by Brenda Benny
I can feel Jonathan and Peter staring at me before I even turn. Oh, no – not a “talk” – please, not here.
“She’s just a girl from school.” I attempt casual indifference to avoid scrutiny. It doesn’t work.
“Wait a minute!” Charles raises his palm in a dramatic circular motion like he’s cleaning a window. “Max, dear. You’re… not …”
I know it’s hard to believe this subject has been avoided with this group. Most of the time, the pertinent questions have been worded to ask if there was a special “someone” in my life yet; or if I planned to ask “someone” to the dance. I haven’t specifically declared myself to anyone here. Not the way Hayden did.
Hayden never wanted to talk about girls when we were younger, but it didn’t seem weird to me – we were into comic books, arguing over music choices, and playing Super Mario at his house. When Hayden came out, I wasn’t surprised – and neither were any of the people sitting around the table here tonight. It just seemed so easy for him. And after that, it was like everyone was waiting with baited breath for me to do the same. But I never did – one way or the other, really.
When you think about it, though, shouldn’t we all have to do this? I mean, why should it be expected that I would like girls? Like it’s a default? It’s a little weird that only people who are not straight have to declare their sexual orientation. Why is that? It seems a little unfair. Maybe there should a sexual declaration day: like, when you turn sixteen, they throw a party where you announce it, and everyone cheers.
Jonathan jumps in for the rescue. “I think Max is trying to say that he’s found someone he’s interested in. And now, it sounds like he’s dating this young woman.”
Charles still looks traumatized. Gary just shrugs and raises his wine glass to me.
I’m relieved to find my own parents don’t appear the least bit ruffled by this information. I know it’s stupid, but I have to admit there’s been a part of me worried they’d be disappointed that I’m straight. Maybe Jonathan told Peter about our conversation in the kitchen last weekend. If that’s so, it’s a small miracle we haven’t had some big family conference over the issue. Then again, maybe that’s what they’re trying to do: not make it into a big deal. After all, they firmly believe that sexual orientation isn’t a “choice”. You just are, or you aren’t.
“We’re hanging out a bit, that’s all,” I say.
Peter places his fork and knife carefully on his empty plate and looks pensive. “Is that like ‘hooking up’? Does this call for a review conversation about safe sex practices?”
“Oh, God. Please, no.” I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. “We do not need to talk about safe sex,” I whine.
“Is anyone ready for dessert?” The cute waitress has appeared next to me as she begins to clear our plates.
Would it be weird if I crawled under the table? I shoot a sidelong glance at Hayden, looking for some sympathy for this teenaged horror show I find myself in, but his eyes are trained on the dessert menu, and he wears a dissatisfied grimace.
When we finally leave the restaurant, Charles approaches me before we go our separate ways. Not tall enough to reach my neck, he wraps his doughy arms around my shoulders.
“Oh, Maxwell. I’m so sorry. I just … I can’t believe I never knew.”
This should definitely be awkward – but it’s Charles, and I feel like I’m being hugged by one of the Teletubbies.
“Um. It’s okay.” I nod, my arms trapped at my sides in his embrace. We stand there in solidarity, like we’re mourning the death of my non-existent homosexuality.
“No, it’s not. I should have known. I’m sorry I didn’t know. That must have been hard for you,” he says, getting a little choked up. He pulls back from me, holding my upper arms in each of his hands, and looks at me like he’s bringing me into focus for the first time. “We all know what it’s like to do that. We’re proud of you.”
He’s talking like I’ve just come out – except as a straight white male in an upper middle class, albeit gay, family. It strikes me with considerable irony that this overweight gay man is congratulating me. He gives my arms one last squeeze, and then steps away to take Gary’s hand.
“Catch you later, kid,” Gary says.
While our parents say some quick goodbyes, Hayden stands a few feet away from me, looking up from under the hair that has fallen into his eyes. “Call you on the weekend?” he asks.
“If you’re not too busy with Bryan.” I try to joke with him.
He rolls his eyes, the hint of a smirk on his lips, and turns to go, calling over his shoulder, “See you, Max.”
That talk I’d been avoiding all this time? It happens in the car on the way to our house. But, thankfully, it’s a short one, and not quite as mortifying as I thought it might be.
Once we get home, my parents decide to put on a movie. I head up to my room, instead. When I open my laptop, I hit up a playlist that starts with some Albert King. All the talk of universities and plans for next year has me thinking about the crazy ideas Hayden and I once had – of maybe travelling, or going somewhere else to work for a while.
As soon as the browser pops up, though, the last site I was on appears. It’s the Adoption Reunion Registry website from my Favourites tab. I think back to all the stuff that was coursing through my mind at dinner tonight – feeling distant from my dads and Hayden – thinking about exploring new people and places out in the world somewhere. It’s hard not to wonder about who my birth parents might be – and, also, where they are. Maybe I have a whole other family someplace. Imagine if my family tree is even more complicated than Hayden’s with his half-siblings, stepparents and committed life partners?
