29. He’s Leaving Home

            It began the following Tuesday when Thad obsequiously asked, “Are there any empty boxes up in the attic?”

          Having just walked in the house for lunch, I stood in the kitchen doorway, somewhat slumped in a suit. Thad was at the stove stirring a pot of pasta.  

          “Why?” I asked with as much hate in my voice as I could muster. My day was already full of enough crap, including a late afternoon of teaching and then a dreadful faculty meeting to soldier through. I did not need this too.

          “You know why,” he laughed silkily, turning to smile at me. I knew he was faking it.

          “So this is official? You are leaving?”

          “Yes, I told you.” He turned back to the stove.

          “No,” I countered. “No, you really have not. Last time we even talked about it was at the Chinese Restaurant.”

           “And I told you I was going to do it.”

          “No you did not,” I lied. I did not want to accept the fact that he was leaving, and admit defeat.

          “Michael, I did.” He snapped in his no-nonsense tone. “So quit badgering me.”

          I looked away, and then against my better judgment continued, “Well, you didn’t say it was going to happen so soon.” 

          He slammed his spatula to the stove and barked, “Jesus! I told you it was coming. She just got the house yesterday. She wants me to help her start moving  today, okay? There! Now I’ve told you! Is that official enough?” 

I hated when he screamed at me. It made me feel sick and small. 

It was coming true. I had lost.

Not knowing what else to say I blurted out, “Okay. Well there are boxes up in the attic. You can help yourself. And I can help if you need me to.”

“No, no. That’s fine,” he said calmly. “There’s not that much, and Mom has rented movers for the big things.”

“Good. Good.” I was out of breath and feeling dizzy. I needed to be out of there before I started to cry. I needed to be away from him before I started screaming.

“Hey, how long before lunch?” I asked, holding on to the doorframe for support.

“About twenty minutes.” He finally looked back at me. 

“Okay,” I fake smiled. “I’m just going to run up to the DMV around the corner and get a new license. You know I just realized mine expired yesterday.  I mean, I would just hate to get pulled over and get a ticket, you know. So, so, I’ll be right back.” I was serious, I did need a new license, but more importantly I just needed out of there.

“Sure,” he said eying me suspiciously. 

“Okay, yeah…” and I ran outside and drove off before I lost it then and there in front of him.

I finally took a deep breath at the stop sign: He was indeed moving out. Dammit.

“Can I see your license?” the enormous woman behind the counter said as she shifted her weight and smacked her bright red gum. 

“Yeah, sure,” I said, handing it to her.

I had driven around the neighborhood after I left the house and had not cried, but was sweating way too much for a charming March day. I had found the DMV nearly empty, oddly at lunch, but for that I was pleased. There had been only two people in line ahead of me.

“Do you have your birth certificate?” the mountainous woman asked, her blue-blue eye-shadowed eyes wide.

“What?” 

“Your birth certificate.” She pronounced loudly, snapping my license down to the counter in front of her. “Your license has been expired for more than a month, and we got to have a certified copy of your birth certificate before we can issue you a new license.”

“Why?” I asked, boggled, picking up my license.

“It’s the law, sir. I am sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry one bit. “I cannot help you until you bring in a certified copy of your birth certificate. Understand? Next!”

“But, are you sure? I mean I have my license here.” I held it up. “It has my picture on it.”

“No, sir that will not do. It has been over a month. I am sorry. Now step out of line. Others are waiting. Next!”

I looked and there was no one else waiting. I just left.

Out in my car, frazzled, I called Mom, “Do you have my birth certificate?”

“What?” she said.

“My birth certificate!” I yelled.

“Well, you don’t have to scream at me,” she huffed, hurt.

I explained to her why. She was also in her car, out shopping.   

“It’s in my safety deposit box at the bank,” she said. “I was on my way to get a cake from Homeland. That little Mexican boy is being brought over to Becky's today by the social worker for a visit and Becky wanted me there. So I’m going to pick up a cake. I thought a cake would make a good impression.”  

  “Mom! Listen.” I snapped. I could not take any of her inane ramblings. “Can you stop by your bank and get my birth certificate?”  

“The key to the safety deposit box is back at the house.”

“What? You’re kidding?”

“No. Why would I carry that? I might lose it.”

I sighed, rubbing my head. “Can you just go home, get the key, and then go back to the bank and get my birth certificate and I’ll pick it up?”

“No, that’s too much running around, and I told you I have to meet Becky. That’s why I’m getting the cake. You can meet me at the house and get the key and go get it yourself.”

“Am I allowed to do that?”

