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DRESSED IN FRESH UNDERWEAR, sweats and a long-sleeved thermal Henley, Eli was settled at the dining room table. Bo had gone to work two hours ago and Eli was ready to build a spreadsheet that would correlate data of all kinds, be it production or QC or the lab. His laptop sat on the table, surrounded by stacks of dusty, faded records which he piled on the table. There was one more thing he really wanted – a cup of coffee.
His caffeine habit had presented the hardest logistical challenge to date. He was almost ready to pour it into a travel mug, wrap the mug in a kitchen cloth and grasp the cloth in his teeth when the doorbell rang.
Eli set the still-empty travel mug beside the coffee maker, grabbed his crutches, and traveled to the foyer so he could open the door.
“Good morning, darling. Sorry we’re late!” His mother fussed with a bakery box, while his father hoisted his own laptop case over his shoulder. “We stopped for some crossaints. Your super couldn’t recommend them highly enough.” They came in, and as his father closed the door, his mother went into the kitchen to get plates.
“Oh, there’s coffee, that’s a pleasant surprise!”
“Yeah, if I could only carry it.” Eli regaled them with his trial-and-error of using crutches while trying to manipulate other things, and before he knew hit, his files got pushed to the side and they were having a civilized breakfast.
“I’ll have to fly back,” Dad said, wiping the crumbs from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “They need me in the office. The product development team’s been working overnight, taking advantage of my absence. Which will lead to them going off on a tangent and over budget, as usual.”
“Come on, Dad,” Eli teased. “What happened to your spontaneous creative spirit?”
“The investors and their benchmarks is what happened,” Art Winkler groused. “But what are you working on?” Eli was pleased to see his dad took note of him working remotely and considering it normal. This entrepreneurial attitude was quite different from the structured manufacturing mindset still present at Zimm Glass. There were times Eli wondered how the company managed to stay in business all these years.
“I’ll be staying,” his Mom said. That was no surprise. “I’ll keep the rental car, and I’ll stop by and keep you company. But I want to see the museum, too. We didn’t get to go last time, and a friend of mine’s work is on special exhibit for a short while.”
“Good,” Eli said. He didn’t want Mom to get bored. She was dangerous that way, all active and yearning to “do a little project,” which would result in either him or Bo having to remodel once she left. “You’ll be sleeping at my place, then?”
“Oh, yes.” She gave him twinkle of a smile. “I don’t think you boys need me hanging around and cramping your style!”
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“SO HOW’S THE KID?” The question was so common, Bo kept hearing it even when no one was asking. Halloran was asking now, though, and the whole lunch room turned to hear Bo’s answer.
“Okay, y’know. Making do.”
“Did he cry?” The voice carried across the packed table, irritating and fake. Bo heard them all still. The sound of the distant lehr and the rain drumming on the metal roof overhead only accentuated the expectant silence.
“Not that I could see,” Bo said, and shrugged as though the question didn’t bother him at all. As he turned toward the coffee vending machine, the same guy, O’Donnal, cleared his throat. “Figures a fairy boy like that would cry for his mommy.” A few uncertain guffaws filled the air, as though their owners didn’t quite know how to react to the suddenly tense air.
“Yep, he was downright mortified when his parents flew in.” Bo nodded, resolved to own the moment. “His mom’s staying for a few days, which will drive Eli up the wall before two days are over.”
“Women always exaggerate these things,” one of the grizzled old-timers ventured, shaking his head. “Remember that one time Fred Roper was pouring out a sheet of the green low-temp melt, and some of it ran off the block and dripped on his foot? His wife was downright livid. She sued for this and sued for that...”
“He lost the foot, you moron,” Paul said from behind Bo. Bo hadn’t seen him walk in, and he would’ve heard him anyhow, not with the old roof sounding like a tribal drum under all the rain. Which is why they were all packed in here like sardines instead of eating outside or running a quick shopping errand or two.
“I still think that kid Winkler is one of those,” O’Donnal said, not needing to specify what that might mean. “You better watch out, Bartowski, or you might get a reputation.”