The application form for an Active Search is staring back at me – but I can’t do it until I turn nineteen. I’ve already decided to put my name into Passive Registration, and have a copy of my birth certificate ready: if they’re looking for me, I want to know. But an Active Search would reach out to them. And what if there’s no answer in return? It asks the hardest questions: What if they don’t want to find me? Why didn’t they want me in the first place?
There’s a quick knock on the door, and suddenly Jonathan appears in its entryway, his mouth open to speak. I slam my laptop closed, my eyes fixed nervously on him. His gaze moves from the laptop to me, and back again.
“Everything okay?” He looks concerned, but then quickly suspicious.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly, doing a terrible job of hiding my guilt. I can see he’s trying to decide if he should ask me what I was looking at.
“I came in to talk to you, once more, about what happened tonight at the restaurant,” he says, still guarded at first, but then relaxes into the doorframe. “I know that Peter and I already said a version of this on the way home, but I don’t think I can reiterate it enough times. We’re proud of who you are, and only want you to be the person you were meant to be.” “
I can feel the heat from the laptop on my palm, and the information beneath it burns like a scalding, punitive fire. This was supposed to be a father-son moment – one for the scrapbook pages. The thought makes me feel even more like shit.
“Thanks, Jonathan,” I say sheepishly.
He nods, eyes narrowed, probably evaluating the tone of my response and my body language with the astute perception he has honed over the years in his profession. Sometimes, it just sucks having him as a parent.
“The most important thing is to find someone to commit yourself to – man or woman. You can do what you want on the way there. But, in the end, it’s about spending your life with someone you love.” He grins, lecture apparently completed.
I sigh with relief, my eyes closing briefly.
He lets out a short laugh, then. “Honestly, we’ve known for a long time. We were just waiting for you to be ready to tell us, yourself.” I look at him in disbelief, but he continues, “I think Peter hoped that eventually you and Hayden would end up together – but that’s just the corn
y kind of thing that parents wish for – that their kids will end up marrying their best friends.” My mouth gapes open at this. “Okay, that’s it. Just know that we love you.”
I’m struck silent. Just when I think he is finally leaving, he stops in the doorway, hesitating, his puckered lips jutting sideways. Pointing towards the computer, he says, “You know. It’s fine what you’re doing. Healthy, even. Normal sexual curiosity is to be expected at your age.”
“What?” I ask, puzzled by this.
He goes on. “I know you’ve learned about Internet safety. Still, you need to be very careful about what you’re pulling up to check out. Okay?”
My mouth has fallen open again, and I’m reminded of the copy of Munch’s modern art painting, The Scream, that hangs in one of the school’s art classes. Oh my God! He thinks I’m looking at porn.
“No, Jonathan! It’s not – ”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.” His palms face me in a pacifying gesture. “You may have questions. And just because we’re gay doesn’t mean we can’t answer them. Don’t forget, we’re here for you, Max.”
I can’t even respond to this. I am now using mind control, begging him to leave. A parenting session about porn is not something I’m interested in. And it’s so ridiculous, considering what I’m actually doing. I honestly think about showing him what’s on my laptop, just so this topic will disappear.
“Well, good night, Max.”
My answer comes clipped, putting an end to this torture. “Yup. Good night.”
Chapter 8
Serena
When I answer the door, Max is leaning against its frame, looking down towards the welcome mat. His eyes lift to mine.
“Hey,” I say. I’m finding that my smiles come faster and more frequent when replying to his.
“Hi,” he replies.
I wave him into the hallway and offer to take his coat while he slips off his ankle boots. Our hands graze one another’s when I take his green army jacket. I feel the jolt of this connection, and our eyes lock for a moment, so I know he feels it too.
“What are we watching tonight?” he asks before I begin leading him across the tile floor through to the den.
“The Sound of Music!” I answer.
I hear his footsteps stop behind me, and turn around to find him frozen, mid-stride, his mouth slightly open.
“What? You’ve seen it?” I ask.
“Um. A long time ago,” he says very slowly, obviously tentative.
I’m biting my lip not to laugh. He’s always making jokes, so I thought I would try one on him tonight. “Okay. No, I’m just kidding.”
He lets out a long breath and looks relieved. “Jesus! I thought you were serious there for a minute. I was going to have to reconsider this whole hanging-out-with-you thing.”
Just then, he catches sight of the painting he’s standing beside, hung on the large wall in our hallway. The print is the size of our fridge, and shows a huge wooden cross, suspended above a lake, with the Son of God, himself, hanging from it.
“Jesus!” he says again. “I mean. Holy crap! I guess I should watch my blasphemy around here. Wait. Is Holy crap considered sacrilegious?”
He looks mesmerized by the image in front of him. I have to admit, it’s a little overbearing in the entryway.
“It’s Dalí. I’m sure at least some people think his art is sacrilegious. Probably some even think it’s crap.”
Just as I’m about to pull Max towards the den, my dad appears from the kitchen at the end of the hall.
“You are a fan of Dalí?”
We both turn to him, but when I look back towards Max, I realize his mouth might be trying to shape an appropriate response to this question.
“Dad, you remember Max,” I jump in.
“Max,” my dad says, extending his hand. “A pleasure to see you again.”
Max takes his hand, looking relieved to avoid the question about the painting.