“Yes, I put you and Becky on the safety deposit box a few years ago, and now I’m glad I did.” 

“Okay. Now?” I asked.  

“Well, after I get the cake.”

“Yes! After you get the cake! And after that, you are heading straight home?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll see you there.”

“Wait, one more thing, honey.” She said.

“What?”

“Do you think Mexicans like carrot cake?” 

  I just hung up and began the trek across town to Mom & Smith’s.

As I drove I thought that I should call Thad and tell him I would be late, but I did not. He deserved all of my scorn now; let him worry. Let his cheap pasta go limp and cold. He deserved no better. Trader. Deserter.   

“Can you believe your sister?” Mother said as I helped her out of the car, cake box in hand.

“Mom, key.” I had sat in her driveway and waited for fifteen minutes, and now had been gone almost an hour.  

“Oh, yes, the key.”  She said, handing me the cake box.

Inside, after she had gone to the bathroom and poured herself a glass of ice tea (Mother: “Tea?” Me: “No! The key!”) she produced the key.

“Now how does this work?” I asked, turning it over in my hand.

“You go in to the bank and tell them who you are. And then you and the teller will go in the vault and she will have a key and you will have this key and you both turn your keys at the same time and the safety deposit box comes out.”

“You are kidding? It’s like a James Bond movie-and we’re disarming a bomb.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. But that’s how it works. And once you get the box out, she will leave you in the vault to look through things. Just make sure you put everything back in before you lock it back up.”

Up to this point I had been enjoying my diversion away from Thad and his crap, but suddenly my OCD perked up. What it heard was: ‘If you do this wrong, bad things will happen to important items.”

“Can’t you just go do it? I’ll go with you.” I said tensely, trying to hand her the key back.   

“No, no.” She pushed it back to me. “You can do it. You’ll be fine. I have to go to Becky’s.” She smiled and I just frowned.

The bank teller was a tall, plain, middle-aged lady. I told her my story and she seemed unimpressed by the irony.  She asked for my license.

“But it’s expired….”  I began, but she didn’t care. She took it and frowned, scribbling down my name on a ledger, I then had to sign.

“Follow me.” She said solemnly.    

We went to the creepy vault and using the keys in choreographed unison, the box popped out as prophesied by Mother.

“When you are done,” Sarah Plain and Tall said in a drab monotone, “just put the box back in the wall. And when you want to leave, push this button here and the bars will release. Take your time, please.”  

Closing the barred gate behind her, she left me alone with the box in the vault.

Suddenly wishing I had not run out on Thad, I was afraid. I wished he was here comforting me, telling me I was being silly and that everything was going to be alright. I just wished I wasn’t alone.  

Opening the big metal box, I found a panoply of oddness. There were copies of wills and insurance policies, some random old valuable jewelry, ancient family photos, boxes of tiny tchotchkes I vaguely remembered from childhood, and reams of business papers. Still with the thought that I was disarming a bomb, I didn’t feel like I could take too long, so I leafed through the business papers until I found the envelopes labeled: Children’s Birth Certificates.

I found Becky’s first. I opened it, remembering the day she was born and how proud I was to have a baby sister. As I scanned it, I noticed Dad’s name printed at the top: Father: Charles Stiles. How odd to see it written, and how glaring to come across it so casually.

I put that away and continued flipping through until I found my own birth certificate. I looked it over and there was Dad’s name again printed at the top: Father: Charles Stiles. It made me miss him, even though I had not seen him in 27 years. This was a wound I was not anticipating opening today, here perched atop the fresher wound caused by the departure of another man in my life.      

Pocketing my birth certificate, I began shuffling everything back in. I just wanted to be done and out. This was all too weird, too much, especially now on an empty stomach. But then something caught my eye.

It was a stark lilac envelope addressed to Mom. It stuck out because it was so normal among all of the other businessy items. It had a postal date stamp of 2004 and the  slanted cursive handwriting was vaguely familiar. My stomach turned over as I turned the envelope over: the return address was C. Stiles. It was from Dad, to Mom, from six years ago.

Without thinking, and not sure why, I opened it up. Inside was a folded letter. It was short, addressed to Mom. All it said was:

Trudy-

          Was forwarded your letter.  Glad you are well, as am I. Happy that Rebecca is

          engaged. It is fine if she wants to write me. Use this address:

                   1775 East Tropicana Avenue

Las Vegas, Nevada    89119

          Give to Michael too, if he wants to write. Hope he is happy too.  

                                      -Charles

My father had very pretty hand writing for a man.