Bo laughed. Obviously, many of these guys didn’t know Bo’s band played in a gay club. He wondered what O’Donnal would’ve thought of Saltpeter Fluxx and of their latest gig at the Ramrod. “Not worried, sorry.”
“But aren’t you concerned if he is or isn’t?” This came out of Josh Bartok’s mouth. He was generally nice and did his job well, but when it came to anything people-related or political, he was three saltines short of a cracker box.
“I’m not.” He dropped money into the slot and pushed the hot chocolate selection.
“But suppose he’ll make a pass at you?”
The casual conversation that had picked up stilled again. This was good stuff, the sort of joshing that went on at least once a week. Bo knew he was pretty good at what he did, and he knew he had it good when it came to his reputation with the staff. Despite glass being cool and dangerous, it was true that their work was often repetitive and boring. Anything was fair game for a joke, and the closer a worker got to the furnace, the more acceptable it was to forget propriety and just let it rip. Bo knew that even though he kept to himself, he wasn’t immune from the ribbing that went on.
But how about his privacy? And how about Eli? Eli was out, but he certainly didn’t flaunt his orientation at work. There were two ways to play a situation like this. Either deny and get upset, which would shut the door of his closet for years to come as well as invite further jibes.
Or, ham it up. He wasn’t known for that, but it seemed like a better evasive action. Bo pulled his Styrofoam cup out of the vending machine, held it out with his pinky out, and delicately blew on the foamy surface. If he waited, the dry marshmallows would soften. He sipped a bit of foam, let it mark his upper lip, and licked it. “His mom really likes me,” he said, and jutted his hip out the slightest bit. “If I play it right, we should be planning a big, fabulous, gay wedding by next spring.”
The laughter that rose drowned out the rain on the roof. Bo grinned, but when his eyes caught Paul’s gaze, he stilled at the sullen disapproval in the glass technologist’s expression.
“Sorry,” he said, figuring a pre-emptive apology was the way to go.
“It’s not as funny as you think,” Paul said in a testy voice that dropped the temperature in the room another ten degrees. “My brother and his husband tied the knot right after the New Year, so don’t be an asshole.”
The room stilled for a bit, only to break into a discussion of the Steeler’s draft, the way the Penguins blew their chance at the Stanely Cup, and the impressive strength of the Pirates. Bo’s stomach turned. They weren’t even able to stay on topic. Weather in Pittsburgh sucked most of the time, so the default to polite conversation among men was either hunting or sports. He savored the warmth of the hot chocolate seeping through the thin cup as he steeled himself for more of Paul’s disapproval. This wasn’t a staff member he wanted to alienate.
“Congratulations to your brother,” Bo said as he slipped past Paul.
Paul followed him. When they were out of ear shot, he spoke up in a low voice that hissed with anger. “You don’t get it. You make it like Eli’s gay, and those guys won’t take him seriously.”
“They’re not taking him seriously anyhow.” Bo’s jaw tightened. “But that’s ‘cause he’s new. Nobody new’s taken seriously. You know that.”
“Bullshit.”
“O’Donnal was out of line,” Bo said, nodding. “But what am I supposed to say? Either Eli is or isn’t, but that’s nobody’s business.”
Paul stopped. “You mean you wouldn’t mind?”
“Maybe that’s none of your business.”
“Oh. Oh!” Paul frown turned to a slow, knowing grin.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, college boy, but lemme tell you one thing,” Bo said intimately and leaned forward, so close they almost had to whisper. “Had I bitched about O’Donnal’s comments, they’d have all assumed O’Donnal was onto something. Now personally, I don’t care what they’re saying about me, but I don’t want to invade Eli’s privacy.” He glanced at Paul’s face, then away. “Odds are, there are between five to twenty queer people in this whole factory – but we’ll probably never know. This isn’t the sort of environment that encourages coming out.”
“No, it’s not,” Paul said. “But you’ve thought about all this? Wow. Sorry I’ve misjudged you.”
“That I think about stuff?” Bo let out a bitter laugh. “Just because I’m hourly and not salary don’t mean I can’t read the news. Talk about assumptions.” He turned, but just before he made his escape from Paul, he tossed over his shoulder: “Oh yeah. Eli wanted me to thank you for all those files.”
