Hard Love

  “No,” I said. “The prom’s always over at ten thirty.”

  “Did you have a fight with your girlfriend?” she asked, swinging her shoes from her fingertips like she was eighteen herself. What happened to that person who sat in the dark, uttering monosyllables?

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I said, passing her on the stairs and heading for the privacy of my own room.

  “I didn’t really think she was,” she said. “Seemed like kind of an oddball with that dress.”

  “There’s nothing odd about her,” I said, but I wasn’t ready to start fighting again, and Mom obviously didn’t care enough about me or Marisol to keep up the conversation.

  “Well, get a good night’s sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning,” she chirped as I shut my door on her. What parental concern. That’s the kind of all-purpose recommendation you can probably get off a cereal box. “Broken heart? Get a good night’s sleep and eat your Wheaties in the morning.”

  How the hell are you supposed to get any sleep when you’ve just made a fool of yourself in front of somebody you’re crazy about? I lay there wondering about all kinds of stupid things. Whether Marisol had ever seen a guy cry before. What she’d tell her parents when she got home. (They’d be disappointed.) Whether she’d ever wear the Audrey Hepburn dress again. Whether she really hated it that much when I tried to kiss her. How long I could last without a phone call from her before I was totally insane.

  It was not a good night. I got up early and had already choked down breakfast by the time Brian appeared at the back door in a badly wrinkled tuxedo. His hair looked like snakes had recently been nesting in it, and there were two hickeys just starting to color up on his neck. His night had obviously been better than mine.

  “Man,” he said when I opened the door, “what the hell happened with Marisol?”

  “I tried to kiss her,” I said, coming right to the point.

  He leaned back against the refrigerator and stared at me as if he were trying to see inside my head. “How come?” he asked finally. “I mean, she said you knew she was a lesbo, right? Which, by the way, how come you didn’t tell me?”

  “Lesbian. Not lesbo. I was going to tell you. But you’re always with Emily now, and—”

  “Emily’s not prejudiced! You could tell her!”

  “Maybe I don’t feel like blabbing about my personal life in front of Emily! I hardly know her! Emily is not my best friend!”

  Brian pulled off his tie and looked down at it. “Am I your best friend?” he asked tentatively.

  I guess I couldn’t blame him for not knowing, since I usually act like I’m doing him a big favor hanging out with him. There must be some secret formula for how much to tell people about that kind of stuff. Not too little, but not too much either. Obviously, it was a secret nobody told me. “Who else would be my best friend?” I said. “You and Marisol. You’re my only friends.”

  He got this loopy grin on his face. “Yeah, you and me have had some good times together, huh?” For a minute I was afraid he was going to give me a hug, but I guess my dour look warned him off.

  “So is Marisol real mad at you?” he asked.

  “You could say that. I’ve pretty much destroyed our friendship.”

  “Just because you tried to kiss her? I mean, it wouldn’t kill her, would it? She’s not allergic to men, is she?”

  I sighed. “It’s a long story. You want something to eat?”

  He patted his stomach. “I had breakfast at the post prom and then a second one at Emily’s. Her mom made waffles and bacon, but they don’t drink coffee over there. Could you make coffee?”

  I was actually beginning to like the stuff myself. While it dripped through, I filled Brian in on the basics of my story.

  “Wow,” Brian said. “She wrote a poem just for you? That’s so cool.”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly a love poem. But you’re right, she’s very cool. I’ll tell you, I’ve never met anybody like her.”

  “Man, you better watch it. You sound like you’re gone on her.”

  “I am. And the worst part is, I told her.”

  This last admission rendered him momentarily speechless, but he rallied. “I haven’t even told Emily that. All these years, no girl was ever good enough for you, and now the one you finally pick is gay?”

  “I know. I’m crazy.”

  “How could you let yourself do it? If you knew?”

  “I didn’t let myself. It just happened. I can’t change the way I feel.”

  But I did feel; that much was undeniable. Even though my stomach was twisted in a pretzel, and I hated myself for acting like such a blubbering fool, there was something else going on too. I also felt awake and alive and, in a funny way, almost lighthearted. It sounds dumb, but I felt like I’d been watching people run past me for years while I was tied up on the sidelines pretending I hated running anyway. And now I was finally untied, free to jump in and join the race whenever I wanted to.

  I didn’t treat Brian to these metaphorical musings. Instead I let him tell me about his evening, which I knew he was dying to do.

  After waltzing themselves into a sweaty frenzy, he and Emily had reached new heights of passion—they’d necked in the back of the limousine for a half hour before going into the postprom breakfast at Dock-of-the-Bay. (Wouldn’t it be unbearable to drive limos for proms?) They’d ended up at a table with somebody they knew from The Sound of Music who had a flask of vodka he dumped into everybody’s orange juice, except Emily didn’t have any because she’s perfect. Then they’d walked along the beach to watch the sun come up, and ended this flawless evening with waffles and Darjeeling at the Prine homestead. Brian was hopelessly happy, which was actually kind of nice to witness.

  “Brian. You’re here awfully early, aren’t you?” The Queen Mother had descended from the throne room.

