When You Don't See Me (30 page)

 

“He just got home, so he should be around here somewhere,” Gavin said when I rushed inside the first floor of my uncle's apartment and called Blaine's name. “He's probably changing.”

“Yeah, that's what I heard,” I said and headed for the stairs.

“Tell him to put his damned shirt in the hamper!” Gavin called after me.

The door to the bedroom my uncle shared with Daniel was open. His back was turned to me as he pulled a sweatshirt over his head. I watched, somewhat annoyed, as the sweatshirt covered his muscular frame. I wondered how we were part of the same gene pool. I knocked on the door frame. When he turned and saw me, Uncle Blaine made a big show of clutching his heart, gasping for air, and falling backward onto his Cottage-style bed.

I clapped and said, “And they say Daniel's the actor in the family. Do you need help getting up?”

“Yes,” he said and held out his hand. I took it and he pulled me down next to him. I laughed when he pummeled me with a pillow while saying, “Where have you been? Why haven't I seen you for months, you ungrateful little bastard?”

“Drop the sham and I'll tell you,” I said.

“The what?”

“The ruffled thing you're beating me over the head with,” I explained. “Seriously, who decorated this place? Laura Ashley's gay brother?”

“Actually, it was her lesbian aunt,” Blaine said as he leaned back on the mountain of pillows.

“I can't think of a comeback for that one,” I said. “Is there a lesbian stereotype about home décor?”

“I don't know anything about lesbian stereotypes.”

“I've got news for you, Uncle Blaine. You
are
a lesbian stereotype.”

“How do you figure?” he asked, looking insulted.

“You artificially inseminated your best friend, a lesbian.”

He grinned and said, “I've come a long way, baby.”

“Gross,” I moaned and covered my face with the sham.

“Speaking of babies, I was about to go downstairs to see Emily and Gwendy. Want to come?”

“Could you please stop saying ‘come'?”

“We could grab a bite to eat later,” he said. “I was supposed to have dinner with Violet to go over budget reports. But I can cancel. Unless you want to hang out with her, too?”

“Wait a minute,” I said, sitting up. “Budget reports? I thought you got fired.”

“Fired?”

“I read online that you got fired from Lillith Allure.”

Uncle Blaine rolled his eyes. “What was the first thing I warned you about when you moved in with me?”

“The importance of using condoms when having sex,” I stated. “I don't think the banana puppet show applies to this situation.”

“No, not that,” Uncle Blaine said, clearly annoyed. Then he asked, “But while we're on the subject—”

“Yes, always!” I interrupted.

“Good.”

“God.”

“Anyway,” he said, looking amused at my embarrassment, “I meant what I said about the tabloids and how they always lie or warp the truth. If they say something about Daniel or me and you want to know if it's true, just ask us and we'll tell you.”

“That's why I'm here,” I said. “Is it true?”

“Of course not.” He got up from the bed and returned his suit to its hanger in his closet. He closed the door, then looked at me. “If that's the only reason you stopped by, I guess you'll be going now.”

“Give me a break,” I said. “That's not the only reason.”

“How would I know? I haven't seen you in months,” he said.

“Nice try. You're from Wisconsin. Ethnic guilt isn't your strong suit.”

“You're right. I just hung that in the closet,” he said.

I picked up his shirt from the floor and tossed it to him, saying, “Gavin says to put this in the hamper.”

I heard him muttering something about fastidious queens haunting him every minute of the day as he went back into the closet. When he came out, he said, “What's new with you?”

“Uh-uh. You think I don't know that Blythe, Sheila, and Gwendy have reported everything I do or tell them back to you? Why is Lola Listeria claiming that you were fired?”

“
Her?
That's your online source? Please.” Uncle Blaine sat on the bed again. “The truth is that I resigned. Now that Sheila's moved on and Faizah's been established as the new face for Lillith Allure, the company wants to go in a different direction with their advertising. Frankly, so do I. It's been fun, but I want to do other things.”

I was tempted to say that I understood, since that was how I'd felt about college. But I kept quiet.

“I originally took the job because running the advertising department at Lillith Allure was perfect training for opening my own agency one day. That's what I intend to do.”

“What about Violet?” I asked.

“She's coming with me, of course. I couldn't do it—or much of anything, for that matter—without her. She'll be my business partner. Or vice president of accounts and creative services. Or…something. We haven't hammered out the details. But we did buy a loft in the flatiron district. It's great. Entire floor of an old warehouse. You should come see it sometime.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. I thought about his boss, who was like another of Emily's grandfathers and who'd always looked out for Uncle Blaine. “What about Frank Allen? Did you tell him yet? Was he crushed that you're leaving?”

“Frank was the first person I told. I wouldn't make a move like this without getting his opinion first. Or his approval. He knows it's the right move for my career. He cautioned me about how risky it is to start my own business, then turned right around and described how the benefits outweigh the risks. I've got some talented people lined up to work with me. I've already got clients waiting to hear that I'm open for business. I'll probably have a better opportunity to make time for Emily, for my family. It may sound sappy, but I feel like I'm creating some sort of legacy to leave behind.”

“That's cool,” I said.

“I'm sure the Dunhill Group will have an opening for a bright and talented individual like you,” he said.

“The Dunhill Group?”

Uncle Blaine blushed and looked down at his hands. “I'm still playing around with names for the agency.”

“It sounds like an English rap group,” I said.

“Point taken.”

“With nothing but white people in it,” I added.