This must have been where Becky got Dad’s address when she wrote him back before her wedding. Mom must have written him and then he sent this letter back with his address. Mom then had given Becky the address, but he never responded. Mom had offered me the same address but I did not want it. Six years ago I was not in a place where I could have accepted him, still too mad at him for leaving us, giving us up.  

But now, today, I felt different. Maybe I could.

Feeling like I was doing something monumentally wrong, I pocketed the letter next to my birth certificate and shoved everything else back in. Shutting the safety deposit box, I popped it back in the wall and it clicked locked. Removing my key, I pressed the red button and the bar gate opened. I had to get out of there.  

The sadly plain teller scowled as I left. 

In the cool of the parking lot, I felt like I had just robbed the bank. 

In the car I did not look at the letter from my Dad again, but I was happy that I could if I wanted to. Maybe I was ready to contact him now. In the letter, he said I could. It almost even seemed like he wanted me to. He hoped: “he is happy too.” But he never responded to Becky. Would he respond to me? Would he tell me why he left us? Why he hadn’t been in contact in such a long time? Did I even want to know these things? Maybe. But at least I now I could try, like Becky had years ago. And maybe it would work this time. But I did not want to now. But I could. And somehow this made me feel better today.

I drove back to the DMV and waited in line again and handed the gargantuan woman my birth certificate. As she ordered me to stand for my new picture I said, “You know getting my birth certificate was just ridiculous.”

“Uh huh,” she was fussing with the camera.

“I had to get it from my Mom. It was in her safety deposit box in the bank, but the key was back at her house…”   

“Uh huh,” the woman snapped her red gum.

“It just reminds me of these German fairy tales I talk about in class sometimes. I teach English up at the University.”

“Uh huh.”

“The hero always has to find something important, like a key. But it’s been hidden by magic inside a fish- that’s inside a duck -that’s inside a well -that’s inside a church -that’s on an island. And he has to go through all of these to get it. And I just feel like I went through all of that today …”

“Look here,” she said.

“What?” I said looking up as she snapped the photo.

Five minutes later I walked out with my new license. The picture wasn’t half bad: I had an inquisitive, questing look on my face. As I drove home I felt lighter than when I had originally run out on Thad, much lighter in fact.

Walking back into the house after being gone for almost an hour and a half, I heard Thad in the kitchen.

“You finally back?” he came towards me with a look of relief on his face, a dish towel in hand. 

“Yeah. Sorry. You won’t believe this story…” 

I did not tell him about my father’s letter; I later put it away in a safe spot.

30. Bettina

           The dainty newly formed heads of the tulips danced in the spring wind. I drug my trowel around their slender stalks and carefully pulled out the dead leaves of fall. All around me the tulip heads rose up to the sun. A red bird sang in the tree above and then set off to catch a fat fly that zoomed by. I sat back on my haunches and took in the glory of my emerging spring garden.

The porch door slammed and Thad stomped out and brayed, “Do we have any twine?”

Cringing, my bucolic dream shattered, I snarled and snapped back: “In the linen closet, in the tartan basket.”

“In the what?” he yelled.

“The tartan basket,” I repeated, turning to him with my hands up, gesturingly saying, ‘You frickin’ idiot!’ 

“The what basket?” he yelled.

“Tartan! Tartan Tar-tan!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, standing. “It means plaid! The twine is in the plaid basket in the closet next to the bathroom!”

With mouth open and eyes bugged he spat, “Gah! Fine!”and then stormed back inside. The screen door slammed behind him.

“Jesus H. Christ!” I muttered, turning with a huff.

My elderly neighbors the Wayans, stood on the sidewalk, out on their morning walk. By the mortified looks on their faces I knew they had heard everything.

“Good morning, Michael.” Mrs. Wayans said with a gentrified tilt to her head. Mr. Wayans said nothing, eyes ahead.    

“Morning,” I said, red-faced, turning to make myself busy with my tools.

After they passed, I turned to see a car creep by out in the street. The woman driver wore giant Jackie-O sunglasses and a head scarf. She studied me intently; I frowned at her.  

I went back to gardening. It was Saturday morning, and Thad had been slowing moving his stuff for the last four days. Of course he didn’t just move everything out all at once- whip that band-aid off in one great rip-nope, he had to drag it out as he drug everything out. The first day he took flower arrangements, potpourri containers, and cleaning supplies. The second day was monochromatic rugs, bath salts, and one rattan chair he particularly liked. Yesterday, the third day, he took all of his Blue Willow china. Even though this was ‘our’ china (which meant I paid for it, but he loved), he whined around until I told him just to take all of it away. He had spent the rest of the day mooning over it, dusting it, and packing it up in the special padded china covers Ma’am had given him, working with the precision of an Antwerp jeweler.

