“I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Take your time, Shithead. I gotta pee.”
Nice. As surely as you could count to ten between the flash of the lightning and the rattle of the thunder, there came a gasp from the bathroom. I was into the living room faster than that lightning. There she stood in all her wintry glory. Pot hatted. Drawn face overly rouged. Straight black hair down to her waist. Leather jacket, fringe and boots that would make Ru Paul jealous. Behind her stood a somewhat dazed and totally naked Matt. He sought a towel, but I guess my pretty lace hand linens would have been insufficient to cover . . . well, to make a difference. Viv turned about, her hands poised in a hallelujah.
“Quite an upgrade from the last one.” She reverted to Matt. “Nice to meet you. I’m Martin’s mother.”
“Hi, Martin’s mother,” Matt stammered — funny thing when a drawl is stammered.
“You can call me Viv. Shit, did I scare you?”
Matt didn’t looked scared, just puzzled. I guessed that his family life was a bit different from mine. I scanned the shopping bags looking for something long. It didn’t look promising.
“You should have called first,” I said.
“If you want me to call, don’t give me a key. And if you take away my key, I’ll leave you as fast as that motherfucker who fathered you, my little queen.”
She gave me one of her Viv embraces — a tacky clasp followed by a head rub. Then, she pinched my nose.
“What’s that for?” I said.
“That’s for holding me up from peeing.” She turned to Martin, who was stifling a laugh. “You find it funny . . .”
“Matt.”
“I hope not. My little shithead is usually the doormat for half the Jersey shore. I brought him up right. If you’re finished, I still need . . .”
Matt stepped aside.
“I hope you sprayed, ‘cause I don’t smell the queen’s best in there.”
“I didn’t do . . . I mean . . .”
“You didn’t give a shit.” She roared, and then jigged. In she went, leather coat, fringe and all. “I like your new shower curtain, shithead,” she caroled.
I sighed, rolled my eyes, pulled Matt away and probably exhibited body language for ten to expunge the scene from my cowboy’s bright blue eyes. He didn’t buy it.
“It’s Christmas,” he said. “She’s your family. I probably should leave.”
“Nonsense.”
He tagged back to the bedroom, gathering his shoes, shirt, and BVDs.
“Well, you need to visit with your Mom,” he said. “I see she’s brought gifts. It would be a bit awkward.”
I stopped him mid-tuck, taking him into my arms, seeking those lips and that five o’clock shadow that was now well past nine. Our foreheads met.
“You stay put.”
“But I have family too, you know. They’ll be looking for me.”
I kissed him again. Of course, he was a family guy. He would want to spend Christmas with his military Dad and his homespun Mom and Mary . . . let’s not forget sister Mary.
“I’m being selfish,” I said. “I want you all to myself today.”
“But you know that’s not going to happen.”
I pushed him a little. It wasn’t a nasty push, but he pushed back. So I gave him a friskier shove until he let me have it full force pinning me to the bed.
“Looks serious,” came a voice.
Viv slouched on the threshold.
“Shit, Viv. You’re like a cat.”
I pushed her into the living room like any son would. Well, I guess most sons don’t push their mothers, but I’ve toted her across thresholds while she hung on to the empty hooch bottle, so pushing her was so much kinder.
“You’re always sneaking around,” I scolded.
“Matt,” she said. “Do I look like I could sneak around?” Matt was dazed. He continued dressing as he followed us into the living room. “Listen, I got work today, so let’s do this present shit and be done with it.”
“Work?” Matt asked. “But it’s Christmas. Who works on Christmas?”
She flashed her beautifully sculpted fingernails.
“She does nails,” I said.
“And it’s just for the morning. Old customers in need. Paying customers. I’m off tonight, but you won’t find me here, I’ll tell ya that.”
“Does nails?”
