Dr Rahn Johnson, Barbara, and I eat plates of baked ziti and garlicky green beans set atop TV trays. We watch the six o’clock news.
“Rahn, honey, can you pass me the thing?” Barbara raises her left foot under the TV tray and points with her toes at the coffee table.
“What thing?” asks Rahn, already shifting and reaching forward to accommodate her vague request. “More wine, dear?”
“No, the thing.” Barbara’s purple-painted toenails point again.
“She wants the remote control. She wants to mute the commercials,” I tell him.
Rahn chuckles. “You two! You can read each other’s minds.”
Dear. God. No. I can think of a million minds I’d rather read than Barbara’s.
“No thank you,” says Barbara as she hits the mute button. “Starla’s been a sourpuss since she was seven years old. I’d rather not read all the dark thoughts she keeps to herself.” She gazes casually at the silent screen, as if she’s merely mumbled something trivial about the dinner we’re eating. The “It’s on Fox 29 Buffalo” logo flashes between a montage of clips from their evening programming: Alf, Married with Children, Star Trek: The Next Generation, and The Arsenio Hall Show.
We’ve had this conversation before. Maybe once, maybe several times, maybe I’m too “sour” to be sure how many times I’ve asserted the boundary where I tell Barbara she has no right to comment on my mood as a child or teenager. That she lost that parental privilege when she brought a predator into the house years ago. Or, if she can’t help herself, which it seems she can’t, she can talk about what a moody child I was, if she also owns up to being a shitty mother within the same conversation.
I bitterly consider a comeback. Something sharp yet coded that I can say in front of Rahn. “Vai a quel paese.” Get lost, or fuck off, really.
“Vaffanculo.”
“How come the only Italian we speak are insults and swears?” I ask. Rahn honks out a few of his loud laughs that Barbara has complained about, slaps his long-fingered hand against his well-pressed trousers. He is an odd duck, but a very likeable duck. I suppose he’d have to be to date my mother.
Barbara turns the sound back on. A newscaster with feathered blonde bangs slightly purses her lips together before announcing, “You’ve never seen a parade like this before. Some call it diversity, but others call it shocking, as members of a group called the Buffalo Gay & Lesbian Community Network prepares for the city’s first Pride Parade and Festival. Governor Mario Cuomo had this to say …”
“I marched on Washington in ’87,” Rahn cuts in. Barbara turns down but doesn’t mute the news. Her lips part and she exhales with a slight “phhh” sound. I pat my fingers against my own lips to make sure I’m not wearing the same slack mouth expression as her. “I may be a children’s doctor, but I believe in funding for AIDS research and patient care. Vehemently believe, in fact. Money for AIDS, not war! That’s what we were chanting. Plus, I saw Jesse Jackson and Whoopi Goldberg. A thrilling day.”
“My hairdresser is gay. Frankie,” says Barbara. I already want to leave the room. “He goes to this bar in Buffalo. What did he say it was called? Buddies! Yeah, Buddies. Good name for a gay bar, eh? He says the DJ booth is the cab of a real fire engine and there are brass poles on the dance floor. I’d go there. Whew! Can women go there? It’s a terrible thing, being gay and Italian. His family has nothing to do with him. Gosh, I hope he doesn’t have AIDS.” I grab my empty plate and excuse myself. “Rahn, do you know where he can get an AIDS test? Star, don’t you want ice cream for dessert? Spumoni, no?”
In my bedroom, I kick the box marked Starla Age 17. Frantically I reach into my leather art portfolio and scoop up the framed lenticular print by Barbara Kruger and press it to my chest, then place it carefully back into the portfolio. I’m too agitated to handle art. Or at least not a Kruger. Hopping onto my bed, I lean my forehead against the funhouse stunt. I want it to smell of decrepitude, of dirt—like a lost Rembrandt found in some great-grandma’s basement. Fuck, why can’t I find a Rembrandt in a basement? Cash in.
Too soon there’s a knock on my bedroom door. It is an unfamiliar sound. I turn, expecting Barbara has come to scold me for my rude exit. But Barbara never knocks.
Rahn knocks, then gingerly cracks my door open a sliver with a warm and silly smile on his face. “May I come in?” he asks. His question strikes me as phony. Who actually asks to be invited in? Rahn looks around my small room for a place to sit, and decides to simply lean his lanky body against my dresser. He begins with, “Your mother ran to the corner store for some chocolate sauce, so I’m taking this opportunity to talk to you about something private …” and the room fogs.
“This has to be our secret …” I hear Rahn say before his voice mutes altogether. One part of my mind tries to rationally calm myself: He’s harmless. Look at his polite hands neatly folded one on top of the other. If I act weird, he’ll think I’m afraid of black men. He marched on Washington. Smile, but not maniacally. Maybe he knows I’m queer. He’s offering me this moment to come out. Shut up, shut up, stupid, noisy brain. Another less rational and very loud part of my brain begins to spell. P-O-G-O-N-O—
“Starla, are you all right?” Rahn takes a step toward me and I recoil. Immediately he steps back, almost pressing himself against the dresser. We share a quiet moment, a moment where I should apologize or say something to put him at ease. Instead I let the quiet moment stretch out awkwardly.
“You know, Starla, I have a daughter,” says Rahn. “Brilliant girl, smart like you, well, not a girl anymore, it’s been a long while since she was a girl. When she was just about your age, mind you, she suffered terrible anxiety. I sent her to see a psychologist colleague of mine.” Rahn closes his eyes, as if he’s closely considering what to say next. I imagine running past him and out the door. “Bipolar disorder, she was diagnosed with.”
Ah, he doesn’t want me to come out as queer, he wants me to come out as crazy. “And you think I’m bipolar too? Is that it?”
“No, no!” His eyes pop back open. “I mean, there’d be nothing to be embarrassed about if you were. But I’m not that kind of doctor. Anyway, if you ever want to talk to someone, for any reason, I know several counsellors—”
“Rahn,” I interrupt as politely as I can. It’s too late, though. I’m already visibly flustered and sharp. “Please, tell me why you knocked on my door in the first place. I’m all ears.”
“Oh, certainly,” says Rahn. “Your mother’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks. I thought you could suggest a surprise gift for her. I was thinking of a weekend getaway. Is there anywhere you think she’d want to go?”
I hope Rahn lasts another few weeks. He’s nice. More than nice. If my mother was smart, she’d at least wait until after her birthday to carry out her knee-jerk pattern break-up. “She’s always talked about going to the Smithsonian, and it sounds like you’ve visited Washington before,” I offer. “She reads a lot, historical fiction and stuff like that, but she’s hardly been to any museums. She’d never spring for airfare and a hotel room.”
“The Smithsonian, yes!” Rahn straightens from his meek stance. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He turns toward me, coming in for what looks like a hug, then stops himself. “Thank you, Starla,” he says as he backs out my bedroom door. “She loves you, you know that, right? She worries about you.”