Hard Love (6 page)

Not that I don’t think about things, but I don’t usually end up coming to any conclusions—I just get frustrated that everything seems so complicated: my mother’s depression, my father’s swinging-bachelor lifestyle, my own stalled life, stuck in neutral while everybody else my age is accelerating like mad.

I wondered what
my
mother’s reaction would be if I announced I was gay. I could imagine: She’d give a little snort through her nose and say, “Just my luck. I should have known something else would go wrong.” Then she’d turn out the living room lights for a few more years.

Dad would probably swallow his bite of broccoli and say calmly, “When you’re older, John, we’ll engage in this conversation again. Man-to-man. It’s of no interest to me now.”

I got out my notebook and started to write a little bit about escape too, sort of an answer to Marisol’s article.

How long would it take my parents to notice if I escaped? It’s possible they never would. Mom would be happy I’m staying in my room, periodically calling up the stairs to tell me she’d left a few bananas in the kitchen for me, some cheese. Or she’d decide I was eating out somewhere, which was fine as long as I hadn’t taken the car. She likes the car to stay home, just in case she wants to drive it herself and have that accident she’s always waiting for.

When Dad showed up Friday after work Mom would shout through the keyhole, “Go home. He wants to be alone!” Happy that I’d come over to her side at last. (The lonesome crackpot side.) Dad himself would be delirious with joy. No more slogging through Friday night dinners with Junior. No more hiding the babe parade. No more public humiliation. Hallelujah!

Somehow writing this was getting me down. I couldn’t wait until it was time to go see Marisol, but there was a good half hour before she’d be there, so I picked up the Berryman book and turned to the poems Marisol had quoted from last week. Most of the poems went right past me; I felt like I couldn’t get a starting point with them, though the language was so strange I kind of liked being inside their world.

“Dream Song #14” cracked me up. This guy was definitely cool, talking about how life was boring, but you weren’t supposed to admit it. The funny thing was, the part Marisol liked about having inner resources was something the guy’s
mother
kept telling him over and over, which he obviously ignored. I mean, I guess everybody just hears poetry the way they want to, the way it fits them the best.

With twenty minutes still to kill, I started thumbing through
No Regrets
again, past the poetry in the front to a kind of stream-of-consciousness autobiography piece in the back. The type was surrounded by tiny hand-drawn stars and moons and musical notes and teddy bears and arrows, all kinds of things raining down like confetti around the words.

At the bottom of the page was a thick tree trunk that branched out around the last sentences so that the leaves puffed through the article too, like clouds.

Just so you know my name Diana Tree is my real name but not the name I was born with which is Diana Crabtree which is not the sort of name I want to have and I don’t see why we can’t just pick our own names the Diana part is all right I can live with it it means huntress and it’s a strong woman’s kind of name but no way on the Crab part because that is just the opposite of everything I believe in which is that we need to be open to new experiences not complain about things or look for the bad side so I’ve cut out the Crab part and that’s not me anymore only the Tree part is me a good part of me a tall and wavy and always growing part of me which reflects the real person inside me and not just a patriarchal handle that relates me to lots of dead persons who probably wouldn’t like me anyway.

When you live on Cape Cod like I do the natural elements like trees and sand and wind and water become important to you they become almost the most important things they help you to forgive people for hurting you because you realize that people including yourself can never be as trustworthy as nature because people don’t live long enough they don’t understand how much they need each other except maybe for those people who have been on earth before and have some little memory of it and maybe I am one of those people because I truly want to be trustworthy and hurt no one if only I could live longer than eighty or ninety years but anyway I feel it can only help me to jettison my Crab and become a Tree with roots holding me deeply to earth and branches shading all those close to me don’t be afraid to come under.

I’d never read anything written like that before, all piled together, and it was sort of fun to figure it out. But this Diana was a tad odd. Maybe she’d been on earth before? What was that, Buddhist or something? New Age or just old hippie? I had to admit I liked the stuff about taking the part of her name that worked for her and cutting off the rest. That was sort of what I’d done too, wasn’t it? Not really a
lie
, just rearranging the truth a little bit. Of course Diana had come right out and admitted it.

