by Rick R. Reed
I cock my head, listening. “Rachmaninoff?” I wonder.
“You’re good,” Abra says, nodding. “Daddy, where did you find this one?”
“In the cabbage patch, where I get all my boys.” Fremont glowers and then breaks into a grin.
“Where are your other kids?” I ask, changing the subject.
Abra scoffs. “Those good for nothings? They’ll be late. I guarantee it.”
Fremont puts an arm around his daughter and gives her a squeeze. “Abra here is my overachiever. First in her class in high school and now doing great at Northwestern. She’s supposed to be setting an example for her brother and sisters.”
“One they all seem reluctant to follow.” She smiles at me, and I wonder if she realizes what she said might sound a tad harsh and a lot conceited. “I love them all, though, with all my heart.”
Fremont lets go of Abra and asks, “What can I get you to drink, Carlos? The specialty of the house is a Pimm’s Cup.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those. What’s in it?”
“Pimm’s, of course, which is spiced gin. I mix it with sparkling lemonade. It’s delicious.”
I agree to take one, and Fremont moves to the kitchen area to mix up my drink. “What are you studying, Abra?”
“English,” she whispers. She leans in closer. “I’m whispering because Daddy doesn’t approve. He doesn’t think it’s practical. He wants to me to major in something like finance or accounting. Puh-leeze! I’d rather die. I’ve always loved books and like to think I have a little flair for understanding them, so English was a natural.”
“It’s good to follow what you love, despite what the more practical-minded might tell you.” I allow myself to shift my gaze meaningfully to her father, who is cutting up what looks like a cucumber on a cutting board. “Would you believe I was once studying to be a priest?”
Abra laughs. “A Catholic priest?”
“The very same.”
“But Catholics hate the gays. At least that’s what I keep reading, anyway.”
“Well, for one, when I entered the seminary, I don’t know if I even fully understood that I was gay.” I know that’s a lie, or at least a different shade of the truth. I knew. I always knew. I knew when I had to have that Bette Midler album when I was twelve, or when I would watch the shirtless boys on our streets from my bedroom window at night. I just hadn’t accepted it yet. There’s a vast expanse between knowing a thing and accepting it, especially when it concerns ourselves. I get back to Abra. “For another, the Church wasn’t quite so outspoken as it is today about homosexuality. I guess they didn’t have any reason to be. Back when I was in seminary, things like gay marriage and equal job protection were things no one had ever seriously thought of as possibilities.”
“So did you ever become a priest?”
I think back to Ryan, the other seminarian I couldn’t seem to stay away from, and flush the thought quickly from my mind. “No. I knew after a while it wasn’t the right thing for me.” I tell her how I taught elementary school for a time and then went on to work for Angels.
I wish we could have more time to talk, but just then, the door swings open and a handful of kids tumble in, loud, laughing, and all talking at once. I look over at them, and Abra rolls her eyes. “My siblings. God help us all. Enjoy that classical music, because it will soon be changing to hip-hop.”
Fremont’s kids are, every one of them, gorgeous. The boy, who looks to be about fifteen, already has his father’s broad shoulders and powerful physique, which is shown off by the tight-fitting Daft Punk T-shirt he’s wearing. He also has on a pair of skinny jeans that he’s perfectly entitled to wear and a pair of Converse with no laces. A little silver stud glints from his nose. Perched atop his head is a baseball cap, its bill at a jaunty angle. And yes, I realize he would shudder at this older guy’s referring to anything on him as “jaunty.” It’s only his face that gives him away and makes me estimate his age as fifteen. For one, it looks so smooth and poreless that I don’t think he’s felt the touch of a razor yet, at least not on a regular basis. For another, there is a certain exuberant innocence that radiates off him. It’s the remnants of childhood still clinging to him, despite his imposing size, already taller than his dad.
The girls are all as beautiful and poised as Abra, each of them dressed to the nines in what look like designer duds—dresses and slacks with cropped tops. No jeans here. Even the youngest, who I would guess is about eight, wears black slacks with a black-and-white-striped midriff top, her hair pulled away from her face to accentuate those large, impossibly emerald eyes.
Fremont comes over to me and hands me my drink. “My brood. Can you believe it?”
I really can’t. I sip the drink he’s stuck into my hand—it’s garnished with a wedge of cucumber, slice of orange, and several sprigs of fresh mint—and it’s one of the most delicious adult beverages I have ever had. Sweet without being cloying, refreshing but with a mysterious depth of flavor. I don’t think I’ll ever drink anything else again. I’m about to tell him so, but Fremont is rushing off to greet the kids.
I watch as he hugs each of them in turn. I smile at the joy he obviously takes in their presence. They all accept his hugs and kisses somewhat reluctantly, as if they’re far too old for such displays, but I can also see the glimmer of happiness on each of their faces as their father pulls them into an embrace.
One thing I don’t have to be a genius to figure out is the fact that this is a real family. Close. It makes me happy to see this man I just met so obviously enthralled with his children. It says good things about him. But it also makes me wonder, a little selfishly, if I could fit in here. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool introvert, not shy, but preferring either being alone or spending quality time with one or two other people at a go. Like Harry, I think, and for a moment I consider how very small our little family was. Small but complete….
