Hound Dog & Bean (31 page)

H.D. Froze.
Meet the parents? Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck
.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here.” Even though he had the sudden and very real urge to run. As fast as he could. Straight out the—no—
right
out the front door.

“What about Tuesday night? We’re clear here. I know that’s short notice, but things get crazy the rest of the week. I have a charity event coming up. I’ll make a lovely pork roast. I make a black pepper sauce that is heavenly. And I picked up some asparagus that looks simply divine and you know it goes all woody if you don’t eat it right away.”

H.D. had opened his mouth to say “No way. Not happening!” when Dean walked back in the house, dogs racing around playfully at his feet. This was Dean’s mother on the line. Dean was looking at him curiously with those deep brown eyes.
Why not? Be brave. Try something you’ve never done before
. “Okay, June. Tuesday night.”

“Oh! That is wonderful! Simply wonderful. Say, what? Six? For cocktails? Then seven for dinner? Otherwise it gets too late and the food sits on the tummy when we go to bed. For me that means right to my hips.”

“Sure,” said H.D., looking right into Dean’s eyes. “We’ll be there.”

“Marvelous!”

“We’ll be where?” Dean said, his expression revealing his curiosity.

“Did you want to speak to your son?” H.D. asked.

“No. That’s quite all right. We will see him evening after next. I have a dozen calls to make. Give him my love.”

“I will, June,” he replied, eyes never leaving Dean. “See you then.”

“That’s my mother?” Dean reached for the phone.

“She’s hung up already,” H.D. explained. He could see the shock on Dean’s face. “We’re going to your mom’s for dinner.”

The look on Dean’s face was almost comical.

Almost
.

D
EAN
COULD
not remember the last time he was so nervous. Sweat was running down his sides.

He was taking H.D. to meet his parents.

“Wow,” said H.D. “Nice place.”

It was. Bean knew that. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was a very nice home. He wasn’t sure what it was going for these days, but he wouldn’t be surprised—what with the pool and small pool house out back—if it was a half a million dollars. Certainly more than his family had paid for it over thirty years ago. Until he’d bought his own house, it was the only home he’d ever known.

The door opened before he could even reach for it and out stepped his mother, looking resplendent.
Show-off
, he thought at her and she tilted her head ever so slightly—her “what can I say?” sent back to him crystal clear. It was not the look of a woman making dinner. For one thing, her hair was up, and not for convenience. She could be heading to one of her charity events this very moment. She wore pearl drop earrings and her makeup was flawless. And her dress, only a few steps from being an evening gown, was black.
Who made dinner in such an outfit?
he wondered. Why the answer to that was easy.
My mother
.

He glanced over at H.D., who seemed to be taking it all in stride and even held out the flowers he’d been holding slightly behind his back. Glancing back at his mother, he saw she was smiling, ready to make her showy welcome and then saw her take in the flowers (bigger smile, perfect teeth shining white) and then take in Hill.

If he hadn’t known her like he did, he might have missed how her eyes widened the tiniest bit, imperceptible to anyone else. Hopefully. Hopefully, H.D. hadn’t read what Bean had seen. She had perfected her facial expressions, making sure she had her poker face on at all times. But he
did
know her. H.D. was
not
what she was expecting.

She swept out the door and hugged Bean, gave him a kiss, and then turned to his companion. “And you must be the infamous H.D.! Aren’t you handsome? Are those for me, dear?”

“Yes,” H.D. said, holding the flowers out stiffly.

Don’t hug him, Mom. Please don’t
—

And then she was in his arms, kissing his cheek and then almost twirling back and taking the flowers. “They are
lovely
! You shouldn’t have.”

“It was nothing, June.” For one minute Bean thought he was going to bow, but no, thank God.

“Oh! He used my name! Thank God I don’t have to worry about that Mrs. Alexander nonsense. Excellent. Please, boys. Let’s get inside. Father is making gin and tonics. I hope that’s okay.”

Dean’s father didn’t hide his surprise quite as well as his mother. But he bit his lip. He asked them how many limes they wanted in their cocktails—Dean wanted two and H.D. three—and they headed out to the back patio next to the pool. It was built-in, kidney shaped, and totally cement. No lining, which seemed to be the new thing. The gardens were immaculate, but that wasn’t his parents’ doing, of course, except for the fact they paid to have it done. His mother would never take a chance on ruining perfect nails or getting dirt under them, and his father—until recently—had never had time.

