by Robbi McCoy
“My tax man is after me for receipts. I know you sent me a beautiful package after the election, but I’m hopeless with paperwork. Everything gets lost. I should have sent it on right away, but I didn’t. So I’m hoping you can lay your hands on that again for me and send it directly to my accountant.” She handed me a business card. “This is his card. A fax will be sufficient. He’s expecting it.”
“Yes, no problem. I know where the file is.”
“I know it isn’t your job anymore, being Rosalind’s campaign manager, but I also knew that you were my best chance for the information. You’re so efficient and I’m so disorganized. Money matters!” She made a sputtering sound to indicate that money matters were of no interest to her, which I was certain was not even a little bit true.
“You didn’t have to come over for this,” I said. “You could have just called.”
“Yes, I know. But I wanted to see you in person.” She looked directly at me and smiled slyly, her dark eyes bright and expressive. I watched her gaze slide down from my eyes to pass over the length of my body. Oh, my God, I thought, suddenly grasping her unspoken message. When our eyes met again, she knew that the message had been received.
“I heard you left your husband,” she said simply. “Are you seeing anyone?”
My tongue felt like it was nailed to the inside of my mouth.
When I finally coaxed it to move, my voice came out at an oddly high pitch, almost a squeak. “Yes, I am.” Her expression turned into a pout, an exaggerated look of disappointment. “Rosie,” I 21
said, “I’m seeing Rosie.”
She clapped her hands together and shook her head. “Oh, that woman is always one step ahead of me. If it was anyone else, Jean, I’d take you from her without a qualm.”
Well, I thought, I might have something to say about that.
“But Rosalind is my dear friend, as you know.” Dr. Patel took another business card from her jacket pocket, reached over and tucked it into the waistband of my pants with deliberate slowness.
“File this some place where you won’t lose track of it. This has my personal number on it. If you should ever find yourself not seeing Rosalind, please call me.”
Her expression was seductive as she turned and left the office.
I stood dumbly where I was for a couple of minutes, watching the door. And then I looked at the card at my waist and took it between my fingers. Eventually, I ended up back in my chair, but it was quite a while before I could get back to opening the mail, which is what I had been doing before this most bizarre incident occurred. And even when I got back to it, my fingers were stupid, fumbling to open an envelope with a foreign stamp. Noticing the return address and the company logo on the letter inside, though, abruptly broke the spell I was under.
The letter was from the French company I had been trying to persuade to set up shop in Weberstown. Written in English, it was an invitation to come to Paris to tour the parent company and to discuss the details of our proposal in person. The invitation was for myself and anyone I felt would be qualified to contribute to the discussion. Thrilled, I immediately called Rosie and read the letter to her over the phone.
“They’re serious,” she said. “This is going to be a big one for you, Jean. Who’s going?”
“I am,” I said triumphantly. “I’m going to Paris! It’s my deal, so I’m going.”
Rosie laughed. “Well, yes, of course you are. I’m glad to hear you say it. I meant, who are you taking along? You’ll need some city official, probably.”
“Oh, sure.”
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“Think of it, Jean, Paris! Oh, how fantastic for you! And you can bill the whole thing to us. Drinking wine like water, walking down the Champs Élysées, sipping an aperitif at La Tour d’Argent.”
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine myself making business deals in Paris. “Rosie,” I said, “come with me. Of course you have to.” “In what capacity?”
“Advertising agent. Director of the Partnership. My special friend.” I was getting hyped. “You could tell them about advertising their product, about the U.S. market, consumer tastes, all that jazz. And you speak French! Come, please.”
“It will depend on when it is.”
“You set the date,” I countered. “Oh, come with me, Rosie.
Imagine the two of us in Paris, walking arm in arm down the Champs Élysées, drinking wine like water. Without you, what kind of romantic holiday would it be?”
“A business trip,” she said bluntly. Then she laughed. “Okay, love, I’ll see if I can swing it.”
We talked for a few minutes about the delights of Paris before I remembered Dr. Patel’s visit. “Oh, Rosie,” I said, “you won’t believe who came to see me earlier. This has been a crazy day!”
I told her about the visit, in detail.
“Why that sneaky thing,” Rosie said. “I had no idea she had even noticed you.”
“Me neither,” I said, astonished all over again.
“Well, how did that feel, Jean?”
“Thrilling! Sorry, Rosie, but I can’t help it. I’ve never had a woman make a pass at me before.”
“It’s okay to be thrilled, especially when it’s such an enchanting, accomplished woman. Just so long as you turned her down.”
“Of course.”
“Quite a day you’ve had,” she said. “Quite a life you’re forging for yourself, actually. I have to admit that I’m sort of envious.
Not because of Chandra, but because of the excitement of all of these new things, all the possibilities.”
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“No need to be envious, Rosie. You’re right here with me.”
“Yes, and it’s a joy to observe, believe me, but it’s happening to you. Well, you’re making it happen. That’s the thing, really.
Let’s go out tonight to celebrate. We can talk about where we’ll go in Paris.”
“Oh, Rosie,” I said, “I can’t go out with you tonight. Tyler and I are going to a gay and lesbian film festival in the East Bay.”
