Blink (20 page)

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.

I’m not. I retreat into a corner of the room, where I can simply observe and wonder when I can make a graceful exit. It’s not that everyone I’ve encountered tonight hasn’t been more than welcoming, sometimes even effusive in their charm and friendliness. It’s just that I’ve never been comfortable at big parties like this. It feels like the energy is being sucked right out of me.

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.

“O
H
,
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 they’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….

I hurry into the bedroom with Tate’s voice behind me. “C’mon, Dad! Step on the gas!”

I ignore him, closing the door behind me and getting dressed. I look at myself in the mirror, and a strange thought comes to me.
Is this it? Will no one ever want me again? I’m in my midfifties. What are the odds that I’ll stay my single self the rest of my days?
And then I think about how much trouble I just went to so I’d look merely acceptable. Once upon a time, I hardly had to think about it to look great. I could fall out of bed with a dark five-o’clock shadow, mussed hair, a pair of plaid boxers, and a white T-shirt and look fabulous.

Where did all the years go? I hear Tate outside my bedroom, pacing. I know he’s eager to get to his friend’s party, and I shouldn’t make him wait any longer. It makes me almost teary-nostalgic to think of those years again and how fast Tate grew up. It doesn’t seem so long ago that I could sling him on my hip and carry him around. It was yesterday, wasn’t it, when Alison and I made a secret trip to his kindergarten and watched him from the car, wearing his little OshKosh B’Gosh bib overall shorts and tiny T-shirt, playing on the seesaw at recess?

The older I get, the faster the sand travels through the hourglass.

I open the door to find Tate, predictably, waiting by the front door. He’s in cargo shorts and a faded soft blue button-down and flip-flops. He could turn heads anywhere. He looks me up and down and gives a little whistle and a grin. “Looking good, Dad.”

I feel a burn rise to my cheeks and wave the compliment away. “Ah, you’re just being kind to your elder.”

Tate rolls his eyes before opening the door. “If you could hear what some of my friends say….”

I catch up to him as he heads out into the hallway. “What do they say?”

“I don’t want to give you a big head.”

“Already got one. Tell me.”

We trot down the stairs, and Tate waits, building suspense, I guess. “They all say I’ve got a hot dad. You’re a DILF, and that makes me shudder, to be honest.”

I don’t want to appear ignorant, so I don’t ask him what a DILF is. We head off into the warm spring night, cooled a bit by a breeze that rustles the newly sprung leaves in the trees. Then my mind quickly translates the acronym for me and I laugh, pathetically pleased.

“Like I said,” Tate says out of the corner of his mouth and reading my mind, “Don’t get a big head.”

A
S
WE
near the building where the party will be held, I feel myself seize up a bit with nerves. Over the years I’ve become such a homebody that I can’t recall the last party I’ve been to. Sure, there have been occasional dinner parties at the home of a coworker or a game night at Jules’s with some of her friends, but a party where you stand around with drinks in your hands and mingle? It’s been forever.