“Sipping tea and eating crumpets. I get the idea,” Blaine barked.

“Where was this job offer when I left school?” I asked.

“You're still joking, right? You would've declined and accused me of trying to interfere in your life. Or you would've thought I didn't have any faith in your ability to make it on your own. I was your age once. I remember what it's like to go against the grain. When everyone in your family has your life mapped out for you, and you suddenly reveal to them that you're perfectly capable of deciding for yourself how you want to live. I knew better than to step in and start yelling at you the way my father did to me,” he said adamantly.

“Daniel told you to butt out, huh?”

“Pretty much, yes,” Uncle Blaine admitted. He stretched out on the bed, patted the space next to him, and said, “Get comfortable. Talk to me.”

I flopped down next to him and sighed. “Go ahead. Get the interrogation out of the way.”

“You're such a brat.” He rested his jaw on his fist, and I noted the affection in his bright green eyes. With a pang, I realized how much I'd missed him and how many months had passed since I'd seen him.

“I haven't consciously avoided you,” I assured him. “I got busy with life.”

“We all do,” he said. “I'm not pissed at you. I'm curious. I just scored a twelve-page advertising spread in
Vanity Fair
called ‘Nick: 2003.' Describe the February photo.”

I grinned and said, “I'm sitting on a fake white bearskin rug. I'm dressed for the cold, but the man with me is shirtless. He's got one of those doctor bags next to him. I'm wearing his stethoscope and pressing it against his bare chest.”

“Did I say
Vanity Fair
or
Genre?”
Uncle Blaine asked. “What's the name of the scent you're advertising?”

“Polar Melt.”

We continued in that vein for a while, until he asked about September. We exchanged an uncomfortable glance; then I said, “The anniversary wasn't the worst part of the month. My
Vanity Fair
wardrobe choice was emo, and my fragrance was Betrayal.” I explained the drama over Fred's blog and finally said, “I was worried that somebody would tell you about it. Or you'd find it and think the stuff he said about you or the rest of our family came from me.”

“What did I just tell you?” he asked. “If you want the truth, go to the source. Fred's selling something just the way Lola Listeria is. I don't need to hear about you from Fred. Or from Blythe, Sheila, and Gwendy, for that matter. I've always known you'll tell me what you think I need to know. Maybe even what
I
think I need to know.”

“I guess if my
Vanity Fair
layout has a theme, it's that people aren't always who they seem to be. Some people that you trust will fuck you over. People you barely know will come through for you. People you think you know really well can…” I frowned. “Actually, I think 2003 has taught me that everything and everyone is constantly changing.”

“Is it hard for you to deal with change?”

I looked him in the eye and said, “What I really wanted was for everything to stand still so nothing else bad could happen.” I paused, but he didn't say anything. “I thought I was mad at you for trying to control my life. Maybe I was really blaming you for not doing a better job of it. I guess that does make me sound like an ungrateful little bastard, doesn't it?”

Blaine laughed and said, “It sounds like we're a typical father and son.”

“Yeah? Which one are you?”

“Smartass.”

I talked to him about my job, avoiding any discussion of how it wasn't the one I'd had when I moved out. I had to show him my tattoo, which he pretended to like, even though I knew he was covering up his dismay that I'd gotten one. He was curious about my mother's visit and seemed glad to hear that we'd begun talking regularly on the phone.

“I think they're splitting up,” I finally said. “She doesn't say so. But I'm getting the vibe.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I feel like it should be a relief.”

“But it isn't.”

“It makes me sad. It's like they wasted all those years, and now she's old and it's too late for her to be happy.”

“Trust me, she's not too old for a fresh start. She's not much older than Gretchen would be. You just see her as old because she's your mother.”

I grunted, unconvinced, and said, “Didn't you want to go downstairs?”

“Are you going with me?”

“Sure.”

He followed me from the bedroom, then surprised me by dropping his hands on my shoulders and pulling me back against his chest. It made me think of Roberto, and I smiled.

“I'm glad you're here,” he said. His voice sounded fierce when he added, “I love you so much.”

I choked up and waited to see if the tears would come. When they didn't, I answered quietly, “I love you, too.”

 

“I'll bet Emily's changed a lot,” Roberto said after I caught him up on what I'd been doing.

We were bundled under the comforter on the futon. The heat in our apartment was for shit. On mornings that none of us had to work, nobody wanted to be the first roommate up. That unlucky person had to brave the chill to turn on our array of space heaters, which were probably a threat to take out the Tri-State power grid. So far, Morgan and Kendra hadn't emerged from the Snake Pit, and Roberto and I were waiting them out.

“Yeah,” I said. “In my head, Emily's around Isleta's age, but a year makes a big difference. Plus she's a Dunhill.”

“Right. She's already years beyond the average child her age.”

“Exactly. She remembered me, too. Without laying any guilt on me. Kids are in the moment, you know?”

“Aw, was Uncle Blaine rough on you?” Roberto asked in a tone of mock pity.

“It was horrible,” I said, and he brought his hand out from under the covers long enough to make the international
you're-jerking-me-off
motion. I yawned. “This year, instead of a big Christmas thing, they're planning a low-key gathering on the last day of Hanukkah. Not just for Kruger. Gwendy and Blaine want to start introducing Emily to her Jewish heritage. I think it'll be cool. You're invited, of course. Anyone I want to bring. I figured you'd be all right with it because it wouldn't interfere with the Mirones Christmas.”