Live a Little (28 page)
They are in bed.
The bodies are a study in ivory and peach. Limbs tangle around one another like the branches of saplings, pliant and lithe as only young flesh can be. I simply stand and stare, cognizant only of the extreme beauty of naked youth, of the ardor rising up from them like steam off a racehorse on a frigid day. Then shame washes through me; I am a trespasser, a violator, an uninvited witness to the most private proclamation of love. I have to leave. Now.
My presence might never have been noticed. But as I back through the doorway of my son’s bedroom, a soccer cleat springs from nowhere, and I stumble backward over it with a soft, clichéd “oomph.”
The bodies still. Faces rise up above the nest of sheets, mouths perfect moues of shock, eyebrows arching bold over strong noses.
Oh God, it can’t be
—
“Mom?”
I scurry out, crablike, my mind snatching at thoughts, tossing them aside. The sliding glass door is still open, my favorite chaise spread open against the sun. I hurtle toward it.
“Mom?” My son’s voice follows me down the hallway, shades of the demanding baby he used to be.
I can’t. I can’t because if I do, I’ll freak out, and if I freak out, I’ll fail him, and if I fail him, I’m lost, lost, lost.
I slip through the doors into the backyard and—
“Mom!”
Micah is naked save a robe he’s holding around his waist.
My son is less hirsute than Phil, his torso carved with lithe muscle. Micah’s beauty used to seem harmless, a stroke of mild, benevolent genetic fortune that bypassed me and Phil. Now it is lethal.
“Mom,
please,
hold on a minute, will you? Can’t you just stop and
listen
?”
I drop into the chaise, careful to avoid the end that always flips. Micah glances back at the house, back where Ronnie Greenblatt, my son’s best friend, is likely pulling on his pants and one of those ugly skater shirts he’s always wearing. I fish around in my mind and find, to my surprise, that I want nothing more at this moment than to slap Ronnie very hard in the face.
“I’m sorry that happened, Mom,” Micah says. He sounds unrepentant and icily, shockingly adult. I actually feel my heart rate ratchet up a notch, locking into high gear like a runaway train. Who is this person, this man with the body of a dryad and the gaze of a predator? Where is my son, my Micah, he of the dreamy blue eyes and soccer passion?
“Is this. . . Oh my God, did he seduce you?” This is not the question I want to ask. Why did it come out like that?
Micah’s normally receptive face, suntanned and eager and blue-eyed, snaps shut. “Actually, I seduced
him,
if you want to put it that way.” My son is enjoying this too much; he is angry with me for something that goes beyond today’s discovery.
“I thought you were dating. . .” In a flash, I realize the extent of the feat that Micah has pulled off, weaving social fact and fiction together so snugly that even I, his mother, cannot be sure where his crushes begin and end. My son’s girlfriends are legion, yet I cannot pinpoint a single paramour by name. “What do you want me to say?” I ask him.
“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. What’s there to say? I’m a fucking fag. Get over it.” Micah hitches up the towel and smiles. For the first time ever, my son’s smile is cracked, afraid, grotesque.
“Why Ronnie?” The world has shifted, earthquake-jostled bits settling into new places. Micah gay I can deal with, I think. Sure, there is disappointment there, and fear. A lot of that. But also a trickle of understanding, of floating particles slotting into context, that provides relief: Taylor’s comment about Micah’s whereabouts the other day—how, how,
how
could my daughter have guessed (or known) and not I?—the gradual yet unmistakable reduction in Micah’s willingness to confide, the niggling feeling that my son has been lying to me in small, fractious ways.
Micah’s face reddens. “I don’t know. It just happened, I guess. We . . . you know . . . love each other.”
I am simultaneously horrified and proud. See how my son talks openly about his feelings like a sensitive, evolved male? See how I raised him to emote fully? See how, like a woman, he is going to get his heart filleted and broiled alive on a spit?
“You’re just a kid. Love? Well, that’s. . . well.” With great force of will, I stop myself from expelling that old chestnut:
Love stinks.
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I just . . . I wish you had told me sooner, that’s all. I could have helped you.”