Today he was working on packing his collection of decorative antique operatic figurines that normally sat in the dining room bay window.

But a cursory glance over the house proved hardly any different at all. That was mainly because Thad had never brought much over. When he had moved in he had brought certain things he liked, and tons and tons of clothes, but everything else from his apartment-like the big furniture- he had just stored over at his parents; and his mother was having all of that delivered to Bettina’s on Monday.

So far he had not spent the night over there, but he had dabbled the greater part of his days away at ‘the new place,’ helping Bettina move in. In the evenings, it had been rather nice to have the house to myself, not having him fidgeting around me as I tried to read or watch TV. We had not spoken of his impending departure since Tuesday, but I was impressed that we were speaking at all. 

From down the street I heard blaring disco music and the scrape of a bumper against the ground and knew Bettina was on her way. Her impressive 1978 mint condition candy apple green Monte Carlo whipped into the drive a second later, gay disco blaring. Rolling my eyes I pretended to focus on my gardening. Bettina had been over a lot lately, and her presence was not helping my mood toward Thaddeus one bit.          

“Hey there Mike,” she said, pulling herself up and out of the car. She was a tall and beautiful, our age, 40 or so, and elegantly hip. As a hairdresser, her hair changed almost weekly. Today she had on an impressive Angela Davis afro with a multi-colored headband. Last month it had been fake dreads, which she had worn bound atop her head. She wore a pink diamond patterned sleeveless pantsuit and mountainous clogs. No wonder Thad loved her; she was the epitome of fabulousnesses. And in a different life, had I met her first, I could see she and I being the best of friends. But Thad had claimed her, so instead Bettina and I shared an uncomfortable animosity for one another that bordered on professional dislike.    

“Morning. You look nice.” I said, rising.

“Yeah, thanks. Just heading up to work. Is T. here?”

“Yeah. He’s inside.” I said.

She called him ‘T,’ a nickname I wish I had thought up, as he loved it. 

“The yard looks great,” she said motioning to a host of jonquils with an elephantine clog.

“Thanks. All a good yard takes is a ton of work and a ton of money.”

She laughed, a melodic sound which was not at all unpleasant.  

Thad come running outside, “Oh my god! You’re here!” he squealed. “You have to come in and see what I found last night! It’s our old middle school yearbooks from when you were fat-and you look positively Precious!”

“You just shut-up!” She laughed, rolling her eyes at me. “Don’t you bring those things out! You’ll make me look bad!”

“Oh, stop! I am just kidding!”  He ran down the porch steps and took her by the hand. “You look great! Come inside! I’m right in the middle of wrapping up all these old porcelain figurines Ma’am gave me. You have to see them. They’re crazy valuable. ” 

“Oh, joy,” she said sarcastically. “Bye, Mike,”

“Yeah,” I said with a tight smile. 

She waved gracefully as Thad pulled her inside.

Turning back to my gardening, I knew I was really just jealous: Thad never squealed and danced around when I came home from work anymore.  

About thirty minutes later she walked back out, as I heard Thad call, “Text me!”

I was crouching over the front bed cleaning detritus out from around the naked ladies, which were already leafing.

“That boy will be the death of me,” Bettina said coming down the porch steps. “I don’t know how you do it.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her cigarettes and lighter. “He can talk up a blue streak, and half about that stupid china he loves.”

“I know,” I said and then unable to resist the jab: “Well, he’s yours now.” I settled back on my haunches, arms folded aggressively.  

“Uh-uh. He’s yours, and don’t you forget it.” She lit a long slender brown cigarette and exhaled a thin line of smoke. It looked like it tasted so good.

“Well, as soon as he moves in with you, I mean,” I backpedaled, with a laugh.

She came toward me, the smoke smell strong. Looking over her shoulder to make sure Thad wasn’t there, she said quietly, “I haven’t talked to you about this-but you okay with Thad moving in with me? He ain’t said much about it, besides how excited he’s to paint the bathroom sea shell pink.”

I rose with some difficulty. “No, no, it’s fine. I mean, it’s what he wants...” I trailed off.

“Yeah it is. But how are you with it? I don’t want any bad blood and all.”

 I grimaced, “I just hope he’ll be able to handle it, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

I wanted to open up to her, to let her know my concerns, but Thad had always made me keep a fair distance from his friends: He did not approve of cross-pollination, at least between me and his people. So looking to make sure Thad was not lurking, I leaned in to her.