“Not just does nails, smart ass,” she said. She grabbed Matt’s hand and presented her work for show as if they were her calling card, and, I guess, they were. “Do these look like just any nails you’ve ever seen? I’m an artiste. In demand. My clientele keep me hopping, even on Christmas day.” She turned to me, a general, mustering my time. “Since tonight’s out, I brought your crap over this morning. You can open them or not. I don’t care.”
It was Christmas and it was always about presents. My mood changed as I scouted the shopping bag again.
“Enough drama,” I said. “Give them here.”
Viv plunked the shopping bag in front of me, tipping it, packages spreading across the floor, ill assorted. She wrapped them herself — a minute spent on each. Square things looked round. Round things square. Viv lacked a penchant for detail.
I was disappointed. There wasn’t a long one in the mess. I poked around randomly, opened one and was not surprised. A shirt — black with little pink hearts on the pocket.
“You don’t like it,” she declared.
“I love it,” I said, passing it to Matt, who smiled dimly at it, and then set it aside.
There was also a pen, which when turned upside down contained a naked California surfer. I appreciated that one better. Then, there was a brass talisman with a peculiar symbol on it, half satyr, half centaur — a remnant of Viv’s hippie days and a clear index to her hippie tastes. In fact, the rest of the packages were much the same — three packages of incense, which would go with last year’s three packages of incense in the back of the kitchen utility drawer; a crystal smoke rock, which was good for God knows what, but Viv proclaimed it to be lucky; and finally, an assortment of press-on tattoos. Those got Matt laughing.
“So, shithead,” Viv snapped. “Where’s mine?”
I sighed. No vacuum broom.
“Well, if I knew you were coming?”
“You mean . . .”
“No.” I tickled her. She loved to be tickled. “I have it. But it’s not wrapped yet, and you know I don’t give unwrapped gifts, like some people I know.”
“Well, wrap the fucker and give it here,” she said.
I retreated to the kitchen, where I had my store of wrapping paper and bows. As I farted around with tape and scissors, I listened first to the silence in the living room and then to —
“So, Matt, how long have you been fucking my son?”
I hastened the operation. I hoped that Matt would be there when I returned.
“I don’t kiss and tell, Mrs. Powers,” I heard him say, always the gentleman.
“Viv. Call me Viv or don’t speak to me at all. Lemme hear you!”
“Aw . . . Viv.”
“That’s right. Viv, and nothing else. Now, I’m telling you, so hear me straight. If this is just a jabberhoo fuckeroo any man I see I screw, let him know now. My shithead tends to fall in love; and I don’t have time to put the pieces back together again But if you intend to stay a while, or longer, you have a mighty big obligation, buster.”
I almost stopped wrapping to intercede here. Some mothers embarrass their children by toting out the naked baby pictures. Mine just revealed the warts of my soul. The package was wrapped, but I hesitated to interrupt. I know it wasn’t fair, but I was interested in what Matt would say beyond my earshot and with the toughest inquisitor he’d ever have on my behalf. It might well ruin my Christmas, but it might just save my New Year’s Eve.
“I don’t follow,” Matt said.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “No man puts his shoes under anyone’s bed without considering the big obligation,
buster. So don’t screw with me. Screw him. That’s fine. That’s what you guys were born to do. But don’t screw with me, unless you’re . . . bi. You’re not bi are you?”
“No chance,” Matt said. I heard a nervous laugh. Well, not so nervous now. Did the elegant Mr. Kieler suddenly warm up to the blunt Mrs. Powers?
It was time for me to return with a perfectly gift wrapped present — a small box with a larger than life bow. I was always good with the ribbons. It was a shame it would stay in place for just a moment.
“Merry Christmas, Viv,” I said.
She raised it to her eye, and then gulped.
“Shit. All that time to wrap such a little fucker.”
She ripped the bow off, and then slaughtered the paper. Her eyes beamed. A tarot deck. She was genuinely moved. I could tell real from faux. I had hit the spot. Zing.
“The Aquarian Deck,” she said, the tears running down her eyes. “You know I’ve wanted this deck for . . . how long? Give me a big hug and kiss, shithead.”
