by Greg Johnson
Abby had nodded, not quite understanding.
Thom had asked about her life in Philadelphia, too, though they talked less often and less freely about that. Since their argument in the park, they’d carefully avoided the topic of his flying back with her, and more generally she’d felt a lingering tension in their elaborate mutual deference over petty things: where they would go for dinner, which movie they would see. Though they’d tried to catch up on each other’s lives, talking incessantly, Abby felt they’d achieved only an approximation, even an impersonation, of their high school camaraderie. She’d given a brief, selective rendition of her six-month engagement to Graham Northwood, and of their sudden breakup this past August; Thom reciprocated with details about the handsome University of Georgia graduate student he’d met recently at Hoedown’s (a gay country and western bar, he explained) and with whom he’d had a handful of promising dates. He didn’t like the idea of a long-distance relationship, he told Abby, but Athens was only an hour away, after all, so they could see each other virtually every weekend. In fact, Chip was driving over this afternoon and would be coming along with them to Pace’s party. Thom hoped she would like Chip, he’d said nervously, more than once, and Abby had responded each time that he “sounded nice” and she looked forward to meeting him. Each time they had quickly changed the subject.
They’d carefully avoided talking about their mother, dancing around any references to the immediate future. Of course, she had heard his slip of the tongue a minute ago—you’re leaving day after tomorrow, not we’re leaving—but she’d decided that if they had to endure the same fight all over again, it could wait until Saturday night, or even Sunday morning. She didn’t intend to leave without him, and she decided that having won the war, she could afford to yield another skirmish.
“All right, then,” she said. “I’ll call Mom and… I’ll make the other calls later. I am getting hungry, come to think of it.”
“Great! Connie is meeting us, so we’d better get going. You’ll love this place, I promise.”
He stepped forward and—catching her off guard—gave her an impulsive peck on the cheek.
Half an hour later they occupied a window table at Agnes & Muriel’s, a restaurant whose theme was 1950s nostalgia. Abby didn’t care for the place but pretended she did. The dominant colors were hot pink and bright aqua, the ice water came in jelly glasses, the plates and cups Abby glimpsed on the other tables were Fiesta Ware, cheerfully mismatched. Thom kept craning his head toward the window.
“Connie is always late,” he said, annoyed. “I don’t know why I can’t remember that, and arrive late myself.”
Abby checked her watch. “He said twelve, didn’t he? It’s only five after.”
The restaurant was bustling, the crowd mostly young and professional-looking, the atmosphere casual and even festive. Abby noticed a few tables occupied by men, two or three per table, and her eye lingered a moment at each of these. If it mattered, she supposed she could pick out which were gay men; today, she thought, virtually all of them were, with the possible exception of two harassed-looking young men in dark business suits, striped ties. For one thing, Abby thought, the gay men tended to dress more carefully, their shirts and khakis crisply starched, their sweaters colorful and expensive-looking (though she supposed Thorn’s habitually rumpled appearance argued against this theory). Not long ago, on a TV sitcom, Abby heard a joke about “gaydar,” and it had stuck in her memory, because she hadn’t been sure if the line had meant to acknowledge such a notion or to satirize it. She had a graduate degree in literature, and it annoyed her that she hadn’t been able to interpret a line from a TV comedy. She’d now spent nearly a week in her brother’s world, and so far she’d kept her foot a comfortable distance, or so she hoped, from her mouth; but she felt the need to keep sharpening her awareness, to notice and absorb certain subtleties that her brother and his friends would take for granted, not wanting to embarrass herself. Her years living with her mother in Philadelphia had dulled her senses; so had teaching in a girls’ school, where the students were bright and high-spirited but rather naive, being children of privilege; and so, for that matter, had dating Graham, a man approaching his thirtieth birthday who still attended law school and lived at home. Graham would never have brought her to a place like this. They’d usually dined in restaurants with white tablecloths and big chandeliers, where most of the patrons were their parents’ ages. This was Graham’s idea of a classy date. Unlike most of the women he’d dated, Abby had a lot of “class”; he’d told her this more than once, without irony.