“No problem,” Rosie said. “We’ll celebrate tomorrow or the next day, whenever we can manage to get together. I’m glad you and Tyler are enjoying one another’s company so much.”
After Rosie consulted her schedule, I arranged the meeting with the French CEO for May 28 and 29. My birthday, my forty-first birthday, was May 27, the day after our scheduled arrival.
We were going to be in Paris on my birthday. Doesn’t get much better than that, I thought.
I asked Harry Stone of the labor relations board to come too, and he agreed. The three of us would be the team. We would be gone a week, which would leave us free from business for at least four days, free to explore Paris. Amy agreed to take care of the horses and cats. She wanted to go with us, of course.
“Next time,” I told her, as parents do, but this was for real because I was beginning to understand that there would be a next time, that there would be a lot of adventure ahead. Even so, this first trip to Europe was a pretty big deal to me, and I was so glad Rosie was coming too. Can all of this really be happening, I wondered. When Faye handed me an envelope with boarding passes, Métro pass and itinerary, I knew it was for real. May 25, it said, SFO to CDG, next day arrival.
“You’re going to love it,” Faye said. “I stuck a little wallet card in there with a Métro map on it. That’s how you’ll be traveling around the city. Good luck with that business deal, by the way.”
“Thanks, Faye,” I said, tucking the envelope into my bag.
“Could you ever have imagined that I would be going to Paris to broker a deal like this?”
Faye shook her head. “No, definitely not. Jean. You’ve been nothing but surprises to me lately.” She stood and gazed at me 221
thoughtfully. “It’s taking some getting used to, and not just the idea of you and Rosie either, which is plenty to get used to all by itself.” Faye came out from behind her desk and gave me a warm hug. “I want you to know that I’m happy for yo
u,” she said.
“And you should be happy for me too.” She held out her hand to display a showy solitaire diamond on her ring finger which I had somehow overlooked while she was making my reservations.
“Faye, you’re engaged?”
She nodded. “You’re not the only one making big changes.”
I hugged her again. “Yes, of course I’m happy for you!”
“Let me walk you back to your office,” Faye said excitedly.
“We can talk about my wedding. I want you to be my maid of honor, of course. I’m thinking October.” She locked her office behind us as we emerged onto the sidewalk. “Or, maybe, if you and Rosie are ready, we can make it a double wedding or a double commitment ceremony, or whatever you call it! How about that, Jean? Just like we planned when we were sixteen, remember?”
I laughed. “Not exactly just like it.”
“Oh, well, close enough. What’s twenty-five years, more or less?” Faye’s eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. “Can you imagine?”
“You’re nuts,” I said, “even if Rosie would go along with it.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“Rosie’s afraid, I think, to even imagine the future. These sorts of ceremonies are all about a belief in just that, your future together. Besides, she’s come right out and said that marriage is not for her, and I don’t see why she would feel any differently about a commitment ceremony.” We had arrived at my office door. “It’s a wild idea, Faye, but I’m sure your family will be much happier if we don’t realize our teenage fantasy of a double wedding, under the circumstances.”
After congratulating her again, I said good-bye to Faye and settled back into my work day, musing over her crazy idea. I didn’t care about a ceremony. I had done it once. All that mattered to me was that Rosie and I were together and we were happy. Still, it was a funny idea, and the image of Faye’s parents sitting through 222
such a ceremony made me chuckle. Her brothers, too, all older than Faye, looking like jocks and lumberjacks—well, her family would certainly boycott such a thing en masse.
And what about my family, I thought. Outside of Amy, I wasn’t having much luck on that front. I still hadn’t spoken to Bradley, and I couldn’t muster the courage to talk to my parents at all about my situation. In phone conversations with my mother, the subject of Rosie was carefully avoided. I knew she knew the truth because Amy told me that remarks had been made, but neither of us spoke of it. I was afraid to discuss it with her. It was easier to pretend there was nothing to discuss. But that was getting increasingly uncomfortable.
“You can’t really have a meaningful relationship of any kind,”
Tyler said during one of our many talks on this subject, “if you keep pretending. It’s like the whole Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy.
It’s such a pile of shit. If you don’t mention it, it doesn’t exist. Bull crap! The fact that they can make a national policy out of that kind of flimsy lie is absurd.”
“You have come out to your parents, haven’t you?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. When I was fifteen. I was in a cold sweat for days beforehand, working up the courage. When I told them, my father went berserk and demanded that I recant and my mother broke down and wept. But I was so relieved because at least I had said it, you know.”
“And they recovered?”
“They recovered completely. So completely that they forgot.
I had to keep telling them, over and over, and they just stared blankly like they didn’t see me. And my mother kept inviting girls over for me to meet. Once she even devised some ridiculous scheme to leave me alone in the house with this girl, this skank, thinking that hormones would take over and I’d be cured. To this day, they still don’t acknowledge that I’m gay. They tell lies to relatives and they avoid certain subjects. If they talk about homosexuality at all, they do so as if it has nothing to do with them, like an abstract idea or something that happens in other places, to other people. Right in front of me! It’s much easier just 223
not being around them.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“Yes, well, I’ve adapted. I have a new family now.” He smiled at me. “You know, if everybody got to pick their own family members, they’d never pick the same people God stuck them with.”