“I know that the two of you have been friends, for like, forever, and I am happy he has  someone like you, but I do worry about the partying and the drinking.  He’s been sober less than a year and it’s been so good for him. And I’m just wondering if that’s why he’s moving out; so he can cut loose. Because everything else has been great between us. But his drinking was absolutely driving us apart, and I can’t date him if he’s going to be a drinker. I mean, I just hope he can handle-control-himself, out on his own. He’s been doing such a good job.”

“I know he ain’t drinking, and I’m okay with that. My boyfriend Bayne is on the wagon. Most men our age can’t help: they either a drunk or all sober, hardly any in between. I won’t push him there, don’t worry.” She squinted at me and blew a line of smoke the opposite direction. “And the fact that’s he’s been able to be sober this long, you should be proud of him.”

“I am proud of him, I am. But I also worry. You know he gets lost easily.” 

“I think he’ll be fine.” She said with a wink. “I’ll keep watching him for you. Don’t you worry. And you know he loves you. This isn’t a personal thing, this moving out. He just needs a change of scenery."
“That’s what I hope,” I said with a shake of my head.

Pointing her cigarette at me she said, “He’ll be back in no time, just hopefully not before I can’t afford the place on my own. And you ought to stop by. It’s a mighty cute place. I’ve noticed you haven’t been by at all yet.”

“Yeah, I’ll get around to it.” She was right. I had purposefully not gone by, not wanting to acknowledge it as a reality.

“You should. I think you’ll like it.” She winked and pointing at me with her cigarettes. “Now we okay?” 

“Yeah…” I said which a shrug,

“What?” she asked.

“Well, he’s not supposed to be smoking either.”

She laughed. “Both you and I know he’s a born smoker, and fight as you may, he smokes. You got to realize Mike that you can control some things, but you can’t control everything.” She laughed and slapped her leg.

“Yeah, I know,” I lied.

The bells on the front porch screen door jingled and I jumped.

Thad emerged. “What are you two doing?” 

“Nothing,” I said, turning red and pulling away from Bettina, pretending to dutifully examine my trowel.    

She, on the other hand, looked cool as a cucumber, “I was just catching-up out here with your man.”

Thad eyed us suspiciously, hands on hips.

“Well, I gotta go to work.” She said, putting on her sunglasses. “I have a whole slew of pretty white sorority girls to make look as slutty as hell for some big Delta Delta Delta party tonight. That hair’ll be piled up high as the hills after I’m done.”

“Bye,” I said, smiling at her. I felt better about him moving out, better with the affirmation that he was not drinking, and the promise that she would not corrupt him; she might even protect him.

“Text me repeatedly!” Thad called.

As Bettina drove away we could hear the pulsating music for a few minutes even after she was out of sight.    

“I know you were talking about me,” Thad said smugly.

“About how smelly you are.” I said dryly.   

“Yeah. Whatever. She’ll tell me. She tells me everything.”

I shook my heard. I didn’t think she would.

“Look!” Thad whispered, pointing out to the street.

I glanced to see the Jackie O. woman creeping by, the opposite way this time. She waved this time, a sinister big-smiled wave, and, of course idiot Thad waved back.

Waiting a heartbeat till after she was gone I whispered, “Who was that?”

“The Garden Rapist,” he whispered, a tone of mock terror in his voice. “I’ve seen her drive by before-always just like that: slow and creepy.”

I literally got a chill.   

31. Ai Yi Yi

Later that day after Thad had left to move another load to Bettina’s, Becky called. 

“I have good news,” she said in her most supercilious of tones.

“And that is?” I signed, knowing what was coming.

“We’re getting a new addition to the family! The paperwork came through. I’m going to get to foster parent Pablo! He’s coming on Monday! Isn’t that great?”

“Yeah, that’s great!” I wanted to say muy bueno, but refrained. “Mom told me she had met him the other day and that he seemed very sweet, and that it looked like you might be getting him. Well, good.”

In fact, Mom had called after the disastrous birth certificate fiasco afternoon and filled me in. Apparently the kid is cute as a button and doesn’t speak a word of English and hates carrot cake. Mother also said Becky had already covered a majority of her pale linen-colored house in plastic in preparation for motherhood.  

“The social worker woman was so nice,” Becky said. “We visited for almost two hours, and Pablo just wondered around the house and seemed like he was home. It was so special.”

“So it’s completely official Monday?” I asked.

“Yeah. They’ll bring him over and I’ll sign the final papers and they’ll leave him with me and this’ll be his new home, at least until he is adopted, I mean if he gets adopted. Oh, I’ve got so much to go buy, so much to plan…”

“Is it just you who signs the papers?” I asked none too subtly.