Thom was complaining in general terms about people who were habitually late. “It’s my pet peeve, I guess. People like that, they’re assuming their time is more important than yours. I know they don’t think of it that way, but…” He smiled. “I’ll stop griping now.”
Abby’s gaze had drifted to the restaurant foyer where Connie loomed in the doorway, glancing around.
“There he is,” Abby said.
Thom waved, and Connie approached them breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, settling his considerable frame onto the small, wobbling chair. (All the tables and chairs were “dinette sets,” with vinyl upholstery and chrome legs.) He unfolded his napkin and dabbed his forehead. “This is my day to deliver for Open Hand, and it took longer than usual.”
He patted Abby’s forearm. “How are you, sweetheart? Are you warm enough? It’s drafty in here sometimes, especially by the window, and it’s getting colder out. Did you hear it’s supposed to snow?”
Even in this nicely groomed crowd, Connie stood out. He wore charcoal twill slacks and a lush, deep-turquoise sweater that must have been cashmere; Abby glimpsed a wafer-thin silver watch beneath his sleeve and on one of his pinkies a diamond solitaire set in white gold, or platinum. The brisk, lemony scent of Connie’s cologne had instantly cut through the aromas of the meat loaf, deep-fried shrimp, and steamed greens borne on trays by waiters endlessly crisscrossing past their table.
“Your deliveries took longer?” Thom said shortly. “Why is that?”
“Now don’t be skeptical,” Connie said, wiggling the fingers of one hand toward Thom while keeping his glittering blue-green eyes on Abby. “He always fusses at me for being late.”
Thom said, “You always are late.”
“They added some new stops to my route,” Connie said airily, “and one of the new clients—ahem—invited me in. He has a condo in Colony Square. Sort of cramped and poorly decorated, it must be said, but the man was very sweet. He kept saying how guilty he felt, with people like me bringing his meals every day. Isn’t that sweet? He did look perfectly healthy, but he said he’d gone on disability from his job, selling insurance or something, and I told him, hey, that’s what Open Hand is for, so don’t worry about it. Plus, he’s cute. He had the heat turned up to about eighty-five, just so he could wear this little tank top. Isn’t that sweet? Biceps to die for, too. I was burning up in this sweater. His name is Chuck.”
Connie breathed deeply, then took a sip of ice water. He glanced around the restaurant, waved vaguely at someone, and then gave an audible sigh, as though his narrative had exhausted him.
Thom said, “Have you and Chuck set a wedding date?”
Connie gave Thom a long, pensive look. “We’re not supposed to date the clients, are we? Warren said something about that.”
“It was a joke,” Thom said.
“Oh. Then maybe I’ll ask him out.” He turned to Abby. “Sweetie, have you and your mean old brother ordered yet? I could kill for a glass of wine, but I’m dieting. I’ve had the most hectic morning imaginable, and my reward is a glass of unsweetened iced tea. Life is decidedly unfair.”
Thom laughed. “Poor thing. I’m sure you’ll make up for it tonight.”
“Tonight? Oh, you mean at Pace’s. I’ll have you know that I declined three Christmas parties to attend this little ‘benefit,’ and of course, the only one benefiting will be Dr. Dracula, who’ll probably bore us
silly with one of his earnest, eye-glazing speeches. When all we want to do is flirt with the bartender. Pace does hire cute bartenders, I’ll give him that, though his caterer leaves something to be desired. Did you try those cheese puffs at his Halloween party? The next day, I called and told him frankly that—”
Connie was interrupted by the waiter, and after Abby and Thom ordered, Connie made a show of requesting unsweetened tea—“unlike my svelte friends here, I have to watch my sugar”—and then ordered the but-terflied shrimp with french fries and cornbread.
After the waiter left, Abby asked, “Dr. Dracula?”
“His name is Mitchell Drake,” Thom said quickly. “A dentist. He’s a friend of Pace’s who’s sort of—well, ‘prominent’ in the gay community here, though quite a few people don’t like him. He’s the president of—what’s it called, Connie? Gays Against Violence?”