She wrapped herself around me, losing me in her fringe.
“Well,” she said, recovering as fast as she emoted. “Gotta go! Glad to meet you, Matt. Hope to see you again.”
“My pleasure . . . Viv.”
“There you go!”
Since she never decloaked (I think she peed with her coat on), she gathered her loot and headed for the door. Another Christmas completed — like clockwork. Tick tock. She opened the door and took a step over the threshold. Suddenly, she stopped.
“What’s this?”
She bent over a long unwrapped box. My heart jumped.
“Will you take this thing,” she said. “It’s unwrapped, but I guess Santa’s elves had too much moonshine to get their arms around it.”
I ran to her and planted a big kiss on her kabuki face. She came through and I had my long, luxurious vacuum broom with all the attachments.
“Hasta la Vista, sissies,” she said, her voice trailing down the hallway.
2
After Viv disappeared through the door, waving good-bye with the back of her hand, her long nails pointing to the heavens, and after Matt helped me open the box and examine my Bissell 1046A Featherweight broom, I tried to apologize for my mother’s behavior. There was no need, because Viv was Viv and if Matt was to be seeing me, he had to know. However, she had come upon him like a midnight clear, and that did deserve a footnote.
“Sorry I didn’t warn you about her,” I said.
“She’s something, isn’t she,” Matt said. “Liberated, I mean.”
“Some say crude. You can say it. She’s an old hippie. But don’t ever call her old. I lie about my age when I’m around her. Frankly, when they mistake us for brother and sister, she comes alive and is even sassier.”
“She’s pretty frank, I’ll say that for her.” Matt was trying to read the instructions that came with the broom. I had a ginger thought. Here I was on Christmas morning with the most gorgeous man of my acquaintance and we sat with a vacuum broom betwixt us, discussing my mother.
“Frank is an understatement.”
“It’s funny,” Matt said.
I snapped the instruction manual away and tossed it aside.
“What’s funny?”
“You don’t call her Mom. I could never think of calling my mother anything but Mom.”
I had never thought of this. It was a fact of my life. My mother had a name and it was Viv.
“Everyone calls her Viv.”
I sidled beside him, pinching his arm.
“I bet she gave you a little warning when I was out of the room.”
“How did you know? Were you listening?”
“Maybe a bit. But even if I didn’t, I know the script. Viv’s a buttinsky. She’d stay and critique our sex if we gave her the chance.”
Matt giggled.
“Now that would be different, and I’d be out of here before she got to first base. And why does she call you shithead?”
I went back to the instructions.
“That’s as close as she can come to I love you. I should have warned you.”
“No, I had to meet her some time.”
“Really?” I said.
That was magic. No one night stand, this.
“Does this mean that we’re engaged?”
“Well,” Matt said. “It could. Bear in mind that I do believe in premarital sex.”
“Too late for that warning.”
“And my Mom and Dad call me hon.”
I kissed him.
“And what do I call your mother?”
“Mrs. Kieler, of course.”
I laughed. I knew that if I pressed Matt too quickly I would make short work of this fantasy that I had a boyfriend. I liked the sound of that already. But it was too soon. Just words now and perhaps the promise of getting to Easter unscathed. That would be worth a vacuum broom. Was God really giving me the one thing I lacked — a steady Freddie rather than a jabberhoo fuckeroo any man I see I screw?
So my little blue-eyed flower went home to his parents (who called him hon) with the promise to return to me that evening and the next and the next . . . and a faint hint that New Years Eve would be cloaked beneath the Kieler banner, even beside his sister Mary. It was a new road for me to tread — a familiar one, but with new gardens beside the path and new vistas beyond the hillock. It perhaps promised to save me from my lust for major appliances and their inevitable attachments.
