smirking at him. “Maybe we should talk about sports statistics and celebrity blog posts instead?”
A squawk from the microphone inadvertently announces that the band is back.
After five more songs, I look down at my phone to see a text from my dad that he is outside waiting. I touch Max’s arm to get his attention. When he looks over at me, I lean across, next to his ear, so that he’s able to hear me above the music. A patch of his stubble scratches against my cheek, and I feel him stiffen in his seat beside me. He smells like boy soap and some other earthy scent.
“I’ve got to go. My dad’s waiting outside.”
He seems to be frozen in place, listening carefully. Then he slowly turns, and I almost feel the brush of his lips as they move across my jaw to speak next to my ear.
“I can walk you out.” He sounds breathless.
I notice that my heart is beating faster with him so close to me like this. It takes me completely by surprise. When I turn my head, we are only inches apart now. I swallow and then lick my lips.
My phone buzzes again in my hand, and I look down to see if it’s another message from my dad, but it’s only Vanessa sending a photo from her night out.
I look back up to see Max’s eyes closed, and his head shaking back and forth in small movements. I would have thought he was lost in the music again, except that he’s cringing. I touch his hand to get his attention. He looks down at where I’ve laid my palm, wraps his fingers around mine, and then gets up. My heart skips a few beats at his touch. It’s different from when he first held my hand in the dark hallway tonight. This feels like intention – like he’s choosing to hold it.
He gives a head nod to our server, showing that he intends to return, and walks me out to the front entrance. It’s a little quieter in the small foyer, but not by much. My ears are still ringing with guitar melodies.
Max stops just beside the doors we’d by-passed when we arrived by coming through the alleyway. He turns to me, still holding my hand. He looks first to our hands, licking his bottom lip, and then his eyes lift to mine.
“I had a really good time with you tonight, Serena.”
I try to smile. “Yeah. Me too. Thanks for inviting me.”
I know that on the other side of those doors, my dad is waiting in a car. I also suddenly know that I want Max to kiss me. Yes, he’s a bit tall and awkward. And yes, he sometimes stammers incoherently around me. And yes, he can be so clueless around girls that Vanessa assumed he was with Hayden. But clearly this isn’t the case. And his self-conscious behaviour is sort of endearing. And, I may be wrong, but I think he wants to kiss me, too.
It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about kissing any boy. In fact, the last boy that I kissed was in Spain. I kissed a lot of boys in Spain.
Max stares at my mouth as he slowly raises his hand to place his thumb below my bottom lip. “Where did you get this?” he asks, absorbed by where his thumb is now brushing back and forth across the scar there.
My body freezes immediately with the memory – the taste of blood in my mouth.
His gaze eventually moves to my eyes, and when it does, he must see something there. He swiftly drops his hand away from the ugly scar.
It’s the only visible mark. The fractured wrist from the door handle, the collapsed lung from the airbag impact – they were injuries beneath the surface. That’s how my mom died: internal injuries. They said they just couldn’t stop the bleeding. The pieces inside of her – what holds us together – were torn away from one another. That’s what I’d done. I’d torn her to pieces.
That’s the thing: the worst injuries are the ones you can’t see. Those scars are more disfiguring and impossible to hide.
Shit.
I squeeze Max’s hand and lift up on my toes to try to put my other arm around his shoulders. It’s a long stretch, but he bends towards me. My lips are against his neck. He smells so boyish.
“Goodnight Max,” I say in a rush, abruptly letting him go, and turning to swing the doors closed on the night.
Chapter 5
Max
“Oh, Maxwell! It’s just beautiful! Did you take all of these?”
Nana is holding the framed photo collage I made as an anniversary present for my parents. I picked out some of their favourites from the shots I’ve taken while roaming the beaches at low tide over the last couple of years. It’s amazing what mysterious treasures the ocean abandons temporarily, only to reclaim them again in its next cycle.
“This purple starfish wrapped around a red shoe is definitely my favourite – although it’s difficult to choose. They are simply remarkable!”
“Thanks, Nana.”
