Rule Three was, Avoid the coupon bearers. There was nothing they wouldn’t do to use a coupon. They’d tear off an expiration date, slip in coupons for items they weren’t buying, and thumb through dozens of tattered slips of paper hoping for fifteen cents off Clorox. Occasionally, my mother’s distaste for a discount reared its ugly genetic head and made me see anyone with a coupon as a menace.
Rule Four worked no matter where I was or what I was doing: Avoid lines with any person under four feet tall. Especially if there was candy in the area. Children and shopping always ended in tears, and I was determined that they wouldn’t be my tears.
The best line to be in was all male. Men were practical. Efficient. Miserable in any situation that involved standing in line and spending money that didn’t also include placing bets or watching porn. Men weren’t interested in having a shopping experience. Unless they were also picking up men. Then they might want to get out of the market quickly with me. A win/win situation.
So there I stood, fourth in line, with only men in front of me. No one was using a coupon, talking on a cell phone, or chasing kids away from Mr. Goodbar.
I scanned tabloids and made up translations for their Spanish captions until something made me look behind me. An approaching girl either stepped in something slippery or turned one of her high heels. She was holding a toddler and a huge container of orange juice. Both went flying. I had the presence of mind to ignore the orange juice and grab the kid, who was all big round eyes and big round mouth as I caught her.
Then we were both drenched in a geyser of orange juice as the container burst.
“Dios mio!” the girl gasped, reaching for the child with a horrified look. “I’m so sorry!”
“Me, too. This orange juice has added pulp,” I said. I held up a palm to ward off Senorita Stiletto before she stepped into the puddle of orange juice. The toddler suddenly realized she was in the arms of a stranger. She let out a piercing wail, and various people came at me like I was snatching her.
Roberto was still on his phone by the time I walked out of the market. I was sort of cleaned up, thanks to a store clerk. I had my single bag of bread and shaving gel, and the little girl was still yelling while Senorita Stiletto continued to apologize as they followed me out.
Roberto raked the two of us with his eyes, snapped his phone shut, and said something that provoked a rapid conversation in Spanish. I understood nothing. Then I heard a word I recognized. I’d once thought the boys on the corner were calling me “American” until Roberto corrected me.
“Don’t tell her I’m a fag,” I said indignantly.
“He didn’t say it the way you think,” Senorita Stiletto said, extending a hand past the baby. “I’m Adalla.”
“I’m Roberto Mirones. He’s Nick Dunhill. Mijo, you have pulp in your hair.”
We ended up walking her home. I was allowed to carry the child. Roberto carried the replacement orange juice. I gave Adalla a lecture about treacherous shoes and told her to get a baby sling like the one I’d once used to haul my cousin Emily around. Roberto tried to get her phone number. Adalla spent most of the walk laughing at the two of us.
She had big white teeth in a great smile that made her look prettier than she was. Her eyes were a little close-set and her ears stuck out, but for some reason, I found everything about her adorable. She was one of those people I immediately liked and felt comfortable with.
She said she was twenty-three, and Isleta, her daughter, was eighteen months old. Adalla had a short, slightly plump body, but she made the best of it. Although Roberto had turned on the Mirones charm, I was the one she watched. I wasn’t sure why, since Roberto had so quickly labeled me maricon so she wouldn’t think I was boyfriend material.
The building on Lexington where she lived was ugly. Only four stories, it was dwarfed by the surrounding buildings. But the three people we met at different times on the stairs all smiled and spoke. It seemed everyone knew Adalla and Isleta.
They lived with Adalla’s mother, who wasn’t home, although her presence pervaded the apartment. At least I hoped it was the mother who was responsible for every surface and corner being crammed with plaster saints, candles, and rosaries. Seeing Mary—whose woeful expression made her look like she could use a dose of Wellbutrin—wherever I turned made me feel guilty, and I wasn’t even Catholic. Roberto, too, had the look of a man whose collar was too tight, and he was wearing a muscle shirt.