Connie gave a twisty little smile. “Gay People Stopping Violence—or GPSV, as the clever acronym has it. Sounds like a TV station, doesn’t it? Or some dreaded new disease.”
“Anyway, he organized this benefit tonight,” Thom said. “The one at which Connie is happily going to donate $750.”
Connie fluttered his eyelids briefly. “Two-fifty, you mean. Yes,” he said, turning back to Abby, “Dr. Dracula is tireless on behalf of so many good causes. Stop the violence, save the whales, stamp out the heartbreak of psoriasis—you name it.”
Thom said, “Come on. Don’t be mean.”
“And he’s called Dr. Dracula because he has these huge molars, which he shows constantly during his speeches,” Connie added. “They represent his desire to suck the blood out of your checking account.”
“He really does do a lot of good,” Thom said, giving Abby an anxious look.
She said guiltily, “Dr. Dracula sounds intriguing, but I think I’m staying home tonight.”
“What, you’re not coming?” Connie cried. “But why not? We were going to have so much fun!”
He sounded like a small boy whose birthday party had been canceled.
“Don’t worry,” Thom told her, “Mitch won’t talk all that long, and there’s no real pressure to contribute. They pass around some envelopes and suggest you can mail something in. After that, there will be a party.”
“Yes, Virginia, there will,” Connie said. “Please say you’ll come. I wish I hadn’t said that about Mitch. And Thorn’s right, he isn’t that bad. I tend to exaggerate, sometimes.”
In the pearly gray light from the window, Connie’s widened eyes were a brilliant turquoise, the color of a David Hockney pool. Abby hadn’t anticipated that Connie would react so strongly. Why should it matter whether she came to the party or not?
Thom said, mimicking Connie’s whispered, frank admission, “‘I tend to exaggerate sometimes.’ I’d like that in writing, Connie.”
“Funny. Now, talk to your sister, would you?”
Within minutes, she had relented. Another small battle she considered it a good idea, a strategic idea, to yield to Thom. She supposed the prospect of this party intimidated her, somewhat; she might be one of the few women in a crowd of dozens, if not hundreds. (“Pace’s house is huge,” Thom had said. “Wait till you see it.”) But Connie insisted she would have a wonderful time, no matter what.
“If Mitch or Angela comes anywhere near you, sniffing out money, I promise a swift rescue,” he said. “So please don’t worry.”
The food arrived, and they talked of other things. As he’d done during his dinner party, Thom stayed quieter than usual, as if to let Abby and Connie get acquainted. Connie asked about Abby’s teaching, saying he hoped she liked Philadelphia but she really ought to move back to Atlanta, so they could see more of each other; and Abby, choosing her words with care, asked Connie about his life. She already knew, from Thom, that he came from a prominent Oklahoma City family and had taken the scenic route through Emory, finally earning an undergraduate degree in journalism after eight or nine years. His father was an oil executive who clashed frequently with his son over money, and over Connie’s lack of a career. Soon, Connie would come into the trust fund his mother, who died when Connie was ten, had set up after her cancer diagnosis. It was Connie’s mother, whose father had been a locally famous oil man, who had gotten her husband into the business, and it was her own enormous fortune that Connie had inherited, much to his father’s chagrin. (Thom knew few other details; Connie seldom talked about his mother, whose loss had been the great trauma of his early life.) For years Connie had drifted from job to job, working off and on, Thom had said, “but mostly off.” He had dabbled for a while in furniture sales, but argued with the designers; he’d edited newsletters for a consulting firm, but found the work “meaningless”; he shelved books in a branch library for more than a year—his lowest-paying job, and also his favorite—but had been dismissed, he insisted, because the branch manager, a woman in her sixties, envied Connie’s expensive clothes and his late-model Seville.
So Abby asked about his home (he loved redecorating his penthouse condominium in Buckhead, Thom had told her) and about the vacation he’d taken recently to Hawaii. On their way to the restaurant, Thom had mentioned that, too, and said Connie loved to talk about it.