“Nice pool, June,” H.D. said.

“I hear you like to go swimming,” Big Dean said.

“I do,” H.D. replied. “Never had my own pool, though. Had a few foster parents who did, though.”

“Are you an orphan, H.D.?” Big Dean took a sip of his G&T and shot Dean a glance over the top of his glass.

“I am, sir.”

Big Dean held up a hand. “Dean, please. If you’re going to call mother by her name, you should call me by mine.”

“Then how will you two know who I’m talking to?”

“I just assumed you called my son Bean, like everyone else.”

“Not when we’re away from the shop,” Dean said, breaking in.

“Ah, I see. But I’m not too crazy about this ‘sir’ business.”

“Then how about I call him Bean, just for tonight?” H.D. asked, then downed a full third of his drink.

“Is that okay with you, Son?” Bean’s father asked.

Dean and H.D. locked eyes for all of a second and then he said, “Sure. Whatever. It’s not like this place has ever been the real world.”

They continued to make small talk until H.D. excused himself to use the restroom, and then Big Dean was on Bean in two seconds. “Dreadlocks, son? Why… I don’t know what to say.”

Bean shook his head. “And I don’t know what to say to that, Dad. Are you judging him?”

“Of course not, Son. But he’s hardly the trophy husband, is he? I mean, at your mother’s charity events, won’t he look a little… off?”

“Nonsense,” said June coming out onto the patio, glass of red wine in hand. “He is a magnificent beast.”

“He’s not a beast, Mother.”

“No. Of course not. What I mean is that he will be the talk of any event he attends. And he is
gorgeous
. Did you see those eyes, Father? He will make the ladies melt and the men wish they
were
him.” She said this last just as H.D. returned, stopping Bean from making a comment.

The small talk continued with the subject returning now and then to H.D.’s hair. Bean could hardly believe it, and neither parent would go into the house so he could reprimand them. He had no idea what to do and saying something with H.D. standing there might embarrass him.

Bean tried to read H.D., but the man had gone into his unreadable mode. His face might as well have been carved from stone. He might as well have been one of
Star Trek
’s famous Vulcans.

“Father, what would you think if I did my hair this way?” she asked as she walked up to H.D. For one horrifying second, Bean thought she was going to touch it. “Smaller… would you call them braids?”

“Dreads,” H.D. supplied.

“
Dreads,
” she echoed. “Smaller
dreads
, of course. Narrower.”

“I don’t think so,” Big Dean said. “I don’t think it will fit your—”

Please don’t say “station,”
Bean tried to beam to his father.

“—position at the bank.”

Bean almost sighed in relief.
What’s going on with you two?
He’d never seen his parents act this way. All over some dreadlocks? What the Christ would they have said if H.D. had worn one of his hippie shirts and a pair of pants that would have given them the occasional glimpse of his pubic hair? Hill had asked to borrow a dress shirt, and Bean had been surprised. “Wear whatever you want to wear, Hill.”

“No, this is your parents. I want them to like me. Let’s pick out something nice.”

And so they’d gone through Bean’s closet and picked out a black suede-look dress shirt—the perfect combination of their two very different worlds. Nothing boring and nothing wild. Something right in the middle. Bean’s pants were too big, but H.D. had brought a pair of very new jeans with him—black—and insisted on ironing them until they had creases you could cut your finger on. He’d brought some boots as well, and after shining them up with Bean’s shoe shining kit, they looked as good as new. The look suited H.D. and Bean told him so. “You look sexy,” he’d told his almost-lover.

But now that Bean’s parents were acting in such a strange way, Bean was at a total loss for what to say. If he said nothing, H.D. might think Bean was ashamed of him. But if called his parents on their totally uncharacteristic rudeness, it might be worse. There were ways Hill liked to stand out, and there were ways he didn’t. This might very well be one of latter.

Bean tried to motion his mother inside with his eyes, but if she saw what he was doing, she was ignoring him.
Mom
, he wanted to scream.
What the hell are you doing?