Not long after we got there, he seemed to decide that Adalla wasn’t going to succumb to his charms, so he made an excuse and left. I was content to stay put, with Isleta on my lap and a bottle of water at hand.
“You crushed him,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was flirting with you.”
“He’s Latino, I’m a female. It’s expected. But I’m years older than he is, and I have a child. He’s not interested in me. He only stuck around long enough to make sure you’d be okay with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
She shook her head and said, “You don’t speak any Spanish?”
“I have no aptitude for other languages,” I said. “I even have that in writing from my sixth grade teacher. I understood enough to know he called me a fag.”
“No, he didn’t. He told me if I was the kind of person who’d call you a fag, I needed to high-heel myself away from you. He’s protective of you.”
“Oh. Anyway, you shouldn’t be wearing high heels.”
I found out a lot of things about Adalla that day. Her mother had come to the States in the 1960s, and later became a citizen. Adalla was born in Texas and grew up in Corpus Christi. She was finishing her courses at a community college when she met Isleta’s father, who was Cuban. When she got pregnant, he split. She thought he might have had a wife in Sarasota, where he was from.
Adalla and her mother moved to New York when her uncle Jorge, who owned a cleaning service, offered them jobs. His company only cleaned offices, so Adalla had never heard of I Dream of Cleanie. Her mother helped supervise a crew that cleaned a tower on 125th, and Adalla worked in Uncle Jorge’s accounting department.
Even though she talked a lot about herself, Adalla’s eyes, when she wasn’t watching Isleta, seemed to be assessing me. Finally she said, “Have you ever been with a girl?”
“Have you?” I countered.
She laughed and said, “I like you, Nick Dunhill.”
The feeling was mutual. Once she had my cell number, Adalla called me at odd times. Since she was new to the city, she surfed the Web at her office, looking up interesting factoids to share with me. If she called while I was out with Isaiah, I’d put my cell phone on speaker. That way he could hear her, too, as he rocketed the Wamsley & Wilkes van through the streets.
“Did you know the guy who designed the Statue of Liberty used his mistress and his mother as models?” she’d ask, and “Twisted,” Isaiah would answer. Or, “The Harlem Globetrotters originated in Chicago!” was delivered in an indignant tone, and I answered, “Posers.”
I spent my free time with her and Isleta. Since I was less stressed about money, I splurged on a baby sling and gave it to her. She wouldn’t stop wearing impractical shoes, so I took charge of Isleta whenever we went places. The weather was great, and we did things outside that didn’t cost money. Watched street performers. Went to free concerts. Explored Harlem together, something I could never do with Kendra. We passed hours people-watching in various parks and talking about nothing in particular.
Adalla’s mother, Inez, was usually at home when I went by for Adalla and Isleta. Inez rarely spoke and seemed to regard me with suspicion.
“Why does she hate me?” I asked Adalla. “It’s because I’m gay, isn’t it?”
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s afraid you’re my boyfriend.”
“Would that be bad? Is it because I’m white?”
“No. It’s because you’re gay.”
“But you just said—”
&nbs
p; “She doesn’t care if you’re gay as long as you’re not my boyfriend.”
I was waiting for Adalla to get ready one Sunday—she tended to go overboard with her hair and makeup—when Inez came home from Mass to find me feeding Isleta sections of a pear.
“How come you’re so good with kids?” Inez asked. “You got brothers and sisters?”
“Two brothers. But we’re about the same age. I used to spend a lot of time with my cousin Emily. She’s a year older than Isleta.”
Adalla must have overheard our conversation. I was almost asleep later, stretched out on a blanket in Ralph Bunche Park, when she said, “Where does your cousin live?”
“You mean my uncle?” I asked. “Blaine?”
“I don’t know. Is Blaine Emily’s father?”
“Yes. They both live in the city. Midtown. Hell’s Kitchen, to be exact. But in different apartments.”
“Blaine’s divorced?”
“No. I mean, yes. But not from Emily’s mother. It’s confusing.”