  “I just took Emily home. You know, from the prom.” I think he was a little embarrassed at how proud he felt. (The unfortunate zit-blush emerged.)

  “Oh, of course. You went last night too. And stayed a little longer than John and his date, I see.” She snickered. I held onto my coffee cup with both hands lest it leap out and dump its contents onto her bathrobe.

  She turned to me with a smile, though she seemed to be looking inside herself more than at me. “Next time ask a local girl, Johnny. City people think a little too much of themselves, if you know what I mean.”

  I certainly did, and I wasn’t in the mood for it. I know she must be pretty pleased with her interpretation of the events of my life, but she was way off course here. “By ‘city people’ I suppose you mean Dad, don’t you? But I didn’t have a date with Dad. That selfish bastard was your mistake.”

  She hesitated just a moment on the way to putting the juice back in the refrigerator, then continued as though I’d said nothing. Brian, however, was spooked. In his family you didn’t say nasty things to your parents.

  “I better go, John. My mom’s probably waiting for me. You know, to hear about the prom and everything.” He backed out the door and ran, dragging his tie over the wet grass. I wished I could run home too. But where would that be?

  “Have fun with Al last night?” I asked. I knew she wouldn’t speak to me first, after my crack about Dad, so I tried to sound moderately sincere.

  “We had a pleasant evening,” she said, daintily licking honey off her fingers, not willing to admit to anything as high-spirited as “fun.”

  “What do you and Al talk about all evening?”

  She sighed. “I’m sure it wouldn’t interest you.”

  “No, really. I’d like to know. If he’s going to be my stepfather and all …” I stepped a little closer to where she was standing, leaning against the sink, nibbling toast. I wondered if she was even aware of moving an equal distance in the other direction.

  “Well, actually, we spent some time last night talking about you, trying to figure out what would make your transition to a new town a little easier.”


  “What transition?” I shifted position again; so did she.

  “When we move to Chesterfield, after the wedding.”

  “I’m not moving anywhere after any wedding. I told you that.”

  “John, I’m sorry, but it’s time you grew up a little. Other people are involved in this decision, and we will be moving.” For just a second she let her eyes burn right into mine, then she looked away. “You talk about your father’s selfishness, but it seems to me you’ve inherited more than just his good looks.”

  That brought me to a dead stop. It seemed like she’d just handed me the last piece to a puzzle I’d been working on for years. She thought I looked like Dad.

  “Would you hand me that jar of honey?” I asked, extending my palm slowly, so as not to startle her. For some reason, I just had to do this.

  She grabbed the jar by the top so she could place it in my hand and escape unscathed. But I was ready. My large hand, as large as my father’s probably, sprang to life and seized the honey and her long fingers all together, one handful, skin to skin.

  Poor thing. She was so startled to feel the touch of her own son’s flesh, that she sucked in a huge, noisy breath and let go of the honey jar to pull herself away. Of course my interest was not in holding onto something as common as bee pollen; I wanted to know what my mother felt like. As I stood there grasping her taut fingers, they turned cold, and the jar fell at our feet and shattered, a lake of gold spreading out across the clean, white tiles.

  It was the panic in her eyes that made me let go after just a few seconds. She jumped back away from me, then pretended it was the mess on the floor she was avoiding.

  “Be careful of the glass,” she said. “You’d better go out.”

  “I’ll clean it up,” I offered.

  “No, no,” she said. I could see her hands were shaking; she knitted her fingers together for strength. “I’ll do it. Go on upstairs.”

  She was practically begging me to go away. “Fine,” I said, leaving the kitchen. “You clean it up. You’re the one who couldn’t hold on.”

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the morning trying to write. First I pulled up that lame Memoirs from Hell article on the computer. Now that life really was hell, it seemed less funny than ever. The only topic I was really interested in thinking about was Marisol, but that was more like not being able to keep your tongue away from the sore tooth the day after a root canal. I thought I’d try writing her a letter, but I was still staring at the sheet of paper half an hour after writing, “Dear Marisol.”

  I heard the phone ring, but I never answer it, because it’s almost never for me. (Before Mom started dating Al, the phone hardly ever rang at all, which was kind of nice.) I heard Mom answer in the downstairs hall, then come upstairs. She knocked on my door and peeked in.

  “I think it’s her. Should I say you aren’t here?”

  “What? No, of course not.”

  She shook her head. “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

  “Hang it up downstairs as soon as I pick up!”

  I lifted the receiver, waited to hear the other one return to its cradle. “Hang it up, Mom.” She did.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” the familiar voice said. Adrenaline kicked in immediately; my heart started racing.

  “Hey, it’s you,” I said, struggling not to sound thrilled.

  But she was all business. “Listen, Gio. I think we should go to that conference next weekend. We can take the bus down to the Cape Friday afternoon.”

  “That’s great! I mean, you know I want to go.” I couldn’t believe it. She must not be mad at me after all!

  “I know.” She didn’t sound particularly excited about the trip.

  “How come you changed your mind?”

  She sighed. “I was talking to Birdie this morning.”

  Terrific. Now Arnold Schwarzenegger knew about my humiliation. “You told him about last night?”