“Well…. Perhaps it wouldn’t suit me,” she said, examining H.D.’s hair with her eyes with such intensity, she might as well been touching them. “No. I guess not. People might ask me if I’m in a Rustic band. That’s the word, isn’t it? Rustic?”

“Rasta, June,” H.D. corrected, and now his eyes were flashing.

Crap
, thought Bean. He knew that look.
Now what?

“Oh, yes. I knew that. Rasta. Are you a Rastafarian, Hill?”

Bean froze.

And so did H.D.

This time Bean looked lasers into his mother’s face, and there was no way on earth she could ignore him.

“What, darling?” she asked. “Surely you don’t want me to call him by his initials, do you?” She turned to H.D. “Do you? Want me to call you H.D? It seems like some kind of nickname. Or member of the board of my bank. H.D.” She shook her head. “And Hillary is such a beautiful name. May I call you Hillary?”

“Mother!” At last he couldn’t keep still any longer. As the legendary Popeye had liked to say:
I’ve had all I can stands, and I can’t stands no more!
“Enough!”

“It’s okay,
Little
Dean,” H.D. said then, and Bean could hear the frost beginning in that voice. “Your mother can call me Hill if she wants. That’s what you call me, after all.” He walked over to the pool. “
Shit
, that looks inviting.” He spun around. “Mind if I go swimming after dinner?” he asked.

If H.D.’s use of the word “shit” surprised either of his parents, their faces didn’t show it.

“Of course not,” said June. “And if you didn’t bring a suit, we’ve a number of them in the pool house, and I am sure one will fit.”

“No need for that!” H.D. laughed. “It’s not like Little Dean and I wore suits in the lake all weekend, right ‘darling’? And by the way, if you don’t mind me saying so June—there ain’t
nothing
small about your son!” He rubbed his ass with both hands and gave a long whistle.

This time Bean’s mother was not able to hide her surprise. Her eyes popped for a second before she could gain control, and Bean didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

“Mother,” he said instead. “May I see you inside? Now, please?”

“No need for that,” H.D. said, and crossed his arms over his chest. “You can say anything in front of me.”

All right then. He turned to his parents. “Mother. Dad. Hill is my
date
. I get the idea you’re testing me or him or something. I want it to stop. You’ve never treated anyone I’ve brought home this rudely.”

“Dean!” his father cried. “Don’t talk to your mother that way.”

He spun on his father. “Don’t be rude to Hill. What’s gotten into you two?”

“They weren’t expecting you to bring home a Rastafarian, Bean….”

Oh, crap. That tone!

“They were expecting one of the preppy, college-look boys you usually bring home to show off in front of Mommy and Daddy.”

“Now, son,” said Big Dean.

“I am not your son,” H.D. said quietly. There was no anger or reproach in the tone. H.D.’s voice had gone very crisp and cool. Collected. “I never knew my father. He died when I was a baby. At least that is what I choose to believe. Now I am screwing your son. And he is screwing me. Royally. But I am not your son.”

Big Dean’s mouth dropped open.

So did Bean’s.

It was only Bean’s mother who finally regained some semblance of the woman Bean loved, even if she was forever removed.

“Hill. We are sorry. You’re right. We
were
expecting Little Dean’s usual type. But to tell you the truth, they’ve always been boring cookie-cutter imitations of their predecessors. You, at least, are different. And I have never seen my son so happy. Forgive me? Forgive us?”

H.D. relaxed. Visibly.

“Sure, Junie. Sounds good.” He dropped his arms to the side.

“Good. Dinner will be ready soon.” She looked at Bean, gave him an impressed smile, and turned back to her guest. “I like you, Hill. And I am thinking maybe I shall call you H.D. At least until you actually invite me to call you something else. I was being far too familiar. Now, shall we go inside and refresh our drinks?”

“Sounds damned good to me,” said Big Dean, and led the way.

“So,” Bean heard as they went inside. “Nothing small about my son, heh?”

T
HE
REST
of the dinner went better, but H.D. was still angry when they got into the car. He opened his mouth to let Bean have every single word he’d been thinking up when he saw that Bean’s eyes were big and round and wet, and then a tear begin to run down his cheek.