“I know I’m not a gofer for some hotshot design firm, but if you speak very slowly, maybe I can follow.”
“Shut up,” I said, sitting up and yawning. “I was half asleep.”
“Now that you’re awake, tell me about your uncle’s complicated life.”
“He got married in college. Then they got divorced when Blaine figured out he’s gay.”
That prompted a flurry of questions about gay men and their sexuality, as I knew it would. I answered as best I could.
“It’s not easy being the ambassador for gaydom, even in the shadow of the United Nations,” I finally said. “I’m not the one who slept with women and got married. Do you want to interview Blaine?” She smacked my leg. “He moved to New York, met Daniel, they fell in love, and now they live together. Daniel’s sister, Gwendy, is a lesbian. Don’t start hounding me with questions about that, because I’ve never been a lesbian, either. Gwendy’s partner, Gretchen, wanted a baby. Blaine agreed to be the sperm donor. Emily was born in December of 2000. She lives in the same building as Blaine, but not with him.”
“I can’t believe I comprehended all that,” Adalla teased.
“It’s actually a lot more complicated and involved. It could fill entire books. I gave you the condensed version.”
Adalla looked thoughtful for a few minutes and finally said, “I was brought up to believe family is the most important thing. But I’m not so traditional, either. A single mother who’s never been married. I want Isleta to have male role models, but my brothers live in Texas. I think it’s good that Emily’s mothers and fathers can live in the same place.”
“I’m in the mood for ice cream,” I said. “Do you want to go somewhere else? Or should I just grab something from a vendor?”
“A vendor. Can you get me a bottled water?”
“Sure,” I said, waving her away when she reached inside the diaper bag for money. “I’ve got it.”
When I came back, I’d barely settled on the blanket when she said, “You should bring your cousin with you when we hang out like this.”
“Emily’s social calendar is pretty busy,” I said vaguely. Adalla gave me a sideways glance, then looked away. She seemed miffed, so I said, “What?”
“Why don’t you want your family to meet us? It’s because I’m Mexican, isn’t it?”
I finished my Dove bar, stared across the grass, and finally said, “I wonder if Isaiah’s ever been here. To the Isaiah Wall.” Then I looked at her. “I have a hard time being around my family these days, okay? It’s not them. It’s my problem. I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t take it personally. I don’t want to talk to anyone about it.”
“I can deal with that,” she said. She picked at a speck of dirt on Isleta’s shoe with an iridescent fingernail. Isleta offered her stuffed duck to me with a beatific smile. I took it and smiled back at her.
My cell phone rang. Roberto and Fred had just seen The Matrix: Reloaded. When they found out where we were, they decided to join us.
“How was the movie?” I asked when they showed up. I tried to ignore the way Fred scrutinized Adalla and Isleta, as if trying to figure out how they fit into my world.
“Sucked,” Fred said.
“Didn’t suck,” Roberto disagreed.
“I’d love me some Keanu Reeves. He’s wicked handsome,” Adalla said.
The four of us ended up walking to a nearby restaurant that Roberto said had bistro tables on the sidewalk. Fred watched the way I took charge of Isleta and pushed her stroller. “You look like a little family,” he said, falling in step next to Roberto behind us.
“Cállate,” Roberto said softly.
Fred started talking about why the movie was bad, and I slid my eyes toward Adalla.
She grinned, and in a voice even softer than Roberto’s, translated, “It means ‘shut up.’ See? He always looks after you.”
By the time we got our drinks and appetizers, Isleta was asleep in her stroller. I watched an elderly man across the street who was walking two golden retrievers. They made me think of Otto and Tassel. Which made me think of Lucifer and Hugsie. Spending more time around Bailey Wilkes had left me convinced that she was related to Morgan. There was just something about the two of them…It was the same with Tony, Chuck, and me; people could tell we were brothers. Much to Chuck’s discomfort, they also often asked if we were twins even though we didn’t look alike.
“Nick and I were still in school at the time,” Roberto said.