“What did Mother tell you?” Becky snapped.

“Well, not to make you mad, and I am happy for you, but she said the social worker woman asked about meeting Ray and you said he was at work.” Mother told  me she did not correct Becky at this point, and we agreed that was for the best as Becky is scary when cornered.   

“And? I’m sure he was at work. Up in the City.”

“Yes, but you understand that you are deceiving these people, right? That it will just be you raising him. I mean it’s been…

“…A year this last Valentine’s Day, yes, when Ray moved up to the City, thank you for reminding me…”

“Yes, sorry, but doesn’t Ray have to sign these papers too? I mean if you signed-up to do this as a couple, doesn’t he also have to sign-off? And I’m not trying to be mean, I just don’t want you to get in trouble or get in over you head.”

“It’s not a problem,” Becky said dismissively.

“What do you mean ‘it’s not a problem’?”

“I can just sign his name. I’ve done it before. It’s no big deal. The bigger picture is that Pablo is now going to have a good, loving home.”

“But that is perjury…or libel.”

“Forgery,” she corrected.

“Yes! It’s forgery!”

“Oh, it’s not. We’re married. It’s fine.”

 “I don’t think one of the perks of marriage-and maybe as someone barred from that fine institution, I don’t know all of the ins and outs of the glory of heterosexual union, but I’m pretty sure there’s not a free pass on forgery.”

“Michael, its fine; don’t worry about it. I’m not.” 

“And why not?” I said exasperated.

“We’re married. It’s fine. We used to sign each other’s names all the time. Okay? So drop it.” she cleared her throat to signal that she was done with that: she was right and I was wrong, and there was nothing that would change Rebecca Stiles’ mind once it was made up.

“I guess…”

“So I called to tell you that Pablo would be here Monday and that you and Thad should come meet him this week, I mean, if you want.”

“Yeah, we’ll…I’ll do that.”  It was the first time in a while I had to stumble over the we-to-I transition, the couple-to-as-single conjugation.

“Oh," she paused. "How is Thad’s move going?”   

“All he took today were decorative porcelain figurines and tablecloths.”

“Tablecloths?”

“Yes, tablecloths. He has a lot of tablecloths. I would say it was a gay thing, but think it’s more of a Thad thing. He has many, many tablecloths, all to go with his different china settings.”  

          “So does this mean you two are breaking up?” she said as a distinct jab, per my previous jabs at her.

          “No, and I wish people would quit asking that!” I snapped. “He’s just bored. He needs space. We’re still going to see each other all the time; he’ll just live somewhere else. Plus he’s doing it to help his friend.” I had said it so many times I had almost started to believe it myself. But the truth was I was petrified that that exact thing would happen: this would prove to be the beginning of our end.

          “And you’re okay with it?”

          “No, no I’m not, but what am I suppose to do?”

          “At least he’s not moving to the City.” She sighed.

          “Yeah,” and in that moment I felt a true simpatico with my sister: we both had been left by our menfolk. And then, “Don’t ask me how but I got Dad’s address.”

          “How did you get it?”

          “I asked you not to ask me how.”

          “Whatever. Is it the same one Mom gave me back in 2004 when I wrote him?”

“I think so. East Tropicana, Las Vegas?”  

          “That’s it. You never wrote it down back then?
          “No, never wanted it.”

‘So, where’d you get it?”

          I sighed, “Witches’ honor?”

          “Witches’ honor,” She said. 

          I told her the story of my license and stealing from the safety deposit box.

          “That’s crazy!” she said. “So now you’re stealing? From the bank? And you’re getting on to me about breaking the law?”

          “It’s not the same thing.” But to my OCD it was exactly the same thing.

          “Sure,” She said. “I still have it written down. If you’d asked me, I would have just given it to you.”

“I know. This just seemed like fate, you know, me finding it like I did. Like maybe now I’m supposed to contact him.”

“Good luck. The old bastard never wrote me back. I just wanted him to come to my wedding.” She paused. “I wonder what he looks like now?”

“I dunno.” All I could think were all of the faded, dog-eared 1960’s & 70’s photos I had seen of him. They had divorced in 1976. The final photo I had of him was a weird bicentennial one, with him at a park with hippies in the background. “Maybe he still has a beard.”

“I bet he is clean shaven. He’d be 65 or so now.”

“Good lord we are old.”

“You’re telling me.” She sighed. “You know I’m turning 40 next week.”

“I know. What do you want?”

“My youth back. You know when Marilyn Monroe was my age she had already been dead for three years.”

I laughed, “Oh, you’re fine. And think what life a child will bring to the house.”