When I looked at my watch it was almost eleven! Damn, I’d gotten so wrapped up reading
No Regrets
I hadn’t kept track of the time. I only had half a dozen blocks to cover, but I sprinted the first few anyway, then slowed down so I wouldn’t get there out of breath and sweaty. It was warm for the second week of March, and I’d worn my winter coat.

I could see her from a block away standing in front of the Trident, all in black again. She seemed to be talking to the blond guy standing next to her, some muscley dude who was wearing a tight T-shirt, as if his protruding biceps couldn’t bear to be restricted by long sleeves. I could just imagine how thrilled Marisol was that
he’d
stopped to chat.

But as I got closer I could see they were laughing; Marisol had her hand resting on one of those iron arms.

“Gio!” she called when she saw me. “There you are! Birdie and I got here early and got coffee to take out. It’s so nice I thought we could walk down and sit in the park.”

“Sure.” Birdie? More like Hawk, I would have said. His long nose pointed to a very toothy smile.

“So, you’re
Gio
. I’m Birdie Gates, Marisol’s most
trusted
confidante,” the blond chirped at me, and I realized my initial assumption about those muscles was wrong. Birdie’s speech was quite precise, almost prissy, and he inflected certain words with an odd emphasis as if he wanted to make sure I knew he was gay.

“I didn’t think you’d mind if Birdie came along. He was at loose ends. Dumped by his latest beau,” Marisol explained.

“Dumped? I dumped
his
sorry butt, if you please.”

Marisol handed me a large styrofoam cup as we started down Newbury Street toward the public garden. I’d never be able to drink that much. “Did you put cream in it?” I asked.

“I put half a cow in just like you did last week.” She reached in her jacket pocket. “I brought sugar too. It didn’t seem like unadulterated brew was your specialty.”

I took the little white packages and stuffed them in my pocket. “Thanks. Maybe next week it’ll be warm enough for ice cream.”

“
Next
week?” Birdie shrieked. “What, do you two have a regular
appointment
or something?”

“I just meant, next time, whenever that might—”

Marisol interrupted me. “He’s just jealous. I told you, Birdie, Gio is a writer. I need to talk to other writers sometimes. We’ll find you another boyfriend, and you won’t want to spend all your Saturdays with me.”

Birdie looked grumpy. “Well, it won’t be
him
,” he said, thrusting his head in my direction.

Marisol glanced at me. “You’re sure? Already?”

“He’s not
gay
! It doesn’t take a
Ph.D.
to figure it out.”

“Am I missing something?” I inquired.

“Well, you said you didn’t like girls, and you didn’t seem too sure about being straight. I figured Birdie would know …”

“I always know,” Birdie assured me. “I can always tell right away.”

“And then if you
were
gay … since Birdie’s between guys …”

“You were fixing me up?” I was amazed.

Marisol shrugged. “Not necessarily. I was just seeing what would happen. It didn’t seem so unlikely. Since I like you both.”

She said it very offhandedly like that. “Since I like you (both).” Honest to God a shiver ran through my body. A big one. Like an earthquake tremor. Nobody ever said they liked me. Ever. Not even Brian, who probably actually doesn’t.

“Well,
ix-nay
on the fix-up. He’s
not
. The way he walks. And talks. And laughs …” Birdie was explaining to Marisol.

“Come on. You’re stereotyping! I can’t believe you!”

“
Sweet
heart, it’s not stereotyping when
I
do it. I read the subtleties. And besides, I can tell by the way he
looks
at you.”

I stopped in my tracks. Well, that ought to send Marisol running. “What do you mean? I’m not even sure myself if I’m gay or not. I mean, I’ve been thinking maybe I am.”

“You
have
? Are you attracted to
men
?” Birdie asked.

“Well, no. But I’m not attracted to women either.”
“Oh,
well
, that’s just dysfunctional, not
gay
,” Birdie announced confidently. I was lost for a comeback.