  “I had to talk to somebody, Gio. Who else do I have? Anyway, I mentioned that you wanted us to go to the zine conference, and Birdie said Provincetown is very gay. Lots of gays and lesbians live there or go there for vacations. It sounds really cool.”

  “So that’s why you want to go?”

  “Birdie said I need to meet more people like me. I think he’s right.”

  “Birdie said. The word has been handed down from the Bird. So now you think homosexuals are the only people you can have things in common with?”

  “It’s not just that. Gio, you don’t think of me as gay. Which is nice in a way. I mean, you didn’t like me because I was gay, but it wasn’t a negative thing either. It didn’t define who I was with you, which I liked. But now I see that was a mistake.”

  “It wasn’t! Marisol! Can’t we just forget about last night? I’ll never do anything like that again!”

  “Gio, come on. How can things be the same again? We can’t go backward. It happened. Anyway, I think if we go to Provincetown, you’ll be able to see who I am in a different way. It’ll be good for both of us. You’ll meet people too, like that Diana Tree.”

  “I don’t give a damn about Diana Tree! I don’t want to meet anybody else!”

  “Gio, listen to yourself. What happened to that guy who wasn’t even sure if he was gay or straight? Who didn’t care? Who didn’t like anybody?”

  I lay back on my bed, exhausted by the whole conversation. “I don’t know. I guess he likes somebody now.”

  “Well, he likes the wrong person. Look, Gio, either we go to the conference together, or we don’t see each other at all. That’s the choice.”

  Neither of us said anything for quite a while. I thought about just hanging up on her but couldn’t make myself do it.

  “That’s not really a choice then, is it?” I said finally.

  “Meet me at South Station Friday afternoon. The bus leaves at four thirty.”

  “Is Birdie coming?” I had to ask.

  “No, he hates zines. Just you and me. One more time.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was sure I was going to miss the bus. I’d told Mom the night before I was taking the commuter train into Boston because Dad had a long meeting and couldn’t come out to get me. I’d done that before, so I knew it wouldn’t set off any alarm bells. I figured if Brian gave me a ride home from school, I could grab my pack and make it to the three o’clock train before Mom even got home from work.

  I could have told her about the conference. She probably would have let me go (though she’d have made a big deal about it, calling the bus station, wanting to know when I’d be home, making me promise to stick to some 1950s rules she thought would protect me from life), but leaving without telling her fed into the fantasy I had going that I was running away with Marisol, and might not be back.

  I’d told Dad, in the briefest phone conversation on record, that I had to stay in Darlington again this week because Brian’s new girlfriend had set me up with a date. The thing Dad found hardest to swallow was that Brian had a girlfriend. Of course, he was ecstatically happy to be off the hook for another weekend, though he made a meager effort not to show it. It was right after this phone call that I addressed the envelope to Marlborough Street and folded my Dear Dad letter into it. I figured he’d get it when he got home from work Friday night, or at least by Saturday, when I’d be long gone.

  I probably would never have given Mom her letter if it hadn’t been for the honey jar incident. I couldn’t get it out of my mind; her straining to get away from me, the look of fear on her face, like I was going to turn around and sting her. I left the letter lying on a pillow in her bedroom and rationalized that, though I was lying to them now to make my getaway, soon enough they’d have to contend with more of my honest emotions than they ever wanted to. I think it was giving out the letters that, more than anything, convinced me I wouldn’t be coming back.

  I was in the kitchen stuffing an apple into my backpack when Mom came in the back door; I guess I jumped.

/>   “What’s the matter?” she said. “Did I scare you?”

  “No, you’re just home early is all.”

  “I’ve got a headache; I didn’t stick around today.”

  If you think you’ve got a headache now, I thought. I had to get out of there before she went up to her room.

  “Well, see you later,” I said, and headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute! You don’t have to go already, do you? If your father’s in a meeting anyway?”

  “I want to get into town. There are some things I want to do. …”

  She looked at her watch. “You could take the three-thirty train, couldn’t you? I thought we’d talk.”

  Now she wanted to talk! The three-thirty train would barely get me there on time; I’d have to race from the subway to the bus station. But what was my choice?

  “Let me just go upstairs and get my slippers,” she said.

  Out of the question. She’d see the letter the minute she walked into her bedroom. “I’ll get them!” I said. “I forgot something upstairs anyway. My … notebook.” It never hurt to have an extra notebook.

  She was looking at the pack lying on the floor. “It looks like you’re taking enough to hike Everest as it is. Don’t you have lots of stuff at your dad’s already? Why are you taking your sleeping bag? Doesn’t he have one?”

  Maybe it wasn’t so bad those years she was semi-comatose. At least she didn’t notice every little thing I did. I was down again with the slippers and notebook in record time.

  “I guess he lent his to some friend or something. I like sleeping in a bag; it’s easier than making up the bed.” Natural born liar strikes again. I promised myself I’d stop just as soon as I cleared things up with Marisol and could start being myself, my real self, whoever that might be.

  Mom shook her head. “I can just imagine the slovenly bachelor lifestyle you and your father lead together on weekends.” Right. I could just imagine what she imagined: The two of us, twin playboys, lounging on sofas with scantily clad young women, champagne corks whizzing around the room.