Fremont leads the “brood” over to make introductions. Unlike Abra, whom I have to wonder how many times she’s been called Abra Ca Dabra and decide I will not dare ask her, the other kids have more common names. First, there’s Frankie, who gives me a fist bump and a shy grin, a little distracted. I resist the urge to ask him “’Sup?” for fear it will reveal me as the geezer I am on the verge of becoming.
“What is this crap?” he yells, moving to change the music. “This is a party, right? Not a funeral!”
The Rachmaninoff ends abruptly. Frankie quickly replaces it, not quite with hip-hop as his older sister predicted, but with the Black Eyed Peas. He does a little dance by the music dock, and I think he’s adorable. He’s going to be a heartbreaker.
Fremont brings my attention back to the young ladies before me and introduces Grace, Violet, and Mary Alice. The old-fashioned names are lovely, and I tell the girls so. They regard me curiously, perhaps not aware that their monikers are names that were popular in the States when my abuela was their age.
It isn’t long before the intercom is buzzing over and over again as hordes of party guests arrive. If Fremont considers this a small gathering, I shudder to think of what his idea of a really big bash is.
All sorts of people filter in, or as Lily Tomlin’s Ernestine might describe them: “Everything from kings, queens, and presidents to the scum of the earth.” There are staid-looking men and women in country club clothes that speak of North Shore lineage, who I assume must be part of Fremont’s clientele. There are a number of young men, dressed in dark jeans and form-fitting T-shirts, who I imagine might be some of Fremont’s other conquests, and a mix of people representing almost every age and ethnicity I can imagine.
In no time the place is jumping with loud music, now switched to the more generally acceptable fiftyish Madonna and sixtyish Cher tunes, and I feel lost. Fremont is busy with his guests, mixing up Pimm’s Cups and laughing, drifting from one cluster of people to the next. He’s the perfect host, ensuring people are not only eating and drinking but also that they’re having a good time.
Just as I’m plotting a long retreat into one of the bathrooms Fremont showed me when I arrived, where I can not only attend to nature but have some respite from the crowd—the crowd where everyone, despite their surface differences, already seem to know each other—Fremont comes up to me. His gaze bores into my own. He slips an arm around my shoulders. “Not having fun?”
“Oh no! No, not at all.” I plaster on my biggest smile. “This is a great party. Your kids are amazing.”
He bumps my shoulder with his own. “Come on now, you can be honest. You’re over here hugging this corner like your life depended on it.” He snickers. “If I looked up wallflower in the dictionary, your picture would be right next to it.”
I don’t laugh, and in that moment I decide I like Fremont a little less. I quickly chastise myself, reminding myself it’s not his fault that we’re obviously different—one extrovert and one introvert. Sometimes differences can be complementary.
“You want me to introduce you to some folks?”
No. What I want you to do is provide the words that will allow me to make a quick and graceful exit.
He points to a group of older men on the opposite side of the room. Right now their heads are bent close together as one holds forth. There’s a moment of silence, and then they all explode into laughter. They look about my age and have the assured mien and attire that screams successful middle-aged gay professionals. I’m intimidated.
I realize Fremont’s staring, waiting, I suppose, for me to thank him and say something along the lines of “Sure, I’d love to meet them.”
That would be the polite thing to do, and I know I should do it, but instead I say, “That’d be great, but first I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Closest one is off the kitchen.” Fremont begins to walk away, and I fear I’ve somehow insulted him. He turns back. “Make friends, honey. You’re too old to be pulling the shy act.”
Really? Did I just hear that? I shake my head and set my nearly empty glass down on the kitchen island as I head back toward the bathroom. As much as I ruefully think there might be some truth to his words, I still can’t help but think it was a mean thing to say. One thing extroverts never understand about us quiet folks is that, in pointing out our reluctance to talk, they only make matters worse by pressuring us. It’s a sure recipe for a blank mind.
In the bathroom I decide I have two options. I can edge out quietly and call and thank Fremont for the party tomorrow. Or I can behave like a grown-up and try to mingle a little bit. After all, it won’t kill me. And who knows? I may strike up a conversation with someone new that I genuinely like. It’s obvious I won’t be getting much of Fremont’s attention tonight. Maybe later? I wonder, but then I think even if after all the guests have left he would ask me to say, I don’t know if I’d really want to. I can tell from this crowd, the party will go into the wee hours of the morning. I haven’t done the wee hours of the morning in a long, long time. Not because I can’t but because I no longer have any interest in it. Harry and I used to often pile into bed, bodies touching, at nine, reading until one or both of us began snoring.
You need to stop thinking about Harry and get out there and be friendly. Think of it as work, like the outreach you do for Angels.
Something about that last thought strikes me as simply wrong, but I let it go. I know I can’t be rude. I know I can’t just slip out the door when Fremont’s not looking, much as I’d like to.
No, I have to put on my big boy pants and go out there and act like an adult. But first let me just sit here a little longer. It’s peaceful in here. I find the subway tile and clear glass sinks serene.
Alas, my bathroom sanctuary is not to last. Someone rattles the doorknob, and I know I need to do the gracious thing and turn the facilities over to the next person. After all, I didn’t even need to go.