I have to practically fold myself in two, sideways, to drape my arm around her tiny shoulders as we stand, looking at the framed pictures.
“They’ll have to make some space to hang it where everyone can see.” She scans the occupied walls around us in the den where gifts have been gathered.
Our house is tastefully decorated, primarily with art pieces Peter collects. He likes a lot of abstract art – you know, the kind that has haphazard brush strokes on canvas with colours that don’t match the furniture. At least it’s spared me from people ogling embarrassing family photos, or worse yet, those sequential school pictures that document every humiliating and awkward phase I’ve managed to survive so far.
I gently squeeze my Nana’s shoulder again, happy that she’s flown in from Toronto to attend the party this week.
“Twenty-five years. My goodness. What a grand accomplishment for my Jonathan! He and Peter have something very special to admire.”
My nana is one of those grandparents that uses a lot of clichés and clutches at her heart often when she talks. She’s so sweet and generous, though, that it’s easy to accept the corny stuff.
The rest of our house is jam-packed with family and friends this afternoon for my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary. Okay, not their wedding, but their “commitment anniversary” – or whatever. They couldn’t get legally married until later, when I was about nine years old. That’s when they had a small civil ceremony with me as their “best little man”. A church ceremony had been out of the question, they’d said, because of Peter’s very Irish Catholic, O’Sullivan upbringing. The O’Sullivan’s had been anything but tolerant when discovering that one of their five children was, literally “God forbid”, gay.
Only Peter’s two sisters, my Aunt Mary and Aunt Kathleen, have flown in from Toronto and Boston. I’ve never even met my other Aunt and Uncle, since they don’t approve of dad’s lifestyle, as they apparently call it. My nana – Jonathan’s mom – is the only living grandparent I have.
“Nana, how long were you and Gramps married again?”
She brings her hand up to her heart before she answers. “We were blessed with thirty-five loving years together before he passed. There were ups and downs in those times, but those years were truly a gift.” Her bright blue eyes are shining now, and the wrinkles on her cheeks multiply, like an accordion being squeezed, as she smiles. “And, of course that gift just keeps on giving. Not only did I get my beautiful boy, but I also got Peter – and the most special present of all – you, my dear Maxwell.”
Peter had legally adopted me, since gay couples adopting children wasn’t exactly common practice at that time. Even after they married, and Jonathan for
mally adopted me, neither of them chose to hyphenate their last names for professional reasons – that’s why I’m still technically an O’Sullivan.
There is the tinkling of a bell in the other room. I’m not sure how well Nana’s hearing aids are working, so I gently nudge her. “Nana, I think it’s time for the speeches.”
“Oh my! Well, I guess I’d need be getting my cue cards ready. I hope you will be speaking too?”
“A few words. We’ll need to leave enough time for all the others, though. You know how much this group loves to talk.”
We join the full house of guests in our large, open-concept main area where we hear stories from family and friends of first dates, and home renovations, and vineyard trips from years gone by. Nana’s heartfelt speech doesn’t leave a dry eye in the room, of course. Soon enough, it’s my turn to say something.
“Hi, everyone.” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “This speech thing might have been easier if I’d brought my bass – wish I’d thought of that.” There are a few laughs from the room. I’m used to getting up in front of a crowd – not so comfortable talking up there, though. “Peter and Jonathan have been the best parents anyone could have wished for – you know, most of the time.” I smirk at them. “But I feel lucky to have grown up with such a great example of the perfect couple. Hopefully, one day, I might find the kind of love the two of you have shared together for twenty-five years.” I raise my glass to the crowd. “Congratulations to Peter and Jonathan!”
A chorus of clinking glasses and applause follows. Guess I survived that challenge without sounding like an ineloquent moron. I cross the room to give each of them a hug. Peter has tears in his eyes, and even Jonathan seems to be clearing some emotion from his throat.
I shake a few more hands of family and friends, making hesitant small talk about the wonderful day, and how great it is to have everyone here. I finally escape from host duties by finding a corner table with a tray of meat-filled pastries that hasn’t yet been cleaned out.