Chapter Eight
Meeting the Kielers
1
I have spent every New Years since age ten around revelers of various kinds, and in my case, either solidly drunk or hauling those who were back to their home fires. Viv comes to mind. I even went to Times Square one year to watch that gaudy crystal ball slide down the flagpole and burst into a nasty reminder that we had killed another year and had another on tap to slaughter and slay. Funny thing. I never did see the ball come down that year. The guy I went with, Paulie . . . I think that was his name . . . whatever. He pulled me across the police lines and into some dark alley behind the Shubert Theater and there we . . . well, let’s just say, I never saw the ball slide down, or at least the crystal one.
It was a tradition with me. I spent the week between Christmas and New Years working the post Holiday rush and shopping for my own bargains. Then I would find a date or, in recent years, gather lackluster with the New Jersey Gay Sparrows at The Cavern. It was generally on New Year’s Eve that my life came apart, realizing that my date was a shallow dipstick just, waiting to plummet the oilcans of others. New Years day was a ritual of hangover and depression. I shunned the world, except for Viv, who would seek me out for her own sob story only to comfort me with mine. I had concluded that if I maintained this pattern that my last New Year would be less than a decade away. Fortunately, I met Matt and the cycle was broken — split right down the middle like an uncanny spare.
I did my post-Christmas sales hitch at A&S. It was required. Then, instead of seeking out Russell and making the rounds at the other stores, I hurried home and waited for my cowboy. He came every night and it was more than just passion. He brought me little gifts — a holly wreath (from a post-Christmas sale, no doubt) and a little angel figurine. I guess he was working himself up to the toaster oven. No more ugly purple ties, thank God. He also did something that most of my former beaus did not. He talked. He chatted about cars and planes and sunsets over Houston, and he was clean too. Always showered before bed — brushed his teeth even, which surprised me. The closest anyone did that before was this guy named Fred, who carried around a spritz of Binaca. Then after three days, I was invited to his place.
Matt Kieler lived in a garden apartment in Eatontown called Wisteria Terrace, second floor, and neat as an ice cube. I could imagine the summer blooms even in the dead of winter. He had a porch and four rooms — large rooms. They were sparse compared with my fru fru place. I wouldn’t call them sterile, but unfortunately, I implied that when I first came across the threshold.
“I’ll have to lend you a picture or two,” I said.
He had nothing on the walls, which for a queen was punishable by excommunication, but his couch was velveteen and green. His kitchen was modern, with a small dining room — uncluttered table, just a simple white tablecloth and an artificial bucket of roses center stage.
“Stark, I know,” he said. “I haven’t been in here that long to make it a home yet.”
He turned to me, his blue eyes pleading for decorating tips.
“Well,” I said flipping my hand across the roses.” These need to go. It’s Christmas time and they’re out of season.”
“They never wilt.”
“You may not think so,” I said. “But you should surround yourself with the seasons. The place should reflect your soul.”
He frowned.
“Then I’m a sorry lot, then.”
“No,” I said. I never meant it as such. “I have seen your soul, Mr. Kieler, and it has decorated me already. This place just needs a little . . . a lot more of . . . you.”
He wrapped himself around my waist.
“Or you, Pumpkin.”
“Pumpkin? Wrong season again.” I kissed him.
I then got the privilege of seeing and trying out the bedroom, which was even starker and more cluttered — sharing residency with a cache of computer equipment and manuals. I felt their cold breath on my back as if they were alive and spying on us. I remember recovering in bed, both of us awake in the aftermath.
“So am I the first man you’ve had in this bed?” I asked, fresh smart-ass that I am.
“In fact, yes.”
I raised myself on my elbows.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me. It’s a new bed. Now if this were Houston and the Melrose . . . “
“I don’t want to know.”
I really didn’t want to know, because the ghost of Luis and his feather boas and falsies would soon loom over us, and it was bad enough that he was always only an arms-length away . . . or so I supposed. It’s funny how the shades of old love never fade. They leave a trace in their wake. I wondered if ghosts lingered and watched, like the computer equipment. Whether they became jealous and extracted a revenge on new lovers. Well, I guess that’s a question for another place and another time.
Look Away Silence Page 6