“With what? You think I don’t know what love is because I’m seventeen? Or because I’m queer?”
“Don’t say that!”
Why not, Raquel?
“It’s just a word, Mom.”
“Look at it from my perspective, okay? I know your feelings are real, honey, but it’s my job to protect you. I know this is going to sound harsh, but do you think this is a good idea?” My voice has risen, shrieking upward on a fulcrum of dismay.
“He knew it was going to be like this,” Micah says furiously. “That’s why we didn’t tell anybody. I wanted to, but Ronnie says his parents will freak. I was, like, ‘My mom won’t—my mom’s cool.’” His voice turns shrill as he mimics me. “‘Do you think this is a good idea, honey?’ It’s not an idea, Mom, it’s fucking reality! God, you think you’re so evolved, jetting around San Francisco like some fucking artist-in-residence, palling around with your little queer society friends, but you don’t have a fucking clue what it means to really accept someone, do you?”
Micah gets up off the other lounge chair and knots his robe tighter around his waist. Through the bulky strata of walls, windows, and bad feeling, we hear the unmistakable seal of a car door and the patrician rev of a sports-car engine. We both know it is Ronnie, sailing away from confrontation in his hand-me-down Miata. The emotion leaches out of Micah’s face as if through a shower drain.
For a pause, Micah and I stare at each other, the moment etched in dismay. What constitutes best parenting practice for these things? Should I hug my pain-racked child before he wiggles away, or is that insulting? Am I supposed to call Phil sobbing and commiserate about the abrupt decrease in our statistical likelihood of becoming grandparents? Or do I invite Barb and Ron Senior over and play meet-the-inlaws?
“That’s not what I meant,” I whisper finally, but Micah has already gone.
Unlike your child’s vaccination schedule, life does not calendar traumatic events in decently spaced intervals. She is inconsiderate that way.
I am shocked out of sleep shortly after midnight by the doorbell. Heart pounding while my pupils adjust to the smear of darkness, I wait for Phil to get up and do a recon with his trusty Louisville Slugger, only to realize a millisecond later that my husband is not here because I kicked him out. Instead of serving as resident male presence and protector of La Famiglia Rosa, my husband is tucked into bed at Extended Stay America, dozing off to the tail end of
Conan O’Brien.
I am alone.
Reaching under Phil’s side of the bed, I am gratified to feel my hand close around the baseball bat. Without turning on any lights—
Perhaps the sudden sight of my ravaged visage at the door will frighten away the rapist-intruder—
I creep toward the entryway. Stella and Willard, the two bassets, are nowhere to be seen. From day one, when Phil brought them home from the pet shop yowling in a ribboned box, there has been something worthless and louche about these dogs, a sense that, if forced to choose between saving our lives and downing a bowl of kiblets, they’d take the food and munch happily while home invaders cleave our brains and steal the Cuisinart.
I tiptoe down the hall, bat in hand. The threadbare rugby jersey and men’s boxers I’m wearing provide scant protection against the probing of rapist penises. Unlike Ma, I have not barricaded myself under a belted jumpsuit and five layers of granny panties in my husband’s absence. From this point on, I have only my wits and the Slugger as defenses.
“Aaaah!”
I yell, heart hammering as my foot comes into contact with a warm, inert, now snarling body.
At the sound of my scream, Stella grunts and retreats toward the comfort of the kitchen, toenails clacking, where I hear her dig in to her food with gusto.
“Damn dog,” I say, and open the door.
Sue and Sarafina stand there. In spite of a mild case of first-trimester bloat, my friend looks waifish and wan. A half-asleep Sarafina leans against her, a Dora doll clutched in her hand, outgrown baby blanket trailing. Their midnight getaway has conferred on them an appearance of both frailty and homelessness.
The Breakup Diet: Wearing Pajamas Full-time and 100 Other Tried-and-True Ways to Look Thinner Now!
“It’s over,” Sue says as she falls into my arms.
You Can’t Help Whom You Love . . .or Can You?
“He kept saying ‘queer,’” I say to Laurie. “It’s like he was trying to shock me.