I turn the water on and let it run for a minute, pause, then open the door, smiling.
The man on the other side, his hand raised in midknock, looks familiar to me. And I must look familiar too because his mouth opens in something like shock.
CHAPTER 18: ANDY
“OH, CAN’T we just stay here? I’m all relaxed.”
Tate and I are at opposite ends of the couch, Ezra curled up between us, taking care of his grooming routine. Tate and I are laughing over a DVD of Little Britain, one of our shared passions ever since Tate introduced me to the wacky and tasteless comedy of the British duo of David Walliams and Matt Lucas a few Christmases ago. Our bellies are full, and I would venture to guess that the excellent bottle of Vinho Verde we’ve just about killed has us both in the same nearly slothful state. And don’t even talk to me about the dinner I made—oven-fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and fresh asparagus, roasted and garnished with lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, and a little grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. We haven’t even touched the lemon meringue pie I bought that morning at the Swedish Bakery on Clark.
Tate picks up the remote to pause the DVD in the middle of a grown man lying on his mother’s lap, saying he wants “bitty now.” Don’t ask. Tate looks over at me, one eyebrow raised. “Dad. You promised,” he says in a warning tone. I’m often taken by surprise at how deep his voice has become. I can always look at him and see the little boy with the cowlick inside.
“I don’t recall ever actually saying ‘I promise.’” I give him a weak smile, feeling a little ashamed because I know I did indeed agree to go to his friend’s birthday party tonight. The promise was implied.
“Don’t give me that. I have to go, and I told her I’m bringing you. She’s my best friend.”
“Your best friend? Then why haven’t I met her?”
“New best friend,” Tate amends. “We met in my Russian lit class this semester. She’s brilliant and beautiful. And we just hit it off so well.”
“Was it the gay dad thing that drew you together?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Abra has an amazing mind. She can get to the heart of a piece of writing like no one I’ve ever met.” He glances at me. “Even you. She just seems to have an instinctive way of knowing what an author was trying to say, what nuances are between the lines. When I first met her, we grabbed coffee together after class, and we ended up talking for, like, three hours.” He smiles and shrugs. “And the rest is history. I don’t think more than two days in a row have gone by where we didn’t get together.”
I pat his leg, which is curled up on the couch beside him. “I’m glad you finally met a nice girl. Maybe now you’ll put this gay phase behind you.”
He grins at me. “Not a chance! You should see the guy I went out with last week. We met at Potent Potables, this new place that opened on Halsted? Ever heard of it?”
“Unfortunately, I’m acquainted with the game-show-themed watering hole.” I think of my disastrous date with Chet, he of the Roman hands and Russian fingers. Lord.
Tate gives me a quizzical look, his thick eyebrows—like mine—coming together to form a big dark caterpillar. He goes on, “This guy, his name is Kelly. Total butch hottie. And he’s got the looks to prove it. Beard, massive pecs, lots of fur. So hot! Dad—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “I don’t think I need to hear any more. I have an idea where this is going, and it’s not suitable for a father’s tender ears.”
Tate laughs. “You’re such a prude.”
Oh, I think, if you only knew some of the things I’ve gotten up to over the years….
I stand. “Okay. I know when your mind is made up. You want a piece of pie before we walk over there?”
“Quit trying to delay the inevitable,” Tate says. “Abra says t
hey’ll have a ton of food at the party. We can have the pie for breakfast.”
I belch. “Just what I need.”
Tate shakes his head. “Go get dressed.”
“What’s wrong with what I have on?”
“Dad? Seriously? Sweatpants and a Barbra Streisand concert T-shirt? I’d die of embarrassment!”
I get up and head into the bathroom to pretty up. I drop the sweats and T-shirt to the floor and step up to the sink. I wash my face with some Kiehl’s face cleanser for men, then shave for the first time that day, and finally, do the routine—astringent first, then a little eye cream beneath my green peepers, then a good moisturizer. I rub some hair cream into my quarter-inch salt-and-pepper hair to keep the stray gray strands from sticking up and, finally, take a good look at myself in the mirror.
I don’t look bad. All those products do actually help—at least for what, a few minutes?—to tone up and firm my skin, which even I can’t deny gravity, that bitch, is pulling on harder than ever. At least I still have my eyes, which are unusual in their color, and good teeth that I admit to no one but myself I augment with every-other-month treatments of Crest Whitestrips. Some of my former blowjob recipients have even proclaimed that I have the whitest teeth they’ve ever come across.
I think about what to wear. Gone are the days when I could throw on a T-shirt with a colorful saying or graphic, faded Levi’s, and a pair of running shoes and call it day. There’s a navy cashmere V-neck pullover in my drawer that manages to be both slenderizing and complementary to my skin tone. That, paired with some khakis and the dressy Prada sneakers I treated myself to at the Nordstrom on Michigan Avenue last month will make me at least look acceptable. I don’t know why I should care. I plan on only making nice for an hour or so—having a drink, nibbling an hors d’oeuvre, then saying my thank-yous and good-byes, leaving Tate in the care of his “new best friend.” And Kelly….