“I know. I hope my back can take it.” She sighed again. “So why are you thinking about contacting Dad now?”

“I dunno.” I lied. It was the same reason she was getting the kid: not to be alone at 40. I felt bad for hassling her about her situation.

“Okay,” she said after a pause. “Just be careful. I mean, you never wanted to speak to him before. Back when I was writing him, you told me your therapist thought it was a good idea you not talk to him-that you were good just to leave him in the past where he belonged.”

“I did. That was the past.” I rubbed my face. “I don’t know. I might not even write him. It would be so weird to hear from him after so long. So weird. And he probably wouldn’t even write back…but don’t tell Mom I got the letter or I’m even thinking about writing him. She’ll freak out or something. I just don’t want to upset her.” 

“What does Thad think about his?
          “He doesn’t know.” I mumbled, wishing I still smoked.

“Why not?”

“I haven’t told him. I’m mad he’s moving out. This is my thing. I need to think about it. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

“I won’t say anything,” she said quietly. “But you should talk to Thad about it. This is a big deal.”

We were silent for a moment and then she continued, “You know Mom is going to help me with Pablo. I’m off all next week, but after that she’s going to babysit while I’m at work during the day.”

“But she doesn’t even speak Spanish,” I said with a smile, to try and lighten the mood.

“Stop it!” Becky said rather seriously, then snickered. “I actually haven’t even heard him speak English yet. The social worker lady said he was bilingual, but I’ve hardly heard him speak at all. We’ll have to teach him English. And lucky for us, we have an English Professor right here in the family.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe he’ll like to peruse my new paper on the Existentialism of  Troilus and Cressida.”

“I don’t think anyone would want to peruse that,” she laughed.

“Exactly. Okay, look: good luck with Pablo. I look forward to meeting him. I’ll come over next week and try to get Thad to come, if he hasn’t strained his back from lifting too many boxes of decorative soaps.”

She laughed. “Do that. Pablo's a precious little kid. I’m already getting the cat’s room changed over to his room.”

“How are Fred and Ginger handling that?”

“They’re fine. I had a stern talk with them. They’ll have to share with little brother now.”

“Yeah.” I knew she was only sort of kidding. She took those cats way too seriously. “Call if you need anything.”

“I will. And have heart about Thad. I’m sure he’ll come back soon.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” I wish I could have said the same to her about Ray.

 

32. LesbianLesbianLesbian

That night’s Saturday Chinese dinner out with Thad was considerably more quiet than normal. He stared at the wall as I picked at my mu shu pork. Everyone around us seemed to be having fun. There was an Asian birthday party on one side and two elderly country woman gossipying on the other. The restaurant was full.  

I coughed.

“Huh?” Thad said expectantly.

“What?” I asked, not looking up.

“Did you say something?” he asked.

“I coughed.” I said head still down.

“Oh, sorry.”

I dug into my plate. He had told me just before we left that he would be staying the night at his new place starting tomorrow. So tonight was it: his last night before he was gone. I could focus on nothing other than the negative, nothing but how this was the beginning of our end. I could not even see the nice evening before us, all I could see was catastrophe.

“I’m glad I got most everything moved today…” he said as if I cared.

“Uh huh,” I said to no one in particular.

As I thought about his move, it seemed he had hardly moved anything out at all. And this was comforting, as it made it seem maybe he wasn’t really moving out, but also offensive, as he was really moving out and causing me all this strife, so why wasn’t he just taking everything of his? He hadn’t even touched the closets.  

“Why are all of your clothes still in the house?” I asked abruptly.

“Pardon,” he said, fork in mouth.

“If you’re moving out tomorrow, why are all of your clothes still in the bedroom? You’ve hardly packed any of them.”

“Oh, I packed a bag and took that over,” he smiled. “That’ll do for tomorrow.”

He was trying to keep things light; I was not. I was mad and wanted blood.

I frowned. “So you’re not taking all your clothes?”

“Well, no. That would be silly.”

“And why would that be silly?” I said aggressively. “You’re moving out, right?”

“Well, yes…and no. I just thought I would leave most of my clothes and just take what I need back and forth. It would be ridiculous to take all of my clothes out of the house.”

“You mean my house?” I said.

“Yes, whatever Michael. Yes, fine, your house.” Now he was defensive. 

“So, were you going to ask me if you could just leave all of your clothes junking up my closets and bureaus?”

“I just thought it would be okay,” he said taking a bite of fish.

“And all of the coats in the coat closet? Are you just leaving them too?”

“Well, it’s spring, duh. I won’t need those till next year.”