“It probably isn’t polite lunch conversation,” Connie said as he buttered a hunk of cornbread, “but Warren and I had booked this little place in Maui, supposedly the only gay bed-and-breakfast on the island. The brochure looked lovely and the rates were sky-high, which is usually a good sign. Imagine our surprise when we got there and discovered the place is run by nudists! Yes, here we are, innocent young boys from Atlanta, and we ring the front bell, and there stands this skinny, aging little man wearing nothing but his black-rimmed glasses! And that’s just the beginning. I won’t go into the gory details, but—”
“Since when!” Thom laughed. “You haven’t spared anyone else.”
“OK,” Connie said, ignoring him, “let’s just say that not everyone should be a nudist. Not if you’re pushing sixty and have just a little fringe of hair around your ears and look like Allen Ginsberg’s younger brother. I mean, really. We thought it was very unprofessional. He stands there explaining to you about the house and when breakfast is served and so forth, and you’re trying to look firmly into his eyes or off into space—anywhere but at that. Fortunately, the island of Maui does have its charms. We avoided the house as much as possible. But you can’t imagine how traumatizing it is to have some ugly little man serve you breakfast in the nude. I mean, if they’d hired cute staff people, it might have been a different sort of experience, you know? But every time we looked up, here came junior Ginsberg, his little whoozit flapping from side to side.”
Connie shivered, clearly enjoying the laughter he’d elicited from Thom and Abby.
“Tell Abby about your first trip to Hawaii, the one with your parents,” Thom said.
“Not my parents—my father and my stepmother,” Connie said, shaking a forefinger at Thom.
“Right, sorry,” Thom muttered.
“No prob, a common mistake.” Connie turned to Abby. “Let’s just say that my father’s second wife—her name is Wilma, poor thing—is not the most brilliant woman. Until she married him, less than a year after my darling mother died, Wilma had never left central Oklahoma. I think she grew up in a trailer park or something. She’s sweet in her way, and very naive, and has six kids from her own first marriage, and then she lucks into marrying my father and wants to start seeing the world. The first summer she lived with us, I was eleven, and guess who got dragged along on their trip to Hawaii? We did all the fun tourist things: suffered through a luau at our hotel, took a boring guided tour of some extinct volcano, got third-degree sunburn on the beach, and listened to that whiney Hawaiian music from morning till night.” Connie gave one of his small shudders, throwing his eyes upward. “And one day, we’re driving along in our rented Town Car, and guess what my stepmother says? She tells my father, ‘Honey, this is such a popular tourist spot, but isn’t it
amazing?—I haven’t seen a single out-of-state license plate!’And I promise you, she was not joking.”
Thom looked at Abby, his eyes crinkled in amusement. “I‘m never sure if he’s made that one up.”
“I don’t need to make things up!” Connie said, in mock indignation. “These pearls just issue from the woman’s mouth. When she was little and her family would go driving on the highway, they had this game where they would look for out-of-state license plates, see how many they could find…oh, I‘m not going to try and convince you.”
“And the time you went to Myrtle Beach?” Thom prompted him.
“Oh, yes, I got hauled along on another beach vacation, later that same summer.” Connie had lifted his hands, palms toward Abby, fingers outspread—a gesture he performed often, Abby noticed, conveying his helpless martyrdom to a world of folly. His fingertips were smeared with butter, like a child’s. “We were driving down the South Carolina coast from Myrtle Beach, and for some reason we stopped at a big hardware store, right on the highway. I remember this gigantic sign: SCHOFIELD’S HARDWARE. Anyway, as we were coming out in the parking lot, Miss Wilma bends over and picks up something. Then she turns to my father and says—I swear to almighty God and all the saints, these were her exact words—’Honey, do you need a good screw?’ I even caught my father snickering at that one, but of course, Wilma went along blithely, and dropped the little treasure in her purse. I think the poor woman must be used to people laughing in her presence, so she ignores it.”
“Connie has bad luck on his vacations,” Thom said, clearly enjoying Connie’s bubbly narratives. “Tell Abby about the gay cruise you and Warren took. The one with the overweight stripper.”