True, I thought, laughing. One thing Tyler and I had discovered, personally and through our research, was the pain and damage that silence could inflict. You didn’t have to tell the whole world if that was too difficult, but you did at least have to tell the people who loved you. What was the point of being loved, after all, by someone who didn’t know who you were?
When my mother invited me for Easter dinner, I accepted, but after hanging up the phone, felt frustrated with myself. I called right back and said, “Mom, does your invitation include Rosie?”
“Well, dear,” she began, “your father doesn’t like to have strangers around. You know how he is. Just family for holidays.”
I was feeling particularly reckless. “Rosie shouldn’t be a stranger to you. We come as a package.”
“Your father won’t like it.”
“Don’t use Dad as an excuse. Do you want us to come or not?”
She stuttered momentarily, then said, “Yes, of course. Don’t get upset. Of course she can come.”
“Fine,” I said a little too harshly.
Easter—or the vernal equinox, as Rosie called it—at my parents’ house was going to be a significant event. This would be the first time Rosie had come into contact with several members of my family, including Bradley who, Mom assured me, would be there with his girlfriend Brenna.
“Calm down,” Rosie said as I chattered on about whether we should have put miniature marshmallows in the ambrosia salad after all. I turned down the quiet street where my parents lived, a neighborhood shaded by giant old elm trees.
“My mother thinks she’s a gourmet cook ever since she 224
developed the habit of putting together incongruous ingredients like cinnamon and chicken livers. That was how she dealt with her mid-life crisis. Sorry to put you through this, Rosie.”
“Don’t worry. The worst that could happen is a nasty fight in which a hotheaded family member pulls out a shotgun and wastes a few of us.” An image of Dad’s fully stocked gun cabinet came to mind. I stiffened. Rosie slapped my shoulder. “Laugh.
It’s a joke. And, believe me, this is going to be a breeze compared to when I take you to meet my family.”
“Oh, God,” I said.
When we arrived, Amy’s Honda was already parked in the driveway. Rosie, seeming carefree, grabbed the salad bowl and jumped out of the car. “Nice place,” she observed. “I like this part of town. It’s got character. It’s not row after row of houses with the same front door and false brick facing around the garage.”
Amy came bursting from the house and skipping toward us.
“Hi, guys.” I hugged her. Rosie hugged her with her free arm.
“Grandma’s nervous,” she whispered to me.
“Me too,” I said. “Is Bradley here?”
“Not yet.” Amy forged the way into the house where my father lounged in his La-Z-Boy recliner. He pulled himself up to meet Rosie. His smile was forced. What a day this was going to be.
My mother, when we approached her in the kitchen, didn’t even try to disguise her disapproval, though she may have thought she did. She wiped her hand on a towel before extending it to Rosie with a formal, “How do you do?” I was mortified.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” Rosie said. “What a lovely kitchen.
Oh, and that aroma.” Rosie sniffed the air. “Enticing. Ham, obviously, but something else. What is that smell? Very familiar.
Is it mustard? Did you put a mustard paste on that ham?”
“Why, yes,” my mother said, brightening. “It’s a mustard and roasted garlic paste, in fact.”
“My grandmother used to bake ham just that way. I haven’t had it for decades.
What a treat!”
That’s right, Rosie, aim for the tender spot, you old 225
politician.
“Isn’t that interesting?” Mom said. “Where was your grandmother from?”
I left Rosie to charm my mother, relaxing a bit. Could she pull it off? I went out into the backyard to pet the dog. They’ll like her if they give her a chance, I told myself. Everybody does. Amy came out and positioned herself on a chaise lounge, sunglasses on, arms and legs bare. “You shouldn’t lie in the sun,” I said. “You know how dangerous it is.”
“I’ve got sunscreen on, Mom. Chill. I’ve got to get a head start on summer.” Amy rolled up her shirt so her stomach was exposed to the sun. “Now,” she said, “if I were going to the south of France like some people I know, I could get a whole-body tan lying naked on the beach.”
“I’m not going to the south of France. I’m going to Paris.”
“Speaking of Paris,” Amy said without looking at me, “do you know where that old saying comes from, ‘We’ll always have Paris’?”
That old saying, I thought, amused. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. And I guess you do too, now that you’ve seen the movie.”
“Dad thinks we ought to watch Gone With the Wind next.”
“Interesting choices he’s making for you. And that’s a good one since you are so fond of saying, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’”
“Is that from Gone With the Wind?” she asked. “Who knew there were all these cool old movies where characters repeat all my catch phrases?”
I laughed and then remembered the ordeal I was about to be faced with. “What is your brother’s state of mind about me lately?”
“We’ve had some talks. He’s trying to deal with it. I think I’ve convinced him that you’re not coming back. Yes, I think we’ve got him successfully through the denial phase.” Amy spoke with her idea of a German accent. “The boy is suffering from what he perceives is a rejection by the mother, a rejection of the masculine lover, ergo, the son. He is further confused by the conflict of 226