“So now I’m just your storage closet? Like your parents’ house? I’m just a place to store your shit, while you get to run off and play?”

He frowned and sat his fork down. “Do we need to go?” His nostrils were flared and I knew if I pushed him much farther he would just walk out, and I did not want that. Then I would have to chase him in the car and there was a great chance, given the opportunity, I might then just run him over…so to avoid a charge of vehicular manslaughter, I decided I needed to take it down a notch.    

“No.” I said, making myself eat another bite of pork. And then after a second, in what I tried to make a conversational tone but I’m sure came out as a Nazi rant: “But you could have told me you were going to leave stuff.”

He looked at me with hatred. I returned it.

“Do you mind -if I leave -some things -at the house-I mean-your house?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“No,” I lied. “That’s fine. Just good to know what’s going on-at- my-house.”

We sat in silence and listened to the Mandarin version of Happy Birthday to You sang from the table behind us. Everyone looked so happy there; I just hated them. 

Having satiated my blood lust for the moment I forced myself into small talk. I told him two random work stories, which I knew he hated to hear, but was obligated to listen to at this juncture of our fight. To entertain myself I made them gruesomely detailed with lots of English Department jargon, littered with literary references.

As I rattled, he smiled along, trapped.  

I ended with “…and then I said, ‘Oh, that’s just so Chaucer…’ and everyone in the meeting laughed.”

He looked like he was in such pain, which I enjoyed.

To meet my story he then began a long tale of Bettina and her boyfriend Bayne.

“His Christian name is Bayne?” I asked in my most professorial tone.

“He’s young and in a band called Eyeball. His real name is Barry or something,” Thad said with a whip of his fork. He continued, and his story was just as painful as mine, but in a myriad of different ways: trite, juvenile, offensive, illegal.  

Thad then spoke of their new house and how fun and fabulous it was and about all the work Bettina had done on it.

“Oh, I did go to that home store on Lindsey Street over past that cute little bakery, to look for paint today,” he interjected. “Did you know the girlfriend of the owner of that lesbian gift shop on Campus Corner works there? The ones you introduced me to on the Art Walk last month?”

 “You mean LesbianLesbianLesbian?” It was the nickname we had for Celtic Wind, our local lesbian-run gift shop.

“Yes.” he said, “So I was looking for paint-I want sea shell pink for the bathroom-and I saw her so I went and said ‘hi. ’ I mentioned that I had met her and her girlfriend at LesbianLesbianLesbian the other night, and she was kind of rude to me.”

“Really?” I asked. “She’s always seemed quite nice.”     

“I know. And I had just met her and all. And at first I wasn’t sure she recognized me, but then I said “I met you during the last Art Walk at LesbianLesbianLesbian,” and she said “yeah,” and just walked off. 

“That’s so weird.”

“I know. And she seemed so nice the other night.”

And then it hit me and I burst out laughing. Poor, poor Thad!

“What?” he asked.

“Did you call it LesbianLesbianLesbian?” 

“Yeah. That’s its name isn’t it?” He said, head hung and mouth open.

“No!” I shrieked, “Who would name a store LesbianLesbianLesbian?”

“Lesbians,” he said matter-of-factly.

“No!” I laughed, “Honey, that’s just what we call it! Its real name is Celtic Wind. You really thought it was called LesbianLesbianLesbian?”

“Well, that’s what you’ve always called it.”

“And we call Poor Becky, Poor Becky, but we don’t say it to her face!” I roared with laughter.

“You are kidding!” he looked mortified. “And I said it to her! No wonder she just stomped off like John Wayne.”

“Good lord! You ought to be glad she didn’t smack you in the head!”

“Oh my God I am so embarrassed!” he said, red-faced, hooting.  

We both laughed till we wept. 

And in that moment I could not help but forgive the transaction Thad was perpetrating against me: for he does not know what he does. It was part of his charm, his naiveté, his innocence, his youthful vigor. His lack of…shall we say, foresight. His petty demands and selfishness. It was all him, and I loved him, so I had to love it all, even his move. And that somehow made tonight a little better and less painful. At least we had tonight.     

“LesbianLesbianLesbian” I muttered as my breath returned, wiping my eyes.  

“Stop it!” he said, still red.

We ate a few more bites and exchanged caring smiles and giggles. I took a deep breath; it was good to be calm.

“Oh, and I guess I should tell you, or ask you. Bettina can’t afford a washer dryer for a while, so we’ll be doing laundry at the house for a while, okay? Is that okay?””

And with that I rolled my eyes realizing that maybe this move wouldn’t cause us as much separation as I had feared.