Queer, queer, queer
”—my hand does a nervous jig around my face— “it
was
kind of shocking, actually.”
My sister’s finely arched, honey-toned brows are nearly levitating off her face. This is a sign of disapproval. I am fairly sure she is uncomfortable with my choice of venue—Caffè Museo—for this revelation. In fact, Caffè Museo, with its dainty wedges of organic frittata and messenger-bag-made-ofrecycled-seat-belt-toting patrons, has probably been suburban-matron-screeching-“queer”-free until now.
Since I told her two weeks ago that I did indeed have carnal (if incomplete) knowledge of her husband, Laurie and I have entered into a Partial Relationship Embargo. The PRE is a handy mechanism that grants you the right to draw on familial resources in the event of a Serious Crisis, even if you are presently in a declared state of war with the other family member. Although what constitutes a Serious Crisis has yet to be clearly defined, there seems to be a general consensus that it could involve such catastrophes as TV-show cancellation, rapid unexplained weight gain, or spousal infidelity. Into this pot I would also throw gay awakenings. Walking in on your underage children in flagrante delicto? Definitely.
“I’m sure he’s just venting his frustration,” Laurie corrects me. “You were just a convenient target.” Laurie pauses to accept a paper menu that a fan is handing her. Smiling brilliantly, as if there is nothing more enjoyable than penning her autograph during a conversation about my son’s sexual adventures with his best friend, Laurie signs her name with a flourish and lets the woman grasp her hand reverently before turning back to me. “Have you talked to Micah more about this?”
“We talked,” I say slowly, feeling disingenuous, a word I cannot pronounce but seems just right for what I am feeling at the moment.
“About?”
“Being. . . gay?” Is this the right answer?
“And?”
“You know what he told me? Last year, when he wrecked the car with Ronnie, it was because Micah came out to him and Ronnie was so freaked that he dropped his thirty-twoounce Coke on the shifter and Mikey’s hand slipped and that’s when he crashed into the 7-Eleven.” I wipe my eyes, which are burning. “He told me they were high, Laurie. Instead of telling me he was gay and his best friend couldn’t deal with it, he let Phil and me believe he drove stoned. That made me incredibly sad. Are we that bad? Did we fail our son that badly?”
Laurie sips her Chardonnay. “Of course not. You have to put yourself in Micah’s position. Everyone has an idea of him as a person, how he should be. The fact that it’s somewhat—or largely—at odds with what he knows himself to be must be incredibly pressuring. I can’t imagine what he’s been going through. There is so much more at stake for him than just disappointing his parents. Coming out means potentially changing his whole world. I think you and Phil are open, nonjudgmental parents, I really do. I think whether Micah learns to trust you with this depends a lot on how you handle the next few conversations. Whatever you do, don’t forbid him from seeing Ronnie. It’ll backfire, and Micah will gravitate toward him even more. It might make him demonize you. I know he’s still your child, but he’s seventeen years old, not twelve or thirteen or even fifteen, and he probably feels like you’re holding him back from his adult sexuality, even if you aren’t. Remember how we felt right before college? Remember how
excruciating
it was to wait for the chance to reinvent yourself?” As she says this, Laurie’s focus seems to drift to some faraway, melancholy place, her normally cheery visage replaced by something barren.
For a split second I am sucked into Laurie’s vortex. I am one of my sister’s disciples—needy, intoxicated, and completely in awe. Her psychosocial prowess—not to mention the fact that she, for the first time
ever,
complimented me on my parenting—blows me away. I am tempted to question her claim of possessing an urge toward self-reinvention—why would popular, athletic, prettier-than-Lindsay-Wagner Lauren Schultz want to be anyone else?—but instead I draw the conversation back to the real matter at hand.
“Phil,” I say.
“Phil,” she echoes. Laurie and I may not see eye to eye on everything, but there are three areas in which we have achieved real—if unacknowledged—confluence: Ma’s madness, Ren’s gorgeousness, and Phil’s obtuseness in the face of familial drama. There are some things I implicitly trust and defer to my sister on. How to best manage Phil during a reign of terror is one of them.