I’d zoned out and lost track of the conversation at our table.
“I’d already graduated. We all went to BHSA,” Fred said for Adalla’s benefit.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Broadway High School for the Arts,” I said.
“For performing and visual arts,” Fred added. “I was off work that day. I was asleep. I didn’t even know anything had happened until my mother called me and told me to turn on the TV.”
I realized what they were talking about and looked at Roberto. He was staring down at his iced tea.
“How scary for you guys,” Adalla said. She looked at me. “But you probably didn’t know either, since you were at school. Or did they close the schools?”
“We knew,” Roberto said, drawing her attention back to him. “There were TVs all over our school. Some students couldn’t go home. It’s not like a public school, where everybody lives in the neighborhood. There were students from the outer boroughs, too. The subways and buses finally started running again in the afternoon, but the bridges were closed until that night. My oldest brother came in with a bunch of other cops from the Bronx to volunteer for rescue and recovery. He told me to stay at Nick’s until I could help my mom get home. She was working at the hotel that day.”
Adalla looked at me and said, “Where did you live then?”
“Midtown. With Uncle Blaine. Roberto and I went there.”
“And our friends Pete and Tyrone,” Roberto said. “We watched TV news all afternoon with Daniel and Gavin.”
“Gavin?”
“He works for my uncle,” I said. I wished we could talk about something else, and I signaled Roberto. He looked uncomfortable, too.
“Was your uncle at work?” Adalla asked me.
“He was out of town on business. He was supposed to fly back from Chicago that afternoon, but of course his flight was canceled.” When I stopped talking, Adalla stared at me, expecting more. “The first time he called, they were saying flights would start back on Wednesday. But he didn’t want to take a chance. He rented one of the last available cars and got back to Manhattan as soon as he could.”
“You must have been worried about him.”
“I was okay once he got home,” I said.
“Can we not talk about this?” Roberto asked.
“Sure,” Adalla said, looking from me to Roberto. Her eyes widened. “But your brother was okay, right? The cop?”
“Yeah,” Roberto said. “JC was fine.”
“You’re not yourself today,” Isaiah said.
“I’m not? Who am I?”
“I don’t know. Are you feeling okay?”
“You know what? I’m not. I think it’s allergies or something. Spring fever.”
“You mean hay fever.”
“Right. Hay fever.”
He picked up the clipboard when a traffic light stopped us. “Two more deliveries—just small pieces—then measuring for some shelves in an apartment near Sutton Place. I can handle that. Why don’t I drop you here? Go home, pop a Benadryl, and sleep through your allergy attack.”
“As long as you tell Eileen I cut out early. I don’t want anybody to think I’m lying about my hours.”
“Take off,” Isaiah said. “Eileen won’t care, as long as the work gets done.”
I didn’t give him a chance to change his mind. I could make up the time later in the week. As I walked toward Fifth, I noticed a guy in front of me. I was overcome by longing, but not for him. I—haunter of thrift stores, patron of all that was secondhand and therefore cheap—couldn’t stop staring at his Helmut Lang jeans.
I picked up the pace until I was next to him. Then I violated the code of acceptable sidewalk behavior by saying, “Did you buy those jeans downtown?”
He didn’t break stride or even blink as he said, “Barneys.”
“Thanks,” I said and peeled off.
I thought of my uncle when I went inside Barneys. The store was his mecca. Since I was his surrogate son, he’d tried to give it to me, but I’d resisted. Until now. A man on a mission, I found the jeans. Tried them on. Looked at my ass in the mirror and overcame whatever small alarm the price tag caused. I’d finally become my mother’s child. I stayed in the grip of Helmut Lang right up until the moment that my emergency credit card didn’t work.
“But…I mean…” I didn’t know what to say to the sales associate.
He made it easier by not being an asshole. He just politely asked if I had another card. I stared at my version of the Holy Grail for a moment. Was a pair of jeans really worth emptying my bank account?
“No,” I finally said.
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