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ELI SAT IN A CHAIR on a cushion his mom took off the sofa, after which she found the vacuum cleaner, took the sofa apart, and exterminated every little crumb and piece of lint she could find.
She was on a cleaning rampage. Eli knew this, because this was her modus operandi for every single visit. No matter where he was, hotel or a straw hut or an old Quonset turned into barracks, when his parents took a vacation to visit him, he could count on her getting his laundry rewashed, his dishes rescrubbed, and all the floors and surfaces of his quarters rendered free of dust and grime.
Except these weren’t his quarters.
“Mom. Mom!”
She turned the vacuum off. “Yes? You need anything?”
“Mom, this is Bo’s house.”
“I know, dear. Bo’s a sweetheart.” She reached to turn on the vacuum again, and Eli had to hurry to stop her.
“Wait!” She turned. “Mom, I don’t know him all that well. Some people get territorial over virtual strangers having their mother over to clean their stuff.”
She nodded and surveyed the connected rooms as though she was seriously considering Eli’s words. “That’s okay,” she finally said. “He won’t mind.”
As Eli read old records and entered barely legible data into a spreadsheet, he hoped she was right. At least the din of the little vacuum cleaner helped him tune his mother out and forestall conversation that might involve him and Bo. He thought nothing was worse than his mother quizzing him about his and Bo’s relationship and their intentions for the future.
He was wrong.
She finished vacuuming, dusted, mopped the floors, cleaned the bathrooms, and put up a pot of tea. Then she settled next to Eli, handed him his cup of English Breakfast she always carried with her in little sealed pouches. She remembered milk and sugar for Eli, although she took her tea plain.
“So how are Matt and Jeff doing? I was surprised they didn’t help out while you’re hurt.” She sipped her tea, giving him a sidelong glance over her cup.
He knew that glance, and knew it was time to stonewall.
He shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
“But Eli,” she said. Then she paused, looked him over again with a new level of curiosity. “Are you three in touch?”
“No. I don’t even have their number anymore.” She saw her draw a breath, and beat her to it. “Mom, really. It’s better that way. I deserve a lot better than that.”
A sudden glimmer of understanding lit up her eyes. “Oh, Eli. I’m sorry. I never realize you three were a threesome.”
He gulped. Then he spilled his tea in an effort to drink it, making his shirt wet and warm all at once. She only got up and disappeared into the kitchen, then came out with a roll of paper towels. “Here. It’s not too hot, is it?”
He shook his head as he batted at his chest in a vain effort to get his shirt dry. His last shirt, dammit. Worse, he was mortified. His mother had figured out the threesome part.
His mother!
“Don’t feel too bad,” she said as she topped off his tea mug from Bo’s porcelain teapot. “Threesomes do tend to go bad after a while. It wasn’t your fault – you deserve more than feeling like... like casual entertainment to an established couple!”
He looked at her, but her eyes were firmly fixed on the yellow roses and green leaves that decorated Bo’s teapot.
“You...” He couldn’t say it. This was his mother, for crying out loud!
She turned to him with a wan smile. “What, you thought you young people invented that sort of a thing? Getting high and hooking up? I settled down pretty early compared to Grandma. She grew up in the sixties. A flower-child all the way.” She ruffled his hair affectionately. “I see I’ve rendered you speechless. Tell you what. You forget Matt and Jeff until you’re ready to get some kind of a closure, and I’ll go put up a load of laundry. Where are your clean shirts?”
Five minutes later, after his mother brought a basket of dirty laundry downstairs and ducked into the rest room, Eli snagged one of Bo’s worn, long-sleeve Henleys out of the pile, replacing it with his wet flannel shirt. It hung a bit loose on him, but the fabric was worn soft and warm, just like Bo’s hug. And it smelled like him, too. Bo craned his neck into his armpit and inhaled Bo’s delicious, intoxicating scent.
He couldn’t wait for his mom to go to the museum. He also couldn’t wait until Bo came home from work. Resigned to waiting, Eli hobbled over to his chair, settled on top of the sofa pillow, and immersed himself in his work.