“Nice to see you again, too, Mr. Santos.”
My dad steps back, and his arm drapes around my shoulders, pulling me close to him. “So you are a student of music at Lord Stanley, as well?”
Max glances at me, like he’s wondering what exactly I’ve said about him, then replies, “Yes. I’m in the Band stream. I play double bass.”
Sizing him up from the floor to the crown of his head, my dad says only, “Double bass. I see.” He squeezes my shoulder again so that I look up to him. “And you will be in the den, Chispa?”
“Yes, Dad. We’re just going to watch a movie tonight.”
My dad nods at me slowly, his eyes crinkling gently at the corners with his smile.
“I will be in the kitchen, then, working on next week’s lectures.”
My dad’s gaze moves up to the Dalí painting, momentarily, before returning to Max. I see that Max has followed his gaze there, and then he seems to snap to attention when he realizes my dad is looking back to him.
“Max. Welcome,” he says with a brief nod.
When Dad returns to the kitchen, Max practically deflates, his cheeks puffing out in a burst of air.
“Should we pick something out?” I ask, motioning Max to follow me around the corner and into the den. The smell of buttered popcorn hits my nose when we enter. My dad made a huge bowl for us just before Max arrived. I move to bring up the selections on the screen we have mounted above the stereo system.
Max catches sight of where I’m pointing the remote.
“Wow! A Bryston amp. Great sound system,” he comments.
But his eyes have quickly travelled on from there to the shelves packed with CDs and records sitting alongside the turntable. He runs his finger along the sides of the record covers, his head tilted at an awkward angle, trying to read the titles.
“It’s a lot of opera,” I explain.
His careful gaze shifts over to me for a moment like he’s waiting for me to say more, and then he nods. He goes back to looking through some of the CDs.
“Any of these yours?” he asks, pulling a case from the lineup and reading the back.
“No. I mostly have speed metal on my iPod.”
He turns to me, with a look of amused disbelief. “Not for a second do I believe that.” Then he wipes his finger absently through the thick layer of dust that covers the turntable. “You sure you don’t want to listen to a few of these instead of watching a movie?” he asks tentatively.
I think back to that first week when we returned from Spain when my dad played my mom’s records non-stop, her voice filling our house. I had to leave, walking through the mossy Endowment land trails that surround the university for hours to avoid the suffocating grief permeated by her vinyl presence.
I scroll through the options on-screen, asking him if he’s seen the latest dystopian action movie. Max looks up to the image, probably realizing that I’m avoiding his question.
We end up settling on a comic series action flick. The bowl of popcorn sits between us on the couch until we clean it out halfway through the movie. He holds my hand after that, and I can feel something flutter inside of me just from his touch and the proximity of his enormous presence by my side.
I feel the need to rest my head on his shoulder and curl my knees up on the couch, inching closer to him. But I remember my dad is in the next room. Even though I know he wouldn’t, I worry about him coming in here. And I can tell Max would be really uncomfortable. He’s practically hiding our hands between the cushions where he strokes my knuckles secretively.
It’s a long movie that isn’t over until close to eleven. I can hear my dad still tapping away on his laptop in the kitchen. Max stands and stretches, his hands reaching up to touch the ceiling before he lets out a sigh.
“So, can I see your room?” he says on a burst of air.
I stare at him, shocked by his straightforwardness.
Immediately he is shaking his head, and bumbling through an explanation. “No, I just mean – I meant that I was curious. You know, I just wondered
what your room looked like, that’s all.” He groans, and runs a hand over his jaw. “Oh my God.” His eyes quickly dart from the poster at the far end of the room showing Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia cathedral in Barcelona to my dad’s various religious reference books on the shelves that dominate the wall opposite the music collection. “Seriously, is it bad to be saying the Lord’s name in vain here?”
I laugh at him, my hand covering my mouth, and he immediately grins at my response. “Come on,” I tell him, “I’ll show you my room.”
He follows me up the stairs, and we turn down the hall, past the bathroom, to my open doorway.
“This is it,” I announce, shrugging my shoulders.
It’s a bit untidy, I guess. I quickly grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt off the floor and stuff them into my laundry hamper. My schoolbooks are sitting in a stack on my desk where I left them today, one of them open to the Calculus equations I was working on.
Max stands in the doorway, his eyes moving from my unmade bed, to the dirty glasses on my bedside table, and then over to where I’m standing.
“Wow. I didn’t take you for being so messy.” He grins.
I put my hands on my hips, reproachfully.
His gaze has moved over to my bulletin board, though, which is littered with old photographs and some sticky notes. There are also postcards from places my mom performed over the years. She used to send one showing a famous landmark from each of the big cities she’d visit. With his eyes trained on one photo in particular, he crosses the room in two long strides.
“That’s you and your mom?” He points to the photo.
It’s obvious, but I answer anyway. “Yeah.”
He studies the photo closely. It was taken when we first arrived in Spain. We have our heads thrown back in laughter. My parents had taken me to an underground bodega, or wine cellar, for dinner. I’ll never forget how we had to enter through what resembled a bomb shelter in the middle of a field, and climb down a stone staircase to a dining area straight out of the Middle Ages.