The park was practically empty, only a few early lunchers perched on benches near the path, a couple of twelve-year-olds on roller blades racing for the bridge. “Down by the pond. In the sun,” Marisol directed, and Birdie and I followed her. We settled ourselves on the edge of the empty pool and opened our steaming cups.

“Are you disappointed?” Marisol asked me.

“Disappointed?”

“Not to be gay?”

I shrugged. “It’s just Birdie’s opinion. Besides, I don’t get disappointed. I don’t feel emotions like that.”

“What a crock!” Birdie said.

Marisol gave me that lopsided grin. “I’ve been there. It’s self-protective. But it’s no good for you in the long run.”

“John Berryman says life is boring,” I said. I guess I thought Marisol would be proud of me for going out and finding the poem, or something, for being so cool. Instead, she turned on me.

“For God’s sake, Gio, don’t emulate
Berryman
. The poems are wonderful, of course, but the guy killed himself. His mother was right; his sensibility led him to a high bridge.”

I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t want to seem too surprised by the news. “Great artists often live on the edge,” I said, my voice tinged, I thought, with mystery.

Birdie leaned across Marisol and laid a thick fist over one of my wrists. “Well,
pardon
my bluntness, Gio, but you
are so self-consciously odd, I just
have
to ask: What the fuck is
up
with you?”

Marisol had been taking a big slurp from her cup and she almost choked, spilling blistering coffee all over my leg. “Birdie! For God’s sake! You know how I feel about that word!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It slipped out. I forgot.” He withdrew his hand.

“You promised me you wouldn’t use it!”

“I know! I’m sorry! What else can I say? Mea culpa, for God’s sake.”

“What word?” I asked, brushing liquid off my clothes.

“The F word,” Marisol said.

“The F word? Everybody says that.”

“Well, I don’t. And you better not say it around me either. It’s not just a swear word; it’s a hateful word. It’s a violent word. It’s not about sex or love or anything like that. It’s ugly. It just means I want to hurt you.”

“It’s been stricken from my vocabulary,” I assured her.

“Oh, yeah, he kisses up now that I’ve made one little mistake,” Birdie complained.

“One?” Marisol said. “That’ll be the day. Going off on somebody like that …” Suddenly her face got very flat and pale. She was looking over my shoulder. “Jesus!”

“What’s wrong?” I turned to see what she was looking at. A large, bouncy woman in slacks and thick sneakers was waving at us as she came down the path. Her short, straight hair flapped happily around her cheeks.

“Oh, look!” Birdie said. “Here comes Dorothy
Hamill
; she must have
skated
here from
Oz
!”

“I can’t believe it. She followed me.” Marisol shook her head.

“
Helen!
” Birdie exclaimed as the woman closed in. “It’s so
nice
to see you again. It’s been …
hours
!”

“Mother, what are you doing here?” Marisol asked.

“Nothing, sweetie. I was planning to look into a few shops, Laura Ashley and such, and I just happened to see you sitting here with your friends. …”

She glanced hopefully in my direction. “You must be Gio.”

“Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand, then retracted it and stood up first, then stuck it out again. It was a graceless performance.

“The pleasure is mine,” she assured me. “Are you from the North End? Not that I think all the Italians in Boston live in the North End, but it is such a wonderful
community
.”

“No, I’m from Darlington. Up on the North Shore.”

“Oh, what a lovely spot! How lucky you are!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lovely my ass. I was having a hard time believing this big lady with the gray face and wide pants was Marisol’s mother. Of course she hadn’t borne her, but still, it was incongruous to imagine the two of them living in the same house, eating the same food, putting their laundry in the same washing machine. I mean, this woman looked like Eleanor Roosevelt, if only Eleanor had had the fashion sense to chop her hair off in a straight line from one earlobe to the other.

“Okay. You’ve done your research. Better get on to Laura’s now,” Marisol said, not unkindly.

“Well, I’m so glad I saw you sitting here.”

“Mmm. What a happy accident.”

“Have a lovely day, dear.” Mrs. Guzman looked over her shoulder twice as she retracted her steps up the path and waved each time.